TRAVERSE 180
interesting.
The air grew cooler as we climbed into the hills past small villages, toward the foothills of the highlands. I ' d heard whispers of villages tucked up here, places where few tourists ever venture. The road wound like a lazy snake, fringed by banana plants and thick bush. Birds darted between the trees, and the occasional rusting vehicle sat marooned on the roadside, half-swallowed by vines. This was fast becoming a different world to that frequented by those from the resorts and passing cruise ships.
Schoolchildren walked barefoot in neat uniforms, lugging exercise books under their arms. Some smiled and waved. Others just stared, not in suspicion, but in curiosity, as though they hadn’ t seen a bright red motorcycle in a long time, if ever.
By midday, the well-formed tracks had ended entirely, replaced by a red dirt track, if it could be called such, that was equal parts dust and rock. At times, it felt like riding through a tunnel of green, the trees arched over the road like a cathedral, filtering the sun into golden shards. The occasional clearing revealed rolling
TRAVERSE 180