I don’t know about you, but I’m drowning in stuff. My closet is bulging with impulse buys: clothes, shoes… books (aspirational). Most of it I don’t use, and a large portion of it I haven’t touched. The top shelf is spilling over with half-used deodorant cans and chargers for devices I didn’t even know I had. USB-C… lightning… whatever that tiny one is that Android used to use. I think there’s a HDMI in there somewhere, but like, for what sky box? And (perhaps more importantly) what TV?

The old is forgotten for the new in a heartbeat. Those parachute pants spent all of five minutes on our legs before they were stripped and dumped in the local landfill. Every teen girl on TikTok worshipped that fashion trend. Now they’re a blacked-out blip we hope history won’t remember.

We’re in a horrific crisis of materialism. I mean, we can’t really commit to anything. We dip from the party after the initial buzz is over. Even the best of us have our head turned by a cool new T-Shirt. I know a man in a van who’s a sucker for them – if the hippies can’t manage it, what chance do the rest of us have?

And – much more importantly – what chance do I have? I matched my masks to my outfits during Covid. Monochrome is me. My colour must match my mood. I’ve been waltzing round in green, sipping green drinks, to inspire ‘green thoughts’ for this issue. Is this absolutely necessary? No. Does this stop me? Absolutely not.

The only time in life where fashion wasn’t an object was when I went through the trauma of working with kids. For a few days a month, I understand why people have children. The rest of the time? Beats me.

Thus ensued a catastrophic identity crisis when I was imprisoned in a kindergarten with the screaming energy-suckers. The crème de la crème of my style became suspiciously acquired T-Shirts and old 90s trackies. At the climax of this horror story, my appearance was described as ‘varying shades of Adam Sandler’. 

Historically, the mighty have fallen. But I am positive they never fell this far.

This was my perspective, until I met the man that changed my mind. For those of you that haven’t seen his green van covered in worms, Alcindo Pinto is a sculptor, landscaper and man of the forest. His statues made from willow trees are iconic on the island. I mean, if you haven’t taken a photo under the puffins at Plemont yet, what have you been doing for the last two years?

I came to the Little Green Man with my questions. And he did not hesitate to whisper wisdom into my soul.

“Buy less” – he said.

Initially, I felt great. I wasn’t the one who bought the T-Shirts. I’d found my own environmental loophole. I was saving the world, one small theft at a time.

“But what about recycling?”

Alcindo, a poet by nature, gave his response:

“Recycling is Bollox”.

Pray tell?

“There is a waste disposal hierarchy. It goes like this: refuse, reduce, reuse, repair, renovate, recycle, responsibly dispose of”.

Our go to green response was pretty low on the pecking order. In fact, not much better than a sober binning spree.

The reason for this was energy. Not the ‘will to live’ kind – the ‘sciency’ kind.

“Most recycled stuff requires massive energy and cost, and produces lower and lower quality products the more it is recycled.”

And that’s when he really called me out.

“But it gives you the impression you are doing something good.”

The knife cut deep.

“Just use less”.

It twisted.

No more monochrome outfits?!? I had to sit down for a while.

“Think about it whilst layin’ in long grass”, he said. “Do less”, he said. 

And do less I did.

They say grief comes in stages. I denied it. I was angry at it. I bargained with recycling, before remembering that couldn’t do anything for me anyway. As I lay down in that overgrown field I tackled the fourth stage – depression. But after a night on the prairie under the watchful gaze of the stars, I finally found the courage to *inward gasp* accept.

Life was never going to be the same again. Alcindo’s wisdom had osmosis’ed into my body through the gentle blue light of Facebook messenger. I was ready to start a new life – dedicated to imparting the wisdom he so gracefully gave me:

“Live your life like there are no resources left. Buy less, repair more, ignore advertising. Just do it yourself without waiting for a clean system you can fit into.”

“Be suspicious of things that are covered in plastic. Be suspicious of highly processed food. Fit into your own ecosystem”.

(Human-size ecosphere bowl – pending).

“Work out for yourself what clean actually means. Information is hijacked. Spun, diluted and fed to us in multiple discrete ways, so you don’t even notice it colonising your consciousness. Find your own truth without media participation. Escape input and radiation as much as you can. Oh yer, and chuck your phone away. It’s mainly a distraction. Ok. Rant over”.

The morning dew settled over my eyes like cleansing earth tears of wildernessy spiritualness. I was ready to start the day. A brand new woman, Mother Nature shone down on me. Ask me to plant some potatoes? I’ll do it. A whole plot? Even better. 

Enough to support the commune in St Ouens I’m starting? Absolutely! I’ll be done quicker than you can say ‘incest’.

So started my quest to fulfil a foraging fantasy. Alcindo had given me inspiration – but where to turn to next? The waters in my mind were moving, but with no practical implementation, they had nowhere they could flow. I was cursed to remain stagnant forever.

Where does one learn how to plant a potato? Certainly not at Gallery magazine (this year). Google? St Peter’s Garden Centre? An indigenous village somewhere in the Peruvian-Bolivian Andes?

I mean who even forages now anyways? Has anyone picked a plant since like… before Jesus was born?

In this moment of crisis, my eureka moment hit. I was blinded by a great white light. Amidst the rays, dreadlocks swum into the shape of the sun. I reached into the abyss, pulled out the letters:

Z Z A K ?

No.

K A Z Z .

A childhood memory was unlocked. I vaguely remembered this man’s face looking down at me as I embarked on a terrifying abseil down a cliff in Gorey. This man was nature personified. He ripped stinging nettles through his legs to prove it. Kazz was the man who did the outdoor activity courses from all those years ago. The naturalness of it all came rushing back to me.

I reached out to him to figure out how I was going to make my commune work. He must have been in a tree or something, because he didn’t get back to me for two whole days. Kazz told me that foraging was the way forward, and that he runs courses both inland and coastal. The focus is not just on food, but on the many different benefits of plants, including health, wellbeing, medicinal and practical benefits. This all sounded quite perfect. Everything I needed to succeed in my mission.

Kazz told me that many people who come on his walks are surprised about how many edible and medicinal plants are available in Jersey. Especially when they realise that this extends from grassy areas to the beach. I was particularly pleased with this because it meant I had the option of relocating my nature dances between the two venues. He promised me that wherever I was, “the average walk into nature, once you have the eyes to see what is actually growing around you, is elevated and enhanced”. 

I was officially sold. From this moment on, foraging is my favourite hobby. And I’m keeping my windows open all year round, like Alcindo in his old farm house. He doesn’t have heating, and despite minimal insulation, hasn’t caught a cold or flu in 15 years. Nature will be kind to the ones who treat her well. 

Alcindo and Kazz are the ‘greenest’ people I know. Noticeably without the emerald ensemble to match. And whilst that’s a sight I’d pay to see – a shoot with single-use suits won’t be funny in fifty years. In the spirit of making jokes that age well, we ditched the original dream to embrace a more natural scene. That, and Kazz refused to leave the beach.

Photography: Danny Evans