Tired legs…

Today, my legs are sore and my feet are clean.  What have I been up to? 

Hiking to Sinden! 

Yesterday, Hilary, Tibou, Gabriel, Diouma Fleur, Amadou Ouri, and I took the same road that Mariama and I take when we go to her fonio fields.  We kept going, though: past the new school that’s being built for the kids in Sinden (right now, it’s at least an hour’s walk for them to go to Sebhory), past the water pump, past the 20ft tall rock that’s been split in two by a tree that took root in a crack near its base; past several mango trees loaded with ripe fruit (thank you to the generous owners of those trees—and thanks to the next household, too, that gave us water to wash all the stickiness off our hands and faces), and finally, to the edge of the world.  Luckily, we’d acquired another member of our entourage by this point: a local kid from Sinden.  He scrambled nimbly over the edge of the world, and we followed more slowly. 

I was the first one to lose my footing on the descent; in some places, we had usefully square stones underfoot, at times as regular as a staircase, but in between the rocks, the loose soil and dried leaves proved treacherous.  Finally we reached the valley floor, bracketed by abrupt rock faces on both sides;  with Diouma in the lead, we followed cow trails towards the sound of water. 

At the first stream we crossed, I lost my footing and stepped right in— luckily it was only a few inches deep, so I just waded across.  Onwards through the thick trees and lush elephant grass, then another turn of the stream to cross: this time I made it across without giving my sneakers another dunking.  Ahead we heard the rush of the waterfall, then another sound bouncing off the rock walls: baboons!  Diouma called back to them, but they didn’t come over to say hello.  The path up to the waterfall was completely grown over; luckily Diouma had brought his clippers, and he cut us a path through the overhanging vines and new branches.  One more wet scramble over the stream, and we reached the base of the falls:  twin curtains of water streaming from the rock face high above, falling in a blur of mist and spray into a pool surrounded by rocks smoothed by years of rains and river.  Have I mentioned how amazingly beautiful Guinea is?  This is just one of the many waterfalls Diouma knows: the kids around here know it, and the old people remember being kids themselves and scrambling over the rocks to play in this pool.  But no one on the paved road knows how to get here, and it’s been a year since Diouma brought any other visitors here.  So the waterfalls, the pool, the baboons, and the sun-warmed, water-smoothed rocks keep their own company.  We visited for an afternoon, ate our picnic on the rocks, and returned to the cow trails, cutting a path back up out of the valley. 

A few more tight passages through overgrown bush, a few more scrambles up steep valley sides, and we found ourselves at the next series of waterfalls.  Here, a bridge built of bundles of logs and branches arched across the stream, well out of reach of the quiet waters of dry season, but ready to withstand the torrents of rainy season.  After Tibou lost his footing on the bridge and nearly went in, I decided to go across on all fours—not particularly glamorous, but I’ll sacrifice glamor if I can avoid falling six feet into a shallow rocky channel.  As we perched at the top of a series of falls, we spotted another pedestrian—a man walking towards Sebhory with three newly carved stools balanced just so on his head.  He was the first person we’d seen since we’d descended into the valley, though quite a few cows gave us questioning looks as we tramped past.  We left the water behind, stepped a few meters through the trees, and suddenly we were back in the fonio fields—steep slopes cleared and burned in anticipation of the season’s plantings.  A long march uphill—Diouma and Hilary raced up one section like mountain goats while Tibou and I slogged along behind—and then we were back on the roads I know well from last fall’s fonio harvest: there’s Mariama’s field; there’s the tailor’s mother’s field.  Back past the pump, and past the well; past the field dotted with jasmine bushes and past the leafless trees adorned only with tiny purple orchids.  Past the men carrying bundles of manioc cuttings, past the goats returning home with the setting sun, and back to the back roads and alleys of Sebhory, where everyone asks me, “Where have you been?”  and “You’re tired, aren’t you?”  Yes, I am.  My legs are worn out, my feet have been scrubbed to an unimaginable level of cleanliness by miles in wet sneakers, my T-shirt is drenched in sweat and stained by mangos, and my heart is full of good memories.