A stab of lemon, delicious
A certain laziness overcame me in Queensland, and I lost count. Each day blended seamlessly into the next. Different themes, but the same principle - there was the road, and the next stop. The next waterfall…
Isabella Falls was erroneously marked on our map, off by a few kilometres; signs were misleading. We drove past the Falls, one of our planned stopovers along the dusty, bumpy Battlecamp road. Except for the falls, and the grinding of rock on buttocks, Battlecamp was otherwise boring. The monotony of dirt and sickly-looking trees was broken by mounds and mounds of termite nests – some of them dwarf us in girth and height. From afar they look like tombstones carelessly scattered across the dry landscape; a closer inspection reveals that they are teeming with life, crawling with termites from multiple crevices. Some mounds resemble cathedrals, hence the name cathedral termites. There’s an interesting story about why some mounds resemble a blade planted into the ground, with the blade axis aligned in the north-south direction. Termites are susceptible to overheating. During the morning, the easterly face of the blade heats up and the termites congregate on the westerly face. The heat of noon is alleviated by the small cross-sectional area of the blade. Inventive? Or could they have planned better?
The waters of Isabella creek lapped at our wheels as we drove past unknowing, but shortly we returned, because there was no other visible water in a five-kilometer radius. Aboriginal children jumped laughingly into the creek from an overhanging tree; they and their parents waved hi as we got out of the car. Downriver, the creek disappeared over an edge with a sigh. We have arrived. Lunch was sandwiches with roast chicken, cheese and vegetables. I had occasion to remember that today was my birthday. My family were mortified that they didn’t realize it before me; my sisters like to play the game of who-wishes-happy-birthday-first. I didn’t mind, but they do when it’s their turn, so I keep a hongbao with me everywhere I go. On it my mom exasperatedly listed all their birthdays, in case I ever forget again.
We spent that night in Laura, a dusty, sun-blasted town in the middle of nowhere. Townspeople get mail and medical help by helicopter. We didn’t have to agonize over which motel to go to – Quinkan Motel was our sole choice. Imps raised a few eyebrows as she surveyed the rooms, but nobody wants to sleep in the car. We asked the motel keeper what to do around here. He led us to a watering hole, where he often comes at dusk to fish Barramundi for sport. The hole was part of a river, but most sections of it had dried up in a long drought - there had been no rain since March. Most rivers have dried up, cattle are dying, fish are retreating to small isolated water bodies, their populations dwindling. ‘Nature survives,’ Quinkan asserted. But not that day. He cast out his fishing line with great precision, over great distance, then tugged the bait towards him using tiny, irregular motions, to mimic the movement of small fish. I watched him over and over, waiting for a Barramundi to bite. Quinkan hinted that it can be quite the spectacle. The sun set, and mom and dad were getting antsy. We left with a few consolation prizes. My closest encounter with a crocodile on that trip: claw marks on rocks beside the water, where wallabies come to drink. After much encouragement, I tasted the butt of a wriggling green ant. A stab of lemon on my tongue, it stayed a while, delicious.
That night on a different continent, Katie and Clayton were on their own roadtrip. While driving on a dark highway in Texas, she encountered ‘a very large piece of metal, like a mangled piece of shiny steel or corrugated piping.’ It covered the entire lane. She swerved around the obstacle instinctively, and the truck went off the road onto an ‘uneven grassy median,’ where the truck’s momentum carried it through ‘four, or five flips, maybe more.’ The roof over Katie caved in from the impact and she died instantly. I found out a week later.
A week before, I had sent an early Christmas gift, a book by Thomas Nagel. Within lay a chapter on brain bisection, which fascinated both of us. We were chatting about the brain while walking around the outer walls of the Summer Palace. I told her through facebook to expect the book. She wrote thank you, with what I can only imagine to be a great smile. I don’t know if she ever received my gift. The Summer Palace was the climax of our adventures in Beijing. It was nearly time to separate. We headed to the site of the Beijing Olympics, where I accompanied her as she bought her sweet breads and pastries. They remind her of Singapore, she said. We ate at a huge plaza sandwiched by two major roads; an enterprising businessman had set up shop there renting out rollerblades from his van. Katie complained to me that scientists were the worst socializers, that she’d never fit well in their crowd. Looking at myself, I don’t disagree. We said our goodbyes outside the subway. Her lips were puckered, the edges downturned; she has a gift for animation. “Keep in touch,” she said. I know how much she meant it. We hugged and parted. Why did I let her go so lightly? Why didn’t I tell her, stay with me, a little longer. I may never see you again.
Isabella Falls was erroneously marked on our map, off by a few kilometres; signs were misleading. We drove past the Falls, one of our planned stopovers along the dusty, bumpy Battlecamp road. Except for the falls, and the grinding of rock on buttocks, Battlecamp was otherwise boring. The monotony of dirt and sickly-looking trees was broken by mounds and mounds of termite nests – some of them dwarf us in girth and height. From afar they look like tombstones carelessly scattered across the dry landscape; a closer inspection reveals that they are teeming with life, crawling with termites from multiple crevices. Some mounds resemble cathedrals, hence the name cathedral termites. There’s an interesting story about why some mounds resemble a blade planted into the ground, with the blade axis aligned in the north-south direction. Termites are susceptible to overheating. During the morning, the easterly face of the blade heats up and the termites congregate on the westerly face. The heat of noon is alleviated by the small cross-sectional area of the blade. Inventive? Or could they have planned better?
The waters of Isabella creek lapped at our wheels as we drove past unknowing, but shortly we returned, because there was no other visible water in a five-kilometer radius. Aboriginal children jumped laughingly into the creek from an overhanging tree; they and their parents waved hi as we got out of the car. Downriver, the creek disappeared over an edge with a sigh. We have arrived. Lunch was sandwiches with roast chicken, cheese and vegetables. I had occasion to remember that today was my birthday. My family were mortified that they didn’t realize it before me; my sisters like to play the game of who-wishes-happy-birthday-first. I didn’t mind, but they do when it’s their turn, so I keep a hongbao with me everywhere I go. On it my mom exasperatedly listed all their birthdays, in case I ever forget again.
We spent that night in Laura, a dusty, sun-blasted town in the middle of nowhere. Townspeople get mail and medical help by helicopter. We didn’t have to agonize over which motel to go to – Quinkan Motel was our sole choice. Imps raised a few eyebrows as she surveyed the rooms, but nobody wants to sleep in the car. We asked the motel keeper what to do around here. He led us to a watering hole, where he often comes at dusk to fish Barramundi for sport. The hole was part of a river, but most sections of it had dried up in a long drought - there had been no rain since March. Most rivers have dried up, cattle are dying, fish are retreating to small isolated water bodies, their populations dwindling. ‘Nature survives,’ Quinkan asserted. But not that day. He cast out his fishing line with great precision, over great distance, then tugged the bait towards him using tiny, irregular motions, to mimic the movement of small fish. I watched him over and over, waiting for a Barramundi to bite. Quinkan hinted that it can be quite the spectacle. The sun set, and mom and dad were getting antsy. We left with a few consolation prizes. My closest encounter with a crocodile on that trip: claw marks on rocks beside the water, where wallabies come to drink. After much encouragement, I tasted the butt of a wriggling green ant. A stab of lemon on my tongue, it stayed a while, delicious.
That night on a different continent, Katie and Clayton were on their own roadtrip. While driving on a dark highway in Texas, she encountered ‘a very large piece of metal, like a mangled piece of shiny steel or corrugated piping.’ It covered the entire lane. She swerved around the obstacle instinctively, and the truck went off the road onto an ‘uneven grassy median,’ where the truck’s momentum carried it through ‘four, or five flips, maybe more.’ The roof over Katie caved in from the impact and she died instantly. I found out a week later.
A week before, I had sent an early Christmas gift, a book by Thomas Nagel. Within lay a chapter on brain bisection, which fascinated both of us. We were chatting about the brain while walking around the outer walls of the Summer Palace. I told her through facebook to expect the book. She wrote thank you, with what I can only imagine to be a great smile. I don’t know if she ever received my gift. The Summer Palace was the climax of our adventures in Beijing. It was nearly time to separate. We headed to the site of the Beijing Olympics, where I accompanied her as she bought her sweet breads and pastries. They remind her of Singapore, she said. We ate at a huge plaza sandwiched by two major roads; an enterprising businessman had set up shop there renting out rollerblades from his van. Katie complained to me that scientists were the worst socializers, that she’d never fit well in their crowd. Looking at myself, I don’t disagree. We said our goodbyes outside the subway. Her lips were puckered, the edges downturned; she has a gift for animation. “Keep in touch,” she said. I know how much she meant it. We hugged and parted. Why did I let her go so lightly? Why didn’t I tell her, stay with me, a little longer. I may never see you again.
posted by Dr. Broke at 1:11 AM
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