Lostravellers Magazine #3

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EditorialA LT Just-So Story L

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It’s 5.49 on a Tuesday evening and we’re c­ rowded into the sweaty confines of the old Sunday School on Queen Street, waiting with the stacks of easels that populate the dead space outside the artists’ studio moonlighting as LTHQ.

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— ­ The door is shut, the key unresponsive. We each take turns wriggling it in the lock, shoulders shoving against the door, hoping for that miraculous moment of connection that will grant us entry – but the door is having none of it.

The air hangs hot and heavy, too still for the late autumn heat and Kyle goes to see if there is anyone downstairs that can let us in. He returns, a dull sheen of sweat on his forehead gleaming in the unmodulated glow of the strip lighting, a large brick in his hand.

“What the fuck is that for?”

Kyle grins, feeling its weight in his hand. We know. We weigh up our options, walking through every cop movie we’ve ever seen: “LT FREEZE!” Our childhood fantasies are interrupted by the arrival of Sarah with the sculptor from downstairs, near naked in his blue dungarees and a white goatee. It’s too late to call the landlord, a locksmith will set us back and we are b-r-o-k-e.

The sculptor’s efforts with our treacherous key are unsuccessful. Couldn’t we try the crawl space? In the corridor behind us a ladder stretches to the ceiling and I climb up, peering into the darkness. Before you can say adventure we’re all cramped under the roof, hotter still, following the beam from my bike’s repurposed light.

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I venture along the joists, half crouched in the dark, excited at the thought of some urban exploration and a 007 manhole entry. But it’s not to be. There are manholes to the other studios, but not to ours.

All we have is an unmoveable grate: a glimpse of the Promised Land, frustratingly close but beyond our grasp. Kyle has found a way onto the roof though and we peer out over the city, blinded by the evening sun.

If only we had some beers…

We give up and return to the foyer. Perhaps the magazine will have to wait.

The sculptor has other ideas, returning with tools and new determination. He begins banging at the door.

I’m not optimistic, but he seems to know what he is doing – the silver fox. Maybe he’s broken into tons of studios. Maybe downstairs isn’t even his studio, just the appropriated digs of a canny operator, here to offer his skills to a bunch of dreamers trapped in limbo; what luck! There is a loud clang and the door pops open - I wasn’t sure how, but it didn’t matter: we were in!

And THAT, ladies and gentlemen, is how this, the third issue of our humble publication came to be finished.

We hope you enjoy it. ♦

Mucho love, The LT crew.

Lostravellers Magazine 4 4 Volume .03

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Cover PhotoLaura Austin

Intro Page—02 Best of the Web Page — 06 Stoner’s Sojourn into the Emerald Triangle Page—08 A Conversation with an Artist: Adam Tan Page —14 Bush Karma by Campbell MacDiarmid Page—22

Chasing the North: by Laura Austin Page—28 Anthony Brownson We Rise At Dawn Page—36 Anthony Naulleau I will call you later Page—42 LT From Ja People Page- 48 Adios Page- 50

Contributors Barney Chunn, Daniel Kelly, Adam Tan, Kyle Boonzaier, Laura Austin, Kurt Tappeiner , Gustav Willeit’s , Andrew Underwood, Karim El Maktafi Anthony Brownson, Cairo Bean, Leigh Barr, Campbell MacDiarmid, Anthony Naulleau, Benjamin Fergus Carroll

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Best of the web

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— The world’s a big place and there’s plenty going on beyond these pages. Here’s a taste of what’s been happening on the LT blog; for more awesome than you can shake a laptop at, head to lostravellers.co.nz and cop the full story.

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Gustav Willeit’s photo series presents ‘fragments of life’ in his unique style - neither moralising nor interfering. As he puts it, ‘[It’s] one of the beautiful things of traveling. I like to catch the essence of a person. The human being is very particular.”

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2 — Andrew Underwood takes us through his experience of Burma, the new jewel in South East Asia’s crown: the friendly and inviting nature of its people, their connection with the land, and what the West might learn from them.

Kurt Tappeiner is a freelance photographer with a passion that drives him to fully immerse himself in his work. Portraits of children, women and the ever-present Sadhus are interspersed with snapshots of everyday Indian life, providing a compelling account of life in the colourful chaos that is India.

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3 ­— The first series by the talented Milan based Karim El Maktafi. The series entitled The Perfect Act comes from the tight-ropes, sun drenched vineyards and balancing balls of a travelling Italian circus. Karim documents this timeless art through a grainy film camera, gifting us a eerie peek into this fascinating sub-culture.

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A Stoner’s Sojourn: into the Emerald Triangle

by Leigh Barr

[Grow show, baby steps]

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After 8 months on the road in America and having invested every last penny into the psychedelic melting pot that was Burning Man, I was culturally enriched and financially broke. But being a seasoned traveller with a whole new insight into the American ‘game’, I was ready to hustle my way out of monetary woes.

My solution?

Get that Kush Cash.

— The standard rate for trimming ­marijuana is US$200 a pound. With my eyes set on that green gold, I bustled out of the Nevada Desert in search of the Emerald Triangle: Mendocino, Trinity and Humboldt - three Northern California Counties famous for their marijuana production. And with luck on my side, I ended up trimming some of the finest herb I’ve ever had the pleasure to handle - in exchange for stone(d) cold cash..

[Trimming tray]

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“The standard rate for trimming marijuana is US$200 a pound”.

I had heard the stories and fantasized about this dream job.

Getting paid to sit in the sun all day trimming (or ‘cleaning’) weed was something I thought I was born for. Why my career advisor never picked this up at school I don’t know. I also didn’t know how easy or hard it would be to find work. I thought being a single white female from New Zealand would help my cause, but could also get me into trouble. Stories circulated of women getting paid more money if they trimmed topless, or incidents where drugs and alcohol were used to lure women away from the trimming fields and into the bedroom.

I wasn’t prepared to sacrifice my dignity or safety for money, but where is the fun without a little gamble?

I was WOOFING my way down the West Coast, learning about organic methods for growing and harvesting fruit and vegetables. Learning to cultivate cannabis seemed like a natural addition to my newfound insights. Although medicinal marijuana is legal in California, farming for recreational use is still a felony. Needless to say my job hunting would be through the black market. I risked getting kicked out of the country if caught by the feds, but desperate times called for desperate measures. My experience was pretty chilled in comparison to the articles I’d read: Mexican drug lords pistol whipping and robbing growers; trimmers living in basements, crammed in 20 deep, cell phones taken off them and blindfolded so they had no clue exactly where in the rolling hills they were heading to work. I learnt through other travellers not to go East of Redding: where the real red neck growers operate. The closer you are to Highway 101, the safer you are. Problem is, most operations are at least an hour out from any place resembling a small township.

People go about finding work in all sorts of ways, and there is a noticeable influx of vagabonds in Northern California during harvest season. Steampunks would sit on the side of the road with cardboard signs reading ‘will work for weed’ or a simple outline of a pair of scissors. I knew there would be a surplus of willing workers, so decided to look outside of the regular — A Stoner’s Sojourn: into the Emerald Triangle

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towns and headed to a small haven with a population of roughly 200 people. I found a WOOFING gig through a fellow traveller and went to work on a small homestead with an elderly couple that used to live with Janis Joplin back in the San Francisco heyday.

They had a small Mom & Pop operation with 10 plants, but couldn’t afford to pay me to trim for them.

The woman in her late 70’s would hang her weed in the bedroom and then later sit at the kitchen table and trim away.

Having dinner and lighting up the pipe with two of the original 60’s hippies confirmed the old adage ‘truth is stranger than fiction’. After a couple of weeks on their homestead of paradise, I had met enough locals to be proven trustworthy and was taken to the green mine.

The first camp I went to I was lucky enough to have a NZ cohort with me; together we slept outside under the stars and woke in the morning to smoothies and scrambled eggs. We thought we had hit the jackpot.

‘Steve’ was a small town thug and new to the game. His operation of 80 plants was laughable to what I saw later in my trimming career, but it was a good start and his stuff was easy to work with. I finally understood those ‘dank’ and ‘juicy’ references in hip hop songs. Together we mused how “we were like the righteous gatekeepers to good ganja man”. However the initial pleasure of trimming up a decent sized bud soon passed and the novelty of swimming in marijuana wore off. It would take approximately 8 hours per pound to get the $200 cash. Although experienced trimmers can make 3 pounds in 16 hours, my male coworker struggled to make the daily pound.

As our boss said: “girls can’t skate and men can’t trim weed”. Humboldt County makes no effort to disguise its — A Stoner’s Sojourn: into the Emerald Triangle

[Pot Plants] booming illegal economy.

The local store had a notably large array of scissors, sharpeners, trimming trays and clear plastic turkey bags (which are filled with the produce). Even the local radio station KMUD played trimming themed music. They had special ‘Citizen Watch’ announcements, which would frequent intermittently alongside legalize it songs.

“This is KMUD with a Citizen’s Watch Report. There are three police trucks with ATVs on the back heading up Goose Creek Road. Okay? Repeat: Citizens Watch has just got a call from a concerned citizen. They said police were heading up Goose Creek Road about three minutes ago.”

Each time helicopters flew overhead everyone would stop and look at each other. They would continue their flight path and we would all get back to work. The adrenaline the sound of the propellers gave you was addictive. Every plane and helicopter became the feds in our paranoid minds.

While we trimmed we talked about escape plans into the Redwoods and the depths of the King Range.

I figured if the police came and I didn’t have time to run, I would simply claim ignorance. If that failed I could always claim victimization- but fortunately the moment never arrived. My coworkers at the next camp I worked at assured

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me when big stings happen they don’t bother with the trimmers, focusing instead on the mong lords of the operation. I didn’t know if they were making shit up or not, but it comforted me somewhat.

I felt relatively comfortable and treated it like any other seasonal harvest job. Like orchard picking in the Hawkes Bay, but with better pay and perks. Smoking while working was always an option, and you could definitely take advantage of the “one for you, one for me” mentality. Yet the more you smoked, the less you trimmed and I quickly realized I wanted the cash more than the high. The biggest unforeseen problem was the quality of the weed. That changes everything. If you’re stuck with big leafy stems, it takes longer to find the actual buds. On the other hand if your working with dry weed, it just crumbles and you struggle to put any of it in your turkey bag.

The ‘Blueberry Farm’ where I went to next was of a higher caliber and had been in the business for years. This place had a medicinal license for 99 plants and then a cheeky hidden field, which yielded another 500 plants. They actually did have blueberries, but I question the attention they were given.

Here there were roughly 10 trimmers; a few Americans, a German, a couple of Portuguese girls and an Israeli. Conversations were limited to your star sign, travel stories in Mexico and what you thought your dream the night prior meant about your current identity complex. The Israeli didn’t utter more than 5 sentences. He was slamming out 3 pounds minimum a day.

The rest of us were lucky to nag one pound with the dry stuff we were working with. After only 10 days into my lucrative career I decided to call it quits. My romantic notion of bathing in marijuana had ended and although I was stacking cash quickly, my mental health was being compromised. I couldn’t stand to sit down for another 8-10 hour day in a creaky chair for a measly $200. I had made enough money to keep me going for at least another month, and figured I better quit while I was ahead.

Looking back at my time on the weed farms, what would I do differently? Perhaps I would go back with a group of friends to keep me sane. But at the same time I realize how lucky I was to come out of that experience unscathed. Visiting a gangster’s paradise was a novel experience, and one I was dead set on. But I would prefer to enjoy smoking weed in a relaxed setting with friends than selling my soul to sit all day and trim it. ♦ — Jah Bless.

— A Stoner’s Sojourn: into the Emerald Triangle

[Drying room]

[The hills where operations hide]

— A Stoner’s Sojourn: into the Emerald Triangle

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In Conversation with the Artist: Adam Tan #WASGF

In Conversation is a chance to get behind the lens, canvas or pen of our favourite artists, and explore a little bit more about what makes them tick, their own take on their work, and everything in between...

— Tell us a bit about yourself: where are you from and what’s your medium? I’m from Auckland, New Zealand. My main medium is a pencil, wacom tablet or whatever else is at hand. How would you describe your style of artwork? West Auckland Sleepy Grunge Fantasy. #WASGF Where do you source your inspiration from? My enviornment is a big source. The quiet suburbs of west Auckland and the west coast beaches are a big influence on the atmosphere that I try to capture in my work.

People I observe around me: friends, family, people on the bus coming back from a hard day’s work, etc. The clouds and the way the light scatters across the sky.

— A conversation with Adam Tan

Boring stuff I guess, but I’ve always felt that the things we consider mundane can be the most revealing when you really try to look at it.

I feel your work holds so many layers of story telling, how has the style come about? I think it’s still developing but it really has come from the need to communicate and share the thoughts and ideas that are bottled up in my head. Countless hours of staying home and drawing instead of going out has surely helped. Curiosity is important.

Observing my environment and the people around me has always kept me grounded by questioning my surroundings and in doing so has simply made me want to express my own thoughts and feelings.

[Acquire]

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— A conversation with Adam Tan

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— “Countless hours of staying home and drawing instead of going out has surely helped.”

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You have all these wild juxtapositions floating throughout your more recent works, what has inspired this style? The juxtapositions come through my process. I can be a bit neurotic and tend to get caught up on the small things. So instead I try to have fun with it by playing with all these little questions and trying to find my own answer by forming a contrast between them all. What advice would you give those readers, hoping to follow in a similar path to your own? Just try to keep drawing and observing from your own life; your reality.

But I don’t think there is a straight answer to set you on a ‘path’, let alone my own.

Everyone is figuring out what their path is. I have no idea what I’m even gonna do tomorrow. What other artists/creative types are you inspired by? I really like animation. I have a deep respect for people who work in the animation industry. Every aspect of it is hardwork. I’ve been seeing a lot of new animators showcasing their own short films and it’s great to see the variety and experimentation in story telling that is really only capable of with the technology that we have today.

What is it you hope people feel when they see your work? Anything, really. I don’t expect people to feel any certain way but I do hope that they feel something. I think there is a consistent atmosphere that I try to convey, one that’s a bit weird and moody, and from that I think people react to it based on who they are and their type of personality. Most importantly I want people to react to the image they’re looking at, to take their time and consider what they see for themselves. Where would you like to see you and your work in the near future? I’d like to loosen up with my work and tell more stories. I want to use illustration to it’s full potential as a medium for visual communication and work on some short stories I have in mind. Either I’ll show it or I keep it to myself, but it’s the direction I’d like to head in. Is there a routine you go through when you create? Ie. Do you need a great thought to begin work, be in a certain state of mind or simply have a sharpened pencil to begin the artistic journey? A good environment helps. I draw in my room and it’s a mess. I always get in the mood to create after I’ve cleaned it though and everything is organized. I think that whatever inspiration you’re looking for is already an idea in your head, and you just need to start working for it to come through.

[Eximere] — A conversation with Adam Tan

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[Signal]

What are your thoughts on the New Zealand creative scene and mentality amongst NZ creative types? I can really only speak from my experience with the illustration community here. It’s pretty easy going and filled with good people.

However, It’s very small and so there’s a need to be an all rounder. It’s hard to get people that specialize in a certian field.

Because of this I feel that there isn’t really a sense of competition. Most of us are just doing our own thing and trying to have fun while making ends meet. Thankfully with the internet and social media it’s easy to get a broader perspective on things and to be a part of a larger community.

— A conversation with Adam Tan

As part of our interviews we also like to ask people about their tools, the equipment that helps support them in their adventures. Is there any one piece or trinket that you have a particular attachment? A pocket notebook and a pen.

Being in a different environment will make you see from a different perspective and it’s important to record those observations.

It just becomes second nature to take it out and draw or write whenever you see or experience something new. ♦

— Portfolio- http://tanadam.com/ Tumblr- http://adamtanart.tumblr.com/ Twitter- @adamtanart

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[Idle] [Gaudy] [Natmada The Exiled]

— A conversation with Adam Tan

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by Campbell Macdiarmid Illustrations by Benjamin Caroll

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Not long after I first took up hunting I ventured out on my own one weekend to a spot called Cannonball Flats.

It was named for the round boulders that covered the river flats, rough to walk over but fast to warm up when the sun hit them.

­— A perfect place to look for a deer in spring, when they might stay out on the clearings into daylight, feeding on the new grass. Only, it wasn’t spring. It was early winter and the flats had stayed frozen all day. So I didn’t see anything and spent the short afternoon shivering in the shade of the valley until the weather broke and I retreated back to camp.

The river rose quickly with the rain and it was a good two feet higher coming back than when I had crossed that morning.

It was dark and I was cold and soaked to the skin by the time I climbed the final rise to my desination. The hut squatted in a clearing on a terrace above the river, safe from the floods that periodically scoured the valley floor. It looked lonely in the deepening gloom and it seemed as though I would have the place to myself that cold July night.

The hut was built with timber from an ancient totara tree, whose stump formed a picnic table in the clearing next to the hut. The slabs had grown green with age, as the forest slowly reclaimed the structure. Inside, the lingering smell of woodsmoke greeted me.

The floor was dirt and there was just enough room for four bunks, a table and a bench in front of the fire.

— Bush Karma by Campbell Macdiamid

I soon had a blaze going and my wet clothes steaming on nails banged into the mantle.

Outside in the blackness the weather packed in further and the wind whistled through holes in the corrugated iron chimney. Rain lashed at the tin roof and plopped in steaming splashes in the ashes. When I went to the porch for more wood I could hear boulders rolling down in the riverbed and and I was shivering before I was back inside.I warmed myself by the fire, slung the billy and sat down to read by candlelight. Shadows danced with the yellow light up the walls. The light picked up the shine of the cross beams, worn smooth where the caress of countless hands had worn away the patina of smoke.

With my stove unused on the bench and head-torch left by the bunk, the hut’s atmosphere was uncomplicated by anachronistic pieces of modernity. It took a little longer to boil the billy and my eyes strained to make out Jack London’s words, but I liked it better. My billy needed a little more black.

After dinner I packed and smoked a pipe, a ritual I had picked up in imitation of the bushmen I read about. I was pleased again to have the hut to myself, so I could indulge

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my slightly ridiculous affectation in peace.The fire was burning low and my sleeping bag was calling when I heard a pair of boots clomping onto the steps of the porch, followed by another set.

The door opened and two dark figures loomed at the entrance. Then three smaller blurs tore into the hut in a storm of water and panting.

“Gedouduvityabloodymongrels,” something yelled as the dogs jumped onto my bunk, sniffed my pack and forced their muzzles into my crotch, all more or less at the same time. The dogs whined and panted and then hid under the bunk as a clump of wood sailed towards them from the door.

The dripping figures stepped forward into the firelight, revealing two very bedraggled men.

“Christ I’ve bloody near got hypafermyah,” one of the men said, dumping his wet jacket on the floor and knocking the bucket of water I had carried up from the river with a loud “fark”.

“River’s up,” the other pronounced.

“You crossed the river?” I asked, incredulous, shifting out of their way.

“What about the dogs?”

“They didn’t like it much. Jimmy shut the door.” Jimmy did as instructed and his mate introduced himself as Nate. Nate was part-maori, stocky and compact.

There was nothing superfluous about him, from his speech to his gear, which was was old but serviceable – a Swazi anorak, work boots, sheath knife on his belt. His air of competence contrasted sharply with Jimmy’s frenetic energy.

In the time it had taken me to clear

— Bush Karma by Campbell Macdiamid

some bench space, he had distributed the contents of his pack evenly across the room. He was dressed in an odd assortment of castaways and his boots were held together with duct tape. He was lanky and moved in jerks, his head swiveling, bulging eyes roaming over a long crooked nose and permanently curled upper lip. It was only when his eyes locked with mine momentarily that I realised he was cross-eyed. Nate stoked the fire and placed two cans of Watties Big Eats in the ashes to warm.

Meanwhile Jimmy spotted my stove and turned it in his hands like it had fallen from a spacecraft.

“Far, check this out Nate,” Jimmy interrupted his own monologue about how much mud there had been on the track, “This thing’s mean as.”

Nate grunted from over his can of ravioli, but Jimmy had already lost interest, having become distracted by my map case.

“Man did you actually buy a special case for your map?! Far out, I don’t even buy the maps. Nah man, I just get my friend to print them off the computer. Here, check this out.”

Jimmy produced a soggy clump of paper from his pocket.

“See it’s better because you get the whole map on one page.” It was true, Jimmy had printed the entire park map on a single A4 sheet.

“Yeah, that is pretty, ah, small,” I said, not wanting to get drawn into the relative merits of our navigational equipment.

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I needn’t have worried, Jimmy was already thinking of something else as he left his disintegrating map on the bench to toss another log on the fire.

“Oh man, I need to take a shit! I don’t want to go out in the rain.” Jimmy’s oilskin lay in a puddle by the door, where he’d dropped it. “Probably should have hung that up to dry eh,” Nate said as Jimmy dissolved into guilty giggles.

“Told you man,” Nate grunted.

He fixed me with one of his eyes, while the other roamed across the mantlepiece behind me. I thought he was waiting for me to reply and mumbled a vague agreement but he interrupted me.

“Man have you got some weed to smoke?”

His tangent confused me, until I realised his left eye had spotted my pipe, sitting ostentatiously on the mantle like a theatre prop.

“Ah no, ah, man,” I began, attempting to match his vernacular, “actually it’s for tobacco.”“Me and Nate like smoking weed when we’re hunting, it makes you sharp as. But we smoked all ours on the way in.”

He hadn’t, at least not since they had arrived, so I assumed that this wasn’t the first time. Leaving his jacket Jimmy rushed out into the night clad in his holey thermals. Nate scraped the last of the sauce from his can, sat his can by the fire and took out a pouch of tobacco to roll himself a smoke. Eventually Jimmy returned, giggling even louder than before, carrying an armload of wood from the porch. He ate his meal noisily, pausing only once to announce: “Fark that’s good.” He finished and seeing Nate’s can, set his neatly by it on the hearth, turning them to align the labels outwards. Then he threw another log on the fire. It was getting hot. He rolled himself a smoke and there was a brief moment of quiet as we all stared into the fire.

I noted to myself that at least they didn’t have firearms and subconsciously looked towards the door, where my own rifle was propped up. Like a homing missile though, Jimmy’s wandering eye picked up the trajectory of my gaze and honed in on its target.“Far that’s a mean sniper gun eh?” Jimmy said moving in to get a better look.

“Leave it alone Jimmy,” Nate grunted, belching into the fug of tobacco smoke that was gradually descending from the ceiling.“Yeah all right Nate, I was just having a look.” Jimmy sounded aggrieved. “Bet you shoot heaps of animals with that thing eh?”

“Ah, yeah, I shoot a few,” I replied, sticking strictly to the truth.

“See man,” Jimmy began, “I believe in bush karma. What you give to the bush, the bush will give back to you.”

It seemed his cigarette had him in a contemplative mood.

“See man,” Jimmy began, “I believe in bush karma.

What you give to the bush, the bush will give back to you.”

— — Bush Karma by Campbell Macdiamid

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At that point in time I had shot precisely two animals, one of them being the overgrown pet pig that the farmer who had sold me the rifle had insisted I “test it out on”. He’d wanted to get rid of the pig, and assumed that as a young hunter I would be eager to “blood the rifle”.

Anyway, that’s a different story.

“Man Nate, I reckon we’d get heaps more pigs if we had guns eh?”

If Nate agreed with Jimmy’s hypothesis he didn’t show it. “Heaps more I reckon. Deer too probably. So Hugh, what do you do for a job?” Jimmy segued abruptly, having briefly run out of conversation fodder.

“I’m a, ah, writer. You know.”

“Eh? Like you, write stuff. For a job?”

“Yeah. Well sort of.”

“What kind of stuff?”

“Well anything really. Whatever people will pay me for, you know?”

“You reckon you’d write about us?”

The question took me by surprise.

“Um, well, I hadn’t thought about it, but ah, I guess so.”

“I never met a writer before eh. Just know guys like Nate; farmers. I reckon that’d be mean to be in a book, eh Nate?”

If the size of the cloud of smoke that suddenly enveloped his head was anything to judge by, Nate reckoned so too.

“What do you do Jimmy?”

“I catch eels.”

A quintessential good keen man, Jimmy also trapped possums, — Bush Karma by Campbell Macdiamid

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“Me and Nate like smoking weed when we’re hunting, it makes you sharp as. But we smoked all ours on the way in.”

laboured on farms, and when he could borrow experience that day the idea wasn’t without attraction and Jimmy wrote his name and phone number on my map for me. Jimmy 44ls, it read.

“Jimmy eels,” he said. “So you remember it’s me.”

The smoke was making me light-headed but Jimmy and Nate showed no signs of turning in. I made my excuses and rolled over to face the wall while Jimmy stoked the fire with the last of the wood.

The hearth overflowed with burning logs and I was hot in my sleeping bag.

Nate rolled another smoke while Jimmy played a Black Eyed Peas song on his cell phone. When Nate finished his cigarette he rolled another and when the song ended Jimmy played it again from the beginning. It was a long night.

Around 4am the noise started again as Jimmy and Nate crashed about the hut packing their bags in the fading light of a single halogen torch. Finally it died completely and they sat in the dark, pinpointed by the red glowing dots of their cigarettes, waiting for dawn. They had a long wait. Neither had a watch and Jimmy’s phone had died after playing “Boom Boom Pow” for the umpteenth time. Jimmy stood and peered out the window to inspect the sky.

“It was lighter five minutes ago,” he said.

“But then it got dark again.”

I must have slept again because when I next awoke it was light and they were gone.

I was in no hurry to get up and lay in my sleeping bag luxuriating in its warmth

and the quiet of the cool hut.

They had left the door unlatched though and it creaked in an imperceptible breeze. The smell of wet dogs and cigarette butts hung in the air. Eventually I got up to make a cup of tea but realised there was no water in left the bucket and they had burned all the wood. I scowled at the fireplace as I kicked my wet boots on.

Two empty cans and a pile of wrappers stared back at me.I stepped outside into the dripping morning to get water.

As I came around the corner of the hut, the cause of Jimmy’s giggling the night before confronted me. In my path lay a large turd. Coiled proudly, it was inescapably human in origin.

I had plenty of time to consider things as I dragged in a load of wood and shovelled out the ashes from the fireplace. Sweeping the floor and wiping down the table I mulled it over some more. On the long walk out I was still thinking about it.

Even looking back on now it I’m unsure.

Was Jimmy full of shit? Or was I just accumulating Bush Karma?

Campbell MacDiarmid is a journalist based in Cairo, Egypt.

You can read more of his work at astrangereverywhere.com

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#Adventure

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Laura Austin is a Los Angeles based photographer with super human E talent. These stunning images document her recent trip through the other-worldly landscape of Iceland, complete with pocket notebook, pen and a decidedly Wes Anderson-esque red hoodie.

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http://lauraaustin.4ormat.com/

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— Chasing the North: Laura Austin

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— Chasing the North: Laura Austin

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— Chasing the North: Laura Austin

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— Chasing the North: Laura Austin

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We Rise At Dawn Anthony Brownson N

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Travelling Doctor

We rise at dawn, body clocks in tune with the rhythm of the sun. Rolling out of bed seems easier here, as though one wakes with the momentum of the day. We splash water on our faces, pull on some clothes and head out for our morning run. Winding alleyways lead us through the village surrounding the hospital.

— We rise at dawn- Anthony Brownson

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We attract many stares from the locals.

Even though we pass by every morning, they can’t understand why we ‘mzungu’ spend precious energy running around in a big loop only to end up in the same place.

Women are outside sweeping the red earth floor, dust rising and trailing through thatch fences. Naked children spot us and seek safety behind their mothers. We smile and wave; they tentatively reciprocate and then hide their faces in the cloth of their mother’s skirt. On we go, weaving out of the alleyways and on to dirt paths dissecting endless fields of maize. The farmers hear us approaching and stand to say hello, their faces popping up above the level of the crops, flashing white teeth and clapping us along. They are swinging handheld fires around in a circle, sucking air into the chamber, fueling the coals with oxygen: ambers glowing ever brighter with each swing.

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We gain momentum, muscles warming with the day. Fields of cotton flow by, each plant with its crown of fluffy white fibers ripe for the picking. Up the hill and around the corner we look out over the valley. Plumes of smoke dotted out across the landscape, rising and melting into the crisp morning air. Now we are slowing down, negotiating our way down through the rocks, over the stream, checking our footwork on the slippery moss. A man is washing in the water. Twin sisters are splashing one another. We gather speed, pushing through the pain and up the hill leading out of the fields onto the main road. School children are on their way to school.

Dressed immaculately in clean pressed uniforms, you can see the pride they take in gaining an education.

A man on a bicycle approaches, his wife on the handlebars having the time of her life. They fly down the hill at full speed, almost losing it on the corner: she shrieks; he laughs. We run on, up the slope to the crest of the final hill, the last hurdle before an easy finish. Winding down back through the village, nurses are on their way to work: “Mwauka bwanji?”

“Bueno mwauka bwanji.”

A stretch, a cold shower, a quick breakfast in the mess hall and we are ready to start the day’s work at Saint Francis Mission Hospital, Katete, Zambia.

— We rise at dawn- Anthony Brownson

The medical ward is a swarm of people.

There is a group huddled around one of the beds. Two women are on their knees at the bedside. They are wailing; this can only mean one thing. I have no idea what they are saying yet somehow understand every word. The body is draped in a white blanket and transferred onto a stretcher, which the men stoically carry outside on their shoulders.

The women are so absolutely distraught that their knees buckle, bringing them to the ground. They don’t want the body to leave the ward because they will then have to accept death has come.

We start rounding on the sick patients in the ICU. You never know who will still be there in the morning. These patients present to hospital so late in their illness that often we can do nothing but support them; keep them comfortable until their time is up. The harrowing sounds of the grieving woman are still ringing in our ears, making it hard to concentrate. I’m standing over the bed of an incredibly emaciated 10-year-old boy. Flies buzzing around his head, IV lines stuck in both arms, drenched in sweat and stuck in a hospital with death and disease all around, you could forgive him for feeling melancholic. Yet he is smiling from ear to ear, ravenously devouring his breakfast.

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Winding down back through the village, nurses are on their way to work: “Mwauka bwanji?”

“Bueno mwauka bwanji.”

He is making headway. Trypanosomiasis has left him bedridden for the last two months, alternating between a coma and fits of raging seizures. Now he is sitting up, feeding himself and regaining strength. His recovery reminds us that St Francis is not just some place where people come to die. We have been sneaking him leftover food from the mess. Nshima, a thick stodgy porridge, is the foundation of every Zambian’s diet. It is great for bulking up meals but quality protein is hard to come by in these parts. His mother hands me the empty bowls from the previous evening. She is so thankful, so deferential that I blush. She has been keeping vigil the whole time, sleeping on a mat on the floor beside the bed. When we approach to examine her son in the mornings, she quickly stands, folds away the mat and ushers us to the bedside: “thank you doctor, thank you doctor.” I can’t help but feel like a fraud, even though it is only a few months until I finish medical school.

Lying in the bed next-door is an old man in urinary retention. When he arrived his abdomen was so distended he looked 7 months pregnant. He had not passed urine in a week. He had travelled all the way from Mozambique to seek medical attention: four days by ox-cart, bicycle and foot across the border and into the Eastern Province. The look of relief on his face when we managed to catheterize him is indescribable.

He is gearing up for the journey home, packing his handmade portable radio into his bag. The other patients are sorry to see him go. The workload here is relentless. With so many people to see, the patients are a flowing river of African faces. Except you are the one moving. Small peculiarities help differentiate one from the other: the man in the yellow ski jacket; the boy with a Zambian flag on his hat; the woman who speaks English. A man rumoured to be one hundred years old is the ward comedian. Four generations of his progeny are with him, doubled over in stitches.

Every line is a thigh-slapper. Other visitors begin to gather around. He is completely blind and very hard

— We rise at dawn- Anthony Brownson

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of hearing, but you would never know from the way he commands an audience. He is telling well-known stories, but the art is in the delivery.

The terminal prognosis has not dampened his spirits: a sure sign of a life well-lived.

We are walking through the local markets at lunchtime with the sun at its zenith. The stores are indistinguishable from one another.

Constructed from assorted pieces of wood, they all sell the same goods: soft drinks, phone credit, sweets, biscuits; everything in packages.

Plastic bags and food wrapping swirl around in the dusty air. Each storefront has its own radio and African pop music bombards us from all fronts.

Different songs blend into one blaring, nauseating cacophony of sound. Kids are dancing, adults are drinking, I am far too sober to handle it. The heat, the sounds, the smells are very disorientating. We seek relief and make a turn through a concrete archway and down a shaded alleyway.

The fresh produce markets are ahead and we remember why we came.

Rows of benches stretch out before us: the benches are the easels, fresh fruit and vegetables the artwork.

Women dressed in kitenge sit crosslegged behind their display of goods.

— We rise at dawn- Anthony Brownson

Round fruit is presented in little pyramids of four: three forming the base, one perched on top.

Try to buy one individually and expect consequences. Apple, oranges, passionfruit, watermelon, tomatoes, lemons; how did such a dry place grow these treasures?

Groundnuts are perhaps the most precious of all. These small, red-brown legumes are the main source of protein for much of southern Africa. A green leafy vegetable which the locals call rape [ra-pae] is heaped alongside sacks of maize. A young girl is sitting in front of her mum, rolling balls of nshima in her hand, sweeping up puréed rape and groundnuts. Most of it ends up on her shirt, the rest on her face.

Mum is platting her hair, taming the thick wild curls into ordered patterns. I offer money for some fruit. The girl extends her arm offering me the nshima in her hand.

Mum and I exchange smiles, “Zikomo kwambiri (thank you very much).”

Children are huddled around a television.

There must be fifty kids packed into the room. Everyone is trying to get a look: the nimbler ones up in the rafters, boys elbowing one anther to get a look in. As we pass by, fifty pairs of eyes look up and stare at us. We stop, frozen in the dirt. I feel like a deer in headlights. But they are not staring out of hostility, nothing to make us uncomfortable. It’s a collective curiosity, saying “well that’s something you don’t see everyday.”

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No one says anything. After a few seconds we are released from their gaze; our tension dissipates. A girl invites us in. We squeeze through, managing to find space at the back. They are watching a typical Nigerian drama show: domestic arguments, doors slamming preachers shouting and people speaking in tongues. They are captivated.

I have already been subjected to hours of these shows while the bus up from Lusaka, so naturally I am nonplussed about the lack of viewing space.

We check our watches and politely leave. Walking through the courtyard towards the hospital, women are sitting in the shade of a medlar tree.

Nursing babies, weaving mats, they are listening to a lady who is holding forth, gesticulating with typical Zambian flair. What is the topic of discussion I wonder?

I’d love a translation. How would they compare to, say, the chat of a Remuera Bookclub? Chichewa, with soft consonants preceding strong consonants, like the dull first heart sound before the snapping second, feels like a language drawing the listener’s attention through its rhythmical quality as much as literal content: form as much as function.

We are back on the ward making our evening rounds.

I am examining a boy’s reflexes when suddenly the — We rise at dawn- Anthony Brownson

lights go out. The electricity here is notoriously unreliable and power cuts are frequent.

Not a problem during the day, when the bright Zambian sun floods the ward - but it is pitch black now and I can’t see a thing. Before we could explain to the family that we’d have to return tomorrow, Sister Mary had returned with a candle.

There is something magical about practicing medicine by candlelight; the physician, having to bend close to see the patient, Sister Mary in her habit, cupping the glowing candle, the flickering light illuminating the bedside. We automatically speak in soft voices, as though anything louder might blow out the candle. It is almost sad to say that soon there is to be no more of these scenes at SFH. A new solar power system is being installed which will generate ample power to run the hospital and any excesses will feed back into the grid, earning the hospital some much needed capital.

I often find myself drifting off, thinking about the experience of being in a place like this, rather than focusing on the patient at hand. This boy is another victim of the devastating HIV epidemic.

He has cryptococcal meningitis: a characteristic infection of AIDS and has been crippled after a botched lumber puncture at a rural health clinic. We don’t know how much damage has been

done to the nerve roots but are treating the infection and hoping for a good recovery.

We wish good night to armed guards manning the gate and are wearily making our way home when we are drawn towards the chapel. The choir is in full force, raising the roof, rejoicing for all and sundry. The hallowed voices washed over us and we are completely under their spell.

Entranced, eyes closed, relinquishing control, we are pulled inside. The choir has their heads bowed, waiting their turn, stepping side-toside, clapping the rhythm.

The group leader is praising the heavens. She raises her arms and the choir women lift their heads and respond.

The harmony is monumental.

More notes than I thought ever existed. Individual voices come together and redefine the power of music.

This is something else, music in another dimension. I’m the fish who became aware of water, the baby who understands that he is looking in a mirror. Everything is in a new light. Whatever they are singing about, searching for, I am totally on board. Life is hard for these people and sometime I wonder how they manage to maintain such good spirits - it is magical moments like this that make it all clear. ♦

Anthony Brownson is a Doctor from Auckland.

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I will call you later in Jerusalem.

Anthony Naulleau —

Interview

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Anthony Nalleau is an instant sketcher hailing from the West of France, where the Atlantic Ocean pushes up against Europe.

In this series he leaves his native land behind for the historic centre of Jerusalem and all its religious leanings. Lostravellers got in touch to ask Anthony some questions about his use of watercolours and china ink, and get a sense for his take on the life of a travelling artist. His answers are reproduced in their original French below, and for those of us a little less Francophone, in English too. ­

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— Tell us a bit about yourself: where are you from and what’s your medium? Bonjour tout le monde, je suis un croqueur d’instant et urban sketcher. Le croquis pour moi est comme une seconde respiration. Je viens de l’Ouest de la France en dessous de Nantes, proche de la côte Atlantique. Mon outils de prédilection sont l’aquarelle bien sur et l’encre de chine.We love to hear about adventures. What’s the coolest place you’ve been recently? What was cool about it? Un de mes derniers souvenirs marquant, c’est une rencontre incroyable à Williamsburg, quartier hispter et super créatif de Brooklyn. J’ai ressenti un réel coup de foudre pour cette ville. C’est un peu un manhattan old school plein de charmes ou l’inspiration est partout. Les couleurs des maisons et l’architecture rappelant les années 70 sont à tomber. Je me souviens d’un football improvisé avec une bande de polonais super cool la nuit que je venais de rencontré 5 minutes avant. Super état d’esprit et puis un sentiment de liberté incroyable avec pour arrière plan, une de plus belles vues de Manhattan qui soit, avec les lumières de la ville brillantes comme des bijoux. Sublime!

— I wiil call you later in Jeruselum

Tell us a bit about yourself: where are you from and what’s your medium? I am an instant sketcher originally from West of France, close to the Atlantic Ocean. My favourite medium is watercolors off course and china ink. We love to hear about adventures. What’s the coolest place you’ve been recently? What was cool about it? The latest really cool place I have been is “Williamsburg” in Brooklyn. It’s look like a older Manhattan full of charming and inspiration is everywhere. The color of houses and architecture reminded me of the 1970’s and is so lovely. I remember a football night session with Polish guys I had just met 5minutes before. They had great spirit and a feeling of freedom within background a perfect global view of Manhattan by night and the lights like bright jewels. How would you describe your submitted work? I always try to catch the time and the put on my line sensibility and everything I feel during my drawing. If you can feel the same things, I reached my goal. ^_^

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“ 2 years ago, I was sitting down on one of my favourite little streets in Montreal. I was painting with my watercolors and water brush ”

How would you describe your submitted work? IJ’essaye toujours de capturer l’instant présent et de mettre ma sensibilité et tout ce que je ressens dans le dessin.

Si vous pouvez ressentir tout ça alors j’ai atteind mon but.Travel can be a powerful way to get perspective. What’s the best thing being away from home has taught you? Quand tu es loin de chez toi, tu es plus a même de sortir de ta zone de confort et de redecouvrir les choses avec un oeil frais et un regard neuf sur la réalité qui nous entoure. Tout devient inspirant et on est plus ouvert pour rencontrer des nouvelles personnes et produire des choses plus ambitieuses par soi même. Pour résumé, je dirais que voyager est pour moi le meilleur façon de grandir et d’évoluer dans son art pour devenir qui l’on est réellement au fond de soi — I wiil call you later in Jeruselum

Travel can be a powerful way to get perspective. What’s the best thing being away from home has taught you? When you are away from home, you have to go out your comfort zone and it’s easier to have fresh eyes and look at your new reality.

Everything is inspiring and your naturally become more open to meet people and do some things more ambitious when alone.

To resume, we could say: travel is the best way to grow up and become really what you want to be. There is a certain joy in being lost: the absence of a familiar frame of reference enables us to engage in different patterns of thought – in a word, to be creative. How would you define a Lostraveller? A Lostraveller is like a mad scientist- thirsty for knowledge and ready to discover new ways to make art and reinterpret the reality by our sensitive

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There is a certain joy in being lost: the absence of a familiar frame of reference enables us to engage in different patterns of thought – in a word, to be creative.

How would you define a Lostraveller? Je comparerais un Lostraveller à un savant fou assoifé de nouvelles expèriences et toujours prêt à découvrir de nouvelle manière de produire et de réinterpréter la réalité des choses avec leur sensibilité propre. Do you feel that travel affects your creative process? Has this been good or bad?

Je ne vois uniquement que des choses positives pour la créativité à partir loin de chez soi car l’art est basé sur les nouvelles expériences,les rencontres et le partage.

Travellers are always spinning yarns.

What’s the most outrageous story you’ve heard on the road? il y’a deux lorsque j’étais à Montréal, j’étais tranquillement assis dans une ruelle dos a la rue pietonne principale, un des endroits les plus beaux et atypiques de la ville. Et une voiture de police passe derrière moi au ralenti, puis une deuxième fois,puis une troisième, ça commence à faire beaucoup. Et là une policière vient finalement me voir pour me — I wiil call you later in Jeruselum

look. Do you feel that travel affects your creative process? Has this been good or bad? Always positive things for creativity far away your home, cause art is based on new experiences, meetings and sharing.

Travellers are always spinning yarns.

What’s the most outrageous story you’ve heard on the road? 2 years ago, I was sitting down on one of my favourite little streets in Montreal. I was painting with my watercolors and water brush, and to clean it [the brush], I sometimes use my arm.

A policewoman came up to me and asked if was drugging myself. I answered I was just sketching and she finally said ok and too keep going. The policewomen replied.

“Sorry for that, it’s because of on old woman who told us you was taking drugs on the street in the middle of the afternoon, we are gonna find her and kick her ass”. As part of our interviews we also like to ask people about the equipment they had that helped support them in their adventures.

Was there any one piece or trinket that you became particularly attached to?

One paint brush with blue hair, perfect for watercolors. >>

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demander si je me piquait dans la rue. En fait j’étais en train de rincer mon pinceau à eau sur mon bras. Elle m’a dit que c’était une vielle dame qui m’a dénoncé. Elle m’a dit qu’elle allait la retrouver et lui boter le cul.Souvenir incroyable. As part of our interviews we also like to ask people about the equipment they had that helped support them in their adventures.

Was there any one piece or trinket that you became particularly attached to? un pinceau au poil bleus parfait pour utiliser l’aquarelle et depuis peu un stylo plume d’écolier gris avec des photos de chatons dessus. ♦

You can see more from Anthony online at the following sites: http://lacritiquecinedeppm.tumblr.com/ http://anthonynaulleau.tumblr.com/ https://www.behance.net/titepattemaladroite

— I wiil call you later in Jeruselum

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— I wiil call you later in Jeruselum

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— There is a certain joy in being lost: the absence of a familiar frame of reference enables us to engage in different patterns of thought – in a word, to be creative. As part of our interviews we asked all our travellers to define a lostraveller and what the idea meant to them personally.

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I think its getting harder and harder to actually get ‘lost’ whilst travelling. My mother travelled through Europe and Israel for several years when she was in her early twenties and only wrote home 3 times. She was lost, isolated and removed from her life back in New Zealand and forced to live in the now with whoever or whatever was there. Now we are always connected, with an urge to keep informed about global events, post updates and keep in touch with friends and family. I want to soon go on an actual lost adventure where I feel out of the loop and disconnected from the world I know. No doubt I’d have a richer overall experience and appreciate things much more at the end of it all.

— Ivan Fuchich- Photographer/Dangermouse A Lostraveller is a drifter man, it’s what I aspire to be!

[The Lostraveller]

Andrew Underwood- Eco Gangster Accepting.

all family.

­ — Brian Caissie - Photographer Hmmm, good question. A Lostraveller, the word to some may seem negative or scary but to me it’s a learning tool. I like to compare it to the library, I can’t imagine going in there everyday and only reading the same book while millions of books are in your view but you don’t look at them, that would be a shame. It’s been good both for pushing photography, and myself, to working with people.

Most of my trips are with large crews of friends, sometimes 25 people for a month, so you learn to deal with people and be patient.

— Karim El Maktafi- Skux Italian I think that a Lostraveller is someone who wants to experience and make known to others what is beyond their spaces. A person who temporarily goes bush and walks away to vent there creativity and freedom.

— Hugo Clark - Silver Fox/ Travelling Writer Honestly, corny as it sounds I’m a happier person when I travel. Whether it’s in the sun or the snow (But the sun sure as hell helps), it is exhilarating tracing unknown paths. The idea of travel not to relax but instead as a way to push yourself out of routine is imperative in life. Time goes faster when you’re doing familiar tasks, a month ‘on the road’ can seem like a year when every day is something new and unusual. ­— Wanyasi: Nomadic Gardener In my mind Lostravellers are a band of travelling Mexican musicians, all big bellies, mustaches and smiles, clothed in yesterday’s shirts and shoes with toes that peep out the end. They aren’t concerned with tomorrow’s problems – theirs are lives lived in the present, rich with all the contentment such family brings. And when we travel, their struggles are our struggles. Their shoes are our shoes, and the toes that peep out the end are our toes too.

Their smiles are our smiles – and in this way, we are

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Adios from Lostravellers

That’s all there is folks – another issue done and dusted; fingers crossed it was as good for you as it was for us! We’ve got plenty on our plate for the next few months: another issue, dreams of going physical and plenty of adventures to boot – so stay tuned, and stay hungry.

Mucho love, Kyle Boonzaier Barney Chunn Daniel Kelly

—01 Keep the peace Lostravellers!

Ps – for any readers out there fortunate enough to be off on adventures of their own, get in touch! We’d love to hear what you’ve been up – check out our submissions page at http://lostravellers.co.nz/submit/ and send us some stuff: lostravellersare@gmail.com – and in the meantime, travel safe ♦

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