Tripreport: Not quite Sax-moments
When hiking on tracks through the wilderness - whether in Yosemite, Lassen or the Waitangi Reserve - it is customary to greet fellow walkers coming your way. Why this is so, Aan-San did not know - he theorized it builds a sort of ephemeral community-feeling between walkers, like the one existing between truckers and bus-drivers (ever notice how they always greet everyone driving anything with more than four wheels?) - not knowing why, however, has not prevented him from picking up on it quickly, nor from liking it. But the liking became hard when, one day during the high season, being out of breath climbing back uphill after a few hours on the road already, he realized his track was one of the really popular ones.One day in Santa Monica, at the end of two weeks in California, feeling fully integrated into its culture and being amazed at how much of a tan he had picked up, a fellow browser at a bookstore spoke to Aan-San, and before he had ever said a word asked him how he was liking his stay there and where he was from.
Very much, and I'm from the Netherlands.
Now you're wondering, how did he know that, eh?
After Aan-San had nodded his assent, the man continued,
it's your skin; you haven't quite picked up the Californian tan yet.
Well, so much for blending in like a local.
One early morning Aan-San tumbled out of bed much earlier than usual. After observing the bare necessities required to be recognized as human, he made his way down to the water's edge to behold a sunrise. He had however not counted upon finding himself thrust into a world of clammy greys.
There at the water's edge with him was a fellow crazy, not only looking human, but even carrying a steaming mug containing some hot liquid. She was obviously much better prepared than he was, yet beheld the same lack of sunrise.
Aan-San took comfort in this.
On the day following a perfect moment, Aan-San pondered the joy in describing it. The images were crystal clear, as were the accompanying sounds - a blending of waves and the songs of leaving of seagulls, remembered and actual, recognized again as for the first time - but the words were not yet ready to be born. Swirling like so many possibilities, driving the internal pressure to create to almost unbearable heights. Perfection was possible. Perhaps.
Aan-San recalled the rain beginning the fall.
A seagull glides past in the hazy morninglight, sharp against the mirrorlike sea surrounding the atol.
One evening Aan-San thought of a young grasshopper reading about him, and smiled.