The children call me Mina. I see them from afar, mingled beneath one dominating tree, dark silhouettes overlapping as they dance and jump, and before long, wave. I wave back. One girl marches confidently over to me and the rest trickle behind, the younger ones skipping and stumbling together, the older ones prodding the distracted toddlers they are minding. Motioning to my camera, I hesitatingly ask if I can take a picture, and their enthusiastic replies bury my request as they immediately group together, crying my new name. Through an eye glued to my viewfinder, I am greeted by fleeting personalities as the children push in front of the lens, giggling as they pose. Some compete for attention, some stand still in the noise, regarding me with a shy yet unfaltering gaze. The little ones squirm as they are positioned into focus, wriggling out of pushing hands until their eyes meet the lens and catch, staring into their distorted reflection. The boys do not smile, dropping their old bicycle tires and sticks to the ground to unite before me in the dappled shade. Yet as I kneel down in the dust to show the children the pictures, all solemnity breaks as they see themselves, the smiles and faces of their friends and siblings. And as I move on and begin my work, the children never stop waving.

The women welcome me. Eyes wrinkled with amusement at their children’s glee, or stern as they watch them fearless with a stranger, the women sit in faded plastic chairs in the shadows, leaning forward to comfort the sleeping infants wrapped to their backs. They speak in frothy whispers, one rippling laugh occasionally cresting the others. One woman approaches me, envelops my hand in both of hers and warmly greets me “hello my sweet girl.” Another smiles before my camera yet is immediately bashful when I show her the image, despite my admiration of her beauty. Far off on a blanket backed against a shed, two woman motion to me, beaming as I began to walk over. The one props up a small boy she is cradling, and they lean together and smile, patient as I adjust the exposure and frame the shot, their faces only brightening as I thank them. I return to the gathering, snapping picture after picture as requested by the frequent hands softly grazing my arm. Women playfully swat their friends for being so bold, yet their pride shines as they smile down on their beautiful babies. And the laughter under the trees swells, never faltering.

The men watch me from a distance. They lay stretched out on tangled roots knotting the trees together, arms thrown over eyes to block out streaks of sunlight piercing through the leaves. Others recline on the backs of grimy motorcycles, their heads balanced on the handlebars and their legs dangling down into the yellow sand. It is I who make the first move, and approaching two men straddling bikes, I tentatively ask if I can take their picture. The wall between us cracks, and one man jumps up to talk to me, reaching for my wrist and pulling me over to his suddenly attentive audience. I repeat my request, which is quickly overrun with questions of what I will give in return. Finally understanding their demands, I counter each insistence with a friendly apology, explaining I have nothing I can trade. The onlookers laugh lightheartedly at my unease, but return my smile as I eventually back away, soon retiring back to their leisure. And there they rest, every so often meeting my glance, but never again engaging. 

I watch out the window as we drive away, waving to the children and reliving the laughing eyes and vibrant smiles I met in Tamatoku.