He carried a machete, and hacked away at the undergrowth to clear a way for us down the side of the valley. After I had already landed on my backside half a dozen times, he cut a stout pole to help me keep my balance.
After maybe 40 minutes or so of slipping and sliding, we reached the bottom. And, as is often the case at the bottom of valleys, there was a river. Not a huge river, admittedly, but a river nonetheless, and we obviously were going to have to cross it.
There was no bridge, but there was a tree trunk. By this time, I was carrying two stout poles, plus a backpack, but I was helped across by the farmer's husband, who gripped my hand tightly as I inched along the tree trunk, and their dog, splashing excitedly through the water, tail wagging, egging me on.