We ambled along country roads under a bright sun, enjoying the warmth while we could, knowing that around noon heavy gray clouds would rise over the peaks, blotting out the sun and bringing with them a chill and sometimes rain. I walked with the director of the school, Margot, also my housemate, in the last group of kids. As usual, we had planned to leave around nine, but when I arrived at the predetermined hour of 8:30 Margot was in the middle of an interview with a local official, which didn’t end until well after our scheduled departure time. But the kids didn’t mind the wait, taking advantage of the sun and unsupervised time to behave, like, well, kids. Most of the girls broke into their specific groups, giggling and whispering, while the boys started a pickup game of soccer.
The ages of the kids on the hike ranged from 7-15, so naturally our pace was suited to those with smaller legs. After two hours of winding our way through the mountains on what is the main road from my town to the nearest city, but is still a narrow dirt track, I began to wonder how much farther our destination lay. Though the kids were infused with that “last-day-of-school” verve, the uphill climb was taking its toll, and we had evolved from three distinct groups to a long string of humans. However once we had reached the abandoned brick ovens, which overlooked a small stream flanked on the opposite bank by a hillside farm, everyone was magically infused with new energy and the kids scattered to clamber over the rocks and splash in the stream.
An hour later, surrounded by the remnants of 50 lunches (chicken bones and rice kernels), Margot sent one of the older girls on a mission to collect some cookies as a gift for the children from the farm across the stream. One immediately became two, and as the girls made their rounds the delivery duo soon became a mob. Students cheerfully handed over their government issued “healthy” cookies, then joined the group as it traipsed over the bridge and up to the mother, or grandmother ( it’s hard to tell sometimes), who had stopped in the middle of feeding the pig to watch the procession. I watched as the colorful and energetic students surrounded the woman, who was draped in old and worn shawls, her face a web of wrinkles from years of working in the elements. A bag of plastic wrapped cookies was exchanged for two sky blue farm eggs, then the two worlds separated, one to enjoy the last day of school, the other to a basket of clothes needing to be hand washed and cows needing to be milked.
Clouds had covered the sun and were threatening rain when the students slowly began to wander back from their various activities, some with wet hair and damp clothes from swimming in the stream. I opted to keep my fleece, scarf, and wool socks on and dry. We made our way slowly back down the road to meet our ride home, a small bus only slightly larger than a minivan. The teachers and students were unconcerned by the size (or lack thereof) of our transport, packing all 60 people into every available space like professionals. I had two kids on my lap, the driver had a kid on his lap, and three of the teachers hung out of the door. From the outside it appeared as if the bus was sprouting humans, and as I sat there pinned between two people I was reminded once again that I was most certainly not in the United States anymore. It took us nearly the same amount of time to return, due to the frequent stops we took to let students squeeze their way through the crowd to burst out of the bus, slightly dazed and with a chorus of voices to send them on their way home. By the time we reached my house the sun was behind the mountains and I could breathe again.
The next day Margot and her niece left for their hometown until September, leaving the house a little emptier and my evenings a little lonlier. But at least there won't be more wild bus rides in my near future...I hope.
