The Sheep Go Marching One By One

Rangiwahia is in dire need of a bowling alley. Think about it: where do you always end up when you cannot think of anything to do? You end up wearing plaid pants and a wrist guard at the local lanes, sitting beside a guy whose shirt is emblazoned “Steve”.

There is no place in Rangi to rumble a ball down a hardwood alley, so the denizens never reach a destination. Instead, they roam the landscape as zombies, ever-searching never-finding. Kristine and I enjoy our evening roaming, but the hills that look so inviting are terrible for walking on. Just ask Kristine, who is in dire need of gumboots.

Sheep and cattle go marching round and round the towering hills, creating well-trodden rain-sodden paths. So industrious are these trampling machines that you cannot walk even the steepest grade without following some sheep trail. The entire face of the earth is pulped by tens of thousands of tiny hooves. It is a wonder that all the dwellings of this region are not made of adobe. I could rebuild the pyramids of Egypt in a fort-night, without slaves, if you gave me the herds to trample grassy pastures into muddy slop.