Day 39: March 1, 2008: Mauritius
I hiked what they call Thumb Mountain. Israel found me in the morning after pre-port and told me of the group going. On the way down, we took an alternate path that led through such thick flora that there were periods of 15 minutes or more that we didn’t feel the sun on our skin, walking hunched over (especially myself) in order to avoid constant branches. The trees and what not were no taller than 10 feet also. Just thick.
Before we hit this area, we came to a small hole under a rock that hanged down. Between us and this area there exists a crevice with a stream. A few of us drink from the stream that comes from the mountain. Why not, eh? There were a lot of mosquitoes around, and tadpoles and snails and centipedes in and around the water. The crevice was about 7-8 feet deep and maybe 6 feet across. I jumped across on the widest side. So long since I jumped from one location to another. It felt good. Do I need to use fancy and beautiful words to describe events and things within them? If I describe the water as cool in my hands, and how I squatted down on a rock in the crevice, thought that I might use only one hand to scoop the water so as not to have to go down on my knees and dirty my jeans on whatever might have been on this rock, slightly wet, hardly sterile. But how I couldn’t quite reach the water, and wouldn’t have been able to get a good scoop with a single hand, but felt that at this point I had to do it, and was even slightly questioning my reasons for doing it. Why did I do it? Why did I go onto my knees, by this time, allowing the mosquitoes to gather and realizing just how much was living in the water, but still carefully putting my hands quickly into the spot in the water which seemed to hold the least chance of allowing any mosquitoes that might be floating on the water, or any other life that might be in it, to run over the edges of my cupped hands? Should I describe the way that water slipped carelessly through my fingers as I moved my hands from the stream to my mouth, and how I drank much of what was left, but not nearly as much as my nature would normally allow to remain remained? I can write that the water was refreshing on my lips and tongue, in my mouth and throat, and that with my still dripping hands I smeared the rest of the moisture confidently from my forehead back over and through the labyrinth of young hairs growing from my scalp.
But this, it’s every moment of my life. Should I describe them all? Must I? How detailed should I attempt in these descriptions? What words should I seek? What kind of writer do you want me to be? Is it more important for you to learn who I am through this description of 30 seconds of my life or to learn what I am doing in general? Is this even being written for you? For me? In any general event, there are hundreds and hundreds of moments just like this. Four of the eight hikers carried 25 and a half plastic bottles with them when they emerged from the last of the tunnel of plant-life. We carried them in my backpack until we could fit no more, then in our hands and on sticks until we could barely stand to see another along the trail and gave up in some areas where six or seven feet through branches and plants and decomposing leaves, bottles on their sides were seen holding still and muddy water sitting, discarded as though because some lazy traveler decided to toss it away from him or her self that it becomes Okay for each other traveler- too irresponsible to find a way to keep plastic from setting for years and years and years in a forest for all future nature lovers to see- to do so as well.
Before the stream, Collin, Kyle, Israel, and I (the same four who would soon carry plastic bottles from nature to the MV Explorer through the streets of Port Louis) had philosophical conversation descending the mountain. I think of Kerouac, I think of Gary Snyder. My friends… I am a Beat. I cannot deny this, the feeling I feel for these creatures. Ah, Allen Ginsberg!
Before we hit this area, we came to a small hole under a rock that hanged down. Between us and this area there exists a crevice with a stream. A few of us drink from the stream that comes from the mountain. Why not, eh? There were a lot of mosquitoes around, and tadpoles and snails and centipedes in and around the water. The crevice was about 7-8 feet deep and maybe 6 feet across. I jumped across on the widest side. So long since I jumped from one location to another. It felt good. Do I need to use fancy and beautiful words to describe events and things within them? If I describe the water as cool in my hands, and how I squatted down on a rock in the crevice, thought that I might use only one hand to scoop the water so as not to have to go down on my knees and dirty my jeans on whatever might have been on this rock, slightly wet, hardly sterile. But how I couldn’t quite reach the water, and wouldn’t have been able to get a good scoop with a single hand, but felt that at this point I had to do it, and was even slightly questioning my reasons for doing it. Why did I do it? Why did I go onto my knees, by this time, allowing the mosquitoes to gather and realizing just how much was living in the water, but still carefully putting my hands quickly into the spot in the water which seemed to hold the least chance of allowing any mosquitoes that might be floating on the water, or any other life that might be in it, to run over the edges of my cupped hands? Should I describe the way that water slipped carelessly through my fingers as I moved my hands from the stream to my mouth, and how I drank much of what was left, but not nearly as much as my nature would normally allow to remain remained? I can write that the water was refreshing on my lips and tongue, in my mouth and throat, and that with my still dripping hands I smeared the rest of the moisture confidently from my forehead back over and through the labyrinth of young hairs growing from my scalp.
But this, it’s every moment of my life. Should I describe them all? Must I? How detailed should I attempt in these descriptions? What words should I seek? What kind of writer do you want me to be? Is it more important for you to learn who I am through this description of 30 seconds of my life or to learn what I am doing in general? Is this even being written for you? For me? In any general event, there are hundreds and hundreds of moments just like this. Four of the eight hikers carried 25 and a half plastic bottles with them when they emerged from the last of the tunnel of plant-life. We carried them in my backpack until we could fit no more, then in our hands and on sticks until we could barely stand to see another along the trail and gave up in some areas where six or seven feet through branches and plants and decomposing leaves, bottles on their sides were seen holding still and muddy water sitting, discarded as though because some lazy traveler decided to toss it away from him or her self that it becomes Okay for each other traveler- too irresponsible to find a way to keep plastic from setting for years and years and years in a forest for all future nature lovers to see- to do so as well.
Before the stream, Collin, Kyle, Israel, and I (the same four who would soon carry plastic bottles from nature to the MV Explorer through the streets of Port Louis) had philosophical conversation descending the mountain. I think of Kerouac, I think of Gary Snyder. My friends… I am a Beat. I cannot deny this, the feeling I feel for these creatures. Ah, Allen Ginsberg!