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<\/a><\/figure>\n\n\n\nSmiles, head bobs, and thoughtful gazes into the sky were followed by a request for a \u201cspecial discount.\u201d Ray managed to get the price to about $100.\u00a0\u00a0The transaction was completed via Mobile Money, or MoMo.\u00a0\u00a0Long before Venmo became popular, the African mobile phone networks allowed money transfers via text message.\u00a0\u00a0With a couple of taps on the phone Ray had transferred the funds to the shop owner and Ray tucked our new Chinese tire under his arm and we headed out.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Ray dropped us off at the church and then drove the truck to a mechanic to work on the spare. It would be a few hours before the beautiful choir from the previous evening could get a bus into town to finish their songs, so we took some time to learn about traditional weaving. Next to the church, a powerful, broad and tall tree shaded the dry red dirt. A small weaving school had arranged their looms into a row just a few feet from the church. A couple of young sheep occasionally zigzagged through the classroom vacuuming up fresh leaves that had fallen from the tree.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The young women of the weaving school wore smart looking uniforms and nervously smiled and looked down as I approached and began a conversation with the instructor. Some of the ladies wore a muslim head scarf; I’ve learned to be slow to photograph in such circumstances. My broad and goofy grin, sweat drenched shirt, and polite questions, combined with Beth’s reassuring and gentle smiles seemed to break the ice. We began learning about their trade.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Each student must work three years before she graduates and takes home a loom, to start her business. They were confused when I asked how many hours they work each day. Bewildered, they timidly reply, “all day?” Yes, silly question.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<\/a><\/figure>\n\n\n\n