Field Notes

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Being a record of certain phenomena found in the environs of the Lost Quarter.

Old Horizons

The truck sat forgotten in among the trees of the shelter belt that had once surrounded a farm yard. It was a late arrival, having been left sometime after the house had been moved, the foundation dug up and the concrete recycled. The quonset and bins had been moved as well, while the corrals were torn down and the laneways plowed under, so that the land could be returned to crop. Someone had decided they couldn’t bear to take down the three rows of trees that encircled the old yard and at some point the truck had been left with them by parties unknown. 

Wheat grew on one side of the trees and lentils on the other. Both were the latest drought resistant varieties, necessary because after a wet spring, June had turned brutally hot and that had continued on through July. The sixth year in a row of drought with no end in sight. Yet the crops showed no signs of suffering from the heat. It wasn’t just the new varieties, though that was a large part of it. The fields, like so many others in those parts, were also covered in solar panels, standing tall above the crops, adjusting their angle to the sun, providing shade to keep the little moisture that was left in the soil from evaporating away.  

The gravel road that ran in front of the fields was still in good condition, though it was empty now more often than not. Most of the farm sites that had populated the road as it wound its way north from the highway had also been turned back to crop land, the result of consolidation that always followed the arrival of more efficient equipment and techniques. First it had been tractors replacing horses, then decade after decade of larger and more precise equipment, enabling more bountiful harvests even in the face of continuous drought. The few people left now farmed vast sections of land, but with the depopulation brought on by their own consolidation they had moved to be nearer to town, which itself was shrinking. Some had even moved farther away, there being little need to stay close at hand. 

Automated drones handled most of the day to day work in the fields now, making daily passes to measure and record everything. They were nimble enough to be able to target herbicide directly onto any weeds that grew up and could even target pesticides as well. Seeding and harvest was largely automated as well, with fields well mapped. The work there was in transporting the equipment to the field. Once it was there and set up they needed only to keep an eye on operations on their phone. 

The drones paid no mind to the truck or the trees surrounding it. They were not part of the field and were therefore irrelevant. If the truck had been left there as a message it was one that was ignored. But they were not the intended recipient. There were still margins, however narrow and restricted, where the old ways still persisted, for whoever might be looking for those spaces. And there was always someone who was, driven by romantic, possibly foolish, ideas who would spot an old truck sitting useless among some trees and would lose themselves out in the deep parts of the Quarter chasing some forgotten horizon. 

Miscellanea

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Miscellanea from the Lost Quarter and beyond.

Embarking for Paradise

It was late in the afternoon when they left port. The seething heat of the day had briefly been relieved by a downpour forcing everyone into the terminal building where the warmth from their bodies soon overwhelmed the few fans set up to move the thick air around. There were more white faces than they had seen up to this point in their journey among the islands, intermixed with the local brown and various other shades of travellers embarking for paradise. 

They passed the wait imagining stories for various passengers. The two American families loudly conversing about where they had travelled to this point while their bored teenagers focused in on their phones. The young Japanese couple buying an inordinate amount of fried potato slices from the kiosk selling them, as though they were stockpiling for the upcoming journey. There was the man (indifferently dressed, long hair pulled back into a pony tail to hide a receding hairline) slouched beside a woman (tiny, immaculately dressed, LV purse in her lap). She looked much younger than him at a distance, less so the closer they got.  

It was uncomfortable to look at them, though they found themselves unable to stop, noting their every interaction and even the way others looked at them. Suddenly it was no longer fun to imagine a story for these two strangers. Did others look at them the same way and make the same kinds of judgments? Surely not, for there was nothing like the same contrast between them. And yet. A disconcerting thought. 

The ferry was air conditioned and enclosed, the roar of the engine as they jetted out to sea heard only dimly. A movie played on a screen at the front of the rows of seats – some nature documentary – which everyone ignored. They passed under a great bridge connecting the city to an island suburb and soon the shorelines of both vanished behind them. Ahead the horizon was only briefly empty before more islands loomed ahead, dark outcroppings dimly visible on the horizon. 

It was dusk by the time they disembarked at the next port, the shadows and a thick canopy of trees obscuring the island beyond the shore. Everyone dragged their suitcases through the terminal and outside to where the tuk tuks waited to ferry them onward. 

Field Notes

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Being a record of certain phenomena found in the environs of the Lost Quarter.

The Rusted Edge of Things

The alkali slough was a shimmer of white on the horizon as they crested the hill, almost lost in amidst the faded green of the surrounding sea of grass. A well-worn trail led to it, following old cow paths and picking its way through the knolls and dells. They had been along it enough now that the path they followed was becoming dangerously visible. The grass was worn where the tires passed over it. Another year and the ground would be bare, if they were lucky enough to still be coming then. 

They had left the yard before dawn, as usual, so that there would be no trail of dust visible to mark their passage. Without lights in the darkness they couldn’t travel fast, but the road, once gravel but long since reduced to dirt, didn’t allow for speed anyway. It was washed out and overgrown, though the locals used it to avoid the highway where you had to pay tolls for safe conduct. No one existing out here could afford that, just as the Magnus and his Spartan Hordes and what passed for their government couldn’t afford to extend their suzerainty beyond the highway.  

There was nothing of worth out here anyway, at least nothing the Magnus and his followers saw as worthy. A few people trying to scrabble together an existence in among the remnants of the old ways, most of whom would be forced to give up and move on once it became clear there was no water to squeeze from these stones.  

No water in general. They could almost count on their hands the number of days they’d had rain or snow in the past year when they’d first come to these parts. The ground was cracking in places, weed strewn where once there had been planted fields. When the wind howled the dust swallowed the sky. The pastures had done better, especially with cattle now sparse to eat upon them. They roamed wide and free, like the bison once had, and various tribes followed them living off them as best they could. Deer and antelope proliferated. Moose as well. Wolves followed these burgeoning herds, but that didn’t frighten them. There were wolves everywhere now. 

The alkali slough wasn’t visible from the road, nor would their truck be now they were over the hill and into the dell. One of them stayed behind to watch the road and warn them of any approach. The rest descended to near the slough’s edge where they began to explore the area. Mixed in with the grey grass that seemed both living and dead were metal remnants. Pieces from trucks and tractors and things even older than that. Wagon wheels. All of it had been thrown here decades ago, left to rust and sink into the slough, eaten away by its salt. It was unclear why these scraps and pieces, most of them broken and useless, had been left here and not thrown away. Some old farmer had obviously thought they might be useful someday and had not wanted to part with them. 

Time and terrible events had made them, not just useful but valuable. The machines they had been part of were long vanished, but what was left could be refashioned and remade for what remained. That slowly fading past that all of them kept patching together until the only thing to do was leave it to rot somewhere. What they couldn’t use themselves they could barter for what they needed, even pay the tolls.  

They came as little as they could, to ensure no one noticed where they were going. Even in such an empty land there were always eyes watching. They took only a few bits and pieces they needed or could sell, always resisting the temptation to collect it all. Better to leave it here where no one but them knew of its existence. There was less now than there had been those first trips, less and less each time. Most of it was rusted almost beyond use. They took whatever they thought could be salvaged and left, wondering what would happen to them when there was nothing left. 

Miscellanea

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Miscellanea from the Lost Quarter and beyond.

Senior’s Discount

They pulled up to the fruit stand on the side of the road, a slight woman emerging from the shade of the awning to greet them as they stepped out of the van to stretch. The stand was overflowing with everything the countryside had to offer: mangosteen, lanzones, pineapple, mango, several varieties of banana, eggplant, avocado, kalamansi, jack fruit. Samples were asked for and provided.  

Try a mangosteen. Squeeze it until its purple shell cracks open releasing the white fruit within. It’s the same approach with the tiny lanzone. A knife is procured from somewhere and an avocado is sliced and proffered. Try this. Creamier than any you’ve ever had. The short and stubby bananas have a good flavor. Not too sweet. 

Serious negotiations ensue. Prices are offered and scorned. Counter-proposals are received with wide expressions of disbelief and pursed lips. Counter-counter-proposals incur further outrage and sorrowful shaking of heads. More samples are requested. Have you ever had fresh jack fruit? Gradually white plastic bags begin to fill with fruit as terms are arrived at, though no one appears happy about the fact. The driver emerges from his van to claim some sliced jack fruit, his commission for bringing customers to the stand.  

What about a senior’s discount, comes the suggestion, innocently offered as the final price is tallied and quoted. You look so young, she says earnestly. I couldn’t possibly. As though doing so would be grievous insult.  

With that, matters are finally settled and they return to the van, now perfumed with the smell of fresh fruit.    

Field Notes

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Being a record of certain phenomena found in the environs of the Lost Quarter.

The Turning of Seasons

Springs are always haphazard in these parts. It is bright and sunny one day and then the next twenty centimetres of sleet falls. The next day the sun is out again and you can almost imagine it is summer. Nothing happens for days and then all at once everywhere you look it is green and trees are filled with leaves. 

That’s life, in a way. Long stretches of stillness, followed by a frenzy of activity that sputters out seemingly as soon as it begins.  

He had mixed feelings about spring in truth. Haphazard even. It was the end of winter of course, which was always welcome. But some years winter seemed to drag on through spring and they had more snow in April than in January. The trees had tried to bloom and then had to retreat with the temperatures dropping below freezing. Now they were trying again, green slowly unfurling.  

Misery too. The air was full of pollen; he could almost taste it. Nothing and then all at once, everywhere. There was no escaping it. Keep the windows closed and don’t go out and it made no difference. It found its way in. His eyes itched, his throat scratched and soon enough he was sniffling and sneezing. Then he was applying all the remedies: neti pots and antihistamines, eye drops and constant showers, staying indoors and changing his clothes as soon he came back from being out. For you couldn’t just live your life in your house all the time. 

He tried to those few weeks when everyone else was glorying in spring (The sunshine! The green!). All to hold the pollen at bay as best he could. There was no stopping it. Like the changing of the seasons it would come, celebrated by most. He treated it like most people treated winter: an unwelcome guest, barely tolerated, counting the days till it was gone. 

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Miscellanea from the Lost Quarter and beyond.

New China

The sun set quickly in that part of the world, a half hour of gloaming before the darkness took hold. They gathered in the city’s old main square while the full brightness of day still held, though the sun had already vanished behind the crowded buildings. Trees lined the outer edge while a statue of some notable raised up on a white pedestal occupied the centre. At either end food vendors clustered, stalls offering quail eggs, fish balls, and skewers of bbq meat, including tongue and heart and intestine dredged in a mixture of vinegar and soy sauce.  

They picked their way among the stalls sampling the wares, joined by a crowd of others. Mostly students finished classes for the day and enjoying a snack and a few last moments with friends before heading home for the evening. A few men pushing small carts offering dirty ice cream wandered the square, a popular choice given the oppressive heat of the day. Even the sun’s disappearance offered little relief. They each had a cone of the watery stuff – more sorbet than ice cream – which they had to eat frantically before it disintegrated onto the pavement at their feet. 

Just off the square was the New China Restaurant, the oldest in the city. Large fans whirled from the ceiling while portable ones stood along each aisle vainly trying to bring some cool air to the cramped tables. But there was no relief to be found anywhere. The place was empty but for them, despite the fact it was dinner time. They ordered lumpia – the best lumpia in the city it was said – and beers. It really was the best they had had, crispy, flavorful, a marvel. 

They were the only customers, the owners sitting at another table gossiping in low voices. When they finished they returned to the square, sill bustling with activity amid the shadows, going to the far side where the tricycles idled waiting for customers and headed for home.  

Notes on the Grippe

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Being an accounting of the recent and continuing pandemic and its various circumstances, from the perspective of an inhabitant of the regions lately called the Lost Quarter. Dates unknown.

Day One Thousand Four Hundred Sixty One

I have never been one for anniversaries or birthdays, getting the measure of our days through accounting. As though by tallying the moments of our lives in their thousands into a ledger they might somehow be given a greater meaning. It is their very lack of meaning that gives them power.  

During the era of the Grippe Reborn such accounting seemed the only meaning we had. For two years we lived in suspended animation, uncertain of anything. I counted the days and marked the anniversaries. The Ides of March took on a new significance as the time when the Dread Lord Grippe Reborn made himself known in these parts. The whole world seemed to be collapsing in a matter of days. This year as the calendar turned to March I did not think of the Dread Lord’s return. Only as I heard others speak of it did I recall it was now four years since his return. 

Four years. It seems impossible that it has been that long since those first unsettling days of our strange, shared nether existence. And yet it also seems a lifetime ago. We were other people then and we are something else now. Time was broken and we were too and now the pieces have all been put back together. Yet we are changed, and who wants to go back and be reminded of that breaking and what was lost.  

I had another encounter with the Dread Lord after Christmas this year and experienced first hand how much reduced in power he is. A trifling cold that lasted less than a week, and which I gave no thought to after it was over. My love did not even get sick. The only consequence was that we had to cancel our New Year’s plans.  

A mark was made upon us, much as we might prefer not to think about it. We shall not get those two years back and we have already gone a long way toward forgetting them, putting them outside ourselves. A wound that has healed over leaving a scar whose path we can just trace. I wonder what aches we will feel from it in the coming storms. 

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Miscellanea from the Lost Quarter and beyond.

Local Monkeys

They passed from a flat plain filled with rice fields into forested hills, the road winding precipitously. The towns and villages, which had clustered along the highway all the way from Manila vanished as they began to climb. The van roared as the switchbacks became steeper and steeper, drowning out the easy listening on the radio. As they climbed the world dropped away until they were clinging to a precipice. On one side the hill, still rising above them, and on the other an impenetrable chasm, green with the tops of trees.  

At the pinnacle, the road levelled out and the sky came into view, bright and blue with a few porcelain white clouds scattered across it. They could see the whole of the hill and the hills that surrounded it, all thick with forest. There were monkeys there he was told. What kind, he asked. Local ones. 

They descended on the same winding roads. Here and there they caught glimpses of small houses through the trees, surrounded by them, seemingly soon to be swallowed by them. There were people on the side of the road selling this and that and places for vehicles to pull off and hikers to venture out in search of the unseen primates.  

The blue cloud disappeared as they came to the bottom of the hill and left the forest behind. Rain began to fall. A few splatters on the windshield and then a torrent, water coming in rivers down the road. Suddenly there were towns again and the road was crowded with dripping motorcycles and jeepneys and tricycles. They would pass from one to another with only a few breaks where rice fields sprawled and carabao stood indifferent to the deluge. The rain ended just as they came in sight of the sea, a thin line of blue along the horizon beneath the grey of the clouds. 

Field Notes

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Being a record of certain phenomena found in the environs of the Lost Quarter.

Further Notes on the Drylands

The summer’s fires still burned through the depths of winter, hidden from sight beneath the black scars on the land where they had previously raged. They slumbered now, patiently waiting for the inevitable turning of the seasons. The winter had not been cold enough, nor had there been enough snow, to douse the flames. And when spring came and the days began to lengthen and warm, the fires would be ready to rise from the dark earth and begin to feed again. 

It hardly felt like winter, except for two weeks of such bitter cold that everyone was left feeling as though they had been transported to some far polar clime. There were as many days above freezing as below it seemed. When it snowed warmth soon followed, returning the hills to a barren state. Even in the valleys they could see the brown grass poking up through the thin patches of white. The snow did not melt so much as evaporate, the ground still frozen far below so that the water could not penetrate.  

Rivers, which had dwindled to trickles over the summer and fall, continued to shrink until it seemed the flow might cease entirely. Reservoirs and lakes were low, exposing the pipes where water was pumped out to the surrounding communities. Everywhere they looked bare, silted and creviced land was exposed. They felt exposed too; the world they thought they lived in had gone away and what came next was unclear.  

In centuries past it was said there were droughts in these parts that lasted for decades. 40 years of drylands. The last hundred or so had been wet ones by comparison, though not without dry years intermixed. The usual way of things had been a few years of dry, followed by a few years of wet, balancing everything out. Water had not exactly been plentiful, but there had been more than enough for growing communities, expanding irrigation and oil drilling. Now it was clear there would not be enough for things to go on as usual.  

Politicians spoke of crisis, of not watering lawns or taking shorter showers, to ensure there would be enough water this year for farmers irrigating, communities to drink and oil companies to drill. A crisis suggested this was a temporary moment, from which there would be a return to normality. But if the aberration had been the last century, with its lack of decade spanning drought, then it was a crisis so much as a return to an old equilibrium, hurried on by a warming climate. No one wanted to acknowledge that possibility, for it mean the end of life as it had been in these parts.  

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Miscellanea from the Lost Quarter and beyond.

The Fair Way

It had been raining most of the morning by the time they drove down the long boulevard leading to the golf course. The road was lined with carefully sculpted shrubbery, hiding what lay beyond. A gold statue of some notable stood a gaudy watch at a roundabout. The pavement was the best quality they had driven on that day right up to the parking lot in front of the clubhouse.  

They parked as close as they could and ran through the rain to the cover of the building, which looked out on a driving range. The left side had a bar and the right a pro shop, while the middle was open leading to a concrete veranda lined with tables and industrial sized fans to keep back the humidity. The veranda was empty so they went into the bar, which was empty as well, except for the usual half dozen staff idling bored in one corner.  

They requested a table outside looking out on the driving range, which resulted in a surprisingly long, hushed conversation among the staff, at the end of which they were informed that would be quite impossible. Mystified, they pressed the point, saying they preferred to sit outside, to enjoy this brief respite from the crushing heat of summer. Again, they were told it was impossible. “But there’s literally no one else here,” one of them remarked. 

The staff grew defensive and it emerged that the outside tables were held for the local congressman who expected them to be available should he turn up. This was his economic development project, an attraction to bring wealthy tourists to the area. When they asked if he normally golfed in the rain, the staff finally relented and a table was arranged. They sat, eating pizza and watching the rain fall upon the empty driving range, staying well into the afternoon. 

Eventually the rain passed and, as if they had been waiting, a family appeared and started on the golf course. A well-dressed mother and her two children got a bucket of balls and some clubs and set up in front of their table. The staff hurried about, glad for the opportunity to do something. More golfers straggled in throughout the rapidly warming afternoon and by the time they left the veranda was full.