Ghost Dance 01

Ghost Landscapes,

Native

Dance

Peoples

&

The

Bruce Parry Yvon Chouinard Kaja Sajovic Vanessa J Richards Nicholas Gill Paul Steele Paola Miglio Vinay Maurya Ben Mervis David J Constable Norbert Niederkofler Andrew Bell Jennifer Anton Jamie Lafferty

Great

Outdoors

Levison Wood Liam Collens Valeria Mosca Rosalind Yunibandhu Grace Askew 01

£8.00

TABLE OF

Contents LANDSCAPES

02

UK NATIONAL PARK INDEX CONDUCTED BY CRAIG MANOR

08

FELLS & VALLEYS: A LAKE DISTRICT TOUR BY VANESSA J RICHARDS

16

EVERYTHING ALONG THE WAY: OUT OF GLASGOW BY BEN MERVIS

23

UNDER THE LIGHT OF THE ITALIAN MOON BY JENNIFER ANTON

32

MYTHICAL MYANMAR BY ANDREW BELL

46

THE INDIAN MOTORCYCLIST: SOLO RIDING ACROSS INDIA

BY VINAY MAURYA

52

ZANZIBAR IN THE AGE OF CORONA BY KAJA SAJOVIC

67

TUMBLEWEED WOMAN: AN INTERVIEW WITH GRACE ASKEW

BY DAVID J CONSTABLE

NATIVE PEOPLES

66

POWER & HEALING: THE ROLE OF THE MBENDJELE WOMEN

BY BRUCE PARRY

76

NILDA CALLAÑAUPA: A PERUVIAN WEAVER'S MISSION

BY PAOLA MIGLIO

82

CASSAVA AND THE TICUNA OF AMAZONIA BY NICHOLAS GILL

88

"HERITAGE" TAKEN FROM "ENCOUNTERS": INCREDIBLE STORIES OF SOME OF THE WORLD'S MOST REMOTE PLACES AND THE PEOPLE WHO LIVE THERE BY LEVISON WOOD

101

HEIVA I TAHITI: COMPETING AGAINST THE INDIGENOUS TRIBES OF POLYNESIA BY DAVID J CONSTABLE

113

PETALS OF THE CHAMPAKA: THE LIFE AND CULINARY LEGACY OF THAN PHU YING KLEEB MAHIDORN BY ROSALIND YUNIBANDHU

120

FRANK A. RINEHART AND THE 1898 INDIAN CONGRESS

BY DAVID J CONSTABLE

THE GREAT OUTDOORS

131

MY LIFE OUTDOORS & DOING OUR BIT FOR THE PLANET

BY YVON CHOUINARD

145

COOK THE MOUNTAIN: NORBERT NIEDERKOFLER'S WILD WAY OF LIFE BY DAVID J CONSTABLE

156

BEYOND REYKJAVIK AND THE GOLDEN CIRCLE BY LIAM COLLENS

163

GOING NATIVE | REVIEW: NATIVE, OSEA ISLAND

BY DAVID J CONSTABLE

171

DOG WALKS ON THE BEACH: THE GOOD & THE DANGEROUS

BY PAUL STEELE

177

GAUCHO CATTLE IN CABAÑA LOS MURMULLOS BY PAOLA MIGLIO

185

AN ODE TO BEEF BY RUPERT PONSONBY

186

LIFE BETWEEN VOLCANOES AND THE SEA BY JAMIE LAFFERTY

194

CONSERVATIONAL FORAGING BY VALERIA MOSCA

Front cover: tribal woman smoking cheroot cigar, Nyaungshwe, Myanmar / Andrew Bell

MASTHEAD

Founder and Editor

David J Constable

Design and Layout

David J Constable, powered by Canva

Contributors

Craig Manor, Bowness on Windermere Vanessa J Richards Ben Mervis Jennifer Anton Andrew Bell Vinay Maurya Kaja Sajovic Bruce Parry Paola Miglio Nicholas Gill Rosalind Yunibandhu Levison Wood Yvon Chouinard Liam Collens Paul Steele Rupert Ponsonby Jamie Lafferty Valeria Mosca

EDITOR'S NOTE

Hello, Welcome to the first issue of Ghost Dance. What it is, I’m still not sure? A digital magazine, perhaps. A journal or newsletter, kinda.

What it is now may well even change. I can tell you that it is a collection of stories, features and photography from global voices, delving into topics that get little coverage or attention elsewhere.

The idea for such a publication had been percolating for a long time, and then upon the announcement of yet another UK lockdown, I began speaking to friends and collating ideas. Soon, I was commissioning from diverse people and attempting to set their words to photography – a new and labour-intensive skill, as I would quickly discover.

I approached people I consider to have a unique voice, who write truthfully and detail their experiences with knowledge, an aptitude for exploration and not just describing beaches and luxury retreats.

I have no interest in lazy, lackadaisical holidays, the manufactured exhibitionist experiences that clog blogs and social media. Too many wannabe travellers and Instagram obsessives pass for travellers and writers these days – the air is noisy with their shouting.

The best travel for me is off the grid; it’s the under-the-radar exploration and the crossing of borders. The best travel writing reflects this, not blogs, listicles or single-paragraph descriptions.

The travel narrative should be evocative, its descriptions authentic and written directly from experience. I believe this collection of writing is just that, a journey with people who see and feel the authentic travel experience – via food, overground travel and through their interactions with locals. I hope the content inspires and sends you somewhere far, far away.

David J Constable Founder and Editor ghostdancemag@gmail.com

L A N D S C A P E S

Ambleside, Lake District, UK / Jonny Gios

UK National Park Index conducted by Craig Manor, Bowness on Windermere Fells & Valleys: a Lake District Tour by Vanessa J Richards Everything Along the Way: Out of Glasgow by Ben Mervis Under the Light of the Italian Moon by Jennifer Anton Mythical Mynamar and its uncertain future by Andrew Bell The Indian Motorcyclist: solo riding across India by Vinay Maurya Zanzibar in the Age of Corona: it’s a state of mind by Kaja Sajovic Tumbleweed Woman: an interview with Grace Askew by David J Constable

LANDSCAPES

UK NATIONAL PARK INDEX Conducted by Craig Manor, Bowness on Windermere Photo by Annie Spratt, New Forest National Park, United Kingdom The coronavirus has meant that we’ve all had to look a little bit closer to home when it comes to booking a trip away. The UK is blessed with some stunning areas of natural beauty, especially within the borders of the Lake District's fifteen national parks. From the moorlands of Dartmoor and North Yorkshire to the spectacular summits of the Peak District, there’s a great mix of national parks to explore, each with its own unique charms.

02 | LANDSCAPES: UK NATIONAL PARK INDEX

LANDSCAPES

The team at Craig Manor have attempted to rank each of the country’s national parks on a range of factors.

Third, second and first places are detailed further in the following pages.

10. Dartmoor 9. Exmoor 8. South Downs 7. Peak District 6. Northumberland 5. Pembrokeshire Coast 4. New Forest

LANDSCAPES: UK NATIONAL PARK INDEX | 03

LANDSCAPES

3. SNOWDONIA The Snowdonia National Park in northwest Wales boasts vast areas of natural beauty and is known as Eryri in Welsh, a name that can be translated as “the place of the eagles.” Founded in 1951, it is the oldest national park in Wales and is home to the tallest mountain in Wales and England, Mount Snowdon, known or Yr Wyddfa in Welsh, at an elevation of 1,085 metres (3,560 feet). If mountain climbing isn't your thing, then it's possible to take the Snowdon Mountain Railway to the top, Britain's only public track and pinion mountain railway, which runs from Llanberis to the summit of Snowdon.

Photo by Nighthawk Shoots, Snowdonia National Park, United Kingdom

2. THE BROADS The Broads is a network of mostly navigable rivers and lakes in the English counties of Norfolk and Suffolk. They consist of a fragile wetland of international importance, with rare wildlife like the huge swallowtail butterfly, the booming bittern, frolicking otters and beautiful white water lilies.

The countryside is undulating and mostly agricultural, with sandy beaches, stunning coastline and glorious inland waterways and rivers. The area is 303 square kilometres (117 square miles), most of which is in Norfolk, with over 200 kilometres (120 miles) of navigable waterways. Although the terms Norfolk Broads and Suffolk Broads are used to identify specific areas within the two counties, respectively, the whole area is frequently referred to as the "Norfolk Broads".

Photo by David Irvine, Lost WW2 Bunker, Norfolk Broads, United Kingdom

04 | LANDSCAPES: UK NATIONAL PARK INDEX

1. LAKE DISTRICT Area (sq miles): 884.9 Lakes: 29 Walking routes: 194 Photos by James Kemp Not only is it the most visited of the UK national parks, and recently made a UNESCO World Heritage Site, but the stunning Lake District also came top for three of the factors Craig Manor were looking at - attractions, walking routes and Instagrammability - while also scoring highly for outdoor activities and its abundance of beautiful lakes which give it its name. While you might have to put up with the odd rain shower, the Lakes are a special destination whether you want to explore the fells and lakes on one of the famous Wainwright Walks or the indoor visitor attractions such as the World of Beatrix Potter.

First published in the Westmorland Gazette in the 1950s, Alfred Wainwright's Pictorial Guide to the Lakeland Fells comprises seven volumes listing 214 mountains and tops, each with its own chapter. Although he wasn't a native of the region - born in Blackburn, Lancashire in 1907 Wainwright enjoyed long walks as a young man, venturing out from his hometown and across the hills of the Lancashire countryside. He showed great interest in drawing and cartography as a child, producing his own maps of England and the local area - it was not uncommon for the young boy to walk 20 miles in a day.

When an accountancy job became available at the Town Hall in Kendal, Wainwright didn't hesitate to move to Cumbria. From then on, instead of having to organise expeditions to Lakeland from fifty or sixty miles, he was right there on the spot. Weekends could be spent in his beloved mountains, documenting fells, routes and his love affair with the Lake District. In 1955 he published the first volume of his Pictorial Guide to the Lakeland Fells and, as they say, 'the rest is history.'

LANDSCAPES: UK NATIONAL PARK INDEX | 05

LANDSCAPES

The Lake District National Park has a wide range of activities and attractions, as well as the natural beauty of the entire area. Many have learnt to windsurf on Windermere, cycled the trails of Lowther Castle or stargazed from Grizedale Forest.

No matter how you want to enjoy your time in the Lakes, you can walk, cycle, swing in the trees and splash about to your heart's content. In the winter, you can even head into the mountains with Fell Top Assessors, taking you on a guided tour as well as winter skills courses from December to April.

With 12 of the largest lakes in England and 3,105 kilometres of rights of way, this is truly one of Britain's most breathing spaces.

06 | LANDSCAPES: UK NATIONAL PARK INDEX

08 | LANDSCAPES: FELLS & VALLEYS

LANDSCAPES

FELLS & VALLEYS ...

A LAKE DISTRICT TOUR Words & Photos by Vanessa J Richards Soaked to the skin within ten minutes of walking. That’s how I remember the Lake District. Wetter than a duck’s undercarriage. Even the finest Gore-Tex does little in a battle against the thunderous rain. Still, I squelched on, through and out of the village of Coniston, the steep road doing its bit to warm me up quickly on a stormy morning.

Eventually, I left the flooded asphalt behind and followed the track west, past the Old Man of Coniston, a 2,633 feet high mountain (also known as ‘fell’) popular with visitors due to its accessibility and well-marked route to the summit. A thick fog lay across the fell like a blanket, hiding the aforementioned craggy gentleman from view. Moving across Walna Scar, the highest of Wainwright’s The Outlying Fells of Lakeland, the wind chased the clouds across the sky, gaps of light allowing for brief glimpses of the golden autumn foliage gleaming in the valley below.

LANDSCAPES: FELLS & VALLEYS | 09

LANDSCAPES

Within a second, the slate-grey front closed in once more, and I descended into a sudden snow flurry. A strong gust of wind almost knocked me off my feet. Icy snowflakes battered the exposed skin on my face, clinging to my eyelashes. I squinted through the fog, seeing no more than two feet ahead of me. The only thing you can do in these situations is to laugh.

The Lake District Tour is a circular route that takes you on a highlight tour of England’s largest national park. The circuit is a two-fold delight: ambling through historic market towns such as Ambleside, Keswick and Windermere – where the trail starts and ends – offering a plethora of charming shops, art galleries and pubs.

The Tour equally takes in majestic views across Lake Coniston and Derwentwater and the dramatic, steep-sided valleys of Borrowdale, Eskdale and Wasdale. It totals just over 90 miles in length. Several variations offer high-level route alternatives, though the weather during my visit put a spanner into my October half-term hiking plans. Being a teacher, I am somewhat restricted in timing my outdoor exploits, unable to shift my plans in accordance with a more favourable weather window. Nevertheless, I had a week off, with Covid restrictions allowing for a last-minute trip. I planned on camping along the way, aiming to complete the Tour in four days.

I have always been a fan of the wilder places, and so “Lakeland” as it is also known, with its cornucopia of natural delights, seemed like an obvious choice for my next longdistance walk. The Lake District – a UNESCO World Heritage site since 2017 – has much to boast about. There is an unbridled beauty about this part of the country, and many picture-perfect communities awash with the sort of warm hospitality the North is famous for. However, it is the innumerable possibilities of natural connection that attracted me to the area. With over 2,000 square kilometres to explore, new sights, smells and sounds hide around every bend and pathway – you’ll never get bored in the Lakes. The forests and peaks appear entirely different depending on the season and weather.

10 | LANDSCAPES: FELLS & VALLEYS

LANDSCAPES

I had so far experienced sunshine, rain showers, strong winds, sleet, hail and snow, all in the last 24 hours. At the end of an unusually wet October, paths and roads were waterlogged, providing entertaining diversions. Things remained much the same on my second day. After descending into the valley, I trudged through a calf-deep bog to find aggressive bullocks at the next gate, blocking my path. My attempts at giving the group a wide berth were foiled by the evident curiosity my appearance provoked in the adolescent bovines. Their bucking, charging, kicking antics may well have been playful in nature, however, getting caught by an errant hoof could cause severe damage. I retreated and took a different route to avoid their field entirely.

Swollen rivers meant another detour, taking me up and over Hardknott Pass, between Eskdale and the Duddon Valley. The Romans called this spectacular, winding road the “Tenth Highway” and built a road over the pass in around 110 AD, linking the coastal fort and baths at Ravenglass with their garrisons Ambleside and Kendal. With the smell of straining clutches in the air – the road boasts a maximum one in three gradient of 33% after all – the old Roman fort Mediobogdum comes into view below me as I reached the final crest of the pass. The archaeological site was built under Hadrian’s rule in the second century and provided a memorable lunch spot.

Refreshed, I headed towards Wasdale Valley, admiring the technicoloured sunset sky over the iconic mountain silhouettes of Great Gable and Scafell Pike that make up its dramatic backdrop. The final sun rays bathe the surrounding area in a warm hue, highlighting the many grey and green shades while putting the landscape’s bumps and grooves into stark relief.

Meanwhile, the rhythm of my boots hitting asphalt was only interrupted by the occasional car passing, whereupon I flattened myself against the shrubs lining the edge of the road, allowing vehicles to pass. A 31.5-kilometre hike and 1,422-metre ascent later, my tent is pitched outside the Wasdale Head Inn, near Gosforth. I snuggled into my sleeping bag, my trusty stove boiling away and ready to tuck into a gourmet dinner of instant noodles and chocolate brioche – the dinner of multi-day hiking champions.

LANDSCAPES: FELLS & VALLEYS | 11

LANDSCAPES

The following morning, I felt sluggish heading the 545 metres up Black Sail Pass.

Thanks to an early period – keep adventure real, ladies – the eerie quality of walking through the cloud was peaceful; the soft drizzle gentle compared to the oppressively heavy rainfall that would be the theme for the rest of the day. Feeling my limbs loosening, my breathing regulated, and I zigzagged my way over the pass. I was the only living soul as far as the eye could see, now at a radius of ca. 10 feet. I let out an exuberant, ‘Woohoo!’

One of my favourite childhood books, Ronja the Robber’s Daughter, by the Swedish author Astrid Lindgren, sees a character let out a jubilant scream every year at springtime, letting the forest and world around her know she is still alive. As I child, I frightened many a local walker and farmer with my recreation of this. However, since picking up hiking a few years ago, I find the practice has become so ingrained, no walk is complete without it. The shout is almost spiritual, animalistic in nature; it is viscerally grounding and well-suited to fell tops.

One scream later, and I am rewarded with a brief spell of shifting clouds, letting me spot a small stone building in the valley below. The YHA Black Sail is only accessible on foot, providing a remote and picturesque retreat for outdoor lovers needing a break. I ambled past and back up onto Scarth Gap Pass, nestled between Haystacks and Seat – two popular peaks overlooking Buttermere village.

LANDSCAPES

I am momentarily tempted to include a side trip onto the peak itself, but before I can consult my maps, the wind picks up with a vengeance and slams two approaching walkers in front of me against a large boulder. Hurriedly, they sort shelter as we watched yet another weather front roll in. Sleet pelts hit my face like miniature acupuncture strikes as furious gusts tried to knock me over, tugging at my clothes and hair.

Message received universe – not today. Not alone in this weather with a heavy pack. I would have to consider my options carefully, and these peaks weren't going anywhere.

Walkers might ruefully smile and shake their head at my caution, but you must respect the mountain and the weather. Seasoned outdoor folk will understand this. A twisted ankle after toppling over from a gust of wind is not life-threatening. Still, it imposes on others to get me safely out of that situation. I would rather the wonderful volunteers that form Mountain Rescue are not called away from a potentially more urgent rescue because of a daft decision on my account. Therefore, I abandoned my hopes of a summit of Haystacks and continued the descent off the mountain.

In a fight against the wind, I marched along the lakeshore of Buttermere, meaning “the lake by the dairy pastures,” towards the hamlet of the same name. Not far from Buttermere is the highest waterfall in the Lake District. Scale Force has a single drop of 170 feet and two others of about 20 feet, hidden away in a deep tree-lined gorge.

Out of the village, I climbed once more onto the misty fells, nimbly stepping along the glorified, five-inch-wide sheep track, Hidscarth Edge, making my way towards Dale Head. Keswick was my end goal, but for now, the narrow path bears signs of many days’ heavy rainfall, more bog and stream than a path, the edge often slipping away underfoot.

Not a fun prospect when a laden backpack manipulates your centre of gravity. Though I am well-accustomed to the familiar weight hugging my hips and back, I cannot wait to rid myself of the heavy cargo.

Now racing against the light, I cursed myself for having chatted with so many other tourists along the way. Sudden winds threw me out of my grumps, buffeting and pushing me along with gusts of 40 mph. I looked up to see the sky suddenly apocalyptic.

I had not seen another person since pushing out of Buttermere. Even the sheep, usually so hardy and ever-present, had vanished. Then, the soggy ground beneath my right foot suddenly gave way, and I almost slipped off the path. My heart raced as the adrenalin pumped through my body. For once, I understood the expression ‘the weather is closing in,’ as I felt an unwelcome dread squeezing my chest. However, everything is temporary, and though I cannot control the weather, I can control how I react to it.

14 | LANDSCAPES: FELLS & VALLEYS

I focused on taking deep, steadying breaths for the next hour, staying entirely singleminded on the placement of my boots.

Finally, I slid my way down the scree descent and onto a tarmac road. After 90 minutes of swift road walking amidst the darkening evening sky, I arrived in Keswick, the pretty market town that has become a significant tourist hub. It is no wonder what attracts so many to this region of Cumbrian Allerdale county.

Keswick sits sandwiched between the impressive bulk of Skiddaw, which dominates the skyline in this part of the northern lakes at 3,054 feet, and the picturesque Lake Derwentwater.

With the campsites closed due to Covid and others unusable due to turning into temporary ponds, finding a place to set up my tent is unlikely. After a challenging 28 kilometres and 1,688 metres in ascension, I opted to get out of the rain and into a hostel for a comfy bed and hot shower.

The following morning, I awoke to an unusual sound. At first, I couldn’t put my finger on it. I stretched leisurely in my cosy bed, my toes poking out from under the covers. Gradually, I let animation seep into my limbs and my mind. Then I realised – it wasn’t raining! As if stung, I leapt out of bed, all ennui forgotten and launched myself at the windowsill. I threw back the curtains.

For once, glorious Autumn sunshine streamed across the slumbering rooftops. Hellbent to make the most of this near-miraculous occurrence, I swiftly dressed, grabbed my kit and departed the hostel as if possessed.

Like Bilbo Baggins running down the path and out of town, I left Keswick behind, striding once again across muddy fields. I had a spring in my step, fresh air in my lungs and a Cheshire cat grin on my face. The hills and mountains beckoned, and there was no wind or rain to battle, for now. I had a whole day of hiking ahead and adventures awaiting.

Vanessa Richards is a primary school teacher from Tunbridge Wells in Kent, England. She is a keen hiker and adventurer and spends much of her free time walking or taking her beloved paddleboard on the River Medway. Follow her on Instagram at @vanessajrichards

LANDSCAPES: FELLS & VALLEYS | 15

16 | LANDSCAPES: EVERYTHING ALONG THE WAY

LANDSCAPES

OUT OF GLASGOW:

EVERYTHING ALONG THE WAY Words by Ben Mervis Photos by Ross Sneddon, Mat Reding, AJ Wallace, Nils Leonhardt

LANDSCAPES: EVERYTHING ALONG THE WAY | 17

LANDSCAPES

An American on a prolonged plight from suburbia, I’ve lived in and loved Scotland for most of the last decade. My flat here in Glasgow sits towards the top of a blonde sandstone tenement block. In distinctive Glaswegian style, the lounge features tall bay windows, and because my flat faces north, I’m graced with a view due north – onto a city crowned by rolling hills. The view changes dramatically at least once a day, as Scotland wears its micro-seasons remarkably well. Somehow each shift in the weather feels suited to the drama of its landscape, like an epic play moving from act to act. Past the Victorian tenements and gaudy new-builds is a constant reminder that what I really need lies beyond our city.

Scotland’s west coast is rugged and green, lush with a show of life that is so brilliant and elemental: lochs, mountains and forests. When I feel that need to attune with nature, to take great breaths of loch-side air, I take the short journey out to the west coast, towards the long arm of Argyll and to everything along the way. I’ve made this trip so many times – with friends, with partners – that it has its own rituals. We pack cups of hot black tea and flaky pastry into the car as if this we’ll be gone for days, and provisions are essential. In actual fact, the journey could not be more simple: it involves just three turns. This is great for me. It allows me to languish my company into a storytelling session. Up come histories of the River Clyde as we pass out from Glasgow and cruise past old industrial shipyards, converted castles and an ancient island fortress.

18 | LANDSCAPES: EVERYTHING ALONG THE WAY

LANDSCAPES

About 25 minutes out of Glasgow – past a bottle-neck of motorists and holidaymakers – the landscape sheds all the pretences of a metropolitan area. No more drivethrough Costa, no more dodgy roadside steakhouse. Instead, the absence of, well, almost everything. The landscape is then replaced with views that stretch for miles up and down hillsides, past grazing sheep and thick woods that tease views of stunning stately homes. For 10 minutes, you’ll stare at the first crop of hills on the horizon.

I recall one trip where we all stopped speaking in breathless appreciation as the hills, freshly blanketed with snow, cut into view. We rolled the windows down and breathed in the clean air. The mood in the car is always that of excitement and palpable energy.

The music upbeat, the conversation light and threaded with anticipation. The road cuts close to Loch Lomond’s shores – the country’s second-largest Loch – and both driver and passengers get unobstructed views of the range of hills that bend around the water. Soaking up the drama of the moment, I’ll often time this part with the excellent fiddle-work of Alasdair Fraser. The abruptness makes for poor DJing, but it’s no less appreciated.

LANDSCAPES: EVERYTHING ALONG THE WAY | 19

LANDSCAPES

Towards the top of Loch Lomond, we reach a turreted centuries-old hotel which guards a major crossroad for travellers: turn right and journey north along the loch, as far up Scotland as you desire. Or go left, and follow the Argyll peninsula until its white sandy beaches peers out onto the Isle of Arran, off the west coast.

There is something about following the same single road that makes the journey so deliberate.

Not far past the crossroad is a lookout, flanked by hills and set with long views over a lush green valley. The Romans built the first roads up, but millennia later, British soldiers enforced them and dubbed this spot “Rest and Be Thankful”. The name is particularly apt. A food truck is usually parked up at the top of the hill, offering regular grill-van fare. On one particularly memorable morning, I stopped here with two friends: we ordered milky tea and bacon rolls and stood out over the valley as it flooded with fog that rose almost to our feet.

Perhaps what I love most about Rest & Be Thankful is that it can be your ultimate destination.

The way you stand there, abreast of the hills, with the valley at your feet, and the wind whipping around you—the moment feels complete. But it can be just one stop along the way.

LANDSCAPES

Around the corner is a calm and cool hillside loch where I’ve parked – at dusk and in the wind and rain – to get a better look at a family of deer running across tall marshy grass. A further 5 minutes down the road is a beautiful old stone bridge over a small burn, where we’ve skipped rocks in summer. But if you drive for another 30 minutes and take those two remaining turns, you’ll find yourself in my favourite place. On the banks of Loch Fyne, in an idyllic white-washed cottage that boasts one of Scotland’s best restaurants.

As you approach, you pass the MacLachlan clan chiefs’ final resting place – all buried here beside a medieval church called Strathlachlan with more grass to its walls than stone. Nearby, a manor and estate dubbed the “new castle” is grazed by marsh-loving sheep and developed by those same MacLachlan descendants. The restaurant faces onto the MacLachlan’s medieval castle, its mosscrept walls still crumbling, positioned on a promontory on the loch. A tire-swing worked into a nearby tree and a clear pathway that appears at low tide.

LANDSCAPES

I can’t express the pleasure this view gives me and has given me so many times. Mentally I cycle through the seasons: sun-struck hills and cloudless skies, green grass turn a burnished amber and rich red-brown, and finally, soft white snow settles onto the ground. Even on the most dreich of days, with the wind and rain at your back, low fog drifting off the loch, you feel a stillness that breathes you.

Ben Mervis is an American editor, food researcher and publisher currently living in Scotland. He studied Medieval History in Glasgow and London before going on to work at world-renowned restaurant noma in Copenhagen and was the lead researcher for Netflix's Chef's Table series. In 2017, he founded the food-focused travel magazine Fare and is the author of a major upcoming cookbook on traditional British food. Follow him on Instagram at @benmervis

22 | LANDSCAPES: EVERYTHING ALONG THE WAY

LANDSCAPES

Under the Light of the Italian Moon Jennifer Anton’s debut novel explores her efforts to find literary inspiration in Italy. The story spans two decades and is a true account of love and women’s resilience during the rise of fascism and WWII, inspired by the author’s own family history after her grandmother's experience growing up under Mussolini’s fascist rule, then living through Nazi occupation in a small northern Italian town.

The book’s Preface and a section of the first chapter follows.

Words by Jennifer Anton

LANDSCAPES: UNDER THE LIGHT OF THE ITALIAN MOON | 23

LANDSCAPES

Preface This book was given to me by the Italian women in my family. Despite many of them having been gone several decades, they reached me. They seeded questions about their lives in my head, starting in 2006 when I was pregnant with my daughter. That same year, after my post-pregnancy, it didn’t go well, and my grandmother died. Getting the answers became an obsession.

I collected stories sitting at kitchen tables in Plainfield, Illinois, over cups of coffee and powdered pizelle. My daughter joined me on the trip to Italy, where I shared aperitivi of prosciutto and prosecco while listening to translated memories of cousins well over ninety years old. We toured privately through dusty backroom “museums” in the University of Padua and sat with the priest in the low-lit rectory of Fonzaso, reviewing records and parish bulletins from the 1930s. We stood in cemeteries, looking at names on marble gravestones, black and white pictures of my ancestors peering out from mausoleum walls.

The lives of these women were remarkable, but the door had been closed on them.

Whispers from the past forced me to awake at six a.m. each morning. Tell our stories, Jennifer. Write the book. Their lives were indelibly attached to the time they lived in. Fascist Italy. World War Italy. Catholic Italy. These topics too, became a learning obsession. How did fascist Italy impact the lives of a woman with a husband abroad, a midwife, their families? Beyond memories of aunts and cousins, priests and literature, research by professors such as Victoria de Grazia and Richard Bosworth helped me understand. Stories collected. Research soaked into comprehension. Taken then with a thread of imagination and woven together into the book you hold in your hands. The imprint of two world wars on a town in Italy.

The bold resilience of women. The love of husband and wife. A way to live on forever in text.

It all begins with women.

In them, heaven and Earth transfer. Creation comes to life, and all of humanity springs forth.

In the mother’s powerful womb, the transition from Godly to worldly takes place.

It was Mary who gave birth to eternity and redemption.

The strength of the world is in its women.

The power of the world is within its women.

Yet it is the women we erase.

Some women are unwilling to be forgotten or to forget.

Particularly if they are Italian.

24 | LANDSCAPES: UNDER THE LIGHT OF THE ITALIAN MOON

LANDSCAPES Chapter 1 November 1914 Nina Argenta stared at the altar, trying to concentrate on the mass since there was no chance of escape. The warm fragrance of incense surrounded her, and the priest’s recitations combined with the candlelit sanctuary made it hard to keep herself awake. It was Sunday, and like every Sunday of her ten years on Earth, she sat dutifully, bored by the teachings of the ancient text that is the Roman Catholic Holy Bible.

Under the vaulted ceiling of the Chiesa della Natività di Maria, the Madonna statue at the side of the church watched her. Candlelight illuminated the blue veil and gentle expression of the Blessed Virgin, casting a shine, like polish, on one side of her face and leaving the other in shadow. Nina shivered, tugging her sweater around her shoulders.

The yarn, thick under her fingertips, made her feel secure. It had been a gift from her mother on Nina’s birthday two weeks before – the birthday they shared.

“We are born on the cusp of two moons, passionate and loyal. A gift for my gift,” her mother had said when she gave Nina the present, blue to match her light eyes. It covered the once-white dress she wore that had belonged to her older sister. She leaned against the solid wood of the pew and studied the colours in the paintings of Frigimelica and Forabosco hanging on the grand church walls. Garments of rich burgundies like dried blood, sparkling golds, skin on a flat canvas painted to project luminescence and curve. It was easy to distract yourself from mass when surrounded by such intricacy.

The women of her family sat to her right: seven of them in the row behind the nuns, a place of honour. The Argenta women occupied the same pew every Sunday. Onorina, four years her senior, perfect and pious, kept her eyes closed and prayed with a sparkling rosary threaded through her clasped hands, oblivious to the three youngest sisters who fretted next to their mother. Her father and younger brother, Vante, sat in front with the other men. Men in front, women in back, separated by the nuns. Nina’s older brother, Antonio, had not joined today. At breakfast, tension had hung between him and their mother, which she assumed was why he missed mass. The priest would surely notice.

Mamma would be disappointed. Nina knew how it felt to let her down.

LANDSCAPES: UNDER THE LIGHT OF THE ITALIAN MOON | 25

LANDSCAPES The chapel veil sitting atop her head slipped as she looked up at the imposing crucifix that stabbed down above the altar. Adjusting the lace, she missed a prayer response, causing her mother to look over with a lifted eyebrow. Adelasia Dalla Santa Argenta was not a woman to make angry, especially not during mass. Her wooden spoon would be waiting at home to beat your culo if you weren’t good. She had a reputation for sternness not only with her family but with the entire town. As the only trained midwife in Fonzaso and the villages surrounding, she had delivered every child Nina knew and had earned the nickname, La Capitana, The Captain. It was said even the priest feared her.

Nina could see her father, Corrado Argenta, through the heads and habits as he shifted from side to side. His eyelids drooped in boredom, but he glanced back from time to time to check on his wife and mother, both of whom he feared as much as the children did.

Nonna Argenta, small and severe in her black dress and head covering, was the only one besides Onorina entirely consumed by the mass. Nonna looks just like a strega, thought Nina, missing only a broom to fly away on.

Nina let out a relieved sigh when it was time for communion. At last! Mass would be over soon, and she couldn’t wait to be by the fireplace, reading her book after helping Mamma and Nonna prepare the polenta for supper. She walked up the marble aisle, inching forward behind the nuns, then knelt at the altar and held out her tongue, awaiting the body of Christ. Receiving the wafer, she gave the sign of the cross and stood to head back to her seat. The taste of creamy paper stuck to the roof of her mouth, and she contemplated why God would want children to have sore knees and numb bottoms to get into heaven.

Passing rows of men knelt to pray after communion, she saw the large Pante family filling two benches in the front of the church Pietro, one of her sister’s classmates, leaned unceremoniously in the pew, trying to help his tiny brother fix his shoelaces, tied together so he would trip. A messy redhead crouched in the seat behind them was the likely culprit of the prank. The Pante boy finished helping his brother, then sat back on the pew, catching Nina’s eye and giving her a quiet smile. She hesitated before returning it. The Madonna was still watching her. I should be praying after receiving the body of Christ. She returned to her seat then knelt again, bruised knees on cold wood, to await the end of the mass.

“Fratelli e sorelle,” Don Segala proclaimed after he had completed the liturgy. “I would like to ask for a special prayer today. Another group is leaving tomorrow for America. They will travel to Genoa and take a long ship ride. Signori, please join me here on the altar.”

The pews squeaked, echoing in the church as a group of five men and three boys walked to the front.

To Nina’s surprise, the Pante boy was one of them. Was it possible such a young boy was going on that voyage? There was an earnestness in the way he stood next to the other men who were a head taller than he was; his face was sombre. He stuck out a proud, lifted chin, smooth, unlike the others. A patched brown jacket, cut too wide, hung on his slender physique. I wonder how many brothers have worn that jacket before him.

26 | LANDSCAPES: UNDER THE LIGHT OF THE ITALIAN MOON

LANDSCAPES The priest called out each of the men’s names. “Lord, please bless these men and give them a safe journey to America. Allow them to prosper there and, if it is your will, bring them safely home to their families here in Fonzaso.” The parishioners united in an “Amen”. As Pietro returned to his seat, he peered back towards the Argenta pew, gave a wry smile and nodded. Nina tried to see if he was looking at her or her sister, but Onorina was quick to bow her head again. The Madonna was watching her, too.

Nina knew many men were leaving Fonzaso to find work abroad. She had overheard her father mentioning it to her mother – the emigranti – but she never imagined such young people going. It unsettled her, and her heart raced as questions filled her head. Pietro Pante, who lived with his family a few streets down, who went to school with her sister, was leaving for America.

America! The furthest she had travelled was to Padua with her mother, and Bergamo once. How exciting! What will happen to him? What would it be like to sail on a ship, miles away, to a new country? To start life over far away from Fonzaso? The mass ended, and the parishioners rose in song. Nina lent her voice with fervour, and when she looked again at the Blessed Virgin, it seemed the Madonna was smiling at her.

After Don Segala and the altar boys completed the processional, the congregation advanced out of the church like a tiny parade. Organ music erupted out of the doors, transforming into clustered conversations, and the piazza buzzed in dialect.

As Nina skipped down the church steps into the autumn air, Mount Avena soared in front of her, rising majestically into the sky, its grey limestone cliffs slashed with zigzags of greenery. The November sun warmed her shoulders as she squinted at the peaks of the snowcapped Dolomiti, the pre-Alps, that hugged Fonzaso and split Italy from Austria.

Tuscan church, Italy / James Lee

Nina looked higher, past the church bell tolling over and over in the tower, and saw the little castle in the mountain, the Eremo di San Michele.

On one of their walks foraging for mushrooms, her father had taught her that centuries before, the people built a chapel in the mountainside dedicated to Saint Michele, protector from evil.

He told her they used to make houses of wood, and fires were frequent, so they installed a guardian to live next to the chapel in a caretaker’s house that looked like a miniature castle. The citizens paid him a self-imposed tax of one large bag of cornmeal each, and he ensured the bell alerted them to fires that could devastate the town. Nowadays, they built more buildings with stucco and stone, but the guardian remained in this place.

Is he lonely? Nina wondered. Does he have his own mass on the mountainside? Can he see me down here in the piazza? In school, the nuns said that the Eremo di San Michele, or San Micel as they often called it, was the only thing travellers going from the Trento or Vicenza provinces heading to Belluno could recall as they journeyed over the road called Paolina that the Romans had built. It comforted Nina to know that the man in the castle watched over them.

“So, you made it through mass, Ninetta?” Papà came up behind her, speaking loudly above the rest of the chatter. The strength of his voice startled her, as usual, yet she couldn’t help but smile at him. Each word was a booming announcement when he was near other men, and Mamma wasn’t around.

“Papà, you’re not going to America, are you?”

Nina asked, squinting up at his big ears.

“America? No! I’m happy here in Fonzaso getting to see my Ninetta every day. Why, do you want me to go?” He poked her shoulder and tickled her neck. Focused on getting her answer, she looked at him seriously. “Now they are sending children, aren’t they? The Pante boy, Pietro, he can’t be old enough to go without his family. You wouldn’t send Antonio or Onorina, would you?”

Fonzasco, Italy / Gatto Tere

Isola della Scala, Veneto / Giuseppe Mondi

LANDSCAPES

A smile spread across his face, and he teased, “Oh, it’s not me you want to go – you are dreaming of America!” Heads in the piazza turned at his pronouncement.

Before she could ask more, Teodosio Pante came to say hello. Corrado nodded a greeting. “Teo! I was just telling Ninetta about your boy heading to America.”

He slapped the other man on the shoulder. “Why don’t you come by the house tonight for a drink? I’ve invited some of the others too. We’ll toast them before they leave! I’ll live them a bit of my grappa to take with them.”

“Perfetto,” Teodosio said. Patriarch of the massive Pante brood, father of fourteen, he had already sent one son to America. “Any excuse for your grappa is welcome. By the way,” he lowered his voice, “have you broken the news to Adelasia yet?”

Corrado bristled, glancing at Nina, then back to Teodosio. “It’s fine,” he murmured, unusually quiet. “Come over tonight. In time, she’ll get used to the idea.”

“Used to what idea, Papà?” Nina asked, pausing from kicking a stone while she waited for them to finish. What does Mamma not know? It’s never good for her not to know something.

“Don’t worry, Ninetta,” Corrado tried to calm her. “Everything will be fine.”

Nina turned to see Mamma exiting the church last, along with the priest and nuns. She appeared as solid as her reputation in a grey dress that covered her completely from her broad neck to her strong ankles; she was twice the size of Papà.

Her mother, Don Segala, and the nuns stood talking on the steps of the church; they had important matters to discuss, always.

Nina and Corrado made their way around to greet the Corsos and Ceccons. The men smiled and patted Corrado’s back, asking him about his work in the sawmill, challenging him to games of bocce, and inviting him to the taverna for beer.

Nina greeted her school friends, and the children chased each other around the piazza, relieved to be released from the confines of the church.

Fonzasco, Italy / Elias Dupan

LANDSCAPES

Soon the sun dipped, the chill deepened, and the families of Fonzaso made their way through the winding streets to terracotta-topped houses with fires burning inside. Nina looked up at San Micel once more and felt the guardian watching as the people dispersed into tiny streets and alleyways. Joined by Adelasia, the Argenta family made their way to the Via Calzen.

The cobbles fanned out like a carpet of shells beneath their footsteps as they walked home from church. Smoke from burning leaves and chimneys wafted into the mountain air as they passed the houses of the Corsos and Bofs, neighbours since before the Risorgimento.

Although Nina was aware of Vante’s excited chatter next to her, she found herself distracted by thoughts of America, ships on the ocean. What do they eat in America? It’s so far away, it’s another world. Soon the family approached their two-storey stucco house, the balcony pushing from the front casting a shadow in the midday sun. Do their houses look the same?

Will Pietro’s new house look like this? As the family reached their home, Alberto Giocomin came into view, shivering outside without his coat. Nina realised she hadn’t seen him at church either.

“Adelasia, thank God!” He tossed up his arms, hurrying to Nina’s mother. “I ran here. Lucia is ready to have the babies. Can you come?” His round face was creased with anxiety as he spoke to her mother.

“Sì,” she assured him. “It’s early, but with twins, this happens.”

Lucia Giocomin had grown an enormous belly with two babies inside her, but the rest of her body was stick thin, which made her appear wobbly. Nina felt sorry for the woman every time she saw her at the fountain fetching water. Adelasia turned to her husband and children. “I’ll be back after supper.” She nodded at Corrado. “No need to wait for me.”

Without pausing for his response, she rushed into the house to grab her ostetrica bag, and within moments her sturdy frame passed Nina at a half-run with Alberto at her side.

30 | LANDSCAPES: UNDER THE LIGHT OF THE ITALIAN MOON

LANDSCAPES

Nina watched them as a little of her fantasy for the Sunday afternoon fell away, knowing that her mother would not be there. She listened to the pair’s footsteps clapping on the stones down the Via Calzen until Nonna Argenta shook her from her thoughts. “Always putting other families first,” the old woman muttered in her crackly voice. “It’s no wonder…” Her cackling trailed off, and Nina broke in, imitating her mother’s certain tone and straightening her shoulders as Adelasia had when she spoke to Corrado. “The polenta is already made,” Nina said, stretching herself taller in what she considered an adult way.

“And I can make the sauce myself. Mamma taught me, for times when she has to be away.”

They ate polenta with sauce made from tomatoes grown on their terraced patch of land along with delicious hot-baked cheese from the milk of a goat they kept across the yard.

The creamy flavours warmed them as much as the heat from the stone oven.

Although she was proud of the Captain’s status in town and appreciated it afforded them many niceties other families could not afford, Nina couldn’t help but look over at the empty seat where her mother belonged. When her younger sisters began fighting at the table, she scolded them like an adult. They’d almost finished eating when Antonio plodded down from the attic where he and Vante slept next to dried corncobs and husks stored for the fire. He brought a stack of them down with him and threw some into the flames before he sat. Then he ate his supper, staring into the dancing heat, and returned to the attic straight afterwards, without saying a word. Nina frowned, thinking of his absence from mass, his absence from their family today. He was never this quiet.

Jennifer Anton is an American-Italian dual citizen born in Joliet, Illinois and now living between London and Lake Como, Italy. An advocate for women’s rights and equality, she hopes to rescue women's stories from history, starting with her Italian family. Under the Light of the Italian Moon (Amsterdam Publishers, £14.99) is available online and in bookstores. It is Jennifer's first novel.

Follow her on Instagram at @boldwomanwriting

LANDSCAPES: UNDER THE LIGHT OF THE ITALIAN MOON | 31

LANDSCAPES

Mythical Myanmar and its uncertain future Words & Photos by Andrew Bell In 2015, Myanmar’s populace voted for their first democratically elected government in more than half a century, ousting a brutal military dictatorship that had long impressed itself on the region.

International sanctions were dropped, and investors worldwide brought a new impact on the population hungry for investment, global connections and new technology.

32 | LANDSCAPES: MYTHICAL MYANMAR

LANDSCAPES

Despite its wealth of natural resources and international interest in the past decade, including an influx of Chinese manufacturing and tech-firms, much of Myanmar seems to have avoided a rush into the flashier trends of modernity. That international interest continues, albeit with a more critical eye. Within the past few weeks, members of the G8, including Canada and the UK, have called for the reintroduction of sanctions on Myanmar and its new Military ruling party in response to January’s successful coup d'état and detainment of 2020’s General Election victor, Aug San Su Kyi. There are now strong indications that total travel bans may be re-implemented on the region.

As Myanmar faces a return to the dark days of isolation, interruption to progress and status as a “pariah state,” there is one noticeable, modern difference. These warm, hopeful and resilient people are pushing back, hard – buoyed by international attention and modern tech that is helping them share their story with the world.

Opposition to military rule is now being seen and heard across the world, and their message makes it clear – they will not go backwards.

From the hill-tribes of Shan State, through towering stupas in Bagan and Yangon’s vibrant circle trains, my visit to Myanmar offered endless encounters with locals who were warm, humorous, considerate and inquisitive. An unmistakable sense of pride typified engagements in their home and a reflection of their hope for continued progress and opportunity. I feel that this intense desire for improvement provides strength to the people of Myanmar in 2021, no doubt inspired by widely shared visions of people-power and the pro-rights movements sweeping across countries such as the United States.

The silk and cotton Longyi skirt, worn by men, the faces adorned in natural Thanaka sunblock and early-morning sightings of Monks in crimson robes are daily reminders that the traditions and culture remain crucial to the population and heavily intertwined in its national identity. They continue to play their own vital part in attracting interest and tourism revenues to places they are needed most, an income that the Burmese people are keen to protect.

LANDSCAPES: MYTHICAL MYANMAR | 33

LANDSCAPES

Isolation by geography across this vast country and a slow pace of infrastructure development have meant that most of Myanmar’s towns and villages remain underserved and relatively untouched by new interests in the country. It was these glimpses into long-isolated, ancient cultures and the opportunity to experience a nation still somewhat frozen in time that made Myanmar such an attractive destination to travel writers after its “reopening”. However, stuttering progress was also a symptom of a power struggle in the heart of Myanmar’s new government and tensions that would soon reach dangerous levels.

After 2015’s election, unelected Military leaders retained complete control of powerful offices, including defence, border control and foreign affairs. By August 2017, they had launched a well-documented attack on the Rohingya people along the North-western border with Bangladesh.

LANDSCAPES

As the fledgeling democracy of Myanmar faltered, I realised that the country's open borders may not be this accessible forever and that the gateway to the region may once again close to international guests. This made me even more determined to visit and seek out the stories of old Burma that had taken prime place in my own imagination for more than a decade.

It remains one of the world’s newest “frontier markets,” a chance for visitors to indulge their own sense of exploration and adventure. That grip on my attention didn’t ease up for a moment, even as I departed Yangon for home upon the culmination of 16 days in the country between November and December 2017.

LANDSCAPES Kentung & The Hill Tribes of Shan State Translated, “The walled city of Tung” sits at the heart of South East Asia’s infamous “Golden Triangle”. During the 13th century, this region of Myanmar was still officially part of Northern Thailand. As a result of its turbulent history, including multiple invasions and mass migrations from the Chiang Mai Dynasty, the region is now home to speakers of a distinct Zhuang-Ta language, heard nowhere else in Myanmar.

Thailand’s Mae Sai border checkpoint was our gateway into Northern Myanmar’s Shan State and the start of a long, bumpy drive into the largest settlement in the Eastern region of the Kentung. A perfectly quaint, if not sleepy, rural mountain town, its focal point is an impressive and ornate standing buddha statue that dominates the view at 60 feet in height. It’s not this particular cultural attraction, though, that stands as the main draw for visitors to this isolated region of Myanmar. It is the surrounding hillsides, mountain villages and their inhabitants that have long-attracted storytellers, photographers and adventure travellers.

Before sunrise, we left town and drove 50 kilometres north, arriving in the Pin Tauk region and a chilly start to a four-hour hike in dense mist, trapped by the forest.

Escorted by our local guide – an absolute necessity in visiting these areas – we eventually found rapid elevation and a warm welcome to a series of Lahu and Enn tribal villages. The Enn (sometimes “Ann”) highlanders are one of Myanmar’s most fascinating ethnic groups. They are more famously known as the “Black Teeth,” so-called on account of their love for chewing betel; a vine sometimes used to wrap tobacco that coats the mouth and teeth in a dark, bloody paste. This gory appearance is often enhanced by black lipstick, made from charcoal tree bark, and applied by many females. We were welcomed into the Enn Village with tea and an obligatory shopping opportunity, purchasing hand-made jewellery and wood carvings. These villages are certainly no stranger to guests and photographers. Still, the wide-eyed interest our little group received from the local children made us feel as though we were the first Westerners to have ever walked into their mountain home. They lined up, one by one, to politely shake hands and pose for photographs, giggling at the results, beaming from the camera’s screen.

LANDSCAPES: MYTHICAL MYANMAR | 37

LANDSCAPES Inle Lake A short flight saved us the 500 kilometres of uncomfortable mountain roads from Kentung to Inle Lake. It also bought an additional afternoon to check into our accommodation and explore Nyaung Shwe, a busy township that serves as the access point to Inle’s fascinating floating villages. Images of fishermen, expertly perched on their boat tails, their nets in one hand and long oars in the other, have become synonymous with Myanmar and one of the iconic representations of their culture. Dressed in the traditional Inatha clothing and congregating at the head of Inle Lake proper, these artisans make the most of their opportunity to pose for tourists. These particular fishermen are not collecting food but accept tips and donations from passers-by in return for photographs. At the same time, this little industry provided a welcome distraction from the active fisherman of Inle, who do not so much appreciate the attention of visitors, nor the wake from the engine powered boats that stray too close.

LANDSCAPES

Beyond this impressive welcome, the real highlight is undoubtedly the chance to explore Inle’s floating villages, where hundreds of stilt-supported structures sit above the lake, housing workshops, boat-builders, guest-houses, bars, restaurants, family homes and even a monastery. Despite much of the literature on the area using the term, the majority of the Lake’s structures are not actually “floating”.

Instead, these teak-built communities are constructed on locally sourced bamboo stakes, driven into the lake-bed and allowing for large, multi-level structures, more than suitable for hosting a group of hungry travellers.

An afternoon boat ride through Inle’s famous floating gardens brought the spectre of a more modern problem into view, as available space on the Lake becomes a serious concern. These fruit and vegetable gardens start life as drifting weeds and hyacinth, pulled together into a compost-type layer on the water’s surface.

Bamboo stakes peg the islands in place, supporting additional growth as the weeds slowly knit themselves together. Grasses will eventually grow, before being slashed, burned, then spread across the island, forming a base for additional layers of seagrass and mud. Weight soon pushes the new island down far enough to provide the perfect bed for seeds of tomato, cucumbers and gourds. The increasing prevalence in this form of agriculture has slowly turned open water into solid ground. The introduction of hyacinth, a non-native species, has led to rapid growth and the choking of Inle’s smaller, vital waterways. It is estimated that the lake’s total open-water area has been reduced by 40% since the 1950s.

LANDSCAPES

The Kayan Lawhi The women of the Kayan are well known across Myanmar for their beautiful, albeit uncomfortable-looking rings. Heavy unbroken coils of brass, placed over the wearer’s shoulders and appearing to lengthen the neck. I was introduced to a group belonging to the Kayan Lahwi tribe at a fabric workshop off Inle Lake, owned and operated by the women themselves. Girls in the Kayan Lawhi can start wearing the rings as early as three to five years old, with the rings replaced and extended as they age, lengthening the piece over time. Once applied, the rings are only removed for medical appointments or extension. The brass weight depresses the clavicle and upper ribs, create an illusion of stretching, exaggerating the “long necks,” which has become a globally recognised feature of similar tribes.

Visiting the fabric workshops, I spoke with the Kayan Lawhi about the practice. I was offered insights into why these rings had been adopted initially, generations ago and for what reasons they are still worn today. Much of what I had previously learnt stemmed from the desire for beauty and femininity. My favourite response from the Kayan Lawhi, however, was a far more reverent story offered by a senior member of the group. I had hesitated to ask direct questions around modern opinions on wearing the rings. Still, I was reassured, as my curiosity was rewarded with a smile and a pause in work to explain – via guide translation – that the rings bring great power and strength to women in their resemblance to the ferocious dragons that remain an important figure in Kayan folklore.

Further to the reference of mythical icons or of attracting the male gaze, a younger factory worker, around 15-18 years old, acknowledged the stories of her senior colleague but admitted her own purpose for wearing the rings, were a matter of protecting her tribe’s longstanding cultural identity and that it “just made her feel beautiful.” The (now former) government of Myanmar began to discourage the rings’ use as it continued its drive to appear a more modern and progressive society to the outside world. Consequently, many Kayan women have broken the tradition, and their use has significantly declined outside of these rural areas.

LANDSCAPES

The Plains of Bagan Images of vast stupas rising out of the trees, set against the backdrop of balloons on sunrise flights through dusty orange skies, were the first I had ever seen of Myanmar. As I spent days travelling towards Bagan, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I would somehow find the reality less magical, less impactful than the images I had been so enamoured by. However, it took just a few minutes to ascend a small access tunnel inside the stone walls of our first pagoda and step out onto a viewpoint above the forest canopy to realise that all expectations of Bagan would be immeasurably exceeded.

On the Irrawaddy River banks, Bagan’s plain is home to more than 2,500 temples, ranging from person-sized brick shelters to vast castle-like fortresses, each housing its own statue of Buddha. The structures that remain are the legacy of the ancient Burmese Pagan Empire, at its height in the 11th and 12th centuries before being ransacked by invading Mongols. Served by a handful of small townships, the available space across Bagan’s 100 square kilometres of the valley floor is crisscrossed by scores of narrow, sandy access laneways. I navigated this massive area alone, on a rented e-scooter, in search of my own small slice of heaven and a multi-level stone temple above the treeline, to which I could return for sunrise and sunset each day, in hopes of capturing the image that had been rattling around in my head for so long.

This is a rare part of the world to experience outstanding beauty, free from idling tour buses or outside distractions. One can spend days alone, exploring these vast structures and discovering their secret access tunnels. It conjures images of the glorious empire that once attracted scholars from far and wide to study language and religion among the more than 10,000 temples that once stood here. Bagan is magic. Please don’t tell anyone.

42 | LANDSCAPES: MYTHICAL MYANMAR

Yangon’s Circle Train Yangon, formerly Rangoon, is Myanmar’s largest city and its former capital. Within its remarkably in-tact central business district, South East Asia’s highest number of Colonial-period buildings remains. The European-style architecture is protected by a 2012 moratorium on demolition to any building older than 50 years. However, my only full day was not spent walking Yangon’s leafy boulevards or metropolitan centre but circling the city.

I took advice from an old friend and jumped onboard Yangon’s busiest commuter train for the morning rush. As we rattled our way out and around the North of the city, waves of chaos passed through the carriages. Cartons of fruits, vegetables, rice bags and even live chickens frantically loaded in or out of the aisles between key-stations.

Many sellers used their time onboard to wash the produce, then separate and package, ready for sale. The Circular Railway has become somewhat of a rite of passage for visitors, departing Yangon and heading out through the surrounding countryside and 39 satellite villages in a little over 45 kilometres. It provides a vital link for bringing produce into the city or, more effectively as it seems, to act as a distribution service, transporting supplies to the numerous mini-markets that serve commuters on station platforms along the route.

As the cheapest method of transport (less than $1USD), it’s said that the Circular Train sells around 130-150,000 tickets daily. A lack of any air-conditioning wasn’t as significant an issue as had been predicted as access doors remained open, bringing in cool air alongside whatever theatre of daily life entered our carriage and transfixed us for a few stops at a time.

44 | LANDSCAPES: MYTHICAL MYANMAR

Three hours after departure and about 30 minutes after my backside had given up on the plastic bench, we circled back into Yangon, our arms full of durian fruit, carrots, beans and rice.

The choice to spend our morning riding among Yangon’s commuter class was among the best during our time in the country. It was an experience free from tourist trapping or “productions” for outsiders, genuinely immersing us in bustling Burmese daily life.

I often think about this train journey and the characters we talked with, as dangerous demonstrations now break out across Myanmar and the military junta seizes increasing powers from the elected government. As the hope I saw in the Burmese people now manifests itself in massive pro-democracy, anti-military demonstrations and general strikes amongst the working classes, hundreds of thousands have been empowered to take to the streets of Yangon, Mandalay and capital city Naw Pyi Taw, delivering a clear rebuttal to the Military, unlike anything seen before.

I maintain both deep respect and palpable concern for the people, who are once again facing a tumultuous and worrying future, but somehow remain steadfast; as voters who only recently experienced the power of democracy for the first time, realised the incredible impact and benefits found in casting a vote for freedom and who are not about to let it be stolen away.

Andrew Bell is a British-Canadian marketing strategist and lifestyle photographer based in Toronto.

An avid traveller with a keen eye for detail, he has built a talent for storytelling through his images of working people, cultures and religions through India, South East Asia, Eastern Europe, The United States and Central Africa. You can find more of his work on Instagram at @andrewdoesphotographs

LANDSCAPES: MYTHICAL MYANMAR | 45

The

Indian Motorcyclist Several solo cross-country adventures to raise helmet awareness and improve the safety of Indian road, Vinay Maurya is a man on a mission.

Words by Vinay Maurya Photos by Mohd Aram, Lay Naik, Shivam Dewan

46 | LANDSCAPES: THE INDIAN MOTORCYCLIST

LANDSCAPES

The thing about the open road is that it never seems to end. This is India, after all. Not a small country. The roads are long, and sometimes, after hours on the motorbike, and when I think I’m reaching the end, it’ll branch off. Then I have to make a decision. I guess that’s what I find most exciting, the spilt decisions and the endless adventure the road presents.

I have been riding motorcycles for well over a decade and have made countless longdistance journeys across India, even taking amateur bikers on state-to-state scenic tours.

I was always seeking adventure, but the purpose of those journeys changed in recent years. In 2013, I witnessed a road accident while travelling from Karnataka to Goa on Highway LF17. A really terrible accident involving a young boy. I remember turning away and my body shaking all over. The laws are not very stringent in India, and you’ll often see people speeding, skipping traffic lights and riding with a helmet. A young policeman at the scene of the accident turned and said to me, “Helmet pehna hota toh shayad bach jaata” (“they would have survived had they worn a helmet”).

I researched online and discovered that around 400 deaths happen every day in India because of drivers and the holes in road safety. There’s one death every 17 minutes on the road, according to the Indian Government – that’s shocking! What I found even more surprising was that I still saw so many people riding mopeds and motorbikes without a helmet. It just didn’t appear to be a consideration for people, and nothing is taught in schools to change this. Things are a little better in Mumbai, however, once I cross Dahisar, you hardly see anyone wearing a helmet. Remember, this is India and everyone rides, so that’s a lot of helmetless people.

If proper safety precautions were in place, then serious accidents could be prevented.

That’s not rocket science. Things are gradually getting better now, but a few years ago, when I witnessed the road accident, the public just wasn’t aware of proper safety precautions. In Mumbai now, the police can pull you over and take away your bike on the spot. It’s not just a monitory fine, but the vehicle can be possessed too, along with your license. Initially, there was a lot of outrage about this. Not that long ago, people were drinking and driving without a thought, but that is all beginning to change.

LANDSCAPES: THE INDIAN MOTORCYCLIST | 47

LANDSCAPES

It just so happened that while I was looking into this, I saw a video online by Sachin Tendulkar, the former international cricketer and captain of the Indian national team – the Maradona of cricket! In this video, Sachin was talking about road safety and raising awareness about wearing helmets. That caught my attention! Such is his influence and appeal, and the video went viral. That was all the incentive I needed, and I set out with a new purpose. It was the same me and the same motorbike, but the message was different.

I decided on the hashtag #HelmetDaalo for a new safety campaign and began planning my cross-country journey. Planning took six months and would include many of the towns and villages that I had passed through previously, but new ones too. My day job is as a communications consultant based out of Mumbai, but all I needed to continue with my work would be my laptop and a healthy internet connection. That was possible. Everyone seems to be working remotely because of Covid right now. They’d be challenges, but as long as I managed my client’s expectations and checked in regularly, it was doable.

So, I considered myself ready, but I wondered whether such a message and journey would be well received by the Indian public? Would they even care? Yes, people want to avoid accidents on the road, but would they listen to me, speaking and sharing this message on the back of Sachin Tendulkar’s video? I decided to do a test ride to begin.

Leaving Mumbai on my Royal Enfield Thunderbird, I travelled north to Maharashtra and Gujarat. It took me five days, covering 2,500 kilometres. I sped across a wild and dry landscape, stopping in towns and small villages, staying one night in each place and then moving on. The expanse of the landscape meant that I would often be travelling all morning or afternoon before I’d come upon somewhere to stop. Upon the advice of another rider I had met in Bhuj, in the state of Gujarat on the western coast, I skipped the tourist spots of the Great Rann of Kutch and its salt marsh. I travelled 120 kilometres instead into quieter places where I discovered the white deserts of Kutch. This is one of India’s hottest regions and the site of the famous Rann Festival held from November to February. When cyclone Ochki was due to hit Ahmedabad, the largest city and former capital of Gujarat, I was drenched while riding the roads – lucky not to have been blown into the air.

LANDSCAPES

At one point on my journey, before reaching Ahmedabad, I saw a helmetless rider and pillion (a seat or place behind the person riding a motorcycle where a passenger sits).

As I pulled up beside the rider, I handed him a sticker with the hashtag #HelmetDaalo printed on it and signalled my helmet. Then, I set off down the road. After a few minutes, I noticed that the rider was still behind me, gaining on me. I slowed down, expecting some sort of confrontation, but noticed that the rider was actually now wearing a helmet. He told me that he had one on him and from now on would always wear it.

In another instance, an old man approached me as I was leaving a village. He pointed to India’s flapping flag tied to the back of my bike, smiled, and then asked me who I was and what I was doing? I told him about my journey and the message I hoped to spread. The man then called his son on his mobile phone and asked him to come downstairs and meet us outside. He introduced me to his son and made me explain again. Then he said that he would take his son to the helmet store that very day and made him promise never to ride a motorbike without a helmet.

With the practice run behind me and filled with enough confidence that the public was ready for such a message, I planned another journey, a longer journey, one that would take 45 days and cover 11,000 kilometres – reaching 10,000 people, at least. I would reach out to more schools, universities and riding groups and take my message across the nation. I released videos, too. The message was spreading – “Promise me, app helmet daaloge!” I also sent out stickers as well as handing them out to the public.

Social media plays an important role, too, of course. While travelling, I can meet hundreds of people. With social media, I can meet many thousands. I can reach people and inspire them to do the right thing. If I can inspire even one person a day, then that’ll make a huge difference.

I set off again, this time with the message already heating up and a more open road ahead. This time, the journey would take me through all the Indian states: from Delhi and Rajasthan to Haryana, Punjab, Kashmir, Uttarakhand, Uttar, Pradesh, Himanchal Pradesh, West Bengal, Jharkhand, Chattisgarh and Odhisa, as well as the Southern states. Given the size of the country, I had to make sure that I had enough time.

Vinay, in the fields of Maharashtra

In my last trail run, I visited the hot deserts of Kutch, and this time, I planned to visit the cold deserts in the Himalayas, stretching from Ladakh in the north all the way down to Kinnaur in the south. I was able to see and experience my country in a new way while spreading a positive message, although the roads are difficult and often dangerous. Not just speeding and helmetless riders, but many of the roads are full of potholes. Not to mention random cows and dogs that wander the highways. Any red light stop is also an opportunity for people to run up to you, either trying to sell you something or asking for money.

Things were already starting to happen with the Ministry of Transport and Highways creating an amendment that saw every law broken on the road and would be followed up by a heavy fine. It used to be easy to get away with things in India, lazy police work or riders bribing the police, but now things are digital; it’s a lot better. Cameras are in operation, and police can scan licences and number plates. Unsurprisingly, this caused more outrage among the public, despite it being the safe and best outcome. Still, I met other people on the road who were listening to the message and, more importantly, beginning to act.

I continued to hand out stickers and post on social media, and I spoke in schools across the country about the importance of wearing a helmet. Every school and college I spoke at, I received a good response. The kids love seeing me all geared up in my riding leathers and GoPros. They ask questions about my motorbike and all of the places I have travelled to. A lot of the kids tell me that they want to travel more and experience their country more. My plan for this year is to speak at a lot more schools – I’m aiming for 100 schools! More trips are already in the planning stages. The message of road safety still has a long way to go.

I hope to travel much further in the future. I’m dedicated to spreading helmet awareness but am bound to the road, too – I have learnt so much more on the road than I ever did in school. The road has helped me mentally and taught me a lot of life skills. It has also shown me many different sides of my country. As a city boy, I think about leaving the madness behind and moving to the mountains one day.

The landscape of Mumbai is nosy and chaotic, filled with McDonald's, Dominos and KFC. The city is never not busy, but then everywhere seems slower than Mumbai.

Vinay Maurya is a Communications Consultant from Mumbai.

He continues to ride across India for helmet awareness, documenting his travels and interactions on social media while promoting the hashtag #HelmetDaalo. Follow him on Instagram at @theindianmotorcyclist

LANDSCAPES Words & Photos by Kaja Sajovic

Zanzibar in the Age of Corona:

52 | LANDSCAPES: ZANZIBAR IN THE AGE OF CORONA

LANDSCAPES

it's nothing but a state of mind

Zanzibar is apparently the last Corona-free haven. Or so they say. There are no tests, no masks, no worries at all in Zanzibar. “Hakuna-Matata,” they say. “It’s really no problem, Miss. We take tree medicine. Huh, why do you laugh?” My taxi driver seems confused as to my reaction. “Why do people laugh when I say this?”

It’s hot and dusty, the compressed air filled with tropical humidity and sweat. None of us seems sure how to act, being back out in the world, travelling and flying, as our home countries are standing still in endless lockdowns.

We are wearing our face masks through security and border control, but the officials aren’t. I adjust my attitude to suit, so when the mask begins to slip down my nose, I leave it.

LANDSCAPES: ZANZIBAR IN THE AGE OF CORONA | 53

LANDSCAPES

The word “Zanzibar” has a lovely ring to it, forging images of turquoise oceans and pearl white beaches fringed with coconut palm trees. It sounds mythical, like Eldorado or Atlantis. The city’s abundance of tropical fruit, fresh seafood and spice add to its paradise-allure. Locals are geared towards tourism and repeatedly refer to their little island as “Paradise on Earth.” And I have to agree, it really is a paradise, but it’s also something else these days.

Right now, Zanzibar is this magical illusion of the pre-2020 world. Nothing here reminds you of the pandemic that has crippled much of the planet. There’s the odd temperature check at high-end resorts, but this is hardly scientific with the thermometer pointing somewhere at your finger. Hakuna-Matata, they grin.

If you’ve read anything about the country recently, then you’ll have seen their unique approach to Covid. Politicians see it as the devil’s work, something sufferers can rid through prayer, herbal steams and chewing on ginger. The result of this combination is a thriving tourism boom. While the likes of Thailand, Vietnam and Indonesia closed their borders to international visitors in an attempt to tackle the spread, Tanzania and its islands – Zanzibar (known as Unguja), Pemba and Mafia – remain open. Ignoring Covid and recommendations from the World Health Organization (WHO) and going rogue.

It’s no surprise, therefore, that hotels and resorts on the island are packed. Beaches are crowded with Europeans fulfilling their wanderlust and escaping lockdown in exchange for mango margaritas and Stone Town seafood curries and honey-glazed lobster and one night stands with tall, slender Maasais selling goatskin sandals and customised beaded wristbands – plus whatever else you might fancy.

Tanzania officially has zero cases of Covid. Well, according to President John Magufuli.

He declared the deadly virus a hoax, famously testing papaya, a quail, a goat and motor oil. The latter came back negative, but the tests for the first three turned up positive. Ah well, Hakuna-Matata! WHO was less than convinced, and the EU remains unhappy.

Skytrax’s COVID-19 Airline Safety Rating – the world’s only assessment and certification of airline health and safety measures during the coronavirus pandemic (based on professional and scientific investigation) – published a dismal Covid safety review of Zanzibar airport. Even the African Union publicly criticised the rebellious country in its denial. Yet, Tanzania refuses to shift, and Zanzibarians appear happy to play along.

LANDSCAPES

“It’s not Corona that’s killing you,” Halil, my go-to barman, assures me. “It’s stress. The stress of being locked in!” He pours me a hot mug of smashed ginger with lime and lemongrass. “Drink this. It cures everything! This, and a shot of aloe vera!” The former is nice and warm, a little spicy with a tingle of heat. However, the aloe vera is god awful and leaves a harsh, bitter taste in my mouth. “It will detox your body of everything bad,” he says.

Yeah, it’s easy to laugh it off, to put a know-it-all smirk on your face, but this is Africa.

Last year, in Tanzania alone, 20,000 people died from Malaria. Add to that Tuberculosis, STDs and HIV, and the number is amplified. Life expectancy here is 65 years old, so it’s a matter of perspective. And Covid really isn’t at the top of their concerns – so the motives behind the international community’s sudden interest in Africa’s less than perfect health situation seems dubious and sanctimonious at best. Sure, it takes you a while to get on board with this “laissez-faire” attitude. To drop your guard. Especially when everything back home revolves around the “c” word, but when you do, you get fully sucked in. No half-assing, but all in.

At first, there’s the apprehension of arriving, how to act with the island’s blasé approach to the pandemic, but then two days in, and you are saying yes to a wrist band that spells your name in the colours of the Tanzanian flag from an enterprising Maasai on Kendwa beach. Three days in, and you are already on a boat ride on a crowded, leaking vessel with a DJ boombox set-up that blasts an autotune version Bella Ciao across the waves.

Four days in, and you’re grinding against strangers in a dodgy straw-roofed nightclub with cardboard bananas hanging from the ceiling next to a Bob Marley flag. By day five, you’re changing your flight home and pushing the departure date as far as the credit card will allow – which is never as far as you’d really like.

Zanzibar is full of people like that. Tanned Westerners adorned with bead jewellery, tacky tattoos, wearing colourful, bold Swahili patterned dresses that seem like such a great idea at the time – but will almost certainly make you look ridiculous back in your cold, grey home country. You can tell they’ve been here a while and have probably rebooked their flight for the fourth time, leaning back on one of those barely-stillstanding wooden chairs with goatskin backrests while sipping on a dawa – the Tanzanian vodka-honey-lime cocktail – contemplating whether this is the day to take up kitesurfing.

I met one of these guys on Emerson Spice Hotel’s rooftop, overlooking the gorgeous, chaotic, crumbling Stone Town’s medina. “Nigel, but everyone just calls me Tiger,” says the lanky Brit. He has leathery skin, bronzed to the extreme by the scorching Equatorial sun. He’s sporting a football jersey, a full treasury of silver rings and quite possibly a very expensive watch. It’s 11am, and as the hotel guests drink their guava juice, he’s holding a beer can – not the first one that day, I'm guessing. “What? It’s breakfast!” he scoffs at my judgmental look.

Nigel could be a Hunter S. Thompson or some Elmore Leonard character chugging his morning brew and offering scouring looks to anyone who challenges or raises an eyebrow at his actions. He looks like a slightly less bohemian version of Keith Richards.

He’s on a first-name basis with everyone on the kitchen and bar staff and tells me he’s a top attorney from London with Princess Diana’s divorce lawyer on his team, and with offices around the world, from Phnom Penh to Chicago. He says he would take me to lunch, but he charges £2,750 an hour. He loves St. Emilion Grand Cru and truffles. He says he came to Zanzibar in December – for a week. It’s February now, and he’s still there, pissing off his ex-wife in London. Yet another reason to stay here longer. I think I might, too? I order a beer. Fuck it.

Kaja Sajovic is a writer who covers food, wine and foreign affairs. She is a journalist for RTV Slovenia and the editor of the culinary-travel section at the national RTV website, as well as a regular contributor to Fine Dining Lovers and Gasterea Magazine. In 2020 she co-wrote Ana Roš' book "Sun and Rain" (Phaidon). You can follow her on Instagram at @kajasajovic 56 | LANDSCAPES: ZANZIBAR IN THE AGE OF CORONA

an interview with Grace Askew

Tumbleweed Woman

The American singer-songwriter and self-proclaimed "road dog" talks life on the road, relocating to New Mexico and finding inspiration in the most unlikely of places. Strap in tight and put your Stetson on, we’re going cross country...

Words: David J Constable

LANDSCAPES: INTERVIEW: GRACE ASKEW | 57

'It's the road-dog life...'

If Grace Askew’s life were a book, it would read like some great Western adventure or Louis L’Amour page-turner, a frontier drama detailing epic road journeys and encounters with true-life characters. “The soundtrack to those miles became some of my sound’s biggest influences,” says the Memphis-born musician. “I’d travel across the country and watch the landscape skim past, listening to Bob Dylan, Townes Van Zandt, Blaze Foley, Tom Waits, Karen Dalton, Guy Clark... I’d read about their lives and the things that inspired them, and then I’d look to create the same circumstances.”

The singer-songwriter has spent much of her life traversing American states, living out of her truck − a Ford F350 King Ranch she calls “Wanda”. She has performed in theatres, breweries, roller-rinks, desert festivals and “too many dive bars to mention,” producing three albums and numerous singles.

In 2013, she featured on the fourth season of NBC’s The Voice and has won several major honours, including the International Songwriting Content and John Lennon Songwriting Contest. She hosts her own weekly podcast called Daring to Suck, and if that wasn’t enough, in December 2019, she finished a two-year challenge to write and perform one song a day − 730 songs in as many days. She streamed social media performances, which generated modelling and brand contracts and, at the time of writing, is 126 days into another self-imposed song-a-day challenge. This isn’t someone to retire to her rocking chair and count her blessings, cowgirl boots up. Grace is a doer, a go-getter, a vagabond of the highway. Above all, she’s an artist. “I’m a hustler, too!” she tells me. “It’s what you’ve gotta do. Every artist is a walking brand these days, It's the hustle, and we as humans crave adventure. I know that I do. It feeds a part of me.”

58 | LANDSCAPES: INTERVIEW: GRACE ASKEW

LANDSCAPES

Growing up in Memphis’ Davies Plantation area, Grace was the middle sibling of three. “We were outside kids, running in the woods and swimming at a nearby motel pool,” she tells me. Despite the virtual set-up, which has become the norm in recent months, conversation flows easily, and I can see Grace’s joy at talking about her childhood. “I've had plenty of years of a love-hate relationship with the town where I was born. I grew up by the highway, falling asleep to the hum of the semis barreling down the Interstate, dreaming of all the places I might visit one day. And the smell of honeysuckle every hot summer.” Later, she attended Loyola University in New Orleans but quickly discovered that she missed Memphis. “It was only once I’d left my hometown that I fell in love with it.”

Dropping out of school, Grace spent a year in New Orleans before returning home. She began to see Memphis through new eyes, renting a small apartment in the heart of Midtown. “I reconnected with home and rediscovered Elvis, Johnny Cash, Ann Peebles and Howlin’ Wolf. I was hooked and started my full-time singer-songwriting career aged 19, bouncing around Midtown dive bars.” By her early 20s, she had taken to the backroads and small towns of the Midwest and Southern states. “I was living that Americana life before I knew what it was all about, which meant tapping into many different parts of the country. That helped me discover who I am and my own version of Americana.”

When you listen to her music, the influences are apparent. Her sound is heavy on the blues with doses of rock and country, probably best described as “Americana”, a term Grace is not overly fond of. She is a confessional songwriter, demonstrating the same curious eye as Joni Mitchell, Lucinda Williams and the UK’s own Laura Marling. Lyrics speak of life on the highway − booze, drugs, darkness − the travelling musician’s loneliness, the tortured artist in pursuit of inspiration. I think here of Mitchell’s Coyote, an on-theroad tale written while travelling with Dylan and the Rolling Thunder Revue in the 1970s: a prisoner of the white lines of the freeway… [read into white lines what you will] “I would go in search of destruction, ya know,” she says, “purposely picking out the seediest motels and becoming fascinated by the neon-glowing stories of truck stops. It’s the road dog life − or “Tumbleweed Woman” life, as I’ve deemed it.”

LANDSCAPES

She continues, “The roads are long, and travel can take days. You find things to occupy your mind, though. I have the landscape, and there’s always a gas station or truck stop somewhere. When we can get back to travel and touring, things are going to be different. I have a young son now, so he and my husband will be there with me. A few years ago, it was just me and the open road. I’d jump in “Wanda” and set off, me and the tarmac for miles.”

When I ask about any favourite places on the road, I’m expecting answers that reflect pivotal moments in her professional life − a recording studio or perhaps the location of a memorable gig − but no. “Truck stops,” she tells me, her eyes dancing, her sotto Southern voice bursting into life. “You see all life there. Real people, real characters, ya know! I’m actually pretty comfortable at a truck stop,” she says, laughing.

Observations of the American country and topography inform her work.

Lyrics about uptown sunrises (Providence Road), rough country take me away…

(Rough Country), and, more to the point, the eighth track on Denim & Diesel, Ain’t Comin’ Home. I suggest that Ain’t Comin’ Home sounds like a threat as if she’s comforted, perhaps even better suited, to the road. She semi-agrees. “There was a time when I thought that. I sort trouble, the hardliving life. With age and experience, though, I learnt to take better care of myself. That is a priority if I wish to guard and protect my Muse and better serve the writing. The vast spaciousness of America somehow imparts more creative clarity. My craft is what matters, and I must protect that. My demons are very far down now, and I have a home, finally. We are living the dream in New Mexico, waking up and falling asleep to the Sandia Mountains in our backyard and the smell of burning piñon in the chimneys down in the valley.”

LANDSCAPES

I ask if the road has changed her and if such extensive travel and hard-living resulted in who she is as a person and an artist today? “We are all affected by the society that we’re in, and as it happens, I’ve passed through many. They leave their mark on me and my lyrics. The road has taught me so much; it’s the school of hard knocks. Above all, it’s about grafting and staying true to your art; an audience can tell if you’re not authentic. The result is that “Tumbleweed Woman” life, something gritty − rough and raw and janky.”

Other things impact her craft, like family. After a solid decade of hardliving and playing on the road, Grace is three years sober, married and the mother of two-year-old Wolf. “Being a mother is a different kind of strength; it’s tough as hell to balance a career and family, so I have a newly held admiration for working mothers and mothers in general. And my husband helps me tremendously too, from balancing my artistic brain to protecting me from the industry’s sneaky people.” So is she comfortable now, rooted? Dare I say, settled? “My roots will always proudly be in the Delta, but the red dirt of New Mexico that I now call home has never felt better. I was coming out here twice a year for ten years, and now I live here.

I find it a wild but freeing place, and that helps my creativity.”

Having never been, I’m intrigued to discover what makes New Mexico so freeing, so special. Isn’t it ghost towns, dusty saloons and visitor shops flogging Navajo trinkets… tumbleweed ‘tumbling’ down empty streets? “It’s alive out here, and the music scene is different, night and day compared with Memphis and Nashville. It’s a community. The people have a listening culture and really appreciate artists. I made a home of those purple mountains and that red dirt feel of an on-the-road life, and New Mexico has all of that. There’s still that adventure spirit within me, the need to hit the road. Touring feeds that part of my soul.”

I-40 Freeway, New Mexico / Matt Howard

LANDSCAPES

So, as we emerge bemused and befuddled from the COVID pandemic, rubbing our eyes and out of the other side of what surely must be the strangest and most challenging of years for artists and the self-employed, is she desperate for a return to the road, to jump back behind the wheel of Wanda? “Oh, for sure!” she beams, “the road is my path; I know that’s where I belong and where my life will take me… and my family too this time! And what else can we expect from her in the coming months? “Collaborations, I hope, and more songs, more photoshoots, a songwriting retreat, my own music festival, and I plan to help new and emerging singer-songwriters, that's important to me − it’s tough out there, and we all need a helping hand, right?”

For now, though, there’s a new house in Santa Fe that needs some attention, a baby and a husband too, and there's still a few hundred days remaining in Grace’s second song-aday challenge. There are just a few places to start right there.

Grace's latest record, Denim & Diesel, is available on iTunes. Her podcast, Daring to Suck, is available to download on Spotify and Apple Podcasts. You can follow her at @graceaskew David J Constable is a writer, editor and CELTA-qualified teacher of English to speakers of other languages. He is also the founder of Ghost Dance. Born in Maidstone, Kent and educated in both the UK and USA, he had led a nomadic life, living in London, Kansas City, Bangkok, Lucca and now Kent on the English coast. Follow him at @davidjconstable Grace in her Ford F350 "Wanda" / Heath Herring

New Mexico / Tristan Lain

N A T I V E P E O P L E S

Nilda Callañaupa Alvarez, Chinchero, Peru / Paola Miglio

On power and healing: the role of the Mbendjele women by Bruce Parry Nilda Callañaupa: a Peruvian weaver's mission by Paola Miglio Cassava and the Ticuna of Amazonia by Nicholas Gill Heritage: discovering how different cultures and ancient ways of life go in spite of modernity by Levison Wood Heiva i Tahiti: Competing against the indigenous tribes of Polynesia by David J Constable The Life and Culinary Legacy of Than Phu Ying Kleeb Mahidorn

by Rosalind Yunibandhu Frank A. Rinehart and the 1898 Indian Congress by David J Constable

NATIVE PEOPLES

ON POWER AND HEALING

:

THE ROLE OF THE MBENDJELE WOMEN Words by Bruce Parry This is an essay I wrote to go with my film Tawai: A Voice from the Forest. The film took seven years to make, and attempted to go a little deeper into the areas that affected me deeply on my previous travels. It forms the basis of the new project I’m working on, which is all about the role of the Mbendjele women in maintaining balance in their society. It also touches upon what I learned from them about using their female power to diffuse competition and aggression and, most interestingly of all, how to successfully revolutionise society.

66

| NATIVE PEOPLES: ON POWER AND HEALING

NATIVE PEOPLES

Tawai is a film about reconnection. It connects us to our ancestors and the type of life they may have lived. It connects us with our bodies and senses, inviting us to feel more deeply once again. It connects us to each other, our physical environment, and that which is beyond by inviting us to reconsider the interconnected nature of all things. The film was born when I met the Penan people of Borneo for the BBC TV series Tribe. Having spent many months of my youth leading science and conservation expeditions to the world's third-largest island, Borneo, I found it hard to believe that any nomadic tribal people could still be living there, as the forests were all but gone. The team that researched all the tribal groups for the series had, for a long time, suggested that we visit the Penan, but I was not so sure, and it was not until the very last episode that we decided to go –and I’m so glad we did because the experience changed my life.

I think that it was largely because I had lived with so many other tribal peoples before I met the Penan that the significance of what they embodied became apparent to me.

There was something about them that was so quietly powerful – an invisible but everpresent ambience. I always researched as much as I could about each group before I visited them, learning from the passionate and diligent anthropologists who often devote their lives to their studies.

NATIVE PEOPLES: ON POWER AND HEALING. |. 67

NATIVE PEOPLES

Armed with these texts, I had a reasonable expectation of what the Penan might be like, and so I arrived with a preconceived understanding of their sharing culture, lack of leaders and possessions, and their conflict in adverse ways. But on meeting them, I realised that there was something else there too, which I hadn’t gleaned from the texts, which was much harder for me to put into words. Being with the Penan simply felt very different from all the other groups I had lived with before. It was as if everyone else was on one side – and on the other side was the Penan – the difference was that real to me.

And yet, somehow, I still couldn’t discern what was causing this feeling.

At first, I was fearful of expressing the idea that one group of people could be so different from all the others I had met. It felt wrong on many levels. And besides, despite being one of the last remaining nomadic hunter-gatherer peoples on the planet, the Penan were Christians, wore old t-shirts, smoked cigarettes and spoke Malay, so didn’t fit the stereotype of what many would imagine a remote tribal group ‘should’ look like. But having already lived with so many indigenous communities, I felt that these were just superficial differences. I’d visited numerous groups that were much more isolated than the Penan, including some who were naked and still using stone tools, but with the Penan, there seemed to be something else, something much deeper, going on.

My awakening to what this difference might be took a while, and putting it into words can still be difficult. But in time, and especially having met the wonderful Jerome and Ingrid Lewis, I have become more confident in expressing what I felt. I have come to believe that the Penan are perceiving the world and themselves within it in a profoundly interconnected way – subtly expressed, perhaps, in their word tawai. It’s not that they themselves are different, of course, but it’s as if their sense of identity and perception of that which is around them is more holistic and less atomised than other cultures I’ve met – and this, in turn, influences every aspect of their lives. Ultimately, every other group of people I have ever met in my life, exist in societies of competition, hierarchy and ownership. The Penan (and the tiny handful of other remaining egalitarian societies) do not. And what’s even more remarkable is that this way of structuring society is now widely believed to make up 90% of our time on the planet as homo sapiens, thus making it our true, unified cultural heritage. Why wasn’t this more widely known, I wondered.

This new understanding of our shared past changed much for me and led me to reevaluate many aspects of what I believe it is to be human. I came to realise that nearly every cultural story that surrounded me was based on a perspective of human nature that did not take into account what the Penan, and our egalitarian past, has to offer. The debates will no doubt continue about what our true nature and history may be, but in my experience, it’s rare that peaceful, sharing societies like the Penan are included in the dialogue – such talk is often brushed aside as overly romantic and naive. The violent stories of our past allow us to accept our warlike present and promote the narrative that we are on a steady trajectory of betterment. There is no need to look back or within ourselves... “It has ever been thus!”

68 | NATIVE PEOPLES: ON POWER AND HEALING

NATIVE PEOPLES

But I am no longer convinced of this, and my setting out to make Tawai was partly motivated by a desire to offer a different narrative. The Penan are not devoid of competition and aggression – of course not – it’s just that they’ve agreed upon a certain way of being, where each works hard to maintain the balance for the benefit of the whole.

Furthermore, I have come to believe that through their daily meditation of hunting and gathering, they have found more balance in their minds than those who live in agricultural societies, where the mind has moved to more abstract ways of thinking. This, mixed with their beliefs, increases the likelihood that they are experiencing a more richly empathic relationship with each other and their environment than many other societies, as Iain McGilchrist’s theories suggest in the film.

Our cultural denial of the benefits of egalitarianism and the way we once all lived seems to run deep. The Penan are essentially anarchists and also some of the most peaceful people on earth, but nowhere in my cultural lexicon is anarchy given a positive spin. And time spent with the Penan has inspired me to realise that radically different ways of living together are not only possible but might even be the best way for us to collectively flourish. Perhaps what we need is a new set of values embedded in a different kind of story. An upgrade, perhaps, away from the belief that champions our individual pursuit of happiness and freedom as an inalienable right, toward one that sees us intrinsically linked to something larger than ourselves and to which we should also feel a responsibility. Individual, but also a part of the whole, as I surmise in the film.

In Tawai, Ubong tells us that their children don’t naturally practise their sharing culture, instead, they are asked and advised to share. In fact, Penan children are not told to be or to do anything at all – each child is completely free to be as they wish. The pressure they feel to do something seems to arise instead from the natural signs around them and their desire to remain a part of the group. As Arau says, “Imagine if everyone else was sharing and you did not – how would you feel?” This reminds me of what Ervin Laszlo said when I met him, “Our freedom is the freedom to find our connection. If you can respond in a way that increases your sense of connection, your sense of belonging, then you become more coherent with the world, more coherent with yourself. Your internal coherence is tied in with your external coherence.” Here is a different kind of individual freedom then, one that is rooted in the health of the whole.

When, in the film, I ask Jerome whether egalitarianism is innate or not, he points out that one of the main lessons you learn from living with egalitarian groups is that maintaining the balance needs constant work. But it is work that’s a shared undertaking of everyone, a collective form of self-regulation, and not something that’s enforced from a place of control or hierarchy.

I sometimes wonder whether such an egalitarian way of being is only possible in an environment where everyone has equal access to abundant resources, as the Penan do. But this thought somehow feels like it’s doing us all a disservice.

Borneo rainforest / Boudewijn Huysmans

NATIVE PEOPLES: ON POWER AND HEALING | 69

It may be true that egalitarianism ended when our ancestors left the abundant tropical belt and entered into seasonal areas – when immediate return huntergatherers became delayed return agriculturalists – when we needed to hoard stores to get through the dry or cold seasons, and the distributors of these stores began to manipulate this power to their own ends. But to say we can’t share more fairly once again is to overlook both the longing of so many of us and the technological advances of today, which hold the potential for complete transparency and collective trust (e.g. blockchain technology). This, mixed with the story of our egalitarian past, and the checks and balances needed to maintain such a way (which I will discuss later), allows a whole new set of possibilities to emerge.

It is my belief that bringing the wisdom of the past to bear on the advances of today could improve much for us all. Indeed, the aim of the film Tawai was never to turn back the clock, but rather to discern what could be integrated from other societies, and maybe our own past, into our complex civilisations today.

I live an incredibly privileged life and am well aware that many of my material pleasures are only possible because of the distant shift to agricultural living and the surplus it provided. It was only through settlement and agriculture that we were able to specialise our skills and pass them on, allowing us to gradually create the wonders we all enjoy. But it’s also true that this shift to settlement, domestication and globalisation has been the root cause of many problems too, such as our blind consumption and the environmental degradation it brings, as well as our population crises, warfare, disease epidemics and famines. All these were relatively unknown in the generally stable and naturally resilient ways of the hunter-gatherer. But perhaps the shift we are suffering from most is the move to centralised power and the huge inequalities and problems this creates – a point Richard Wilkinson makes so well in his interview on our website. Yet, we seem to be engulfed in a story which keeps us believing that competition and aggression are impossible to suppress without a central authority.

And we can be forgiven for believing this tale when, outside of groups like the Penan, there is almost no cultural evidence to suggest otherwise.

77 Native Peoples | On Power and Healing Borneo rainforest / Keith Kasaija

When we look back at recent history, even the most benevolent attempt to create an equal society has generally ended with one all-powerful, centralised body being replaced by another. Popular uprisings and communist revolutions are good examples of this.

NATIVE PEOPLES

And it sadly seems that, no matter how well-meaning the initial attempts to create something beautiful may have been, where power is centralised, corruption is never far behind. And at the same time, anarchical decentralised societies, for all their benefits, are fragile and susceptible to being overrun, as the Penan are experiencing now. Any solution must, therefore, be a global one, although this seems impossible. But is it?

Every generation considers itself to live in unprecedented times, and each is right to a degree.

Certainly, one difference today is our ability to communicate directly with each other, without needing to obtain our information from the diktats of centralised bodies, such as the media, church or state (or even chief and shaman). With the internet, a new era really is dawning – one in which stories and memes can, and already are, rapidly altering cultural landscapes.

We are now in a position where we can collectively create a new paradigm if we so wish, and it really is possible for us to freely sow and hear new narratives, including one that tells us that egalitarianism may, in fact, be our common ancestral heritage and optimum way to flourish.

Furthermore, we are now facing numerous global crises which could, if we choose, actively unify us to overcome our man-made boundaries, competition and greed, to find our meaning and happiness in more coherent relationships with each other and our planet.

But of course, this sounds all very utopian and romantic. Clearly, there is a lot of healing that needs to be done first, and thereafter, even if the vast majority of people wanted change, there is always the problem of wrestling power from those who don’t want to relinquish it – and this obstacle can feel impossible to overcome. But it’s very likely we are not the first to have faced such a universal power struggle, and there may indeed have been at least one period in history when we successfully navigated a dramatic shift from competitive power structures to egalitarian ones – something we shall look at later.

Bruce with members of the Penan tribe / Lionsgate

NATIVE PEOPLES

The closing words of Tawai suggest we need to learn how to rebalance our inner world in order to move forward together. Yet, the journey of looking inside and taking responsibility for our actions is not an easy one – and it’s understandable why so many reject the idea. To be willing to commence the inner journey, it’s essential to believe that it’s not only worth it but also necessary – as it will often require a good deal of strength to face the inevitable personal realisations. But my own journey has made it clear to me that taking the time to heal our inner wounds will also improve our relationships with those around us. As the saying goes, “as within so without.”

There are many ways to heal the mind and body through tools and techniques such as meditation, yoga, nature retreats, breathwork, psychotherapy and so forth. In the final cut of Tawai, we chose to concentrate just on meditation, but in the making of the film, we also explored another.

I have always been struck by the myriad ways in which many tribal groups use the plants around them to deepen their relationship with nature and each other. And having partaken in many a ceremony, I can honestly say that these, like meditation retreats, have been some of the most beneficial experiences of my life. As we see in the bonus scene, Ayahuasca, Dr Rosa Giove, from the famous Takiwasi Addiction Healing Centre in Peru, and the shamanic healer, Kajuyali Tsamani, of Nabi Nunhue, Colombia, tell us what these medicines mean to them. It seems as if the medicinal properties of these plants have the capacity to release stored trauma held within the body – trauma which can adversely affect our behaviour, often unconsciously. To many who have taken part in such ceremonies, working with these plants can be truly miraculous, and my brother’s experience of oneness and empathy in the bonus scene gives us a small hint of this.

Paddy fields, Borneo / Pat Whelen

NATIVE PEOPLES But such journeys are not always so easy, and the story from Rafael (as well as my own, in my TV shows) reminds us that we must be prepared to face ourselves in a whole new light. These are powerful plants that need much respect and understanding before they are taken. Many of them are illegal in countries like my own, and the prejudice and misconceptions expressed by the mainstream media can be sensational in the extreme. I believe that we need these medicines now more than ever, but it’s vitally important that they are administered safely by those who know them well.

If the film Tawai invites us to look at ourselves and take responsibility for our behaviour, the last bonus scene, Mbendjele, is a call to action. The Mbendjele people are from the Congo, and like the Penan, they too are egalitarian immediate-return nomadic huntergatherers. In Tawai, Jerome Lewis tells us that living in an egalitarian society requires “work on a bunch of levels: political, social and economic,” and our visit to the Mbendjele allows us to observe this constant group effort, working to maintain balance.

At one time, some Mbendjele men pointed to one of their friends, “See that guy over there,” they said, “We all know that he is a great hunter, but a few years ago he started to brag about it, so we all stopped going hunting with him, and the women refused to cook his meat. We don’t want that behaviour here.”

While this example shows us how diligently everyone in the group is working to resist claims to status so as to maintain harmony, there are also more formal rituals designed to achieve the same goal. Ingrid tells us that they primarily do this through massana, a form of play, dance and song, and sure enough, we see the women, young and old, playfully teasing the men. This is a powerful scene to watch, and even more so to experience first hand. Ingrid tells me that this teasing is a formal way of publicly addressing antisocial behaviour within the group. Men who have been aggressive, disrespectful or even lazy lovers are playfully, humorously, but assertively held to account by the women in the communal space.

What is fascinating about this ritual is the way it reveals how women challenge the behaviour of men. Rather than entering into a combative space, they embody their own quality of collective power, expressed through potent laughter, song and sexuality. But the women choose not to hold centre stage for too long, as this is an egalitarian society and not a hierarchical matriarchy. They believe that to hold the power for too long could lead to resentment, so they willingly allow space for the men to have their turn through their ritual called Ejengi.

The Mbendjele men tell us that Ejengi takes us back to the “roots of life” to “the beginning of the world.” Jerome interprets this ritual to be in accordance with theories of how humanity overcame its hierarchical primate heritage and instituted a trust-based, egalitarian society in its place. A setting that enabled language and culture to evolve.

During the ritual reenactment, through song and dance, Ejengi seems to symbolise the alpha male, whose reproductive dominance our female ancestors rejected, simultaneously inviting the other men to join them. This invitation by the women, the Mbendjele say, established society as they live it today. Men and women continue to work together to banish the tendencies of the hoarding, competitive, aggressive male spirit so that all can live together as equals. If this is the case, this ritual echoes up through the ages to remind us of the most incredible achievement of human history – when competitive, hierarchical groups dominated by aggressive males were successfully replaced by societies of equals.

There is more richness and complexity in these ideas than any I have encountered before, and expressing them well is far from easy. Beliefs around sexual identity and the differences, qualities and roles of sex and gender are evolving, and it is certainly not for me to say what, if any, the roles of men and women or the qualities of the masculine or feminine might or should ever be. But having seen the way the women of the Mbendjele powerfully hold themselves at the centre of their society (together, in solidarity), affirming their voice within the community, I felt I was witnessing something very important that needed to be shared. For me, sitting there, experiencing the potent strength and freedom of those women, asserting themselves as they wished to, in their own way, I was blown away, and I discovered a feeling which continues to grow today… hope.

Bruce Parry is a British explorer and documentary filmmaker, best known for his time spent living with Indigenous Peoples, as well as his investigations into globalisation and climate change.

His latest film, Tawai: A Voice from the Forest, is about how humankind has shifted its connection to nature with devastating results and is available to buy on Amazon and at www.bruceparry.com along with his books and other documentaries. You can follow him on Instagram at @bruceparrytribe

Mist over the Borneo rainforest / Bruce Parry

Nilda Callañaupa "The Indigenous Quechua Weaver" Words by Paola Miglio

Nilda Callañaupa’s mother and grandmother were both spinners and weavers. When Nilda was young, however, she did not knit or weave. Instead, she would take the sheep out to graze the fields, not making the connection until later that come sheering time, and their wool would be used to weave blankets, throws and clothing, and all manner of other things. When you speak to her today and listen to her recount her youth, it’s easy to trace the history and traditions of weaving in her family. Whether she knew it or not, that young girl high up in the Peruvian mountains was meant to keep such practices alive.

NATIVE PEOPLES Weaving was in Nilda’s thoughts as a child, and soon it was in her heart.

When I visited her at the El Centro de Textiles Tradicionales de Cusco (CTTC), an initiative created by Chinchero weavers in the nineties, I was able to see for myself all of the many intricate designs that adorn the walls and sit stacked along the wall. All vary in length and colour, made from looms that once ran through the fingers and hands of Nilda.

Through her work and involvement in the Textile Centre, the tradition of Peruvian weaving has continued, and such craftsmanship thrives.

“It was about bringing together ladies who were weavers or who had once knitted,” she tells me, “as well as students and young people who expressed an interest.” I ask how the original idea came about. She tells me, “When I returned from studying tourism in the United States [she also has a Masters Degree in Tourism from the National University San Antonio Abad del Cusco], I met many people who would talk about weaving and such ancient Peruvian traditions, many of them wondering how and if they could get involved. I didn’t know myself, so I had to research this, and once I did, I then had to ask, so now what? The interest was there, but where should I direct these people? Really, the only way for people to learn and practice is for them to participate.”

Nilda created the Chincheros Cultural Centre in 1996 to promote and preserve such ancient cultures and traditions. Peruvian weaving dates back well over 2,000 years and is an integral part of the Inca culture.

However, it is an art that is disappearing. The centre works with Quechua weavers and their families in the former Incan Empire Tahuantinsuyo and engages them in skills-building, community networking, and market development.

When word of the centre spread, though, other areas of the country began to express interest, enquiring how they could do the same and keep such traditions alive and teach the youth. “Back then, between 1994 and 1995, there was about 200 of us, but very soon, other communities were incorporated. Right now, there are roughly 600 weavers involved in the Textile Centre, all practising, promoting and keeping weaving alive.

That’s a joy because Peru is very multicultural with very lively traditions.

Our history is a wonderful one, spanning so many different regions, and it’s important that all Peruvians embrace and share this.” There were bound to be challenging when it came to bringing new people on board and incorporating other communities. “Everyone has their own style, you see,” says Nilda.

Peru is a big country with 25 regional governments. Each region and people have their own iconography, designs, colours, sizes and quality, in addition to a particular set of weaving techniques. On top of this, individual styles and techniques are passed down through the generations and adapt over time – some Inca, some Nivaclé, Chancay, Mayan and the Pueblo men from Oasisamerica would weave with cotton on upright looms. To battle this, the centre has worked to create a catalogue system, compiling works and writing down oral documentation passed on from family member to family member. “Because our main objective is to preserve such stories, styles and traditions, research is one of the most important parts of the centre’s job,” Nilda tells me, “without this, how will people in the future know about what it is we do?”

85 Native Peoples | Nilda Callañaupa

NATIVE PEOPLES

Peru is a big country with 25 regional governments. Each region and people have their own iconography, designs, colours, sizes and quality, in addition to a particular set of weaving techniques. On top of this, individual styles and techniques are passed down through the generations and adapt over time – some Inca, some Nivaclé, Chancay, Mayan and the Pueblo men from Oasisamerica would weave with cotton on upright looms. To battle this, the centre has worked to create a catalogue system, compiling works and writing down oral documentation passed on from family member to family member. “Because our main objective is to preserve such stories, styles and traditions, research is one of the most important parts of the centre’s job,” Nilda tells me, “without this, how will people in the future know about what it is we do?”

As well as the research and catalogue department, the centre has a growing business department – what they produce, they must sell. “Business has never been my main priority [actually, I hate it], but I understand how important it is. Our goal is to assist families and create a larger market for their textiles and a new economy for their communities. The people who work here have homes and children to feed. Plus, what we produce is quality fabrics, and quality will sell. The opportunity to make an income gives a sense of pride and purpose to the women, many of whom are widows and have suffered physical and psychological abuse. This problem isn’t 100% solved, but we’ve been able to create somewhere safe, a place of support where people can give each other strength. The centre has given them a sense of hope, and the change in them is evident – that gives me joy!”

I inquire whether men have caused any problems at the centre, perhaps looking for their wives?

“Not really,” she says, “but some do complain, although most are supportive. It is a family commitment too. Perhaps the husband’s haven’t noticed their wives have left,” she tells me, laughing. With more and more people joining the centre and showing an interest in Peruvian weaving, what’s next and are the two centres in Cusco and Chinchero enough? “Oh, no. It’s not enough. When you train more and more people, then you need more and more equipment; and, of course, the result is that production grows. It’s easy to run out of space. We’ve been at capacity for the last seven or eight years.”

Native Peoples | Nilda Callañaupa 86

87 Native Peoples | Nilda Callañaupa

NATIVE PEOPLES

Nilda speaks with such passion and authority that it’s easy to see why women warm to her and find such a haven within the centres. There have been numerous challenges, the most recent being Covid and the second wave that hit Peru this year. However, Nilda remains optimistic that all will be well if people do their part and continues to keep both centres operational, although you can only enter via appointment. She continues to look on the bright side; with her infectious warmth and smile, and I’m sure that makes her students comfortable. She’s just what Peru needs, an ambassador working to preserve traditions and promote them to the rest of the world. As well as leading Andean weaving workshops, she also gives lectures and sits on panels, attending international conferences, including taking a group of women from the CTTC to Washington D.C. in 2015 to participate in the Smithsonian’s Folklife Festival. The following year, she was invited by TEDWomen to speak about the preservation of traditional Peruvian weaving techniques as part of its Artisans and Filmmakers curation.

Standing in the centre, it’s difficult not to be overcome by the fantastic display of work – every room a rainbow of electric colour. So is Nilda positive for the future? “It’s more difficult nowadays. Weaving is a craft that requires study and commitment. Young people can find this a challenge. They have TV, the internet and social media; other options. And not all young people want to stay in Cusco or Peru. So what do we do? Whatever it is, we must keep weaving, keep going and keep such traditions alive.”

Nilda Callañaupa Alvarez has written two books and co-authored a third, available in Spanish and English: “Weaving in the Peruvian Highlands: Dreaming Patterns, Weaving Memories” (2007), “Textile Traditions of Chinchero: A Living Heritage” (2012) and “Faces of Tradition: Weaving Elders of the Andes” (2013).

Paola Miglio is a Lima-born and based journalist. She studied Linguistics & Literature and became a freelance writer specialising in travel, gastronomy and culture. She co-edited the book "Peru: El Gusto es Nuestro", exploring the history of Peruvian gastronomy and was the restaurant critic for the Peruvian newspaper Comercio until the Covid pandemic. She is now the editor and a partner of www.eltrinche.com.

You can follow her on Instagram @paola.miglio

Native Peoples | Nilda Callañaupa 88

Cassava and the

Ticuna of Amazonia Words & Photos by Nicholas Gill

82 | NATIVE PEOPLES: CASSAVA AND THE TICUNA

Cassava goes by many names – manihot esculenta, manioc, macaxeira, mandioca, aipim, agbeli and yuca. It is the Amazon’s potato. It’s bread and the building block of the region’s cuisine. I’ve been researching its uses for the past 15 years. Despite cyanide traces, it’s boiled, grilled, baked, stewed, fried or ground into flour, but its starch can also be removed to make tapioca. It can also be chewed and fermented to make a low alcohol beer. Its leaves can be ground and boiled for a week and served with salted meats to make maniçoba. The pale-yellow juice extracted from the grated form of bitter cassava, called tucupi, can be used to make sauces and broths.

Still, it wasn’t until I found myself in a Ticuna community in Colombia that I discovered its peak form.

Amidst a morning coffee in a café in Leticia, Colombia’s port town on the Amazon River, a narrow toe of land sandwiched between Peru and Brazil’s borders, I noticed a brief reference in a ragged tourist pamphlet from some defunct tour operator of Ticuna people making tucupi. It wasn’t the tucupi I knew, however. It was black. Why was it black? It didn’t make sense.

Information was limited, so I asked the waiter there, and he had never seen it. However, he mentioned there was a Ticuna community that was a moto-taxi ride away. Sometimes they made traditional foods in a tent on the highway, so perhaps they might know of it, he told me. I had a flight to Manaus in the afternoon, so I grabbed my things, and in 30-minutes, I was there.

San José is a rural community that straddles the highway.

There’s no formal centre, but houses are scattered about in the surrounding forest, and small plots of land are used for growing cassava and fruits.

A few young men were milling about at the bus stop on the highway. I asked them if they knew of the tent with the foods, and one said that was just something for festivals. We started to talk about cassava and its uses.

Without thinking anything of it, one of the men, who went by Chutí, said he could take me around if I wanted.

Chutí knew of an older couple, a kilometre through the forest, making a coarse flour from cassava, which was then toasted in a metal cauldron to make farofa, a staple food in much of the Amazon. The gritty powder is served alongside almost every meal, spooned over meats or fish or cooked with butter and fatty bits of pork.

NATIVE PEOPLES: CASSAVA AND THE TICUNA | 83

NATIVE PEOPLES

As we approached, we could see the steam rolling off the two-metre pan as a woman stirred it with what resembled a wooden oar. I bought a bag of it to take home, and we started to talk to him about tucupi. As cassava flour is made by removing the liquid from the root, tucupi is often made as a by-product, so there was a good chance the couple knew what I was talking about, and they did. I told them I knew of Brazil’s yellow tucupi, but I heard there was a black tucupi here. They didn’t have any black tucupi, but they knew of a family that probably did.

We wandered further into the forest to a stilted, wood plank house with a corrugated metal roof. Entering, I saw a man cutting palm fronds with a machete. Chutí spoke to him in Ticuna, and the man looked at him strangely, then pulled a plastic soda bottle down from a shelf. Inside was the black tucupi. It was thick, very thick, more like a concentrated paste than a liquid. He explained how they reduced the yellow tucupi and added chillies and insects such as leafcutter ants to give it flavour. They used it as a marinade for meats or fish, or they added it to stews. He passed me a spoon and suggested I have a taste. Just a little, though. I put it in my mouth, and I had one of those moments. One of those moments where the world fell away. My senses lit up. It was a spicy, fermented funk in a way I didn’t realise, despite many years of writing about food and studying this particular tuber – the short, fleshy underground stem used as storage organs for nutrients.

Over the next few years, I would eventually come to taste the reduced, black tucupi – which goes by dozens of different micro-regional like tucupi negro, tucupi preto, tucupi pixuna and cassareep – in various forms throughout the Amazon. The communities thought this recipe had no monetary value, but demand for it growing exponentially as the culinary community becomes more aware of it. It’s now infiltrating fine dining in the region, appearing with foraged mushroom consommé or drizzled over sweets while changing the indigenous communities’ economies who make it in the process.

NATIVE PEOPLES

That morning at the café in Leticia, I didn’t expect that the spur of the moment trip would be fruitful. It would be a little adventure on a day when I would have otherwise just been wandering around Leticia waiting for a flight. In all, it was only a few hours of my time, but that conversation with a waiter was a spark that led to a greater understanding of an ancestral recipe and the Amazonian cuisine as a whole.

With an obsession for the Amazon and South-American food culture, Award-winning American writer and photographer Nicholas Gill co-wrote the book "Central" with Peruvian chef Virgilio Martinez. In 2016, together with Marie Elena Martine, he co-founded New Worlder, a website dedicated to exploring food, culture and travel in the Americas. You can follow him on Instagram at @nicholasgill2

86 | NATIVE PEOPLES: CASSAVA AND THE TICUNA

Join the conversation . . .

With more than one hundred women restaurateurs, activists, food writers, professional chefs, and home cooks – all of whom are changing the world of food.

Curated and illustrated by author and artist Lindsay Gardner

Published by Workman - available in hardback or eBook www.workman.com

88 | NATIVE PEOPLES: LEVISON WOOD 'HERITAGE'

Heritage:

discovering how different cultures and ancient ways of life go in spite of modernity The following is taken from Encounters, Levison Wood's photographic journey book, which brings together more than a decade of his photography for the first time, telling the incredible stories of some of the world's most remote places and the people who live there. With Levison's unique experiences living amongst diverse communities and his eye for compelling landscapes, Wood has created a powerful collection of images that celebrates humanity in all its variety.

Words & Photos by Levison Wood Heritage is expressed in the myths, stories, rituals and customs of a place. It can be represented in the way a society dresses, migrates, speaks, dances or fights. It is something organic that we inherit from our ancestors and that develops over generations. It is affected by geography, by language, by neighbouring cultures. By this same token, heritage is always under threat as communities increasingly come into contact with each other. This, of course, can lead to conflict, as I discussed in the previous chapter.

It is this mixture of isolated opinions and exposure to new ideas that makes travel so interesting and transformational: the opportunity to visit faraway lands and discover what their communities have decided to safeguard over the generations, past, present and future. As T.S. Eliot famously wrote: We shall not cease from exploration and the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time.

I have always been deeply fascinated by the legacy of culture and how cultural identity defines people around the world, from tangible assets such as a national costume or a style of architecture to more abstract ideas, religions and languages. History defines all communities, whether we like it or not, and in this chapter, I explore why our past should be understood and valued, if only to enable us to progress towards a more hopeful future.

NATIVE PEOPLES Heritage and culture are made up of ways of life that have become sanctified and revered.

Often these traditions and practices are to be protected, encouraged and held dear, but culture can manifest itself in both benign and dangerous ways. Many are difficult for an outsider to understand.

It is often hard to understand yourself and your own identity in isolation. What is exotic to one community might be mundane and prosaic to another, and I’ve always sought to question my own viewpoints by exposing myself to different opinions and ways of life. The ability to travel beyond the borders of my own society and to experience such a diverse mix of world views is, of course, a privilege, but I also see it as essential. It has enabled me to return home with fresh eyes and a better understanding of myself and the world in which I live.

In these days of globalization, social media and information overload, I believe that it’s more important than ever to see, hear and feel how other people live. I try to remain hopeful that cultures can coexist peacefully while also retaining the positive aspects of our various heritages.

However, the world is changing rapidly, and no culture lasts forever. I have tried to document ways of life around the globe before traditions disappear forever, buried in an onslaught of smartphones, chain stores and Western materialism.

To witness other cultures around the globe requires you to be able to connect with other people, to be able to set aside your own notions of how things are or should be done.

Essentially, there is a need to try to put yourself in the shoes of another and attempt to understand their way of being, no matter how strange or unusual it may seem. As a photographer, you need to capture images and moments that portray something different but not do so in an exploitative manner. There is a fine balance in showing empathy and understanding yet still taking the aesthetic opportunity to capture something meaningful, truthful or beautiful.

I have been fortunate enough to have witnessed many marvels in the world, and I’ve made it my life’s work to learn as much as I can about different ways of life on my travels. I’ve seen the ancient cities of the Middle East, including Jerusalem, Damascus and Palmyra. I’ve explored places where old meets new in Asia, Africa and Latin America. I have wandered with geishas in Kyoto, observed how connectivity has brought the hill tribes of the Caucasus into the modern world and witnessed the ever-changing growth of India as it blossoms into a superpower. I’ve seen the Iraqi marshes repopulated after a generation was expelled into a desert wilderness; by coming back, the Marsh Arabs re-established a way of life that has existed since the beginnings of civilization itself. I have met with Sufi shamans in Pakistan with their unique rituals and perception of Islam. In Nepal, I’ve visited great temples that serve as looming artefacts to the ancient Hindu ways of life. I’ve met cannibal monks on the banks of the Ganges and wandered through the ruins of cities devastated by natural disaster and civil war. I have photographed those who take pride in wearing the traditional dress of their ancestors, which in itself is becoming increasingly rare. And I have witnessed fathers tell their children the same myths and stories that were told to them in times past to keep their cultural thread unbroken. My photographs of these experiences are solely a moment in time and, of course, can never fully encapsulate what heritage means, but my hope is that they can act as a literal snapshot of culture as a traveller might perceive it right now.

One of the biggest challenges in photographing unique cultures is reaching them in the first place – both physically and emotionally. Often, what makes a place culturally unique is its remoteness and isolation from the communities around it. Even when you have made the journey to these special places, that’s just the start of the challenge.

90 |

NATIVE PEOPLES: LEVISON WOOD 'HERITAGE'

NATIVE PEOPLES Photographing people who aren’t used to meeting outsiders means hours of initial conversations, breaking bread and gaining trust before the camera even comes out. It’s important to earn the respect and confidence of your subject, particularly when you want to photograph their most treasured possession, whether that is their home, temple or clothing.

This chapter is a celebration of diversity: of the many thousands of traditions that make up a culture and the ways of life that have evolved to represent a community’s heritage. I aim to show what life is like in places where people do not fit the mould or where there has been a resistance to modernity. At the same time, I try not to romanticize indigenous cultures or hide how they really live.

I want to show the world as it is.

Many communities are being amalgamated or homogenized, which results in their people being forced to adapt and some of their traditions being watered down. Of course, many photographers lament these changes: the loss of traditional dress or dialects, for instance. As a student of history, I myself find it regrettable in many cases. But ‘progress’, in all its forms, means that change is inevitable, and the modern world is full of juxtapositions and surreal blends of old and new, tradition and innovation.

Technology and communication have helped millions of people out of poverty, so it should come as no surprise to see tribesmen in the deserts of Arabia or the jungles of South America wearing feathers in their headdresses while also peering at their smartphones. Most of the planet is now connected to the internet, and many a time, I have been added on Facebook or followed on Instagram by a shepherd or a Bedouin nomad. Such is the way of the 21st-century world, and it is these very changes that I hope to capture as a way of recording our own moment in time, our own part in our heritage.

Abu Haider, Iraq, 2017 ⇾ Near the town of Chibayish lies the gateway to the marshlands of southern Iraq. For thousands of years, these marshes were home to the ancient Sumerian people, famed for their thatched houses and peaceful civilization, until the dictator Saddam Hussein tried to ethnically cleanse the region by draining the swamps. Throughout the 1980s and ’90s, thousands of these tribes fled their way of life.

One of the positive outcomes of the 2003 Iraq War was that the marshes were reflooded. Over the last fifteen years, they have been gradually regaining their previous appearance, and the Marsh Arabs are returning. I spent a few days with boatman Abu Haider and his family, who make a living raising buffalo in the channels and cutting grass. The sound of him reciting ancient poetry amid this transformed landscape remains a haunting memory.

Maasai, Kenya, 2018 In Laikipia County in northern Kenya, Maasai and Samburu tribesmen still wear traditional clothing across rural Kenya (even if there are a few modern flourishes like the plastic flowers worn here). Many of these famous warriors may now have mobile phones, but they have retained a unique pastoralist culture, keeping cattle whose milk and blood they drink as a staple diet. This calcium-rich fare is said to be why the Maasai are one of the tallest communities of people in Africa.

Caucasians, Russian Federation, 2017 In the mountains of the North Caucasus lie several Islamic republics where fiercely independent tribes pride themselves on retaining a separate identity and heritage despite officially being federal subjects of Russia. The Ingush and Chechens have a fierce reputation as warriors, and many still wear the traditional sheepskin hats and straight-bladed daggers of their forefathers.

In Grozny, I attended a wedding, where the wedding party wore traditional costume.

The custom is for the groom to ‘kidnap’ his bride. In the past, a suitor would ride off with the woman of his choice on horseback, aided by a gang of his friends and brothers. Thankfully, these days the ‘kidnap’ is merely ceremonial, and usually involves a motor cavalcade of the groom’s side of the family. In this case, the men were all armed with Uzi sub-machine guns, and fired off a volley of bullets into the air as the convoy screeched through the city, parading the ‘captured’ bride.

Southi Al-Reithi, Saudi Arabia, 2018 High in the Asir Mountains, the men of the Qahtani Bin Amir tribe wear flowers in their hair as a symbol of masculinity. I met Southi close to the border with Yemen. He wore the traditional curved dagger of his ancestors and a floral garland in his hair. But, in a surreal twist, he also whipped out his smartphone and asked to follow me on Instagram. In Saudi Arabia, more than 60 per cent of the population is under 30, so change is coming – and fast.

San Children, Botswana, 2019 The San are the original inhabitants of southern Africa and can lay claim to being the most ancient race of humans.

Until very recently, these people lived a simple life as hunter-gatherers, foraging for food in the vast wildernesses of Namibia and Botswana. Today, the children go to school and learn about the modern world, but in a few remote villages surrounding the Okavango Delta and on the edge of the Kalahari Desert, remnants of this ancient culture survive in the form of traditional dress and jewellery and the use of bows for hunting, as well as the San language, which to the Western ear sounds like a series of clicks. The children often go out foraging in the bush for bird eggs, edible roots and berries. The San also eat bush rats, snakes and small antelopes and will even share the kill of a lion.

↓

Mishael Alfaqeer, Jordan, 2017.

Mishael is a Bedouin Nomad who was born in a cave inside the ancient city of Petra. Despite his humble upbringing, he spoke fluent English, having learned to guide tourists from a young age, and he had married a Dutch woman. He loved the desert and its simplicity, and I deeply admired his humour and his philosophy, which was to live and let live.

↑

Mr Salahaddin, Pakistan, 2015.

At the entrance to the magical Baltit Fort, I met Mr Salahaddin, chief guard to this historic castle, which dates from the 8th century CE. It stands on a jagged hilltop overlooking the magnificent Hunza Valley.

Many soldiers in Northern Pakistan and India boast remarkable moustaches, such as the one sported by Mr Salahaddin. This tradition dates back to the ancient Mughal Empire when Persian influences spread across the subcontinent. In the days of the Raj, many of the British colonialists joined in with the trend, and there were even competitions among the soldiers as to who could grow the most magnificent curls. Moustache wax is a must-have product for many Pakistani men, and the barbershops do a roaring trade.

Dessana Man, Brazil, 2019 In the heart of the Amazon rainforest, the indigenous Dessana communities live in small villages on the banks of the Rio Negro. In recent years, many people have left the forest to settle on the outskirts of the city of Manaus, giving up their traditional way of life.

In some places, though, heritage is retained through tourism initiatives, which help generate an income. This young man came out to meet me wearing the headdress of his tribe; they usually only don traditional dress like this for ceremonial occasions or to greet tourists, wearing shorts and Tshirts the rest of the time. The feathers are from a blue hyacinth macaw, and the teeth on his necklace are from a large Amazonian caiman.

Native Peoples | Heiva i Tahiti 96

NATIVE PEOPLES

Heiva i Tahiti FRENCH POLYNESIA The Heiva i Tahiti is the largest and most popular festival of its kind in French Polynesia, showcasing the very best in traditional dancing, artistry and athleticism. In an attempt to understand the festivities and Polynesian tribal culture better, David found himself adopted by a tribe and competing in some of the most terrifying sports on the planet.

WORDS BY DAVID J CONSTABLE

Dance and public performance have long been one of the most ritualised art forms performed across the Pacific islands; from the hulas of Hawaii and the Māori haka of New Zealand to the rapid, hip-shaking ʻōteʻa in Polynesia. When the first English missionaries arrived in the Pacific, they were shocked by these celebrations, thinking them vulgar and on the path to debauchery.

They exercised their strict Christian sensibilities and prohibited the practice or any public performance. King Pōmare II further forbade dance, making it a clandestine practice – later, in 1807, he converted to Christianity, resulting in the deconstruction of the ancient Polynesian spiritual rites and rituals.

In 1881, after a long struggle with England and Protestant missionaries, France annexed a large part of what is today French Polynesia, and Bastille Day on July 14th became symbolic for the Polynesians. On this one day, France allowed sports and dancing to overcome the Anglo-Saxon influence and satisfy the natives taste for festivities. However, it wasn’t until the late-1950s that Tahitian dance returned univocally, thanks to the enthusiasm of a local teacher called Madeleine Moua after visiting France. It helped that public performance was beginning to be openly celebrated by indigenous peoples in Africa and the Middle East. Gerald Jones wrote how in many parts of the world, including Polynesia, “public dancing that focused on a physically linked couple would have been unthinkable, a violation of communal propriety.”

NATIVE PEOPLES: HEIVA I TAHITI | 101

NATIVE PEOPLES

Despite remaining an overseas collectivity, and with fractions still seeking greater political autonomy – fighting against France’s political and cultural emancipation – authorities sort to create an event that would appease the islands and celebrate the culture. In June 1985, the Heiva i Tahiti replaced the public holiday festival of the Tiurai. Mona died in 1989, but not before seeing the festivities for herself.

The month-long celebration involves dance performances, dramas and operas. Orchestras consist of up to 50 musicians and an assortment of drums along with the Tahitian ukulele – a short-necked fretted lute with eight nylon strings. No Polynesian can resist a strum on a ukulele. With so much atoll animosity and tribal conflict centred around land and property disputes – even tribal beef over women and the giving away of wives and daughters – Polynesia has always had a plethora of warrior dances and musical melodies for conflict engagement. Add athleticism to this, all of the raw aggression and prowess demonstrated in proper shirt-off kind of stuff, and you have an event, a celebration, an open invitation to the public to witness and spectate these ancient traditions, demonstrated up-close and in the flesh.

I had contacted the event organisers and Tourism Board months before, enquiring whether it would be both possible and acceptable for me to participate in the activities – I didn’t mention anything about dance. Unsure exactly what this would involve, I was keen all the same, excited to get stuck into the activities and experience such tribal competition in a safe setting. I arrived anxious but confident, knocking on the door of fit.

The evening before the competition, I attended the opening ceremony, a sort of carnival and introduction to the visiting islands. Participating tribes from the islands of Moorea, Huahine, Raiatea and Taha’a, and the smaller islands, Ua Pou, Rapa Iti and Fatu Hiva – the most isolated of the French Polynesian inhabited islands – were paraded, taking part in dance rivalries.

Competitors were presented to the gathered crowd of locals and excitable tourists. Children from local schools sang, and men and women danced in large groups, performing their take on specially choreographed ʻōteʻa dances.

97 Native Peoples | Heiva i Tahiti

NATIVE PEOPLES

Everyone was in traditional costumes, grass skirts and colourful floral decorations tied around the wrists, waists and neck. The men are all physical, smooth-skinned and visibly muscular. They wear bright cloth tied around their waists, with flowers adorning their headdresses – a quiff of colour, like some highly-sexed peacock. The women wore makeshift coconut bras or tight-fitting bikini tops, their flower leis and headdresses equally elaborate in design.

Dances are rarely slow. Participants shake and twist their hips with impressive adroitness. The most defining move is a vigorous knocking of the knees, a sort of scissor movement of the legs while standing on the spot or moving sideways across the stage. The shoulders and head remain stationary while the tempo of the knees increases. Men and women dance close together, moving faster and with a higher tenacity. There is something profoundly sexual about it. Exotic, yes; erotic, sure; but sensual too. Limbs speed up, fast and gyrating: hips, knees, body pops; the extending and punctuating of muscles. Bodies drip with sweat in the sticky heat; dark flesh shining in the moonlight, casting a spell on me and all those people watching.

Before I can participate in the competitions, I must register so I join a line in the gardens of the Musée de Tahiti et des Îles, a Polynesian ethnographic museum, sometimes nicknamed Fishermen’s Cape. I find myself within a mix of men from Taha’a, Ra’iātea and the islands of Huahine, Rangiroa, Nuku Hiva, Maupiti, Tikehau, Fakarava, Tubuai and Manihi. Surrounding me is a cluster of flexed and tanned muscles, a hot group of pulsating tension, ready to explode. I don’t know who I’m with or where I belong, but I’m experiencing a show of pent up manly aggression, despite this being a nonviolent practice. A man behind me is standing far too close, ignoring all queue etiquette. He jabs his shoulder into my back on three occasions; by the fourth, I’m sure that it’s deliberate. The atmosphere is not the happy vibe I had hoped for, but hostile.

NATIVE PEOPLES

I’m a curiosity to these men, mixed-up in something I shouldn’t be. It’s clear to everyone in the garden that I have no right or qualification to be here. White people are spectators, not participatory.

The men are wearing a coloured cloth around their waists, a tightly knotted sarong patterned with swirls. Tattoos on show reveal all of the Polynesian artistry synonymous with warrior intimidation and tribal warfare: shark teeth, lizards, stingrays and scowling tiki faces, inked across bodies from the feet and legs up to the torso and even the face.

There are two Tahitian words commonly used in the English language: taboo and tattoo. I saw the inkings in all their frightening glory, celebrated and exhibited. When the Catholic and Protestant missionaries settled towards the end of the 18th century, they fought against the practice. As well as the abolition of dance, King Pōmare II also drew up a code of rules that included banning tattoos, describing them as something that must be wholly abolished, belonging to “ancient and bad customs.” As Polynesians had to be fully clothed in the newly Christianised society, the very raison d’être of tattooing was disappearing and much of the culture with it.

I waited around the museum garden, shirtless and unprotected in the blistering sun. My shoulders peeled and were spotted and raw, my feet slippery in the sweat and dirt of my flipflops, highlighting further my alien presence and participation. Every other competitor was barefoot, their feet hardened by contact with the earth and a life without protection. The problem I have, and why my participation is causing such distaste, is that no tribe will adopt me; and without a tribe, I am missing the one must-have entry condition for this sporting spectacular.

No one here was going to take a punt on me. I’m a white wash-ashore, and the results could be catastrophic.

Looking to bolster my chances of participation, I began speaking to a man from the island of Kaukura. He’s part of a tribe from a small islet in the western archipelago of Tuamotu, but which geographically belongs to the Palliser Islands. The population of the island is only 475 people. He appears welcoming enough, then pointed at my feet, laughing. These aren’t exactly fighting fit warriors themselves, ranging from stringy beanpole to pudgy obese, not the kind of physical conditioning you associate with modern athletes. ‘I was hoping to join,’ I said. ‘Joindre?’ He looked at me, puzzled, ‘Vous pouvez vous joindre. Notre home blanc guerrier.’ I proceeded to step into the pack, assuming, egotistically, that I had been accepted. I wouldn’t go as far as to say that I was welcomed, but I didn’t face any resistance. I wasn’t pushed or beaten, just stared at with confusion. It was strictly business from here on, and I knew that I was here only to bolster numbers. Just another nameless soldier who’ll fall in battle.

The opening event is a Tahitian take on the javelin in which competitors are given six handmade wooden spears to fling at a faraway coconut spiked on top of a 40-foot pole. The tip of each spear is made by heating strips of tin and twisting them around the end to create a sharp point with a hole at the centre. About four centimetres of iron rod – salvaged from beaches or buildings sites – is then placed in the opening, the tin pressed to hold the iron in place and heated to bind the point, creating a spike. A man from a competitor tribe is the first to approach. He’s older than most men there with dark, leathery skin and a muscular but wiry body. He’s small in stature, and on his head, he wore a crown woven from looped yarn. He must be in his early-70s, although his pronounced calves and bicep muscles suggest he could be younger.

104 | NATIVE PEOPLES: HEIVA I TAHITI

NATIVE PEOPLES

The tattoos across his shoulders and chest had long faded so that the black markings were now an off-purple colour, almost blue. I paid close attention to how he positioned himself, how he moved his feet and held the spear. Then he paused and turned to me, ‘eh, vous etes homme Anglais!’ He balanced the spear between his index fingers, wiggling the light wood. ‘This hand [he moved his eyes towards his right-hand] is balance, comprendre? D’accord, vers l’avant, bend and kill noix de coco!’

I wondered if this was all educational and for my benefit or a subtle note of competitive intimidation? It wasn’t until relatively recently that the coconut was introduced as a target. The event had initially been developed using the severed heads of European missionaries and defeated warriors. The heads, long since severed, became soft and rotten in the sand, so they were displayed on spikes and used as target practice. Across the islands, bodies were consumed on the battlefield or brought back to villages where they were butchered, baked and eaten to honour the gods. Captives were often forced to watch their own body parts being consumed or even to eat some themselves.

In New Zealand, the 18th century French explorer Marion du Fresne was killed and eaten by Māori inhabitants whose favourite delicacy was a mix of human flesh and meat from the moa bird. In the Marquesas, it was considered a triumph to eat a dead man. Tribes would treat captives with great cruelty, noted the anthropologist, A.P. Rice, “breaking their legs to prevent them from escaping, they would keep them alive so they could brood over their impending fate.”

Rice also describes how the captive’s arms were broken, as were their ribs, which pierced their lungs so they could not cry out. They were then impaled on poles and finally roasted on spits that entered between their legs and emerged from their mouths. I’m sure the old man meant the comparison between the coconut and my head in jest, but it wasn’t all that long ago. I was still a stranger, still a European – and grudges never die.

NATIVE PEOPLES

I turned to study the tribesmen who were now standing behind me, whooping and baying for blood. They started making a strange, guttural noise, ‘Ough, ough, ough…’ pumping their fists and stamping their feet. ‘Draw-back,’ said the man. ‘Arrière, psssh…’ He launched the spear. It left his hand with a snap and made a sound like tearing silk, narrowly missing the target. ‘Wooarrghh!’ he screamed. The men continued their rallying cry, ‘Ough, ough, ough…’ growing more animated.

A whistle sounds, and everyone shuffles to the line in the dirt, shoulders bumping against shoulders, feet trampling on feet.

I stepped to the line, then launched my javelin along with the men. Hundreds of human-made spears fly through the air. Most pass the target and fall to the ground, spiking into the soil. A few strike the coconut, puncturing it from a variety of angles. Several sticks poke out of the fruit like a spiky porcupine in the sky.

Shortly after the spear-throwing, I’m informed that the organisers have barred me from the coconut tree climbing. I ask why, but their reasons are unclear. ‘Trop dangereux,’ one official tells me but doesn’t elaborate. I’m forced instead to watch from the sidelines as wiry men with hairless chests cling to the base of a tall, leaning coconut tree. They wriggle upwards, their legs and arms wrapped around the trunk. Then, like a spring, propel themselves skywards towards the top. They scramble to touch the summit as the thin trunk sways, then slide down. Other officials approach and inform me that I’m unable to participate in the stone-lifting competition, repeating the same excuse. ‘Can I at least try?’ I ask, frustrated that I’ve come all of this way just to be a spectator, ‘s’il vous plaît. Un essai?’

I want to be given a chance, to demonstrate my ability, my respect for the event. More than anything, I want to prove to myself that I can lift 200 pounds.

I watch as new athletes present themselves; bigger, broader athletes. These aren’t the same men from the spear-throwing or coconut-tree climbing; these are Pudzianowski in size. They capture the crowd’s attention with their bulk, waddling towards the quiescent stone, their huge thighs rubbing together.

They have large and rocky backs, lumpy with muscle. Female competitors are equally as tall and wide as the men. Some, as they would demonstrate, just as strong.

Each of the strongmen approaches the stone with fierce determination, looking indestructible, like visiting gods. They lower themselves, folding their legs like a jack-in-the-box. Once crouched, they wrap their arms around the circumference of the stone, their biceps pressed against the cold boulder.

Those who can interlock their fingers and hands, then hoist. Blood rushes to the face, and their cheeks expand like whoopee-cushions.

NATIVE PEOPLES

Faces turn purple. Teeth are clenched and jaws pronounced – veins pop. Eyes turn bloodshot as 250 pounds goes up. Then, 300 pounds. Then, 350. By the time the fourth stone is revealed, rolled into position from the wings by 10 volunteers, only a handful of competitors are left.

Four men lift the 400 pound stone easily enough, but it’s a struggle to raise it upon a shoulder once at waist level. It’s not so much about lifting the weight, but technique and balance. Once the rock is on your shoulder and you’ve gathered yourself, confident that you’re not going to buckle under the extreme weight, you must raise one hand in the air to prove both your strength and balance. Those who achieve this are lifting over 450 pounds, around 28 stone.

A local athlete, Tetuarii Pino Teapehu, claims victory; a massive man with a childlike grin and a wide-barrel chest. His tattoos are mostly black spirals, with dashes across his torso. In the centre of his sternum is a large horned ram. I see him after the victory, leaning back, triumphantly, into a deckchair that’s seconds away from buckling.

I cautiously approached the champion, who introduces me to his friend, Ariiatua Tepa. The two men could be brothers. They look similar and have the same stocky physique and dark skin with a broad and flat nose, like a heavyweight boxer. Despite their fearsome appearance, both have guileless eyes, ready to break into fits of laughter. I noticed this throughout my meetings and interactions with Tahitians, whom all have a playful manner. I found them to be caring, time-giving and generous people.

Tetuarii and Ariiatua took me under their wing, just as the Kaukura tribe had. They asked the judges if one of the stones could be rolled back out to demonstrate their technique and let me try myself at hoisting the weight. The draconian judges appear strict at first, grumbling their objections, but after some petitioning, how could they refuse the champ. Tetuarii then proceeded to talk me through the technique; the positioning of the feet and shoulders, the slow bend, the straight back, remembering to interlock fingers and hug the cold stone.

I give it a go and lift the 200 pound stone to my waist, then up upon my left shoulder. It was easier than I expected, but both my knees click. My lower back spasms, a jolt of anguish I manage to disguise with a smile.

The following day, I’m declared fit for the fruit-bearing finale, a brutal race around a car park near the Papeete ferry plaza, hoisting 100 pounds (over seven stone) of tree trunk, loaded with taros and bananas - the fruit weighs in at another 25 pounds. It's a different breed of athlete here; leaner and fitter than any I competed against in the spear-throwing. They have big dusty feet and are wearing coloured sarongs. I’m handed an unflattering red one that's tied around my waist and wrapped under my balls like an intolerable penis pouch.

Tetuarii tightens the cloth so that it pinches in a severe constraint underneath my rib-cage, like tying a bow around a lung. I think the track is about 1,500 metres, but nobody seems to know precisely. All of the men around me appear to be focused on the course, but from what I could see, it disappeared after 100 metres around a bend.

A few bodies knock together, looking to intimidate. Then, I see a flash of white skin – members of the French navy who, judging by their physiques, are here to compete. I was impressed by their sense of duty and steadfast demeanour. Those athletes with confidence pushed to the front, eager to get underway. I opted to remain hidden in the mix, lost in bodies. Suddenly, there’s a tannoy call or something, and unaware of the route, and with my particulars tucked away and carrying 100 pounds plus of tree trunk and fruits, I set off.

Heavy-footed, I followed the athletes around the marked track, picking up the pace as I heard men behind me making ground. I was determined to perform well and not embarrass myself, so I overtake one, then two, then five. My confidence grew, but after 200 metres or so, they all passed me. The trunk was digging into my shoulder, tearing at my skin, bark grinding against sun-scorched patches. I attempted to take pause and switch the load across to my other shoulder, but the trunk was unbearably heavy, and I’m afraid that any break will mean my position is lost. My feet had blistered, and I could feel the grit and the dirt grind into my open wounds. I squeezed the wheezes from my aching lungs and dug deep, pushing forward.

NATIVE PEOPLES: HEIVA I TAHITI | 109

NATIVE PEOPLES

Turning a sharp corner, I slowed so as not to twist my feet into the hot cement and cause further damage. As I did, two men passed. A blackened and bruised bunch of bananas fell from one of the loads so that I’m forced to run around, adding extra track to my course. It pissed me off, so I overtook in a moment of frustration. It was a misplaced decision, and as I turned another bend, I saw the home-straight feeling an overwhelming sense of urgency to meet the finish line. My energy builds on the thought, and I begin to feel triumphant. I must have passed 20 competitors on the straight, 30 perhaps, focusing on the two athletes at the front of the pack.

I watched their backs as I chased, sweat running into my eyes, blurring my vision, stinging like a slap in the face.

Most of the fruit on my shoulder had warmed and split, causing a runny pulp to flow down my back. I looked up, feeling content with a third position, watching as the leading two men battled it out. They crossed the finish line and then kept running, turning a corner and disappearing from view. I watched as other men crossed the line and continued on a second lap. FUCK. It was two laps, possibly more.No one had told me, and I had never considered running more than a single lap. I slowed my pace and changed the weight across my shoulders, lowering my head and switching the load from my left to right shoulder, feeling great relief and the speckled seasalt air as it calmed my torn skin.

Crossing the line, I knew that I must hold back, that the second time around would be wonderfully painful. I attempted to shift focus, and am taken back to youthful competitive days, when during a 400 metre race, after a particularly painful first 200 metres, I would look down at the painted white line bent across the track to signify the start of the next 200 metres, and think to myself, All of that again? But I wasn’t barefoot then. It wasn’t 40 degrees, and I wasn’t carrying over 100 pounds of forest and fruit on my back. I eventually crossed the finish line. Men ran over to relieve me of my burden. At that moment, I felt the torn skin and scratches, but it’s my feet that re-introduce me to pain. During the race, they were over-active and numb, fizzing with hot energy.

NATIVE PEOPLES

Upon finishing, a wave of pain crashed over me. I lifted my left foot and rested it in my hand, cradling the hunk of throbbing muscle. The heel was pink and prickled with grit. The underneath of my toes had lost several layers of skin and were now just ten pink ovals of throbbing muscle. It was as if I had run a marathon across hot coals, the devil in quick pursuit. I clocked seventeen minutes and... something.

I wasn’t bothered about the time. I didn’t win, but I wasn’t last either. Relief turned to anger and irritation, surpassed by a feeling of overwhelming misery as I sat insensate on the baked grass. I hauled myself up, leaning back onto my heels so that my piggy toes were elevated from making contact with the floor, and walked on the balls of my feet, slowly and cautiously, towards the retreat of an ambulance at the other end of the car park. My toes were cleaned one at a time, antiseptic cream applied before each little giblet was individually wrapped, bandaged and taped. It’s almost impossible to balance, so all of my weight transfers to my other leg, which is just as cramped, pumping with lactic acid. I’m in pieces, barely holding it together.

I still had a bruising, nagging pain in my knees from the stone-lifting, and I hadn’t travelled all this way to suffer alone. My tribe had now gone and all of the dances finished, the exuberant presentations and feats of tribal athleticism all ended. Tetuarii and Ariiatua were back in the car park. I was burnt and blistered, battered and bandaged and ready now for the other side of Polynesia, the postcard image; the sun-spanked beaches and elaborate, boozy cocktails. I was ready now. Let me find that place.

David J Constable is a writer, editor and CELTA-qualified teacher of English to speakers of other languages. He is also the founder of Ghost Dance. Born in Maidstone, Kent and educated in both the UK and USA, he has led a nomadic life, living in London, Kansas City, Bangkok, Lucca and now Kent on the English coast. Follow him at @davidjconstable

Petals of the Champaka THE

LIFE

AND

CULINARY

YING

KLEEB

LEGACY

OF

THAN

MAHIDORN

words by Rosalind Yunibandhu

PHU

NATIVE PEOPLES

With the sun glowing orange just above the horizon and the gentle ripples of the Chao Phraya river lapping against the side of a warm breeze rustled the folds of La-Or’s saffron robes as he began to paddle north, in his characteristic, measured way. Some distance upriver, amidst the verdant orchards of Bang Yi Khan, Kleeb Jumpa waited patiently to offer the morning’s alms: freshly steamed rice and a selection of her special home recipes. But for the occasional, melodic calls of turtle doves – and an inexplicable flutter in her heart – the morning was still and calm. Little did she know she would not only shortly be gazing into the eyes of her future husband – but also that, while he would become one of the most powerful men in the Kingdom, she would be remembered for her culinary legacy for centuries to come.

114 | NATIVE PEOPLES: PETALS OF THE CHAMPAKA

NATIVE PEOPLES

La-Or Krairiksh was my great-grandfather, and this is how (or, at least, based on family stories, how I imagine) he met my great-grandmother, Kleeb Jumpa, that fateful morning in late 19th century Siam. From an esteemed Chinese family serving the Chakri Dynasty since the time of King Rama I, La-Or was a budding junior civil servant who’d just ordained as a monk for a short time, as was customary for young men. Holding the honour of being the first-ever law graduate of Siam, over the years, he would eventually rise through the ranks to become Lord Chamberlain of Siam during the reigns of Kings Rama VI and VII – the highest-ranking civilian after the King himself.

Kleeb Jumpa (‘Petal(s) of the Champaka’) was the daughter of a Laotian aristocrat descended from Chao Anuwongse – the last King of Vientiane – and a local Siamese orchard grower. Despite first encountering her future husband in the orchards of the riverine community of Bang Yi Khan, she had, in fact, been raised from the age of seven in the inner courts of the Royal Palace by her aunt, a consort to King Rama IV. She’d very nearly become a consort herself: during her teenage years, her father had politely declined an offer to present her to King Rama V and sent her to instead live in the orchards for three years. Thus, in the Palace, TPYK learned the foundations of palace cuisine under the care and guidance of her aunt and the court ladies. She also developed a particular fondness and talent for traditional floral art.

It was during her time at the orchard in her late teens, however, that she had a chance to truly connect to nature and its bounty. At Bang Yi Khan, she learned from the orchardgrowing side of her family how to cultivate, harvest, and preserve fruits and vegetables, which undoubtedly allowed her to understand even more deeply how the land, cultivation, and processing techniques impacted the flavours she brought to the table.

She also dabbled in trade, drying and cutting banana leaves for the maids to sell in the local markets, inadvertently developing a complete view of the 19th century Siamese food system.

NATIVE PEOPLES: PETALS OF THE CHAMPAKA | 115

NATIVE PEOPLES

TPYK’s later marriage to CPM further broadened her repertoire of Western cuisine. As wife to an important personage, many occasions required her to entertain or be entertained by foreign dignitaries (as well as satisfy her husband’s particular passion for Western food). She was also introduced to the Krairiksh family Chinese recipes, handed down through the generations. These included gaeng hong or stewed pork and bamboo, and she never forgot her own Laotian heritage, frequently rustling up dishes like yum salad wiengchan, a Vientiane-style bamboo salad.

While there were most certainly other royal and noble ladies gaining recognition for their culinary skills during this period, TPYK stood out in her mastery and fusion of varied cuisines; indeed, her food, in a sense, mirrored the confluence of cultures taking place in broader society at the time – as old Siam evolved into modern Thailand.

In time, TPYK became renowned for her food in upper circles. But, she soon noticed that times were changing. In the post-war period, household structures were transforming: even in noble circles, large retinues of servants were no longer economically sustainable; this, in turn, meant that the preparation of intricate and labour-intensive palace-inspired dishes was becoming rarer. Worryingly, traditional recipes were beginning to be forgotten.

NATIVE PEOPLES

With this in mind, as she approached her seventh cycle (72nd birthday) in 1949, TPYK decided to record her recipes for her children, grandchildren and future generations – dictating to her niece over 100 of her personal recipes, from canapes and appetizers to soups and salads, curries, fish and meat dishes, and desserts. Her foreword to the 1949 edition of her now-legendary cookbook, Recipes to Teach my Children and Grandchildren [Descendants], reads: ‘Realising that in this day and age, it is difficult for my children and grandchildren to maintain cooks in their households, I have compiled this book of recipes in an informal style so that they can cook for themselves. It will bring me great pleasure if you add these recipes to your regular culinary repertoire.’

The book was once again published as part of her funeral memorial book upon her passing in 1961 and later featured in her household’s trusted valet, Mr Sian Kamnerdkarn, in 1982. A fourth edition was published on the occasion of the wedding of her great-granddaughter Ms Mitraporn Krairiksh in 2007.

In 2011, Dr Piriya Krairiksh commissioned a project to reproduce the fifth edition of TPYK’s cookbook, led by my aunt, Dr Kamontip Snidvongs, and supported by Khun Uba Kunjara, my parents, Dr Kraipun and Mrs Nisakorn Yunibandhu, and Mr Alex Blackwood.

This time, however, the recipes were enhanced with modern measurements based on original taste and provided in English. Over the course of three months, each recipe was rigorously tastetested by family members who’d had direct experience of TYPK’s cooking: my then 93-yearold great-aunt, Mrs Chairak Snidvongs, and my father – who’d been personally raised by TPYK and CPM between the ages of seven and fifteen.

While originally intended as a didactic book for her direct family, since its release into the public sphere as part of her funeral memorial book, both the original and modern editions have become somewhat cult classics amongst Thai and foreign chefs, international foodies and those interested in historical Thai cuisine. Even today, in 2021 – over seventy years since its first publication – we can still find recipes from her cookbook interpreted in restaurants across Bangkok. However, whether or not the interpretations are accurate, only my father and other family elders can say.

Unbeknownst to myself, I’d actually enjoyed many of TPYK’s recipes growing up, such as gaeng jee juan (‘three-flavours’ chicken curry) and pad pakkad khem (stir-fried pickled radish). I’d had no idea of the true significance of my great grandmother’s contribution to Siamese culinary heritage for most of my life. I only really came to ‘know’ her towards the end of last year, as we began our latest family project to bring the fifth edition of TPYK’s cookbook to the wider public.

During the specific moment when I realised this significance, I was balancing a Siamese palace canapé, mah haw, between my fingers in one hand and comparing it with an image in the 2011 edition of the cookbook I held in my other hand. It was a remarkably accurate interpretation.

I was at Praya Palazzo – a beautifully-restored, early-1930s, Palladio-style mansion-turnedluxury-boutique-hotel. With an impressive and touching vision to honour Thai culinary heritage.

Praya Dining, its Michelin Plate-awarded restaurant, explores historical Thai cuisine from the Sukhothai and Ayutthaya periods, right through to the reign of Rama 7. Included in its repertoire are selected recipes from TPYK’s cookbook.

As I placed the mah haw in my mouth, I was concomitantly flooded with emotion and flavour. Here I was, probably perhaps over a century since TPYK would have made her first mah haw. In that one bite, I could feel not just my great-grandmother’s spirit, but also that of the generations of women (and, perhaps, some men) before and after her, who’d passed their culinary wisdom to and from her – allowing this delicious morsel to be delivered to me, on this plate, on this particular day. The tart but sweet juiciness of the pineapple, the savoury umami of the garlicinfused pork, the fragrance of fresh coriander root – all presented on elegant period ceramics – was more than an eating experience for me: it was a communion.

As I work together with my cousins on the fifth edition of TPYK’s recipe book, I begin to feel the profound honour it is for us to do this work as the direct ‘descendants’ to which the original volume was addressed. We don’t want this next edition to be ‘just’ a family recipe book. We also want to share the, to date untold, stories that will help us better understand her and her food, the personal and cultural context in which she developed her recipes – that can only come from the elder storytellers of our family. In the end, to us, TPYK’s recipes are far more than just simple dishes; they are a window onto the life and times of a remarkable Siamese woman, living in a unique time and place – and a great legacy for generations of all Thai people to come.

Rosalind Yunibandhu is the founder and managing director of Arcadia Fine Foods, a company whose mission is to restore our harmony with nature through food and food experiences. She believes that food offers us more than just sustenance and can be used as a vehicle through which we can tell unique stories. She holds degrees from Cambridge and Oxford Universities and works as a consultant, creating PwC's Sustainability & Climate Change practice in Thailand and advising South East Asia's food and beverage companies on managing their social and environmental impacts. You can follow her on Instagram @arcadiafinefoods

NATIVE PEOPLES

Frank A. Rinehart and the

1898 Indian Congress WORDS BY DAVID J CONSTABLE Frank A. Rinehart, a commercial photographer in Omaha, Nebraska, was commissioned to photograph the 1898 Indian Congress, part of the Trans-Mississippi International Exposition.

More than 500 Native Americans from 35 tribes represented by more than 500 delegates – at the time, the largest such event the world had ever seen – attended the conference, providing the photographer and artist with an opportunity to create a stunning visual document of Native American life and culture at the dawn of the 20th century.

With thanks to Boston Public Library, we are today able to see many of Rinehart's portraits, presenting a real and visceral study of the American tribes of the great plains.

NATIVE PEOPLES Many mid-19th century expositions exhibited American Indians as curiosities of the past, but the 1898 Indian Congress had advanced under the national policy of assimilation. Much of this intention, however, was lost when the emphasis shifted from education to a Wild Weststyle form of carnival entertainment with Native Indians asked to pose in their ceremonial dress in front of incongruous studio backdrops of painted architectural settings.

The purpose, according to organisers, was “to make an extensive exhibit illustrative of the life, native industries, and ethnic traits of as many of the aboriginal American tribes as possible.” Attendees would “camp in tepees, wigwams, etc, on the exposition grounds and conduct their domestic affairs as they do at home.”

Whereas many previous photographs of Native Americans had a dull ethnographic or sometimes “savage” quality, the Rinehart photos presented their subjects with dignity and resonance. Along with work from other contemporary photographers, they helped cast the very idea of Native Americans in a more profound light in the minds of many Americans.

The images also captured a frantically shifting world, not just for Native Americans but all Americans. “At this time, Native Americans were viewed as a people of a vanishing way of life,” according to the Museum of Nebraska Art. “They were seen as noble and not as an enemy to be feared.”

Into this milieu walked 36-year-old Illinois-born Rinehart. A one-time apprentice of famed Western landscape photographer William Henry Jackson, Rinehart was by then already a skilled artist and technician. Granted exclusive rights to photograph the Indian Congress, and using an 8-by-10 glass-negative camera, Rinehart and his assistant, Adolph Muhr, set up a studio on the grounds.

“It isn’t that the photographs depict the end of a way of life, as much as a way of life that was changing rapidly,” says Simon Ortiz (Acoma Pueblo), a professor of English and indigenous literature at Arizona State University, a key figure in the Native American Renaissance of the 1960s and author of the book Beyond the Reach of Time and Change: Native American Reflections on the Frank A. Rinehart Photograph Collection. “The photographs were taken at a time when the United States was first asserting itself as an international power,” he says.

NATIVE PEOPLES: 1898 INDIAN CONGRESS | 121

NATIVE PEOPLES

Ortiz continues, “[Domestically] we were almost 10 years from the 1890 Wounded Knee Massacre that marked the end of major armed resistance by indigenous people in the Plains.

This was very prominent in the Native peoples’ minds, and they knew there was not a lot they could do.” Among his favourite images is the portrait of a stoic Geronimo. In one of the strangest episodes from the Indian Congress, the legendary Apache chief was allowed to attend the event, despite at the time being in federal custody as a prisoner of war at Fort Sill in Oklahoma. He spent his time at the Congress under constant guard by U.S. soldiers. “He looks more or less sad,” Ortiz says. “But I also see in the photograph a sense of romanticism.”

So why did these people – Assiniboine, Apache, Crow, Flathead, Iowa, Ponca, Sauk, Sioux, Wichita, and others – consent to being photographed? Many likely didn’t, says Ortiz, due to traditional beliefs against depicting the spirit on paper or in material form. For those who agreed, Ortiz sees something that suggests a form of survival , a kind of coping mechanism in response to Euro-American colonialism. “They were in an era of much uncertainty; you didn’t know what was going to happen next,” he says.

“Over time, especially if there’s no way you’re going to stop what is happening, you come to some kind of agreement with yourself.”

Geronimo (Guiyatle) Apache / Frank A. Rinehart

As for Rinehart, sales of the images catapulted him into wealth and national prominence. He travelled with Muhr to numerous reservations, taking more than 1,200 portraits of Native Americans and building a reputation as one of America’s great chroniclers of indigenous cultures.

How much of the groundbreaking work from the Indian Congress of 1898, however, was actually his? Most historians agree that it was actually Muhr who did the work and not Rinehart with the subjects and took the actual pictures. According to the Museum of Nebraska Art, “Argument over picture copyrights eventually led to Muhr leaving Rinehart’s employ.”

Boston Public Library has more than 300 original images in its Frank A. Rinehart collection.

David J Constable is a writer, editor and CELTA-qualified teacher of English to speakers of other languages. He is also the founder of Ghost Dance. Born in Maidstone, Kent and educated in both the UK and USA, he has led a nomadic life, living in London, Kansas City, Bangkok, Lucca and now Kent on the English coast. Follow him at @davidjconstable NATIVE PEOPLES: 1898 INDIAN CONGRESS | 123

NATIVE PEOPLES

124 | NATIVE PEOPLES: 1898 INDIAN CONGRESS

NATIVE PEOPLES

NATIVE PEOPLES: 1898 INDIAN CONGRESS | 125

NATIVE PEOPLES

126 | NATIVE PEOPLES: 1898 INDIAN CONGRESS

NATIVE PEOPLES

NATIVE PEOPLES: 1898 INDIAN CONGRESS | 127

The Camping Life:

Inspiration and Ideas for Endless Adventures Brendan Leonard & Forest Woodward Packed with expert information and inspiring photography, The Camping Life is the perfect invitation to leave the noise and screens behind – if only for a single night – and reconnect with nature.

From backpacking to bikepacking, camping while white-water rafting to big wall climbing, outdoor adventurers Brendan Leonard and Forest Woodward cover it all: how to pack a backpack, how to set up a tent in the snow, how to camp with your dog, how to build a campfire, how to judge a river’s difficulty.

And, critically, how to leave no trace, while returning refreshed, recharged, and alive with new experience.

Published by Artisan - available in hardback or eBook www.workman.com

T H E G R E A T O U T D O O R S

Yosemite National Park, United States / Casey Horner

My Life Outdoors & How We Can All Do Our Bit by Yvon Chouinard Norbert Niederkofler's Wild Way of Life by David J Constable Beyond Reykjavik and the Golden Circle by Liam Collens Going Native | Review: Native, Osea Island by David J Constable Dog Walks on the Beach: the Good & the Dangerous by Paul Steele Gaucho Cattle in Cabaña Los Murmullos by Paola Miglio An Ode to Beef by Rubert Ponsonby Life Between Volcanoes And The Sea by Jamie Lafferty Conservational Foraging by Valeria Mosca

The Great Outdoors

My Life Outdoors &

Doing Our Bit for the Planet Words by Yvon Chouinard Transcribed by David J Constable Photos by Ben Baker, Jef Willemyns, Bill Fairs, Sam Beebe, Patagonia & Patagonia Provisions

Entering his ninth decade, the business pioneer shows no signs of slowing, and his fight for the planet is as relentless as ever. Here, speaking from his cabin home in Jackson, Wyoming, the charismatic adventurer, environmentalist and founder of Patagonia talks about why we should all get out more and the importance of doing our bit for the planet.

THE GREAT OUTDOORS: YVON CHOUINARD | 131

The Great Outdoors

I have climbed mountains on all seven continents. That includes Antarctica. If you can get me to the rock, I can still climb it. It was climbing that set me on this path. I saw the damage we were doing to the planet - consumerism, pollution, not recycling. Just travelling with my eyes open, I could see that we are destroying the planet. Patagonia is in a position to do something about it, so that is what we've set out to achieve. So much of who I am and what we have achieved with Patagonia goes back to mountain climbing and early lessons.

I was born in the state of Maine, which is all French-Canadian people, and I couldn't speak English until I was eight years old. Then we moved to California, and I was put into public school. Of course, I couldn't speak any English at first, plus I was the smallest guy in the school, so that meant that I got into a lot of fights, and I ended up running away from school. I learned very early that life is a lot easier if you break the rules instead of conforming. From then on, really, my life was in nature. Before the other kids had even learnt to cross the road, I took my bicycle out for miles, sneaking onto golf courses and going fishing in the lakes.

132 | THE GREAT OUTDOORS: YVON CHOUINARD

The Great Outdoors

I thrived in nature and became interested in hawks and falconry. Since I was climbing up cliffs to see these birds, I became interested in mountain climbing, too.

When I was sixteen, I drove my car out to Wyoming and started climbing mountains. I turned that passion into making climbing equipment and learnt metalwork and how to become a blacksmith. You know, if I were to describe myself, then I would call myself a craftsman and an entrepreneur. When I look at anything, I think I can make it better than that! I'm not an inventor; I'm an innovator.

So, that's what I did with the climbing gear. My company then, Sweetheart Equipment, redesigned every piece of climbing equipment from ice pitons to axes.

We used the products ourselves and were on the cutting edge of climbing equipment. Every time we used them, we'd come back and discuss how we could make it better. I'm not a businessman, though. Hey, I'm a child of the 60s. We hated politicians, and we hated business people. We were living on the fringe of society. It was very easy to do that then. It was the height of the fossil fuel age. You could buy an automobile for $15 or $20, and gasoline was 10 cents a litre. You could travel and camp for free - we were free people.

THE GREAT OUTDOORS: YVON CHOUINARD | 133

The Great Outdoors

Back then, you could get a part-time job anywhere and follow your passion. So, I'd work for six or seven months and then travel around the country for the rest of the year, climbing and making equipment. I wasn't making much money, but I was having fun and following my passion. Then, around 1970, I started making clothing.

In 1973, I started Patagonia, making clothing for climbers. It wasn't until ten years later that I finally admitted that I probably was a businessman. I'd never considered myself one, always more of a craftsman who had ideas, but in order to take the company further and do things on our own terms, I had to move forward with that.

We decided as a company that we wouldn't be like everybody else; if we invented our own game, then we'd always be a winner. If I tried to be a basketball player, I'd lose. So, we made our own game and our own rules. We started one of America's first on-site child centres at work. We made a commitment to make the best product. Not the most profitable, but the best quality - clothing and equipment.

134 | THE GREAT OUTDOORS: YVON CHOUINARD

The Great Outdoors

This is for climbing and the outdoors. If it fails, you die. I never studied fashion, but I did take the principles of industrial design, so if you have a problem, then you build something to solve that problem. I applied that to making clothing. So, If we make a bikini, for example, we can't just put it to a model and say that it looks good. We have to think about how it will move, what it needs to do, will it stay on? A bikini is a tool with fabrics that needs to move. The same for a wetsuit or mountain climbing clothing. Clothing is a tool. Our teams know this because they use the clothing, tried and tested, and then discussed how it could be bettered and improved. I woke up one day and thought about how we're causing so many of the problems with the planet ourselves. So we decided to minimise the damage we're causing but not using industrially-grown cotton and go with organic cotton. We made a commitment to cause the least amount of harm in our business, so that meant using recycled fibres, and we made a pact with our customers that when they outgrow their jacket or it

THE GREAT OUTDOORS: YVON CHOUINARD | 135

The Great Outdoors

falls apart, we'll fix it, or we'll buy it back from them and re-sell it to someone else - or, we'll take it apart and recycle every part of that jacket. That way, the jacket is owned forever. It is our responsibility to do what we can with a product and give it a new life, rather than just throwing something away. So, while I never wanted to be a businessman, I learnt that I could use the resources I had (the business) to do some good. Then we started an organisation called 1% for the Planet, which takes 1% of our sales, not our profits, and gives it to thousands of different environmental organisations worldwide. Now this organisation has, hmmm... maybe 3,000 or 5,000 members - I don't know exactly how many. This is philanthropy, and it's the cost of doing business.

A few years ago now, we decided to take all our revenue from Black Friday and give it away to environmental causes. The year before, we had done around $3 million. I don't have any investors or stockholders, so I can do whatever I want. In the afternoon on that day, someone called and said that our sales were up to $6 million. Later that day, $10 million. We only advertised on social media three days before. Woah, that's a lot of money. Surely our sales would die after Black Friday, I thought. I discovered that 60% of the sales were from new customers, people who had never bought from Patagonia before. A 30-second ad on the Superbowl would have cost us $5 million, and we would never have received the customers we did that day. Sales followed right through, past Christmas, and they've continued ever since.

Doing the right thing makes you more money. No for everyone, but for us, it did.

THE GREAT OUTDOORS: YVON CHOUINARD | 137

The Great Outdoors

When we started, people weren't aware of the impact human beings were having on the planet.

They didn't realise that when you buy a pair of no-iron paints, they're that way because toxic chemicals are used with the cotton to make them that way. We had to educate ourselves and then our customers, and they slowly came around. But you know, we didn't care if we lost business or not. It was a matter of doing the right thing. In the end, I found that every time we made a decision that was better for the planet, we actually made more money - how about that!

We looked beyond the production of clothing towards other methods. We changed our mission statement, focusing on saving our home planet. So what does that mean for us? Well, we actually needed to live that mission statement? We came up with four ways that we could help save the planet.

Number one was to use organic cotton because it does less harm than industrial cotton and wool. Beyond that, it must be regenerative, meaning that it's cotton that's grown in a way that builds soil. The United Nations tells us that we have 40 full harvests left in the world. That's 40 years left of topsoil and even fewer years for water. Using regenerative organic, you actually build the topsoil by hand, done on a small scale and therefore employing farmers. We started in India with 150 farmers who grew regenerative cotton. The next year, we had 650 farmers.

Now we have over 1,000. The first product from this came out last year, and they're the shorts that my daughter put the label in, reading 'Vote the a**holes out!' They were a big success and sold out in two weeks, of course.

Yvon Chouinard / Jeff Johnson

THE GREAT OUTDOORS: YVON CHOUINARD | 139

The Great Outdoors

Secondly, we got rid of the evil government we had. Thirdly, we have to support organisations that are helping to educate third-world women and countries because an educated woman will choose to have fewer children. And fourthly, we have to save large wild areas of what's left on the planet. These areas capture carbon and make oxygen. They're the four parts of our mission statement that we're working on. But, you know, food is actually my big interest right now.

We're going to need 50% more food by 2050. That's only 30 years from now. And we're not going to have any topsoil or water. So what are we going to do? Answering that question is a big interest of mine.

I've always been interested in food, learning how to cook from my parents. Patagonia has now started Patagonia Provisions. Our goals are the same as with everything we do - we aim to make the best product, cause no unnecessary harm, and, most importantly, inspire solutions to the environmental crisis. There are about 120 products now that are either organically grown, regeneratively grown or are on the way to being certified regeneratively-organically grown.

Our marketing story informs and tells people why they should be eating those foods. Every item clearly states on the packaging where the food is sourced from, so the 100% grass-fed buffalo jerky comes from Wild Idea Buffalo in the Midwest. The wild sockeye salmon comes from sustainable salmon runs in the Pacific Northwest. The number one product right now is actually canned mussels from Spain. We did one million cans of mussels last year! The muscle is the perfect product - it's grown without you feeding it; you just put some rope in water, and

140 | THE GREAT OUTDOORS: YVON CHOUINARD

The Great Outdoors

they filter-feed. They clean the water, and you can just leave them alone. That's as sustainable as is possible. We're also doing sardines and anchovies, mullet, mackerel and all fish that don't eat other fish; they eat plankton and algae. It's both sustainable and much healthier.

A study in the 1930s looked at animals, what they ate, and what they choose to eat when they're sick. When a dog is sick, it goes out and eats grass because it knows that it's the right thing to do.

Wild animals know intrinsically what it is they should be eating. Humans have lost that. From a very early age, humans are fed what they are told - sugar and canned baby food - and they become addicts to this stuff. This study in the 1930s was in Canada, and they took some orphan children and fed them milk from a young age and then, when they were ready for solid foods, they dressed a table with all kinds of different foods, and then let the children eat. The children knew what they wanted to eat and what they needed to eat. In fact, there was one child who would drink cod liver oil, and they later found out that he had a vitamin deficiency, so he was going for what his body knew that it needed. In West Virginia, in the Appalachian Mountains, women who are close to nature will eat clay when pregnant. Yeah, clay! They know that they need the minerals from clay. When you lead a life close to nature, you know intrinsically what you should be eating. We've lost that in modern society, and we're eating junk food and not getting the minerals and nutrients our body needs. And now we have all of these modern diseases, like diabetes and other inflammatory diseases.

THE GREAT OUTDOORS: YVON CHOUINARD | 141

The Great Outdoors

We own a buffalo farm in South Dakota, and the animals have a choice of eating over 300 different types of plants. And that meat is so much more nutritious than eating beef, where the cow eats nothing but hay all winter long or is in a pasture with only three of four things to eat. Compare that cow with a cow in the Alpine meadow, which has, maybe, 50 different things to eat. One of my favourite quotes is, you are what you eat, eats. You see, so when you're eating beef that only eats hay, you're eating hay.

We've tested our buffalo with other buffalo sent to the feed-lot, and there's no comparison for the nutrients - vitamins, potassium, etc. There's something like 26,000 micro-nutrients. You know why? Because nature made it that way. Nature isn't stupid.

This is really important stuff. It's also really exciting stuff! I wish I were a scientist, but I'm not. I'd love to be studying things like this more. Look at the difference in wine; for example, if you try to make wine from table grapes in Califonia - they're Cabernet Sauvignon grapes - it's terrible. They sell the grapes for

The Great Outdoors

$800 a tonne, but 200 miles north, the Cabernet Sauvignon grapes make as much as $30,000 a tonne. So, what's the difference? It's the terroir, the weather, the length of the vine; it's how it's grown; a struggling plant will put out more nutrients than one that isn't tested. The vineyards in the Napa Valley put these lie detectors on the plants, like the FBI or something, to tell when it's struggling to grow. Struggling is good, but not too much. Here in Wyoming, we pick wild blueberries, but this was a terrible year for them because it has been so wet - plants have egos! Ah, I don't have to produce any blueberries, but I'll put all my energy into my leaves and growing, says the blueberry bush. The opposite behaviour occurs when there's a drought, and the blueberry bush produces tonnes of berries. Oh, I might die, so I want as many children as I can have! You see, the blueberry bush has an ego. It's really amazing when you learn this stuff, and you start to understand the behaviours and what is going on with plants. We all must begin to learn, to teach and educate ourselves, and live more naturally. I see this as a tremendous opportunity.

The Great Outdoors

Now, there's Covid, and our health is more important than ever. Surely there's a message there? When I was born, there were 5oo million people on the planet, and now there is close to eight billion. A few years ago, it was concluded that if we carry on consuming at the rate we are, then the earth is sustainable for about 2.5 billion people. Last year, studies showed that that figure is now down to 1.5 billion. So what can I do using my business as a catalyst for change? I'm going to try and sell as few clothes as possible. Yep, I'm going into the rental business. If you ski one week a year, why should you buy an expensive jacket and pants? Why not rent for that one week? That's the way we're looking at things now as a company renting, repairing and recycling. I may have a smaller company five years from now, but I honestly don't care; I never wanted a company anyway!

For over 80 years, Yvon Chouinard has followed this own advice, pursuing, with equal fervour, sports adventures, business excellence and environmental activism. A keen climber, notable ascents include Mount Edith Cavell's North Face, El Capitan's North American Wall (using no fixed ropes) and Cerro Fitzroy's Southwest Ridge, aka California Route. He is the author of half-a-dozen books, including "The Responsible Company: What We've Learned From Patagonia's First 40 Years" and the best-selling "Let My People Go Surfing: The Education of a Reluctant Businessman." In 2018, he was awarded the Sierra Club's top award, the John Muir Award, for Patagonia's awareness and environmental responsibility.

Learn

more

at

www.patagonia.com

www.patagonia.com/why-food/

Yvon Chouinard / Patagonia

144 | THE GREAT OUTDOORS: YVON CHOUINARD

and

Patagonia

Provisions

at

N O R B E R T

N I E D E R K O F L E R ' S

W I L D Words by David J Constable

W A Y

O F

L I F E

Photography by Alex Moling, Paolo Riolzi & Daniel Töchterle

In Norbert’s kitchen, there is no olive oil. No tomatoes. No lemons. No foie gras. Nothing from France or Spain. No New Zealand lamb. No British strawberries. To go from foraging in a land that spends a lot of the year frozen and dark to his current position on top of the international culinary world is an impressive leap. Three Michelin-stars is always impressive, but when the chef chooses not to import

and

instead

restrict

the

offering

of

ingredients, that’s incredible.

With patience and a nagging persistence – and years of trial-and-error testing – Norbert has made high gastronomy in a place not known for it. South Tyrol has a very particular diet: krapfen and rollen, canederli, strudel and a lot of polenta; it’s hearty, warming, stodge-tastic mountain grub. Norbert’s focus, however, emphasises the glories of Alpine traditions, its produce and old recipes, modernised.

He has two restaurants: the first and most lauded is the three Michelin-starred St. Hubertus at Hotel Rosa Alpina in San Cassiano; and the second – 2,275 metres up – is the impressive glass structure called AlpiNN Food Space and Restaurant, a collaboration with business partner Paolo Ferretti, and a building

mutton, fungus, fermented things, sharp

which hangs from the side of a mountain in

things, unripe things. He has deemed

Kronplatz. The differences between the two are

this approach “Cook the Mountain” and

evident, but the approach always the same –

published a book under the same title

support and promote the region, the countryside,

last year; entirely printed on apple paper

the mountain, chomping on weeds, berries, eel,

– 100% eco-friendly material.

THE GREAT OUTDOORS: NORBERT NIEDERKOFLER | 145

The Great Outdoors

“Mountain Boy” Born in Luttach, a small mountain village in the heart of the Dolomites, Norbert was always a mountain boy. He hiked, skied and snowboarded as a youngster, picking wild berries and fishing freshwater fish. To this day, he remains happiest outside, surrounded by nature. Talking to me from AlpiNN, he tells me that he knew how lucky he was from an early age and how important the preservation of local culture and these mountain traditions were. Such youthful experiences instilled in him a fierce love for the region, and after several years working in kitchens across the world – training in Tegernsee to Munich (under the guidance of Austrian chef Eckart Witzigmann) to London, Zurich, Milan, Cleveland and New York – a desire to return home set in.

Back in South Tyrol, Norbert went about digging deeper into his heritage and uncovering the wonders of mountain life and its cuisine. He began work at Castel Colz in La Villa before he was presented with the opportunity by the hotelier Paul Pizzinini to run the kitchen at Hotel Rosa Alpina. The restaurant then was a simple pizzeria, but Norbert had grander ambitions and set about turning it into a fine-dining destination.

In his own words, “I wanted to make the Dolomites culinary famous.”

The Great Outdoors

“On top of the mountains, you’re closer to the stars” To illustrate his passion, he created Chef’s Cup in January 2003, inviting chefs from across the world to South Tyrol to cook on the mountain. The first year consisted of 50 chefs from Italy, and by the last event in 2015, there were over 1,500 chefs and journalists in attendance from around the world. Shortly before, in 2000, St. Hubertus was awarded its first Michelin star, achieving a second in 2007. By 2008, he began looking to relaunch the event, working with local producers to build-up the supply chain. A new concept was conceived, and in 2014, Cook the Mountain was launched. He invited like-minded chefs to St. Hubertus, such as Virgilio Martínez, Rodolfo Guzmán, Josean Alija, Ana Roš, Alfio Ghezzi, Giancarlo Morelli and others who shared his vision and cooked according to their own traditions and culture. The third-star followed in 2017.

Last year, St. Hubertus was awarded the Michelin Green Star, a new distinction launched to reward the efforts of those operating at the forefront of their field within sustainable gastronomy practices.

The star is awarded to restaurants that play a role in bringing their vision to the world by preserving natural resources, protecting ecological diversity and implementing sustainable gastronomy to call for the application of local food ingredients and reduce food waste. Norbert certainly fits the profile, but perhaps not enough credit is given to the bravery required to forgo all importation of international luxe ingredients, particularly in such a high profile ski-resort such as San Cassiano and the Dolomites. It’s different if you’re on the coast or in a region with a fixed, four-season cycle – you can plant and plan. In the mountains of northern Europe, however, the approach must be considered.

It was the memories of childhood that helped me,” says Norbert. “I grew up without a supermarket on the corner. Despite this, there was always plenty of food on the table – even in winter. So I had to set up my own supermarket, my pantry, which would see me through the lean months.” I ask if this was the foundations of “Cook the Mountain” and if it can all be attributed to childhood lessons.

“Absolutely!

Except these old techniques had to be dusted down and applied again. In theory, I was getting close to my aim, but in practice, I was clueless. Cook the Mountain meant that I could break things down, then address these points to achieve results…

1. Understand the mountain is a resource; 2. A new relationship between cuisine and the mountain; 3.

Exchange of experiences, thoughts and emotions; 4. Local traditions and biodiversity; 5. A new lifestyle; 6. A new concept of mountain gastronomy.”

Expanding on these points, I consulted the Cook the Mountain book which elaborates as follows:

THE GREAT OUTDOORS: NORBERT NIEDERKOFLER | 149

The Great Outdoors

Cook the Mountain...

1. … is a broad-based gastronomy research lab exploring the values that, on a global level, culturally and socially unite people who see the mountain as a resource, passion, challenge and heritage worthy of protection.

2. … is a network that stimulates exchange between sociologists, naturalists, mountaineers, farmers, breeders, cooks, entrepreneurs and artists, promoting a new approach that combines ethics, conviviality, environmental sustainability and regional development.

3. … is an exchange of experiences, thoughts and emotions, aimed at rediscovering local roots as a necessary basis for a new way of thinking about economic-social development, exploring various aspects of the interconnection between production, produce, the local area and consumption.

The Great Outdoors

4. … bestows cultural dignity on local traditions and biodiversity, conferring value to the “lowly”, “simple”, “pure”, and “wholesome”, starting with the choice of raw materials.

5. … assigns the unique role of “catalyst of cultural processes” to cooking, encouraging a new model of sustainable development, and the special role of “emotional educator” to the cook, promoting a new lifestyle.”

6. … sees the development of a new concept of mountain gastronomy as an opportunity that must not be missed to create a more beautiful, cleaner and equitable world.

The Great Outdoors

“We plan the goal, nature decides the way” A defined six-prong approach helps clarify Norbert and his team’s perspective. However, he is keen to stress, “Cook the Mountain is more than a concept – it is a way of looking at life.” I’ve experienced this for myself during several visits to South Tyrol, where I’ve spent time with the region’s farmers and producers, seeing for myself the cattle and Tyrolean sheep, the exquisite enrosadira glow that happens at sunrise and sunset when the dolomitic limestone is bathed in rose-pink hues. I have also eaten at St. Hubertus and AlpiNN, where nothing is imported. Both kitchens operate a strict policy of seasonal, fresh, hyper-local application, resulting in brave and wild experimentation.

A particular highlight I recall from dinner at St. Hubertus last year involved lightly sautéing eel carcasses on a charcoal grill, then smoking them with pine bark before turning them into a rich, velvety broth – the fillets meanwhile are chargrilled until crispy then skewered on birch twigs.

Another dish is bizarrely titled “Tomato?” and is a proper head-scratcher given that tomatoes don’t grow this far north. When I tentatively raise this to St. Hubertus’ sous chef, Michele Lazzarini, he describes how upon receiving 300 kilos of mountain plums, he decided to freeze 200 kilos and ferment the rest – two per cent salt for one kilo of fruit. After a week of fermenting, he built up the courage to try them.

THE GREAT OUTDOORS: NORBERT NIEDERKOFLER | 153

The Great Outdoors

Michele was amazed to discover that the plums had taken on the acidity of tomatoes, perfect for tomato sauce all’italiana. “It’s one of the treasures of the cellar,” Michele says, “we have so many things fermenting, pickling, preserving, drying.” It’s the success of trialand-error once more, of Norbert’s nagged persistence to keep going. “While the world looks to the future, Cook the Mountain looks to the past,” he says. “It’s not the new that is tempting, but the tried-and-tested. I am charting new courses on old paths, tracking down the harmony of nature and taste. We operate a strict, seasonal to-do list, having learnt what to pick and when. It’s a labour-intensive harvest involving cooking, pulverising, drying and keeping round-the-clock records. Autumn is the most challenging because the pantry must be stocked for the winter. If not, then the kitchen stoves will stay cold until spring. Although winter is pretty harsh, too. Nature takes a break, and the Cook the Mountain supermarket remains closed.”

Much of this wild application means spending time outdoors in the mountains and valleys of Norbert’s youth. Here he met with farmers, foragers and producers and, in forming relationships and friendships, cut out the middleman when it came to the procurement of ingredients. “I wanted and needed to explore the mystery that was the mountains,” he says. “These mountain characters have become great friends – Jakob the butcher, Michael the cheesemaker, Valeria the forager, Florian the shepherd, Noris the herb gatherer, Harald and Valentin the farmers, Andrea the fisherman, Claudio and Francesco the mushroom experts, Christian the potter and ceramicist, Hubert the master cheesemaker, Peter the Chairman of Wippland and Michael the hunter.”

David J Constable is a writer, editor and CELTA-qualified teacher of English to speakers of other languages. He is also the founder of Ghost Dance. Born in Maidstone, Kent and educated in both the UK and USA, he had led a nomadic life, living in London, Kansas City, Bangkok, Lucca and now Kent on the English coast. Follow him at @davidjconstable

151 The Great Outdoors | Norbert Niederkofler

HUGO EXPLORE IS AN APP THAT TURNS FAMILY WALKS INTO AN INTERACTIVE IMMERSIVE ADVENTURE .

EXPLORE

WWW HUGOEXPLORE COM .

.

Beyond Reykjavik and the Golden Circle

Words & Photos by Liam Collens

Everything I heard about Iceland was true, except that it’s so much better. For an authentic taste of this unique country, however, you must venture beyond Reykjavik.

While millions of tourists flock to the capital in search of a raucous nightlife in a remarkably cosmopolitan city, the country’s crowning glories lie further afield and out into the country’s interior.

I left Reykjavik and travelled towards the nearby Golden Circle, searching for Iceland’s natural beauty. Here I discovered lush green fields that appeared to extend for miles. I weaved through narrow country lanes, brightened by white flowers and glimpses of horses grazing in fields – there are many wild horses here. Arriving at the Golden Circle an hour later, I’m rewarded with brilliant waterfalls, huge volcanic craters and geysers.

The plateau of the land here is characterised by sand and lava fields, great mountains and beautiful glaciers. Iceland spoils you with dramatic scenes and boundless soft beauty.

156 | THE GREAT OUTDOORS: BEYOND REYKJAVIK

The Golden Circle is saturated with charming, quaint and decidedly local features you will not find outside the area, let alone Iceland. Minutes away from the small town of Selfoss, Ölvisholt is a microbrewery founded by two adjacent farmers passionate about beer. The brewery lies at the Five Million Star Hotel’s foothills, a glamping igloo lodge buried within Iceland’s mature forest that’s laced with the scent of pine. The trick here is to do nothing, simply enjoy the great outdoors and expanse of the country – let nature seep into you. I perched on the edge of a honeyed Chesterfield inside the hotel, enveloped in marshmallow-soft bedding and looking out across a wild, desolate scene from the warmth of the igloo. A panoramic view uninterrupted; great, ancient trees swaying in the deafening sound of silence.

THE GREAT OUTDOORS: BEYOND REYKJAVIK | 157

The Great Outdoors

Another popular attraction is Gullfoss, a striking waterfall that translates to “Golden Waterfall” in English and that’s located in the canyon of the Hvítá river in the southwest of the country. The crevice, about 20 metres (66 feet) wide and 2.5 kilometres (1.6 miles) in length, extends perpendicular to the flow of the river. It’s a sight to behold. The running, gushing water. The cacophonous noise of it, like a pummel that rings in my ears. The average amount of water running down the waterfall is 141 cubic metres per second but, because of the cold and the ice, it decreases to 80 cubic metres per second in the winter.

For those seeking something warmer and more holiday-friendly, Flúðir is a small village in the Hrunamannahreppur municipality in the south. The area is known for its geothermal greenhouses that grow the majority of the country’s mushrooms and is a popular getaway for Reykjavikers. If gardening is your thing and you consider yourself a bit of a green-fingers, then there’s a greenhouse restaurant in there called Friðheimar where you dine among sunflowers, gnarly tomato vines and inquisitive Dutch bees. This wasn't the best meal I ate, but the delicious, pillowy-herbed bread and tomato beer draw a crowd. Also, when was the last time you ate at a tomato farm? In case you were wondering, the best meal was at Matur og Drykkur, a Michelin Plate restaurant in Reykjavík. The sublime tasting menu harnesses local, seasonal ingredients. To begin, there was halibut soup with mussels, green apple and raisins.

A dramatic main course followed - a

decapitated cod’s head glazed in chicken and berry glacé. Dessert was arctic thyme and rhubarb crumble. Before leaving the Golden Circle, you must take advantage of Iceland’s geothermal activity. The Secret Lagoon allows visitors to dip inside a hot spring far less crowded than the huddled throngs at the Blue Lagoon near Reykjavik.

The Great Outdoors

The Icelandic countryside’s real limitless majesty lies east along the Southern Road passed Iceland’s Golden Circle towards Jökulsárlón. The open road reveals a feral landscape unconstrained by man. A sea of moss-carpeted rubble stretches towards soaring snowcapped mountains, with fiery sheep sorrel burning autumnal hues; violently scarred valleys and stained soot with volcanic sand carried by rivers of melted glacial water. There are moments when I am alone in this breathtaking place with only sheep and cows for company. My five-hour journey becomes eight, but the journey is the purpose, after all, not the destination. I stop at one of Iceland’s 10,000 waterfalls or foss, as they are known.

Seljalandsfoss skirts the Southern Icelandic highway appearing modest at first, but its true grandeur unfolds as I get closer. Carefully walking over slippery stones and rocks becomes increasingly difficult, the rugged carpet drenched with the spray of Eyjafjallajökull’s

glacial

water

before

joining

the

meandering

Seljalands

River.

Seljalandsfoss allows visitors the unique perspective of standing behind the waterfall, looking through the glassy waterfall, thunderously pounding the ground below.

I arrive at my destination outside Hof, nestled in the foothills of Vatnajökull, Europe’s largest glacier. Morning views are obscured behind a thick, sticky mist that eventually lifts, revealing a chartreuse terrain. Vatnajökull’s glacial water creates Norafoss leading to slender rivers, snaking through hillsides and farmlands studded with derelict barns and torfbaeir, the famous Icelandic turf roof houses – a relic of Viking architecture. Vatnajökull and its glacial lagoon, Jökulsárlón, are natural spectacles. A speed boat tour across the siltsteeped lagoon brings visitors within feet of imposing cerulean icebergs puncturing the ash-tinted water. I board a boat and we zip across the choppy waters creating a biting sea spray. This is very much a white-knuckle ride towards the Vatnajökull boundary.

THE GREAT OUTDOORS: BEYOND REYKJAVIK | 159

The Great Outdoors

Glacial boulders tumble from Vatnajökull’s serrated edge, crashing into the lagoon and emerging as icebergs. I climbed the glacier, but it was during the speed boat tour that Vatnajökull’s magnificence is laid bare. This marvellous natural wonder is quickly melting under the dark hand of global warming, and while throngs of tourists visit the glacier, I cannot help but wonder for how much longer it will be there to enjoy? There is something prophetic about witnessing the marvel of Vatnajökull’s mortality crumble before my eyes.

Wielding an ice pick while teetering in crampons, the ceiling of Vatnajökull stands out as the enduring memory of my Icelandic adventure. The nearly three-hour hike demands a steely nerve as debris from Vatnajökull’s peak occasionally tumbles towards me. Crevices emerge large enough to trap. There is also the small matter of Vatnajökull covering a volcano long overdue an eruption. Still, little compares to the view looking out across Southern Iceland’s rolling landscape, across the Northern Atlantic Ocean.

Iceland’s Ring Road allows you to circle the countryside in about ten days. My experience is less is more and quality over quantity. Reykjavik’s stretch towards Vatnajökull along the Southern Icelandic Circle features the country's best sights, from Instafamous abandoned aeroplanes to the Black Diamond Beach as well as little known traditional farm towns like Hruni. I regularly plan my return to Iceland in my mind – renting a car from Keklavík Airport, skipping Reykjavik and striking out into the countryside for the Northern Lights and nature trails, spending time with Iceland’s charming people. I know that I'll return soon, I've promised myself.

Liam Collens is an in-house solicitor for a consumer goods company in Dubai, United Arab Emirates. He was born in Trinidad and Tobago and writes a food and travel blog called EatGoSee. You can follow him on Instagram and other social media channels at @eatgosee

THE GREAT OUTDOORS: BEYOND REYKJAVIK | 161

GOING NATIVE Osea Island

Relocating from London to Essex is one thing, relocating from the mainland to an isolated island is quite another.

So what's it like being the only restaurant on Osea Island, way, way out where the wild things grow?

Words by David J Constable Photos by Billy Downes

THE GREAT OUTDOORS: GOING NATIVE | 163

The Great Outdoors

A route beginning at Liverpool Street in London takes me quickly into Essex and to Witham train station. From there, a taxi to Daisy Meadows car park on the water’s edge, within the Heybridge Basin. The island is not signposted, and there’s a moment of hesitation in the car park: do I turn left or right (the answer is left), past the Old Ship and The Jolly Sailor to a small jetty, from which the restaurant has enlisted the services of local sea-dog, Clint*, to take guests across the Blackwater estuary, and to Native.

After fifteen minutes or so, the boat bends across the Essex coast, and a figure on the shore soon reveals itself as Imogen Davis, Native’s co-founder, waving us in. Clint moors and fixes a small ladder to the bow for guests and nervy seafarers to disembark. We step onto the shingle, the flat land sliding away into the muddy channel. I have long harboured absurdly idealised views of the countryside, looking forward to the day I can leave the smog-clogged city behind, working in wild (wifi-ed) abandonment. Still, an isolated island such as this is something altogether different. Osea Island is indeed wild.

It’s bleak and flat, lacking the hills and undulations of larger islands like Anglesey and the Isle of Wight.

We’re led around the Manor House side and along a muddy trail cutting through hawthorn and brambles. We pass a tennis court into an emerging allotment, garden canes dotting the turf and a makeshift larder of wild ingredients. Mushrooms sprout from the peat bog, and fallen apples and pears decay in the mud. Chickens run and cluck, happily. From here, it’s only moments to the restaurant building, a converted World War I torpedo store brought to life and light by tea lights.

The Great Outdoors

We kick-off, however, outside, around an active firepit over which a Kadai pot hangs and something inside bubbles. Copper flasks containing a pheasant broth are handed around.

The carcasses are roasted with onions, garlic, carrots, fennel and coriander seeds, plus a little white wine, then cooked overnight, strained and simmered before seaweed and smoke-dried eel is added. The stock is seasoned and served with sea lettuce, herb oil and a little shredded pheasant leg. The steaming mug is a metaphorical hug on a late-winter evening, the sun having set to create an orange-hue that bleed across the waters. The island has a sustainable source of pheasant, chickens too. Chef and co-owner Ivan TisdallDownes informs me that, come February, he plans to introduce fawn and saltmarsh deer to the island. A glass of sparkling Nyetimber is served to accompany, the restaurant having partnered with the much-lauded English Sparkling Wine supplier.

From the outside crackling conflagration, we are led into the restaurant proper. A large setup and plating area is unveiled where staff await to greet guests. Everything is smiley and courteous. To the right, the kitchen is semi-visible through a bricked window. To the left, the dining room is adorned with island flora − springs of spruce, scented lavender, eucalyptus and bunched bladderwrack (a brown seaweed) − decorated by Imogen’s mother.

The Great Outdoors

The menu is a set 12-course, with seasonal twists that remind you of your island location, the first three of which form part of the snacks and aperitifs outside. There’s the pheasant broth and a bulky Mersea oyster with a dash of Nyetimber fizz, followed by a light and airy bombolone doughnut filled with chicken parfait − so light, in fact, I could have eaten several more. A simultaneity of food and context. Other menu items might be familiar to those who have eaten at either one or both of Natives previous locations – in Neal’s Yard, Covent Garden and on Southwark Street, London Bridge – like the green apple jelly and the much ‘Grammed’ Marrowel, made with bone marrow, white chocolate and shortbread. However, there’s no sign of the fermented potato waffle with duck liver parfait or the once signature pigeon kebab.

Instead, this is a more off-hand menu, continually evolving and dictated by the tides. So expect a lot of adaptation, leaning on the island’s abundance of oysters, mushrooms, seaweed, apples and an assortment of wild berries.

It’s a shift from mainland sourcing for Ivan and his kitchen, who forage daily, turning to the land and sea – “a salt and soil approach,” he tells me – picking, plucking, pulling, wading the waters and even diving for ingredients. Ivan, though, remains faithful to his calling. His approach has always been hyper-localised, sourcing wild food and establishing the necessary relationships with farmers and fishermen. In addition, he and Imogen have installed an already bountiful series of allotments, planting carrots, leeks, squash and chard, revelling in the return of the island’s salty soil. Imogen informs me that they are close to installing poly-tunnels and creating a foraged seed bank to preserve and cultivate some of the islands’ wild plants.

Having trained under Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall and Gelf Anderson at River Cottage, Ivan is all too familiar with sourcing the land for produce and inspiration. “Because of where we are, our food has a sense of time and place,” he says. “The diner can feel the link from nature to plate, and making that connection is so important for us.”

This

uncompromising

commitment

to

seasonal, ethically produced food has stood him in good stead, and what better philosophy for such a project; moving with the seasons and the tide. “It’s all about the tide,” says Ivan.

Staff travel to the island on Wednesday and stay until Sunday morning. This has created a tight-knit group, "like family," Ivan says. "We spend the day planting, hunting, foraging and exploring the shoreline – the estuary is the lifeblood of the area.”

My second course is a beautifully poached halibut from the estuary, with a miso caramel mussel broth and sea purslane, followed by a crescent curl of squash, dotted with foraged weeds and seeds. Then, an old favourite from the Southwark Street location: fish trim toast with English linseed and Bramley apple gel.

Ivan uses leftover fish – halibut in this case – to elevate the classic prawn toast, a dish promoting their zero waste and sustainability philosophy.

It’s

simultaneously

soft

and

crunchy, fishy in all the right ways. The apple gel giving a needed acidic hit that cuts through the crisp toast and the sweetness of the fish.

Saltmarsh lamb from nearby, communityowned Lauriston Farm is plump and pink served with sea beet and a tempura Malden oyster. There’s an entire course dedicated to more pheasant; a trio of pheasant dishes arriving

together:

pheasant

and

duck

fat

sausage encased within a deboned chicken wing,

glazed

in

waste

coffee

kombucha;

pheasant custard with mushroom compote and a terrific pheasant skin granola; and buttermilk pheasant thigh brushed with a hot sauce and pickle brine gel. It’s all brilliant. Everything stems from the terroir, from the locality, a sense of place on a plate.

168 | THE GREAT OUTDOORS: GOING NATIVE

S U MThe M EGreat R E SOutdoors CAPADES

Puddings include foraged sea buckthorn gathered from the shore and wild berries plucked from the fields – paired with Kingston Black apple liqueur, a blend of Cider Brandy and vintage cider apples – plus the aforementioned Marrowel, one of the greatest ever desserts. There’s an excellent range of organic, biodynamic and low-intervention wines, all manner of funky plonks by the glass, including picks from the Côtes du Rhône and a terrific Xarel-lo Vermell with lowskin contact that produces a soft yellow-orange wine with notes of white fruits and strawberry.

Leaving reminds you of exactly where you are. Night encompasses more out here, a bruising purple for 360-degrees, the silhouettes of people outside highlighted by the flaming ribbons of a bonfire. There is more than a touch of the Nordic night about it, a crackling warmth out of the darkness, and food without the finicky fuss and pretension of those boring mainland restaurants. But wait, the tide is low, and there is no boat waiting; no Clint in his chariot to whisk me back to the jetty. Instead, an ancient Roman causeway is revealed as the water recedes. A kitchen team member drives me and a couple back to the train station, across the bumpy, muddy terrain and eventually off the island. I depart happy and full of the spirit of adventure.

The tasting menu starts from £75; from £95, including taxi and boat transfers from Heybridge Basin. *Native have since obtained their own boat to take guests from the mainland to the island David J Constable is a writer, editor and CELTA-qualified teacher of English to speakers of other languages. He is also the founder of Ghost Dance. Born in Maidstone, Kent and educated in both the UK and USA, he has led a nomadic life, living in London, Kansas City, Bangkok, Lucca and now Kent on the English coast. Follow him at @davidjconstable

AMERICAN FRONTIER AFTER THE POPULARITY OF OUR FRONTIER THEMED SILK JACKET LININGS WE THOUGHT IT ONLY APPROPRIATE TO ADD SOME DESIGNS TO OUR GROWING POCKET SQUARE RANGE.

DELIVERING TIMELESS, HIGH QUALITY BRITISH STYLE Free Shipping Worldwide On Orders Over £100 ($130) www.rampleyandco.com

Words & Photos by Paul Steele

Dog Walks On The Beach: The Good and The Dangerous

THE GREAT OUTDOORS: DOG WALKS ON THE BEACH | 171

The Great Outdoors

My dog, Malc, absolutely loves being outdoors, and one of his favourite places to get out to is the beach. A time for running free, the sea to splash and run in, plus plenty of open space to stretch his legs and tire himself out.

Beaches Are Great Places Of Fun For Dogs Many dog owners will testify that a coastal walk is great for the dogs and ourselves.

Fresh air and miles of open beach, it's a great refresh that helps our mental health. Just as families head to the beach with their children to experience and play. Dog owners can take advantage of stimulating the dog's mind with the sounds, textures and nature that a walk by the sea brings. A perfect place for chasing a ball as you walk along. If you are training your dog, it is an opportunity maybe to get the long line out and do some recall training at the same time as creating extra bonding. Malc now goes crazy and excited if he sees the beach out of the car window. However, that is not to say that we should not be careful, and I have learnt recently first-hand that we should be wary of things to watch out for and how we can enjoy dog walks on the beach without injury to the dog.

The Great Outdoors

So, what is dangerous to the dogs on the beach?

Fish Hooks Yes, this is something that I shall be watching forever more closely after a recent accident with Gladys. Around so much of our coastline, the fishermen like to get out and spend their time, especially at high tide, fishing in the tide. Most are responsible, of course, but watch out. They use smaller fish heads etc., as bait on their big barbed hooks. A lot of these then become waste or litter on the beach. A dog that loves food will see and smell them long before you do, and as they eat the fish, they swallow the hook and can cause serious damage! It only takes a few seconds. Gladys was so lucky the vet immediately operated successfully- phew!

Away from hooks, you may still find washed up dead fish that are like candy to a dog.

You don’t know how rotten they are or what bacteria they have picked up.

Litter This leads on to litter on the whole, naturally. People love to have picnics on the beach, and quite rightly so. Families spending the day enjoying the sunshine and the sea. A great day out. But there is a minority of them that leave their rubbish behind, unfortunately. There is so much that we eat that is poisonous or dangerous to dogs and prevalent in packed lunches. For example, chocolate, raisins, onions, cooked bones, avocado. I shall talk more about these and other foods in an upcoming post.

Please be careful with your dog around rubbish. Some people do not think of dogs when discarding them.

The Great Outdoors

Sand Impaction Ok, my dog absolutely loves his ball. He will chase and fetch it all day long if he could. A wet ball gets absolutely covered in sand on the beach as it rolls, and inevitably he ingests some as he picks it up. I am very careful not to overdo this, and if I feel he has accidentally ingested too much, I will stop. The worst that happens then is sandy poos the next day. There is a thing called sand impaction. Imagine you get a container and keep channelling wet sand into it. It starts to compact and solidify easier, yes? Just be wary that too much sand going through the dogs digestive channel can cause blockages. This is sand impaction and should be treated by a vet if you think your dog is affected.

Palm Oil You may have seen on local news updates near beaches that there have been outbreaks of white palm oil washed up on beaches and for people, especially dog owners, to beware. It can be even more prevalent after storms. When found on the beach, it usually takes the form of white, waxy, sandy blocks and smells, perhaps of diesel. Palm oil is used in the manufacture of many things, from soaps to foods and biofuels. Big ships use it to clean their tanks and are legally allowed to dump all the waste in the sea as long as they are over 12 miles out from the coast. But we do have tides and storms, alas bringing it to shore. If a dog digests it, there could be problems, not necessarily fatal, but every case is different. In most cases, it's diarrhoea or vomiting. In some cases, the oil gets into the system and causes pancreatitis or liver problems or even pneumonia. It's important not to panic but see a vet if you remain concerned.

174 | THE GREAT OUTDOORS: DOG WALKS ON THE BEACH

The Great Outdoors

Sunburn Yes! Dogs get sunburn just like we do. They have lots of hair as a natural deep sunblock. However, dogs with short, thin hair or with bald patches need to be careful. The pink skin showing on ear tips, perhaps? Or the nose you see getting redder? Malc, my border collie, has a patch on top of his snout behind his nose that I have to watch as it is not so hairy, and I can see getting red in the sun. You can buy dog sun cream from pet supply outlets.

Hot Sand On Paws Have you ever gone barefoot on the sand in the middle of a heatwave and found it to be really too hot it feels like it is burning? If you are with your dog, in this case, remember he or she is barefoot with just their pads for protection.

Salty Water Running around on the beach can make a dog really thirsty, especially if it is a warm day. A dog’s reaction is to get some water, and at the beach, the sea or rock pools are there for the taking. When you or I drink salt water, it isn’t pleasant at all, and you know it is not right to drink. To a dog who has no freshwater available, it tries everything to quench its thirst. I would make a point of freshwater being the first thing you pack when going to the beach. Let your dog know you have the good stuff and enough of it for the weather and activity.

THE GREAT OUTDOORS: DOG WALKS ON THE BEACH | 175

In the old days, people used to give salty water to a dog to vomit after eating poison. What we know now is that you are just replacing one poison with another. The more salt a dog intakes, the more the animal’s body takes water away from the blood etc., to try and compensate, hence eventually the vomiting. Way more salt then tips the balance the wrong way and can be very dangerous.

In The Sea Dogs often love playing in the water, and the sea is a fun and exciting thing to be in. It is lovely to watch them play and tails wagging. Just be careful of strong tides, even if they are good swimmers.

If there are big waves, they are not as strong as you think at fighting against them. Plus again, litter.

You have no idea what waste is being washed up on our shores daily. It is quite frightening, to be honest, when you look into it. Oh, and watch out for those pesky jellyfish!

Conclusion Ha! I have made the beach sound like a terrible place. But of course, it is not; it is a wonderful place to escape with your dog and have the time of your lives, bonding and playing together in the great outdoors. All I say is, please be careful. And train your dog right from wrong so you can have even less worry and allow your dog to run free!

Paul Steele is the founder and editor of BaldHiker.com, a website that started life as a personal travel blog showing the walks and hikes he was taking around the world. An avid hiker, trekker and dog walker, he combines travel, adventure and photography, passions he uses to produce articles for his website. He strives to see the positive in everything. You can follow him on Twitter @paul_steele and on Instagram @baldhiker

176 | THE GREAT OUTDOORS: DOG WALKS ON THE BEACH

The Great Outdoors

Gaucho Cattle: On the plains in Cabaña Los Murmullos Words & Photos by Paola Miglio Pre-Covid, Paola travelled to Cabaña Los Murmullos in the pampas of southern Argentina, where she witnessed first-hand the gauchos' farming customs and traditions, shunning modern city living to pursue a more simple existence.

THE GREAT OUTDOORS: GAUCHO CATTLE | 177

The Great Outdoors

The first image I ever had of a gaucho was in the 1872 Martín Fierro poem by the Argentinian poet José Hernández. In the poem, Hernández tells a worker from the pampas mistreated by social justice, using the gaucho as a symbol of Argentine national tradition, pitted against corruption and Europeanising tendencies. I read the poem from a book kept on the bottom bookshelf in my parent’s house.

Y apénas el horizonte / And just the horizon Empezaba á coloriar / It began to color Los pájaros á cantar / The birds to sing Y las gallinas á apiarse, / And the chickens to have mercy Era cosa de largarse / It was a matter of leaving Cada cual á trabajar / Each one to work – Martín Fierro, José Hernández

It was an illustrated poem which I would turn to whenever the opportunity presented itself. It had a ragged cover and some annotations and freehand drawings by my father, alongside sketches by Juan C. Castagnino in earthy tones of greens and browns. I pictured the gaucho on the pampas – a lonely man dressed in a “vicuña poncho, silver-plated, boots bordered on the instep, spurs with large wheels and braided ties with 24 leather straps.” And all of the many accessories they have on their person, notably the facón (a knife, always tucked into the gaucho’s rastra (leather belt)).

THE GREAT OUTDOORS: GAUCHO CATTLE | 179

The Great Outdoors

“Tell them what you saw,” a Peruvian chef said to me, urging me to go into gory detail. “Go on, tell them how it really is down in the pampas!” I wanted to tell them everything and detail what I had seen and experienced in Cabaña Los Murmullos – the real gaucho life. It’s essential, though, to know your crowd. What I shared with the gaucho was brutal but authentic. It was a real farming life.

As a journalist and food writer, I must know my food’s journey – my steak’s origin. Many food journalists shout from the rooftops about what they are eating and how they know where that particular ingredient comes from; it’s the origin. Others take it further and will chew your ear off about where the cow was born, what it ate, how it grew up, what its hobbies were. To honestly know the farm-to-plate process, you can’t close your eyes to death. Some people prefer to talk about how it lived, skipping the part about how it died. Spending time with these gauchos, I witnessed death, pain and suffering, but also customs, cultures and traditions.

According to the food journalist and writer María de Michelis, every carnivore (and Argentine) should witness this killing ritual of the cow. The gauchos don’t turn this into a morbid act but a celebration of the animal, with music and dancing. Many will dress in their best clothes for the killing. It’s still death, still a killing act, but it’s part of something wider to them. Yes, there is marking and castration, but these things should be analysed within the framework of the history of the gaucho culture. The Angus and Hereford cattle live and feed in carefully chosen pastures, a mix of various greens and herbs, and they roam the pampas far and wide. They are never locked up or funnel-fed. They roam wild and free. These bulky bovines have a character, a personality. But you must remember, they are being kept for a reason, for one reason only.

180 | THE GREAT OUTDOORS: GAUCHO CATTLE

The Great Outdoors

The hot iron marker is stamped just above the rump for about five seconds. It’s an identity thing. It’s ownership. I saw this process up close a few times. It’s difficult to witness, and there appears to be some pain to the beasts, then they enter a sort of trance. Livestock has long been branded, going back to ancient times and to the Egyptians around 2,700 BCE. Among the ancient Romans, the symbols used for brands were sometimes chosen as part of a magic spell to protect animals from harm. These European customs were imported to the Americas. They were further refined by the vaqero tradition – a horse-mounted livestock herder – in what today is the southwestern United States and northern Mexico, spreading across the Argentine pampas, Uruguay and southern Brazil.

“It’s a tradition for a reason,” explains Pablo Rivero from the Don Julio restaurant in Buenos Aires. He is with me in Cabaña Los Murmullos and introduces me to the gauchos and their families. “The branding, the feeding, the killing is all part of the culture, what has been passed down over the years. The cattle feed and means of killing are part of the process because it is necessary to generate the hormones that transform the meat and, therefore, the overall taste.

For the gaucho, this is a great responsibility.” The first day finishes with a traditional gaucho barbecue, called a quincho or asado al palo. Beef and lamb are served, huge hunks of sweet meat and an unusual section of the intestine between the chunchulín (small intestine) and the rectum.

I ate it cautiously and immediately wanted more. Then, tender sweetbreads and the chorizo sausage cured and smoked. More and more meat arrives, the offal too. Nothing is wasted.

Homage to the animal is paid, our respect is given.

With their free and wild living, the cows move happily. Along with this exercise, the feed helps them fatten, resulting in tasty and tender meat. All of the animal and used. Nothing is wasted.

THE GREAT OUTDOORS: GAUCHO CATTLE | 181

The Great Outdoors

The animal is honoured, respected and celebrated. As well as being an expert horse rider, outdoorsman and hunter, the gaucho is a skilled butcher too and knows exactly how to carve the beast and how to cook as well. I saw this for myself, watching as they took their knives and sliced and diced in all the right places, moving in precise, sweeping movements. There’s mostly a diet of beef, maté and wine, so they have practice and experience with butchering.

I listened to María de Michelis, a journalist and psychoanalyst, speak at an academic conference. She talked about meat-eaters and their responsibility, comparing vegetables with meat and how certain farming practices and traditions are based on culture and respect. In contrast, others have been commercialised, and animals butchered without regard. She’s earnest in her explanations, talking about what she saw at the Pacha Fair in Lima a few years ago. Then she asks the audience, “What is more barbarous: the cattle that are marked and castrated for commercial purposes, their meat to be sold and consumed but traceable; or the chicken that is raised in an absolutely obscene way with antibiotics, and is genetically transformed?” I understand her point. Both are living animals, kept and fed by farmers, then killed for sale and consumption. The gaucho life is about respecting the animal, celebrating the animal, using the animal to provide and sustain a family. The cattle are not fed poison or poorly treated. There’s is not an existence of industrial production.

Listening to María takes me back to the pampas. Having visited the gauchos and spent time with them, learning about the customs and traditions, I have a very different outlook from many people. I saw the calves’ marking, dehorning, castration and everything that goes with the profession of livestock production for the gauchos.

THE GREAT OUTDOORS: GAUCHO CATTLE | 183

Pablo says, “the farming style and techniques for the gauchos is a tradition for a reason,” and this comment stays with me.

He knows the gaucho ways and their customs; it’s why he uses them to source his meat for his restaurant in Buenos Aires.

“For the people of the city, the countryside and the life of the gaucho is all part of a folkloric act, something that's difficult for them to picture,” he says. “Those people out in the countryside, especially in the southern parts of Argentina, the farms and the cattle is still very much part of their daily lives, and therefore, part of their identity,” he says.

Paola Miglio is a Lima-born and based journalist. She studied Linguistics & Literature and became a freelance writer specialising in travel, gastronomy and culture. She co-edited the book "Peru: El Gusto es Nuestro", exploring the history of Peruvian gastronomy and was the restaurant critic for the Peruvian newspaper Comercio until the Covid pandemic. She is now the editor and a partner of www.eltrinche.com.

You can follow her on Instagram @paola.miglio

182 | The Great Outdoors: Gaucho Cattle

An Ode to Beef I love you cow, your rump, your tongue I love the fact that you're so well-hung I love it when you touch my lips Especially when you come with chips I love your liver, crave your heart In sausages, you play your part I love the shimmering of your skin And pinkish succulent within I love the juices in your tail That rich dark meat a Holy Grail I love your sirloin, yearn your filletWith preferably someone else to grill-it

I love you blue, or in the raw Your rippling muscles I adore And chopped up fine in steak tartare I crave for MORE, like Oliver I dream of beef, yes, fantasise Far more of cows than women's thighs But chicken, pig or boudin noir Will find no space in my boudoir

Written by Rupert Ponsonby

THE GREAT OUTDOORS: AN ODE TO BEEF | 185

The Great Outdoors

Life Between Volcanoes and the Sea Words & Photos by Jamie Lafferty The Galapagos Islands are far and remote, but Isabela Island - the largest of the Galapagos Islands - well, that's just about as far away as you can get. Jamie makes the cross-ocean journey and reports back from a far-flung place of pink flamingoes and scaly, prehistoric beasts.

South from here, there’s nothing but the vastness of the Pacific, nothing until you hit Antarctica’s Ross Ice Shelf where, for now, the ocean still freezes. Due west, you’ll find more of the same – only the mighty sea, all the way to the island of Biak, just north of Papua, more than 9,000 miles away. That’s over a quarter of the globe’s circumference, around the bluest part of the great marble.

186 | THE GREAT OUTDOORS: LIFE BETWEEN VOLCANOES AND THE SEA

The Great Outdoors

The Galapagos are remote by almost any standard, but Isabela – the largest and wildest island – is more distant still. Formed by five volcanos fused together by magma and time, it has long been said to resemble a gigantic seahorse on the map.

Bigger than the rest of the islands combined, it is approximately the same size as Northumberland, if you count areas by English counties, or 11 Arrans, if you prefer Scottish islands as a metric.

Despite this enormousness, Isabela is home to around just 3,000 souls, though when I visit, the number is likely lower, people having moved to more populated areas for work or better healthcare during the pandemic.

I’m not quite the only tourist on the island, but we are a rare breed, odd enough to have some locals stare, amazed and possibly relieved that some interest in their island had been revived. Even if I had the Spanish to adequately explain to these people that I am no great white hope, I’m not sure it’d have the heart to tell them.

THE GREAT OUTDOORS: LIFE BETWEEN VOLCANOES AND THE SEA | 187

The Great Outdoors

Within a few hours of being in town, it’s clear that the place is deep in the grip of a Covid torpor. There’s no official curfew, but the streets are so quiet there may as well be. Many of the businesses are shuttered, while the half-formed cadavers of others – a bar, perhaps, or another guesthouse – stand unfinished and skeletal. Puerto Villamil was sold the promise of tourism, and now it’s all gone away. No one knows what will come next, and until then, few seem willing to gamble.

Consequently, finding somewhere to eat isn’t easy, and on the first night, I pay a nauseating $25 for ceviche in the only restaurant open on the main plaza. This is, of course, my fault, having fallen prey to one of the oldest tricks in the tourist town book – spotting other foreigners being used as window dressing, I believed their presence was a ringing endorsement for the safety or quality of the establishment. What an idiotic boob.

The following night, I walk the dark, dusty road into town with fists clenched, determined not to get ripped off again. There are no significant supermarkets on Isabela, but I tell myself that if I can’t find reasonably priced food, I’ll have to make banana-and-peanut-butter sandwiches for dinner back at the hostel. I’m the only guest, so at least there won’t be any witnesses during that shameful meal. As I approach the plaza, it’s clear that something else is afoot tonight. It is Friday, and from several blocks away, I can hear music and people. Unlikely as it had seemed for the previous 24 hours, it sounds a lot like something is happening.

All of the problems Covid-19 brought to the islands are felt more keenly on Isabela. There’s only one doctor here and no way to adequately treat anyone with the virus. With no international airport and cessation of flights from their airstrip, things can quickly feel very cut-off.

THE GREAT OUTDOORS: LIFE BETWEEN VOLCANOES AND THE SEA | 189

The Great Outdoors

As supply lines constricted, Isabeleños turned inwards, to the land and to the sea and to each other. As happened in other parts of the Galapagos, they entered a barter system, trading whatever they could with each other: crops for fish; clothes for skills and so on. It’s still happening now, mostly conducted through a 250-strong community WhatsApp group. During the tightest lockdown, fishermen only took money for fuel, then went door-to-door, giving away their catch. A couple of times a week, men still saddle-up and ride out into the wilderness to murder feral pigs and cattle, animals introduced by their forebears. When they return, blood-spattered and exhausted, portions of their quarry are given to or traded with the community. It is a very pure form of hunter-gathering.

For others, at least a little hard cash is still a necessity, and as the islands begin to open up and reality slowly returns, that’s becoming more of a priority. To that end, this Friday night feria is a way of circulating money, as well as giving people a chance to forget about the ceaseless burning of the wider world. The staff from the Isabela Grill haven’t reopened their restaurant, but tonight they’re manning one of half a dozen cheap gazebos, barbecuing as much meat as the grill can hold under an exposed bulb while a generator chunters grumpily in the background. I join a slow queue and have a look around while I wait.

A few hundred people have come out for the evening. Many are wrapped up in layers for what, to me, is perfect t-shirt weather. Here is a boy with a candy-floss four times the literage of his head; there are two siblings squabbling violently over a football. Like me, the itinerant street dogs have sensed a change in the atmosphere in Puerto Villamil and bound around with excitement, no doubt thinking of the scrap-feast to come. Mockingbirds babble as though they’ve had too much coffee while in the gloaming, the ominous forms of frigate birds glide and swoop.

190 | THE GREAT OUTDOORS: LIFE BETWEEN VOLCANOES AND THE SEA

The Great Outdoors

Below, a woman deep-frying empanadas hears her name called out over a distant speaker – she has won a raffle and raises both hands like a prizefighter who’s had the judges’ decision go their way.

Once I get my mystery meats from the grill, I take a seat on a little camping chair nearby and quickly accept a local beer from the chef. He asks three times if I’m enjoying everything and assure him each time that I very much am. As I gracelessly eat with my hands, four kids nervously approach me. One says ‘hello’ in English, and then a younger, cheekier one repeats it as a sort of incredulous question – “hello?!” – before they fall away giggling.

In the background, the loudest noises are coming from a small football stadium. Wiping the gravy from my chin, I head over to take a look. There are no seats left on the bleachers inside, so I stand behind the fencing, watching a game of five-aside. The pitch is artificial, but the good 4G imitation grass, not the dreadful slippery, salty surfaces I grew up with. I ask the person next to me what’s happening, and he explains that they’ve waited eight months to be able to play, Covid having ruined plans for the grand opening like so much else. Tonight’s mini-tournament is a celebration, a release after all that delay and frustration and fear.

A new game kicks off, with one team dressed suspiciously like Juventus, though it’s a bit of a stretch to believe that the Jeep logos on the front of their jerseys are the result of official sponsorship. Regardless, this team look like a handy bunch, all athletically built and technically sound – far more than they have any right to be, considering where we are. They are also blessed with a bold goalkeeper who, like all the best goalkeepers, is an obvious psychopath.

Coming out of the box at every opportunity, he makes aggressive slide tackles at the feet of opposition attackers.

THE GREAT OUTDOORS: LIFE BETWEEN VOLCANOES AND THE SEA | 191

The Great Outdoors

After a few of these potentially tendon-snapping challenges, the strikers visibly wilt inside their red-and-black strips, perhaps understandably more concerned about their ankles than winning the game. Then something strange happens – the opposing team take off their dainty forward and replace him with a portly, barrel-chested lump of a man. Bringing on this conspicuous non-athlete seems like a fairly laughable call, but the big man doesn’t try to play up next to the goalie, instead of dropping deep (or possibly just not running) and playing passes out to the wingers.

Ten minutes after the beef olive’s arrival, the mad goalkeeper has been caught out of position, so often his team are losing 3-0. I turn away, worried it will become embarrassing, while he loudly berates the defenders for his mistakes. If he went on to throttle a teammate or the pitchside commentator, I would not be surprised.

Another beer in hand, I turn back to the plaza and walk around, nodding at people, buying more food I can’t possibly eat, certain that this renewal of community is as vital for humans as the warm sun is for marine iguanas. The chance to play football in the new stadium is one thing for the islanders to celebrate. The simple fact that it is Friday is another. But I later find out that there is bigger news than that – just this morning, Isabela found out that it was Covid-free.

Tomorrow, the feria will be packed away, and the plaza will again fall so quiet I will wonder if the entire evening had been some kind of fever dream. For now, though, the island is full of life.

Jamie Lafferty is an award-winning travel writer and photographer from Glasgow who has visited all seven continents and more than 100 countries. His work has appeared in numerous international publications, including The Sunday Times, The Guardian, National Geographic Traveller and Wanderlust. You can follow him on Twitter at @MegaHeid and on Instagram at @travel_journo.

THE GREAT OUTDOORS: LIFE BETWEEN VOLCANOES AND THE SEA | 193

Conservational Foraging Words by Valeria Mosca Photos by Alex Moling For as long as I can remember, I have felt a love for nature. As a child, I learned about collecting wild plants from my grandmother on my mother's side, who would harvest herbs out in the countryside like many of her generation. Cooking, too, has been a passion forever, and for a long time, I worked in different restaurants in order to further my knowledge. After my degree in conservation, with a focus on anthropology and ethnobotany, I met Giancarlo Morelli. In the kitchen of his Pomiroeu restaurant in Seregno, Giancarlo allowed me nearly three years to experiment and try things out, even though I was a newbie. With passion and dedication, Giancarlo initiated me into the techniques used in the kitchen and became a valuable friend and mentor.

After that period, it came very naturally to me to follow my vision and to found a food lab specialising in ethnobotany and cooperation with nature. This would be the place where I could combine my passions and experience in the most varied areas – while they might be different, they are also closely related. This was how wood*ing came into being, over ten years ago now.

Over that time, I have expanded my knowledge, looking, for instance, for new ways of conserving my finds, all the while getting deeper and deeper into the issues and principles of sustainability and cooperation without a natural environment. The more I advance, the richer and more exciting my voyage of discovery becomes.

194 | THE GREAT OUTDOORS: CONSERVATIONAL FORAGING

Today my work consists of cataloguing purely plant-based wild food on our planet from a nutritional point of view. So far, the Wood * ing Wild Food Lab has catalogued 15,000 edible plants and plant parts. Alongside this work, we have developed entrepreneurial projects serving the financing of our research activities, as well as others geared towards the wider public and promoting a culture of a sustainable diet and cooperation with nature. The latter projects include our courses, our academy and our tasting menus where we serve dishes and drinks made from ingredients that are 100 per cent of wild origin. It goes without saying that all of this is conducted with full respect for our environment.

My research is based on an ancient discipline called alimurgia. The name of this science is a combination of the words alimenta (food) and urgent (need). It examines the possibility of using wild plants for food in times of hunger or need.

What we call foraging plays a major role here.

This is the name for the instinctive collecting of plants, plant parts, water or land-based molluscs and

insects

in

environments

that

are

as

untouched as possible. Foraging is innate to both humans and animals.

I started working in the area over ten years back, long before foraging became the fashion in haute cuisine. This was a decisive moment because from that time onwards, many restaurants, unfortunately,

started

using

foraging

as

a

marketing device rather than for its cultural and sustainable substance.

However, if only a tenth of the earth’s inhabitants were to forage irresponsibly, the natural system would collapse: resources would be exhausted in a very short time, and in the end, we would change the natural balance and damage biodiversity. In order to counteract this rather crude fashion for foraging and its consequences and to promote a truly sustainable method of foraging based on cooperation with nature, I turned my philosophy, or better, my mission, into a scientifically sound concept: conservational foraging.

Preserving biodiversity – I am of the firm opinion that foraging has to be adaptable. In the same way that traditions have to be adapted over the course of decades, the choice of plants that we harvest to feed ourselves has to be adapted to the actual state of biodiversity and its related needs. If we only foraged

the

plants

that

our

ancestors

and

grandparents always collected, we’d be insisting on an unchangeable, immutable – and in my opinion also obtuse and wrong – concept of tradition and would

risk

inflicting

great

damage

on

the

environment.

My

method

of

conservational

foraging

concentrates almost exclusively on collecting and using invasive, exogenous and foreign plants.

Plants originate in the most diverse regions, and as our local fauna does not recognise them as a food source, it does not feed on them, hence they become intrusive and aggressive. On the other hand, our own flora is unable to stand up to them, losing its habitats, strangled by the fast growth of newcomer

plants.

The

analysis

of

what

is

commonly called weeds is an important aspect of conservational foraging.

The Great Outdoors

In order to preserve biodiversity, we have to collect and examine the “new” before it takes over from the “old” and displaces it. If we strive to get to know nature and enter into an honest cooperation, we can support biodiversity and safeguard the natural balance.

The healthier nature is, the more manifold her offerings. For instance, if the air quality is reduced, beard lichen will no longer grow on the trunks and branches of conifers. This lichen, an indicator for healthier air and an uncontaminated environment, is used by Norbert [chef Norbert Niederkofler] in his kitchen. I myself examined it in the lab and found that it contains a natural gelling agent. Isn’t that incredible?

Where the balance is right, nature reveals her treasures to us. When everything has its rightful place, we can live with nature, and nature can live with us. If air quality is a key factor for beards, the culinary wouldn't get rid of me quite so quickly. After all, every day, I breathe the fine South Tyrolean mountain air.

Valeria Mosca is a chef, forager and director of Wood * ing Wild Food Lab, the world's first food lab for researching and cataloguing the use of wild foodstuff for human consumption. You can follow her on Instagram @valeria.margherita.mosca and learn more about Wood * ing at www.wood-ing.org

THE GREAT OUTDOORS: CONSERVATIONAL FORAGING | 199