35- Tara

My friend Tabra, who inspired the character of Tamar in my novel The Infinite Plan, is in real life a tireless and brave traveler. Sometimes she disappears for weeks, and when I start to fear that the Amazon jungle swallowed her or she fell off the Himalayas, I receive a worn-out photograph of a village in Iran Jaia in the mail. Tabra, dressed as a gypsy, covered in bracelets and necklaces, appears surrounded by naked women and men with paint on their bodies, waving spears and wearing only pumpkins to cover their genitals. When she returns, she brings back large sailor's bundles filled with treasures: fabrics from the Andes, masks from Africa, arrows from Borneo, intricately carved human skulls from Tibet. But most importantly, she brings inspiration for her work. The designs of her jewelry are a true celebration of the strength, beauty, and courage of women in remote corners of the Earth: women from the desert of Rajasthan in India, from the jungle in New Guinea, from indigenous villages in South America, all united by the common aspiration of being beautiful and adorned.

This is a letter she sent me during one of her trips in 1990:

"I am somewhere in lower Egypt, I would need a map to know exactly where... I arrived here from Cairo because someone told me it was interesting, but I forgot why. I don't know what I expected to find in this place, maybe a little adventure. You know I don't travel scientifically, I prefer to follow my intuition. I forget dates, names, and places, I only have a vague general impression, shapes and colors that later appear in my designs. At the airport, a young man approached me and offered to guide me. Dark-skinned, handsome, with a radiant smile and enormous black eyes, the type of man that attracts me at first sight. In Egypt, a woman cannot walk alone without a guide, she wouldn't be left alone; I accepted because that young man inspired trust in me. I explained my profession to him and asked him to take me to see crafts, gemstones, beads for my jewelry. Mahmoud decided to drive me to the only hotel in town to drop off my luggage and then take me to a small Nubian village on the edge of the desert. That's what we did, and soon I found myself in a rickety car surrounded by four relatives of my guide, who joined the expedition. I'm sure you wouldn't have approved, Isabel... It occurred to me that it wasn't a very good idea, but it was too late to turn back, and those men were so kind and seemed so happy to practice their English with me that I dismissed my fears.

It was an exhausting journey, and after about two hours, we caught sight of a small white village shining against the infinite sand. Mahmoud announced that we had arrived at his grandfather's house and drove the car into a walled enclosure that extended for over a kilometer, as he explained to me. Inside the blue and white-painted mud walls, there were various rooms, clearly indicating that a large family lived there. A small crowd came out to greet us and observe me with curiosity; cousins, uncles, sisters, nephews, many children... What confusion! 'Welcome to our home. You are the first foreign person to set foot on this property,' said Mahmoud. I thought that with a little luck, this could be the adventure I was looking for. The women, dressed in black and somewhat shy at first, brought me dates and other fruits on large trays and invited me to their homes. A young woman took me to a chest to show me her trousseau, all embroidered with a design of intertwined leaves and flowers, which had taken years to make. Another wanted me to see her sewing machine, and a third showed me the large white fridge installed in the center of the room, the most precious possession. Outside, the sun beat mercilessly, but within the mud walls, the air was cool; a sweet and melancholic music came from somewhere, and I could hear Muslim chants from a nearby mosque. The women never tired of studying my bracelets and caressing my arms, marveled at my white skin and the color of my hair, it was useless to try to explain to them that it is dyed: they didn't speak English, and I didn't speak Arabic. I also studied their tattoos and silver ornaments while, from a certain distance, the men looked at me insistently, whispering and laughing unabashedly. All eyes were on me when I opened my wallet, took out a mirror, and applied lipstick. We settled in a room with rigid furniture lined up against the wall and photographs of weddings and ancestors hand-colored; the women served tea and lemonade to the men and me, but they didn't sit with us. My guide told me that he had powerful friends in Egypt: anything I needed, he could get it for me, my happiness was all that mattered to him, he wanted me to be happy in his country and have many adventures. Wasn't that what I was looking for? He laughed, and the others laughed as well. I felt their eyes burning on me; the heat and fatigue of the journey were starting to affect me, I needed a bath; I wanted to return to the village and my hotel, but I couldn't offend my hosts either. I stood up with the intention of saying goodbye. I noticed that the men exchanged signals, but I couldn't interpret them, and I realized that the women had discreetly withdrawn one by one, leaving me alone. I headed for the door; outside, the evening had fallen and it was starting to cool down. I estimated that it would be dark in less than half an hour, and the way back to the village was long. I walked with determination, pushing away the men who stood in front of me.