A little village on the side of a mountain

I was walking like John Wayne after six hours on a horse. One side of my face and both hands were red raw from fresh sunburn. I was caked in dust that had clung to my sweaty skin. I was sore, tired and dirty but realising that I would feel far worse the next day when I had to do it all again I decided not to let it bother me.

I had a guide named Michael and three horses, one for me, one for him and one for my luggage, including all the food I would need for the next three nights. The day had been somewhat divine: riding past cornfields, past lone shepherds watching over their flock of sheep or herd of cattle, riding waist deep through running rivers, over mountains, down steep rocky hill-sides and past small villages of no more than a half dozen huts. The sound of cow bells bouncing off the sides of mountains was only ever broken by the occasional child on the back of a donkey calling out “money money, give me money”.

That night we rode into a small village perched on the edge of a mountain where I was shown the hut that I would be sleeping in. I was anxious about where my guide had planned to sleep, it was only really then that the reality hit me – no one in the world knew where I was… I didn’t know where I was, and potentially I was sharing a hut with a man I had only just met. Even though we had spent the day together he had barely uttered a word. His English was not very good, but I suspect quiet was his preferred way of being. As I mentioned in an earlier blog, my mum’s advice before I had left home was to push a piece of furniture up against my bedroom door at night. Well my sister Kelly’s advice had been to always sleep with a knife. That night I took my sister’s advice.

I didn’t really meet the other people in the village. They seemed disinterested in my presence completely. Before dinner though my guide Michael asked one of the girls there to take me on a walk to the waterfall, I knew it was going to cost me money, but I felt like I couldn’t really say no. We walked in silence to the waterfall, I guess that it was about 6km away, and most of it required bush-bashing and rock climbing. I didn’t mind not being able to talk until she started collecting local plants and I was dying to know what she was going to use them for: food or medicine? I would probably never know.

At the waterfall we took our shoes off and paddled our feet. Once again I used my tattoos, piercings and digital camera to transcend the language barrier.

We got back to the village after dark and by the light of some candles I had brought along with me I cooked some rice on a camping stove for both my guide and I. We ate out under the stars in silence and I was calmed by nature at its best – the fresh air, the stillness, the energy from the mountains around us, the smell of fresh air, dirt and cow shit. The village had no lights and no running water. Off on distant mountains I could see specks of orange lights from the fires of other villages, occasionally I could hear the sound of drums carried on the breeze.

I was getting used to the lack of conversation now, I found the silence comforting. An old lady was squatting in the doorway of the hut next to mine picking leaves off bunches of plant. It was too dark to see what sort of a plant it was, so I assumed it was the morning’s breakfast.

I sat and pondered how surreal it all was. Soon enough I would be back in Sydney, the traffic jams, the shopping centres, the night-time lit bright by street lights, the fast pace, the long working days. And all this would still be here. This quiet little village will still be perched on the side of this mountain, the villagers would still herd their cattle by day and silently pick their marijuana leaves at night, staring at the mountains that surround them. And Rudy will get his pilots licence, and Charles will keep blogging, Lyn and Ange will get married, Davy would graduate school, Assane will sell his jewellery and one day maybe fall in love, Sammy will soon have to plant his corn, Kingsley will no doubt find another girl to send poetry to, David will finish his film and life will go on. Each new day will come and go and things will change but also things will stay the same. All of the experiences I have had, the people I met will only exist in memory, in the diaries I keep and the photos I take, and that is just how life is.

After hours of silently pondering life and my travels, Michael got up and pulled a mattress out of one hut and placed it in mine. To my relief he left me alone in there and although I slept with a knife under my pillow I quickly fell into a deep and peaceful sleep.

I awoke just before the break of dawn, heated up some instant coffee on the camp stove and sat alone on the side of the mountain watching the sun rise.

When the old lady emerged shortly after sun up she was holding the branches she had been stripping the night before…. Now I could clearly see what it was – marijuana. Highly amused I pointed at the branches in hand and gestured for her to show me where she got them from. She took me down the hill a little further where fenced off garden of about 10m x 10m was full of healthy looking, thriving marijuana plants.

An old man wrapped in his blanket was gently tending to the garden. I was surprised he let me take a photo. I wondered if they sold it or if it was just for their use only. It was not the only time in my life I wished that I smoked weed (I lived in Amsterdam for a year!).