below the overpass

Squinting up, concrete pillars divide the blue above.

They support tracks. A giant cradle-like highway, beginning from the nearby port, gradually narrows into nothing as it extends into the distant horizon.

These tracks carry ships: stinking, heaving cargo ships which require overland transport from coast to coast.

From below, the blockish grey cast square shadows.

On one of these pillars, the words
Port 50
140.3 km
Are carved deeply into the concrete. A faint yellow outline around them can still be seen, an echo of past significance.

Nowadays, the paint has faded. Wind has eroded the laser-cut etchings, and bright green vines have made their way across the entire surface, making the text near illegible.

At the base of this pillar, a small economy thrives.

Drippings from mechanical sweat have fallen onto the soil below, as the steam and run-off produced by stalled mega-engines transform into small creeks. Plankton-rich water scraped from the bottom of distant oceans feed the dirt, and lush greenery has sprouted from it.

Grass and moss cover any untouched surface, and the ledges above brim with a cascade of vines and climbers.

Pockets of light form patterns across the land below, and small flowers and weeds flourish where the rays remain the longest.

Over time, the land under the overpass has developed into a small ecosystem.

With so much of the neighbouring land made inhospitable by the growing char, throngs of people have flocked to these colossal structures, drawn to the stable temperatures, the dewy humidity, and the clear, fresh steamwater—all products of the ceaseless mechanical stirrings above.

Elevated well above sea-level and well-embanked, the land beneath the overpass was well protected against the acrid tides. Initially designed to ensure the longevity of the pillars, the surrounding sea barriers now served as indispensable safeguards for those that persist behind them.

At first, metal and cement seem like a far cry from fertile farming terrain.

However, Mother Nature is nothing if not relentless. Appearing from what seemed like nothing, patches of moss, fungi, and weed began to sprout from the sterile grey. And with it came a layer of soft, claylike sand that fed the flora—first forming near streams of running steamwater, before slowly dispersing across the concrete. Burgeoning, spreading, multiplying, flourishing.

Immaculate conception.

This is where we subsist—foraging for weeds and shrooms which flourish along the edges of the steamwater runoff. Luckily, the most hardy of weeds also happen to be delicious.

“Chickweeds taste like chicken”, Mother used to sing. “Sorrel sours the stews and soups.”

Most of the forage ends up in the pot, but some we leave behind. Mushrooms are snapped at the stem, and every so often a weed is left untouched. Like a little green company stretched single file, they travelled along the stream’s edge with us.

As a child, I loved tapping each and every mushroom cap we came across on our morning forages. A pat on the head, as if to wake them from their slumber. Or perhaps as a pat of appreciation, thanking them for the continued role they play in sustaining us.

Along the walls of the great pillar, bright tents and makeshift pavilions are pitched against the concrete—multicolour patchworks crafted from loose tarps, blankets, old plastic sheets—whatever that could be scavenged or found washed up on nearby shores.

Beginning as a place of barter, the base of the pillar slowly developed into the nucleus of the community. A place where people could gather, trade, converse. A place where leaders were chosen, ideas were developed, decisions were made.

Such a development was unavoidable. People were drawn to the pillar. This monolithic structure, a remnant of past glory, before the world’s aspirations grew too large for its frame.

Big bodied boys brought sundrenched skies and stinking seas.

A feat of infrastructure and engineering, it rose above the ash and smoke, and continues to stand, long after the dust settled and skies cleared.

Now, it remains, a symbol of humanity’s endurance, or perhaps stubbornness.

And still it remains, amidst the merchants hawking and bazaar pavilions billowing, its immense presence continuing to draw people into its irresistible orbit.