Oh the jajjas, such lovely old women. Life changes little on this remote island between visits. The pineapple is just as sweet, the wild passion fruit is just as tart. Yet these old women seem to creak just a little more. Just watching them rise and lower to the ground – something that must be done several dozen times a day – is painful for me. None the less they welcom
e us with joy and insist on preparing a meal. I just love these ladies, the only grandmothers I have. The white-haired Ida compares her light hairs to mine and insists I must be her own. My little island family.
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| Vickie spreads scented lotion on the oldest jajja's skin. |
