I Have this magic switch for when I land in the countries of Africa and Latin America. A button placed somewhere deep in my gut which tells me that nothing is certain. It gives me lightness, embedded strongly in the mind.
Suddenly, little things are more interesting, colours are brighter and crowds of pedestrians have eyes, facial features, emotions and longings. I don’t look at my phone, it’s hidden deep in my backpack. Everything is more important, stronger and regular everyday walking the streets after dark is a sort of a perverse romance with what people like to call ‘normal’. Suddenly, this thought passes through my head, that it is possible that I disappear, that there can be no me. I look at the poverty around me so intense it’s sticky, privation mingled with bitter-sweet abundance that runs down the wealthy necks in the form of golden chains. Everything seems fleeting – like the wind, which, however, stirs it’s coolness to the bone. This impermanence is questioned by no one, no one tries to pretend that anything is certain or forever. And even though these poignant pictures of pouring emotion spill on and beyond everywhere I turn, there is something to it, so immensely liberating, I call it the power of uncertainty.