Villages


Villages were the first human settlements where we learned how to live in a community, to share resources and build a life based on common goals and beliefs.

They shelter those who often with hardship, toil the soil and feed the world.The struggle is constant but somehow the sense of community is always strong.

Even when you may have different beliefs or not always see eye to eye, knowing that there are others who go through the same and can lend you a helping ear or hand when you need the most, is comforting.

This lifestyle has in modern times attracted many young people who have reinvented themselves in the countryside. Many pick up old trades and handicrafts and find new ways to breathe new life into them.

I am grateful to all those who received me in their villages across the world with open hearts and shared their knowledge or food with me.


Mexico

A hot, summer day in the small pueblo of Mineral de Pozos, in the semi desert of Guanajuato in central Mexico. The only visible life around was in the square and market place.

Once a prosperous mining town leading the production of silver in Mexico, it went into decline when the Santa Brigida mines closed down in 1955. As the soil was never good for agriculture or raising cattle, it suffered a major exodus. Left were almost only the ghosts of the past to roam free.

But slowly some people came back and it managed to reinvent itself as a “pueblo” and the center for the study and recreation of Pre Hispanic musical instruments.

Looking for the ruins of the old mines, driving now in a mostly desert landscape in the middle of nowhere, I see a gate. Lavender Farm says the big sign. Here? How? Overlooking the mountains of Sierra Madre, the scent hits me the moment I get out. It is written “all welcome” and so I was…


Leaving the lavender scents behind, it is now time to find what was left of the once glorious Santa Brigida Mines.

Soon among the vegetation, there they are. The old stones of the past scattered here and there. And then still standing proudly, the three last chimneys. The men are long gone but maybe their soul still roams the land remembering the daily hardships but also the shared camaraderie.

Suddenly the sound of footsteps slowly approaching. I look and see an old man holding a machete. In Mexico, in a different scenario, I would have probably run the other away but somehow I remain calm. Instead of a ghost, I was now facing a real live man.

There is an hesitation on both sides and then “do you have permission to be here? Do you know that this is a private property?” he asks. “Apologies, who should I have asked permission?” I answer.

“Me of course! Just kidding! You are free to visit.” he laughs showing his few remaining teeth. “Shall I show you around? I am the last miner still alive”, he says.

Looking at his aged face, somehow I believe him. He shows us around, describes the hardships but also the friends lost. His eyes shine with emotion but also pride of having survived it all. When we finally part ways and I see him slowly walking away holding his machete, I can’t help feeling a bit emotional myself. As this was years ago, I often wonder if he now roams the place with his lost companions …

A highlands flowery village where Pre hispanic traditions are still very much alive. The resilient Tzotzil Mayans who govern themselves and preserve their ancient dialects.

A small girl stopping your car to invite you to her house where you can marvel at the weaving and embroidery design of the women in the extended household.

Your heart broken when you understand the struggle but being grateful for taking the time to meet Rosita the matriarch and her six children. For sharing their tortillas, laughing together and choosing some of their wonderful creations.

I often think of them, a world away, teaching the next generation, sticking to their traditions but hoping for better days …


Iran

An annual migration towards the green pastures and fertile Mughan plain in the province of Ardabil. Some of the Shahsevan walk the 300 km with their herds, others use vehicles. The setting of the temporary summer villages takes time with the assembling of tents, placing of the beehives, the herds and other farm animals. There is freedom to roam but also a sense of community and the carrying of traditions from generation to generation…

An escape from Tehran’s summer heat about 80 km away from the capital in the Alborz mountains.

Baraghan village where two rivers converge bringing a touch of freshness to the green surroundings.

An impressive Husaynyiya more than 500 years old, built from mud and straw. Here Shia muslims gather for spiritual, religious, educational and mourning ceremonies. A door that kept opening and people entering. Asked if I could follow, I was welcomed with a smile.

A feeling of having travelled in time to another era and another land. The rehearsals of a play but which story? ‘You know’ I was told. ‘You have the same story in your book!’ I am puzzled.

I look at the actors, concentrating on their roles, not paying attention to the public looking on. There is music and singing and some of the men seem to be dressed as Arabs. Others dress as women and cover their faces with veils when they act, although you can still see their beards underneath. Men always play women roles because women can’t perform publicly in a setting like the Husayniyya.

After a few attempts at translating, someone finally tells me that this is the story of Joseph, Prince of Egypt, which is told both in the Old Testament and the Koran.

I look at the actors again and the beautiful setting they are performing in. We can be far from home and our own cultural environment but there is always something that connects us in our humanity.


Indonesia

A village somewhere in the outskirts of Yogojakarta. A real village where neighbours are helpful and respect each other’s beliefs. Where a church and a mosque can face each other. And where an ancient spiritual volcanic stone is kept in the heart of the village filled with prayers.

A place where everybody knows each other and a former Primary school teacher can meet her old pupil who is now a father himself. Where the traditional Kris daggers are passed from generation to generation as well as the art of making them.

A village where each household has a well that is used instead of the official water supply which is very expensive. And where the older generation still goes to the market everyday to sell home made tempeh and tofu.

A place where the hot wind blows calmly, chickens roam free and feed themselves and the rice awaits its harvest.

A day to remember the kindness, the wonderful welcoming and the sharing of food.

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