Fragment from chapter 11
‘Drawn in the sand’ (page 47)
Today, we make a short trip in the valley – facing the
unknown mountains beneath the dark clouds. It’s already late in the afternoon. Rain is coming. I don’t know how long it will
take and where we will be at the end of the day. Basically, one never does. It’s okay, I think. Our guides are two young
men, teachers in training. They guide us on request – in order to improve their
knowledge and practice of the English language. They are allowed to skip
lessons for one day. Passing a gigantic mud
stream of small gullies and slippery cobblestones – people drowned, any message
in a newspaper? – We reach a broad path, a true road of asphalt constructed by
the government, but now blocked by the mud and the collapsed bridge. The Papua
is a born walker. Now, the traditional way of life is back again. Walking is
the old way of moving, it determines how they look at the world, slowly, step
by step, more intense than at high speed. The bridge is a ruin, a monument, the
first rundown work of art I see. In case of emergency, the government has cross
country vehicles at her disposal for her own activities .She can close and
control the area. For her, the mud stream is a winning lottery ticket, a
blessing in disguise. Slowly, we move up the mountain and it starts to rain. It
drizzles and the mountain wind is strong. The great circulation of water is
starting. Warm air rises up, condensates into clouds, becomes rain, a river, a flood
and finally the sea. “What’s the height of the mountains”, I ask when my breath
calms down. Actually, I don’t know what I bring about. At what height above the
sea level is the valley and I point my
finger into the far. They stare at me. Are the mountains high? What is it that
I ask them? And the sea, what about the sea and the mountains? The sea, they know the sea from stories of
land behind the mountains, of the capital where the aircrafts take off to bring
food to the valley. And in the period
without airplanes, there was not anything like foraging from the coast to the
valley. They had heard about the coastal area as the cradle of money, the old
shells. (And they thought the shells grew on the branches of the trees) All
expeditions from the coast got stuck in the mountains due to a lack of food en
route. The mountains were high and built up in parallel rows along the coast
and the slopes too steep for natural vegetation, often far too steep for
cultivation of food. The coast and the sea were beyond imagination. They
produced bad luck and disaster, barbarians, money and illness. The mountains
here along the valley are accessible for walking; they hide the view on the
sea. They are good for nothing here in the grand Valley. I pick up a stick and
draw in the sand.
To be continued.
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