The Pride of Alaska

Befuddled by the multitude, the adventurer’s sight locks on an inn sign that reads “The Pride of Alaska” as if he were seeing it through a telescope. Although not knowing what significance Alaska has, should have or will have to him, he steps through the door with the relief that comes from recognition of the slightest familiar thing when nothing else is. Going along the low corridor to the stairs, he passes a doorway (with no door) to a room full of the smoke and noise of people playing cards and drinking. Bending his head, he carries on up the stairs to the attic room he has been given. Then, sitting on the bed, he remembers that nothing can be familiar, that any path is unknown.

The city

Before the city come the vegetable plots, the parks, the gardens. The adventurer finds himself approaching the walls along a path through flowerbeds and fountains, trimmed lawns and bandstands. A small stream ripples over pebbles. If night were not falling, he would stay to rest, to enjoy, to remember how to travel. He passes through the gates to the city almost without noticing. There is only one official standing there, who pays him no attention, maybe because he carries no goods. But within two streets he knows he has made a transition. The horde of people push him indifferently this way and that with insulting carelessness, and the noise of an incessant movement deafens him after the peaceful simplicity of the wilderness.

The Alchemy of Nature (R.J.CoLtd. (2))

He next comes across a clearing within the clearing, a near-circle devoid of plants and machinery, only a column of granite about three metres tall. If all the wrecks scattered around had been made of stone, the adventurer realises when he sees the column, then he would suppose this place to be a ceremonial site or burial ground. But so much industrial metal? A scrapyard? No, all this had been abandoned at the same time, had shared a common purpose, whatever it was. And why are there no plants growing in this centre, this concentric waste within a waste?
He walks round the column, finds a face on the other side that makes it a statue. The face has a benevolent smile, but a crafty eye. And the metal it is made of is different, not tarnished in any way. At the bottom there is a plaque:
“President of The Rolling Joint CoLtd”.
Why are there no plants here? Finally, he leaves the statue, muttering to himself:
“A man fearfully acquainted with the secrets of Nature.”
He keeps on. Maybe he can reach the city before nightfall.

Bayalora

Entering deeper into the clearing, he sees what looks to be a hut. The wood is rotten, the walls half-collapsed, the ceiling gone. Unsure as yet of poisonous fauna, he is reluctant to go into its overgrown shadows. He backs out into the light again. On the floor just inside the door he sees a book. He picks it up, but it falls apart in his hands. He tries to read a scrap on the floor and can just make out the book’s title printed at the top of the page and a few words in the middle:

A Bayalorian Primer
… contains the word “tayl”, signifying something that cannot by nature – that of the language or the ‘other’ – be described in the language. (Note:- it has a more familiar function signifying vagueness or unwillingness to be more precise, the use of which is becoming more common). The unique features of this word are further complicated by its indiscriminate use as verb, noun or adjective, offset slightly by the curious irregularity that it maintains its root form, regardless of the context, thus avoiding the complex conjugations that make this language so challenging.

He stands stiffly and moves on, trying to discern a path through the rotting metal figures.

The Rolling Joint CoLtd. (1)

Maybe not forty days in the wilderness, but it has been hard going, the progress constant but slow. At times it seems more of a wait than a journey, like at sea, when looking at the wake it becomes unsure if it is the ship or the water that is moving. The books only hint at how much patience an adventurer needs. Finally, on small rises, or where some natural feature breaks the vegetation, the adventurer makes out in the distance what may be his destination, the regular shapes of towers and walls. But well before he can close the distance, he finds a vast clearing littered with rusting machinery and slabs of metal. And in the newer grass and shrubs, what looks to be a surprising amount of weathered bones. He walks around the first crumbling, overgrown artefact. It is clearly a machine, but he cannot even begin to guess its purpose from its shape. On one plate, beneath the corrosion, he can still read stamped into the metal:
“The Rolling Joint CoLtd. Dunwich”.

From "The Travels of Marco Polo"

...After those three days of desert [you arrive at a stream of fresh water running underground, but along which there are holes broken in here and there, perhaps undermined by the stream, at which you can get sight of it. It has an abundant supply, and travellers, worn with the hardships of the desert, here rest and refresh themselves and their beasts.]…

…Now, if we go on with our journey towards the east-north-east, we travel a good forty days, continually passing over mountains and hills, or through valleys, and crossing many rivers and tracts of wilderness. And in all this way you find neither habitation of man, nor any green thing, but must carry with you whatever you require. The country is called BOLOR. The people dwell high up in the mountains, and are savage Idolaters, living only by the chase, and clothing themselves in the skins of beasts. They are in truth an evil race.

The old woman's story - elements (2)

The old woman now places the following objects:
a small stick with a loop at one end
a glass set square
a tin penny whistle with a plastic mouthpiece
a broken chess piece, hard to say which, and
some dried leaves tied together with twine

When the ritual is over, the gesture is repeated and the adventurer begins putting the things away. He supposes, given the rhythm of the event, that these objects go together into another pocket. He takes the silence of the woman as assent. He waits for more, but there is none. The old woman waves an arm towards one of the breaks in the palisade. The adventurer can see a path on the other side. He stands up, bows to the woman, and sets off. He is a man who knows how to read maps.

Learning

The old woman pushes the objects across to the adventurer, indicating he should keep them. He picks them up, holds up the clothes peg and looks at the woman. She cackles, gets to her feet, places her arms as if holding a dance partner (for a horrifying moment, he thinks it is an invitation), dances a few steps of a waltz, then sits down and cackles again. The adventurer realises he has been given something, although he does not know what. He tries holding up another object, to see if he will get another individual explanation, but the old woman cries out and gestures vigorously. He begins to put the things away, looking for different pockets to put the objects in. She repeats the gesture. The objects must go in the same pocket. These are his first language lessons. Smoke from a fire inside the hut drifts into his face with a smell that is universally nostalgic.

The old woman's story - elements (1)

The adventurer crouches in front of the old woman. When he is still, the old woman reaches into a bag on the ground at her side and pulls out objects, one by one, which she lays carefully between them. They are: a clothes peg, a map of Alaska, a small carved figure of a woman, a discoloured animal fang, very curved, and a shard of corroded mirror.
She holds up a finger, not to indicate a stop, but a pause. He thinks she is telling a story with the objects, but they say nothing to him. He has no past to give them meaning, no language to give them order. He is new born on this continent.

An opportunity to learn.

At first sight, the village is abandoned. The wooden huts haven’t been maintained, the palisade can simply be walked through in places. Grass grows through the packed earth in the central clearing. But inside he sees two things: a washing line carefully hung with coloured clothes and an old woman sitting in the doorway to a hut, almost fading into its darkness. He walks towards her, sensing an opportunity to learn.

First contact

Her name is evasive for you. Every time you get to know one name, another pops up. Each facet has its own name, and the facets are a kaleidoscope of glimpses and whims. Finally you know that you will never be able to pronounce her true name. You know you will never need to. Never even need to know if it exists.

Denying dichotomies

From the beach, a path invites you, if doubtfully, to enter the continent through the dense green. You soon come to a fork. Which should you take, left or right? Then you realise that, of course, (or you recognise) that it is a sign (or reminder) that your place is not on the path. Not this or any other path.
Now you're ready to be an adventurer.
You are ready to meet the inhabitants.

On Arriving

When the tide leaves him beached on the warm sand, and the new continent asks him to introduce himself, he only says:
"Geechie Wiley sang the Skinny Leg Blues."
And smiles.

General Advice

The good adventurer, when drifting, has no expectations or desires. That way, seeing things for the first time, he comes as close as he can to taking them for what they are. Floating there, the shore of the new continent passes by, and he lives everything it gives him.

First Steps

When exploring an unknown continent, all points of reference can be lost. This is the charm of exploration. Following paths worn by another, one unknown, who, sometimes, you think, looks out at you from the bushes, shows you glimpses of his creations.