a silent conversation
We met an old local, a father, a farmer, a builder. He invited us to be his guest for the day. We jumped in his car, not understanding where he was going to take us. He turned the car off the road onto a dirt track that led down into a gully. He stopped the car with no one around and motioned us to follow him along the path, deeper into the gully. He had a wrinkled and weathered face, from a life spent working outdoors. His eyes were full of adventure, soft and trustworthy, so we followed him.
With pride, he showed us his farm hidden amongst the stone boulders and cliffs. We walked around his farm and tried to understand him when he spoke. He had an array of fruit trees, veggies and native plants. We sat and drank fizzy drink in silence and took cover in the hail storm that passed through the gully. Wet and cold he invited us back to his home. He woke up his sick wife to make us black Turkish coffee.
Being invited into a home in a different culture and country is sacred. We sat in their living room, as strangers, but were invited into their family as friends. It was a sacred moment amplified by silence.