Pere Marquette Lodge is a 1930’s style lodge built by the CCC. It’s a nice, solid-feeling place to spend a chilly fall evening, and get a well prepared meal.  Here are some more photos, this time in the daylight.  What a comfortable place to just sit, read, or surf the net.

Jordan has appeared on a list of countries that produce goods by child labor or forced labor. The Labor Department has just released a report mandated by Congress titled The Department of Labor’s List of Goods Produced by Child Labor or Forced Labor. If you look at the chart on page 13 you will see that Jordan is listed as a country producing garments with forced labor.  For more information you need to go to the bibliography at the end of the report.  The countries are listed alphabetically; Jordan is on p. 118.

The culprits, it seems, are the QIZ’s  (special economic zones)  that have proliferated in the last 5 years as the result of the U.S. giving Jordan special trade status with the U.S.  and the workers considered to be “forced labor” are not Jordanians, but guest workers from countries like Bangladesh.  This New York Times article is representative:

But some foreign workers in Jordanian factories that produce garments for Target, Wal-Mart and other American retailers are complaining of dismal conditions — of 20-hour days, of not being paid for months and of being hit by supervisors and jailed when they complain.

An advocacy group for workers contends that some apparel makers in Jordan, and some contractors that supply foreign workers to them, have engaged in human trafficking. Workers from Bangladesh said they paid $1,000 to $3,000 to work in Jordan, but when they arrived, their passports were confiscated, restricting their ability to leave and tying them to jobs that often pay far less than promised and far less than the country’s minimum wage.

“We used to start at 8 in the morning, and we’d work until midnight, 1 or 2 a.m., seven days a week,” said Nargis Akhter, a 25-year-old Bangladeshi who, in a phone interview from Bangladesh, said she worked last year for the Paramount Garment factory outside Amman. “When we were in Bangladesh they promised us we would receive $120 a month, but in the five months I was there I only got one month’s salary — and that was just $50.”

Why am I not surprised.  Jordan is not a wealthy country and its guest workers are the most vulnerable of anyone in the country.  A New York based advocacy group, the National Labor Committee, has documented abuses in Jordan. (Unfortunately their search function will only display the four most recent items, although those items do have more links.)

To complicate matters, a QIZ is one of the areas where foreign investment money can be used to set up factories. Rumor has had it for a long time that much of such investment capital comes from Israel.  One of the most egregious cases has come from Musa Garments in Irbid (owned by two Israelis) that makes Israeli labels such as Irit, Bonita,  Pashut, and Jump.

The lesson here is clear.  Special trade agreements are great, and I’m overjoyed to see the U.S. in a special relationship with Jordan.  But a small and hungry country like this isn’t going to be able to police their own ranks, much less control foreign nationals operating within their country.   Special U.S. trade relationships like this need to be tied to fair labor legislation.

My continuing trip through downstate Illinois…

A night journey adjacent to the river ends at Pere Marquette State Park in Illinois, just north of St. Louis.

These lodges were built in the 1930’s at the height of the depression by the Civilian Conservation Corps (CCC). You can’t find a more comfortable or a more solid structure anywhere. Here is my supper, a glass of Australian Yellowtail Shiraz (“ripe cherries, strawberries, and vanilla aromas”), it sounds sweet, but the waitress assures me it’s supposed to be dry, and it is. I can only taste the cherries, but “earthy”, not sweet cherries. To go with it (vegetarians, close your eyes) I order a pulled pork sandwich. For some reason these most excellent sandwiches are only available south of I-80, southern Illinois being part of The South in many ways. My inlaws used to make this at Christmas–it was roasted in a Weber grill covered, then served in a hamburger bun with barbecue sauce.

[A group passes through the lodge as I sit here blogging, connected to the free wifi. I hear someone describe their experiences building the lodge years ago. They were charged $2 a day for room and board and were paid $3.50 an hour. She says it was all very exciting and they had the time of their lives.]

Back to last evening. I catch up on email near the huge limestone fireplace at the end of the huge room.

In the center of the main room is a lifesize chess board. Some of the people I saw at dinner play for a while.

Adjacent to the lodge are cabins which I am told go for $125-130 a night, also a campground with tent spaces and a shower. This morning I see frost on the ground and realize I have grossly underestimated the nighttime temperatures for the season, and that tonight I will be sleeping in my own bed. In addition the fuse on the cigarette lighter I was using to charge my cellphone has blown, taking out the radio as well. The only thing I have to listen to (besides the mp3 player, which I can’t do while driving) is the cassette player, which still works, and a Berlitz Arabic tape I bought at a used bookstore in Carbondale. My camera as well is acting up, the batteries only able to take a dozen or so pictures after being completely recharged last night. Time to return to civilization. On the return trip I will cross by ferry into Calhoun county and enjoy a nice afternoon drive back north though river country.

Yesterday when I was at “Roacher” as the town of Prairie du Rocher” is pronounced locally, I was told that the ferry was again operating, after being closed for high water. Here is what it looked like two days earlier, when I was told around dusk that the last ferry leaves around 5:00 (glancing at my watch I saw it was around 4 P.M.) and that the ferry was finished for the day. My informant, who was fishing, pronounced Illinois with the “s”, as “Ill-i-noiz”.

The ferry is the shortest way between Prairie du Rocher and it’s sister town of Ste. Genevieve. The closest bridge over the Mississippi River is some 20 miles downstream at Chester (for some reason they say they’re the home of Popeye), but at $12 per car for the ferry crossing, the bridge is the cheaper route.

Ferry prices.

The ferry parked.

Fishin’.

The way that ferry is anchored, it’s not going anywhere.

A barge passes, going downriver.

Turning in the opposite direction there is an impressive sunset over the railroad tracks.

Saint Genevieve isn’t actually in Illinois,it’s across the water in Missouri. On the other side of the Mississippi river is the French town of Prairie Du Rocher, which my map says has the “French Colonial district”, and Fort Kaskaskia, the scene of annual French ethnic New Year festivities.

The pole in the last photo is a record of high water marks from various years.

THIS is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks,
Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight,
~Longfellow

Yesterday as I was sitting in my car, a nice young man carrying a bow and arrow walked past my tent site, and I was reminded that I had pitched my tent next to a trailhead used by hikers and horses. I waved, as we do in the country, and after a split second he waved too. This morning I woke to a pattering sound, and for a moment wondered if it was raining. Not rain, the sun was out. It was the sound of leaves falling. Today before breakfast I spent a little time exploring the trail behind my tent. You can go up about a half hour before the trail is cut off, for me at least, by a huge tree that has torn from the side of the hill and whose unended roots stick out from a huge hole in the trail.  But the forest was lovely in the filtered sunlight, and in the sound of leaves that kept falling.

The vegetation here is slightly unfamiliar, but I can recognize some type of oak tree.  I certainly had to move a lot of acorns out from under my tent when I was setting it up.  The vine going up the trees looks a lot like the poison ivy we have in the northern part of Illinois and Indiana.  They say you should always count the leaves when you look for something to use as toilet paper in the wild.  I would add to that to look up before gathering firewood.

Here are the falling leaves and the sound they make.

This is my tent.

As you can see, the library is adequate for the journey.

Here are the rest of the accoutrements.

Entrance.

This is a Shawnee National Forest, on the flood pain of the Mississippi River. Bridges here are concrete, they can be driven across when the water is over the road and they don’t have to be replaced every time it floods.

Concierge.
The sign says stop here and pay. At the entrance is a split log fence of the type Abe Lincoln (16th American president) used to make.

You take an envelope, put your money or check in it, and put it in the slot of the metal tube. There is a padlock you can feel at the bottom of the tube for removing the envelopes. Does anyone monitor it (or the campground)? I never saw anyone.

This is the powder room. (For AJP, who appreciates indoor toilet design.)

You will notice right away there is no shower, hot or otherwise. What do you expect for ten dollars a night?

The kitchen:

This is of course what you come for, the marshmallows.

and you make them into s’mores.

I had planned to say here until a) I finished Ulysses, b) I had to be back at work, or c) it rained, but I’m starting to rethink this.  My spider sense is tingling, perhaps unreasonably, but I always listen to it. Last night there was another camper in the campground but now they have left and I am the only one there.  Also last night there were some odd animal cries from the opposite hill.  Wolves?  With fewer people will they be less likely to shy away? Of course it is the ones with two legs you have to look out for…  I may spend the night in the car, and will think of moving on in the morning.

I know, I know, I just saw him in Chicago, I can’t afford it, etc. etc,. I don’t care. I don’t regret this at all; but if I hadn’t gone I would definitely be regretting it. It’s only a five hour drive, and I didn’t have to arrange my work schedule (although I was slightly late, which made the parking situation even more confusing).
So, here he is:

It was a more relaxed concert than in Chicago. Even though the Chicago venue was slightly smaller, the 20’s era Egyptian-style Fox Theater with 5,060 seats as opposed to Rosemont’s 4000 some seats, the St; Louis concert was a more intimate experience. The out-of-control shouting element that showed up at Chicago was missing here, as was the foreign language group. In Chicago I seem to have been surrounded by non-English speakers–Polish and I don’t know what other languages. Having once heard a George Wasouf concert at the two thousand year old Jerash Roman theater, I can appreciate the difficulty in not understanding the language. Jordanians love Wasouf for his lyrics and the feeling they evoke. I could only love the sound, the magnificent Jordanian evening under the stars, and the obvious energy of the crown as they sang along. But with Cohen it’s not only what he says, it’s how he says it.

Yes, he did “the darkness”, the yet unnamed new blues tune. So nice.

The house lights kept going on at annoying times. Like during standing ovations. Or just when a few people stood up. Or in the middle of the concert when the stage lights went off completely and the house lights went on briefly before decorum was restored. If they were trying to tell people when to applaud, or when to stand, I don’t like that at all. That should be part of the spontaneous interaction between the performer and the fans, not scripted.

Hallelujah was even better than Chicago. Even though this is probably my all-time favorite Cohen number, if it’s possible to pick a favorite, the whiny sound of the gospel style organ has always irritated me. I don’t know why. Gospel is an acquired taste, and I’m less annoyed by it than some, but I’m used to the full sound of a pipe organ. The difference in sound is like the difference between hearing Handel’s Hallelujah Chorus or Bach’s Jesu Joy of Man’s Desiring on a pipe organ, or a smarmy, bible-thumping, shouter type TV preacher exhorting “dig deep brothers and sisters” as the collection plate is passed and the organ swells. Leonard is more on the Handel end of the metaphysical spectrum. The sound of the organ was subtly different at the St. Louis concert, darker maybe, and much better, but I don’t think it’s quite there yet.

One of the recitations, the one about the soldier behind the lines, they also did partly in French. (I’ll google the exact name of it later, when I’m not on the road.)  At the end when Leonard gave the names of the crew there were a few French sounding names;  this is certainly the area of Illinois with some history of French influence.

Surprisingly, a few photos turned out, although the ones that didn’t are still a tantalizing reminder of the real-life experience. I’ll post more photos when I can.

Here is a collection of video links centered around the song “Miserlou”, first played for me by a friend in Minneapolis the morning after a Firefly video marathon. The post was inspired by the Whose is this song? post at Poemas del Rio Wang (via Languagehat.com) about the various cultural permutations of the  Turkish song “My Scribe”.

The classic version is of course the instrumental from Dick Dale and the Del Tones from the 1963 film “A Swingin Affair”, that is the basis of all the hippie trippie surfer spinoffs.

Miserlou means Egyptian girl, from مصر pronounced “misir” Egypt. The song is popular in diverse styles of music: Greek rebetiko, Middle-Eastern belly dancing, Jewish wedding music (Klezmer), and American surf rock.  Here is a tranlsation of the Greek lyrics:

My Misirlou (Egyptian girl), your sweet glance
Has lit a flame in my heart
Ah, ya habibi, Ah, ya haleli, ah
(Arabic: Oh, my love, Oh, my night)
Your lips are dripping honey, ah

Ah, Misirlou, magical, exotic beauty
Madness will overcome me, I can’t take any more
Ah, I’ll steal you away from the Arab land

My black-eyed, my wild Misirlou
My life changes with one kiss
Ah, ya habibi, one little kiss, ah
From your sweet little mouth, ah

Other notes about the Greek language version say the Greek word Misirlou refers specifically to a Muslim Egyptian woman (as opposed to a Christian Egyptiotissa); thus this song refers to a cross-faith, cross-race, relationship, a risqué subject at its time.

Here is a mellow guitar version from Greek television with well-known Egyptian belly dancer Alexandra.

These two youtubes have a series of clips from older versions of the song.  Here is a historical overview of several recordings together of the Greek classic version (violins, flute, etc)

First recorded in 1928 by Mikes Patrinos in Athens the first American version was attributed to the Greek immigrant from Egypt, Nick Roubanis. Part of a genre of songs called “Oriental” or “Anatolitiko” they were musically a synthesis of an orientalist “fantasy” of Near East music with often Latin & Hollywood influences. Miserlou is one of the first of this genre which became very popular in Greece in the 1950s with songs such as Zaira, Mandoubala, Serah, Zehra,etc.

An even earlier claim from this video (another series of clips) that says the song was composed by the Egyptian İbrahim Efendi who was originally a Jew named Abraham Levi living in İzmir, on the west coast of Turkey.

For those with an operatic bent, here it is sung by Anita Darian on the album East of the Sun in operatic style and attributed to Armenians.

The influence of Misirlou is evident in this wonderful “Spanish Arabic fusion music“-oud vs guitar in a sort of flamenco-ish style.

Last week when I went to the main campus to get my Swine Flu shot they had run out.  Today I went back in the first hour they were open and was number 200.  “We’re doing a hundred an hour, not bad,” someone commented (hopefully not a math major).

On the way out of the house I had grabbed my camera, remembering the graffiti on the train cars by the exit that I had always wanted to photograph.  It was nearly sunset, but I did get some photos.  I hope they don’t say something nasty.  The only one of them I can read is the one that says “void” in big blue letters.  (They’re clickable.)