a secret migration

Yesterday I took a drive with a few friends of mine who are lucky enough to have a brand-spanking-new 4WD. We drove up to Mt Gahavisuka; it used to be a national park and now, well, although there is no more government funding it still seems to be a national park. Driving up there is no average Sunday drive: the road is dirt, with a lot of clay-based sections. The car tipped and bounced and shook as we crept along crevices and slid across rivulets; we needed those extra gears.

When we reached the top we got out and went hiking down and then around the small mount. The paths were well kept, and though it was muddy – and here and there there were landslides obscuring the way – it was a pretty and pleasant walk. It looked like a young-ish rainforest, with lots of pandanus tress, vines and moss covering skinny tall trunks; creeks and little waterfalls were running with clear and cold water. We didn’t see any animals and we could hear some birds but not many; I imagine most wildlife is killed for food. We didn’t know where the paths were going, and when the path branched it always felt a bit funny to make a choice – we didn’t know which track led where, and anyway we were just out for a walk, it didn’t matter.

Eventually we came to a small clearing. There was a cement square, making either a grave or a memorial; carved into the square was a name – Grainger – and birth and death dates (1930s – 1989). Nothing more, in this remote spot in what felt like the middle of a forest.

Continuing on, we climbed upwards and came to another clearing. Here were the remnants of a building’s framework. It was an old, abandoned orchid farm. It must have once been beautiful: you could make out the carefully arranged path that skirted the area, and you could peer through the overgrowth and catch glimpses of a view of the Eastern Highlands and Chimbu mountains. There were a few orchids remaining, and four were in flower. Scattered around were tags of thin metal, carved into which were the names of the places the orchids had come from, and the height at which they grew (it varied from 1500 – 2200m; we were at about 2000m). The dog tags of the lost and fallen orchids.

I don’t know anything about the orchid farm, or Grainger, or whether they were connected. It was a suitable place, though, for that orchid thief from Adaptation. Suitably beautiful and exotic, and weird. Perhaps if we knew something – anything – about orchids, we might have made a rare find. As it was, we poked around, and moved on.