Mexico

A hot, summer day in the small pueblo of Mineral de Pozos, nestled in the semi desert of Guanajuato, central Mexico. Life stirred quietly, mostly around the square and market. Everything else lay still under the sun.

Once a prosperous mining town and a leading producer of silver in Mexico, Mineral de Pozos began to fade after the Santa Brigida Mines closed down in 1955. With land too dry for farming and too rough for cattle, its people left in waves. What remained were echoes, ghost of another time, lingering in crumbling walls and empty streets.

And yet slowly, some returned.

Pozos began to reinvent itself, not as a mining hub, but as a cultural centre, known today for its revival and celebration of pre-Hispanic musical instruments. A new kind of rhythm found its way back into the silence.

On a personal journey to find the old mine ruins, I found myself driving through a vast, desolate landscape. The road stretched endlessly, flanked by cactus and dust. Then, suddenly, a gate. A large sign read: Lavender Farm.

Here? In the middle of nowhere?

I stepped out of the car. The scent found me first, sweet, unexpected, comforting. The Sierra Madre mountains loomed in the distance. And on a small, hand-painted board, it read: All welcome.

And so I was…

Leaving the lavender scents behind, it was time to seek what remained of the once glorious Santa Brígida Mines.

Soon, among the scattered vegetation, there they stood the weathered stones of a forgotten past, strewn here and there. And still, standing proudly, the three last chimneys rose against the sky. The men who once laboured here were long gone, but perhaps their spirits still wandered the land, remembering the daily hardships, but also the brotherhood that carried them through.

Suddenly, the sound of footsteps approached slowly. I looked up to see an old man clutching a machete. In another place, under different circumstances, I might have turned and fled. But somehow, I remained calm. No ghost this time, just a living, breathing man.

There was a pause, a moment of hesitation on both sides, before he spoke. “Do you have permission to be here? Do you know this is private property?” he asked.

“Apologies,” I replied. “Who should I have asked permission from?”

“Me, of course! Just kidding!” he laughed, revealing his few remaining teeth. “You’re free to visit. Shall I show you around? I’m the last miner still alive.”

Looking at his weathered face, I somehow believed him. He led us through the ruins, speaking of the hardships endured, and the friends lost along the way. His eyes shone with a mixture of sorrow and pride in having survived it all.

When we finally parted, I watched him walk slowly away, machete in hand.I couldn’t help feel a stir of emotion deep inside. It was years ago now, but I often wonder if he still roams those ruins, walking alongside the companions he had left behind.

A highlands village blooming with flowers, where pre Hispanic traditions remained vibrant and alive. The resilient Tzotzil Maya, who governed themselves and carefully preserved their ancient dialects.

A small girl who stopped my car to invite me into her home, a place where the weaving and embroidery of the women in the extended family told stories in every thread and pattern.

My heart breaking as I glimpsed the struggles faced, yet feeling deeply grateful for the time spent with Rosita, the matriarch, and her six children. For sharing their tortillas, for the laughter we exchanged, and for choosing some of their beautiful creations to take with me.

I often thought of them afterwards, so far away, teaching the next generation, holding fast to their traditions yet quietly hoping for better days to come …

Iran

An annual migration that unfolds towards the green pastures and fertile lands of the Mughan Plain in the province of Ardabil.

The Shahsevan people, guided by tradition and the rhythm of the seasons, make their way across nearly 300 kilometers. Some walk alongside their herds, moving with the steady grace of those who have done this all their lives. Others follow in vehicles, the dust of the journey rising behind them.

Upon arrival, the temporary summer villages slowly take shape. Tents are raised with care. Beehives are placed. Herds and other animals settle into the wide, open land.

There is freedom here, space to roam beneath vast skies—but also something deeply rooted: a sense of community, of belonging, of lives interwoven with the land and with each other.

Traditions are carried gently, passed hand to hand, generation to generation like something precious, still alive.

An escape from the summer heat of Tehran, just 80 kilometres away, nestled in the Alborz mountains, lay the village of Baraghan, where two rivers meet, bringing a hush of coolness to the lush green valley.

There, rising humbly yet with quiet majesty, stood a 500-year-old Husayniyya built from mud and straw, its walls holding centuries of devotion. A place where Shia Muslims gather for prayer, mourning, and the passing on of sacred stories. A door that kept opening. People slipping inside, one by one. Asked if I might follow, warm smiles welcomed me in.

Stepping inside felt like slipping through time, into another era, another world.

A play was being rehearsed. But what story was unfolding? I asked.

“You know it,” someone said. “It’s in your book too.”

I was puzzled until a few attempts at translation reached clarity. This was the story of Joseph, the Prince of Egypt, Yusuf in the Quran. A tale woven through both the Bible and the Holly Book of Islam.

The actors stood absorbed in their roles, unaware of the onlookers. Music and voices filled the space. Some were dressed as Arabs. Others, portraying women, wore veils that only half-concealed their beards. In this sacred space, only men could perform, even in the roles of women.

I looked again at the ancient structure, the earnest faces, the shared breath of story being told. So far from home, so far from my own cultural landscape. And yet, something within it felt deeply familiar.

Because beneath the language, the ritual, and the setting, there is always something that binds us. A thread of shared humanity that runs quietly through us all.

Indonesia

A village on the quiet outskirts of Yogyakarta, real, rooted, and alive with the rhythm of daily life.

Here, neighbors look out for one another, their beliefs respected, their lives intertwined. A church and a mosque face each other in peaceful dialogue, and in the heart of the village, an ancient volcanic stone rests, sacred and still gathering prayers whispered across generations.

It is a place where everyone knows everyone. Where a former primary school teacher might cross paths with a former pupil, now a father, sharing stories under the same sun that once warmed their classroom. Where the tradition of the Kris dagger lives on, passed from elder to child, along with the craft of forging it.

In each home, a simple well replaces the official water supply, too costly for most, yet enough to sustain life as it has been lived for decades. The elders still rise early, carrying baskets of homemade tempeh and tofu to the market, just as their mothers once did.

The hot wind moves gently through the trees. Chickens roam freely, pecking the earth for food. The rice fields ripple in the breeze, waiting patiently for harvest.

A single day here was enough to leave a mark, a day filled with kindness, warm welcomes, and shared meals offered without hesitation. A quiet reminder that true richness often lies in simplicity, generosity, and the deep roots of tradition.