We are passed from hand to hand. So many sisters, mothers, grandmothers, all wanting to touch a cheek or a lock of hair for luck. The men are somewhere else, building a new road, driving a taxi, sleeping in a hammock somewhere. The women are the face of this country. They rise early, we never seem to beat them, no matter how early we wake. They sweep, cook, wash, sell all morning until the afternoon heat forces everyone to return home and refuel.
Sandalwood to burn for good luck, keeping away sickness, and sweetening the air.
Fresh veggies, herbs, mushrooms, even baby ducklings, sell quickly on Sundays.
A whole street where all that is sold are noodles of all different shapes, sizes, flavors, and textures.
No one is in too much of a hurry. There is always time for a cold glass of che!
Grandmothers make sweet black sesame cakes filled with mung beans, wrapped in banana leaf, and steamed until sticky and gooey. Almost better than a chocolate chip cookie.
We are well looked after here. We are well fed here. We feel welcome here.
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