Revisiting fond memories is always a risk. We knew that. Returning to Turmi after five years was indeed a bit of a disappointment. The market was, on the surface, the same. Hammer men and women stood around in traditional costumes. The men in their striped loin cloths, holding their small wooden stools. The women in goatskins and collars, their twisted hair dripping in ochre. But look more carefully. Many were wearing western dress, some combined with their traditional outfits. Hairstyles had changed, many of the younger girls making a fashion statement with their short hair. Some were not even Hammer. And lots more tourists, a phenomenon we do our best to avoid. We walked away disappointed.
But all that changed in an instant. Just as I reached the car to leave, David beckoned me over. He didn’t need to say a word. I knew as soon as I saw her. He had found an old friend! The old lady I had had a jolly conversation with five years ago . I say conversation, we couldn’t understand a word of what each other was saying. But that didn’t matter. We had made a connection that has stuck in my memory ever since. And David had been there to capture the moment on camera.
December 2012
Despite seeing tourists every week for five years, she had recognised David instantly. Their eyes had met across a crowded market…..sounds very romantic! What are the chances?
I can’t explain how thrilled I was to see her! And she was thrilled to see us. Lots more ‘conversing’ ensued, interspersed with laughter and hugs. She invited us back to her home to meet her family (three-way translator found!). As travellers always looking for an authentic experience, this was not an offer we could turn down! Leaving her to carry her heavy load home, we promised to visit the next day.
Her home is a traditional Hammer hut made of wooden poles roughly bound together and topped with a grass roof. An upper level is used for storage but life takes place downstairs. As we stoop to enter, we are introduced to her eldest son, his two wives, grandson and the neighbours. We are invited to sit on the goatskins covering the floor and drink rough-hewn coffee from a calabash.
Via three-way translation (Hammer to Amharic to English) she tells us about her life here. Her name, it turns out, is Gardo. Her son, Girma. Her son has recently taken his second wife. As they are on honeymoon she cannot heave the hut for 6 months. Ironically Gardo has not noticed the cultural changes that we have. When asked what changes she has seen, she comments that life has been tough recently, food scarce as they wait for the rains to come.
We show her the photo from five years ago. Self-consciously she strokes her thinning hair. She doesn’t know how old she is but I would estimate somewhere in her seventies. Her eyes are bad. She struggles to see the photo on the screen (how did she spot David across a crowded market?!) But still carrying a heavy load to market each week, in a country where rural life expectancy is around 50, she is very good for her age.
The bond we have forged is a strong one. The mutual joy was apparent on all our faces. And a mutual desire to demonstrate this joy was also strong. I am going to try to improve her standard of living by getting her cataracts operated on, such a simple thing in the western world. She in turn gave me a necklace she had made and of which she wears the other half. Not sure David is quite as keen on his bracelet although he appreciated the gesture! Next time she wants to give me a goatskin to wear. She invited us to build a hut next door so that we can see her every day. I am not sure that David is made out for cattle herding. Or me for grinding flour all day. But the sentiment is touching.
We may have only met twice. We may not speak the same language. We may come from completely different worlds. But stumbling across her in the market that day was like finding a long lost friend. No longer lost, this time we will find a way to stay in touch. We may not take up her kind offer to live next door. But we will be back to visit.