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Late morning, and the sun is hot. A heat haze is drowning the promontory with its warning light. The tide is receding leaving behind a ragged curtain of debris hanging from the lower branches of the mangroves. A boy, perhaps eleven or twelve, is walking along the beach. He is wearing a long sleeved jumper and knee length shorts, but no shoes.
The boy is carrying a large sack made of woven plastic. The sack has holes at the bottom; there are pieces of polystyrene visible through them. He drags the sack across the basalt shore, which must be hard on his feet, although he shows no signs of discomfort, no awkwardness in the steps he takes a cross the rocks... 
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Mid morning, the sun is hot. The basalt of the upper beach is dry and blue. Lower down the rock pools are being filled by an incoming tide. The beach is busy with people washing; their clothes, then themselves.
Near the village, high up the beach, children play in pools which the community use as a washing place. There are flat and smooth rocks here, ideal for scrubbing clothes on: taller textured rocks for whipping sodden soapy garments against. The pools are deep - ideal for rinsing clothes in. The clean smell of soap rises on the sea breeze as I pass by... 
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There are two children walking on the Bandstand promenade. They are scraping little sticks, in play, along the low wall separating the beach from the pavement. Siblings – the eldest perhaps four years old, the youngest, two. Both have short hair, crow black; the youngest with a fringe of dark auburn. The eldest wears a tee-shirt and long shorts; the youngest a short sleeved shirt with long black shorts.
Neither child wears shoes. I watch them play happily together until they see me sitting on a bench close to their play ground. The eldest scoops her brother up onto her hip and walks straight towards me with out-stretched hand. It’s a well practised manoeuvre... 
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