Write...Edit...Publish...August 2015 : Spectacular Settings

Happy to report that one of my favourite bloghops Write…Edit…Publish... is back again, hosted by Denise Covey and Yolanda Renee. Thank you, ladies, can't stop smiling! I am rather partial  – the prompts are thought-provoking, meaty, delightful, and stretch one's writing muscles in undreamt of ways. Oh, there are a million more reasons to love it :) This month’s comeback prompt is on Spectacular Settings, click the link to read the rules and join in. 

I'm starting with an excerpt from a novel where setting is king!

There is a lovely road that runs from Ixopo into the hills.  These hills are grass covered and rolling, and they are lovely beyond any singing of it. The road climbs seven miles into them, to Carisbrooke; and from there, if there is no mist, you look down on one of the fairest valleys of Africa.  About you there is grass and bracken and you may hear the forlorn crying of the titihoya, one of the birds of the veld.  Below you is the valley of the Umzimkulu, on its journey from the Drakensberg to the sea; and beyond and behind the river, great hill after great hill; and beyond and behind them, the mountains of Ingeli and East Grinqualand.

The grass is rich and matted, you cannot see the soil.  It holds the rain and the mist, and they seep into the ground, feeding the streams in every kloof. It is well-tended and not too many cattle feed upon it; not too many fires burn it, laying bare the soil. Stand unshod upon it, for the ground is holy, being even as it came from the Creator. Keep it, guard it, care for it, for it keeps men, guards men and cares for men.  Destroy it and man is destroyed…

 ~ Cry, the Beloved Country, Alan Paton. First published 1948, about race relations in apartheid era South Africa, and the first novel I read about apartheid, growing up in 70's West Africa.

Why I have it here today -

•    It paints a detailed picture, the reader can feel and experience the setting through the skillful use of the second person and personification - of the river on its journey from the Drakensberg to the sea; and so too the grass, it is active, alive, nurturing, it holds the mist and rains.
•     The author’s use of poetic devices - Lovely beyond any singing of it, but then that’s what he proceeds to do exactly – gets as close to singing as anyone can in prose – extolling the primal nature of the land, something sacred, the experience of standing on it almost spiritual: stand unshod upon it. Note the repetition and the lyrical language. Scrumptious! 
•    Personally, I related on multiple levels - as an expat resident in Africa, where apartheid was a hot topic; as someone who came from a culture where mountains and rivers are revered as gods; and as a citizen of a country with a history of colonisation, segregation and inequality.      

I hope you enjoyed the excerpt, I thoroughly recommend the book.  It is like mystic topaz, reflects different colours at different angles. Biblical, epic, moving in a way 'too deep for tears': the layered tale of a simple country parson whose son's life has gone terribly wrong.  

Now for another mountain range that blows my mind every time – the Himalayas.  I am just back from a trip there,  a place called Mussoorie in North India, a 'hill-station' built by the British to escape the harsh summers of the Indian plains.  While I am no fan of what these sprawling towns have become now - with their galloping urbanisation and overcrowding and consumerism and tacky touristy shops and hotels, still no trip to India is complete for me without a view of the mountains, or some other rural heartland of India. Venture a few miles outside the main towns and it is quiet and secluded on the hill roads and utterly, utterly beautiful; birdsong and lush greenery and rushing, seasonal waterfalls and a stillness to die for. Couple photos from my travels there, this time and earlier. 

View from my room, Gangtok, Sikkim. Monsoons 2013.

Near Kempty Falls, Mussoorie. Monsoons 2015.

Finally, my entry, set somewhere in the Himalayas :

Roadblock

The car ground to a complete halt behind a snaking line of vehicles.  Laval looked up from fiddling with the phone, these hilly places one never got any signal worth speaking of.   The driver tapped nonchalantly with his fingers on the steering, in time to some tune that he hummed soundlessly.  It was stuffy with the ignition switched off, Laval wound the window down.

A fresh landslide had opened up a huge gash of reddish mud on the mountainside.  Small, ominous dribbles of soil and gravel trickled down on the verge even as Laval peered out.  Thick greenery dipped drunkenly into the wound from its edges.   A line of labourers, mostly women, he noted in an irrelevant aside, ferried loads of fallen soil on woven cane baskets, the bands balanced on their foreheads like bandanas.  Their line moved across the road, along the queue of cars for some time, and then down till the last figures became tiny dots of bright colours.  An ordinary lorry stood by to receive the debris, it too made toy-size by the distance.  It must be all these slopes, the gradient does things to one’s perspective, distorts stuff into looking smaller than it should, he thought.

“Why don’t they use proper equipment, speed things up?” Laval muttered to himself, then raised his voice and asked. “How long do you think?”

The cab-driver kept on with the percussion, he did not miss a beat as he said, “Can’t say for sure, Sir.  Rained real heavy this time.  The equipment makes it worse, too heavy for these roads.  The women do a steadier job, it takes longer but it’s safer.”

More delays.  Laval put down his phone - the signal remained stubbornly elusive - and opened a file on his tablet.  A stream of vendors of mineral water, diced coconut, chips, tea, cola, and various street foods filed slowly past his window.  A pineapple seller came and perched a bamboo tray on a stand, took out a sharp knife and peeled two of the fruits, then diced them into a pyramid shaped, serrated display. 

"Do you want me badly then? to skin you and chop up some? this golden-sweet pineapple?" he called to the waiting line of cars.

The driver halloed to a boy selling tea and asked for some served in small terracotta khullars, urging one onto Laval.  Laval frowned and refused.  He turned back to his files, sorting out his presentation, flicking over facts and figures, looking up impatiently at intervals.  A young labourer was approaching his window, holding a basket heavy with moisture-laden soil atop her head. Her blouse hitched up with every movement, her bare midriff showed a flash of deep navel, her skin where it curved into her waist was as rich in colour as the mud she carried.  She caught him eyeing her appreciatively and smiled a knowing smile, frank and delighted at an urban man’s attention.

“How much more time?” Laval asked, reluctant to be thought just gawking.

“Who can tell, mister?” she shrugged with her eyebrows and walked on fluidly, her shoulder blades and hips swinging under her bright orange, mud-spattered clothes.

Laval switched off his device and called to the pineapple-seller across the space of the opposite lane, “Dice me some fresh pieces.”

The man cleaved the top of a fruit with an air of an animal sacrifice being made; then swiftly peeled and chopped it up bite-sized into a Styrofoam dish.  Laval pierced a chunk with a toothpick and put it in his mouth.  As he chewed, he could still see the girl’s jaunty skirts swaying down the road, getting tinier and tinier.

Khullar - a terracotta drinking cup without a handle

WC: ~600 (flash only) ~1200 (excerpt+flash)

All feedback welcome!

This is a scheduled post, as I am travelling back from India this week, so I might be a bit late in coming round to read...but I'll get there. Thanks all WEP-ers!