Elephant Trees

Elephant Trees are the most fantastic sort of thing. They're a bit like a baobab tree, huge, with full, bulging trunks and branches that curl around their crown in thick, fantastical wooden tendrils. Their leaves are thick and lush, a sort of wide oval, and dark green on one side, lime on the back. The seeds are pods, as large as the leaves, and the same sort of shape- although these bulge out, and if you tap them they sound hollow. They're hard and light brown. These seeds, on a healthy elephant tree, grow in abundance, rows of them dotting the uppermost branches, some 35 metres up. On a day in summer, perhaps set, perhaps not, all of these seed pods open, like a flower blooming, and from them tumble thousands of light balls of white fluff- like the heads of dandelion clocks the size of your fist, and they're caught in the wind and tumble away in a delicate, fantastical cloud.
Elephant trees are amazing things, they really are.
The only problem with them is that they don't actually exsist- I think.
Which is why me having a memory of watching one's seedpods open and tumble down a street in India whilst my Dad was getting cash from a bank is somewhat..disturbing. It's always been a particularly precious memory of mine- the glaring sun, shining like liquid silver on the backs of the half-broken cars limping down the street, the awe inspiring breadth and height of the tree, learning it's name from an indian man with clever eyes and a nice smile, and watching with baited breath as the seedpods cracked open simultaneously, and those dandelion clocks tumbled in a light wave through the wind, transforming that grotty, back end part of the city into something remarkable. It was such a special memory that around last Christmas, when my family and I were talking about various countries we've visited (both varied and numerous) that I felt the need to recount it in detail- finally unburdening myself of this beautiful memory that had been nagging at the back of my mind. As I finished I looked at their faces, smiling at the past, waiting for them to add their own view on the experience. Their perplexed expressions were not exactly what I was expecting.
I mean sure, if I'd told them pigs could fly, or the sky was green, or I really WAS sane, then maybe...well, probably, but a harmless, pretty little memory? I mean yeesh, I thought, I CAN remember some things guys... So when they explained that it had never happened- at least not when they were there, I suppose my own portrayal of perplexity mirrored theirs.
I suppose that's the thing about memories- they're slippery, glimmering, ephemeral things- like those gauze ribbons you get wrapped around fancy presents (yes, I'm thinking of a certain wonderful Australian aunt)- I mean really, think about your memories, really THINK about them- it's a collection of echoes into the now and the future, shadows, half-remembered songs, words, faces...You sort of know times, but even they are uncertain. The biggest resource for humanity to know where they've come from and what they've been- a collection of multicoloured scraps swimming in the etha of your thoughts, 'electrical impulses and chemicals', and apparently nothing more than something which can be easily explained. Yeah, right.
And of course they shouldn't be- because, in so many ways, memories are the building blocks of the soul, scaffolding, mortar, cement- of emotion and experience and lessons learnt, that make us react logically or irrationally, favour and ignore, develop and grow. They're as much a part of our 'heart' as everything in the now.
And of course- the most precious thing of all is the memories we're given: stories and scraps and words and sounds that grow in precious corners of our mind, for us to pass on to those we love and for them to do so too in turn- it's all very well being politically correct, and 'behaving in public', trying not to exclude other 'ethnic groups' (we're not allowed to call them races are we now?) But the treasures of our culture, the ballads and rhymes and poems and songs, surely they at least are worth preserving? It's one of the many things that make us human- the way we are nourished by a collective set of stories, wild and bright, as old as anyone can remember.
So maybe my Elephant Tree was a memory of a dream, or a daydream, or just a figment of my imagination grown in my subconscious to epic proportions, but that's not going to stop me from passing it on- from reminding everyone around me, those I love and those crazy enough to listen to me, that the world, our lives, each one of us is not only unique- we are a work of art 200 000 years in the making and still growing, still living, making magic and lives and memories, memories, memories- together a tapestry of life and triumph and loss and love, beautiful and surreal and as alive as we are.
At whatever stage of our lives- birth, childhood, adulthood, death and whatever comes after, we're part of something more already- we just need to remember from time to time.

Photos

It is a surprising but true urban myth that people living in the so-called ‘Third World’ think if their photo is taken, then their soul is captured inside the machine, and then pressed onto paper. They seem to be under the impression that their soul has been trapped: caged, you could say- and this will somehow prevent them from continuing to the next life after death.

I have no idea if this is true- having not yet died, it’s impossible to know. I do know that not everyone in the third world believes this- but there is an element of fear in seeing yourself on a piece of paper, and from a trip backpacking in India, I know at least a few uphold the superstition.

I’ll never forget when my mother took the photo of a young boy in India - his reaction was so unusual to me, it has remained in my mind clearly to this day: a feat which my maths homework has yet to accomplish. Mum took the photo whilst the boy watched curiously from his perch on a slightly rotting gate- when the flash went, he gave a little cry and threw his hands to his face, but realizing quickly there was no danger, he relaxed almost instantly. Mum came closer whilst he watched warily, although he smiled a little as she spoke to him (she’s good with kids). When she turned the digital camera round to show him his photo, he nearly fell off the gate in surprise- then he grabbed the camera and peered more closely at the tiny image, all but pressing his nose to the screen. He poked different parts of his face that he saw in the camera and rubbed his hair. Then he started to giggle, and laugh hysterically- he called his friends over, and all of them stared at the camera with expressions ranging from blank confusion to great amusement.

Eventually the boy gave Mum back the camera- smiling from ear to ear, and when we left, he and his friends chased after the truck, waving and laughing. His grandmother tried to give him to us; so he could have a better future, since he was an orphan and she knew she did not have much longer to live. We couldn’t take him, of course- but I wish we’d found out his name.

I only mention this because it seems a polar opposite to the far east’s obsession with photography. I’ve even seen the Hong Kong Chinese taking pictures of themselves and each other next to unremarkable office building, in Hong Kong! I’ve never understood it, and was only more bewildered when I had a close encounter of the Chinese Polaroid kind.

I was paddling in the sea, on a beach with some friends of ours- occasionally diving and jumping off the pontoon, but otherwise minding my own business- when two random Chinese guys came over and asked me, in poor and heavily accented English that was nonetheless polite, to take a photo with them.

At first, I presumed, so bizarre was their request, that they were asking me to take a photo of them with the camera a young girl who I could only assume to be their sister was holding. I gestured for the girl to give me the camera, getting out of the surf and wondering if my salty hands would damage it, when the boys shook their heads and repeated their request. Blushing and confused now, I asked them why, but they just repeated the question again, and I guessed that they either didn’t understand, or chose to ignore my own inquiry.

Unhappy and uncomfortable, I stood impassively, trying for a closed mouth smile as the girl took a photo with the boys on either side. Afterwards, they thanked me profusely, and I returned to paddling with our friends, waiting for them to burst out laughing or receive some loud exclamation from their friends or ask someone else for a photo. But they did none of the above, simply taking a few photos with each other and the girl before packing up their things and going to the pier to catch a boat back to wherever they came from.

I still don’t know what that was about- but I can see the convoluted attraction in a world based entirely upon artificial image in different places, with different people, at different times of your life- trying to preserve it on glossy paper, even as it slips away; because you can’t see it with unclouded eyes. A cage for our soul, or simply our eyes- perhaps the camera has provided a trap, albeit a pretty one, which is almost impossible to escape…Or maybe not: I wouldn’t know, I can only speculate.