I had, undoubtedly, many insecurities and suspicions concerning Buddhism. Is it really a religion in itself, and what is this ambiguous designation of … Keep Reading
To visit Mozambique Island, the epicentre of culture and history, has always been a dream of mine. I remember being woken by the unexpectedly humid sun and venturing into the town’s market in search of airtime when the little child crossed my path.
It dawned on me that this child, though native as she may have been, was just as foreign as I.
After all, Mozambique Island is a UNESCO Heritage site, and it makes me uncomfortable to witness the preservation of a heritage that is not my own.
I distinctly remember having my hand pulled through the wet aisles of Maputo’s Central Market. The conglomeration of scents from sea foods, spices and sweat; the young boys employed by their customer’s lack of care (for you had to pay someone to keep your goods from getting stolen), and finally racing through the corridors with no time to truly contemplate the existences that brought life to a sleepless market.