In the north, the hills breathe in patterns—layered terraces that catch the light like fingerprints on the land. I walked among them slowly, feeling like I’d entered a conversation I wasn’t fluent in, but still welcomed to join.

The path wasn’t always clear. Mud clung to my shoes and the sun shifted behind clouds as if to test my sense of direction. But I followed the curve of the land, one bend at a time, and let the rhythm of footsteps fill the space where words didn’t belong.

I passed women carrying baskets of stone on their backs, their pace steady, their posture strong. We nodded in quiet acknowledgment, sharing nothing but the moment and the weight of what we each carried.

The terraces seemed endless—green stairways carved by generations, each step an act of survival and grace. Walking there didn’t feel like tourism. It felt like witnessing something sacred. Alive, worn, beautiful.

By the time I reached the top, the view wasn't just visual. It was felt. A reminder that the slowest paths often lead to the deepest kinds of awe.