“That’s beautiful. And profound. What strange, wonderful people they are.” I might not have been able to relate to their customs or lifestyle, but I admired them for the pride and authenticity with which they held on to their rich, fierce heritage.
“You like that?” Jack motioned to the wooden figure I was holding. It was about the size of my palm, carved in the shape of a boy playing a flute.
He paid for it without waiting for an answer and handed it to me after the woman wrapped it up for us.
“Thank you. You didn’t have to do that.”
“I kind of did. My way of saying sorry.” He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly.
“Sorry? For what?”
“You know when that drop of water landed on your head?”
“Yes?” I walked faster, trying to keep up with him as he made a beeline for the car.
“I didn’t want you to freak out, but the old lady spit on you.”
“The old lady . . .” I stopped in my tracks. “She spit . . .” I touched the spot on my head. My hand came back dry, but I stared at it, horrified.
“She liked you.” Jack’s mouth wobbled, like he was trying to keep from laughing. “It was her way of blessing you.”
Most people are uncomfortable with silence, especially the kind when you know someone is about to erupt. Jack was not one of them. He ignored the steam coming out of my ears.
“This is not going to make any difference.” He opened the trunk, poured some water on a rag, and patted my scalp with it. “But it’ll make you feel better.”
I glared at him without a word.
“This?” He offered me a packet of biscuits.
Silence.
“This?” He threw in a bottle of pineapple juice.
My outrage dissipated, because yes. Yes. I was starving, and that made me feel much, much better.
“Friends?” he asked, holding the door open for me.
I was going to come back with a sharp retort, but my stomach chose to answer instead. With a wild growl. To his credit, Jack kept a straight face.
I ripped into the biscuits before he got in the car.
“Not a fan of the local cuisine?” he asked.
“Not a fan of roasted entrails, local or otherwise. And you’re one to talk. You got all the good stuff.”
“Hey, I came bearing gifts for the chief. We caught him just in time. He’ll be heading out soon with the cattle.”
“But he’s the chief. He can get someone else to graze the cattle.”
“He’s a nomad. When he feels the call of the land, he goes. Sometimes he’ll trek clear across the plains with them, following the water.”
“Wow.” I stuffed my mouth with chocolate-coated biscuits. “I’ll have a lot of stories to tell my students when I get back.”
We left the bleak plateau behind, and the landscape changed once again. Huge fig trees lined the road, draped in spools of trailing moss. Starry bursts of sunshine sparkled through the leaves as we drove by. I could see Mo in them—her warmth, her dazzle, her sharp, bright energy. For a moment, I was transported back to a time when we were kids, playing peek-a-boo.
. . . 5, 4, 3, 2, 1 . . . ready or not, here I come!
I remembered the thrill of hiding. The rush of seeking. Hearts racing. Bodies squirming. The squealing when you find someone, or when someone finds you. Maybe that’s what life was about. Seven billion people playing hide and seek, waiting to find and be found. Mothers, fathers, lovers, friends, playing a cosmic game of discovery—of self, and of others—appearing and disappearing like stars rotating on the horizon.
