Ndipita ku gomo

(Sunday, 10:30am)

I am going to the mountain, I say to my grandmother, pointing to the hill a little ways behind the village. I don’t know the word for hill, and we have been joking about mountains over supper for the past week – saying I need to learn to eat more nsima, a whole mountain, like my host brother can (seriously, he eats 4 to 5 cups of this stuff, all starch, every night for supper). I get the confused stares I expected , with a bit of a laugh (silly white girl). I add a See you this evening! and I’m off.

I need to get out of the house. A thousand little things are bugging me, and I want to run away from them for a bit, I want space to sit and think and read and write and do nothing. Outside. Away from the chitchat I can’t understand, away from expectations about what I should and shouldn’t do, away from the chicken that followed me all morning, away from people staring silently at the crazy white girl, the dust blowing in my eyes, half the town knowing my every move, questions about where I’ve been (right here!), and all of those little things that normally don’t bug me but somehow are just too much today. So I’m going up that hill I watch the sun sink behind while I cook supper. It seems like a good idea.

Along the way, “Come and sit, sister.” And I have to, so I do. They ask, and so I explain: where I’m going, where I live, where I work, where I come from, that I have no children, one brother, two sisters, how long I’m here, that I’m learning Chichewa, sure we can be friends, no I can’t take you to Canada, and that now I really want to be going, and yes I’m going alone and no you can’t come with me and I’ll be fine and won’t get lost thank you. And finish it off with a See you later! Variations on this conversation happen three more times as I wander on paths that look like they might lead in the right direction – this is part of what I was trying to get away from… and I start choosing paths that look less likely to have people on them.

Then I’m walking between the fields at the bottom of the hill, and children are shouting at me: “Azungu, bo! How are you! Give me money! Hello! Hello! Thank you!” It’s a debate, I’m far enough away that I might not hear them, and showing that I did might encourage them. But ignoring them isn’t working, they’re persistent and getting closer, so Ndili bwino, kaya inu? and other greetings in reply. After lots of giggling, “Where are you going sister?” Ndipita ku gomo. “Ah. To pray?” I consider, I’m not going to pray, and I’ve been pretty open about my non-religion around town, but maybe that’s a logical reason to want to go climb a hill. So yes, I’m going to pray, and maybe that will indicate that I don’t really want company? And so I add another See you later! And I walk a little faster, hoping they’ll get the hint. Hints don’t work.

I’m walking along the base, looking for a good place to go up, with smaller rocks and less bushes. But now the kids are clammering at me again, I have no idea what they’re saying, but there’s a lot of pointing and worried voices, so I turn around. It seems they want me to go back, that the way up is in the other direction. So I follow them. Eventually, they’re all pointing in different directions, and I become even less convinced they should be giving directions, so I offer a Thank you very much, thank you, thank you, and start walking up – it’s not a good spot, but I’m doubting that a particularly good option exists.

The hill is covered in burnt leaves and skeletons of small trees. There are now 20 children following me, plus a lady with a baby tied on her back. All trying to tell me different directions to go in, pointing where I should and should not step, and arguing amongst themselves. I’m hot, tired, and cranky, this isn’t what I wanted. I’m halfway, but I’ve had enough. Point to a rock, sit down on it like it was my intended destination all along, offer another Thank you very much, I am staying, pull out a smile that looks genuine enough, and sit and stare like I’m thinking very hard, willing them to keep moving. Some do, others hang around, collecting firewood, telling me long complicated stories I don’t understand, offering advice of some kind, asking me if I’m praying (yup, I did try pretending, it didn’t help). And now I’m not only cranky and wanting to get away and wishing they would leave, but feeling bad – about feeling all of those things that should really be too small to bug me, that I’m free to sit on my butt while 10 year olds collect firewood, and they are only trying to be helpful but I somehow can’t deal with that today.

Eventually, they trickle off, back to their homes. I’m writing, trying to figure out what’s bugging me, trying to find solutions or stop-gaps or something so I don’t feel this next time, so I don’t need to run away, so I can deal with these little things again. I’m then I’m rambling into the same big things that are so often bugging me, life being complicated, work being hard, and myself not seeming to be able to overcome all this. I don’t like where this is going. Redirecting, I think about how ugly this hill is, and stare at the burnt leaves and the hazy view and the clouds that are blocking the sun and making me cold. And somehow despite all that I’m slowly decompressing, gradually getting distracted from the big things pulling at me and the little things nagging me. But what if I keep missing solutions because I’m satisfied with the distractions? Or what if distractions are all anyone has, and that’s good enough, and …

…somehow, it’s mostly ok now. It’s been a while, my head is clearing, I’m ready to cope, and it’s time to go home. I can see the road, and I can see where I think the house is – it’s not far, but I want to give myself an easy hour of daylight to get back. I’ve got two hours. The kids found some kind of path… I debate going up the rest of the way before going down. I look up – more of the same dead trees and ash. I think I won’t.

The hill is burnt and ugly, and I only go up because I told my grandmother I was going to the mountain, she’ll ask if I went to the top, and I don’t want to lie.

And 10 minutes further, the path somehow winds around to a part that isn’t burnt, but is green and red and the haze is clearing and a florescent pink bird just flew out of a tree because I startled it. Can this be the same hill?

The view from the top is beautiful. Wind is blowing, grass is growing, flowers are blooming, trees are waving, music is playing in a village far below, and I can’t hear the cars on the road. I take pictures. A little ways over, there’s even a sign… no, there was a sign… “Ntcheu Hill” is carved in the cement base. Who’s job is it to climb hills and put things marking the top, and how can I get that job? And the burnt bushes, irritating kids, hot sun, sharp rocks, scratching branches, thorns, and blackflies are all worth it.

It jumps into my head, and though between everything and nothing I feel like the last person on earth to give anyone advice, if stories in real life can have morals, this one is “follow through.” I’m glad I did.

 

 

(Click to see larger pictures)

I didn’t take pictures of the burnt part going up because it was ugly, and I wanted to forget the entire hill. Going down I was going to take pictures to prove the contrast, but I ended up finding a better path that avoided most of the burnt, so I didn’t get the chance. It’s perpetuating stereotypes, but think of the part of the Lion King movie where Scar lived with the hyenas. It was burnt and ugly like that, but without the bones. Instead, here is the view from the top.

Looking in the other direction – much flatter.

This used to be a sign, now has names, dates, and hearts carved all over it. Written in the cement at the base it says “Ntcheu Hill. 171 MWT. D.O.S. 1970.”

View of a village on the way back down.