Anywhere on this road

The driver and my host dad climb into the front of the SUV and I clamber into the back with Hope, her brother, the visiting cousin, and who ever else who needs to be in town at 8.

They drop me off first, 10 minutes down the road at the top of the dirt road that leads to school. The taxi bicycle boys shout and two or three push their bikes to the top of the hill where I am standing. For 20 cents they are happy to drive me the 10 minutes to school – me perched sidesaddle in a skirt on the cushion behind the drivers seat as they pull me up and down the three hills.

If I’m in a hurry I’ll take a motorcycle taxi. They are much faster, but are less thrilled to get the fare and charge me double.

Most mornings though I wave off the bicycle boys and walk the long dusty pot-holed road. People passing wish me a good morning with “Maramutse!” or “Bonjour!” The kids shout “Muzungu!” (White person!). The cars bomb by in characteristic haste stirring up dust and making me sneeze. The market women walk by with baskets of fruit on their heads and babies on their backs. It’s nice to stretch my legs and see life walk by.