#The banana grove at the distance: We exist.

[miusmusings]

The way they're giving absolute horniness and eating a Meal after making me cry. There better be fics on ao3 rn

[iknowthisgirlfromgeorgia-blog]

cliché | 01

☽ pairings: hoseok x oc, taehyung x oc

☽ genre/warnings: fluff

☽ wordcount: 2.4k

☽ chapters: 1 | 2 (coming soon)

☽  ➝ summary: moving abroad for university comes with many surprises. a new house, a new life and most of all . . . new neighbours.

✧ ･ﾟ : * ✧ ･ﾟ : *

“I feel like I’ve been reborn,” Mae sounded out with an airy chuckle, making Saffron shake her head gently, suddenly awakened from her daylight slumber. Today was their first day abroad. 

A whole new country, a whole new house and a completely different life awaited the two just behind the corner, and Saffron couldn’t really say she was ready for it. The girl didn’t like changes, not at all, but this one simply had to be pursued. Moving to Canada was a big step for two college-aged women, but life can throw you into deep waters unexpectedly and without a warning. That’s what happened to her and Mae.

The letter that came in the mail one Saturday evening was a document Mae would cherish for the rest of her life. How could a little, beige envelope bring one such pride and joy? Well, how could it not? Getting into the college of your dreams was something any young, ambitious human would be ecstatic about, and that's exactly what Mae was clutching her acceptance letter from the University of Ottawa.

 Saffron herself was simultaneously upset and excited about the news. Mae would finally leave for Canada to pursue her dream, but on the downside . . . she’d be gone from her life, for who knows how long? The female couldn’t really stomach the thought of her best friend being gone for the entirety of collage. Heck, wasn't that when most people peaked? Saffron didn't want to experience her best without Mae. Yes, FaceTime and WhatsApp existed, but she knew maintaining a friendship would be difficult that way. Not even mentioning timezones.

What would happen to seeing each other every other day? What about movie nights and banana pancakes on Sunday mornings? Oh, Saffron loved Mae’s pancakes. Waking up at noon, dressed in her comfiest sweater, leaning against the kitchen island while watching her friend prepare breakfast was a ritual Saffron would never want to abandon. The light, fluffy dough engulfed in a thick, sugary syrup and, if the season allowed it, fresh berries was delectably a taste of heaven. The mere thought of the morning treat made the female’s mouth water with nostalgia and pure sentiment.

Enough pancake talk, though. The red-head females head felt like a storm cloud, filled with paroxysms of electricity and emotions she couldn’t really fathom with the little energy she had. There weren’t many options in this case, and the two both knew it. Saffron could stay there, in Seoul. The city they have both lived in for almost two decades now . . . or do the unthinkable. It took a long, troublesome week, but the decision was finally made.

 And it was the unthinkable option.

 They left within a month of the letters arrival. Mae was sceptical of Saffron's choice at first, worried about her friends sudden, possibly risky decision, but the girl wouldn’t be turned down that easily, and they both knew that very well.

”I’m coming with you, and that’s my final decision,” were Saffron’s final words as the two made their way past airport security. Her voice didn’t dare tremble, and that had to be a sign that she was sure of her decision to the very core of her being. Mae was silent this entire time, exhausted from hours upon hours of planning, packing and worrying, but Saffron couldn’t help but notice the slightest smile form on the girl’s lips once they boarded. It stayed there for the remainder of the flight, giving Saffron hope for a successful fresh start.

 Here they were now, sitting on the floor of their brand new living room, surrounded by countless cardboard boxes scribbled by black Sharpie. The condition of the house was more than decent, especially considering its long history of occupants! Cozy, affordable and somewhat well situated; the perfect combination for two highschool graduates. Not to mention the landscapes! Besides being surrounded by a nice neighbourhood, their new house was a short distance away from a forest. Who knew what secrets roamed about in the area? It was only a matter of time until the female would be able to pounce around, discovering every corner of the area.

 Saff’s hand traced the groves between planks of the wooden floor, noticing each bruise and crevice. It felt so cold and strange compared to the carpeted floors of her old apartment. The walls were empty and dulled, but clean. A paint job was possibly needed, but how hard could that be? It was difficult not to picture the moment the two would be able to start decorating them. Perhaps a bookshelf full of Mae’s favourite cookbooks, or an array of modern art pieces found at garage sales? The thought of marking the house as their own itself was enough to make Saffron’s heart skip a beat, cheeks flushed with excitement.

”Earth to Bae Saffron?” The female’s head shook once more, realising she was zoning out. ”Jet lag?” Mae questioned with a soft smile, lips stained a soft crimson.

To Saffron, it was always surprising how effortlessly put-together the girl could look. Ash blonde hair frizz-less, tied into a loose sock-bun with a few strands of hair framing her heart-shaped face. Her casual look was completed with an oversized, maroon hoodie draped over her slim figure. Simple, yet exquisite.

Saffron let out a soft sigh pass her lips at the girls playful question. What was occupying her mind wasn’t fatigue, but a sense of excitement and hopefulness for the future. After all, the two hadn’t had a chance to meet any of their neighbours as of yet, or even explore the area. Despite the obvious anxiety that came with meeting new people, Saffron was quite adamant on experiencing that part of moving. The female didn’t exactly have many friends back in Seoul, so starting fresh could be a chance for new relationships, platonic or not.

 "Hey, you," Mae started off once more, perhaps realising her question wasn’t to be answered anytime soon. “I did some thinking overnight, and I landed on a pretty neat idea,” She remarked, voice laced with excitement and pride.

Oh boy.

Mae's ideas had a tendency of being outgoing, and usually involved doing things Saffron normally wouldn't even think of. “What if we went out to meet our neighbours tomorrow? Try and settle in better.” She proposed, a smile lingering on her lips as she shrugged slightly, trying to come off as nonchalant. That was the typical Mae, her and her strange gift of knowing exactly what hr friends were thinking of at the given moment. Scary, but oddly amusing.

“Sure, why not.” Saffron answered, giving the older female a friendly smile and nod. It was quite relieving to have the female suggest socializing herself. After all, it was a burden off of Saffron’s shoulders.

“We are settled pretty close to the university campus, after all. I wouldn’t be surprised if we had more students scattered around the neighbourhood.” She chimed, brushing a stray fragment of hair behind her ear before digging her hands in the box labelled ‘books’.

 Saffron acknowledged her friend's comment with another brisk nod, before letting out a yawn, shifting her position to stand up with a pained groan. ”You’re getting old!” Mae laughed wickedly at her younger friend’s aching, getting an eye-roll thrown towards her as a sign of playful annoyance. Saffron couldn't help but let out her own series of giggles at her own misfortune, arms now extended to stretch out her joints.

“Damnit!” Mae cursed out suddenly as Saff’s own eyebrows stitched together in question. “What’s wrong?” She asked, as Mae cupped her face with a groan. ”I'm missing a box. It should be in the garage, or outside on the porch, perhaps . . . ”* she finally muttered, getting a soft ‘oh’ from her friend once she realised the issue. “I could fetch for you.” She told her simply, giving the older a reassuring grin. It’s not like she had much more to do, anyway. Unpacking boxes was boring and hefty, and the girl would rather be doing anything else if she was to be frank.

”Would you? Ah, you’re such a dear.” Mae spoke hoarsely, doing her best to imitate an elderly lady, which she definitely nailed. Giving her one last chuckle, Saff hopped out of the room, humming a soft tune to herself. Nothing in particular, merely a series of tones that went well together. Hand sliding into the pocket of her shorts, she made her way down the stairs and into the living room area. It didn’t look much different from any other room in the house, considering all that it held was a bunch of cardboard.

Saffron’s eyes searched each door in sight, as she finally managed to locate the entrance which surprisingly didn't have any distinguishing features that would help her in her task. Embarrassingly enough, the girl was still in deep confusion about the layout of their new home, even a week into moving in. She sighed in frustration, nimble fingers lacing around the metal doorknob before turning it with ease, door creaking upon pull.

 The weather was better than she would’ve ever expected from Canada. The sky was a deep grey shade, interrupted by a few rays of sunshine coming through. Air fresh and slightly damp, a neat compromise that Saff was somewhat okay with. The girl breathed in, arms raised as she allowed herself for a more thorough stretch, without any of Mae’s comments this time. "Now, where the hell is that damned box, huh?"

 ”Hey, you!” Saffron looked around, eyes widened at the sudden, unfamiliar voice coming from somewhere, clearly nearby. “Yeah, you. With the orange hair!” Her breath caught in her throat as she realised she was obviosuly the one being spoken to. She couldn't imagine anyone else sporting the bold shade of ginger she rocked.

Eyes narrowed and eyebrows raised, she finally caught sight of the only other human in the perimeter.

 A man, roughly in his twenties. Hair a soft brown, curling here and there to create an effortlessly flawless brunette arrangement. Skin fair and spotless even from several meters away, Saffron could clearly make out his dark brown eyes and pink lips which were twisted into the sweetest grin the girl had ever seen.

Despite the delicious sight in front of her, she didn’t allow herself any closer to the male without the proper questioning. “And who’s speaking?” She asked with a furrowed brow, a slight scowl on her face. She could only blame her hostile attitude on staying inside for the past week.

The man let out a warm laugh, and Saffron realised the silliness of her question only then when it was too late. He was sitting on the porch of a neighbouring house, fingers loosely gripping onto the rim of a can of soda. “Just a friendly neighbour. Isn’t it obvious?” He stood up, leaving the comfort of the wooden step as he made his way towards the fence. Saffron’s cheeks flushed a heated pink, partly due to the embarrassing nature of the situation, but mostly because of the man’s awfully confident stature. Hands rested against the top of the wooden fence, the female realised it was short enough to act as support for the man’s head as he propped it in the palm of his hand comfortably.

“I saw the moving van come through not too long ago. You’re new around here, aren't you?” He questioned, making Saffron take a cautious step forward. “We are. My best friend and I moved in about a week ago from Seoul. For university, and all that,” the female responded, arms crossing as she cocked her head to the side, slightly taken back by the man’s kindness.

 ”Seoul? We have more in common than I thought!” He exclaimed in child-like excitement, making Saffron chuckle softly at his beaming face.

“I moved here with my friend a year ago. Both of us study at UO,” Saffron’s eyes left his frame for a second, hearing the front door open once more, a familiar creaking making her wince.

“Saff?” Mae called out, approaching the short girl briskly, hand hooking around her shoulder comfortably. The man gave the newcomer a polite smile, studying both women closely. "Saff, huh? Nice to meet you. I’m Hoseok," He remarked.

“Nice to meet you, neighbour. I’m Mae, we moved here this week," the female chimed out, giving Saffron's shoulder a squeeze of encouragement. "But you probably know that already considering how long you two have been talking,” Mae chuckled teasingly, placing a hand on her hip as she gave Hoseok a nod.

Saffron gulped at the girl’s statement, realising the entire reason she was outside in the first place. “Funnily enough, we've been very keen on meeting our neighbours. It’s nice to walk into one of them like this!”* Mae acknowledged, getting a nod of agreement from her friend and a warm chuckle from their neighbour. "Well, I'm very happy we ran into each other, then!" he beamed, giving Saffron a conforting look. Was it visible she was nervous?

"Hey, we should do a formal greeting one day. Are you busy tomorrow?” Mae inquired, giving Saffron a gentle shake. Was she teasing, or did she want the female to take initiative? Whatever it was, Saffron was too focused on forming coherent sentences in her head to say anything.

 “Hobi!! Where the hell did you go, again?!" Another male voice came from inside the house, slightly deeper than Hoseok’s and muffled due to the distance. “Well, that’s my call. I’ll see you around?” He winked, before running back on his porch and disappearing back into the house, leaving behind only the possibly empty can of pop.

Saff let out a sigh as soon as the man left her field of vision, hands reaching to rub at her temples furiously. “This was . . . ” Mae started off, as she let go of the girl’s shoulder and proceeded to walk into the garage, locating the box she was looking for. “ . . . tiring?” Saffron finished off, earning an amused chuckle from Mae. “I was about to say exciting, but that works, too,”

✧ ･ﾟ : * ✧ ･ﾟ : *

[creativitytoexplore]

The Innocent and the Beautiful by Iftekhar Sayeed https://ift.tt/2YcutQS In Bangladesh, CIA agent Maryam becomes a target for assassination and flees with her lover - but neither are sure where their loyalties lie; by Iftekhar Sayeed.

"The death of 1.7 million children through sanctions in Iraq has aroused no interest whatsoever in the drawing rooms of Bangladesh, as far as agent Maryam has been able to judge." Something seemed to trouble Maryam, as her fingers hovered above the keyboard; the hum of the air-conditioner rose above the tap-tap of her fingers; she smelled the starched pillows and breathed heavily; in the light from the quite redundant lamp, she deleted 'death' and typed 'murder'. She sighed relief, turned off the laptop, disengaged the wireless modem, switched off the lamp, and turned on her side to get some sleep.

I hated her. So I avoided the street - road 9A, Dhanmandi - where she worked and waited for a trishaw or an auto rickshaw every weekday at around 5:00. The situation was dire. After the Gulf and Af-Pak wars, the mujahideen had grouped themselves together, as elsewhere, in Bangladesh, as freedom fighters. No empire can exist without collaborators, and the local elite and government both sided with the American and European powers. A death-squad was formed with the aid of the imperial west, and an unknown number of jihadis died in so-called 'cross-fires', the euphemism for assassination. It was then that the jihadis changed strategy. Instead of bombs and bullets, which had to be bought abroad and smuggled in, they resorted to - knives. An expert 'Knifer', as they came to be called, could aim for a target's heart from a distance safe enough for a get-away. Less efficient ones would stab in a busy thoroughfare, or operate from shadows. The frequent power failures were a boon. The targets also were changed. Instead of attacking government buildings with bombs or agents of the state with bullets, they went for members of what is known politely as 'civil society'. The collaborators, they had figured out, were to be found among the academics and artists who gave legitimacy to collaboration. Two of their biggest kills were a lawyer and an economist, both PhDs from American universities. And where did feminine, friendly Maryam fit in all this? I first met her at the intellectual salon of a socialite: she wore a light green chiffon saree that went with her fair complexion, her dark eyes, dark brows; her arms were bare and I could imagine the rest of her. She asked pointed questions about politics and society, and then sat back, legs crossed, listening in earnest. It was flattering to be heard like that. Soon, we were lovers, meeting regularly in my flat. It was after one of our devouring love-makings that she came out with it. "I actually work for the CIA, Zafar." By then she knew my views, knew how I would feel, and that prompted her to be frank. "After all, we're all collaborators." She was right there: we were all collaborators. And what was the nature of her collaboration? "Nothing much: I just listen in on conversations and ask questions and report what people are thinking and saying. It's not much, Zafar. I just collaborate a bit more closely, that's all." That was the last time we met.

On this fateful day, I spotted her on road 9A, waiting for her usual trishaw. There was traffic on the road, but I stayed focused. She was in a red-and-black shalwar-kameez, her arms bare, revealing teasingly her white shoulders and armpits. Then our eyes met: fortunately I looked away, and watched with horror a man, pillion-riding on a motorcycle, raise a knife towards Maryam. "Maryam, get down!" I screamed, and ran towards the bike. The knife missed, as she ducked. The bike wove between the vehicles, and disappeared. "That was close, Maryam," I said, panting, as I reached her crouching figure. She was weeping. "They tried to kill me!" she repeated. It was as if she couldn't believe that they would try to kill her. And they would try again. Nowhere in Dhaka was safe for her anymore. I could feel eyes watching us, reporting, sharing... Bystanders began to gather around, so I grabbed her arm and asked her if she had any money. She nodded, wiping away her tears. I had some money, enough to buy a pair of tickets. I hailed a trishaw and we made our way towards Kolabagan. We were greeted at the counter of Shohag bus service by the usual smell of urine emanating from the toilet inside. The day was hot and humid, and we were both perspiring. Inside, we sat at the back of the stifling room, a few fans whirring overhead. Our bus wouldn't leave until 11:00. There were a few passengers waiting for the next bus. "You mustn't cry here, Maryam. Let's not draw attention to ourselves. We'll be safe in a few hours." I went out, bought a mild sedative, and a bottle of cola. I made a call to Sujon Chakma from my mobile. His bungalow would be ready for us. The cola was cool against the parching throat. "There's something I have to tell you, Zafar." Her voice sounded cracked. She poured the cola down her mouth. "Not now. We'll have a chance to talk later." After interminable minutes, the Chakma boys and girls began to appear. They were headed home: to the hills in the south-east, to Khagrachari and beyond. They spoke in their dialect which I could vaguely decipher. You could tell them, not only by the language, but the slanted, Tibetan eyes. They were mostly students, but now and then a couple with a child would plump down in the seats before us. I kept a watchful eye open for any of my race. The bus left promptly at 11:00. We would be at Khagrachari by dawn. Most of the journey would be over hills, after the left turn at Baroier Hat at Feni. We stopped at night at a road-side restaurant where I forced Maryam to eat some rice and - very spicy - chicken curry. I was ravenous, and thirsty. Fear had been relegated to remoter parts of the mind. Fatigue began to take over. We reached Baroier Hat just before sunrise. The buses - a Shohag, two S. Alams, and a BRTC bus - stopped to form a convoy, for the road was potentially dangerous. Armed bands, carryovers from a recent insurgency, roamed the hills. Outside, there were five policemen in steel-grey shirts, blue trousers, green felt boots and deep purple berets. Each had a rifle. They all got on our bus, which was a relief, and then we started. At Jaliapara, they got off. We went a little further ahead and two policemen got on - they sat on the raised leatherette bench next to the driver. The one nearest me was called Selim - his shoulder-tag said as much. He was dark with close-cropped hair. The other one was fairer. Selim cradled a rifle on his lap. He held a black walkie-talkie in his right hand, close to his mouth, though he wasn't speaking. The magazines were in a holder attached to his belt at the hip. The other policeman held a rifle between his thighs, nozzle upward. Neither men wore a beret - not very surprisingly, given the heat. They got off a after a few minutes. It was a switchback road. We watched the sun rise - a pale, orange disk - above the forested hills. The gibbous moon floated like a spectre in the west, trying to steal light. The sky was cloudlessly blue. We now turned east, then completely west, the sun now on our right, now on our left. We were bending every way. The sides of the road were sometimes sheer drops of several hundred feet - into seeming green jungle. Sometimes a green wall rose on our right and a sheer drop sloped to our left. Sometimes the road was a break between two hills. The colour was green - green bamboo groves, green banana leaves, green teak leaves, tall green grass. The sun became less benign. From orange, it turned gold. The relative cool of dawn evaporated. The golden rays beat down on our heads. Maryam was nodding in sleep. Various vehicles crossed us and we overtook various others. One pick-up was stacked with bamboo poles; another with jackfruit. We overtook trucks laden with goods under brown canvas. There were regular sentry posts roofed with bamboo and with bamboo sides on hill-tops. Sometimes a soldier with a walkie-talkie could be seen. Tribal women in bright thamis and blouses worked on hillsides. The road ascended towards Alutila and then descended, with many a spiral in either direction. At times, one espied a bend in the road up ahead or below, a graceful inflection. We drove through seemingly ghost towns and deserted bazaars. Only the fascias of the stores spoke to us: STAR cigarette, one announced in blue and white, was bright with its own light. The people were still asleep. Maryam had woken up, and the majesty of the scene held her in submission a while. But she finally spoke above the clatter of the bus and the moan of the engine. "I have to tell you something, Zafar." "The Knifers have put you on their hit list, Maryam." She shook her head vigorously. "They weren't the Knifers." I was surprised, but I didn't want to talk about it then. "Look!" I pointed to egrets flying in echelon. I had seen the knifer, taking aim, casting his missile. What was she talking about? The taste of fear, a dryness of the mouth, a quickening of the pulse, returned.

We got off before the bus reached Alutila. "But there's nothing here!" insisted the driver, his mouth red from chewing betel leaf. I nodded, and got off. The passenger next to him on the leatherette chair continued to sleep with his mouth open. It was good that nobody had noticed, except the driver and his sleepy helper. We disappeared among the teak trees. I soon found the faint footpath that led to Sujon's bungalow. Sujon was an affluent businessman, and he built a modest retreat in the forest for friends like me to spend a few pensive days in. I say 'modest' but it had all the creature comforts of home. The bungalow of whitewashed walls and green, sloping tin roof stood in a clearing in the forest. "Sahib, you have arrived!" The disembodied voice belonged to Robindro Tripura, caretaker of the place. He appeared from behind the trees, a short, dark, stocky character in a lungi. He looked from one of us to the other, for we were quite a sight. It wasn't so much the fatigue as the stress of running that had got the better of us. "I have made omelette and bread," he announced, and draped his coloured towel over his shoulder. The inside of a forest has a stifling humidity. Cicadas crooned without cease. Needless to say, we downed the breakfast in a trice. Next, we proceeded to drink a gallon of water. Robindro told us that the shower was ready and before leaving for the city, informed me that he would try to get clothing for the lady the next day. Considerate Robindro! I stood in the shower, washing off the heat, the fear, the sweat, and the stress. I just stood there, forgetting everything. When I entered the bedroom, I found a showered and refreshed Maryam sitting on the edge of the bed. She wore one of my striped shirts - and nothing else. After we made love like enemies, we got under the sheet and lay there, each with separate thoughts. She was the first to speak. "Do you hate yourself for making love to me?" I did, so I said nothing. "You don't have to. I have a lot to say, Zafar." Her voice came soft and contrite. "I'm listening," I said, opening my eyes, and gazing into hers. I thought again how mesmerizing were those dark circles. "After you left me, I found I was pregnant." I sat up. "What? You should have -" "What would have been the use? You hated me! You wouldn't have married me, and even if you had, what kind of marriage would it have been? Anyway, marriage was out of the question for me as well. I had the abortion soon after." I lay back, breathing a sigh. "But that's not all. Having nearly been a mother, I began to realize what those Iraqi mothers must have gone through. Thank God we didn't meet then, Zafar! My mind was so confused. I stopped seeing everyone. My work for the agency came to a stop." She paused, frightened, for a Tokay gecko had suddenly broken out into its mating call from the roof of the bungalow. "It's all right, it's just a lizard; it won't hurt." "Then I began to work for the agency again. But this time I passed on the messages to the Knifers as well. I started telling them about potential targets, about the biggest collaborators, about the worst of the lot... And the agency found out." "The Knifers would never have tried to kill you, then." "No. It was the agency, imitating the Knifers." "O Maryam, why didn't you tell me all this before? We could have worked it all out together!" "No, Zafar, there are some things you have to work out alone. But now we are together." We put our arms around each other. Then we fell into a deep, long sleep, lulled by the whizzing fan beating down its breeze.

I woke to the scent and rhythm of rain. The bedroom was dark. How long had we slept? The taste of fear had worn off, and hunger remained. While Maryam was still asleep, I warmed up some beef curry and rice in the microwave oven. Then we swooped hungrily. The power failed. We sought some coolth in the netted verandah. It had stopped raining, and in the evening, between the teak trees, we could see the stars. Crickets chirped and frogs croaked. There were no other sounds. "I am wondering about our next move, Maryam," I said. We sat beside each other in plastic chairs. A nightjar called. The air smelled fresh after the rain, and the leaves murmured. The taste of fear had given way to the taste of curry. But we could see nothing around us, only the stars through a chink. She snuggled close to me, in her shirt. "I'm not thinking at all, Zafar. I'm safe here with you." I smiled in the darkness. If only it were so simple. How long would it be before the agency knew where we were? After all, the entire state was at their disposal. "Look!" I said involuntarily. "What?" She raised her head from my shoulder. A solitary blinking appeared above the horizon in the east. It was too slow to be a plane, which would also have had several lights. "It's a satellite," I observed. "Do you think it can see us?" "Not in this power failure," she giggled, and we both laughed. The satellite went out of view between the leaves, and in its stead rose, in a few minutes, a red apparition. "Antares!" I breathed. "What?" "The opposite of Ares, the god of war," I explained. "How I love that name! An-ta-res!" The opposite of war, the affirmation of peace, how I love Antares! "Can we ever have peace, Zafar?" In the dark, I could sense her looking up at me. My breast heaved. I dared not reply, for fear of breaking down. "Can we ever be husband and wife and mother and father?" I swallowed. "Why not?" I asked without conviction. Then her mobile rang. She spoke a few words, and turned to me. "It's them, the mujahideen. They wish to speak to you." "Yes?" I spoke into the phone. "I see... Yes... I understand... Yes, I'll see you there." "What did they want?" I hung up. "They want me to meet them tomorrow at Labanga in Dhaka." Then the power came on, and she had tears. I never thought I would never see her again.

Labanga was a kebab restaurant on Mirpur Road on the first floor overlooking the drag. I walked past the glowing embers, emanating heat and the odour of burnt meat, past the counter, and up the steel stairs. I sat in the corner table next to the door, overlooking the street, and ordered four plates of kebab and nan as instructed. The room was air-conditioned, and outside, in the sunny heat, the traffic jammed on Mirpur Road. I waited. Finally they arrived. They wore pyjamas and punjabis, and turbans and beards. There were three of them, and they drew the chairs around me. "Zafar sahib," began the eldest of them. "Salaam walaikum." They salaamed me each in turn and I salammed them. There was a noisy family, with husband and wife and two children, in the other corner. Two men ate silently at the next table. The men and I began to eat without speech. "Zafar Sahib," resumed the eldest. "The less you know about us the better," I nodded. "Zafar sahib," spoke the eldest through his graying beard and moustache. His eyes were gentle. "You have written in our favour despite your unbelief." "I am an agnostic," I said, swallowing the kebab, "and this is my civilisation." "We know your views. Please tell us where Maryam Apa is, and we'll take her to safety." "You mean, outside the country." "Probably. But I cannot say for her sake." "I'll never see her again?" "No." "Why?" "Look across the street." I looked through the tinted window, and the tangle of wires. A man in black pants and white shirt paraded the other side of the pavement. "You have been followed," he said, calmly ingesting kebab and nan. "The moment you entered Dhaka, you were followed." "So what do we do now?" I asked. "He'll be taken care of." And he was. A stream of men and women flowed past the figure, but one stopped to ask for a cigarette flame; after which, the figure sprawled on the sidewalk, clutching a knife-blade in his belly. "Let us leave." I paid the bill, and hurriedly left with the three men.

Since then, every year, I have been to the cottage in Khagrachari, and have watched Antares rise.

[ukdamo]

Mavromati to Bassae to Mount Taygetos

My holiday journal from 2007 (originally posted to MySpace on June 11th, 2007)

May 11th, 2007: Mavromati – Bassae - Mt. Taygetos

When you drive, you see a lot of the back of your hands. I can see how swollen the sprained right thumb is. I can see neither the two tendons that run to it, not the one for my forefinger – it's all a taut, shapeless bulge.

As I drove I became aware of an ache in my upper back; below, but close to, my left shoulder blade. I decide I'll have to have a look when I get to my next stop and have access to a mirror.

I awoke early – 7 am or so. Sleep had been a bit fitful – turning over is no longer spontaneous but, instead, calls for a lot of preparatory shuffling and weight shifting, using bits of my anatomy that aren't scuffed or sprained or tender.

I read in bed until 8am or so, then got up and went to the shop to buy some yoghurt and juice for breakfast: I will eat the banana with the yoghurt and save the apple for lunch. (It is a big apple). Once I'd done my ablutions and a bit of first aid, I went to settle up and go to the museum and site.

The museum did not exist six years ago – but is small, elegant and well labelled. I was most impressed. It is clear from this, and the continuing work at the site, that funds are available and Messini is being developed for visitors. I am ambivalent about that – it is clearly much more accessible to visitors, of whom there will be more, and the buildings and artefacts themselves will be conserved and restored to a limited extent. What is lost is the sense of discovery and freedom that was so evident when I was last here with Jason. I had a nude picture taken on the archon's seat in the stadium – no chance of that now! 

The site is well conserved, and work continues to uncover more. There were lots of groundskeepers and builders and the like, and an exuberant group of teenagers from Kalamata Grammar School, who were keen to say hello, discover where I was from and practice their English and be in photos.

Wild flowers abounded as usual and there were lizards who were less fleet of foot than their colleagues in Delphi – or was it the early hour? Doubtful – it was well in the 30s C by 10am.

There were startlingly fierce wasps of alarming size – red with two yellow bands to warn. The usual blue bees drifted clumsily about and lots of butterflies – mauves, blues, reds, whites and yellows dancing past.

I looked at Arsinoe's fountain (mum to Asklepios, who sanctuary was the focal point of worship in Messini). It is fed from the Klepsydra spring, which runs yet in the modern village and from which you can fill your water bottles. The water then courses through the ancient city, visible here and there, before making a cooling appearance in the gymnasium complex. The city centre is a planned build, as indeed is the whole city.

For centuries the Messenians were Spartan helots (slaves), brutally subjugated. They rose in revolt but were crushed. With the decline in Spartan power after the Peloponnesian War (they beat the Athenians after a 40 year slog but exhausted themselves in the process), the Thebans under Epaminondas (3rd C BCE) stepped into the breach – defeating the Spartans at Leuctra and ensuring the newly liberated Messenians would maintain their independence in a purpose built, democratically planned, fortress city. The walls at Messini are 9km in circuit and lots of sections still stand proud. The most impressive sections are at the Lakonian Gate, which you still drive through to reach Mavromati.

Around the agora, the Temple of Asklepios, the Sanctuary of Artemis, the council chamber and agora are compact and delightful in design and execution. Little gems.

The city itself is built on gently sloping ground: as it falls away, a gymnasium complex and stadium carry the eye into the valley stretched out below: vineyards, olive groves – as there have always been. The stadium is much restored – the seating is cleared, levelled and sections beyond the retaining wall, landscaped.

The Heroon, inaccessible 6 years ago, is pristine and impressive, as it was intended to be. A real statement of local power and political supremacy by the prominent local family who had supplied Rome with a Consul in the 2nd C

The section of wall and the tower nearby have great resonance for me. If I call the tower the BJ tower you will grasp why. Had I two reliable thumbs, I might have climbed up again and seen what the view was like 6 years on. The memory of that afternoon caused a stir in the loins. Interesting. Not that the Jason is an unlikely object of sexual desire – he was then, and is still (I am sure) a definite hottie. At least, so I found him. But the most profound connection was not sexual and the fracture caused by the manner of the break up was so traumatic that I doubted my capacity to manage it. It has taken years for me to begin to get a grip on that relationship and make some (fragmentary) sense of it. What surprised me was not the sexual passion that stirred but that, given the gall and wormwood associated with J, that the fire was not immediately extinguished.

Scampering about, I took a few photographs and then set off on the long mountain drive to Bassae, and the Temple of Epicurean Apollo there. Designed by Ictinus (Parthenon fame), it is presently undergoing long term conservation work and is protected by a big tent. I am not sure what I will see – there was little 6 years ago, but the drive is superb.

From my digs, I had a panoramic of Mavromati... the village lay to the left, the ancient site below, among cypresses, an in the far distance - the plain leading to Kalmata. So, I swung out on the day’s drive.

There were no tunes on this drive – just birdsong, the slick of the tyres, the changing note of the engine and the dolorous tink-tonk of goats' bells. The scenery was wild and rugged – with gorse enlivening the hillsides and verges all around. The Fingers of God pointed to a blue sky. The slopes were bursting with yellow gorse as I climbed towards Bassae,

As I rounded one bend, some 10km from the temple, I heard a snatch of conversation J and I had had that summer in 2001. There are evident signs of terraces as you slow to navigate the hairpin – and we spoke of those ancient farmers and the work involved in levelling, wall-building, and conserving the e precious soil – safeguarding your olive trees in an unforgiving landscape.

There were glorious flowers at Bassae - a meadow carpet and hardy alpines clinging to crevices. And beehives. 

From the Temple it was another run to the south – on a different road this time, to take me to the busier thoroughfares that lead to Kalamata

The town will be familiar to any Greek olive enthusiasts. It was a lush drive, and it took me past Figaleia – another J stop off from the past. This time there was an old German at the spring – asking me directions to Platania.

There was no sign of the ancient and massive land crab who inhabited the old spring house, nor the little scamperers who were the up and coming residents. I gave the German – who could be me in 20 years (travelling alone, doughty, and well set up for a picnic) – some directions in my best German and set off again.

From Figaleia, a slow descent before crossing the Taygetos range. 

I want to take the road over Mt Taygetos – the great chain that separates Messenia from Lacedaemon (ancient Sparta). I intend to stop in a guest house at the top of the Langhada Pass  – and have an easy run into Sparta tomorrow. The drive was another stunner. It is easy to see why ancient Sparta was never fortified – unlike most Greek cities. The mountains, and the Spartan army - was defence enough.

I approached Mt Taygetos from the west and then climbed the ridge - on a spectacular road, arriving at the guest house – a little like an Alpine chalet, really, at a little after 6pm. So I can have a leisurely evening. A brew, a quiet read for a while, then a shower and first aid session. I checked my back – the source of the pain is evident – three serried red weals that relate to vertebrae that were skittered on as I made that clumsy forward roll. Both they, the knee, and the arm are beginning to show big, nasty looking bruises, as well as the black-scabbed craters that mark skin loss. The right hand's wounds look clean but the skin loss is so great they will be days acquiring a protective scab. More dressings for now…

[ NOTE: I had fallen whilst racing in the stadium at Delphi the day before - against non-one - just running full pelt for the finish line. I fell on a patch of uneven ground - a depression meant I was thrown off-balance and my trailing foot could not catch up: I nose dived into the gravel and earth at 20+ mph. To save my face I extended my right hand and then rolled onto my left shoulder. This was the cause of the injuries. I learned subsequently that I’d broken two bones in my right hand as I used it to protect my face].

OK. Enough of the health update: time for ouzo, a photo edit, then off to find some food. It's just turned 8.30pm here.

Today was brought to you by the colours yellow,

more yellow

and Cypress green,

and by the fragrances of gorse,

thyme

and oregano.

Well, now, high up in the pass, it's all pine resin!

Ciao for now,

d  xx

PS – back from eating.

Staying at the top of the mountain, I had to drive 12km down it to find a place to eat – a recommended taverna in Tripi. It was very busy – with people arriving until well after 11pm – I left at 11.30pm. The customers ranged from little kids to grandparents – often in family groups – with the kids circulating and burrowing out anything that interested them. Me, of course – alone, with a book and his food. It was a good spot – food was as good as suggested and the atmosphere warm and friendly. The two waiters were identical twins – mid 20s at a guess, and absolutely indistinguishable. Much more so than the 'identical' twins in our family – who already look very different as teenagers. The owner of the taverna took a great delight in me and my limited but brave Greek. When it was time to pay, he would not let me include the coffee I had taken to conclude the meal – and insisted on giving me a dessert, to boot, before I left. But this I find with the Greeks, as a people: they consistently welcome and celebrate visitors – when they make a demonstrable effort to pay a modicum of respect the country they visit by learning at least something of the language.

The drive backup the mountain hairpins was a 20 minute thrill. Once home, I went out on to the balcony to look at the night sky. It presented a panoramic view of unearthly beauty. Diamonds on black velvet. 

I had not seen such a sky since I was last on Rum, one of the islands off the west of Scotland. The reason was the same: no light pollution.

We have raised a generation of children who never see the night sky, still less are entranced by its constellations and the myths they speak of. There are some 6000 stars in the night sky – few of us town and city dwellers ever see more than a few hundred.

And so to bed – midnight…

The link takes you to some of the photos from that illustrate the blog:   https://www.flickr.com/gp/damiavos/wy7eSH

[bigyack-com]

Fire Blight Spreads Northward, Threatening Apple Orchards

GENEVA, N.Y. — Across the country, hundreds of kinds of apples were meticulously developed by orchardists over the last couple of centuries and then, as farms and groves were abandoned and commercial production greatly narrowed the number of varieties for sale, many were forgotten.Some of this horticultural biodiversity, though, has been nurtured by dedicated growers who want to preserve the forgotten flavors and other traits of apples from the past. For example, some of the best apples ever developed for baking pies are no longer grown commercially, experts say, but are still thriving in heirloom orchards.“They are a piece of our history as a variety and part of our cultural identity,” said Mark Richardson, director of horticulture at the Tower Hill Botanic Garden in Boylston, Mass. “But also some of these varieties may be important for breeding the next generation. They are an insurance policy against a catastrophe.”A burgeoning threat is coming for apples, though, both of the historical varieties and the popular ones grown in the orchards today. A disease called fire blight, easily managed for a long time in apple and pear orchards, is becoming more virulent as the climate changes and as growers alter the way the trees are configured to produce higher yields. Some researchers say newer varieties may be more vulnerable, too. It is another example of threats to the nation’s fruit crops, as citrus greening has hammered Florida’s orange groves and a fungus called Tropical Race 4 has devastated the world’s banana plantations.“Commercial apples are getting hit fairly hard by fire blight,” said Kerik D. Cox, a plant pathologist who has studied the disease for a decade at Cornell College of Agriculture and Life Sciences here. “And the intensity of it appears to be new.”As they walk down a row of small and thin apple trees, with large dark red apples hanging on them like Christmas bulbs, Dr. Cox and a graduate student, Anna Wallis, point out a shriveled, dark brown branch on one of them.The blight — caused by the bacterium erwinia amylovora — is native to the United States and predates the introduction of apple trees to North America. Apple and pear growers have long managed the disease, by trimming dead branches and in recent decades, spraying antibiotics like Streptomycin. But the blight is becoming resistant to the antibiotics, some say, and has become more aggressive, wiping out hundreds or even thousands of trees in some places.The blight is spreading to places where it had not been seen before, into New York’s Champlain Valley and parts of Maine for example.Tower Hill Botanic Garden was forced in November to raze its orchard of 238 heirloom trees — two each of 119 antique varieties. The orchard is dedicated to apples developed in this country, Europe and elsewhere long ago.One of the varieties, the Roxbury Russet, dates back to the mid-17th century, and is believed to be the oldest apple variety cultivated in the United States.In an effort to keep the ancient lineage of the orchard from disappearing, the scionwood — cuttings from recent aboveground growth — was grafted onto new blight-resistant root stock. The new tree grafts will grow for a year at an orchard in Maine, and then will be returned for planting in 2021.Orchards like the one at Tower Hill — there are fewer than a dozen in the country, experts say — have been likened to the Svarlbard Global Seed Vault, a concrete facility storing nearly one million seed species on the side of a mountain on a Norwegian island.The genetics of these trees may exist nowhere else and could someday be used to create new commercial varieties because of their flavor or resistance to disease and pests. Keeping the actual trees alive by growing successive generations through cloning and grafting is the only way to assure their lineage. That is because a seed from a particular tree may not contain all of the traits of the variety because one of the parents is unknown.Tower Hill had never seen fire blight during the bloom season, which provides a potent pathway for infection, until 2011. “We get a combination of weird and tragic weather, these days, variable and unpredictable,” Dr. Cox said.Unusual spikes in temperature and more wet weather form ideal conditions for the bacterium. While May temperatures in this part of the Northeast used to rise more gradually and more uniformly, that dynamic started changing about 20 years ago and now some days in that month can spike into the 70s, Dr. Cox said. In May 2010, temperatures soared into the 80s.“Fire blight enters the tree through the flower and if it lands on a flower in bloom with temps in the 60s, it can’t enter,” Mr. Richardson of Tower Hill said. “But if it’s over 75, the conditions are right for the spore to enter the flower and get into the vascular system and it moves through the orchard faster.”Honeybees and other insects then spread the disease as they pollinate apple blossoms. At warmer temperatures, fire blight is much more virulent. “It has the ability to kill a tree in a single season,” Mr. Richardson said.“We have a lot of trees that have been mutilated,” he added. “And they are succumbing to old age because of the presence of fire blight, which weakens them.” At optimum temperatures, the bacteria double in volume every 20 minutes, Dr. Cox said.“I never thought about fire blight, it was an issue for the South,” said John P. Bunker, a long time apple grower farther north in Palermo, Maine, who identifies and preserves forgotten heirloom varieties across the country. “But 10 years ago, there was a big fire blight outbreak and suddenly it was here. I have preservation orchards all over my property, hundreds of trees and I had never, ever seen it and all of a sudden I was seeing it.”What makes the ecology of the disease even more challenging to solve and address is that while a warmer world is a big part of the emerging problem, there are other factors that may be contributing to ideal conditions for an outbreak.Apple orchards these days are a very different creature than they used to be. “People climbing apple trees and harvesting fruit with ladders, that’s gone,” Dr. Cox said. “It’s now about making an apple like a grape, where you can walk by and pick the fruit right off the tree.”Many modern commercial apple trees are planted in what’s called a high density trellis system. They top out at about six to eight feet and are narrow, like a sapling. Yet, fertilizers can push this waifish modern tree to grow about 50 full-size apples, compared to as many as 300 or so on the old-style trees. But instead of some 300 trees to an acre spaced about 10 feet apart, trees are planted 18 to 24 inches apart and there are 1,500 or so trees to an acre.The trellis-style orchard increases product and profit. A few decades ago, apple growers harvested 200 to 300 bushels of apples to the acre. The goal now is 2,000 bushels an acre, Dr. Cox said.The trellis configuration makes it difficult to manage fire blight. “The old-style trees that we used to grow were big and had tons of branches and the bacteria couldn’t move through the tree very well,” said George Sundin, a plant pathologist at Michigan State University, where fire blight is also a growing problem. In these new trees, “the branches are smaller and it’s a short distance from the branch to the tree and down to the roots.”Managed by cutting out infection, fire blight rarely killed trees in the old days, but now can wipe out hundreds or thousands in a month or two. It can spread from orchard to orchard through the wind or by insects carrying the disease.Another contributing factor may be that the new apple trees are not as resistant to disease. “They are the equivalent of a caged chicken, planting them in crowded conditions and pushing them with nutrients to grow 50 or more apples to a tree,” Dr. Cox said.And because many more trees are being planted, tree growers are rushing to fill orders. “Nurseries can’t grow trees fast enough and quality is compromised,” Dr. Cox said.Moreover, modern varieties may also play a role. “So is it primarily climate change, or is it that they are packed together?” Dr. Cox asked. “Or is it the new varieties — such as Evercrisp and Gala — which may be more susceptible? That’s what we are trying to find out.”One answer may be growing in the National Apple Collection, not far from Dr. Cox’s research grove. Managed by the Department of Agriculture, it is the largest collection of apple genetics on the planet. There are some 6,000 trees, wild and domestic, with 55 species and hybrids from around the world, including Central Asia where the apple originated.These genes are so critical to the future of apples that cuttings from the trees are shipped to the National Laboratory for Genetic Resources Preservation in Fort Collins, Colo., where they are preserved in liquid nitrogen and stored in a vault.One of the ways these trees may earn their keep is by helping out in the battle against fire blight.“We are looking at genes from wild species for fire blight resistance,” said Awais Khan, a plant pathologist at Cornell who is doing this work. It might take 25 years of breeding to create fire blight resistant apple trees, he said, “but there are ways we can speed up the process, so maybe 10 or 15 years.” Source link Read the full article

[biofunmy]

Fire Blight Spreads Northward, Threatening Apple Orchards

GENEVA, N.Y. — Across the country, hundreds of kinds of apples were meticulously developed by orchardists over the last couple of centuries and then, as farms and groves were abandoned and commercial production greatly narrowed the number of varieties for sale, many were forgotten.

Some of this horticultural biodiversity, though, has been nurtured by dedicated growers who want to preserve the forgotten flavors and other traits of apples from the past. For example, some of the best apples ever developed for baking pies are no longer grown commercially, experts say, but are still thriving in heirloom orchards.

“They are a piece of our history as a variety and part of our cultural identity,” said Mark Richardson, director of horticulture at the Tower Hill Botanic Garden in Boylston, Mass. “But also some of these varieties may be important for breeding the next generation. They are an insurance policy against a catastrophe.”

A burgeoning threat is coming for apples, though, both of the historical varieties and the popular ones grown in the orchards today. A disease called fire blight, easily managed for a long time in apple and pear orchards, is becoming more virulent as the climate changes and as growers alter the way the trees are configured to produce higher yields. Some researchers say newer varieties may be more vulnerable, too.

It is another example of threats to the nation’s fruit crops, as citrus greening has hammered Florida’s orange groves and a fungus called Tropical Race 4 has devastated the world’s banana plantations.

“Commercial apples are getting hit fairly hard by fire blight,” said Kerik D. Cox, a plant pathologist who has studied the disease for a decade at Cornell College of Agriculture and Life Sciences here. “And the intensity of it appears to be new.”

As they walk down a row of small and thin apple trees, with large dark red apples hanging on them like Christmas bulbs, Dr. Cox and a graduate student, Anna Wallis, point out a shriveled, dark brown branch on one of them.

The blight — caused by the bacterium Erwinia amylovora — is native to the United States and predates the introduction of apple trees to North America. Apple and pear growers have long managed the disease, by trimming dead branches and in recent decades, spraying antibiotics like Streptomycin. But the blight is becoming resistant to the antibiotics, some say, and has become more aggressive, wiping out hundreds or even thousands of trees in some places.

The blight is spreading to places where it had not been seen before, into New York’s Champlain Valley and parts of Maine for example.

Tower Hill Botanic Garden was forced in November to raze its orchard of 238 heirloom trees — two each of 119 antique varieties. The orchard is dedicated to apples developed in this country, Europe and elsewhere long ago.

One of the varieties, the Roxbury Russet, dates back to the mid-17th century, and is believed to be the oldest apple variety cultivated in the United States.

In an effort to keep the ancient lineage of the orchard from disappearing, the scionwood — cuttings from recent aboveground growth — was grafted onto new blight-resistant root stock. The new tree grafts will grow for a year at an orchard in Maine, and then will be returned for planting in 2021.

Orchards like the one at Tower Hill — there are fewer than a dozen in the country, experts say — have been likened to the Svarlbard Global Seed Vault, a concrete facility storing nearly one million seed species on the side of a mountain on a Norwegian island.

The genetics of these trees may exist nowhere else and could someday be used to create new commercial varieties because of their flavor or resistance to disease and pests. Keeping the actual trees alive by growing successive generations through cloning and grafting is the only way to assure their lineage. That is because a seed from a particular tree may not contain all of the traits of the variety because one of the parents is unknown.

Tower Hill had never seen fire blight during the bloom season, which provides a potent pathway for infection, until 2011. “We get a combination of weird and tragic weather, these days, variable and unpredictable,” Dr. Cox said.

Unusual spikes in temperature and more wet weather form ideal conditions for the bacterium. While May temperatures in this part of the Northeast used to rise more gradually and more uniformly, that dynamic started changing about 20 years ago and now some days in that month can spike into the 70s, Dr. Cox said. In May 2010, temperatures soared into the 80s.

“Fire blight enters the tree through the flower and if it lands on a flower in bloom with temps in the 60s, it can’t enter,” Mr. Richardson of Tower Hill said. “But if it’s over 75, the conditions are right for the spore to enter the flower and get into the vascular system and it moves through the orchard faster.”

Honey bees and other insects then spread the disease as they pollinate apple blossoms. At warmer temperatures, fire blight is much more virulent. “It has the ability to kill a tree in a single season,” Mr. Richardson said.

“We have a lot of trees that have been mutilated,” he added. “And they are succumbing to old age because of the presence of fire blight, which weakens them.” At optimum temperatures, the bacteria double in volume every 20 minutes, Dr. Cox said.

“I never thought about fire blight, it was an issue for the South,” said John P. Bunker, a long time apple grower farther north in Palermo, Maine, who identifies and preserves forgotten heirloom varieties across the country. “But 10 years ago, there was a big fire blight outbreak and suddenly it was here. I have preservation orchards all over my property, hundreds of trees and I had never, ever seen it and all of a sudden I was seeing it.”

What makes the ecology of the disease even more challenging to solve and address is that while a warmer world is a big part of the emerging problem, there are other factors that may be contributing to ideal conditions for an outbreak.

Apple orchards these days are a very different creature than they used to be. “People climbing apple trees and harvesting fruit with ladders, that’s gone,” Dr. Cox said. “It’s now about making an apple like a grape, where you can walk by and pick the fruit right off the tree.”

Many modern commercial apple trees are planted in what’s called a high density trellis system. They top out at about six to eight feet and are narrow, like a sapling. Yet, fertilizers can push this waifish modern tree to grow about 50 full-size apples, compared to as many as 300 or so on the old-style trees. But instead of some 300 trees to an acre spaced about 10 feet apart, trees are planted 18 to 24 inches apart and there are 1,500 or so trees to an acre.

The trellis-style orchard increases product and profit. Many more premium apples are produced in the new-style orchard, some experts say. A few decades ago, apple growers harvested 200 to 300 bushels of apples to the acre and about 25 bushels were the highest grade. The goal now is 2,000 bushels an acre of premium apples, Dr. Cox said.

The trellis configuration makes it difficult to manage fire blight. “The old-style trees that we used to grow were big and had tons of branches and the bacteria couldn’t move through the tree very well,” said George Sundin, a plant pathologist at Michigan State University, where fire blight is also a growing problem. In these new trees, “the branches are smaller and it’s a short distance from the branch to the tree and down to the roots.”

Managed by cutting out infection, fire blight rarely killed trees in the old days, but now can wipe out hundreds or thousands in a month or two. It can spread from orchard to orchard through the wind or by insects carrying the disease.

Another contributing factor may be that the new apple trees are not as resistant to disease. “They are the equivalent of a caged chicken, planting them in crowded conditions and pushing them with nutrients to grow 50 or more apples to a tree,” Dr. Cox said.

And because many more trees are being planted, tree growers are rushing to fill orders. “Nurseries can’t grow trees fast enough and quality is compromised,” Dr. Cox said.

Moreover, modern varieties may also play a role. “So is it primarily climate change, or is it that they are packed together?” Dr. Cox asked. “Or is it the new varieties — such as Evercrisp and Gala — which may be more susceptible? That’s what we are trying to find out.”

One answer may be growing in the National Apple Collection, not far from Dr. Cox’s research grove. Managed by the Department of Agriculture, it is the largest collection of apple genetics on the planet. There are some 6,000 trees, wild and domestic, with 55 species and hybrids from around the world, including Central Asia where the apple originated.

These genes are so critical to the future of apples that cuttings from the trees are shipped to the National Laboratory for Genetic Resources Preservation in Fort Collins, Colo., where they are preserved in liquid nitrogen and stored in a vault.

One of the ways these trees may earn their keep is by helping out in the battle against fire blight.

“We are looking at genes from wild species for fire blight resistance,” said Awais Khan, a plant pathologist at Cornell who is doing this work. It might take 25 years of breeding to create fire blight resistant apple trees, he said, “but there are ways we can speed up the process, so maybe 10 or 15 years.”

Sahred From Source link Science

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