Children of Fiji
Weaving between houses, sprinting, jumping ditches. I’m not barefoot, but I feel I am. Like a scene out of The Jungle Book, I duck beneath branches, calling Bula, hello! to my village friends. I’m a village child myself when I’m running through the dusty dirt. Because in Fiji, in my adopted village of Raviravi, the children are so irrevocably independent, that I can’t...
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