The station wagons arrived at 9am, a long magnificent line that coursed through the village. The roofs of the station wagons were loaded down with everything we need to carry; blankets, clothing, food and weapons.
I’d witness this spectacle before, as a boy 17 years ago. It was a brilliant event. My father talked me through the ritual. The preparation, the goodbye and the journey that lay ahead for those brave enough to leave the village and venture to the next hill.
As a child, I just saw the hill as a land far away. A place filled with silly stories. I never understood the fear in my father’s voice but preparing for my first journey, I now felt the same tremble he did. The loading of the wagons, the noise of the crowd, it all filled my aching head. It steadied my tremble and I was ready to go.