ARBEIT | LEBEN
OFF GRID
Natalie Stypa
I just returned to Berlin from a journey to France and Spain. I visited friends, went to a wedding, discovered new cities, ate a lot of baguette and patatas bravas and swam in the Mediterranean. I also spent ten days helping out in an ecological project[1] in Teruel. The aim of the project is to be a place for sustainable living and learning, based on the principles of Permaculture – a low-impact way of working with what the land has to offer, rather than forcing it to fulfil whichever need we may have.
Teruel is a scarcely populated province, about a 3-hour bus drive Southwest from Barcelona, right at the border between Aragon and Catalonia. At first, I didn’t like the landscape very much. It was just the beginning of May yet the earth was dry and cracked. Everywhere I looked, I saw the same kind of trees growing: pine, olive, almond or orange trees. Everything that was green looked pale, drained. In fact, everything looked pale and the light seemed to be always the same, no matter if the sun was burning or if the sky was full of clouds. The site of the project itself was not too far from the main road but in a valley where no one ever passed through, except for one or two farmers who worked their nearby land. Being in a valley meant that the sun rose late and disappeared early, handing the reign over to a damp chill that crept up pertinaciously, no matter how hot the day had been. While during the day and especially when working, I would walk around in shorts and my bikini top, as soon as darkness had fallen I was glad to snuggle into my woollen jumper and thick cardigan. There were two houses on the site: an old stone cottage and a newly built one that for the time being served as a shed, a cool storage space for fruit and veg, and a hideout for us on especially cold and windy evenings. The wind was there the night I arrived, strong and fierce, but luckily it didn’t stay. Most of the nights we spent outside, sitting around the table all together, eating the food we had prepared, talking, drinking good local red wine from a 5 litre box. Watching Venus rise, the first and brightest of all lights to appear in the sky, followed by myriads of stars. Never did I enjoy having to go for a pee more: walking away from the lights of the others’, switching off my own torch, subjecting myself to a darkness that wasn’t dark at all, looking above at the light of the stars. My first nights there were illuminated also by the strong light of the waxing moon; at twilight, she would appear between the tops of the pine trees. If you sat at the right side of the table, you could watch her climb higher and higher. We were a handful of people from Spain, Italy, France and Germany who had come to work in exchange for food and a place to sleep. We slept in the yurt that volunteers before us had helped to construct or in the tents we had brought or in a caravan. Some of us had been on the road for months, shifting between places and countries, working in different eco projects, building, picking fruit, or making marmalade. During the day, we assembled small rocks to mark paths so that the grass around could grow undisturbed. We laid wavy patterns and every one of us had their own style. We worked on the new stone house, loosened up dry earth with a pickaxe, shovelled it into wheelbarrows and dumped it onto the roof so that grass and other plants could grow on it. The house had been built against a hillside, almost leaning into the hill. There were pine trees, too, and a large boulder that I would climb onto during breaks. I loved pressing my hands against the sun-soaked stone. Running my fingers over its rough outside, I breathed in the landscape that spread out before me: pine and olive and almond trees. The kitchen was outdoors. There was a gas cooker, a large cupboard for dishes and food, and three water basins filled with water and drowned beasties. The first basin you washed the dishes in, the second and third one you used to rinse them. Whoever felt like cooking lunch or dinner just did; we never made any arrangements in advance but it always worked. We cooked completely vegan and it was delicious: gnocchi with local olive oil and the wild rosemary and thyme that grew everywhere – a Catalan dish of potatoes with chard and lots of garlic – dishes with chickpeas, white beans, lentils or spelt pasta. In the mornings, we had muesli with fresh fruit and oat milk. We cooked coffee in a little espresso maker on the gas stove, wrapped our hands around our mugs, and watched as the sun advanced further and further to deluge our valley in light once again. Our valley. How quickly a place can make you feel at home. I realised that one of the most essential things for me to be happy and feel good is: to feel clean. To wash away the sticky film of sweat and sun lotion, the soil and sand. There was no shower with running water, but it turned out that I didn’t mind. Some water, some soap, a bowl and a place where I felt safe and unexposed[2] were enough. To feel clean, to clothe myself with fresh shirts and underwear – this mundane experience suddenly felt magnificent. Now I’m back in Berlin, and readjusting to life in the city seems harder than adjusting to having no running water, using a compost toilet, and dining each night by the light of the moon and the stars. I like big cities. I like the excitement, the ever-changing visual and cultural stimuli. I like water closets. I used to think that they play an essential role in my definition of a good life. But living in that middle of nowhere – middle of nature – even for just a short period of time made me feel connected and sheltered; feelings that the city rarely evokes. [1] https://boodaville.wordpress.com [2] Though I’m not shy when it comes to being naked in front of others, washing myself is a very intimate act for which I need to feel protected from the gaze of others’. |