the farm in the mountain

"Today we go to the mountain," says Djelloul.  It's early morning.  Cousin Fatiha comes from next door and squeezes into the seats next to us.  "You'll like it!"

The drive into the countryside, and the mountains we pass get higher and higher.

 After a long while an other-worldly river appears

 And we pull over and Djelloul yanks up the parking break.  I get out and study the scene carefully.  "We go to the farm. Over there."  Djelloul points to the mountain top across the river.  Now study this photo carefully.  Where are the tire tracks?  Emerging from where?  Hmmm.  I know Djelloul's car can't make it, it's built too low to the ground, so it can make those hair-pin mountain turns.  I study the river, and there's a serious current.  Hmmm.

Soon another caar pulls up.  Hugs and kisses, kisses all around.  It's a family reunion! Clearly this is a place everyone is just rejoicing to be able to return to.  No one here is daunted by the question of how we're all getting across. Djelloul and the other driver climb in their cars and disappear up the road.  We can see a village up there.  We know they'll find someone to watch their cars there.  But how will they get back?  Will we have to wait?

 No one is waiting, and no one is questioning what to do.  The shoes come off, the  pants get rolled up, the skirts hiked.  It's about 48 degrees, and the water is cold. But Rock and I grin at each other and off we go, laughing.

"Heel first!" The farmer says to Rock.  "Then you'll feel where the sharp stones are."  Rock does so and inches across.  The current is strong, but eventually we reach a sandy area, and the bank isn't far.

We're not alone, we humans.  This family gathering is for everyone.

Fateema waits to greet me.  She's a middle school English teacher, and immediately we become friends. We wait for what happens next,. . .

And an old pick-up truck rattles down from the village and across the river. 

  Djelloul and his uncle and  his uncle's daughter and grandson, with supplies for a picnic lunch.

Abdullah the brave.  Anywhere grandpa is is brave.

So who wants a ride?  Fateema tells me it is a long, long  walk up a very high mountail.  I came to climb a mountain I say.  And I'd rather be with her.  She smiles, and off they go and off we go.

Up the hill,

 Up the hill,

 pausing for the views now and then,

 up, and up . . .

The shepherdess pauses.  I tell her her clothes are beautiful.  Fateema translates and she laughs.

 And up. . .

 Up near the top we find the others resting, breathing in the fresh mountain air, loving every scene.

Here is the old beloved farmhouse, remembered fondly by everyone.  When Fateema was a little girl, she would walk (I'm sure run, too) all the way down the hill and across the stream and up to the village to go to school -- every day.  Even in winter. She had nothing but happy memories of this beautiful place.  She said it took her maybe 20 minutes.

 I see crops growing and I ask if they use a tractor.  No, no, says the uncle.  He rushes up to the house, and finds an old plow, to show me how it's done here.

Getting inside the main house takes some ingenuity.  But the far door is open, and we meet each other inside.

No one lives here now.  No one has lived here for years.  

The courtyard which would have been tiled, and secure.

And the parlor.

 The ceiling tumbling.  It's not hard to figure out what happened, even if Fateema and Djelloul didn't tell us.

 Although these drawings show a longing for home and family, others tell a different story.

 After the elections in the 1990's -- when the military kept the Islamists majority from taking power, war broke out, and no one was safe, especially in the mountains.  Attacks from militants would come from anywhere, especially from the roads at night.  So everyone abandoned their farms, and moved into the big cities.  Fateema moved to Tiaret as a child.  I asked her if she felt safe now.  She smiled.  Yes, Yes, we feel very safe.

The uncle is delighted to find his old apron.  He puts it on, and there in the pocket are his old finger-guards, to protect them when he was threshing wheat.

Fateema beckons us up to the roof, warning us not to clonk our head on the low ceiling.

Others waiting below.

Someone asked if I wanted to follow.  I expressed my desire to live.

But the tiles are intriguing.  They overlap each other, and have ridges that catch under the tile above them.  And of course they are all that delicious red.

Time for a little munch, but first we all head up to the original stone farmhouse, built  long before.

Rock is handed some fragrent mint.

Fatima, posing at the peak.

The donkey is tethered to a piece of the ruin, and the uncle calls for his grandson.

the happy pair.

A rich crop of greens grows here, which the women love.  Fateema wrinkles her nose.  It's kind of bitter, she says.

The feed for the sheep, protected under a tent of piled sticks.

The sheepdog, I think.  He just liked hanging out, as far as I could see.

While the women struggled to pull up the greens, the uncle find a scythe, and shows me how it's done.

The wind blows some, and the cans rattle.  They tell us this is the way they chase away the wild boar from the crops.  The man is gathering stalks which look a little like fennel, a little like celery.  He'll distribute them and we'll have them for dinner that night.  Delicious.

back down to the old house, and lunch.

Did the American lady want to see a real scythe?  Found one!

 The old Puegeot pick-up was unpacked, the food spread out, and the women settled down to eat.  Fateema declined, and I was hungry for sunlight, so I made a sandwich and sat in the sun, while the men stood around eating their sandwiches.

Another dear woman.  

 Abdullah is restless.  I wonder if he'd like to take some pictures.  He loves the clicking sound, and there's lots of shots of grass and sky from a happy guy.  Here he spots me in the viewer.

Then when I reclaim the camera, he helps me out once more.

 Other friends join us.  Djelloul is delighted!

 Then it's time to go home.

 Which may be a longer walk for some than others.

 Off with the shoes and socks, up with the cuffs.

In the middle of the stream, here's the view to the left. . .

and the right.

Djelloul rode the truck back, across the river, up to the village, and he and the others returned with their cars.  Then, oops.  The pick-up wouldn't start.  It was stalled between the river and the bank.  No prob, they pushed it into the river and it started right up.  Go figure.  Then it was good-by's and hugs.  Fateema and I had shared our love of teaching, and she taught me much about the history of her country, and the love she had for it.  She said, in her soft-spoken, earnest way, that the  had no internet, no computers in her classroom.  They had books.  They learned to love to read.  We shared stories.  Her eyes shone.  She said you know, in the Koran it is written that a gifted teacher can be a prophet.  

The sun was warm, the air clear and clean, and sweet with growing things, and friendship, and family.