Travel Reference
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Ateveryledge,Istopto kisim wind ,notwantingtoriskexhaustion,whichmightcauseme
to lose my grip and fall. Since I can't understand Sipin well enough to be sure how far the
next resting place is, I treat each one as if it's my last chance. To pass the time while I sit and
pant, the girls kill frogs with a slingshot and laugh as Ana sings and tells stories, her arms
akimbo, her face alternating between deadpan and imp. She never misses an opportunity to
crawl out on a tree limb overhanging a precipice and hang from her knees, just to make me
gasp with alarm. Always in motion, often impatient to go, Ana has to be restrained by the
others until I catch my breath.
As we climb higher, lowland shrubs give way to rhododendrons with brilliant red star-
shapedflowers.Becauseoftheperpetualshadowcastbythebushesandfernsthatgrowhori-
zontallyoutofthemountainside,everythingstayswet,evenafterthesunrisestomidmorning
strength. My leather boots feel unsteady on the slippery rocks and roots. The girls, however,
neverslip;thetoesoftheirbarefeetsplayouttogripthetenuousfootholdswiththeassurance
of fingers. Scampering up and down the mountain wall like spiders, my guides dance around
me on that nearly vertical face to position themselves where they can help. Although none of
them have worked for a foreigner before, they sense what I need. To them, I must seem like
an overgrown baby who has to be taught how to crawl. Below me, Dani and Ana, the tiniest
of the five, sometimes catch my feet to stop them from sliding, and it startles me to feel my
weight held so firmly in their delicate hands. I begin to think of my guides as possessed of
superhuman strength.
We come to a very broad ledge where we sit and look back at green mountains, one after
another. Above the mountains lies a thin ribbon of white sky, and above that, deep violet is
turningtoblack.Itrynottothinkwhatthismightmean.Asolitarycasuarinatreeclingstothe
cliffside just below where we sit, its flat-topped shape like a candelabra without the candles,
reminding me of the squat, typhoon-twisted pines of Fukuoka. I gulp some water and offer
Sipin my canteen, letting the girls finish it.
WeresumeourclimbwithSipinjustaboveme,lookingdownandpointingtowardthenext
foothold like a beckoning angel in a William Blake drawing. I keep my eyes on Sipin's face.
Itiscalmbutintent.Ifeeloddlydetached,asthoughmyslowprogressuptheslickmountain-
side is a minor part in some allegorical drama. Step by step, root by root, handhold by hand-
hold, I seem to be ascending a dream-staircase, stairs so real they fuse with the mountain.
“Put hand here,” Sipin says, and my hand closes over the next tree root before she finishes
her sentence. “Put foot there,” she says, and my foot is already reaching for the next knob
of rock. Somehow I've adjusted to the girls' rhythm, or they to mine, all six of us climbing
in slow motion like legs of a single spider. To my surprise, I no longer want to be anywhere
other than where I am at this very moment.
I forget to be afraid. It isn't that I've conquered my fear; I simply believe in my guides. In
their own element, these five little girls, who seemed shy and awkward on the school ground
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