The culture seeps into my soul, like coconut oil being gently rubbed into my skin.

The smells of salt, rotting rubbish, raw fish, sugar, bananas, dirt, sand, dead dogs, sweet toddy, bars of velvet soap, coconut oil, salted smoke fish, soy sauce and fresh bread buns.

The sounds of cards slapping the floor on the mat in the midst of the tenth consecutive game of Canesta.

A nearby cry of a child fighting with their cousins down the road and the even closer cry of your own baby cousin searching for more milk.

The waves in the foreground hitting the sea wall and the waves in the distance breaking up against the reef.

The sound of a young mother singing while she sweeps up the dead flowers from the frangipani trees. The ‘tch tch tch’ of the broom, flicking across the stones on the ground, collecting fallen leaves together.

The thumping bass line of a pop song reaching out of the bus stereo, across the road and sauntering casually into my thoughts.

The taste of fish and rice and toddy and rice and fish and coconuts and rice and fish and toddy and fish and donuts and salt and fish and salt and fish and rice and fish and fish.

The moi moto

The never ending beads of sweat that linger on your skin – translucent and salty.

The culture seeps into my soul, like coconut oil being gently rubbed into my skin.