The Mountain Revisited 2 comments

3 Sep 2007 @ 14:25, by Nigella Wraye I was raised on vegetables and fruit grown mainly on mountain humus. This was collected from the Mountain rising steeply about 100 yards away behind the new house. The humus was fresh leaf mould, black powdery and cool, and apparently bursting with natures’ goodness. Lettuce, cucumber, beans, beetroot, potatoes, carrots, leeks, celery, gluts of strawberries, mulberries, asparagus, parsley, and gluts of tomatoes were all grown copiously from this admixture of soils. I am quite sure though that this was insufficient protection from any blight or pests because all this rich produce would also be copiously sprayed with the latest scientific or even the oldest, being darkest afrique, deadly concoction against blight or pest. Once in the kitchen sink, further scientific sprinklings of potassium permanganate for the eggs of pests would take place which may have attached themselves to these lovely eminently edible fruits of the earth. The Mountain provided all our water too with fresh spring water all year round except in times of drought. The same spring water was used for everything including washing the car with the exception of the swimming pool which was filled from a borehole. Even the lawn received its sprinkling with the spring water! The water destined for drinking had to be “treated”, boiled for hours and put in a large china storage jar with two compartments through which the pure mountain fresh water was filtered and dripped. A tap at the lowest end brought forth the final source of this drinking water. We were lucky, pipes carried the water to the house: many houses we knew had people water- carriers, two buckets on a pole with leafy branches on the top stemming splashes while in foot transit. Hot water for bathing went to a specially built open air furnace behind the kitchen: a brick fireplace with a very large 40 gallon drum or two cemented above a huge fireplace for whole tree sized logs. A special person was employed simply to sit by this fire at night to watch over it. Often this excellent job was given to a village elder who suffered difficulty walking, as it was a sitting wrapped-in-a-blanket job. Someone else chopped the fire wood, one of the five garden boys. Sometimes it was difficult to keep track of the names of the garden boys. Often in this land, if someone did something necessitating the loss of his job or sacking as they say, the same chap would persistently appear the next day with an apologetic glum but determined look to continue his work. In this manner they nearly always hung on to their job. However, they could also and would also give their job to their brothers or uncles without warning. They considered their job as a right of place, so to speak, something only they, in their notion of native responsibility as owner of their job, could do with as they wished. The reason could be a simple “time to go to the village now, for a rest” a quite indeterminate leave taking but with automatic substitute lasting six or eight weeks or longer, and nothing could be done about it! The chemical inferno did not end with the vegetables, the inside of the house was sprayed with DDT anti-pest spray every 6 months. Even the dogs and cats got sprayed. Outside my window was the graveyard covered in yucca spines and flowers of the children who had not survived this life in the wild. It was difficult to reconcile the abundant growth factor of the food stuffs with the abundant disease factor for both humans and foodstuffs at that time. I now assume that this world, in darkest Africa contained many unknowns for all its inhabitants local and foreign alike. The various livestock on the farm below the Mountain consisted of four herds of cattle of different species - two imported and two indigenous - plus herds of sheep and goats none which got the chance to miss the monthly dipping in the famous DDT. They would be corralled and one by one in single file they had to walk down a murky concrete passage which lead to a long tank full of dark green liquid swilling away and buried in the beautiful mountain humus earth. With much mooing, bleating and grunting they would be whistled and shoved down this passage in order to finally leap or slip into the long tank which they then had to swim to the other end, mouths straining above the liquid level in order to finally walk into the outward corral to drip off. A thatch roof structure on poles over the long tank protected the lovely pure rain from getting into the poisonous mixture lurking in this tank. I suppose that it was emptied in the virgin humus earth when finally used, and this was the reason for it being placed just within the edge of the mountain forest by the people originally setting up this farm. They were a Scottish pioneering shipping family who also owned the grocery store chain of shops to be found in each emerging town or village or out-station. As such they constitute the oldest known history of the area, ever. This goes back to the times of about 1915 thereabouts, but no earlier. All in all, the humus may have saved our lives. About 100 feet up the first steep mountain slope of humus an enormous piece of igneous rock emerged with straight sides up out of the mountain, known as the Small Peak. The conquering of this Small Peak was my dream project. Having surveyed the summit, I had already bribed the store keeper for nails and a hammer and other such useful items for the construction of a shelter in a carefully chosen spot. The idea was to also build a rope pulley system from the foot of the Small Peak to its summit. This was to carry up our “supplies” of water and edibles, but also just to look good as an achievement as seen done on other larger scale mountains of 6,000 feet under the aegis of a Government Forestry Department. An axe was procured from the wood chopping garden boy with a small bribe of a packet of TomToms, the local brand of untipped cigarettes. However the axe was so heavy, unwieldy and sharp that while being carried it hit the large toe of its carrier almost severing it. This unexpected emergency required the attention of “adults” demanding to know how such a thing could have occurred. Of course the entire goal of conquering the Small Peak was at stake here, and which had it been confided would undoubtedly have been banned as a suitable activity for a group of children aged variously from 5 to 14. After a time to heal all the wounds, and with school friends visiting, we (I) decided to attempt a reaching of the summit as something of special interest to do for our playmate, and also reacquaint and pick up from our first failed expedition attempt. Earlier, I had located a rock chimney in the mountain formation, a large crack in the rock face running all the way straight to the top of the Small Peak beyond the forest foliage behind the house. We had been practicing climbing rock chimneys, both on other mountains next door, and in our homes up the walls in the corridors and in between door frames. So off we went, climbing up the steep foothill of the mountain. This meant walking on the already fallen trees because the humus was soft and sinking, and more, the profusion of giant nettles, bushes and creepers everywhere. Armed with big sticks we beat our way through. The youngest in our group, my youngest brother, perhaps 4/5 years old, was still then very small and very sweet. Our expedition gear was the usual hat, short sleeved shirt and shorts with flip flops or plimsoles. We reached the rock chimney and I took charge. First I sent up brother No 1, followed by young friend with my sister behind, and then smallest brother followed by me to help him up. The rock chimney was about 50 feet high and I stood at the base watching the progress, suddenly there were screams, and shouts of bees, bees. We had disturbed a nest of wild African rock bees, known to be deadly as we all too well knew. I saw my brother No 1 shoot up to the top, and the others jumped shrieking from wherever they were in the chimney as I tried catching them to stop the falling down rolling on, into the steep forest undergrowth. I caught my little brother and started squashing the bees with my hands in the air around his head. His hat was pulled down hard and he was screaming. Contrary to what we had always from very young been taught, to lie down in the presence of bee swarms and never to flee – I shouted to everyone to run from the attacking bees in thought that their flight would be hampered by the undergrowth . Still running pelter melter back down the giant fallen tree logs the same way we had come up. In such flight we were unable to watch out for the giant stinging nettles, but had had such a scare all we could think of was to get the hell out of there. We decided to put in our first stop, to raise the alert, at a neighbouring family’s house nearer than ours, and much less strict in its way, and more understanding and comforting in times of complete self-made disaster. This worked well because a house boy was sent with the mishap message to inform our own household meaning that the ensuing riposte from hearing such news would have been expended far far away from our ear shot and presence, thus easing a painful situation considerably. Also ensured was that the first sight of our bee sting swellings would be with other adults present, in their own house, giving more assurance of at least reluctant sympathy and treatment rather than serious admonishments. That night I had a Date. At 14 years old this was far too important to miss. With swollen eyes and hands like footballs, I absolutely insisted to go to the dance, and the Small Peak climb was never attempted again. To this day atop the Small Peak there is stache of nails, hammer and string and wire under the rocks overlooking the ideal spot with its distant views to the Western horizon and hills of the land lying hidden and protected from the wild mountain elements of sudden mists and violent thunder and rain storms. Nraye 14 March 2007

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3 Sep 2007 @ 16:36 by a-d : Ooooohhh my gaaawwwd!
whadddan ADVENTURE!!! Glad you guys survived!

Hugs/A-d
PS: Love your two mountain pics. these two lovely stories of yours, takes me back to Tanzania and ( makes me think of Arusha -Surrounding/s mountains, almost in the Heart of T.) Here, sweet Nic, I think you'll be interested in knowing this: [link]

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Thabang looks like Tswana (that is from one of the Botswana tribes whose origins crossed the north eastern borders) - its fantastic that he is doing such an expedition, and quite unusual too for such inspiration to do so, just shows times are a changing. Nraye.  

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