We tromp through the tea fields, terraced rows of bushes on the sides of cleared hills. I can’t imagine the tea farmers are too happy about this. We descend through a gap in the rows down toward a stream, stepping on rocks held into the crumbly ground with metal stakes, or sliding down sideways like skiers.
I skip past the first Italian person I have met here, a Milanese, and then just before the stream I fall on the slippery ground into a tree. It must look disastrous from above, but I’m fine. I wonder how do others do these things with so much grace, how they finish not covered with mud.