Marco always says, “Tomorrow. We’ll be back tomorrow.”
It is becoming old.
“But you said that last time…”
One day we will. We really will. Just not this afternoon.
“Where are you going?”
Marco pointed over his horse's ears, “ We are going to the top of that hill to talk to God.” I grimaced and rolled my eyes. No one saw. I didn’t want them to. She looked skywards.
“ Well, you won’t find God up there. You should go up that hill,” and she pointed to a hill behind me, “ because that’s where God is. That is where you talk to God.” I looked behind me and saw Ngorobob Hill.
“ At least we know that the horses will stop if a snake is in the grass,” I slyly mention.
“They feel the vibrations on their bellies and they escape. Snakes are like that. . .”
But not if it's a puff-adder, I wanted to say.
At the top the wind was icy and relentless. Wild. The trees were stunted and crooked from years of winds. Below us the landscape fell, sweeping out like a frozen ruffled sea. Even the horses stopped, heads up, ears forward, surveying their crinkled kingdom, criss-crossed with black cotton soiled veins. We sat silently in the saddles, like cowboys on a mission without Malboros, bandanas or Stetsons. I imagined riding to Lokasali and camping out in gypsy tents.