Saturday is a busy day in the town nearby because market draws people from all the surrounding villages on that day. Women walk to town carrying very heavy loads to sell and are understandably tired by late afternoon as they begin heading home. Last Saturday I found myself in town. There are few buses and even fewer cars that villagers could hope to catch a ride with so when a lady from our church saw me...
"My toe is sore; let me come in your car."
"It's fine. There's room. Are there others?"
"Yes, my girl children are here. Here is my neighbour also; she will go with us."
"Fine, get in. You three here. Your seats each have a belt; they connect like this. Now, you other three: here. And the belts. And you two up here with me."
There we were: seated and belted. There was just one more thing on my shopping list: injera. So, I conduct the car down the street and pull up at the hotel.
"Whooo. . . (girls crying in the back seat) it's going up!"
As I park and get out, I hear them giggling and comparing notes on how it felt to swing around the traffic circle and pitch up the driveway in front of the hotel. I imagine the feeling is like finding your sea legs or something.
I'm back with the injera and we head for the edge of town; crowds of people; a familiar face. Girl's faces glued to the window; smiles, laughter.
"Chow, Ehats!" The lady in the crowd can't hear beyond the pane of glass but I'm sure she gets the point: "We got a ride; you didn't."
"Oooo, the goats, he's going to hit the goats. No, we passed them! Did one go under the wheel?! No, whew! Look there's Yechuli, ha, ha she's footing it."
Each familiar face we meet, the women pass some remark as we whizz past. "Oh my! We're at this mountain already? Broop. Just listen to the car. Broop. Ha, ha, ha, this is like flying."
"Oh! Cows!" There's a sound of gasping in the back seat. Perhaps they think we are heedlessly careening into them. The beasts are all around us now, flowing about, black, red, spotted flanks wheeling, balking, now parting like water.
"Have these people seen the inside of a herd before?" I wonder. From our vantage point it seems surreal; like a moving picture; no dust; no noise; out of reach of horn and hoof.
"Hey! There's Egoshe. Look, she's almost home. Chow, chow!" Giggles from the girls and then. . . With a sense of awe Egachuk says: "and just like that we're home."
As they unbuckle their seat belts and climb down: "Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you. . ."
For most of them, a first time experience. Perhaps they'll not ride in a vehicle again until they are grandmothers. Meanwhile, their family's welfare (indeed the welfare of their entire community) rides on their shoulders everyday as they carry wood for cooking, water for drinking and food to sell or eat. And they make out like I'm the hero.
"My toe is sore; let me come in your car."
"It's fine. There's room. Are there others?"
"Yes, my girl children are here. Here is my neighbour also; she will go with us."
"Fine, get in. You three here. Your seats each have a belt; they connect like this. Now, you other three: here. And the belts. And you two up here with me."
There we were: seated and belted. There was just one more thing on my shopping list: injera. So, I conduct the car down the street and pull up at the hotel.
"Whooo. . . (girls crying in the back seat) it's going up!"
As I park and get out, I hear them giggling and comparing notes on how it felt to swing around the traffic circle and pitch up the driveway in front of the hotel. I imagine the feeling is like finding your sea legs or something.
I'm back with the injera and we head for the edge of town; crowds of people; a familiar face. Girl's faces glued to the window; smiles, laughter.
"Chow, Ehats!" The lady in the crowd can't hear beyond the pane of glass but I'm sure she gets the point: "We got a ride; you didn't."
"Oooo, the goats, he's going to hit the goats. No, we passed them! Did one go under the wheel?! No, whew! Look there's Yechuli, ha, ha she's footing it."
Each familiar face we meet, the women pass some remark as we whizz past. "Oh my! We're at this mountain already? Broop. Just listen to the car. Broop. Ha, ha, ha, this is like flying."
"Oh! Cows!" There's a sound of gasping in the back seat. Perhaps they think we are heedlessly careening into them. The beasts are all around us now, flowing about, black, red, spotted flanks wheeling, balking, now parting like water.
"Have these people seen the inside of a herd before?" I wonder. From our vantage point it seems surreal; like a moving picture; no dust; no noise; out of reach of horn and hoof.
"Hey! There's Egoshe. Look, she's almost home. Chow, chow!" Giggles from the girls and then. . . With a sense of awe Egachuk says: "and just like that we're home."
As they unbuckle their seat belts and climb down: "Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you. . ."
For most of them, a first time experience. Perhaps they'll not ride in a vehicle again until they are grandmothers. Meanwhile, their family's welfare (indeed the welfare of their entire community) rides on their shoulders everyday as they carry wood for cooking, water for drinking and food to sell or eat. And they make out like I'm the hero.
