Mon Carnet de Voyage

I am nearing the end of my stay, and as such in my last two weeks at the BnF, I am trying to cram in as much as possible in regards to my professional experiences here – visits to Education Managers in other museums, cultural services staff in other library settings, and the final presentation of my research paper – a study in the services for youth on offer at both the BnF and the SLV.

Musée du Quai Branly

Last week I had the opportunity to visit the Musée du Quai Branly and talk to the Education staff there in. A purpose built museum and only two years old (and already attracting 1.6 million visitors per year), it was the brainchild of Jacques Chirac. President Georges Pompidou had the Pompidou Centre, and President Miterrand had the new incarnation of the Bibliothèque nationale de France – the François Mitterand site. President Chirac, though well known for some not so popular events in the southern hemisphere, did create a marvelous institution when he opened the Musée du Quai Branly (I can’t wait to see what Sarkozy leaves behind in the way of cultural institutions…).

This museum is actually an ethnographic museum – of culture and arts from non-European backgrounds – so this translates as Africa, Oceanic, the Americas and Asia. The collection comprises artifacts, and artistic works from both prolific and rare indigenous cultures (North America, Mexico, Nigeria, Oceania, New Guinea, Australia, India, Patagonia, Peru…), that were once part of the Museum of Man, and the Porte d’Or – or Golden Gate Museum of African and Asian Art. Brought together in one space, the museum is located right near the Eiffel Tower.

The scenographie of the museum is purpose built around the collection and as such, is the most impressive interpretation space that I have seen as yet in Paris. The museum is arranged geographically into continents, and rising upward through the whole museum, is a giant chamber of musical instruments. I was not allowed to take any photos (and being just that little bit superstitious when surrounded by ceremonial masks, funeral sticks, totem poles and Aboriginal paintings, I didn’t really want to snap any shots).

Either way, should you be in Paris, the museum is well worth a visit. This is their website, which you can also peruse in English.

Anzac Day in Villers-Bretonneux

My trip to the Somme this weekend has been long anticipated – a very special experience that I was lucky enough to have, given that I happened to be in France for the 90th anniversary of the Battle at Villers-Bretonneux – 25th April 1918.

Villers-Bretonneux is a small French town in the north of France, about 20 kilometres from the town of Amiens that I will admit I didn’t know anything about until 6 weeks ago. A little bit of research later, and I was stunned to realise that as a nation we have neglected to fully remember collectively, the events that took place here in 1918.

The emblem of the town of Villers-Bretonneux is a kangaroo. The local school is also the venue for a permanent museum recounting the Australian war effort in WW1 (and the sign below sits above the door as you enter - it means, Never Forget Australia). The town is filled with Australian references – street names, flags, and business names.

3 kilometres from the town, is the very large and impressive Australian Memorial (below). It is perched on a hill in the same place, where Australian troops pushed back the German offensive during the night of 24th April 1918. In a war when 68,000 Australian men were lost (from a national Australian population of 4.5 million in 1918), 48,000 were lost in the Somme, defending France. Many were lost in the battle in this very place, which saved the small town and its occupants (and towns further behind it, such as Amiens). Each year for 90 years now, Villers-Bretonneux has remembered Australia – with a memorial service on the Saturday closest to Anzac Day, always attended by local dignitaries and the town’s entire population.

This year brought two services, the regular Saturday service, and a very special, first time ever Dawn Service for Friday 25th April to mark the 90th anniversary. I was fortunate enough to take part in both.

The local tourism office runs a very slick affair – free shuttle buses everywhere – in particular the vital 4.15am departure of several free buses from Amiens to the Australian Memorial, signs posted everywhere telling the Australians which direction to go in…free breakfast of coffee and croissants after the service (for 7,000 people, this is no small affair).

The whole experience is one that I will cherish for all my life. The service was actually very uplifting for me. Afterwards, many people including myself chose to spend the day in Villers-Bretonneux to celebrate – an impromptu two-up game in the town square gave everyone a sense of shared Australian spirit, and a parade through the streets followed.

I will recount four moments in particular, that will stay with me –

Sitting next to an elderly man on the free shuttle bus from VB to the memorial on the Saturday, I asked him if he was French or Australia – French he replied, from the town. He was holding a rather modern video camera. He told me that he has been to the Anzac Day service every year, and now he films it every year, with his new camera.

Being a small world, I of course, bumped into several people I knew from Australia – one friend whom I saw in VB told me why she was visiting - her grandfather died in WW1, spending exactly three years to the day serving in the Australian Imperial Force. The first battle he saw was at Gallipoli, and his last, the day he died, was at Villers-Bretonneux. His was the ultimate sacrifice.

Whilst standing on that hill, I thought about the feeling that the men would have had, the morning of the 25th April 1918, when they themselves realised that on the third anniversary of Anzac Day, they had achieved such great success – what an amazing moment - and, in history’s page, this was the start of the retreat of the German troops. A very successful battle indeed.

One elderly Australian man of 82 had brought his son, and grandson with him, to remember his uncle who had fallen here. He told me with sadness that he was invited to this service when he was 30, but he had been too busy to think about why he should come. Now the three of them were remembering him together. He was a lovely chap, and he told me with a twinkle in his eye, that had I have been around in 1918, I would have brought a smile to the face of many diggers back then. I thanked him, for what I think is a most wonderful of compliments.

Of late I have been trying to explain to interested French people in Paris, about what Anzac Day actually is. I explain a little about Gallipoli, and then, to astonished (and possibly disbelieving) faces, I let them know how many Australian men died in WW1 (some didn’t even realise we were in it). They actually think I get the figure wrong, and they can’t believe it. Then I explain that 7,000 Australians descended on Villers-Bretonneux for the weekend, to remember them. They ask me why.

My answer is one that I have only just come to fully understand myself, after trying to verbalise it in another language - and that is, that Australia was born in the war. Before 1915, we still considered ourselves an English colony – Australia was just a teenager, still reliant on the mother land, for all things cultural. In the trenches of WW1, and on the beach at Gallipoli, we found out that we had qualities we could recognise in one another - comraderie, mateship and pride in our nation. We found out that our men could fight hard to defend the lifestyle we had come to create in Australia. Returning to Australia, the surviving soldiers, with the ghosts of those left behind, forged our identity. We suddenly found out, who and what we were.

Travelling alone, I found that I was ‘taken under the wing’ by several Australian strangers – an Adelaide family in Amiens invited me to have dinner with them. I stood at the Dawn Service with a lovely Perth family whom I met on the 4.15am bus. I caught lifts with other Australians, who were happy to offer me a spot in their car to the next event, or town that I needed to get to. All the while I felt at home, spending this very special weekend making new friends. I guess you call that mateship, and for that, I am grateful for the opportunity to experience it.