noellejt.net nor the ever-present entourage of children that hung on to my hands and waist and clung to my arms and hips.
It missed that one wooden cart at the crossroads
with dagaa, sardine-like fish, piled four feet high, that guided me home to the Mkinis each day, and it neglected the toddling boy who fled in terror at my pale skin, sobbing to his mother?s skirts.
The market square, full of fruit and flies,
goats and chickens, bright colored cloths and bibles, flour and sugar mounded high beside coke bottles, the loud cry of "Mzungu!" which led us place to place, the open-air pool-hall and the standard forty-minute wait to be served a drink, strangers with sixteen ways to say hello, were quite simply ignored.
My camera never caught Kawe because
it could not have captured the press of bodies filling a dalla-dalla nor the gentle stroke of a child on the skin of my arm nor the taste of Bitta-lemon soda nor the acquired skill of eating beans and rice and stews without silverware nor the simple fact that I could smell everything and everyone.
I knew better than to try -
my camera had already missed the early dawn over white-washed Mykonos, yellow light and blue water harmonizing with the Muslim call to prayer; it had missed the warmth of the Carribean at midnight and the crabs which walked the streets, from the ocean to the swimming pools, at night-time in Huatulco; it had missed the counter-beat of Istanbul which was thrumming under and between.