CITY ISLAND LINES
After a weekend of travel, my head is still swimming in landscapes. Such a treat to be immersed in, surrounded by, above, below, behind, before and beside us so many novel colours, shapes, scents, sounds and instinctive responses.
It started with the (very) early morning taxi ride to the airport. The darkness was cool and windless. Stars spackled a cloudless sapphire sky. Even the eternally industrious squirrels were silent. We too remained wordless, as the black taxi sped through the inky streets. The next striking landscape was that of daylight stroking its warm fingers across the drowsy grey world below our flight. Silky silver tendrils of mist clung to the valleys, while green hilltops shook off the shadows to display their lustrous emerald contours. Many people I know are fearful about flight. I, on the other hand, feel like a child at a magic show. The world below seems familiar yet simultaneously surreal. Things are and are not what they seem. After several hours with a bird’s eye view, we descend and merge with the expansive desert landscape that is our destination. We drive along stretches of scratchy scrubby land speckled with stubby shrubs and occasional tumbleweeds. On the horizon stand a series of high mesas, but it is impossible to tell how far away they are. In this vast flatness, one’s sense of proportion, of distance, of scale, is confounded by the undeniable hugeness. Even the turquoise sky above seems to stretch beyond the edge of the world’s canvas. At first, the sun is sharp, even harsh. Light so bright that, ironically, it is difficult to see by. The intensity is such that many of the desert’s more subtle hues are practically blanched to the point that they disappear into the dusty rust-coloured backdrop. Then, slowly at first, a few innocuous little clouds begin to congregate in the west. Soon they are joined by elder brethren with more substance, their bellies heavier and more silvery. Finally, the crescendo comes: thick, tarry clouds that link arms and obliterate the last remaining wisps of blue from the sky. The rain itself is slatey and vengeful. Throwing thick sheets of sharp and shimmering lead at us. It is difficult to drive, encased as we are in wetness, darkness, and noise. Long after we have made it safely to home and to bed, Mother Nature’s tantrum abates, and we awake to a startling array of colour and scent. Walking near a river bed, elegant pines with perfect posture stand stoically, as we sniff their bark and needles. On the hillside, tiny lizards scurry, stop, cock their heads inquisitively at us, and then continue scurrying. Splashes of yellow and purple seem to make the rusty rose sand more beautiful. The air is so dry that we all start to sneeze but not so dry that we don’t break a sweat as we climb. Then, slightly sunburnt and quite satiated, we board the plane back. This time, the miniature world below seems more mundane. Mountains look like molehills. Housing developments look like dreary graveyards, each house a cloned headstone just like its neighbour. We fly forward into the darkness, which readily engulfs us. Below and unknown to us, lie many new landscapes, but we will return to our own home and relive our desert reverie. 26 Sept 2017
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