The Ordinary Women
What virtues do the local women of a place embody?
They are not celebrities or renowned individuals with great accomplishments to their name. Yet, they are ones who are extraordinary in their own right. To the ordinary women from my travels who moved and inspired me. Who made me reflect and left a lasting impression on me. Who made me feel proud of womanhood.
ORDINARY WOMEN OF THE TRADES
The Determined Entrepreneur: With the autumn chill in the early morning air, the sun had begun to peak from behind the Peruvian mountains, shining on the ruggedness of the Lares Valley. I was one of the trekkers who was continuing our high-altitude climb that morning from the rather isolated Andean mountain village of Cuncani. Situated at about 4000m (~12,000ft) above sea level, less than 100 indigenous Quechuan families made up the community here.
At this elevation, my lungs were still familiarizing with the low oxygen levels. So I found myself pacing slowly along the incline, alternating with deep breaths every few steps. But as I trudged along in my sturdy hiking boots and a light daypack that felt three times heavier at this altitude, I saw a shadow fast approaching from behind. It was a woman from the village. Clothed in traditional Andean attire with a shawl-turned bag on her back, she was like a splash of pleasant colour against the grass-lined path. In her rubber sandals, she overtook me quietly. Yet, with an urgency in her steps, she soon disappeared from my sight.
Half an hour later, when the slope gave way to a short respite in a flat area, I had finally caught up to her. There she was settled on the ground, with the contents of her bag displayed neatly on a multi-coloured, hand-woven blanket. Waiting patiently with a choice of snacks and drinks for weary hikers like myself to purchase.
But then I noticed that she was still carrying something heavy on her back, tucked inside her colourful cape. I took a few steps forward, only to be surprised by a tiny head of her baby peaking out from behind. It clicked then for me the actual weight of what she was carrying at these heights — the future of her child and the determination to support her family.
In my breathlessness, I let out a silent respect for a mountain-dweller, an entrepreneur and a mother.
The Resolute Peddler: Sipping a late afternoon tea in a cafe along the Thu Bon River of Hội An was a beautiful way to observe life unraveling along Vietnam’s former trading port. While boats ferried across the water, the streets were lively with tourists and locals. Moving between them were a number of mobile street vendors selling everything from fruits and vegetables to small household items. Most of these street vendors in Vietnam were women, often leaving their rural settings to make a living in the city and supporting their families back in the villages.
In the midst of this riverside bustle, a much older woman, donning a traditional conical hat, slowly rode up her bicycle and came to a stop right across the cafe. The two baskets of tropical fruit at the back of her bicycle signaled that she too was a vendor.
No sooner had this old woman stepped off her bicycle, a nearby vendor excitedly ran up to her to buy some of her fruits. This enthusiasm seemed to be sparked not for the fruits themselves but for the bringer. Somehow, there was something oddly pleasant in seeing these vendors buying from each other. While this sale was wrapping up, my interest piqued as I saw another woman cross the street towards the old lady and hand her a bowl of hot soup. No payment got exchanged here, just gratitude. With the soup in her hands, she steadied herself against the bicycle. Partially sitting and leaning on the seat, she quietly worked through the bowl.
One got the sense that she had been pulling long hours and doing this work for far too long. But it wasn’t her slumped shoulders or her ageing wrinkles that gave it away, rather the way she savoured every bit of this short seven-minute break. In those few minutes, I saw in her a woman who, over time, was able to build a social network for herself and a camaraderie of trust and care with vendors. A woman steadfast in her resolve to do what’s needed to see through to the end of day, including taking a break and replenishing her energy for what lay ahead. As quickly as it had started, the unfolding scene came to an end as she rode off, likely to sell what was left in her basket by sundown.
The Hardworking Crafter: Many traders have carried various treasures through the ancient desert caravan routes that once connected the economic hubs of northern Morocco to sub-Saharan Africa. Along one of these routes lies the city of Ouarzazate with its traditional clay architecture blending into the sun-kissed sandy landscape. And inside an unassuming brick-orange building near the city is the home of a local weaving cooperative.
Colourful carpets and rugs decorate its interior walls and floors. Each narrate a unique story, through its dynamic symbols, bold patterns and brilliant colours. Such traditional rugs are often painstakingly hand-woven by indigenous Berber women. Thoughtfully crafted, each rug is different and unique to the hands of the creator that lent its design.
While the men took charge of explaining the weaving process and designs, I was drawn to the corner of the room where a woman was busy weaving a rug. I was almost in a trance as I watched her nimble hands deftly knotting away the threads, as though gently playing a wool-string harp. It wasn’t a musical instrument, yet she was creating something as soul-filled as music.
This was not a skill one could master overnight nor a task without days of commitment. So I found myself responding with a light nod and a smile acknowledging her presence, her abilities and her craft. Although, I knew it was far short of the credit she deserved. But between the gaps of the threads, I saw her cheeks lift up and her eyes narrow. Beneath her head covering I could slightly make out a gleaming smile as she gently nodded back. In her response, there seemed to be a silent gratitude for the small yet yearning recognition she was presented for her passionate creativity and hard work.
The Resilient Vendor: On the outskirts of Uyuni, home to the largest salt desert in the world, the mid-morning sun pierced its light and heat on the Bolivian flats with a fierceness that only grew by the hour. Its location on the map once held potential for being a major transportation hub endorsed by British and Bolivian authorities. But with the collapse of the mining industry in the mid-20th century, the hope for wealth and prosperity was abandoned along with the plans for expanding the train network. The bare landscape is now only left with the withering bodies and skeletal remains of the once hope-carrying train cars, becoming a one-of-a-kind Train Cemetery.
Unlike other graveyards, this one was filled with tourists, many not fully grasping the economic promise these skeletons once held. Against this image of what was once made for greatness laying in decay, sat a woman knitting on a pile of salt-rocks. Almost like a sign of passive protest against the failed “what if’s” these rusting iron structures posed. She had laid out her other colourful knitted hats and scarves, hopeful of making some sales that day with tourists needing souvenirs or reinforcements for the coldness that awaited them at night.
Left behind with nothing but salt, the community had needed to broaden its horizon and stay resilient. So, here she was creating a new path for herself as the dusty Uyuni slowly transformed itself as a gateway for tourism. Surrounded by poor infrastructure and broken systems, her presence in this spot was silently singing a tune of hope and a different destiny.
ORDINARY WOMEN OF THE ARTS
The Honouring Artist: Inside the rather modest Hội An Traditional Art Performance House, the professional artists came together to offer a taste of the tradition and values of the local cultural art. With narrative dances melodized by live classical music, they began to reconstruct the past flavours of Vietnam. While the movements of the elegant dancers spoke for themselves and received the most attention, there was a woman back up against the stage that caught my eyes. Dressed chicly with a matching floral hat, she was quietly playing a simplistic-looking, one-stringed musical instrument.
Tuning out the other sounds, I concentrated my ears to the sorrowful melody that came through her musical piece. I started noticing a certain unique characteristic the instrument and its player were bringing to the overall storytelling.
Central to Vietnamese folk music, this instrument – the đàn bầu – actually requires a high level of precision. Even though it was once a solo-played instrument, in the midst of the loud orchestra, one could still pick out the distinct soft tone it presented. And just like her instrument, behind the several colourfully-styled dancers who were holding the grip of the audience’s eyes, this gentle-demeanour musician was remarkable in her own way. As the culturally-rich art performance unfolded, I felt proud of her for not fading herself or her instrument’s smooth music into oblivion. Instead, she was doing her bit in preserving, honouring and showcasing the centuries-old sounds of the treasured đàn bầu.
The Committed Dancer: In a huge buffet hall in Siem Reap, hundreds of tourists sat at long rows of tables, awaiting the promise of a traditional Cambodian / Khmer dinner and dance show. As the diners dug into the platefuls of food, the first group of dancers entered the stage.
These Khmer dances tastefully weaved in the Hindu and Buddhist tales, legends and myths. The performances slowly transitioned between the folk “Coconut” and “Fisherman” dances to the classical and mesmerizing Apsara dancing, featuring women clad in traditional clothes, exquisite headdresses and ornate jewellery. In re-telling these ancient stories, the graceful movements, poses and expressions of the female Apsara dancers made it seem like the carved celestial sculptures of the famous Angkor Wat temples nearby had actually come to life.
In its origin, many of these dances were meant to be sacred, embodying the cultural and spiritual essence of Cambodia. In the midst of the table chatters and clinking plates and cutlery that never seemed to quieten down, somehow that spirituality had now waned away. And on the faces of these women, while you sensed a hint of pride in promoting their rich Cambodian identity, there was also a recognition of a loss of that sacredness in the night’s performative display.
Getting to the stage wouldn’t have been easy. With years of classical dance training, these restaurant performers only earn a few dollars a night. Yet, this often was the much needed income to pay for pressing expenses. So even though the routines were diluted and commodified to serve the tourist industry, in those very faces of the women, you could sense respect for what remained of the classical dance and its ancient roots. And if you looked close enough, each expression seemed to convey a soundless cry to the audience to better appreciate their art form and those that were bringing it to life. But through it all, there was a shared commitment that the show must go on.
The Passionate Composer: An air of grandiosity surrounded the 9th-century Prague Castle, as it proudly wore the crown of being the largest ancient castle in the world. Incomparable to this stately nature, a modest and gently rolling cobblestone-path made its way east, away from the imposing building. These Old Castle Stairs led people from the castle hill through one of the oldest vineyards in the Czech Republic, down to the modern-day city streets. As I gradually absorbed the Bohemian architecture from the heights of these publicly accessible stairs, my ears began to hear almost heavenly notes emerge from somewhere beyond. Seeking the source, I peered over the path’s waist-high wall. From there I saw a young woman sitting atop a lower-level wall, tenderly handling a beautiful wooden harp.
Her gorgeous vintage look seemed almost like the perfect pairing for this fine music. Just as she set the soothing atmosphere, she began to sing. In a voice so angelic, her words harmonized with the way her fingers cascaded through the strings.
Held by the strange power wielded by this mysterious artist, all the footsteps around came to a standstill. She had come there to deliver a performance that was worthy of a grand stage and a big audience. But there on the tile-lined wall, she had created her own humble stage. And with her original composition, she had drawn in an awe-filled pedestrian audience. Through this street performance in one of the world’s finest classical music cities, she was putting herself out there – along with her passion and her creation. And in the air that surrounded her was an infectious joy and a deep love for music.
ORDINARY WOMEN OF THE WATER AND THE LAND
The Persistent Rower: In its sunset-orange hues, the waters of Vietnam’s Hạ Long Bay glistened between the many towering islands. Steeped in folklore, these vegetation-covered limestone islands form a spectacular seascape of much acclaim. As one old tale goes, it is said that a dragon had once descended from the heavens to defend the local people from invaders. This legend lent the place its name – Hạ Long – translated as the ‘descending dragon’. With the nearest mainland several kilometres away, the residents of Ha Long Bay often earn their livelihood through aquaculture, fishing and tourism on the bay.
Against this iconic picturesque landscape, there was a local woman rowing her boat, slowly making her way through the waters. This late in the day, it was very likely that she was heading home to one of the close-by floating villages. But this was no easy commute. With every stroke, I could see her digging deep into her energy reserves. Yet, not once did I see her take a break on her race against the evening sun. Through her arduous endeavour, set within this breathtaking fiery-sunset frame, the once-upon-a-legend seemed to be breathed back to life. It was as if the fire of the dragon was giving her the strength to make it across.
Unbeknownst to this rowing woman, her unrelenting efforts filled me with a bizarre kind of energy and enthusiasm. And I stood on the shores rooting for her to get through to her finish line. For, she was a prevailing woman.
The Confident Paddler: In the middle of the rippling waters of the world’s highest navigable lake, a local woman, dressed in bright traditional clothes, paddled her banana-shaped, reed boat. Here, on Lake Titicaca in Peru, the aquatic totara reeds clearly takes the crown for being the lifeblood of the distinctive floating islands of Uros. Everything from the houses to boats to the islands themselves are made of these native plants.
And on these waters is the home of the Uru people, originally indigenous to Bolivia. After migrating onto the Peruvian side of Lake Titicaca a few millennia ago and their subsequent displacement by the Incas and Spanish conquerors, the Uros fashioned several of these floating settlements on the lake. They had once lived off the local fish and the reeds that provided them the much-needed food and medicine. But with the introduction of non-native fish as part of the British expedition, the local fish species were driven to extinction. Threatened with their livelihood, the Uros turned to tourism in an effort to provide for themselves and their families
Generations later, playing her part in selling the unique story and traditions of the Uru people, this woman was hanging onto the one of the only few ways she knew to ensure a future with possibilities. Though her culture was being commodified in the name of tourism and economic opportunities, in her posture she bore the confidence of her heritage and her roots in one of the oldest civilizations of South America. This freshwater lake and the indispensable reeds it nurtured were at the heart of that cultural identity. And she seemed to fully embrace them, as she stood grounding herself strongly on that yellow reed boat.
The Humble Harvester: As the mid-morning sun inched its way across the sky, there was a beautiful yet deceptive tranquillity on the small lakeside community of Luquina Chico. Located along the shores of Lake Titicaca, this indigenous Aymara village in Peru was anything but idle. Although away from all the city noises, in the quietness of this place, all life was in full bloom. From shepherding to harvesting, to cooking and hand-washing of laundry, the day was well underway.
I was staying as a guest there with an Aymara woman and her husband who had kindly opened up their home for me. That morning, I had made my way to the part of the house facing the lake, taking in the beauty that surrounded me. With the occasional sheep bleats and distant donkey brays in the background, the soft whistles of the gentle Andean breeze also carried with it the low humming of this woman who was busy working away. Around her were the region’s most treasured crop – the potatoes. And my task was to help her sort out five or so varieties of these recently harvested potatoes. She didn’t need my help, but she invited me anyway to take part in her daily chores.
Despite the ordinariness of this task, the value that this root vegetable held among the locals was obvious. While now consumed worldwide, potato cultivation is said to have first originated among the Aymara peoples. Even after hundreds of years, these potatoes have maintained their cultural persistence in this community as beyond just food. And this woman was clearly devoted to continuing that legacy. As I witnessed the humility with which she handled this harvest, one thing became more evident. You could say she was an ordinary woman – but she was someone in a reverent communion with the land. And that’s where the ordinary stopped and the exceptional began.
The Diligent Cultivator: A narrow-gauge steam train meandered deep through the lush green, forested valley of Maramureș. One of Europe’s last such trains, it was transporting downed tree logs and some curious day-trippers like myself through the Carpathian mountains. As the crisp Spring breeze carried with it the whiffs of smoky steam and the smell of freshly cut wood, this 100-year old locomotive unhurriedly passed by the small spread-out settlements of rural Romania.
In between the timber that fenced the houses, one could sense the unmistakable simplicity and slow pace to life. It was near this route that I saw a local woman working in her field. She was striking an almost perfect chord between the contemporary and the past traditions. Wearing loose-fitted pants and a half-sleeved top, she also had a simple apron and a floral head scarf, customary of the clothing one would find in northern Romania.
In this region, women were usually engaged in everything from taking care of the house and cooking to working on the fields. So watching her plough through, it was as if she were the engine of her family, just like the steam that powered the train rolling by. Diligently, she was carrying on the enduring traditions from one life stage to another. And there I wondered to myself, in what way am I taking my cultural elements to the next generation?
ORDINARY WOMEN OF THE FAMILY
The Relational Caregiver: At the high altitude of 5000m, centuries-old stripes of wine-red, beige-yellow and turquoise sediments lay uncovered on the revered Ausangate mountain range of Peru. A decade ago, this place would have been known only to the Quechuan villagers and their alpacas and llamas. But with the rising temperatures and melting snow in recent years, this multi-couloured natural wonder had surfaced from beneath to the outside world.
Although a bit muted in its shades compared to other such similar sites, the Palccoyo (dubbed the ‘Alternative Rainbow Mountain’), has gradually started to see visitors from across the globe. Today, alpacas and llamas continue to roam these hilly pastures, yet still stay alert to the unfamiliar faces that pass by.
As I hiked up these rough trails, located between the flowy Red Valley and the rocky Stone Forest, I was met by a middle-aged woman, a young girl and their cutest little alpaca. While the locals have been traditionally focused on herding animals, the gaining popularity of this natural wonder in their backyard had them trying a hand at tourism. So awaiting hikers who maybe willing to pay a few Peruvian sols to take a photo with them, this picture-perfect trio was wandering the rocky paths, while keeping each other entertained.
But what struck me most was the ‘familial’ bond between the three.
The village of Palccoyo is traditionally pastoral, with the lives of its people deeply interwoven with their animals just as it is with their families. Therefore, it was no surprise that this young alpaca seemed to have found its comfort in the familiar care of these two villagers and they in it. In the brief moments I spent with them, I could also sense a maturity in the love that the woman shared with the girl. Common among most Quechuan communities, children were raised to help out like an adult, encouraged to participate in household chores and economic activities. But the way this woman counselled the girl, it was done so with a sense of mutual respect. Such multifaceted relationships between people and with animals have been critical to the very survival of the locals here and a symbol of Andean resiliency.
As we departed, the woman had settled down on the ground and was starting to feed the imagination and curiosity of the young mind with a story. And I thought to myself – there is no landscape unfit for nurturing relationships. Here on these wild Andean highlands, this thoughtful caregiver and storyteller was taking every advantage of it.
The Daring Mother: The December sun was making its way down the Cambodian horizon, slowly taking the tropical day-time heat with it. Had it not been the dry season, the evening would have looked quite different for this community along the Tonlé Sap Lake. The monsoon waters had receded from beneath and this village was no longer floating on the largest freshwater body in South East Asia. (At least, not until the next heavy rains). The sunset glow hit the small houses that stood several feet high on wooden stilts, casting alternating light rays and shadows on the dry ground below.
The locals were definitely not taking this season for granted and were making the best use of the remaining hours of daylight. While some teenagers played soccer in a makeshift field, some of the adults gathered the clothes they had laid out to dry. And there, in the coolness of the shade below one the pole houses, was a woman going about her housework. Tied between two stilts of her home was a cloth-hammock holding her infant. Between her chores, she made sure she was checking on her little one and rocking it to sleep.
While this scene could appear as quite ordinary, there was a strange feeling in the air. It was as if the cool evening breeze was leaving behind a chilling touch of reality. The waters that flowed by the village provided life to the residents through its fishing opportunities, but it also held an omen of death for the many children here. Between water-borne diseases and drowning, the two leading causes of deaths in kids under five, a mother’s instinct needed to be on high alert. So in this woman’s gaze towards her child, I could only see her maternal care and an earnest desire to protect. Almost as if to ensure her loved one survives the battle against the water. She sure was a simple homemaker, but at heart, she seemed more a daring mother.
The Patient Teacher: Overlooking Peru’s fertile green Sacred Valley, a group of women sat weaving in an open courtyard of a local cooperative. Coordinated in their traditional attire, they all wore a wide, calf-length skirt (‘pollero’) hemmed with a colourful band that symbolized the community they belonged to. They topped that with just the perfect piece of clothing – a white frilly top and a colourfully-woven, waist-length woolen jacket (‘jobona’). This women-led weaving cooperative was the pride of the small, Quechuan agricultural community of Ccaccaccollo.
While women had been traditionally seated out of economic opportunities, this initiative had allowed them to participate in paving their own economic independence and passing on the benefits to their children. But this was more than just about providing a source of income generation. It was a way to bring back the weaving traditions that had been nearly lost after the rapid uptick of the tourism industry since the 90’s, as the Sacred Valley became the global gateway to the mystical ruins of the ancient Incan empire.
In the middle of this courtyard, a wooden pole held three portable, traditional weaving looms with a weaver at each. But at one of them, a young pre-teen sat facing her mother with a few threads of her own. Patiently, the woman let the girl try her hand at interlacing the strings, quietly correcting her when needed, then letting her undo any mistakes by herself and encouraging her to try again. A sense of pride glinted in the woman’s eyes as she engaged in this craft alongside her daughter.
These weaving methods and intricate designs have been often passed down from mothers to daughters for generations. Therefore, through this beautiful teaching moment, the woman was not only sharing her knowledge but also a piece of herself and that of the women who came before her. Like the mitochondrial DNA that gets inherited from mothers, the very fabric of the woman’s identity was being passed on, hopeful of surviving the evolution of modern-day contemporaries, through the next set of generations.
More encounters and stories to come…..