A trip to the market

With what can I compare the marketplace in Zomba? Perhaps a giant festival, but like no festival to which I have ever been. This festival had no central meeting area, but many hundreds of alleyways, corridors and crannies, all packed with people with something to celebrate. It was difficult to move between them as they chatted, laughed and sang. There was music, loud and crackly, screeching from scratched-up cassette players. A man in a red Liverpool football jersey danced knock-kneed and carefree in front of his stall of mobile phone chargers. 

Instead of balloons and streamers for decorations, the place was festooned with bundles of dangling onions, red, brown and white. There were heaps of crisp green vegetables lined up on concrete benches and a boy walked along the row with a bucket of water, dipping his hand in and flicking water over the vegetables as though it was confetti at a wedding. The water dripped onto the concrete floor below. I walked past piles upon piles of tomatoes, firm and juicy, then baskets full of potatoes. Over there, the fish, I could tell by the smell. On a wooden bench sat the tiny dried fish, scooped into piles for ten kwacha, twenty kwacha, fifty kwacha. On the next bench, the fresh chambo, with scales wet and slippery. 

Up above, from the branches of a tree, hung second hand trousers. In the next tree, perched like migratory birds, were discarded first world t-shirts of all the colours. A lime green Bob’s Plumbing, Ottowa, flapped next to a navy blue I love Adelaide, their slogans marks of their distant homelands. They ruffled their feathers in the breeze.

Up the back, in brick rooms the size of broom cupboards, sat the tailors with pins in mouth, hunched over their sewing machines, busily constructing the flamboyant coloured dresses seen all over town. Next door was the electrical repairman, buried to his neck in the skeletons of old televisions and video players, as though he was slowly turning into one of these mechanical devices. The clanging of metal led me past the pots, watering cans and hoes. Alongside these, within a cloud of flies, was where the meat was cut up and sold. Carcasses hung by a hook, limbs and organs scattered around, and live chickens clucked with rightful concern from inside tiny cages.

My first trip to the market was like arriving at a party where I knew nobody, and I was for some reason wearing only my underpants. People stared. Their eyes fixed on me as soon as I entered their vision, and they followed my path, not looking away until I was gone. Others responded with exuberant amazement, as though they had been waiting all day just to see me, and now finally I had arrived. “Aah, mzungu!” they called, waving me over, “Buy tomatoes? Nice price! Special-special!” Young men crouched in groups talking conspiratorially, old women sat on benchtops, their legs stretched elegantly before them, as they shelled peas and laughed with their neighbours.  It was noisy, but not the way traffic or machinery is noisy. Warm, happy noise.

The market's jumble of wooden stalls was surrounded by a two metre high metal fence, but during the day vendors spilled outside this barrier and filled the surrounding streets. This creature would not be contained. The streets became part of the market itself; like tentacles extending from the main body, they entangled passers by, dragging them against their will into the hungry mouth of the marketplace. 

With practice I learned that this is no 'quick duck out to the shops' shopping experience, but a social occasion requiring handshakes, laughter, banter, bargaining and promises of future visits. Compliments were exchanged, and customer/vendor loyalty was built. 

But what was it they were celebrating? Maybe it was the raw vitality of life itself; the colour and smell, the very feel of this moment in time. In a life stripped back to the basics, where there is no need to rush from here to there (for what is more important than being here, now?), a trip to the market was a fine way to spend some time.  


2004

I don't have many photos from the market because I found that by taking out my camera I immediately felt like an observer rather than a participant in the moment. 

The smaller Mpondabwino market nearby.

First day as a teacher

Monday morning, my first day as the lone white teacher at St Mary's Girls' Secondary School. I followed at the end of the line of teachers as we passed in the back door of the hall and towards the stage at the front. The students filled the hall, standing in tight rows and leaving an aisle down the centre, through which we teachers walked. The girls, in light green blouses and long, dark green skirts, were singing. And how they sang. Their heads were thrown back, unrestrained and full of vitality, as we teachers solemnly paraded by. The hall boomed and expanded with each note. The five hundred voices were each hurled into the air above our heads, where they instantly combined, binding and harmonising, creating a new and more flavoursome whole. The sound rained down, filling the bare hall with warmth, and resonating within me. That such feeling, so natural and vibrant, could be created only by the simple vibrating of vocal chords made me want to fall down in wonder. The words weren’t English, but the sound spoke clearly to me, so full and earnest. I looked around for someone to share the moment with, but the other teachers just looked bored.

As I passed along the rows of students, I could briefly make out distinct voices, one then another, as each girl had a moment in the spotlight before the chance passed on. It was like unravelling the twine of the song, to see the individual threads of which the fabric was composed. In a moment we had reached the stage and stood looking down on the carpet of black heads and green shirts, as the girls completed the song. A hush fell.

At the end of the regular announcements I stood grinning awkwardly as the headmistress, Sister Kapenda, said “Now girls, this is Mr Geerdo from Australia. He is here at St Mary’s to teach biology and he will be with us for two years. Please make him feel so welcome.”

Immediately the bare concrete hall burst to colourful life with a kaleidoscopic display of cheering, jumping, waving of arms and clapping of hands. I looked for any hint of sarcasm or irony in this, but seeing only joyous sincerity, I felt that some sort of response was called for. I raised my hand in a feeble wave, like the Queen in a passing motorcade, and this was met with a roar of happy laughter and whooping, plus more cheering, waving of arms and clapping of hands. Welcome indeed. 

Helping Is Easy, Part II

Day 2: Reality

I expected to see a happy rabble of kids playing soccer on the dirt field when I walked by in the morning; I was hoping to join them for a kick. But the field was deserted. A couple of kids were disconsolately kicking their old plastic-bag-ball between the houses. They looked up at me then turned their backs and walked off, leaving the ball where it lay in the dust.

Frankie, the organiser from yesterday, was coming towards me.
'Stevie... problems', he said. 'Some boys they took the ball and they came into town and they did sell it for moneys.'
'Oh no' I said.
'And also the girls, they are very mad. They are saying it's not fair the boys get given a football, and yet still they have no netball.'
'Oh no' I said.

My view of myself as the generous visitor suddenly crumbled and transformed instead into an interfering foreigner. The elation from yesterday was replaced with a sick, hollow feeling.

'What have I done? What should I do now, please tell me what you think is best'.
'Stevie, maybe if you can manage you can give a new football and also a netball, and I can keep them with me and make sure they do not get sold for moneys again.'
'Ok if you think that's the best.'

I got the balls and Frankie called a meeting of all the boys and girls to talk about how it would work. He was speaking Chichewa so I could only follow his body language and that of the group. This time there were few smiles, the mood was almost somber. He spoke in harsh tones, like an angry school principal and the kids looked at me from time to time with expressions I could not interpret - what was he saying, and what were they thinking of?

After it was over and the group quietly dispersed I said 'thank you so much Frankie, you helped me a lot.'
'It's ok Stevie. But you know I have no job and little moneys. I have my three kids and wife to look after.'
'That must be tough, maybe there is some way I can assist you. I'm volunteering here though, so I don't have much money either.'
'That's ok Stevie, anything you can do is some help.'

I stayed in the lodge another day or two before leaving for my school in Zomba, sixty kilometres away, and I was afraid to go out and walk past the field, afraid to see those kids giving me that look I could not understand. Two days in the country and I had already been the cause of disturbance in a community and had given a vague promise of help to a family I was in no position to assist. An early lesson (that I was to learn many times over) that sometimes helping isn't easy.

Helping Is Easy, Part I

Day One: Arrival in Malawi.

It was the wet season and there were misty mountains and green fields, and sudden, solid downpours. Wandering into the centre of town, the streets were crowded with lopsided wooden stalls selling fruit and veggies, mobile phone chargers, local artwork and cheap plastic toys. People's eyes watched me, the foreigner, walk by.
"Hi brother" they called out "come see, looking is free." Bewildered, I walked on.

Minibuses with too many bodies crammed inside cruised past, and there was a man hanging out the open door drumming up yet more business. "Hello brother, where to?" he said.

Coming back to the lodge on the first afternoon I saw a group of kids playing soccer on a dirt patch with a ball made of plastic bags scrunched up and tied together. I'd brought a soccer ball from home, so I ran to my room, pumped it up, and ran back. When the kids saw it they stopped dead. I introduced myself and asked if I could play.

Within five minutes, it had gone from twenty kids to about eighty. They came from nearby huts, they came from the maize fields, they popped up out of the ground to play football with the white man and his ball. From about four years old to fourteen, they all played. It was a joyous madness, a wild mob running and laughing and trying to get a foot to the ball. Then an organiser appeared and broke people into teams and there was a competition.

The smallest kids stayed on the sidelines. There was a cheer squad of boys behind the goals who chanted and sung and when a goal was scored they poured onto the field to dance. Girls of no older than six had babies on their backs - their little brothers or sisters, presumably -  and stood quietly, sometimes stealing a glance at the strange white man.

The boys played with skill, with the body language and intelligent passing that comes with a genuine understanding of the game. The goal posts were made of bamboo sticks wedged together and when the ball struck them, the cross bar fell off. There was an agile climber amongst the junior cheer squad who shimmied up to replace it and the singing continued.

The afternoon wore on and I decided I wanted to give them the ball. The organiser told me they were part of a club, and he called the whole mad mob together for a meeting and explained that the ball was being given for them to share. There was an uproar of cheering and dancing and the kind of smiles you never knew existed until you saw them. I went to bed, that first night in Africa, with my heart racing and my mind on fire.

Ten years today

Today marks ten years since I first set foot on the African continent; in the nation of Malawi to be more exact. What followed was an adventure that lasted three years, and which will no doubt will linger in my consciousness until I'm gone. 

To mark the occasion I thought I'd share some stories from those whirling days. A few of these might be familiar to some, but I hope the indulgence can be forgiven as I'm going back through these stories as much for my own reflection as for anything else. 

I'll start with this one, a golden moment that struck me down. It's a bit long, I'm sorry, I'll try to keep the next ones shorter. 

S.

..... 

In the back of the open truck were eighty singing girls, two other teachers, and I. The girls were sitting on the floor, hanging off the edge, standing and leaning into the wind, or clinging to the roof of the cab. I was clutching the rim of the tailgate with eight others. The students were the school football and netball teams, as well as the fifty most vocal supporters, who had been up since three that morning practicing their songs. We were off to play Monkey Bay Secondary School.

For the four hours of the journey the girls sang, clapped, chanted, beat drums and blew on a trumpet which they’d borrowed for the day. All this despite being jammed into a space designed to carry a load of sand, and not being suited to so many bodies. . As we sailed along, cutting a path between fields and plains, villages and baobabs, pure ecstatic joy was exhaled with their shouts and left a buzzing trail behind us.

Several trading posts flashed by: crowds of milling people, the smell of smoke and roasting meat, the noise of chatter and arguments. There were weather-beaten billboards with pictures of condoms talking to one another, and a newer one with a sombre picture of the President reminding us that Speed Thrills, But It Also Kills.

Lines of barefoot people trod the muddy roadsides. Bicycles with loads of firewood stacked impossibly high swayed along the edge of the tarmac, and our speeding vehicle came within centimetres of scattering their load over the road and fields. A table decorated with bright pyramids of tomatoes sat in the sunshine while it’s owner napped in the thick shade of a mango tree nearby. In a field of weeds a crumbling building proclaimed to be an International School of Business.

Over bumps and around corners I feared for my safety and held on tight, but I appeared to be the only one concerned with such trivial matters. The girls waved their arms around, they let the sun warm their backs and the wind cool their faces. Their light green school blouses had been swapped for t-shirts and were now being whirled in the air above them, or wrapped around their head as a scarf. They sang traditional songs, radio hits and hymns, and when they ran out of songs, they sang them all again. They leaned over to beat the side of the truck, they stomped and clapped. People on the roadside stopped to stare at this circus, these travelling loonies who announced themselves with the blast of a trumpet and then sped by with a cloud of music hovering overhead.

It was a day out, African style. Part of the reason for the girls’ excitement was that this trip was a rare taste of freedom. The compound at St Mary’s Girls' Secondary School (like most Malawian secondary schools, it was a boarding school) was fenced in, and the students weren’t allowed out for the whole term except on special occasions. These included sporting trips, religious gatherings and perhaps they will be allowed out for a few hours on a public holiday (when they race to buy greasy hot chips and have discreet meetings with boys from Zomba Catholic School). Most of them will set foot outside the school only once or twice a term, so when they do go, there’s reason to celebrate.

The girls of St Mary’s didn’t have an easy ride through life. They had seen more than they perhaps should have, and lost much of what was rightfully theirs. Once I had asked Patience, a fifteen year old, how her holidays had been.

“Not fine” she replied.

“Oh, why not?”

“My father, he was sick and I spent the whole time caring for him.”

 “But he’s better now?”

“No. The funeral was yesterday.”

With HIV/AIDS the way it is, she was hardly the only one in such a situation.

Our truck crawled up the hills and sped down the other side. The highway going north from Zomba was well-made, and easy travelling. We passed the police roadblock at Liwonde, then crossed the Shire River. The girls paused in their singing to admire their country’s largest river. The water from here flows south through the steaming lowlands, where hippos and crocs lurk in the shallows, and mosquitoes hover in droves, and further south still into Mozambique, where it meets the Zambezi and eventually enters the Indian Ocean. But that was a world away; none of the girls had seen the ocean. Half of them had never even seen Lake Malawi, only a hundred of kilometres north from here. After Liwonde, we turned right, onto the lakeshore road and immediately entered tropical lakeside territory. Baobab trees, old and gnarled, sat like stationary elephants by the road. Palm and banana trees lined the water’s edge. Mangoes were for sale in baskets, and paw paws and fresh fish. There were stalls selling large woven mats, round or rectangular. The air was hazy and the hills to our left were almost obscured from view.

“Mister Giddo, can you swim?” Rose, perched next to me on the tailgate, asked. She had to shout to be heard above the rushing wind, and several others turned to listen.

“Yes, most people in Australia can swim” I replied.

“What if the water is deeper than your head?”

“No problem.”

“What if the water is ten metres deep?” she asked.

“Sure” I said, which was met with oohs from several others who’d been listening.

“What if the water is one hundred metres deep?”

“I reckon I still could.”

There was scoffing of disbelief, and one voice said “Eeeh, it can't be true. One hundred metres, habali!”

When they arrived at school at the start of term, the girls carried on their head a suitcase containing their bedding, uniform, and a couple of changes of clothes; and in their hand a bucket for their washing. They had no phone, no magazines, no radio and no tv. Some had no pencil to write with, and no soap with which to wash. What entertainment existed was largely up to their own invention. They sang, danced and prayed together. Their favourite hobby was chatting. But once they had scrounged together the school fees, they focussed on education and worked with tireless ferocity to pass their exams. If I walked through the school late at night, I saw them hunched on the cold concrete footpaths, memorising pages of notes from their dog-eared notebooks. There was one girl beneath each of the bare light globes, so they were evenly spaced like marker beacons. In class, they listened with devotion to the words of their teachers and followed instruction to the letter. My job as a teacher was made easy by their self-regulation. If one of them happened to murmur while I was speaking, half the class would turn around and silence the delinquent with an exaggerated shhhhhhh.

In the weeks before the Monkey Bay trip, I had been weighed down by questions that surely come to any visitor to Africa. How is such poverty possible, when others in the world have so much? What does this say about human beings, how can we allow this and believe ourselves the clever species? And what is my place in all of this? I came here to help, a gesture of goodwill, so why do I now feel more guilty than ever? By being here, am I simply reinforcing stereotypes - I am the white man, all wise and caring, let me assist you poor, helpless people? I was collecting worries, filling my pockets with them so they came with me everywhere, and every day I stuffed more in. When my pockets were bulging, I shoved still more under my hat, so that even sitting quietly I was sweating, and had a pain in my head.

In the truck surrounded by raucous singing, looking at the many faces gleaming with smiles in the warm sun, I had an unexpected glimpse into something beyond. Like a thought that flits in during the moments before sleep, this knowledge didn’t have sharp edges or a definable shape, but it left a lingering feeling of goodness and warmth.

I saw that amidst the chaos of life, within the tumble and the uncontrolled falling of events, that there is order, there is a reason, and above all else that everything is going to be alright. Just for a slippery moment, the problems of the universe, the worries of this life, all were gone. 

The girls clearly knew this already; they had a grasp on something I struggled to understand. They knew that life is hard with misery never far away, but there are undoubtedly sweet things to savour on the journey. These are not necessarily big, complicated things – an old friend to chat with, a green avocado to eat, an afternoon free of classes - but that couldn’t diminish the delight of the girls. They understood that the more simple the things you’re delighted by, the greater your chances of being delighted.

They had food. They had friends around them. They had hope for the future, and now there was this day of sunshine and freedom. Theirs was a life unfiltered, and they knew how to show delight.

St Mary's girls. Form 2, 2006.

.

Yosemite VII

It had come to this. I was crawling on my hands on knees through the dirt around my half-constructed tent, dragging the hammer and bag of pegs, taking care to keep my damaged foot raised and muttering to myself about the injustice of it all.

All around me were happy families clustered around their Winnebagos, the kids riding bikes, laughing and ding-dinging their bells, the parents reclining in camp chairs with beers and peanuts at hand, there were people returning from the shower tousling their fresh clean hair, invigorated after a day hiking the trails of the spectacular Yosemite Valley.

And there was me like a modern-day Smeagol with bandaged foot, grovelling in the dirt.

The logistics were proving difficult. My food was stored in the bear locker which was a few metres from the camp table, which was in turn a few metres from the tent, which was a few metres from the car. Every movement required careful planning. Get all ingredients for dinner, got tea, got toothbrush...I couldn’t carry things by hand, so had to load it into bags or ditch the crutches and hop around. No fire because it was impossible to gather wood, no beer because I was on antibiotics, my tent smelled like pee because the tree I was camped under was dripping something weird down, and my thermarest had a leak that needed pumping a few times per night. I looked at other people sitting round the fire with their special someone, drinking and laughing, then I looked at me sitting in the dark with my crutches and John Muir book for company and my pee-smelling tent and flat mattress to look forward to.

This trip to the US had taken a sharp twist in tone when I was suddenly unable to hike. No longer would I be striding the trails, the sun on my face and a whistle on my lips as I traversed mountains and cupped my hands to drink cool, clear river water. Now I was one of the mob. I was on the park shuttle bus with the group of elderly tourists with name badges on their chests and they smiled knowingly at me and my crutches as they looked down at their own walking sticks. Welcome to our world they were thinking as they swayed back and forth in time with the movements of the bus. I was there at the lookout with the people in zip-off pants, many-pocketed vests and three hundred dollar boots who hike from their car to the lookout point (via the hotdog stall), on their five minute stop off at this vantage point of immense beauty.

I got myself to the lookout at Glacier Point. It was this kind of view that inspired John Muir to write “But no temple made with hands can compare with Yosemite. Every rock in its walls seems to glow with life...as if into this one mountain mansion Nature had gathered her choicest treasures.” It was a place that deserved a show of reverence.

Out of a house-sized campervan piled Brendan, Alex, Mum and Dad. The two boys wore matching polo shirts of blue, black and white horizontal stripes. They had snowy white hair and they ran this way and that, kicking rocks and pulling faces.

‘Alex! Brendan! Come here!’ mum screeched as she emerged from the behemoth. But they had quickly spotted the cafe and came racing back demanding candy.

‘Not now boys, let’s go and get some shots of the wilderness’ dad said.

They followed him over to the lookout where there was a jostling mob of tourists, politely shouldering each other out of the way so they could paint on an appropriately serene smile for the camera in front of the Yosemite Valley sprawled below them.

Dad had the camera jammed in their face and mum was at his shoulder saying ‘Brendan smile properly! ..no don’t do that thing with your eyebrows, this photo’s for Poppy so make it nice. Oh, Brendan!’

There was so much to look at – I surprised myself by realising I was having a great time.

Crazies in Yosemite in earlier times

Modern day madness

Yosemite, Part VI

I was close now. Waking up early on the third day there were about twelve miles to walk (all the maps and signs were in miles, so I’d converted my thinking). But the previous day I’d been limping along at only a mile an hour, the discomfort in my foot just wouldn’t allow for more. I got going before the sun rose to give myself time to get back to the car and medical attention.  In the shadow of the early morning I wound down the escarpment, surprising a family of deer on the way.

I was determined to get back, but also worried about what was to be done with this horrible cut on my foot, which was still oozing blood and throbbing relentlessly.

Reaching the valley floor the path followed the shallow, clear waters of the Tuolumne River as it snaked its way towards home. In the glowing sunshine I hobbled along, stopping now and again to catch my breath. I gazed around at the line of pine-covered mountains rising on either side of the river plain, the snowy peaks back from where I’d come, and the bubbling river flowing gently along, quietly doing what it was made to do.

Before long I began passing people with fishing rods, father and son out for a day in the wild. It looked like paradise, and I envied them for their lack of worry.  

In mid-afternoon, physically and mentally exhausted, I presented myself at the Ranger hut. I needed some help I told them and they called a first aid officer in to look at me.

‘Sorry if I’m a bit smelly’, I said as I unwound the manky, blood-soaked bandage from my foot, ‘it’s been a tough few days’.

‘That’s fine’, she said. Then, looking at the wound, ‘Yeah, you’re going to need to get to hospital for this one. Or there’s a medical centre in Yosemite village if that’s easier for you.’

I drove down to the busy Yosemite village and pulled up at the medical centre. I was waiting behind a Belgian guy who’d smashed his knee rock climbing, and when it was my turn I went in to see Andy the nurse. I took the bandage off.

‘Eeeeeergheeew’, he said. ‘Why didn’t you come in sooner? Hey Jen, come and look at this!’ he called.

In came Jen, another nurse. After looking with a delighted grimace at the gaping, festering wound which now seemed to take up most of the sole of my foot, she asked if I’d mind if she took a photo.

A doctor came in and poked around inside for a bit.

‘We don’t normally put in sutures after two days, but I don’t see any other options’, he said. ‘There’s a high chance of infection so you need to get straight back here if it gets sore and red’.

Up until now the pain had never been too terrible. But after flushing out the wound, it was time for the anaesthetic. I hate needles at the best of times, I really do. And I discovered that a needle in the foot is like no pain I’d ever come across. Six times they jabbed me with that little stick of fire and six times I writhed on the bed as though undergoing an exorcism.

Drained, lonely and sorry for myself, I hopped out of the medical centre to face the next question... how does a man on crutches go about setting up a tent? 

Looking back at the mountains I'd been exploring, the path home was flat and sunny.

In dappled sunshine I limped along beside the quiet river.

Paradise, but I was determined just to get back. 

Yosemite, Part IV

My heart was heavy and my stomach queasy as I gently pulled my boot on over the bulky bandage. I looked around at the wonderful mountain scenery I would no longer be exploring - but I had to get this foot looked at. It would be the end of my hiking for a while, I knew that much. I stood up and gingerly put some weight on the left foot. Surprisingly it didn’t feel too bad.

And so began several minutes of internal dialogue...You might never come back here, just keep going – No, it’s too risky, gotta get this foot fixed up – Come on, two days forward or one back, what’s the big difference? – What about blood loss, infection, amputation, slow death? – Look at these mountains, this sky – You’re all alone, don’t be crazy – It’s just a cut – It’s a big cut – I’m walking on – Don’t do it - I’m doing it.

I did it.

Some of the time it was fine, and the landscape was so incredible I was glad to have gone on. I filled my water bottle from cool, bubbling rivers. I hiked quiet paths with views over deep, wooded valleys. I ate simple, tasty food and I contemplated the world around me.

At other times, like when I unwrapped the bandage in the evening and saw blood still oozing insistently out , and I was further from help, I doubted the wisdom of my choice. As I woke in the morning the slow throbbing in my foot reminded me of the previous day’s mishap. It was more painful and I needed a stick to lean on as I hobbled along. I was making slow progress, and climbing over the final pass for the day, I needed to rest every fifty metres and then verbally talk myself into standing up and walking on.

The adventure continued. 

Barren highland landscape

The green Tuolomne Valley

Have you ever seen a river meander like this?

  

Yosemite, Part III

In the afternoon of the first day, after climbing a rocky pass, I came across a glittering pool. The water was emerald green and a waterfall was crashing down into it, bringing chilled mountain water replenishment. I’d been walking all day, building up a good sweat and hadn't seen anybody since crossing paths with a family going fishing early in the morning. It seemed like the perfect wild place for a cold mountain swim.

With my clothes lying in a pile on the bank I waded in. It was cold, but I was determined. All around was high Sierra scenery and empty space - I was living the dream. This was it.

After a couple of steps, my right foot slipped on a rock. I put my left foot down suddenly to stop my fall and it landed on the upturned edge of a knife-sharp rock lying on the lake floor. With all my weight on the foot it slid along the sharpened edge of the rock.

I looked down and saw red streamers of blood swirling into the cool, clear water.

Sitting back on the bank, I had a look. There was a deep gash along the arch of my foot, and inside I could see layers and colours and squishy bits moving around. Blood oozed out and ran onto the ground.

I moved quickly to bandage it up tight, and then the grim situation began to sink in. I’d come across the world for a hiking holiday and now I’d put a gaping wound in one half of my means of transport.

A long way from help - a long way from anyone at all, I sat in the sunshine on the bank of a clear mountain lake. Like a siren of the hiking world, it had lured this unsuspecting traveller in, to meet my demise on its razor teeth.

Though I always packed a basic first aid kit, I never really considered having to use anything except bandaids for blisters. I hadn't reckoned on spilling blood on Yosemite soil.

The question loomed...what was I to do now?

It wasn't any of these lakes, but one a bit smaller. I guess I wasn't in the mood for photos at that moment.  

Yosemite, Part II

The thing I love most about going on a hike for a few days is the simplicity of it all. Out of communication, away from advertising, away from traffic. And as I often tend to hike alone; away from people.

The rhythm of the day is broken down into the basics. Eat, walk, rest. There aren’t many decisions to be made, and there’s a whole lot of space and time for thinking. Everything I need for the few days I’m away is carried on my back. Simple.

I like to rely on my body, my own physical exertion, as a means of transport. 

I’m with Thoreau when he says “Simplify, simplify, simplify! I say, let your affairs be as two or three, and not a hundred or a thousand; instead of a million count half a dozen, and keep your accounts on your thumb-nail.”

Admittedly, it seems that simplicity is relative to time and place. When John Muir explored in the Sierra Nevada in the nineteenth century, his preparation went like this: "I rolled up some bread and tea in a pair of blankets with some sugar and a tin cup and set off."

In contrast, a quick tally of a typical hike for me revealed that – excluding food – I carry and wear at least thirty five items, worth well over two thousand dollars.

Still, life on a hike is definitely simpler. With a solid pair of boots on my feet, a map and compass in my pocket, a pack containing warm gear, sleeping gear, basic but healthy food and a book and journal, and with a few days and a few kilometres of path ahead of me, I’m about as happy as I can be.

That’s how it was that crisp sunny morning in Yosemite National Park. I’d mapped out a three day loop walk that would take me from Tuolomne Meadows over a couple of passes of around 11,000 feet, around the shore of several highland lakes and back beside a clear bubbling stream into Tuolomne on the famous John Muir trail.

I’d be walking through glacier-carved foreign lands, one of the world’s most famous and striking National Parks. The autumn weather was perfect for hiking, cool and sunny. It was bear country (black bears, not grizzlies), I might see deer, and the higher peaks were covered in snow. You can drink from the rivers, and camping is allowed anywhere along the way.

I felt a lucky man, light and free, as I shouldered my pack and set off up the track.

2011

Following a path into beautiful country, on a cool clear morning = happiness. 

Above the tree-line, the path continues.

On top of the first pass. 

Yosemite, Part I

I hired a little hatchback and rolled east out of San Francisco. Through flat sunny plains and towards the Sierra Nevada. The craggy mountains were just a name to me, I didn’t really know what to expect and even as I drew near there wasn’t much to prepare me for the sight.

Driving into Yosemite Valley I was overawed. The landforms are towering, there is a feel of the ancient and the powerful, the spiritual nature of the earth. Giant granite rockfaces climb heavenwards, standing watch over the coming of day and the coming of night, the changing of seasons, the passing of ages.

Waterfalls dropped from on high, vapors drifting off like steam. Squirrels and deer haunt the shadows. Snow lay thick on the high ground, but the sky was crisp and blue. Pine, spruce and fir trees, so foreign and lush to my Australian eyes, stood around clear quiet lakes.

Yosemite is rich in history. Until 1851 it was home to the Ahwahneechee tribe of indigenous Americans, but with white settlers flooding to California during the gold rush, they were routed and by 1855 tourists were arriving. In 1864 Abraham Lincoln signed the Yosemite Grant, which entrusted the valley to the state “for public use, resort and recreation.”  This was eight years before Yellowstone became the world’s first official National Park.

I sensed it was a special place. And, I soon learned, I wasn’t alone. Yosemite National Park is the United States’ most popular and receives three and a half million visitors a year. Like busy little ants we shuttled around, from carpark to booking office to campsite.

On one hand, I thought it was fantastic that so many people were connecting with the real world, breathing the fresh air and walking the trails. On the other hand I really wouldn’t have minded if some of these people had buggered off to the shopping malls in the nearest city. 

The park covers over three thousand square kilometres, but the majority of visitors stay within the eighteen square kilometres of Yosemite Valley. The glacier-carved valley is spectacular, more than worthy of this attention. This is where the peaks with names like Half Dome, the Sentinel and El Capitan are found. With their stark, striking forms they have become recognisable, almost like a symbol you’d see on a tshirt.   

You need to book ahead for one of the four hundred daily passes to hike up Half Dome.

I’d planned to join the masses for some day hikes around the valley, but for the time being I was craving some space, so I waited in line at the visitor centre to arrange a pass for a three day hike in the quieter northern region. With the route mapped out and everything I needed with me, I was ready for a stroll through the backwoods.

2011

From Tunnel View lookout. El Capitan is in the foreground on the left, and Half Dome is in the background, just right of centre. 

Half Dome. 

El Capitan. Can you spot the rock climbers? No, neither can I, but they're bound to be there - the place was crawling with them.

New Year in an Old Town, Part III

Djenne feels like the ancient world. Gusts of wind whip up the dust as donkeys pull carts of firewood along the streets. Mobs of children covered head to toe in dust carry buckets in which to put their begged food. The buildings are almost entirely mud built. Only the mopeds zipping around give the game away.

In the oldest part of town, narrow alleys wind in and out between the two storey houses. I wandered through and saw gutters holding pools of foul-smelling muck, children playing, women sweeping and girls pounding millet.

Some of the houses contain workshops where bogolan cloth is made. Using mud and leaves, patterns are painted onto strips of cotton cloth. These are sewn together and used for blankets, table cloths and clothing. The designs are usually symmetrical patterns in black and shades of brown. The workshops have walls covered in bogolan, and piles and piles of it cover the floor.

Djenne is famous for its Great Mosque. The largest mud built construction in the world, its formidable profile looms over the centre of the town. Tourists aren’t allowed inside, but the outside view is majestic enough. It is dotted with struts made of bundles of palm sticks which protrude to the outside. It has three main towers and many many pinnacles. The mud walls are a metre thick, and the main prayer hall is twenty six by fifty metres in size. There is also an interior courtyard of a similar size, and other galleries, including one for use only by women.

After every rainy season the there is a festival in which the whole town helps to repair the mosque. It needs to be coated with a new layer of mud. The new plaster is mixed in pits and the dusty boys jump in to play, which stirs it up, then it is carried to the mosque and men swarm over the building, standing on the sticks poking out of it, to cover the mosque with its new coat.  

In front of the mosque is the large open space which holds the bustling Monday market, and at other times you can see tourists – cameras held high – sauntering back and forth gawking at the mosque, while locals criss-cross the square on bicycles or mopeds.

Gangs of those same dusty boys careen about harassing herds of ambling goats, chasing each other or making inquiries of the tourists. ‘Mister, give me a gift’ they say in French. Maybe they’ll demand money, a hundred Euro ought to do it. If this fails they still like to know your name, where you’re from and any other important facts that spring to mind. Trying to be helpful they adopt the pompous air of a tour guide and point to the mosque, whose giant frame blocks the horizon, and say this is the Great Mosque of Djenne. Oh really? Thank you very much.

Antonio, Alicia and I went to a small hotel for a quiet drink. There were only tourists there as the locals are Muslim and do not drink. When we returned to our hotel I saw that Betty had come to my rescue. She must have noticed my discomfort and asked the staff for an extra mattress which was placed on the floor for me to sleep on. I saw that Antonio felt rebuffed, but pretended not to notice.  

2006

The Great Mosque

Dusty boys take a break

New Year in an Old Town, Part II

Just before arriving in Djenne Antonio proclaimed the four of us simply had to spend the night together, as though our taxi ride had somehow bonded us as family. Sure, these people are annoying and don’t show any signs of liking each other, but it’s New Year’s Eve, I thought, so why not? We climbed out of the taxi and began the task of finding somewhere to stay. 

Walking through the town, Antonio was like a character from a movie. Dressed in traditional African bou-bou (bought at great expense, but much to the delight of the Malians), he strutted the streets picking up children and putting them on his shoulders, hugging women, laughing and making merry with men, goats and donkeys. He was a whirlwind full of ideas and we others could only follow in his wake.

A small hotel told us they had a four person room at a cheap price. I waited in the courtyard with the bags while the others went to look at the room. Two minutes later Antonio came to fetch me, and showed me into a small but comfortable room with a double bed off to one side and two singles up the other end. 

He said “Steve we’ve discussed the bed situation and” he glanced at Alicia “think it’s best if we take the double bed.”

“Of course” I said, having thought it obvious.

“So it’s settled then. We’ll take the room!” he proclaimed with his right hand raised in the air, index finger extended, to signify the sealing of the deal.

We then went out to collect our bags. Betty struggled in with her gigantic backpack and dropped it on one of the beds, Antonio came in and flopped down on the double bed and then Alicia came in and put her bag down on the other single bed. She sat on the bed and started sorting her stuff out, making herself at home.

Nobody else seemed to think this was strange. Wasn’t that my bed?

As my mind worked through the scenario, it dawned on me that when Antonio said we’ll take the double bed, he might have been referring to he and I. I didn’t understand, but guessed that maybe in their culture it wouldn’t be right to share a bed with his wife when other people were in the room. But to share it with a stranger?

So this is how I was to see in the new year, cuddled up to this hairy, larger than life Italian man. It wasn’t even a real double bed, more like one and a bit singles. And with the mosquito net hanging over the sides, the space was further constricted.

I put my bag on the floor in the centre of the room and thought about this.

“Um, I might go get a drink somewhere” I said.

“Not me”, said Betty ‘I’m going to rest here a little while.”

“We’ll joining you” Antonio said, “It is the new year’s eve is it not?”

...continued...

2006

New Year in an Old Town, Part I

“Allow me to tell you that myself, I am Antonio. And this is the lovely lady who is my wife Alicia. You are going to Djenne, no? Welcome my friend, you are number five. Now we just wait for four more. Stand here, you don’t need to move.”

I was used to being surrounded, hustled and cajoled by locals in Mopti; trying to get me to stay at their hotel, travel in their taxi or buy their artwork. It’s a busy hub of a town in the centre of Mali, a base from where people launch their trips to Timbuktu, hikes in Dogon country, or visits to the wondrous mosque of Djenne. Built on the banks of the Niger River, Mopti port serves as a centre for river transport up and down the country. Tourists get mobbed by men touting once in a lifetime opportunities, and I had learnt to deal with it.

But this Italian gentleman, Antonio, was something else. In his thirties, short and stout, he’d taken it upon himself to organise the other passengers and distribute vital information.  The guys who normally had this job were leaning against the taxi and laughing among themselves, taking a breather from their task of recruiting new passengers.

I got talking to Betty, an elder American lady who was also travelling to Djenne.

“I hate this place” she told me in her syrupy Californian drawl. “I’ve travelled through Europe, North America and South East Asia, but this place is so dusty and so expensive. The food here is so bad, but in South East Asia it’s superb. And the people! In South East Asia they’re so gentle and polite, but here they are rude – all they want is money. Can you believe yesterday a young man told me I know we don’t have much time, but I just want to get to know you better, while he was caressing my arm! I told him where to go, oh yes, I’m an old lady for crying out loud.”

Lowering her voice, and with a glance to the left and right she said “And that Antonio, he’s so bossy and thinks he knows everything. Reminds me of that air-sole I used to be married to.”

The creaky old Peugeot taxi was finally packed full enough for us to leave. I tried to ignore Betty’s chatter and focus on the flat, barren landscape we were passing through. Away from the river the land looked desolate.It was made even less hospitable by the overcast sky, misty air and gusts of wind that blew up clouds of dirt.

Close to Djenne we had to cross a river, requiring a barge to carry us over. Standing at the edge, looking into the water, I found myself chatting with Antonio. “That Betty is to me so annoying. She won’t keep herself quiet and won’t agree with anything I suggest to” he said, adding with a sly grin “yesterday a young local man told me he was interested in her, and I told him to go for it because she’s single and keen for some action!” He gave me a wink.

...continued next time...

2006

Mopti's busy port

Ten people fit in an old Peugeot taxi. It broke down more than once. 

The Wizard of Chefchaouen

High up in the Rif Mountains of north western Morocco is a town painted blue and white. The walls of the shops and the houses are whitewashed and many then coloured blue, and from a distance the town looks like a fairy tale come true. 

In summer tourists come to breathe the mountain air and eat candy and take strolls around the marketplace.

In winter the people of the town scurry through the stone streets wearing long woollen gowns with pointed hoods, and they duck into their stores advertising spices, goat’s cheese, woollen blankets and crafts, to escape the cold and to talk to their neighbours.

I too walked the stone streets, getting lost and found again as the narrow ways wound up and down the steep hillside. The mountaintop above Chefchaouen was dusted with snow, and on one of my rambling walks it began snowing in the town. As the flakes fell gently on the grey stone pavement children ran excitedly in and out, and the adults raised their faces to the sky. ‘The first time in twenty seven years it has snowed in the town!’ an old man told me with a grin.

Leaning against a doorway a voice called to me ‘Welcome friend, from where do you hail?’

‘A long way from home friend’ he said on learning I was Australian. ‘Come in for a cup of tea, and I can show you my shop.’

‘I’d like to, but I’m travelling light and am really not interested in buying anything’ I told him.

‘Of course, of course, just come in and we can talk a little.’

I followed him into his little store which was cloistered and warm. The walls were hung with rugs of rich colour and fabric, there was candlelight and the smell of herbs and spices. He sat himself on a low lounge chair and gestured at one opposite for me. He was of middle age and of middle size and had an air of calm about him, his movements were unhurried and assured. A serene smile sat across his face as he looked over at me.

‘Australia, Australia...the land of kangaroos and Vegemite’ he said as he poured the sweet green tea and handed me a small glass full.  Steam rose from it, and the warmth of it in my hand, and the smell wafting from its surface were intoxicating on this cold winters day in the mountains of Morocco.

‘You know about Australia?’ I said. It was rare to meet people who spoke much English, let alone knew about my country.

‘Even though I myself have not ventured far beyond my town’ he said, ‘many people they come into my store, people from the corners of the globe. So it is as if I have travelled far without travelling at all.’

Sipping the tea, and feeling it fall smooth and warm down my throat I looked round the store, at his many fine crafts.

‘You like my store, no? Is there anything you like most in particular?’

‘No, I think everything is lovely.’

‘I know you, you’re backpacker, no? You carry all in one small pack and have no room for my fine things. But you have family no? You have mother and father at home maybe also brother and sister?’

‘Yes, I have a family, a good family.’

‘I know I know, you do not wish to buy. But if you were going to buy a something for your good family, what might you buy them? One of these fine rugs, perhaps?’ He gestured at the wall behind him where there was an array of beautifully crafted rugs of different weaves, colours and sizes. ‘More tea?’ he said with a smile and poured another cup full for me.

‘That blue one there is nice. And the red one over there is too, my parents live separately so one wouldn’t do.'

'Of course, of course. Excellent choice my friend, they are two of my finest rugs. I know you have no wish to buy, but just to pass the time, how much do you think you would pay for those two fine rugs?’

Gently and good naturedly the conversation wound, like the alleyways of the town, around and up and down. Never heading too directly to the end point, but circling and meandering as if there was all the time in the world and nothing to be gained by turning either this way or that.

And then with only a vague idea of what had happened, I found myself out on the cold street again with two rugs and a woollen gown of my own under my arm. I walked back to the hotel wondering how on earth I'd fit these into my pack and calculating how many days worth of my budget I had just parted with; handed over to this masterful wizard in his den on the hill, in the blue and white town in the mountains. 

2007