The air is chilly, clear. Grey dawn. We rise in silence. Bicycle clicks along the empty streets as we leave the guesthouse. We go up the hill, out of town. The asphalt rises, then ends in a straight line. Sand takes over. The spaces between the houses grow. Someone’s nose peeks through a door; sleepy eyes newly washed in cold; fingers curl around a gate. Someone passes us on bicycle, hand rises. The nature starts taking over; scorched fields, prepared for sowing. Behind, blue hills rise. Our steps so quiet; three feet, three wheels, two crutches in uneven rhythm. Behind the hills the sun has started ripping apart the blue with burning golden light. It will not be quiet much longer.

We arrive by the river but the shack where our passports would get stamped is empty. We are alone. I gather three perfect rocks and sticks. Coax flame from the damp grasses and leaves. Place my metal cup on top, add water and perfect tea leaves. There is a rickety bench. There is banana and peanut butter, cookies and cucumber.

The river flows by, heavy and steady like the sleep still resting behind my eyes. On the other shore: another country. Roots have made nets on the rising edges.

Soon they all arrive: the boatman, the border officer, the people who want to cross. We lift the bike and carriage in one piece into the boat. I pinch my finger painfully between the moving metals but nobody can tell. We pay. We smile. The boatman pushes the boat across the river using a long stick. Birds sing. We all smile to the camera.

…

(This story told in pictures.)