A long walk

I live in a place where myth and legend rule. My neighbour is a witch doctor (literally, he is). I hear stories of tokolosi, or little people who live in the mountains and steal children and kill livestock. Often, as I sit in my little hut, drinking my coffee and checking facebook, I forget just how primal a world I live in. (Primal, does that work? I didn’t want to say primitive, because that’s not quite right).

The lodge has asked me to gather some information on the parks trails. With the addition of the fence (for the new wildlife) many of the trails have been altered and none of the trail markers are accurate anymore. This project requires me to walk every inch of every trail, ideally getting an accurate length but more importantly a reasonable time the trails can be walked in. Yesterday I walked some 14k (close to 9 miles, 8.7 for anyone who cares). This doesn’t count the walk to the trail heads and back.

I can assure you that the hikes where amazing. The park hosts the larges population of mature Chichi trees in Lesotho. Chichi trees are something to behold. It would be easy to miss them, as they look more like a shrub than a tree. Their branches reach out at all levels with chaotic twists and turns. The limbs themselves often look half formed, with odd knobs and strange cracks along their length. No beautiful symmetry here, no towering grace, just chaos.

I was strolling down along the river, following the lower trail, and I found myself surrounded by the burned out skeletons of chichi trees. It’s hard to explain the feeling of the area. All around me was past devastation. Like finding a ruined building deep in the woods that was long sense forgotten, your mind begins to imagine what might have happened. I began to imagine dragons scorching the country side, I envisioned giants in the hills hurling fire at one another. My imagination went wild even though I knew what had really happened.

This is the birthplace of myth, the home of legend.

It’s hard not to get lost in your own fantasies. The rocky rivers, the green slopes, the twisted trees. Each bend in the path could reveal a swimming hole, or scorched earth.

The upper trails are, at times, truly brutal. A path that leads from Ts’ehlanyane to Bokong Nature Reserve proves it. This path is 23k long. Bokong is up in the mountains, south of Ts’ehlanyane and north of Katse dam. I began walking the trail at 1pm, just after lunch, with the intention of “seeing how far I could get”. I imagined the trial weaving its way through the mountains. Finding small passes, hugging valleys, meandering lazily though the mountains.

I was wrong.

As it turns out, the way to get to Bokong is to go up and over the mountains. The trail simply went up. Not a vertical climb where you know what your getting into, where the end is in sight. No, the mountains are not that forgiving. Instead its that gradual, slow climb where you don’t fully notice it at first, but the strain builds on you, grows into a ache, and finally excruciating pain. Every bend was a nightmare of hope followed by despair, each switchback taunting in its cruel assent.

Did anyone know I have a bad knee? I didn’t. On my way up my right knee began to hurt terribly. I decided to turn back at 3:30pm. I had made it to the 4000 meter mark. That’s 4K by my math. The return 4k was excruciating. Every time I would bend my knee it was like someone stabbed me there. I think I need to get that checked out (and might as well do it now with free health care!).

The pain and all was worth it. The view, the peace, the quiet, all invigorating.

There is simply nothing like it in the world.

Happy St. Patrick's Day

Kiss me I’m Irish!

Its no mystery that I, Kevin Malone, am of Irish decent. However, I have a confession. I am not, as many believe, Irish to the bone (in a biological sense, if biology really has much to do with ethnicity). My Mother is only part Irish (a grandfather of her’s I believe I was Irish). On my mothers side I am Norwegian, don’ja’no. (Though that claim now seems to be cast in some doubt within the last month by my mother and her sudden Danish (or was it Dutch?) decent).

Regardless of the percentage of Irish blood in me mathematically, I have for some reason or another, always identified strongly with my Irish Heritage. Maybe its because of my name (Kevin, Irish for “loved one” and Malone, Irish for… really irish?). Maybe its because I “look” Irish. (My Grandpa Palmer, note: not Irish at all, always said I had the look of an Irishman). Or perhaps its because of my family. I’m fairly sure its my family.

I have never been a “stubborn” person (though my mom might disagree). Pride, despite my sometimes inflated ego, was never terribly strong within me. So when you hear of that “stubborn Irish pride” you might not immediately think of me (though self appraisal is so often way off the mark, I’ll leave you as the judge). However, in my dad’s family that is something you quickly grasp. At my grandmother’s house I have fond memories of three or four aunts and uncles sitting around the breakfast table yelling at the top of their lungs at one another about some politician or sports team or another. An outsider would think this family dysfunctional. They would feel a level of intensity unmatched in the great houses of Government the world over. The passion of the argument would lead this unwary observer to believe that no compromise was sought for or possible.

Until they stopped to listen.

Then they would realize that this “house divided” was, infact, agreeing with itself. Each side of the discussion so wrapped up in agreement with the other that the only rational outlet of such an accord was via the raising of blood pressure and straining of ear drums.

This was Irish stubbornness.

This was that legendary pride.

An irony of my life is that my family, I believe (you will recall self reflection is always distorted), has always viewed me as “shy”. A claim my friends would never level against me. Witnessing the protracted discussions too often far above my little head, I just sat and listened.

And on this St. Patrick’s day, a world away from that home, I regret having not done more of that.

Listening.

As many of you are aware, my Grandmother passed away close to a Month ago now. Grandma Malone was the matron of that prideful Irish family. She embodied so much of what makes me proud to be Irish-American.

When I would tell people the reason I returned to America they would always ask “where you close to your Grandma?” As if flying halfway across the world for a relative required closeness. The shameful answer I was forced to give was simple.

No.

The great tragedy of her passing for me was that I wasn’t terribly close to her. I don’t recall having many conversations with her that transcended any description other than “superficial”. She would ask the usual grandma questions; “How’s school? How’s the girlfriend? Do you want Ice Cream with your Apple Pie?” And I would give the typical uppity Teenage response “Fine, fine, yes”.

I believe we call this regret.

As I grew older my curiosity grew with it. I realized I wasn’t very close to my Grandmother, and that time was running out. I would learn little tid bits from my dad about how Grandma would take in some of his cousins, or work in the fields. Stories of helping family in a truly selfless way. It was these stories that peaked my interest, made me realized how incredible a person my grandmother was.

I understood I needed to discover that first hand.

Much as my cousins did. I won’t beat around the bush, I’m rather jealous of my older cousins. Chris, Dan (twins, oldest of the Oldenburg family, my dad’s sisters family) and Tom (a year or two older than my brother, so three to four older than me) were able to become close to my Grandmother. They, in their older wisdom, spent some summers up at Grandma’s. Tom in particular spent several summers in a row helping out at the old homestead, fishing with Grandpa, and becoming something of a local. These three older cousins have great stories to tell, had deep interpersonal connections with Grandma, memories beyond simple childhood longing.

After hearing some of the stores, who wouldn’t be Jealous.

For me, it was just a matter of getting my life in order. In that way us young kids thing we have all the time in the world (which we more or less do), we put things off. First College got in the way, then Peace Corps.

I had plans for Grandma. I envisioned coming home from my peace corps stint, taking up residence on Gear St. (where the old Malone homestead is) for a few months maybe, and getting to know this woman who shaped the lives of so many. I imagined myself spending time discovering my roots. Becoming a better person for it.

I spent some time dwelling on this regret as I traveled home. Thoughts of missed opportunity fell on the jungles of Africa, pooled in London Heathrow, and splashed across the Atlantic as I returned to say goodbye.

It wasn’t until I had made it to Galena and was surrounded by so strong a family that I realized regret wasn’t where my heart should be.

I may not have made the most of the hand I was dealt, but it was a pretty damn good hand.
My grandmother changed lives. She shaped who I am, who I will become. She made the entire Malone family a strong one. She was an incredible woman. While I may never get that firsthand experience I long for, I know her handy work will always be with me. It’s in my family, in the way we talk, the way we work, the way we care.

Its in our Irish Pride, our stubbornness and that thing so many over look in the Irish.
Compassion.

Lucky for me I have another Grandma hanging around. Poor woman won’t know what hit her come 2010. I may call myself Irish, associate with my Irish roots more strongly than my Scandinavian ones, but that doesn’t mean I ignore them.

Roots in general are something we too often overlook.

America is great

Well here I am.

America is great, BTW.

You guys dont know what you got here with your hot water heaters, and automated carriages.

But to be honest, despite all the pizza, and interweb, and hot showers, I do miss Africa. I can say without a doubt that my little hut is my home.

I'm sitting here right now talking with my mom, (she got on my case about not posting at all while I'm here... so this is a limited post, blame my mother. Thats what I do for all my life's woes.) my full attention is not on the quality of this post, rather quantity. Once again social pressures lead me to want more, not better.

Such is life.

I head back to Africa on the 9th. I have a 20 hour lay over in london. I think I'll be exploring the town! It'll be fun.

Anyway, stay tuned. Sorry for not posting. Eat some pie for me.