Field Trippin'

A few days ago Marga invited me to join in on an excursion for the third and fourth graders to the village of Orient and its apple orchards and mountains.

We arrived at the school early today to help make the bagged lunches and then I got to observe elementary school teachers at work, organizing 50 some odd squirming, excited children into something resembling enough order before the buses showed up. We headed north and east of Palma on one of the few autopistas on the island before pulling off into a village where we promptly got the larger of the two buses stuck on some back road.

Now, let me explain something about European buses, their fronts are completely flat and their turning set up is far different from cars with 'bonnets', so if you are sitting in the front row, as I was, you watch through the giant, flat pane of glass and feel yourself moving directly toward, say, the wall right in front of you, before cutting off and turning. In this exact arrangement we came to a T in the road, facing a wall, with a wall to our right and a stone fence to our left and after several attempts which brought us to within centimeters of the wall in front of us, we maneuvered backwards down the street (much to the amusement of the capped old chaps having their morning 'meet me at my garage' discussions) and came at it from a different route.
Suffice it to say, the drive into the mountains was breathtaking in several senses of the word. We followed a narrow, winding road up between two mountains called Castell d'Alaro (left) and Alcadena (right) between which, according to native lore, witches nightly string a tela de araña on which to play and dance until sunrise. They were beautiful, striking and screamed "get on your climbing shoes, find some ropes and climb us!"

We drove through impossibly lush fields nestled into and along the necks of mountain valleys, all the while singing the standard 'kids on a field trip' songs.

We soon were pulling into the tiny village of Orient, comprised of some 10-15 huge old stone edifices, surrounded by plots of green fields and apple orchards. As we arrived at about 10:30 the first order of business was to get all the kids seated at old wooden benches at tables and for everyone to snack. This gave me the opportunity to explore the two streets of the village and to locate the tiny restaurant which, according to one of the teachers, serves some amazing, stone oven baked dishes (something to bear in mind granddaddy and grandmother=)). I was struck by the isolation and peacefulness of the area. It was a nice counterweight to flurry of activity that was my miniature companions.

We then set out into the warm sunlight toting tiny backpacks with uniform sweaters tied around waists or carried awkwardly over arms, heads, tied to hats and backpacks and any other strange arrangement which might strike a 4th grader as a good idea. We passed through a couple low fields around the village, stopping several times for our tour guide to teach us about the village, the industry and history of the area. He did all of this speaking in a Mallorquin dialect which Marga told me she had not heard since her grandfather. I was able to understand and process about 25% of this but seriously enjoyed the sounds as well as the pleasure of focusing and straining my mind to capture what I did know and to compound onto that, picking up what I understood and putting together what I could infer from gestures and the likes.
We made our way into an apple orchard where we were each allowed to pick an apple to take home to show our parents...so, check it out mom and dad! Look what I got on my field trip today.
From there we began to climb into a shaded wood, thus requiring the re-employment of the fleece I had earlier packed away. Along the trail we came across families carrying wicker baskets full of mushrooms they had picked on the mountain-side, as well as a flock of curious, bell toting sheep.

We passed a tree which they calculated to be over 300 years old and on to a recreated site the traditional method of making coal here on the islands. This process took from late spring to early fall and required full time maintenance. To begin with a large pile of solid logs were stacked close together, covered by a layer of samller wood, thatched with a heavy grass and then encased in dirt. The middle was left open as a sort of smoke stack and could be covered or exposed according to the temperature of fire necessary to enable the process. The aim being to reduce the wood to coal. The process required constant supervision and as such a small hut was built close to the fire ring where a man lived through all the months of burning. To my right you can see the recreated burn pile (only about half the size of the historical burns) and in the background to my left you can see the low hut in which the watcher resided, sleeping on a mat of reeds supported on rocks.

From there we ambled on up the mountainside, collecting acorns, rocks and whatever else struck anyone's fancy. Each, naturally, requiring some sort of proud display to anyone who would pay attention. All the kids were quite taken with the idea of using the acorn tops as finger hats and of the double snap and palm to fist horse sound that dad has taught me. We came to a dynamited pass where the herds were moved between villages. We passed several other old burn sites and found a large poop which the children decided probably belonged to one of the witches who must hide in those mountains during the day, waiting to play during the nights.

We stopped again to learn about native insects and birds before moving on to our lunch site/battleground/princess castle/enchanted wood/free for all toilet. While climbing in one of the trees I silently witnessed the passing of a roving soldier battalion of 3rd grade boys trying to decide which tree they should, in their words, 'poison.'

From there we passed down, back out of the woods, through a dried up 'torrent' bed and on down a long, muddy sheep path with striking views of the surrounding meadows to our pick up point. I then stared happily and mindlessly out the window as we departed the peaceful valley and was soon sleeping all the way back to Palma.

I loved seeing such a secluded area of Mallorca, existing quietly in its own epoch and time frames. I also enjoyed watching the children and how engrossed they could become with objectives such as filling an empty water bottle with nuts, stones, exploring for bugs, working together to secretly carry a 10 ft. branch over a mile, just for the joy of manly teamwork and eluding teacherly detection.
Quite a joy.