rocks

PLATE 6: WE LOSE OUR BEARINGS AS THE WEATHER BEGINS TO DETERIORATE. The barometer has fallen to 29.25 and is continuing to drop. No storm as of yet, nor any sign of Buryat settlements. The general mood is not a happy one. In a bad temper, Bindon accuses Westcott of opiating himself with morphine stolen from the medicine kit. Secretly, I know this accusation to be true. Greatly angered, the Welshman starts in on Bindon’s lady friend, the librarian: “Yer tender stoff wid de photor’s quoite touching boyo, but . . . well, it reely is jost a huge load of goff altogeder, isn’t it now.” Bindon asks Westcott what the hell he’s talking about. “She’ll never be fateful to ye. Oi’ll bet some geezer’s giving hor a roight good seein’ to-” The livid Bindon leaps onto the Welshman. Westcott, a boxing champion in his school days, gives it to Bindon in the stomach, a ferocious blow that leaves Bindon gasping for air like a stuck pig. Before he can retaliate, I leap between them and endeavor to bring the situation under control. We walk on, myself placed between the two to prevent a further outbreak of fisticuffs. Westcott mutters under his breath in Welsh, the only comprehensible expression being “oh me boyo”, which is repeated frequently. This irritates Bindon no end. The situation is not helped by the weather - we have three hours of gloomy daylight each day and it is cold as all hell. Towards the end of the day I decide to photograph one of the rock formations that dot the landscape; MacRupert and Westcott, left alone for several minutes, begin to bicker over the map. I capture the moment on film for posterity.