50 words for 50 countries

I am just trying this out – some of you have asked me to put the poems in context, perhaps a little background.  So for those interested in reading more,  who wish to look behind the images, who seek the travelogue as much as the poetry, I will put a paragraph behind some of the poems here.  Let me know if there is a ‘backstory’ of any of the 50 words in particular which you would like to know about, and I’ll post it here. I’ll just try it for a time: let me know what you think.

45. Wales

OK, so I know some of you will be pedantic and say Wales is not a country in its own right, it’s part of the UK.  You might not have spoken with many Welshmen, if that’s the case.  Wales (and Scotland too) for that matter, have such an incredibly distinct identity, culture and relationship with the world, that I am in a constant state of amazement that they remain within the UK. When I lived in England, I always felt as though I were travelling to another land when I was in Wales, so I have treated it that way in my writing. Most of the time I have spent in Wales has been in the great outdoors – my first taste of rockclimbing was in a rain sodden Snowdonia; I went snow-booting on the horseshoe of Pen-y-fan in an unexpected snow shower, I climbed wonderful Snowdon in the fog one day, taking a more challenging route up only to be mildly disgusted to find I could have taken a train to get to the same peak if I’d only known!  I’ve enjoyed some beautiful walking, wonderful Christmases, canoeing, cycling – everything good about being outside.  But most of all I remember leaving my much-loved thermarest (camp mat) behind one night when we camped beside Offa’s Dyke in a little river valley – to this day I am amazed that I am still here to tell the tale and not still snap frozen in a Welsh Valley forever gazing across the King of Mercia’s lands!!!

37. Japan – the backstory

As a 16 year old, I was incredibly privileged to live in Japan for a year, in a tiny village, Kazamatsu-cho near Gifu, in central Japan. At such an impressionable age, I was so taken by the quietness and calm of this intriguing country – perhaps heightened by my inability to speak or understand the language for the first few months when I was there, so a lot of my learnings of the country were through quiet observation.  I was given wonderful opportunities at the technical school I attended and through my host families, to study kimono fabric design using traditional techniques, flower arranging, tea ceremony, odori (dance), calligraphy, all of which had and required a genuine stillness.  But most importantly I was taken into immeasurably kind and open-hearted families and their surrounding communities and allowed to live as part of the rhythms of their lives.  I was struck by the consideration and quiet awareness of other people’s needs, and about the way this was woven into Japan’s language, manners, art and daily life. Coming from rural central Queensland, with its vast landscapes of nothingness, I was also struck by the fact that not one square inch of land was put to waste, every single patch of dirt was put to work, for housing, to cultivate rice paddies, for tiny roads.  It felt that this tiny and extraordinary land was able to accommodate it vast population only because of the quietness of its souls and the ingenuity with which they utilised its space.  I later studied and taught Japanese and returned to live in Tokyo, and even with the occasional sighting of well behaved exhibitionist punks at Harajuku, and the press of people at every side, there was still an overwhelming sense of self-controlled calm and consideration. As if this was the only feasible way that this crowded society could work.  Yet every now and then, both in Gifu and Tokyo, there would be a chaotic, uncontrollable earthquake, or series of earthquakes, and then the Kobe earthquake and the horrifying tsumani – not one-offs but terrible recurring events captured through generations of Japanese art. And these horrors would be dealt with incredible stoicism, calm and compassion, despite the fear and devastation all around. As if by allowing humanity’s quietness to triumph in such inhumane circumstance, then the bucking, protesting earth would not prevail.

21. Nepal (for Bruce) – the backstory

In 2000, our son’s godfather and Glen’s best friend, died suddenly, unexpectedly and terribly tragically – at the age of 33 – in Kathmandu, where he had been working as a tour/trek leader. Bruce was a genuine citizen of the world, who was convinced he was going to die young – at 25 he told us he was half way through his life, when as it turned out, he was already two thirds there.  He was cremated by his two best friends and wonderful mother and sister, on the banks of the Bagmati River, helped and embraced by local Nepalis, some of whom were my friends, and others complete strangers, who guided and supported them through what was a very moving, very personal and ultimately very healing experience. Bruce’s ashes were scattered in sight of Mt Everest, but he remains close within our hearts.

12. Indonesia (Sulawesi, 1994)  – the backstory

So, here I was taking my 14 year old brother and 15 year old family friend on their first overseas trip – entrusted with their care and wellbeing while I introduced them to the joys and libations of backpacking! I had eased them in gently, starting with Ubud in Bali, then headed to Sulawesi to do some trekking up in the mountains, through the dramatically stepped rice paddies and amongst the villages of the Toraja people -known for their elaborate funerals and intricately carved ceremonial houses. A few days in, we’d been staying in villages and really enjoying the red rice (well, myself and Prue had, my brother was struggling with all the unfamiliar food!).  As we ate breakfast with our hosts, they asked us if we would attend a funeral in the next village, letting us know it would honour them and the family of the deceased for us to accompany them. Feeling somewhat tentative about this privilege, off we went to the next tiny village, where the men smiled and waved at us, as they grouped around the pigs which were being readied for sacrifice.  No buffalos in sight, thank goodness. At this stage, Prue and Chris’ eyes were popping – what was I getting them into??  The smiling ladies of the house were dressed formally, making us very self-conscious in our untidy trekking attire, but they kindly ushered us up the wooden ladder and into the darkened interior.  We were seated on the floor in a line in the dark between the wall and the centre post, and given tea and something not entirely suitable for under-18’s! When our eyes adjusted to the light, we realised we were literally right next to the black cardboard coffin, which was decorated in brightly coloured crepe paper and flowers to mask the ‘aroma’ – though not very successfully!  Then, to count the minutes – how long to stay so as not to offend and to give honour; but how long to breath through your mouth to keep the musky, sickly sweet scent at bay?  Later I read that the Hmong of Laos, roll up mint leaves and shove them in their nostrils during the observance.  Remind me to carry some next time… At this point, the sacrificial business of the day got well underway, and the excited chatter which accompanied the squeal of those pigs screeching up at us through the floorboards, provided the right moment for us to respectfully – and gratefully – withdraw.

7. Jordan – the backstory

Just before the start of the first Gulf War, I had been backpacking with Claire through Turkey and Jordan – overflying Syria – where we ended up staying a lot longer while waiting for my backpack, which had been sent to Accra in Ghana instead of Amman in Jordan (go figure!). What a bonus – and what incredible hospitality we experienced while waiting, from Royal Jordanian staff who took us all over Jordan to experience their wonderful country.  Two weeks later we made it to Petra, still one of the most extraordinary places on earth. While walking amongst the baking ruins of the royal city, we met Marc and Emmanuel, from France, and Lisa and Maria from the UK, and decided to join up with them and pool funds to hire some 4WDs and head out for a week to the famous desert at Wadi Rum.  Think Lawrence of Arabia.   Really. Unbeknown to us, as incredibly as it seems in these days of 24 hours connectivity, we had no idea that the Gulf War was about to break out, thinking (as only naive young backpakers can do!) that there were a lot of airforce exercises going on as formations of planes zipped overhead.  But the most surreal experience came while sitting in the middle of the desert on a dark and almost bottomless silence under a full moon one night, miles from the nearest roads. Looking up on hearing and then seeing this mirage of soldiers – probably about 30 in all, who clanked over the horizon and were pulled up by their sargeant in formation in front of us, shouting their greetings (Assalam Alaikum! Peace be with you!) to us at the top of their lungs. Their sargeant came over to us, indicating he’d like a swig of water, which we handed over with our jaws hanging slack, then he snapped his troops to attention and with another loud ‘Peace be upon you’, off they marched into the south.  Possibly, to this day, one of the most surreal – and magical – experiences of my life.

6. Malawi (2004) – the backstory

 When I travelled to Malawi in 2004 for work, the widespread impact of HIV/AIDs in what was then an incredibly poor country, was everywhere evident: no more so in the number of coffin makers, lined along the side of the side of the road from the airport all the way in to the main city of Blantyre.  The devastation of Malawi’s natural forest resources over the past 50 years, in the face of stunning population growth and the subsequent demand for wood to fuel cooking fires and for construction, meant wood for that most basic of needs – to build coffins in which to bury your loved ones – was expensive.  This, added to the sheer numbers of coffins demanded by the numbers of deaths resulting from the HIV/AIDs epidemic, resulted in the ‘growth industry’ to which I refer here.