Familiarity & Inspirasi, With Stupid In Between

That about sums up the last 6 months since I penned anything in here.

Yes I’ve charted new territory with a string of previously unexplored places. Hung out with the same group of dysfunctional yet strangely mixable friends. And dabbled a fair bit with what I consider a photographic catharsis of my soul.

But while existing in the pseudo limbo-tic tension between what is comforting and secure to me, and the alluringly Muse-like distractions of another, I have persisted in a number of other pursuits which, by all accounts, border on the very asinine.

People have been hurt, reputations have been tarnished and there is that sickening feeling of having taken 2 steps forward but 3 steps back.

The price to pay perhaps of not knowing what you really want.

Train The Eye, On The Fly

I got off the plane from Kuching today and came home to a pleasant email from one of the organisers of the Lomo Sapiens exhibition held on 10 July in the Ukraine.

In the shortly worded note, the young Soviet lass (who also happens to be a great Lomographer herself) thanked me for being a part of the international showcase of images from around the world and sent me the PDF file of the poster they used for the event.

Its for you guys to bring to the printers, she says.

Cool.

But really, its nothing much.

One image in a sea of United-nationed plenty. Many better ones I may add. Perhaps that’s not the point. Because its nice to have even one of your Lomographs picked from the multitude of fantastic shots circulating around the closely-knit Lomo community on FlickR. More so when I only started out on the LC-A+ in March this year.

I’ve become somewhat of an accidental ambassador for the genre these short 4 months. With many people asking me if its the plasticky camera that produces those quirky, ‘dreamy’, over-saturated shots. And wanting to know how they can replicate the effect.

My advice? If one follows the Numero Uno rule of Lomography, that is, to not think before you shoot, you’ll probably end up less than satisfied with the results. However artistically abstract and beautifully blurred your shot may be. Of course there are the proponents of the Spontaneous Experience that LOMOs supposedly bestow upon all of us. But really, don’t use spontaneity  as an excuse for mediocrity.

Recognising a good picture opportunity and then translating that moment instantaneously onto film with quick-on-the-trigger fingers. Now that takes practice, for starters, on a digicam. Ironically.

To train the eye on the fly, I’d like to say.

The Jogja Jive

With every clunk of the rickety taxi’s suspension, made worse with potholes the size of watermelons, I am reminded that this is a place where expectations have to be calibrated.

It doesn’t help that I last rode in a white Merc cab 4 hours ago. Now its a dusty blue Hyundai (or is it a Toyota?) where, from the smell of things, the driver had his Mee Bakso 5 minutes ago. Did he just burp?

I hold my breath.

Jogjakarta is by no means pretty, predominantly low-rise with rusty old becaks lining every chipped-kerb pavement. I look out of the grimy window and wonder (nearly loudly), how Lonely Planet could describe this as the center of Javanese culture. With Jakarta, of course, being its economic bastion. It sure doesn’t look very Javanese to me, from the vantage point behind my Bakso-eating driver that is. In fact, with the swarm of ojeks, becaks and an assortment of other  precarious two-wheelers at every junction, it feels a little like that other urban-planning-disaster-cum-public-health-warning Mess-tropolis, HCMC. Complete with child beggers slithering in between cars when you are stopped at the lights. Did I also mention that the becak drivers wear Vietnam-resque conical hats? Well the older ones anyway. Add the ubiquitous food carts pushed by scrawny men and women who obviously need to eat more of whatever they are selling, and the similarity begins to unfold more ominously. 

All these bad-karmic vibes stop when I knock on Jom’s door and herald myself Here At Last. Its been something I have been talking about for quite a while now. Me coming over to have a slice of his displacement and to perhaps take a nibble out of Borobudur and Prambanan for good measure. I have this thing for Buddhist monoliths and Jenga-like Hindu temples built across SE Asia from Angkor to Ayuthayya. Don’t ask me why because on a religiosity scale, I would be listed as Pagan, namely in worship of an Italian god named Zegna. Perhaps its the curious mix of mysticism and bona fide religion that draws me. I am not sure.

Anyway welcome pleasantries aside, I am quickly left to my own devices after lunch and I choose to linger at a coffee-cafe with a WI-FI connection. If there is a good thing travelling without your Significant Other, its the ability to say, hell I want to sit down right here, smoke in air-conditioned comfort and surf my favorite internet websites till I feel the need to go explore the next warung. With wild abandon if I may add.

The sad thing is, I am a sucker for abuse. So it feels kind of strange without someone nagging that I would rather make love to my laptop.

But I make my way down to Malioboro Street anyway, fully satiated with lunch, coffee and my addiction to the Net temporarily dulled with nicotine. Every 20 steps or so, I am accosted by a becak driver with Nihon-jin des ka? No I am not Japanese and did not bring my desk with me from Tokyo. I am sure that is the only Japanese phrase they know apart from the usual S.O.P Konnichiwas and Kumbawas. Well its either the broken Japanese or the Bahasa-grish. Polisi? Army? Dari di mana? Where you going? I am ready, with my half crew-cut and all, to tell them that I’m from the Indonesian Special Forces, on holiday, and I have an M16 carbine tucked away in my haversack. So Shoo!

The next day, after breakfast of Indomie from across the road, I make my way to the Kraton, where our friend the Sultan still lives. The guide tells me he’s a busy man these days because the old chap is running for President. And then proceeds to wander off the usual touristy path to show me the 4th Princess’ gleaming red Toyota Celica parked in a garage just behind the Wine House. Yes, you heard correctly. Wine House.

I thought these beverages were Haram for Muslims, I jokingly admonished her.

Oh no, no, these are for the Sultan’s non-Muslim guests, she says. 

Yah sure. Anyway the Kraton compound is filled with Gamelan music from a band playing in the courtyard and groups of geriatric Palace guards wandering around purposefully. Well they look old and feeble until one such fella turns around and you catch a glimpse of the long, gold-gilded Kris tucked into the belt of his sarong. It looks like a 5 second circumcision, that thing.

After the walkabout, I meet an old becak driver just outside the entrance whom I take an instant liking to because he is wearing a faded, discolored Nikon T-shirt. He smiles, I offer him a cigarette, and then become his son for the next 2 hours. Because for some reason, Old Uncle Becak has taken to calling me Boy. Even after I tell him I am 35 going on 36. He says his name is Tukiyo. Call me Tokyo, he grins. Gosh. These people are obsessed with all things Japanese. I had to bite my lip not to reply, Nihon-jin des ka?

Tokyo takes me around on his becak like a father sending his over-sized kid to school. We go to Taman Sari (where there is a cool underground mosque), Pasar Ngasem where there are colorful Ornithological specimens on display and a Wayang Kulit workshop where I get a 20 minute lesson on the art of puppet-making and end up buying one of Lord Krishna to frame up. He rides well for a man of fifty-eight. Getting off his becak to push when my 76Kg sadly makes him go backwards once, on a slope. And then, just before Tokyo drops me off at the mall on Malioboro, he strays into the path of an oncoming bus that makes my goolies ride up my throat.

Jom and me, we go to Prambanan in the late afternoon. All thoughts of catching these magnificent Hindu lego blocks in the crimson sunset comes to nought when we step out of the taxi to the pelter of raindrops from skies just a lighter shade of grey from the ancient ash-hues of Temple stone. I swear to myself that if it rains like this on Saturday when we get to Borobudur, I am quitting the temple circuit for good. We are not thoroughly drenched, but wet enough to feel yucky for the Ramayana performance later in the evening. But blessed be the triumvirate of Shiva, Brahma and Vishnu though because the Open-air season only begins in May and we’ve got tickets for an indoor, Trimurti Theatre performance just down the road. The surprise of the day comes, however, after we watch Haruman, that white simian, prance about the stage for an hour or so. As we are walking the lonely, poorly-lit road out of Trimurti, an off-duty freelance travel guide stops his MPV and gives us a ride back to Jogja. Taking pity perhaps, on a couple of pathetic Orang Cheenas, one of whom, to his utter surprise, speaks fluent Bahasa while the other tries to look pretty.

I make a solo trip to Solo by train on Friday. When the lady behind the ticket counter collects 7000 Rupiah from me, a little less than one Singapore dollar, I give a little yelp of joy. After all, this is a 65km, 1 hour journey. All this for 90 cents? Almost unheard of from where I hail because this amount will not even get me past 1-stop on the subway. Well the ride is pleasant enough. I am traveling on Bisnis Class. Nevermind that the Train Conductor’s uniform is the wrong shade of white and unpressed, the guitar-toting Mat Rock next to me smells like Wednesday’s dinner and when there are no seats left, incoming passengers lay out newspapers on the cabin floor for a little picnic.

People are civil on Indonesian trains. No one bothers you. Unlike the menagerie of taxis, ojeks and becaks that wait for you outside Indonesian stations. All in their rightful pecking order, the taxis nearest the station entrance with the becaks exiled furthest away. Well technically if you get out of Jogja’s Tugu station and walk for abit along Jln Malioboro, you can hail a Horse & Carriage and buy yourself some semblance of royalty. If the flies from the equine’s back doesn’t get to you first of course.

But back to Solo.

One word, terribly boring. OK that’s 2 words.

The Kraton Surakarta is a big, dilapidated mess. Masjid Agung looks like a Kampung Mosque and the amount of cheap, low quality Batik on show at Pasar Klewer is simply amazing. So I take a stroll along Slamet Riyadi, Solo’s main thoroughfare and supposedly chock-a-block with swanky hotels and shopping centres. I find none. OK I do find one complex with an Internet-enabled cafe and promptly plonk myself down on its sofa.

I take the next train back to Jogja.

And sit myself down at Pizza Hut to pen this, over a Super Supreme.

It Works For Me Too

This is an excerpt from a book I am presently reading called Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert. I don’t usually type out a whole wall of text that I take from somewhere else and spread it out here for all and sundry. But I think Liz sort of summarises my thoughts on religion and how we should go about finding that balance.

Take some time to read it. At least it makes the effort I put in typing the bloody thing worthwhile.

The Indians around here tell a cautionary fable about a great saint who was always surrounded in his Ashram by loyal devotees. For hours a day, the saint and his followers would meditate on God. The only problem was the saint had a young cat, an annoying creature, who used to  walk through the temple meowing and purring and bothering everyone during meditation. So the saint in all his practical wisdom, commanded that the cat be tied to a pole outside for a few hours each day, only during meditation, so as to not disturb anyone. This became a habit – tying the cat to a pole and then meditating on God – but as years past the habit hardened into religious ritual. Nobody could meditate unless the cat was tied to the pole first. Then one day, the cat died. The saint’s followers were panic-stricken. It was a major religious crisis –  how could they meditate now, without a cat to tie to a pole? How would they reach God? In their minds, the cat had become the means.

Be very careful, warns this tale, not to get too obsessed with the repetition of religious ritual just for its own sake. Especially in the divided world, where the Taliban and the Christian Coalition continue to fight out their international trademark war over who owns the rights to the word of God and who has the proper rituals to reach that God, it may be useful to remember that it is not the tying of the cat to the pole that has ever brought anyone transcendence, but only the constant desire of an individual seeker to experience the eternal compassion of the divine. Flexibility is just as important for divinity as is discipline.

Your job, then, should you choose to accept it, is to keep searching for the metaphors, rituals and teachers that will help you move ever closer to divinity. The yogic scriptures say that God responds to the sacred prayers and efforts of human beings in any way whatsoever that mortals choose to worship – just so long as those prayers are sincere. As one line from the Upanishads suggest : “People follow different paths, straight or crooked, according to their temperament, depending on which they consider best, or most appropriate – and all reach You, just as rivers enter the ocean.”

The other objective of religion, of course, is to try to make sense of our chaotic world and explain the inexplicabilities  we see playing out here on earth every day : the innocent suffer, the wicked are rewarded – what are we to make of all this? The Western tradition says, “It’ll all get sorted out  after death, in heaven and hell.” Over in the East though, the Upanishads shrug away any attempt to make sense of the world’s chaos. They’re not even so sure that the world is chaotic, but suggest that it may only appear so to us, because of limited vision. These  texts do not promise justice or revenge for anybody, though they do say that there are consequences for every action – so choose your behaviour accordingly. You may not see these consequences soon, though. Yoga takes the long view, always. Futhermore, the Upanishads suggest that so-called chaos may have an actual divine function, even if you personally can’t recognise it now : “The gods are fond of the cryptic and dislike the evident.” The best we can do, then, in response to our incomprehensible and dangerous world, is to practice holding equilibrium internally – no matter what insanity is transpiring out there.

Sean, my Yogic Irish dairy farmer, explained it to me this way. “Imagine that the Universe is a great spinning engine,” he said. “You want to stay near the core of the thing – right in the hub of the wheel – not out at the edges where all the wild whirling takes place, where you can get frayed and crazy. The hub of calmness – that’s your heart. That’s where God lives within you. So stop looking for answers in this world. Just keep coming to the centre and you’ll always find peace.”

Nothing has ever made more sense to me, spiritually speaking, than this idea. It works for me. And if I ever find anything that works better, I assure you – I will use it.

The Capetonian Chronicles 8 – A Journal From OBSA

1 Dec 08, 9.02pm

After rock-climbing for most of the morning, we set off for Landdroskop having had a light lunch of biscuits and canned tuna. Yes not the most common of gourmet combinations.

But hell, these days we eat for survival and not for pleasure. Well at least we try to eat for pleasure during dinner but breakfasts and lunches are always stuff-your-face-and-get-a-move-on affairs. Scaling the cliff face was, however, a relatively easy affair. At least for me. Sometimes with the real thing, you get much more of a grip and foothold than what is afforded by an artificial wall. I spent the couple of hours or so waiting for the rest to complete their turn on the ropes by reading a book on Star Identification. Since every night, the full glory of Orion and a host of other constellations present themselves before us in the clear, almost cloudless skies.

What was supposed to be a 4 hour ascent up to Landdroskop was done in 2.5 hours. What was surprising was that this was accomplished after that horribly tiring trek yesterday that had everybody deadbeat and crying out for a 4WD. Perhaps we were all suitably warmed up, the calf and shoulder muscles having been primed for action.

Landdroskop is simply beautiful! Up here, its almost celestial with the clouds touching the tips of mountains that make up the 360 degree panorama surrounding our huts. Its so breath-taking that while doing my turn with the dishes just now, I just stood there with the tap running over a couple of plates, and marveled at the view around me for a good 5 minutes. And speaking of huts, yes, we finally have proper bunk beds to rest our weary bodies. But its still too cold to be showering from a hose out here in the open, since the toilets are only for dropping your waste into re-cycling tanks.

But nonetheless, spirits are up. And Landdroskop has made all that suffering over the last few days worth every strained muscle.

The Capetonian Chronicles 7 – A Journal From OBSA

30 Nov 08, 11.13pm

This is about the latest I am still awake since the expedition started. I am usually dead asleep by 2130hrs most nights.

And its a little ironic now because we walked so much today with those killer 25Kg backpacks that I am about ready to check myself into a Jacuzzi-equipped Spa and give up. There was a never-ending series of Spurs and Ridges to negotiate today along the Orchard Route on the Franshoek Range and to end it off, a 2 hour climb up Nuweberg mountain.

The 30 or so kilometers we trekked would have been OK if not for the undulating, mostly ascending terrain, the heat from the unforgiving South African sun and the load on our backs which had us desperately looking for big rocks to prop up the weight every time we broke for a breather and some water. I would rather be paddling my canoe and getting nowhere!

The views, however, were simply stunning. We could see for miles from up where we were, down to the hectares and acres of fruit orchards down below that blanket the landscape in a sea of manicured green. Pity then that we were too busy panting and sweating to really appreciate the picturesque scenery.

Tonight, we are camped next to the spartan Visitors’ Centre at the entrance of the Hottentots-Holland Reserve. Where there are 2 toilets with hot water. Yes! Hot water for a much needed bath. Even though by the time it was my turn, I had to shower in the dark and grope for my soap. But at least when I was done, Ngo had already whipped up some pasta and meat sauce which we all lapped up eagerly.

Its 8 degrees outside as a I write this. And with tommorow’s ascent up to the 1, 700m mountain station of Landdroskop, we have been warned that things can get a little chilly to say the least.

But before that, I hear there is a spot of Rock-climbing planned. Looking forward to that.

For now, sleep!

The Capetonian Chronicles 6 – A Journal From OBSA

29 Nov 08, 7.48pm

The hour’s paddle from Rusboshut to Ouwerf Dam was easy.

We changed partners today and the relatively calm waters in the morning were a welcomed respite from 2 days ago when you could row for 10 minutes and yet remain in pretty much the same position. Some of us were happy to see the end of the water phase of this expedition. Not expecting of course, that the land phase would be much more punishing.

After wading through some marshland and dropping off the canoes in a clearing, we swopped our booties and wet-shoes for boots and trekkers, off-loaded all our gear from the boats, and made the hour’s hike to the campsite which was a little disused, dilapidated concrete building on the shores of Ouwerf dam.

Run-down or not, we were actually quite enthusiastic about having some form of shelter over our heads. And the thought of not having to pitch for the night and dismantle in the morning seemed like a wonderful idea. Only trouble is, there wasn’t enough space for all of us. Plus the building only had 3 walls. Meaning when it got chilly at night, our bodies were going to be pretty much exposed to wind and rain if it got in.

After a short discussion, Nagib and me decided that we would pitch our tent after all. Some of the girls also decided to join us because the prospect of having to battle the wind and cacophony of snoring windpipes from the boys seemed too much to bear. We left the others to construct a makeshift fourth wall with their Backpacks as well as patch the gaping, glassless windows with their groundsheets and set up our tents about 10 meters from the house. 

All around us, besides the water of course, are Apple orchards. It is a pity that the season has just begun and the fruits are still small and un-ripe. Because otherwise, we would have had quite a feast. By this time, fresh rations are a premium and anything that does not come out of a can is welcomed. And being the urban kids that we are, picking apples off the vine is something of a novelty. In case you’re wondering, yes, we all plucked fruits off the trees when the instructors were not looking!

Seeing that the morning’s row was accomplished in a good time and we did not take too long to set-up camp, we had the rest of the day to relax and prepare ourselves for the long walks ahead. After playing some group games amidst the apple trees, we got down to doing up our Team Flag. Something that was supposed to represent our spirit and boost our morale when we saw it flapping in the wind.

And because all of us had to contribute to making this important symbol, the instructors decided that we would each use a different body part to leave our mark on the design. With water-colour paint of course. So when hands and feet were already taken, elbows and knees came next. With the unfortunate ones who were not quick enough to volunteer an ‘easy’ body part having to use their foreheads, noses and lips.

Painting the flag was however the easy part. Washing off the colours was a nightmare. You see Sonnica told us the paints were water-soluble. So we smeared the colours on with wild abandon. Only to discover that they were oil-based which explained why, after spending 20 minutes scrubbing with soap and water, nothing actually came off.  My heart went out to Nagib who had red paint on his nose (chuckles!).  So short of spending the rest of the trip looking like a troop of Red Indians with War Paint, out came the cooking oil.

They say memories are made of this!

The Capetonian Chronicles 5 – A Journal From OBSA

28 Nov 08, 9.42pm

Abseiling today!

And pretty high up too, off a jagged cliff face shaped like a Lion’s mane. It was quite a trek to the site though and I tore my trousers when I took a tumble down a slope lined with thorny bushes.

There is a general feeling of accomplishment and exhilaration amongst the group, seeing that all of us managed to complete the ‘controlled drop’ down. Even Lay Kwang, who was visibly (and audibly) horrified and screamed herself hoarse most of the way down. Anyway, I’ve done this before, down into a 30m, bat-guano smeared cave in Western Australia. So this wasn’t too bad. With Jeff feeding the rope and Big Willie belaying down below, we were in safe hands.

Some of us even stopped mid-way to pose for pictures, dangling from the crotch. Ha!

The D70’s holding pretty well. Having been banged and splashed on for the past 4 days. Apart from Day 2 that is when all manner of re-booting the bugger failed to get it going. After a Macro mode shot, the camera decided to go on ERR, with the 3 letters flashing on the LCD display for a good 2 hours. All’s well now, after I took out all the internals and aired the Nikon in my tent.

Anyway, my battery conservation drill has borne fruit. I’ve taken to removing the power supply after every round of shooting because there will not be a power socket in sight to re-charge for the duration of the expedition. Its the end of Day 4 and I’m still on my first battery with three quarters of its juice left intact. Let’s see if I can survive on this one till Day 7.

Oh and having to ration cigarettes is such a pain! Me and Nagib are down to our last pack for the next 6 days. That’s about 1-2 sticks per day, each. We deserve it for not budgeting and planning properly, plus being a little too liberal with our puffing in the beginning. Well we comfort ourselves, not unexpectedly, by saying it will be a good time to quit and an excellent opportunity to wean the bad habit away. But that’s what people always say when access to the excesses of life are made scarce. Ha! number 2.

We’re supposed to have set some goals for ourselves by now. Personal targets that we hope to achieve during the duration of the trip. Nobody’s going to ask you what they are or if they have been met in the end. Its something quite up to the individual. I haven’t done mine. Its been a flurry of activity so far, and one challenge after another, that I have nary a moment to sit and really ponder. Well I suppose you’re not supposed to think too deeply into such things. Unless of course you don’t really have any direction in life or your moral compass is little magnetized and already skewed. Hope to have my goals all figured out by the time it comes for Solo. That’s the personal deadline.

The Capetonian Chronicles 4 – A Journal From OBSA

27 Nov 08, 4.30pm

We arrived at Rusboshut from our campsite across the dam after a difficult 1.5 hours paddling against the waves and wind.

And just when we thought we could spend the rest of the day lounging and drying ourselves and equipment, Sonnica said we were making a 10km hike up to see a traditional African stick-hut. If not for the change in scenery, we would surely have grumbled in protest. But in the interest of Group Cooperation, we turned the canoes over so they could drip-dry, put the life-jackets out to hang and fished our hydration packs out for a stroll after lunch.

Its funny how we are beginning to track time according to the dates written on our food packs. Our rations are put into plastic bags and clearly labelled with the dates on which they are to be consumed. In big, bold, marker-inked strokes no less. And on most bags, someone has cheekily added what can be expected from the menu. At least what he/she thinks we should be eating for that meal. So on one pack, which was filled with cans of Peri-chicken and rice, the letters KFC were emblazoned in bright red.

Rusboshut is actually some kind of chalet in the middle of the Theewaterskloof Dam Reserve. And we’re camped all around the sizable wooden hut. Peering in, we can see nice beds with clean sheets and satellite TV dishes sticking out from the corners of building. But the place is locked. And of course the thought did run through our conniving little minds about breaking in for a hot shower but Jeff seemed to read us like a book when he anticipated the intention from our forlorn faces and told us to perish the thought.

27 Nov 08, 8.15pm

Its madness!

As soon as the sun goes down, I get so sleepy.

And its barely a quarter past eight. Its getting tough to keep up with entries in this journal by the light of my torch whilst yawning away. And it doesn’t help when your tent mate is already fast asleep.

I don’t want this journal to be merely a recollection of events but more a repository of thoughts and learnings. Well I suppose I’ll wake up to write another day.

Zzzz.

The Capetonian Chronicles 3 – A Journal From OBSA

26 Nov 08, 8.46pm

All around us, the mountains stretched on for miles.

Monotonous but hauntingly beautiful at the same time.

And as we sat in our canoes, rocking gently to the ebb and flow of the Theewaterskloof tide, it was with mild trepidation that we thought about the imminent phase of land treks through alpine Fynbos, UNESCO-protected  heritage flora endemic to the Cape. Not unlike the eerie eucalyptus of the Blue Mountains, casting a misty, indigo-hued curtain around the towering rocks of Katoomba, Down Under. Only this time, in shades of foliaged emerald and sun-burnt brown.

We set off early at seven in the morning. Battling strong currents that kept pushing the five Eskimo canoes back to the shores of the Yacht Club. Laden with heavy backpacks and supplies, the inuit boats were not as nimble as the single-seater kayaks the instructors were paddling. And they presented an aerodynamic-profile that did not exactly slice through the waters in a way that would alleviate exertion. Some canoes had three, and others, two, of us. Interestingly, having three pairs of arms did not necessarily mean these boats were any faster. I learnt early on that getting a perfect rowing arc from manipulating the Latissimus dorsi offered significantly greater propulsion.

And I used these muscles from my back to constantly remain ahead of the chasing pack. With Nagib providing rudder control from the deft angling of his paddle behind.

 

The sun was merciless.

From up there, in the cloudless blue hemisphere. And reflecting off the shimmering waters of the dam. There was little escape from being burnt. Our only shelter being the collective colored caps on our heads and gaudy bandanas. We had to suck constantly from the tubes of our hydration packs and wet our parched lips every fifteen minutes or so by scooping water with our hands. No one really wanted to stop paddling. Because moving meant that a comfortable breeze would blow and any wind, in whatever form, was welcomed.

The water table had risen to a point where our designated campsite along the shore was now submerged under a sea of tannic brown. Only the tips of the trees were visible. And they stuck out like scrawny arms, wind-bent, pointing to another direction further downstream.

We docked our boats at a promising spot, one hundred metres from where we were supposed to have pitched our tents and stayed the night. On the fringes of an apple orchard that was further inland. But strewn with dried acorns from the shedding pine trees above.

By seven in the evening, we had dipped our our sweaty bodies and finished preparing dinner. Someone started a fire. And as I stared into the flames, I wondered to myself.

 

Is it me? Or why does time pass so slowly.