As my photos pass from hand to hand, woman to woman, a ripple of excitment grows. The women are laughing and pointing at the photos, and it seems to me they are checking out the clothing from 5 years ago, as much as they are looking at the faces. An argument breaks out over the identity of a face in one of the photos. One of the women is suddenly animated as she recognises a friend, and points excitedly off to a distant corner of the markets. Another woman grabs the album and closely scrutinises the photo, she clearly disagrees and shakes her head. The first woman snatches the album back and casts around for agreement from the group of women looking on.
I am so engrossed with the “my” woman, happy and surprised that I have found her in the middle of this crowded marketplace, that I didn’t realise there was a second woman I’d photographed 5 years ago standing right next to her. She holds the photos I’d taken of her and offers them back to me. I push them back towards her. “They are yours to keep” I say. And smiling back at me, she understands. She has happy eyes.