The spirit of the flȃneur "Walking through the city, simply to experience it" - Charles Baudelaire

The hot air was wet and sticky, and clung to my skin in droplets. I sauntered down the narrow streets of main Maputo, the white paint of the buildings juxtaposed against the blood and filth that had layered in the crevices. Almost all the windows were broken, and the glass on the pavement was often accompanied by unconscious men that I could not and would not declare as either drunk or dead. As I walked under the dilapidated banner and into the local market, the stench of rotten fish hung heavily in the air; yet the smell slowly cloaked itself in the rich aroma of herbs and spices as I continued on. I stopped at one of the many seafood stalls to observe the lobster cadavers that lay there stacked in the sun – their open eyes hardened and indented from the sweltering heat, and perspiring even from within their parched shells. I regrettably made eye contact with the man on the other side, who judiciously hoped that my pitiful look was indeed one of interest. Suddenly broken Portuguese exploded from his wide, yellow grin, with fervent hand gestures to accompany his persuasive efforts. “Uh, no thanks I was just looking,” I replied quickly and as politely as I could before walking swiftly away from the eager lobster man.
The neighbouring stall was eastern-looking and stank of musk and fire. Brass bells and mosaics glistened in the sun rays, occasionally flashing blinding white light-beams at the passer-bys. I saw the reflections as reminiscent of a lighthouse summoning the boats ashore, and looked more closely for something to purchase in order to reward the stall for its subtly subjective allure. The lady in charge of this stall had two golden rings in her left eyebrow. I wondered what she was looking down at? Suddenly two bright eyes appeared from the rim of the table. They belonged to a small, black face. The little girl held her dirty hands up towards me, and in them was a small wooden elephant.
“It is no finish, she will no buy,” her mother cautioned her. The girl looked down, and I could feel the hunger pains in her distress. “How much?” I asked as I quickly dug into my pocket and pulled out a few coins. “10 metical” replied the suddenly refurbished expression of the lady. I gave the money to the girl who handed me her unfinished masterpiece in exchange. As my fingertips brushed against hers, I could tell the sweat from her palms was not from the heat, but rather that of hard work. The small, brown elephant now emphasized my white, foreign skin.