A journey home

Down four steps, the asphalt is still damp from the midday showers. The air is cool, but humid as the sun begins its decent. Pedaling out the gate, barefoot villagers pass carrying loads of firewood off the plateau balanced on their heads; men, women and children. The load varies accordingly, though they are all carrying more than one would deem possible for the length of their journey. Down the hill, soldiers wait idly by the road to have their turn at driving the lorry around the bend and up the hill. The large ‘L’ warning all that they should be given wide berth as they learn to take the corner. Passing over the drainage ditch, which has suffered heavily under the weight of the attempts gone wrong, I enter into a world of green growth. All matter of plants, urged on by the heavy rains, have begun their upward exploration is search of sunlight. Men swinging machetes respond with accuracy gained over a lifetime. The single track down across the bridges is dark brown with hints of glittery quartz. It shimmers as I glide quickly over the hills and down towards the stream. With the clambering of loosely nailed boards I fly over the stream and start to pedal again up the far side. The red bricks of the cathedral and the fresh green growth give a hint of Christmas as the temperature hovers around 80 degrees. Emerging from the green, the traffic rushes by in three directions. Taking the fourth, I continue downward. It is a long and steady descent from here which takes me past university students walking in pairs of two and three. The asphalt comes to an end, but my journey continues. Here the rich brown soil, cultivated into rows like corrugated tin roofs, gives life to future nsima paddies, and the road begins to show signs of the heavy rain, exposing rock and creating ditches. The plateau off to the left stands proud as magnificent clouds approaching from the southeast catch colorful rays of light. Rounding the corner, I slow, responding to the children. Mzungu bo!?! Bo, bo! Close now, their bright eyes and warm smiles regain the dignity lost to their dirty, hole-ridden clothes and lack of shoes. Riding past every day for six months now has only served to encourage their curiosity as they run along shouting greetings in English learned from an older sibling. Weaving through an unplanned community, I arrive to the grid like streets of Matawale. A right turn, followed by a quick left brings familiar faces calling out my name. Always the same: How are you? I am fine. How are you? I am fine. Thank you. Thank you. The green gate and tree laden with avocados signals the end of the journey home. In fifteen minutes, an experience, lived over and again, can prove to be as calming and mundane as it can a source of unexpected inspiration.