Bluette Matthey's Blog - Posts Tagged "mystery"
The Forgotten Roma
Roma play a large role in my latest book, Dalmatian Traffick, so my destination is the Roma relocation camp on Podgorica’s eastern side, near Montenegro’s largest rubbish dump site. Konik, as the neighborhood is called, has been a real black eye to Montenegro in particular and Europe in general for the shabby treatment of the gypsy population displaced from Kosovo as a result of the Balkan war in the late 1990’s.
The dwellings are poorly built and the infrastructure substandard, making many of the buildings barely usable. The Roma, more than two thousands of them, live in tents, containers, barracks, and sub-standard housing. A fire in 2012 destroyed Konik’s housing and the population was forced to live in tents. A flood several months later ruined the few, donated possessions of the residents. They have been told apartments will be built for them, but it is another promise that has not materialized.
A greasy looking man in his late forties is sitting in the gaping entrance to a container dwelling, working on a piece of broken equipment. It appears the building serves as a workshop and home combined; it truth, it looks like a filthy shack. The outlying area is cluttered with car parts and assorted odds and ends. Further on, I notice one house whose front porch roof is entirely supported by a row of approximately ten, five-inch-in-diameter tree trunks with the bark still intact. It sags slightly on one end.
The Roma in Konik live in suspension: they have no rights as citizens and are not allowed to work formally. The jobs available to them are at the bottom of the work food chain and they are easily exploited. The lack of legal recognition is also a deterrent to access to the educational system, but Montenegro is making efforts to integrate Roma children into non-Roma schools. The UN and other international organizations have stepped in to help the displaced Roma obtain documentation which allow them the status of foreigner, but the soaring unemployment rate (well above 50%), prostitution, drug use, and high crime rate make Konik a place of despair and hopelessness.
Many young men and boys just wander the streets. In an open, paved area near a cluster of garbage dumpsters a group of teenaged boys are shooting some hoops in a game of street ball. I stick out like a sore thumb driving through the area and don’t dawdle for fear I’ll attract unwanted attention. They give me questioning, dark looks. It’s time to go.
Rush hour is just beginning as I head out of town, driving along a wide boulevard fronted by parks, hotels, banks, and upscale businesses. A pleasant drive. As the traffic light changes and I accelerate through the intersection I see movement in my periphery and turn in time to see a horse-drawn wagon shooting out of a narrow side street off to my right. The contraption is driven by a Roma boy wearing a battered trilby jammed down on his head, brandishing a whip. He pulls hard on the reins to keep from blind siding me, and the small horse shies, almost landing on its haunches. Two smaller boys, eyes a-popping, are hanging on to the wagon for dear life. It is a near-miss with another culture from another time.
I pull through the intersection, wondering if it really happened. Then I remember the ‘boar crossing, 800 meters’ road sign and know that I’ve just had a uniquely Montenegrin moment.
The dwellings are poorly built and the infrastructure substandard, making many of the buildings barely usable. The Roma, more than two thousands of them, live in tents, containers, barracks, and sub-standard housing. A fire in 2012 destroyed Konik’s housing and the population was forced to live in tents. A flood several months later ruined the few, donated possessions of the residents. They have been told apartments will be built for them, but it is another promise that has not materialized.
A greasy looking man in his late forties is sitting in the gaping entrance to a container dwelling, working on a piece of broken equipment. It appears the building serves as a workshop and home combined; it truth, it looks like a filthy shack. The outlying area is cluttered with car parts and assorted odds and ends. Further on, I notice one house whose front porch roof is entirely supported by a row of approximately ten, five-inch-in-diameter tree trunks with the bark still intact. It sags slightly on one end.
The Roma in Konik live in suspension: they have no rights as citizens and are not allowed to work formally. The jobs available to them are at the bottom of the work food chain and they are easily exploited. The lack of legal recognition is also a deterrent to access to the educational system, but Montenegro is making efforts to integrate Roma children into non-Roma schools. The UN and other international organizations have stepped in to help the displaced Roma obtain documentation which allow them the status of foreigner, but the soaring unemployment rate (well above 50%), prostitution, drug use, and high crime rate make Konik a place of despair and hopelessness.
Many young men and boys just wander the streets. In an open, paved area near a cluster of garbage dumpsters a group of teenaged boys are shooting some hoops in a game of street ball. I stick out like a sore thumb driving through the area and don’t dawdle for fear I’ll attract unwanted attention. They give me questioning, dark looks. It’s time to go.
Rush hour is just beginning as I head out of town, driving along a wide boulevard fronted by parks, hotels, banks, and upscale businesses. A pleasant drive. As the traffic light changes and I accelerate through the intersection I see movement in my periphery and turn in time to see a horse-drawn wagon shooting out of a narrow side street off to my right. The contraption is driven by a Roma boy wearing a battered trilby jammed down on his head, brandishing a whip. He pulls hard on the reins to keep from blind siding me, and the small horse shies, almost landing on its haunches. Two smaller boys, eyes a-popping, are hanging on to the wagon for dear life. It is a near-miss with another culture from another time.
I pull through the intersection, wondering if it really happened. Then I remember the ‘boar crossing, 800 meters’ road sign and know that I’ve just had a uniquely Montenegrin moment.
Setting for Homicide Herault
When I decide the setting for my next Hardy Durkin Travel mystery I research the locale’s history, lore, and legends. Was someone martyred there? Is the area known for a murder or scandal of some sort? Any unsolved disappearances? Is there a local tradition that makes it unique or quirky?
My latest Hardin Durkin mystery, Homicide Herault, is set in the Herault area in the South of France. The small city of Béziers is the primary town here and the oldest city in France. (Second oldest, if you ask someone from Marseille.) It is simply loaded with history from as far back as the 6th century BC, and is a land full of legends, atrocities, and culture.
During the Algerian War of Independence from France in the early 1960’s many of the French citizens who had been living and working in Algeria moved back to the Motherland. Those Algerians fighting for independence violently targeted their countrymen who had worked for the French, massacring whole Algerian families in horrific ways as payback for the support they had shown the French military. Thousands of these hunted Algerians, known as Harkis, fled to mainland France to escape the terrible purge, settling in the southern regions of France.
My favorite Béziers legend is that of Saint Aphrodise who rode into town on his camel from Egypt around 65 AD. Just around the corner from the ancient Roman amphitheater, which was mostly torn down in the 3rd century so the citizens could use the stones to build up the city’s defense …. that’s another story… is a small plaza, Place Saint-Cyr, at the intersection of Rue Saint-Jacques and Rue Canterelles. You might notice the small brass caps on the pavement that say ‘Chemin Romeux’. This was part of the pilgrimage route to Santiago de Compostela in Spain, but I digress.
Look Up! See that headless stone figure on the corner of the building? That is Saint Aphrodise. Why is he there, you ask? Because … he was beheaded in the square where you are standing, and his head tossed in a well nearby. Not one to give up easily, the good saint fetched his head from the well and proceeded to carry it back to his cave on the outskirts of town. He is known as a cephalophore, a subset of saints who carry their heads after martyrdom.
Passing down what is now the Rue des Têtes, the Street of Heads, he was mocked by a group of stone masons who were turned to stone when Aphrodise stared them down (you can’t make this up!) with the head cradled in his arms.
It all ended well, with Saint Aphrodise being venerated in his tomb which is now a basilica where his relics repose, and his camel became a celebrity with the rich folks in town vying to take care of him. A dubious replica of said camel appears each April on the saint’s day to be paraded through town as part of the celebration.
Béziers hosts the largest festival in the South of France each August, the Feria, replete with flamenco, bullfights, street foods, and non-stop, out-door concerts. Almost a million people pour into the city over the span of a week to party and celebrate good times in a safe, family-friendly atmosphere with a laid-back Mediterranean vibe.
Into all this I insert my hunky protagonist, Hardy Durkin, who is leading a bike tour in the Herault with his irregular cast of characters and let the magic of imagination stir the pot. Expect a murder … or two. Enjoy the show!
My latest Hardin Durkin mystery, Homicide Herault, is set in the Herault area in the South of France. The small city of Béziers is the primary town here and the oldest city in France. (Second oldest, if you ask someone from Marseille.) It is simply loaded with history from as far back as the 6th century BC, and is a land full of legends, atrocities, and culture.
During the Algerian War of Independence from France in the early 1960’s many of the French citizens who had been living and working in Algeria moved back to the Motherland. Those Algerians fighting for independence violently targeted their countrymen who had worked for the French, massacring whole Algerian families in horrific ways as payback for the support they had shown the French military. Thousands of these hunted Algerians, known as Harkis, fled to mainland France to escape the terrible purge, settling in the southern regions of France.
My favorite Béziers legend is that of Saint Aphrodise who rode into town on his camel from Egypt around 65 AD. Just around the corner from the ancient Roman amphitheater, which was mostly torn down in the 3rd century so the citizens could use the stones to build up the city’s defense …. that’s another story… is a small plaza, Place Saint-Cyr, at the intersection of Rue Saint-Jacques and Rue Canterelles. You might notice the small brass caps on the pavement that say ‘Chemin Romeux’. This was part of the pilgrimage route to Santiago de Compostela in Spain, but I digress.
Look Up! See that headless stone figure on the corner of the building? That is Saint Aphrodise. Why is he there, you ask? Because … he was beheaded in the square where you are standing, and his head tossed in a well nearby. Not one to give up easily, the good saint fetched his head from the well and proceeded to carry it back to his cave on the outskirts of town. He is known as a cephalophore, a subset of saints who carry their heads after martyrdom.
Passing down what is now the Rue des Têtes, the Street of Heads, he was mocked by a group of stone masons who were turned to stone when Aphrodise stared them down (you can’t make this up!) with the head cradled in his arms.
It all ended well, with Saint Aphrodise being venerated in his tomb which is now a basilica where his relics repose, and his camel became a celebrity with the rich folks in town vying to take care of him. A dubious replica of said camel appears each April on the saint’s day to be paraded through town as part of the celebration.
Béziers hosts the largest festival in the South of France each August, the Feria, replete with flamenco, bullfights, street foods, and non-stop, out-door concerts. Almost a million people pour into the city over the span of a week to party and celebrate good times in a safe, family-friendly atmosphere with a laid-back Mediterranean vibe.
Into all this I insert my hunky protagonist, Hardy Durkin, who is leading a bike tour in the Herault with his irregular cast of characters and let the magic of imagination stir the pot. Expect a murder … or two. Enjoy the show!
