(t)reeplantTHIS! the full story – part I
some parts of the story told here could be fictional, nothing is serious or true, but everything’s nothing but the truth and actually happened. we respect the integrity and privacy of everyone mentioned in the following, so names are changed, the rest is history.
breakfast or breaking through the wrong door
beep. the disturbing sound of the alarm clock tears the tranquillity of your dreamland. 5:45 am, you wake up. getting aware of your determined, immutable existence you slowly open your eyes and glare at the ceiling of your tent. a drop of water takes off the ceiling and hits your forehead. it hurts, it’s cold. you move your head and look down your sleeping bed. everything around you is covered with a moist layer of dew. even though it was just above 0 Celsius last night, your overheating body and your warm breath condensate and establish a tiny micro-climate. you’re the rain maker.
you remove the sweaty, filthy earplugs and the remaining of a deep sleep vanish. the generator is running? check! that god damn bird still sings the same old annoying tune? check! you still glare at the ceiling of your tent, time to get up.
a sharp pain runs through your stiff hand. they call it ‘claw-hand’, it makes you feel old. you’re sore and old. you’re still wearing the old cloth from the day before, they are already worn out, but you don’t care. still wearing them gives you the luxury of not getting into your working cloth at fuckin 6 in the morning.
you unzip your tents’ door, ‘good morning ladies’. ‘good morning neighbour’. ‘good morning muli’, yea sure she’s happy, she’s always happy, big muli. following the path way leading out of the forest you feel your digesting systems pushing you towards the shitters. you overload your stomach every night, your body needs room and some people don’t even make it out of tent village and take a dump 10 foot next to their camp.
you pass by several little homes, ‘good morning priscilla, wake up, time to die again’. the path is narrow and overgrown, almost romantic – almost. ‘hi annie, how was your night?’ annie’s tiny house, more a ruin, is the first in a gigantic gravel pit called tree-planting camp. you leave your garden, the dimension of rest and wonderful dreams and nightmare, passing the gates to another world, welcome back to camp, today you’re gonna plant a lot of trees.
it’s quite a walk towards the kitchen trailers, but first you hit the lonely wooden boxen. ammoniac – the awful smell doesn’t bother you anymore. strange thoughts come to your mind, the leftovers from last night dinner leave ‘a black hole to fall into another black hole. from one biological system (your body) to another (your planet). you walk the earth over to breakfast.
the camp is always busy, but in morning people rush. two doors lead up into the kitchens, one is entrance, the other exit – to avoid early traffic jams. WRONG DOOR, you try the other one. oh these wraps, these cruel wraps. t(h)ree wraps with vegetables+not-real-cheese+mustard and one with PB+jam (strawberry, but do not mix up the spoons in the jars, never mix them up, or you gonna die today).
you stare at a pile of sausages and potatoes with maple syrup and fried onions and, maybe, ketchup? some people have problems, some have that for breakfast. oh canada. 6:20 am, you’re chasing time, first coffee and two cigarettes. 6:30 the place gets vivid, people gather, another coffee and two cigarettes. you watch the late folks running, you make your lunch, you get your stuff together, you do your fuckin dishes. you grab your water jug and your ‘hockey-bag’ and walk over to the school bus.
muli? GET IN! the horn honks, the front door shuts and the convoy roll to the block
fear the second chapter of the big tree fuck 2014 coming up next week…
[all photographs Nikon FM2 on kodak portra 400]View other posts by Muli Muli