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Day 17
The documentary crew has gone. Recall U telling them about the jungle: how he feels at home in it, restored to his true self. This is of course nonsense. U hates the jungle and everything that lives in it – demanding that vegetation be cleared twenty metres from his (air-conditioned) tent, to keep – his words – the filthy wildlife from crawling near. When he fails to get his way, U shouts at the crew, his fellow actors and, worst of all, the Indians, whom in the film his character rescues from cruel missionaries. I watch the fear he creates in their eyes; the natives never raise their voices in anger.
Day 22
For third day, U refuses to emerge from his tent.
Day 23
U screaming in the night as if a snake has just bitten him. Medic is allowed into his tent. The problem? U cannot sleep, demands a sleeping pill. “Give him a hundred,” mutters D.
Day 25
The big scene with all the Indians in battledress finally in the can. U remarkable throughout: his performance searing the lens, eating up the scenery so that we will see nothing but his rolling eyes. Am delighted with him – until he starts to scream at the interpreter, those same eyes popping out of his terrible face.
Day 26
Ten days over schedule and I don’t want to know how far over budget. For having reprimanded U over his hysterics, we have Achilles once more sulking in his tent.
Day 29
More of this shit.
Day 31
Alice airlifted to Managua. We gather about the satellite phone for news of her condition. All of us, that is, save U.
Day 42
Almost done at last, though close to the end of my strength and sanity. This afternoon, when they ought to be sleeping (only we are crazy enough to work in the heat), I receive a delegation from our hosts and welcome them into my tent. Very quietly and with utmost politeness they offer to kill U on my behalf. I send them away with thanks and cautious language. For tonight at least, I will allow myself the luxury of contemplating taking them up on their kind offer.
From a dictionary of slang, circa 2050
Aprust n. the name commonly given to April, for its resemblance to August.
Barclays (Bank) n. British a native of the USA, Yank. A piece of rhyming slang used by insurgents of the London Underground in the 2040s. “The Barclays came and torched the place.” (New York Times, 10 March 2042)
broad, broadster n. British a refugee from the flooded counties of East Anglia. The term is derived from the former Norfolk Broads. For East Anglians, see also bloater, flounder, jellyfish, wader and webfoot.
carboid n. a foolish person, a social nuisance. Elision of “carbon” and “android”: literally, a carbon-spewing android.
dubbya n. American an irresponsible and incompetent boss: someone promoted above their abilities. Also denotes someone with a poor grasp of reality.
goo-packer n. British anyone working in nanotechnology. Probably derived from the term coined by Eric Drexler (1986) to describe the hypothetical threat from self-replicating molecular nanotechnology.
green zone n. a delusional state of mind; the confusion inhabited by recovering alcoholics.
hornbill n. an excessive user of nanocaine. The term refers to the artificial septum available online for those wishing to avoid the questions of a plastic surgeon.
hubbert vb to stockpile provisions in expectation of societal breakdown. Etymology disputed.
ice-capper n. American a doomed attempt to redeem a hopeless situation. “Putting Sendecki to bat, at this stage in the game, is a total ice-capper.” (US TV sports commentary, 2046)
Janril n. a name commonly given to January, for its resemblance to April.
limpet vb British to stay put, obstinately, in spite of disaster. “I made up my mind to limpet until the last roof in Lowestoft sank beneath the waves”. (The Times, 19 October 2049)
mercurial adj. of someone who obsessively monitors the thermometer.
pumped adj. British defunct, utterly exhausted. Usually to describe a state of mind or body. The word derives from the failure of the Greenland Pump in the middle of the century.
quality time n. American torture, as in “spending quality time” with someone. The expression was restricted to military slang but has spread into popular usage, notably as a niche term on pornographic websites.
shanty adj. British intrusive, unwelcome, pushy. Derogatory origins: a shanty town dweller.
shruggle n. grudging acceptance of a hateful necessity. “The Schultz/Hideki plan to rebuild the city on rafts met with a resounding shruggle.” (Guardian, 28 February 2038)
towner n. British abbreviated: shanty town dweller, a refugee. Originally specific to the Surrey Hills and North Downs.
trashware n. 1. American the fashion for accumulating technological gadgetry under the skin. 2. World Standard English contraband trade in human organs, implicitly of dubious quality and/or provenance.
umbrellaphant n. Irish a person who, by staying under shelter to avoid the weather, has grown extremely fat.
Vera n. British a girl or woman addicted to virtual reality, or VR. Subsequently, the term has been extended to anybody who attempts to escape the relentless horror of contemporary life.
Yangtze fish n. Australian oxymoron, a contradiction in terms.
The panic room in Eden
They had a right to be well: he had paid for it. You don’t spend thirty million on a state-of-the-art terrarium without securing guarantees on your investment. But Milton had been trying to get through to Biosphere for days and no one was answering. Someone up there would be working on it, he said, to reassure his loved ones. Meanwhile they would have to live without the power shower.
He had always believed in providing for his family. Theirs had been the first terrarium on the block (the neighbours had driven over to look) and he had stinted on nothing, buying Paradiso air-con, water generators, a two-acre automated Crop-o-Sphere, landscape simulators, a sick bay, a panic room complete with VR play den for the kids, even a polymerised garden for his wife; all of it plugged into the benign and ineffable mind of the central computer.
Milton looked through the window at his kids in their visors. Today they were being taught history by Ronald Reagan. He turned on the sprinklers in the leisure garden to give the plants that living, after-rain look. Not that his wife would appreciate it. Milton worried that she was getting morbid. Also she was overeating – something they could ill afford. Still, it was with a sense of pride that he patrolled, as every morning, the fastness of their shelter. He checked that everything was in working order; he tried not to think, as he passed the swing he had rescued from their burning garden in Phoenix, of their eldest daughter who had lost faith.
Why had she risked it? Why go back to all that when they had everything they could possibly need right here? Milton followed his usual route to the Crop-o-Sphere and inspected his tomato plants in their yellow polythene sacks. She had forsaken her family. And his wife acted so understanding, though she’d stayed in bed for a week and wept over it.
Well, he hadn’t the luxury of such emotions. He had read all the booklets that came with the terrarium, and followed the instructions on keeping cheerful.
Milton pinched one of the tomatoes. It burst and dribbled over his fingers. He did the same with others that looked fine on the surface. All were rotting on the stalk. With a brackish taste of fear in his mouth, he walked through the squash and pumpkin patch, spying everywhere the signs of infection.
The phone was still dead. Milton could hear excessive laughter from his wife’s bedroom where he had left her watching old, studioshot comedies (anything with outdoor scenes would make her howl). An hour or so later, as the day lights began to fade, Milton returned to the Crop-o-Sphere armed with a rake, a spade and a trowel.
In the panic room, his children had dismissed the ancient President and were running beneath their visors through the lush green fields of fairyland.
Stills from the Anthropocene E
ra
1.
For Christmas
this year
a bumblebee.
2.
Twitchers
watching egrets
on Hackney Marsh.
3.
Sheltering from smog
in a shopping mall
reading Li Po.
4.
A guillemot feeding
its young
to the sea.
5.
A Scotch argus
running out
of mountain.
6.
A bricklayer
stripped to the waist
on Halloween.
7.
Makers of SUVs
preparing emergency
discounts.
8.
Quixotic locals
tilting at
wind farms.
9.
Clerics imploring
rival gods
above a dry well.
10.
A forest fire
extinguished
by floods.
11.
God’s blessing
on both sides
in a war over water.
12.
Farmers protesting
outside a golf course
in Nevada.
13.
Environment ministers
arriving in Perth
by private jet.
14.
Beautiful women
sipping champagne
at an arms fair.
15.
A child
returning from school
quaking with fury.
16.
A cottage garden
prospering still
in photographs.
17.
A benefit concert
for the displaced people
of Norfolk.
18.
Men in suits
shaking their heads
over Africa.
19.
The hump of a bridge
becoming
an island.
20.
Getting to the opera
in Covent Garden
by boat.
21.
Wives of statesmen
enjoying a cruise
to the North Pole.
22.
Shanty towns
spreading across
the Surrey Hills.
23.
Six people
to one room
in a second home.
24.
A conversation
between Parliament
and a limpet.
25.
A mother
describing snow
to a listless child.
26.
Masking the smell
of rotting mammoth
in the tundra.
27.
A refugee camp
on the bed
of Lake Baikal.
28.
The armed invasion
of the Amazon
by US special forces.
29.
Political prisoners
planting trees
on Ellesmere Island.
30.
Amsterdam
resurgent
on stilts.
31.
A founder member
of the Spitsbergen
Seed Bank.
32.
The President cancelling
her predecessor’s
mission to Mars.
33.
Worshippers
at the Temple
of Blessed Gaia.
34.
Police disrupting
forbidden rites
of propitiation.
35.
Anthropophagi
photographed in
Yokohama.
36.
The Australian Cabinet
in its new quarters
on Antarctica.
37.
Collateral damage
after the siege
of Kirkuk.
38.
Zionists celebrate
the rebuilding of
the Temple of Solomon.
39.
Victims of
the terror-famine
in Brest Litovsk.
40.
Palestinians celebrate
the destruction of
the Temple of Solomon.
41.
“Proof of life”
in deep space
declared a fake.
42.
Subcontinent
officially
uninhabitable.
43.
The last recorded
performance of
Hamlet.
44.
The US President
announcing
The Rapture.
45.
The moon
high and dry
looking on, looking on.
Visitors Book
we had a wonderful time I loved the trees and the wood ants alek saw a red squirral but I was to slow please bring back the beaver and the links they are part of the balance of Nature
Katy
A most memorable visit! The Caledonian forest is a marvel and Mr Muir a most instructive guide! Highly recommended!
Robert and Wilma Dalrymple
I never knew it was so rich: birches and willow and alders and Scots pine. How lovely, despite the midges! Shocking to think only 1 per cent of it survives. I will certainly come back to the Caledonian forest – maybe see a black grouse lek next time, who knows?
Margaret from Govan
A beautiful place. We should all love trees and destroying them so we can wipe our bums is just insane?! Alec, you really made me think. Next time I will take the train instead of flying, honest.
All best wishes,
Sandy Parnell
We have meant to come on this expedition ever since the children were old enough. Glad we made it at last. Unfortunately the guide, though courteous and informative, rather depressed everyone with his talk about the environment. We came here to recharge our batteries, not to feel like everything is doomed. Of course one can imagine the loneliness of living and working in this cottage, so far from the comforts of civilisation. Perhaps a holiday is in order?
Andrew and Mandy Harrison, Surrey
Cheer up, Alec! It may never happen!
Sunderland Tony
A wonderful location but not as warm a welcome, to be honest, as we’d hoped. The guide (or is he a hermit who keeps getting interrupted?) left us feeling ashamed of our ignorance about woodland ecology rather than illuminated. This was not what the glowing endorsements on your website led us to expect!
Ben & Celina (Ayr)
Interesting place, nice countryside, sorry we have to leave so early.
Vic and Jan Morgan
The forest is of course beautiful though the walk up was rather hard going and some steps are sorely needed. But the bothy where we stayed was dirty, unheated and full of leaves. The food was seriously below par and I did not appreciate Mr Muir’s comments about our Land Rover. We did not pay to be badmouthed like this and blamed for all the ills in the world.
Mrs J. McGrath
Alec, you have a beautiful soul but you mustn’t take responsibility for the whole world on your shoulders! Remember that the world is a CIRCLE and NEVER ENDING and that you are only a PART of it.
River, Santa Barbara
I am not staying here another minute to put up with this leftwing claptrap. I will be writing an official letter of complaint.
B. Slater
I am simply appalled to learn about the forthcoming closure of this bothy and the invaluable service rendered by Mr Alec Muir. Why is he not appreciated I would like to know? Perhaps because he speaks the truth about the terrible
things we are doing to our planet and no wonder when he sees the seasons change out of all recognition. I have come here on holiday every year for five years and was shocked to find my host so brought down by the short-sightedness of his employers. Don’t you realise what a jewel you have in your crown?
Norman Stone
*
Never will we forget the beauty of the Highlands in the fall. My family comes from these parts and it was wonderful to walk where my ancestors walked and to see the beautiful forest with its mosses and the lichens on all the trees. My husband is a Rockies man and he said it reminded him of home only it’s a lot wetter! Thank you, Highland Fling, for arranging a truly unforgettable weekend. As for Alison, she is a witty, charming and enthusiastic guide: in short, irreplaceable.
Annie Chisholm
(from Santa Fe, New Mexico)
All my little ones
Tete de veau
At first glance she does not think it can be real. It looks waxy or made of latex; the colour seems wrong, pale as a human foetus and apparently as hairless. Gabriella stops on the pavement. Under the display lights, the rubbery head glistens as though from perspiration. It has to be false – who would display such a thing in a window with food in it? She sidles a little closer, a clot of nausea in her throat, and looks into the cabinet with its explicit meats: quails, plucked, with their limp heads intact, a long white tongue like some etiolated creature of the deep, rabbits with the ducts and valves of their innards exposed. Plucked birds, organs and dead rabbits she can cope with; this is Paris, after all, a city contemptuous of euphemism. But this head seems excessive to her. With a tremor of apprehension, she notices the eyelids sprigged with blonde lashes and the tufts of hair at the tips of the rigid, fleshy ears. Such efforts at verisimilitude! Then she finds another detail that would not have occurred even to the most skilful of prosthetic artists. The calf’s muzzle is pressed against the Perspex of the display case. The flesh is blurry with the pressure and distorted, reminding her of the white snouts of schoolboys smudged against the windows of a sweet shop.
Dear God, it’s real! A calf’s head with a price tag beside it! Thin pink blood lies in pools inside the nostrils. From where she stands, Gabriella can just discern, without daring to look more closely, the raw flesh of the exposed neck and the yellow shirring of skin and fat where the blade has done its work. Her hand takes refuge between two buttons of her blouse; she can feel her brassiere and the clammy heat of her skin. Gabriella likes to think of herself as a sophisticated woman. Still, she takes the exposure of this decapitated innocent as a violent affront. The poor creature (she shudders in the midst of her fascination) cannot have seen many days before it was – what? – strung up and bled to death. Such cruelty, she thinks, such brazenness. What if a child should pass by? Of course, the French are inveterate carnivores. Even Sylvain would think her ridiculous for quaking in front of the facts of life. Back home, he would say, in England, where your butchers know discretion, does not every dead calf leave behind a head? Who disposes of it? What becomes of the pale and innocent flesh? Is the skull boiled down or powdered in some ingenious way, or are there landfills, just waiting for appalled archaeologists, stacked high with the heads of cattle? Gabriella’s own head reels. She remembers pyres burning in English fields; the holocaust of diseased livestock; rigid hooves crumbling into smoke. But this is Paris and she is in love. Down that avenue, a hundred and forty years ago, a crowd was murdered by cannon. Not fifty yards from where she stands, in 1944, three freedom fighters were gunned down. She is in the City of Lights. She is also in Calvary, in the midst of Golgotha.