Commissioned Writer

EMMY LAURA PÉREZ FJALLAND, DENMARK

Emmy Laura Pérez Fjalland (PhD) is a Danish-Colombian writer, scholar and lecturer in cultural geography. She works with landscapes and landscaping practices, and is deeply engaged with how humans are—and have been—interacting with the natural and social environments they live in, with, and along. Since 2020 she has been writing the weekly letter Jordbo together with the Danish media Føljeton, and has been writing for Danish and international journals, magazines, newspapers, and digital media.

SUMPET TÅGESOL

En slags guide til den sydskandinaviske regntid 

Hun kom sejlende. Glidende og stille. Kom ud af tågen i en gammel irblå båd. Den var omkring tre meter bred og ni meter lang, og i midten stod en lille ovn. Man kunne se, at den lunede. Tågen var kold. Og en let røgsøjle steg op af ovnens rør – båden pulserede på en måde, der mindede om hendes afdøde morfars pibe. Duften var lige så sødlig, nærmest klang med den sumpede strandbred. Og den lille dame lagde lidt tørv, fyrsvamp og birk i ovnen. Hun tog en tekande og fyldte to kopper. 

»Se, muslingelyset,« sagde et lille barn i båden. »Jaa,« svarede den lille dame og drak lidt af teen, mens hun kiggede med tågen. Det støvregnede, det var vindstille. Og solen skinnede bag den halvlette skymasse. 

Båden havde motor, årer og sejl – for det var godt med muligheder. Den havde også fire stolper, og imellem dem var der spændt et stærkt, vokset stofdække ud. Det var under stofdækket, at hun sad, den lille dame, og styrede båden. Hun var gammel og spinkelt bygget. Hendes hænder havde samme farve som vådt ler. Hænderne var gigtplagede, og den varme tekop mildnede. Hendes øjne var mosgrønne, og hendes hår sølvgråt. 

Hun var stærk som enebærbuskens ved og sejlede erfarent. For hun kendte sin båd, sit hylster. Hun kendte kysten, hun kendte vandet. Eller det havde hun lært at kende. For hun var ikke født til dette vandede liv. Det var noget, hun havde måtte vokse sig ind i. Og hun havde lært himlens vand og havets vand, indlandets vand og vandet fra undergrunden at kende. Havde lært at læse himlens tegn og kræfter, rytmer og mønstre – eller det er måske så meget sagt. Hun havde lært at læse himlen, så godt man kunne med al dens uregelmæssighed.  

»Dryp, dryp,« sagde det lille barn og drak det sidste af sin te. »Så er vi der snart,« sagde barnet, og den lille dame sænkede farten. Snart stod båden klukkede stille. Barnet tog en kniv og lænede sig ud over bådens kant. Fra det kobberfarvede ferskvand samlede hun krebs og skar muslinger. Det samme gjorde den lille dame. »Av, lille kræ,« sagde barnet, der var blevet nappet. »Snart spiser jeg dig. I suppe«.

De samlede fire store kurve fulde. Kurvene var levende, og hænderne blev kolde. Så hev de noget op, der mindede om ruser. Rebet sved, men i de flettede beholdere fandt de spiselige fisk og løsrevne vandplanter. De sorterede; nogen kom i sække og net, andre tilbage i vandet. »Du smager så godt. Godt, godt,« sagde barnet og lagde en fisk i en sæk. 

Fra nogle tværgående lameller i båden under stofdækket hang en lille vandkraftdrevet radio. Lyden var helt klar, og en stemme sagde, »og så til formiddagens vejrvarsel. Vi får tågesol og lavvande, 12 grader, og det bliver vindstille med støv- og drypregn. Vær klar til omskifteligt vejr.« 

Varslerne holdt som regel et par timer ad gangen. Der fandtes regntider og tørretider – sådan tre-fire måneder ad gangen. Vi var ved udkanten af en regntid. 

Det var ikke det liv, den lille dame havde kunnet forestille sig. Men ingen af de ældre levede et liv, de havde været i stand til at forestille sig. Hun var glad nok, selvom de bar på tunge minder. Det var bare sådan, det var. Og her levede de, her kunne de leve. Og de levede med fuglene og fiskene og muslingerne og myggene, og alle de planter og træer og buske, der også kunne leve tæt med al vandet.  

Den lille dame og det lille barn var klædt i uld og silke. Det varmede, selvom det blev vådt. Det var praktisk. Yderst havde de en slags jakke med store hætter. Det var både en jakke og et slag – et jakkeslag. Godt til at skærme deres kroppe mod regnen og vinden og solen og myggene. De satans myg. Der sugede og sugede. Og som kunne bære feberen med sig. Efterlade den i ens krop. Den satans feber. 

Men det var endnu ikke myggetid eller febertid. Det var tågetid. Jakkeslaget var af samme slags stof som bådens stofdække, blot lidt tyndere vævet. Stadig vokset. Det var godt mod den fugtige kulde. Men nu var det blevet lunt nok, og ærmerne var blevet taget af, de lå på en bænk i båden. Det var så meget nemmere at arbejde uden ærmer, og den lille dame slog cirkler med armene et par gange, satte sig og satte både igang. De sejlede afsted, og barnet holdt fuglene væk fra lasten. Sang både nynnende og råbende. Spiste kiks og tørrede frugter og ost. Råbte og sang og sprællede, så fuglene råbte igen, og fløj væk.    

Den irblå båd gled elegant langs strandengens kanter, hvor strandasters og melet kodriver blomstrede. De sejlede forbi store pilesumpe og tætte sivskove. Men for at bevæge sig derind og gennem de våde bundes skove måtte man afsted med Kommunens mindre og smallere orange både. Dem tog de, når det var højvande. 

Derinde var der blandt andre ænder med dragter i smaragd og kobber, cinnober og gurkemeje-gul. Fede ænder, der også lagde mange flere æg, end de kunne ruge. Og Kommunen havde vurderet, at man godt kunne tage en del af de æg, uden at det gik ud over bestanden eller føden til de andre dyr. Og derudover, derinde i de våde bundes skove, sprang og skød pil og siv og el og birk nye skud, så snart man vendte ryggen til og sejlede væk. Og derfor måtte man høste plantedele, der som en sydskandinavisk mangrove ellers beskyttede de tilbageværende landmasser. 

»Jeg har altid beundret deres evne til at gro videre, selv efter vi har beskåret dem,« sagde den lille dame. »Tænk, hvis jeg kunne gro videre! Tænk, hvor mange arme jeg kunne have!« sagde hun lunefuldt til barnet. »Eller ben, svømmeben!« udbrød barnet begejstret, krammede den lille dame og kyssede den gamle bløde kind.   

Tågesolen var meget let nu. Perlende og gylden. De tog deres madpakke frem. Artiskoktærte med kastanjer, urteløg og timian. Lunede den på ovnen, og skænkede noget mere te. Inde på land fandtes de enorme enge og moser. Det var nok nærmere tørre sletter og våde savanner. Der var svampe og bær og urter. Og den lille dame blev helt varm inden i. Derinde fandtes også får og geder, hjorte og lamaer. Der var heste og køer, og ovre mod de tørre bundes skove med bøg, lind og eg fandtes små elefanter og næsehorn. Og mange steder var der samlinger af bygninger til mennesker.      

Man havde ikke kunnet stoppe stormene og vandets voksen. Men Kommunerne havde stoppet forureningerne og de naturødelæggende forstyrrelser. Livene var blomstret op rundt omkring. Ikke som de ældre og ældste havde kendt det. På ingen måder! Men livet trivedes på andre og nye måder. Mens nogle arter var vandret nord på eller forsvundet, var andre kommet til. 

Her var vandløb blevet til åer, og åer til floder. Saltvand var blevet til ferskvand, mens andet vand var blevet salt. Marker var blevet til kratskove, moser og ferske enge. Og enge til sletter og skov. Forrykkelser, fornyelser. Ikke uden tab, ikke uden sorg. Sorgen hang rundt omkring, tung som stenhalskæder og marskens dynd. Men her kunne man leve, overleve.

Det sted, hvor den lille dame og barnet holdt til, var nyt og gammelt. Kommunen havde revet det hele ned og flyttet de bygninger, der kunne flyttes, da vandet så ud til at nærme sig. Det var bedre, end når stormene og vandet rev ned. Andre steder lå hele byområder under vand, og det var et helvede, dødsensfarligt, at sejle eller bevæge sig der. I dette område, langs de store floder og søer, og ude ved kysterne, havde Kommunerne revet ned, pakket og flyttet, og genopbygget på tørrere steder. Nogen siger, at man gav pladsen til vandet. Andre siger, at vandet tog pladsen. Men Kommunen samler vand til tørketiderne og lader det i mellemtiden cirkulere med en sådan kraft, at der er energi i husene. 

»Nu må du sætte dig. Du skal ikke i vandet i dag,« sagde den lille dame til barnet. 

På havnen kom nogle af de andre dem i møde og begyndte at aflaste båden. Den lille dame satte sig på en bænk på land, op ad en væg. Menneskestemmer og fuglestemmer flettede sig med en hvislen fra de meterhøje sivgræsser og sumpskovens træer.  

Der sad den lille dame, lunt i læ og som et gammelt vidne eller arkiv. En mindevæver, fortællerske. 

Den koldeste af regntiderne var snart forbi. Den kunne være så fandens bidsk – sådan en fugtig kulde er koldere end den frost, hun engang kendte. Frosten kunne få verden til at stå helt stille som lyden af en glasklokke. Nu siver den ind alle vegne, sætter sig i hendes led og knogler. Som fugt og råd og svamp – det, der er sværere at leve med. 

Men lige der på havnen trængte solvarmen igennem tågen. Og nu måtte alle sætte sig lidt, tage deres jakkeslag og deres gummistøvler og deres uldsokker af. De måtte åbne deres trøjer. 

De lukkede deres øjne, lænede hovederne tilbage og lod deres hud suge af tågesolens lys.  

Huskeliste 

• Overgiv dig til regn og vind, kom ud.
  
  
• Lav et diagram over regnformer.
  
  
• Iklæd dig godt uldtøj samt vand- og vindtæt tøj, man kan ånde i.
  
  
• Sørg for te med honning og snacks.
  
  
• Husk altid, at have et par tomme beholdere med. 
  
  
• Opfør dig ordentligt og nyd sollyset mange farver. 
  
  
• Spis tærter og supper. 
  
  
• Find gode læ-steder.

MARSHY SUNHAZE

A sort of guide to the rainy season in southern Scandinavia

She came by sail. Gliding in silence. Came out of the fog in an old verdigris boat. It was about three metres wide and nine metres long, and in the middle stood a little stove. You could see that it was warm. The fog was cold. And a ribbon of smoke rose from the stovepipe. The boat’s pulse reminded her of her late grandfather’s pipe. The smell was every bit as sweet, harmonising, almost, with the marshy shore. And the little lady put some peat, tinder fungus and birch into the stove. She took a teapot and filled two cups. 

“Look at the pearly light,” said a little child in the boat. “Oh, yes,” replied the little lady, sipping her tea, peering into the fog. There was drizzle. It was windless. And behind the gauzy clouds shone the sun.

The boat had a motor, oars and a sail (it was good to have options). There were four uprights, too, with a sturdy waxed tarp stretched between them. The little lady sat under the tarp, steering the boat. She was old and slenderly built. Her hands were the colour of wet clay. Arthritic, her hands, and the warm teacup eased the pain. Her eyes were moss-green, her hair silver-grey.

She was as strong as juniper wood and an experienced sailor. Because she knew her boat; it sleeved her. She knew the coast, she knew the water. Or, rather, she had learned to know it. Because she hadn’t been born to this water-borne life, it was something she’d had to grow into. And she’d learned to know the sky’s water and the seawater, water from the earth and water from under it. Had learned to read the sky’s signs and rhythms, its patterns and power. Or maybe that’s saying too much: she’d learned to read the sky as well as anyone can read a thing so irregular.

“Drip, drip,” said the little child, and finished her tea. “We’re nearly there now,” said the child, and the little woman slowed their speed. Soon the boat was still in the lapping quiet. The child took a knife and leaned out over the boat’s rim. She gathered crayfish and cut mussels from the copper-coloured freshwater. So did the little lady. “Ow – little beast,” said the child, who had been nipped. “I’m going to eat you soon. In a soup.”

They collected four large baskets full. The baskets were alive, and their hands grew cold. Then they hauled up what looked like traps. The rope burned. But in the woven containers they found fish good to eat and loose water plants. They sorted them; some went into sacks and nets, others back into the water. “You’re so tasty. Tasty, tasty,” said the child, putting a fish in a sack.

A little water-powered radio hung from some crosswise slats under the tarp in the boat. The sound was very clear, and a voice said: “Now for the weather this morning. We’ll have hazy sunshine, low waters, 12 degrees, the wind, calm, with misty rain and drizzle. Be prepared for changeable weather.”

The forecasts were usually good for a couple of hours. There were rainy seasons and dry seasons – about three to four months at a time. We were at the end of a rainy season.

This was not the life the little lady had imagined for herself. But none of the elders had been able to live the lives they had imagined for themselves. She was happy enough, even though there were heavy memories to bear. It was just the way it was. And here they lived, here they could live. And they lived with the birds and the fish and the mussels and the mosquitoes, and all the plants and trees and bushes that could live so closely with the water.

The little lady and the little child were dressed in wool and silk. It kept them warm, even when wet. It was practical. For an outer layer, they wore a kind of jacket with a large hood. It was both a jacket and a cape – a jackape. Good for shielding their bodies from the rain and the wind and the sun and the mosquitoes. Those bloody mosquitoes. They sucked and sucked. And could carry fever inside their bodies. To leave behind in another body. That bloody fever.

But it wasn’t mosquito-time or fever-time yet. It was fog-time. The jackape was made of the same kind of fabric as the boat’s tarp, just woven a little thinner. Still waxed. It was good for the damp cold. But now it had become warm enough, the sleeves had been taken off, they lay on a bench in the boat. It was so much easier to work without sleeves, and the little lady windmilled her arms a couple of times, sat down, and set the boat in motion. They sailed off, and the child kept the birds away from their haul. Sang, humming, and shouting. Ate biscuits and dried fruit and cheese. Shouted and sang and flailed as the birds yelled back and flew away.

The verdigris boat glided elegantly along the margins of the salt marsh, where beach asters and meadowsweet flowered. They sailed past great willow swamps and dense reed forests. To move further into and through the wetland forests, you had to set off on the Municipality’s smaller, narrower, orange boats. They used those when the water was high.

In there, among others, were ducks decked in emerald and copper, cinnabar and turmeric-yellow. Fat ducks that laid many more eggs than they could hatch. And the Municipality had decided that you could take a share of those eggs without it harming the population or the food supply of the other animals. And, what’s more, down in the wet forest there sprang willow, reeds, alder and birch, sprouting new shoots as soon as you turned your back to sail off. So they were obliged to harvest plants which, like a South Scandinavian mangrove, otherwise protected the dry land that was left.

“I’ve always admired the way they can keep growing, even after we’ve pruned them,” said the little lady. “Imagine if I could keep growing! Think of how many arms I could have!” she said playfully to the child. “Or legs, for swimming!” cried the child excitedly, hugging the little lady and kissing her old, soft cheek.

There was less haze in the sun now. Glittering and golden. They took out the food they’d packed. Artichoke pie with chestnuts, chives and thyme. Warmed it on the stove and poured some more tea. There were vast meadows and bogs inland. Or, rather, dry plains and wet savannah, maybe. There were mushrooms and berries and herbs. And the little lady felt warm inside. There were also sheep and goats, deer and llamas. There were horses and cows, and over towards the dry forests of beech, linden and oak, there were small elephants and rhinos. And, here and there, clusters of buildings for people. 

No one had been able to stop the storms and the rising waters. But the Municipalities had halted the pollution and disturbances that wounded the environment. Life had flourished all around. Not as the elders and our oldest had known it. Not at all! But life thrived, differently, in new ways. While some species had migrated northward or disappeared, others had arrived.

Here brooks had turned into streams, streams into rivers. Saltwater had turned into freshwater; freshwater, salt. Fields had become thickets, marshes, and fresh meadows. And meadows had become plains and forests. Disruptions; renewals. Not without loss; not without grief. Grief hung in the air, heavy as a stone necklace or marsh silt. But here one could live, survive.

The place where the little lady and the child lived was new and old. The Municipality had torn everything down and moved the buildings that could be moved when it looked like the water was now near. It was better than when the storms and the water tore things down. In other places, entire urban areas were submerged, and it was hell, deadly dangerous, to sail or make movement there. In this area, along the great rivers and lakes, and along the coasts, the municipalities had torn down, packed up and relocated to rebuild where it was drier. Some say that they let the water have these places. Others say the water seized them. But the Municipality stores water for the dry times; and between times, it lets it circulate, with enough force to power the houses.

“Sit, now. You’re not going into the water today,” said the little lady to the child.

At the harbour, some of the others came to meet them and began to unload the boat. On land, the little lady sat herself on a bench against a wall. Human voices and bird voices intertwined with a whisper from the metre-high reeds and the trees of the swamp forest.

There sat the little lady, warm in the lee, like an old witness, an archive. A memory-weaver, storyteller.

The coldest part of the rainy season would soon be over. It could bite like hell – a damp cold, colder than the frost she once knew. The frost could make the world stand completely still, like the sound of a glass bell. Now it seeps in everywhere, settles in her joints and bones. Like moisture and rot and mould – harder to live with, these things.

But right there at the harbour, the warmth of the sun pierced the fog. And now everyone had to sit a while, take off their jackapes, their rubber boots and their woollen socks. They had to open their jumpers.

They closed their eyes, leaned their heads back, and let their skin soak up the light of the hazy sun.

Checklist

• Give in to the rain and wind, come out.
  
  
• Make a diagram of the shapes of the rain.
  
  
• Dress warmly in wool and breathable waterproof and windproof clothing.
  
  
• Make sure to have supplies of tea with honey and snacks.
  
  
• Always remember to have a few empty containers with you.
  
  
• Behave yourself, enjoy the sunlight’s many colours.
  
  
• Eat pies and soups.
  
  
• Find good places to shelter.