It’s their hands I notice first. Clasped side by side, one lined pair is deep chocolate while the other pair is milk chocolate and as smooth as the baby’s bum he sits on. As I approach, their faces press into the sunlight. They are profoundly lovely together – the beautiful old man holds what I learn is his grandson. The child’s new-to-this-world eyes brim with wonder and more than a bit of confusion. I think I know how he feels as I turn to see what he sees...
The souk is the epitome of hectic contradiction. A woman in chador, her face covered entirely, demurely tiptoes through the muck in a pair of the sexiest of stilettos. Two dowagers sit like tired dogs at the side of the road, squinting through the smoke of the pipe they share. An immaculate and impatient businessman pushes through the same crowd that cheeky street urchins beg coins from. The riotous cacophony of it all is overlaid with the whine of a call to prayer.
Hunger nudges me along the line of street food stalls. The only sullenness I meet is from the hawker of butchered sheep heads. Their tongues still loll in final defiance so he is easily forgiven.
At the next stall, a magical paste of chopped herbs and fiery chillies is slathered on to my chosen meal. Flavour builds on flavour and the heat starts low and sweet then rises until my nose runs. I sit on the pavement to eat and marvel at the colour that surrounds me. The unabashed lime of fresh mint. Vamp red chillies. Inky olives are the sober backdrop to saffron. I capture the miraculous play of colour and light with my beloved camera before turning again to the pair whose hands first drew my attention.
I gesture with camera and the old man nods. It is a rare privilege. I look up to smile my thanks but the old man is already retreating. His grandson’s wondrous eyes are dropping in prelude to sleep. I heft my pack and wonder if he dreams of the joyous life swirling outside of his window and whether he smiles in his sleep as a result.
