We told them we were going out and they looked at us, their eyes disapproving. It might rain, the ten year old said. It had rained the night before and the morning had been thick with fog. But the sky had cleared, and optimistic, we set off in our sneakers, the three of us. It was an hour's walk down the mountain at a brisk pace. We made exuberant comments about the few patches of blue sky.
There were random moments of dancing on the way down.
We didn't say anything, no we didn't say anything when the sky clouded over, ominous.
And then the first drops fell when we were far away, still far away, from the town. We smiled at each other brightly. We said it would pass.
It didn't pass and there was no one, no one on the road. We shivered in our shorts and our summer dresses. We ran shrieking and laughing down the mountain in the pouring rain. My 12 year old son put his fist in the air and shouted, YOLO. What's YOLO, I asked? He replied, You Only Live Once.
We pulled our shawls over our heads. Suddenly, suddenly we looked just like Berber girls.
Our teeth chattering, our feet covered in red mud, we finally arrived at the bottom of the mountain. In their four wheel drive, they met us there. Her hair fluffy, her clothes dry, the ten year old looked at us, embarassed.
Drenched, yes drenched. But then again, YOLO.
Images by Delphine Warin.