Meg speaks with Yara Dowani, a CSA farmer and permaculturist from the West Bank of Palestine. Yara tells of her journey from city girl to managing Om Sleiman farm, the continual challenges of producing nourishing food under occupation, and her hopes for Palestine.
Listen to the audio-only version (50mins),
or watch the video.
In their conversation Yara mentions the film Five Broken Cameras, which is set in the village near where Om Sleiman farm is situated. The farm is under constant threat of Israeli settler expansion, which you can see on the horizon in the below image.
Artist as Family is holding a solidarity raffle at each of The New Peasants screenings we attend to raise money for a water filter system for Om Sleiman farm. If you can’t make a screening but would like to donate, click here, then click One Time Gift, and in the field that says Name, please write down your name with Om Sleiman beside it. We’ll add this to the funds we are raising from raffle tickets sales. The raffle prize is two nights accommodation in our Permie Loveshack in southern Djaara country.
We don’t like to find out too much before we venture to a new place, and we’re glad we didn’t know what was ahead of us when we woke at 4am to leave Manali at 5 in a 16 seat bus.
We climbed and winded through the dark for a few hours and as the sun broke we became aware we were moving into completely new terrain; a terra of glaciers connected to the Himalayas.
This is a dry-cold Mother Country,
inhabited by sheep, goats,
and shepherds.
India is a country of almost two billion people; most of whom do not live here, in the remote parts of Himachal Pradesh and Ladakh.
The scale of the mountains astonished us,
and as we climbed we began to feel cold for the first time since leaving central Australia months earlier.
The intensity of the climb, the winding and bumpy roads began to unsettle Woody. He had his first vomit
before our first road stop. He declined breakfast, but us adults had roadside chai and omelettes. None of us had jumpers to put on. Our wind and rain jackets were in our bags roped to the top of the van. Woody was grateful for the scarf his dad knitted him to keep him warm, and for his mum’s hugs.
This road from Manali to Leh will be closed in the coming months, due to snow.
We each had on all the layers we had,
and carried on climbing into the clouds,
and ice.
This high country desert is like no other environment we’ve experienced.
It was no smooth ride. Like the bus trip from Dharamshala to Manali, the driver threw us from side to side, racing at the hairpin bends, then braking suddenly. We don’t know whether it was motion or altitude sickness, but Woody threw up everything his body had, including his stomach bile, until he was just dry retching.
The physical intensity inside the bus was accompanied by the immense physical beauty of these lands.
The road was unforgiving in places,
and again, it was a journey encompassing a string of near-deaths.
What a magnificent place to die!
Much of the road didn’t have any barriers to stop vehicles going over the edge.
The vomit bag needed emptying regularly out the window.
Retaining walls, holding sections of the road in place, had given way.
As passengers, our attention flickered between oncoming challenges,
and spectacular beauty and life force.
As picture makers our beginner eyes marvelled as our stomachs churned.
It was joy and discomfort riffing each other, with fellow mammal Asiatic ibex coming into the mix at places,
and little settlements offering sustenance and motion relief.
We did not take the recommended pharmaceutical (Diamox, made by Pfizer), not just because of the long list of adverse effects these junk science tablets contain, but because we know we are hardier than the industrial medical complex gives our bodies credit for, and we trust the old ways – ginger, water, chewing and belching as one climbs, exerting little as one adjusts. Woody couldn’t stomach any of these things, except for sitting, exerting little.
As the hours passed, the road became wilder, and roadworks brought we traffic-species to a halt.
We were all in a trance as we ate dhal and rice, and drank lemon, ginger and honey tea. The air was thin,
and our urine flowed more quickly than usual from our bodies. After lunch we visited the most beautiful dunny in the world.
Ladakh borders Pakistan controlled land, the Tibet Autonomous Region, the Indian states of Himachal Pradesh, Indian administered Jammu and Kashmir, and China. Until 1960, when the Chinese government blocked access, it was a centre of trade along the Indus Valley between Tibet, Kashmir, India and China.
As the day aged the temperature warmed, and for a while we felt the comfort of the sun.
We had travelled only 300kms in the first several hours when we reached a plain with momentary sealed and straight roads.
Such comforts were short lived. We climbed again, and twisted and vomited up into snow country,
reaching the dizzying altitude of 5,329m at the very climax of the journey.
We met frozen rock,
and overturned vehicles,
mountain ponies,
and Changthangi goats and herders as we descended into the Leh district of Ladakh.
As we approached Leh, the largest human centre in Ladakh, small-scale agrarian settlements popped up through the rock. Many of the roofs of the houses supported cut hay, drying for the coming winter.
The annual rainfall in Leh is 35mm. Farmers and growers rely on melted glacial waters, which despite the land’s desert appearance,
is in abundance in the rivers and irrigation networks that feed into the homes, farms and settlements.
After 11 hours of travelling, we arrived in Leh in the late afternoon. Modern, touristy Leh, we noticed, is being transformed by cold concrete,
while old Leh is built with thermal-friendly clay and rock.
In a clay, rock and manure version of shelter culture, Mr Adani and his mines are not required.
We walked from the bus station to a cheap hotel room that offered beds but no running water, dumped our bags and headed out to explore. It was at this point, Woody, who had vomited 14 times throughout the day, turned to his parents and said, “The beauty of that journey was so worth the discomfort.”
We found ourselves in a remarkable town,
with much history and prayer,
a town of 260,000 people,
built into rock and cloud,
with stupas on every corner.
and dogs, cattle and donkeys wandering the streets.
Leh is a town of cultural life force and of unmediated death,
of celebration and festival,
and, like much of northern India, it is yet another place of radically untuned traffic.
Local growers sell their vegetables,
their fruits,
and their saved seeds in the streets.
These farmers delighted us with their joy and wisdom,
and with their passion for their food.
We cannot get enough of the beautiful acceptance for earth-others inhabiting human-centric settlements in India.
Woody was particularly drawn to the local ass.
At times, we could not get enough air in Leh, at an altitude of 3,524m and with only 65% oxygen in every breath, we often had to stop and slow. Right. Down.
So much life attracted our senses in Leh. Old bulls scavenge the detritus on the streets,
and at the markets,
and little back alleys led us to quieter accommodations.
At Ree-Yul guesthouse, where we moved to after our first night, we met four Kashmiri motorbike travellers. We yarned in the sunny courtyard, they offered advice for our next leg, and invited us to take a pic with Woody on one of their bikes.
Each day we wandered the streets, seeking to lose ourselves in daily life here.
We beheld the preparations for winter, and the many local poplars (Populus nigra ‘Afghanica‘).
The stark qualities between human and more-than-human made forms.
The modern and makeshift.
and got among the forage-worthy plants,
such as the fruit-medicine sea-buckthorn (Hippophae rhamnoides).
These fruits, also known as Leh berries or Ladakhi Gold, are rich in antioxidants and essential minerals including potassium, calcium, magnesium, iron and phosphorous. Fresh off the bush they taste lemony and slightly astringent. On our last afternoon, we ordered a juice of this berry from a local restaurant.
For $15 we hired a motor scooter for a day and headed out of town a little.
The three of us on one little scooter slowly meandered up high above the town,
arriving at the 15th century Victory Fort on Tsemo Hill.
We paused for a while, looking out
and up
and through
remnant cultural structures of the past, as they stand in the present. We descended back into Leh and took chai,
before heading off to find one of the main sources of life in this little city, the Indus River. This took some time as the main road travelled alongside this mighty water serpent, but never within reach, with few side roads to take. We stopped for a lunch of Tibetan thukpa (noodle soup),
and with goodly nourishment in our bellies, eventually found a road to the river.
We spent time by the Indus, washing our feet,
yarning and knitting,
and it was here Woody learnt to ride a motor scooter.
Leh will remain in our hearts as the apex of this journey. Much like Hope Vale was on our 400 day bicycle adventure to Cape York, Leh is our most northern stop. As we ready to leave here, and descend south we feel a returning spirit enter us. Excitement for home, for reconnecting with friends, family and community. This air, albeit thin, is feeding us with new possibilities and projects ahead. We still have time in India ahead of us, and we remain present to what is in the now, but there is a turning at this juncture. There is both sadness and excitement.
On leaving Rockhampton we discovered this strange scene:
The local council had laid fake grass beside the Bruce Highway, then an alive grass had penetrated the fake grass and remarkably grew until the council then sprayed it with glysophate (a poison Monsanto tells us is safe, as they did with Agent Orange and DDT). Someone then stubbed out their cigarette butt and threw it into the mix. The logic of the city is beyond us. Time to reconnect with the intelligence of autonomous, uncivil things.
Not far north of Rocky on the Ridgelands Road we came across bush cucumbers (Cucumis spp.),
which weren’t quite ripe,
although we did find one almost formed and ready.
And not far on again we came across our first Ber fruit (Ziziphus mauritiana), otherwise known as Chinee Apple, Jujube, Indian plum and Masau.
These small trees from south-east Asia have naturalised in northern Australia. We look forward to trying them next time now we know what they are.
We had decided on the Ridgelands – Glenroy Station route to avoid the Road of Death, but our rather paltry map didn’t warn us that most of the way to Marlborough would be gravel.
After 70 kms or so of riding we made camp beside the road, bloody exhausted.
Being on gravel certainly slowed us down, which was only a problem of water. We filled up two bottles at the Glenroy Crossing of the Fitzroy River, just in case we needed them. Zero’s iron constitution surely wouldn’t have a problem drinking this water.
This was cattle station country, and we got a view into this altered ecology firstpedal.
We also got a view of our own vulnerability without water. We banged on this farmer’s door to ask for a tap.
No one was home, so we took his water upon ourselves. Thanks unknown farmer!
Relief!! We passed water-savvy emus,
and motorised ones.
Aching, dust-covered and sorely parched we arrived in the little town of Marlborough, pulled up outside the pub and were immediately greeted by Jeff and Linda, who invited us home for an impromptu party.
After a bonfire and rowdy dancing sesh with several locals and a Swede, we passed out in their backyard caravan and awoke rested,
ate a delicious home-cooked breakfast then farewelled our new friends (hi Digs!),
and ventured back onto the Bruce.
Over the 31 kms that we rode that day from Marlborough to Tooloobah Creek we counted 212 individual road-killed animals on the left lane, shoulder and verge alone. Assuming the other side would produce a similar number (it certainly looked like it), we concluded that on this stretch of the Bruce Highway there was one roadkill every 75 metres of bitumen. Staggering!
This number exceeds tenfold the bodies we encounted along a 60km stretch of the Hume Highway last December. We stopped to rest at Tooloobah Creek Roadhouse and after only a few minutes of sitting in the shade witnessed this:
We were only moments from being roadkill ourselves. No one was hurt, the owners were even fairly jokey about it, praising insurance and airbags. We walked away from the amounting spectacle, set up our tents,
and went in search of some tucker.
The next day, as we were packing up to leave Tooloobah we were greeted briefly by a southbound Frenchman, Stephane, who was on a solo mission to cycle around the world.
It was a long hot day in the saddle. Temperatures are again starting to climb in this region known as the dry tropics. But Bruce was fairly good to us, only once, and for just a short time, turning his shoulder away so we had but a few hundred millimetres of safe path to balance on.
We’re getting fairly hardy to such travel. Failing a capsizing caravan or some such unavoidable situation coming crashing down on us, riding defensively makes touring dead-safe in Australia, even on the Road of Death. A road that can throw up delightful pastoral vistas,
bush lemons (Citrus limon),
and crazy pandanus sunsets.
We arrived on dusk at delightful Clairview where the Great Dividing Range pushed the Bruce to the Pacific’s edge. Apart from the short leg from Marlborough to Tooloobah Creek we had been covering around 70 kms each day and were fairly sore. We pitched our tents at a free camping ground for an extended rest.
We spent the following day drifting along the mangrove shoreline, playing in rock pools,
and learning more about shellfish,
such as these mud whelks (Terebralia sp.), found around the hightide line on mangrove mud in north and eastern Australia.
We collected several, broke into their shells and cooked them on a public BBQ.
Delish! We followed the same procedure with mangrove snails (Nerita spp.),
which were also delicious, just more rubbery in texture.
There were no shops in Clairview, but on most days this little charity store on the beach opened to the public selling all manner of things including home-grown produce. Bless. Thanks ladies!
We bought a pinapple ($2), a dozen eggs ($3) and a whole pumpkin ($3.50) and feasted with our foraged shellfish,
and other bush tucker including panadus leaves,
and a bag of goodies Meg gleaned on a walk around the little town.
After a day of rest we left Clairview recharged with a morning’s bowl of oats, chia seeds, ginger, raisins and honey under our lycra,
ready for another morning’s ride and day of discovery.
Accessible waterlilies (Nymphaea spp.), and no possibiliy of crocs in this roadside dam about 20 kms north of Clairview!
We’d been wanting to taste the bulbous roots of this plant for some time, and we weren’t disappointed.
So many discoveries on this long leg from Rockhampton and I guess we were getting fatigued, a day’s rest probably wasn’t long enough at Claireview and after eight and a half months on the road we had our first accident. We ran into eachother trying to converse on the noisey Bruce and Woody, sadly, came off worst.
Meg was also brusied and battered and hurt her wrist.
We hobbled into Koumala and set up camp,
treated Zero to a dose of fleabane (Conyza spp.) that we found growing nearby,
and treated ourselves to another early night. We were, alas, repeatedly woken by trucks and cane trains operating all hours.
Macadamia nuts,
coconuts,
and even the promise of magpie goose (Anseranas semipalmata) eggs,
all mildly interrupted the dominant culture’s war on peoples’ health and the land as we rode into Sarina the next day,
and on to Mackay,
where the delightful Warm Showers host Jeanie met us and led us back to her home where we will rest and recover before returning once again to our home on the road.
Thank you Jeanie and Peppe for your über hospitality. It was so so lovely to meet you and two of your boys. Thank you for taking in our bedraggled selves and opening your peaceful, loving home to us,
especially when you where also hosting the delightful Igor and Luka, fellow cycle tourists from Switzerland and Italy.
We hope your life is filled with peace, too, dear reader. Much love from us in Mackay until our next update somewhere further north in a week or so.
