On the last night of camping, it started to rain. Wet tents had to be packed the next day. We had fun......
The Monsoon
Precipitation. That's what they called it. Molecules of H2O bound together by a common cohesiveness to form rogue droplets around an airborne particle of earth/dust/pollen/exhaust/ash, surrounding it like the protective detail around a VIP in a hostile mob, or maybe more like the thin crust of an aircraft, piloted as a kamikaze bomb, hurtling toward the earth at a frightening pace. Whichever similitude you think is more appropriate, the "rain came down"
At first the droplets land on the dry dusty ground, making miniature craters in the dust, quenching the thirst of the drought stricken land. The hot wind blows the damp air making everyone sticky and uncomfortable, as if they had been suddenly teleported to some unnamed equatorial location prior to the arrival of the monsoon rains that come to drench the landscape of terraced rice paddies, filling the drainage trenches with water. Deja Vu?
Mud, the most likely result from the conglomeration of dust and water was inevitable. The dusty paths that had been trod were transformed into a murky, muddy, grimy, wet, brown muck making movement outside in the rain difficult at best. Unfortunately, it was necessary to traverse the bog between the cluster of shelters.
Muddy feet were epidemic
I wrote this one while I was camping on the shores of lake Hawea.
The Photographer
The wind was blowing the tent, billowing the fly like a sail ship - strangely rare in these parts...
As he lies there, John tries to ignore it - why is it so hot? Why is there a fishing rod in the middle of the tent? Hallucinations of that sort plague his subconscious as he drifts between a fitfull wakefulness and a dreary unconsciousness. Frustrated, he tries a different position, in a futile effort to sleep.
The blue tent glowed behind his head - an ethereal halo of light diffusing through the fabric of the shelter that was barely protecting him from the elements. "Heck..... That's the Moon" the insomniacal Camper breathed, making sure that his fellow camper, there on the stretcher beside him wasn't about to be extradited from the land of Nod.
Although sometimes seemingly spontaneous, impulsiveness was not a trait that was generally attributed to John, but occasionally it would pop up. This was one of those moments. He pulled on a pair of shorts and carefully unzipped the tent sliding out onto the dusty ground. He felt the warm wind on his skin and turned to see the moon reflected brilliantly like a clone of itself on the water, chopped up haphazardly by the appropriately named "choppy waves".
The landscape was lit by a ghostly blue light, the black and green shrubs by day, were now black and blue-grey. "I must remember to find out the name of those bizarre plants" he thought as he turned from looking at the shrubbery to see the silhouette of the hills on the other side of the lake. The hills were black, like the inside of the camera that he retrieved to permanently capture this melancholic spectacle of the crusty lunar surface, reflecting the radiance of she sun onto a lake somewhere in middle earth. "I wish this had more features...." He murmured, steadying the camera to get a sharp pic. "CLICK".
The Photographer
The wind was blowing the tent, billowing the fly like a sail ship - strangely rare in these parts...
As he lies there, John tries to ignore it - why is it so hot? Why is there a fishing rod in the middle of the tent? Hallucinations of that sort plague his subconscious as he drifts between a fitfull wakefulness and a dreary unconsciousness. Frustrated, he tries a different position, in a futile effort to sleep.
The blue tent glowed behind his head - an ethereal halo of light diffusing through the fabric of the shelter that was barely protecting him from the elements. "Heck..... That's the Moon" the insomniacal Camper breathed, making sure that his fellow camper, there on the stretcher beside him wasn't about to be extradited from the land of Nod.
Although sometimes seemingly spontaneous, impulsiveness was not a trait that was generally attributed to John, but occasionally it would pop up. This was one of those moments. He pulled on a pair of shorts and carefully unzipped the tent sliding out onto the dusty ground. He felt the warm wind on his skin and turned to see the moon reflected brilliantly like a clone of itself on the water, chopped up haphazardly by the appropriately named "choppy waves".
The landscape was lit by a ghostly blue light, the black and green shrubs by day, were now black and blue-grey. "I must remember to find out the name of those bizarre plants" he thought as he turned from looking at the shrubbery to see the silhouette of the hills on the other side of the lake. The hills were black, like the inside of the camera that he retrieved to permanently capture this melancholic spectacle of the crusty lunar surface, reflecting the radiance of she sun onto a lake somewhere in middle earth. "I wish this had more features...." He murmured, steadying the camera to get a sharp pic. "CLICK".
Saturday I was helping some friends move house, this one is about that experience, though it has been embellished somewhat. There is no nefarious organization based in Kiapoi that I am part of, incase you were wondering
The fog
Fog was stratified, almost like layers of mud at the bottom of a stagnant tributary of the Kiapoi river, which slipped by underneath. The conditions were ideal, the fog, so thick as it hung there, motionless in the dawn would hide even someone as conspicuous as Wally Behan that Sunday evening (he was wearing a bright orangey shirt with a pinkish tinge) from the most inquisitive eyes. Eventually, the cargo accumulated in the hold of the barge and as the fog lifted, at last they set off downstream, wary of the other river people who were going about their business, oblivious of the audacious heist that was in progress.
The fog
Fog was stratified, almost like layers of mud at the bottom of a stagnant tributary of the Kiapoi river, which slipped by underneath. The conditions were ideal, the fog, so thick as it hung there, motionless in the dawn would hide even someone as conspicuous as Wally Behan that Sunday evening (he was wearing a bright orangey shirt with a pinkish tinge) from the most inquisitive eyes. Eventually, the cargo accumulated in the hold of the barge and as the fog lifted, at last they set off downstream, wary of the other river people who were going about their business, oblivious of the audacious heist that was in progress.
This is an extract from a letter that I sent to my brother Andrew when he was in the states. I will be writing some new things later but for now, while I am trying this technology out, it will have to do. I hope you like it anyway.
The Deluge
The scrawling script, meaning filled and yet uninterpretable like the innumerable Egyptian hieroglyphs before the unearthing of the Rosetta stone, extending over the whole dark wall of smudgy blackness. The sound of rapid scraping punctuated every now and then by an exclamation of annoyance, terror, grief, diffused throughout the chalk dust that was settling, filling the cavernous room with a quiet determination, the will to triumph, the resolve to conquer. The Mathematical Scholar, mentally exhausted from his efforts, but no less determined to complete the task, reluctantly decides to have a brief respite, and reaches for what has become so often a source of inspiration (apart from his copy of the inerrant Holy writ). As he retrieves his pick from the inner recesses of his pocket, he uses his cognitive powers to ascertain the correct song for his mood. Settling on "flood" the edgy tones pierce the compound as he emphatically strums, plunging their way into the collective consciousness of those for whom it had been preordained to hear that frustrated sound.
The Deluge
The scrawling script, meaning filled and yet uninterpretable like the innumerable Egyptian hieroglyphs before the unearthing of the Rosetta stone, extending over the whole dark wall of smudgy blackness. The sound of rapid scraping punctuated every now and then by an exclamation of annoyance, terror, grief, diffused throughout the chalk dust that was settling, filling the cavernous room with a quiet determination, the will to triumph, the resolve to conquer. The Mathematical Scholar, mentally exhausted from his efforts, but no less determined to complete the task, reluctantly decides to have a brief respite, and reaches for what has become so often a source of inspiration (apart from his copy of the inerrant Holy writ). As he retrieves his pick from the inner recesses of his pocket, he uses his cognitive powers to ascertain the correct song for his mood. Settling on "flood" the edgy tones pierce the compound as he emphatically strums, plunging their way into the collective consciousness of those for whom it had been preordained to hear that frustrated sound.
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