Plateau

Often in the late afternoon or, on days when I don’t teach, in the morning just after sunrise, I walk to the plateau east of the village. The road is rocky and dusty for the first 100 meters, and then the path splits from the road and traverses the dried pasture above the last of the houses and walled gardens. Multiple trails lead to the top, each with its own collection of dried straw, rocks, dried manure, burnt grass, and grasshoppers. After gaining the enough elevation that the ground no longer slopes away out of sight above me (which would indicate the top is approaching), I pick a path that winds south out of the bushes. Here the path is rockier, and my shoes press the round stones together, each footstep sounding like a tiny dump truck emptying a tiny load of gravel onto the pavement in the midst of the otherwise tranquil air. It is too hot up here for people and livestock, the road too bumpy for motorcycles, and the time of day wrong for insects. The only other sound is the singular, unexpected, and inevitable whoosh of a pair of ground-birds suddenly taking flight with all their might, after waiting for me to come as close as possible.

The path emerges from the bushes into what was a meadow three months ago. Now, the entire low wide hilltop is martian; brushfires set in November have razed everything except the skeletons of a few small trees. The ground is black and red with ash and loose round rocks.

It seems odd to feel like an explorer. My small backpack contains a pocket knife, nail trimmers, an issue of The New York Review of Books, a copy of Wuthering Heights, a pen, two mandarin oranges, my cellphone [powered on, there is service up here], and 10000 Guinean Francs [one bill, the largest]. With this kit, my sandals, shorts and white tshirt, I could stay out here for hours! At least until I get thirsty. Or it gets dark.

Have the other people that traversed this Marscape earlier today, or last year, or three hundred years ago also wondered how all the small round rocks got to be scattered about on top of a high flat plateau?  Did they stop and sit on this rock, right here, which seems smoother, shinier, more comfortable than its neighbors, and read, write, pray, or ponder? Did they get sunburnt? Or am I the first?

At about 1600 the moon is higher in the sky than the sun. Unlike earlier, the breeze that occasionally blows is slightly cooler than the stationary air it displaces. I sit on a pile of gravel that someone has made, and burrow my heels into the loose side. I read about Heathcliff and Jonathan Raban. I eat a mandarin and spit out the seeds with skill but not relish. Maybe I receive a text message. Earlier this week I was also here, although sitting somewhere else, and reading Plato’s account of the death of Socrates, 2413 years ago. I can’t decide which seemed less real.

In Memory

On the way home from school, stop and ask anyone standing around if bread is being made today. Head home, have a cup of water, change, and go back to the baker’s hut and wait while he takes fresh loaves out of the oven. Buy two, even if he gives you a third for free. Carry them home in the bag that your mosquito net came in. Eat the end of one on the way home because you can. Don’t bring the loaves inside when you get home; instead leave them on a chair on the porch in the sunshine so they stay warm while you make sauce.

Add to a large wooden mortar four to six small dried red chilies, picking out any grubs stems etc., a small handful of those round dried things that look like chilies but might be cherry tomatoes or just some bitter berry, approximately two teaspoons whole coriander, and a teaspoon black cumin seeds. Pound one minute; until dusty. Peel and mince one large-for-Africa onion and two thirds of a head of garlic. Quickly wash and mince the small sweet potato left alone at the bottom of the vegetable bowl. Add the minced ingredients and a resolute pour of olive oil to your only pot. Cook as fast as possible, only burning a little. Add the crumblier spices and the last two bay leaves, and a sprig of thyme. Cook a bit more. Add three handfuls of mostly-ripe cherry tomatoes, and cook until they start to pop. Add one 70g package of tomato paste, and a second if you’ve got it. Stir around, and add a liter of water. Crumble in a bouillon cube and bring to a boil. Add a pinch of black pepper, two dashes of ground cumin, a generous portion of dried oregano, and a tablespoon of honey. Reduce until thick. Crush any cherry tomatoes that have remained intact.

Split a still-hot-from-the-oven-and-the-sun loaf of bread down the middle with your fingers. Spread margarine on one side and pour honey on the other, then press the loaf back together.

Fill a low, wide bowl with the red sauce and sprinkle instant milk powder on top so it looks like parmesan cheese. Dip the hot honey bread in it like an au jus sandwich and enjoy with a large cup of water and a decent book or magazine. Go through two whole baguettes before you realize you are absolutely stuffed.

Dedicated to my grandmother, Helen Haugerud, who loved everything delicious.