Chapter One Before Time

Just as taste and sight can be sharper in youth, so also the sense of how things could be, and bearing the disappointment of realising the imperfections accepted by one's elders. Coping with this sense of helplessness is necessary, each experience nurturing a resilience needed for great trials to come.


Do you recall moments when your crystal clear vision of the world was somehow altered, and then diminished? I guess it must be a necessary childhood experience; a groaning readjustment to life's imperfections. Perhaps also it nurtures resilience in the face of helplessness and dependence.

My first memories of life in the gorge were the 'Skins' Ceremony. Until that day, I had lived a largely naked life, and felt that my skin was like that of the wolf, or caribou, our near neighbours. Apart from the frozen months, when we lived largely in the dark depths of our home, not doing much, I was not used to any strange things next to my skin. On the day of the Skins, the children and young people of our community gathered together.  It was a joyful time, and we all had fun.  It started with music and set dances, initiated by older children, and then copied by the younger ones.  As the dancing progressed, the older children retired, leaving younger and younger children pumping up dust, surrounded by the chants and percussive hand clapping of doting parents.  Eventually I was left, dancing alone, naked and insignificant, completely unabashed.  It was then that I realise that that day symbolised change. The whole community rushed towards me and lifted me high above their heads.  They marched around and around with a great sense of joy.  It seemed to go on and on, as if I were their only focus. When we had all quietened down, time having lost any significance or hold, Mosako, our spiritual leader, sat calmly on the meetings stone. He reminded us of our story, a story we all knew well by now, but a story that seemed to solidify across the years into a sturdy tool, such as leaning post, or a coat hook.  The new coat or 'skin' was now the focus of attention.  A freshly killed mountain goat, later to become our community meal, had given up its strong, thick hide for the oldest child of the troop.  All the young people were arranged in height order, girls and boys.  The oldest girl, in a slick move discarded her old skin, and with a modest and experienced move, put on the new skin, making it transform instantly from wolf kill, into a new creation.  Her long hair seemed to blend with the shaggy mane of the coat. Her body filling the skin, radiating a sensuous vision of beauty.  I was in love with my older sister, who was now the head of us children.  Despite the lavender oils, impregnated in the hide, Tilda had also taken on a new and strange pungent smell. Much to my disgust this was also my fate. As with dominos, the skins of our community all changed hands down across the spiralling chain of diminishing bodies. Until me, and I received the smelly tattered remains of my neighbours skin, worn over many years, soft and snug, but overwhelmingly smelly, and like a mangy dog. It had not dawned on me when I had tried to eat dinner away from smelly Sidina, that the following year, I would be taking on her fate. When the spider shed its skin, it became a tasty snack. But we were hermit crabs, and must gratefully receive this protective shell.

My kind mother attempting to alleviate the despondency I now felt, like an animal newly introduced to its tether. She washed the coat in urine, rinsing it in fresh spring water. At my request, she applied lavender oil so that I could always feel close to my big sister.  It was our tradition to tie the coat tightly round our bodies, especially in cold weather, with strips of red woven cloth. These strips were also used to preserve modesty, as loin clothes and breast straps.  The other tribes in our vicinity named us the Red Belts, which was quite acceptable. They also seemed only to be interested in the coils of red cloth we were able to trade, and we sometimes smiled to see what use they put them to.  We noticed them floating from flag posts, or in large hats, and even strung across village gateways like a garland.  For us this was like seeing your intimate clothing fluttering in the breeze for all to see, as if dignity didn't exist.

But of course, realising the immutable expectation of your loving community was one thing; many more challenging adjustments are always in store for each one of us.