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at my presence. I quickly took my place beside them, collecting up beads and string and set about doing my work. I’d only threaded a few beads when a small child of maybe five or six, wearing a cotton t-shirt as a dress, edged closer to me. I had no idea of this child’s gender―it didn’t matter to me. I smiled at them and they turned and ran, only to return a short while later, getting a little closer. This time I smiled at them and they didn’t run, so I said, “Hello.”
    They squealed and ran away, making the women laugh, and I could hear other children laughing as well. I was pleased the children were working up the courage to come up to me.
    Next time the child got closer, I put my hand to my chest and introduced myself. “I am Alé.”
    They didn’t run. “ Mzungu .”
    I looked to the older woman from yesterday. “Mzungu?”
    “White man,” she replied.
    I smiled at the child. “Yes. Mzungu.” I held out my arm, and the child very bravely reached out to touch the skin on my forearm. Obviously they’d never seen a white person before. As soon as they touched me, they pulled back their hand. Their face lit up with wonder and broke into a huge smile. I found myself grinning as well. “I am Alé,” I repeated.
    The older woman said, “He is Komboa.”
    “His name is Komboa?” I asked, still not quite catching all her words. I’d rather question than get it wrong and offend someone. She nodded, so I looked at the little boy and gave him a smile and a wave. “Hello Komboa.”
    He laughed and ran away, and I went back to beading, happy with the interaction. And then the older woman said, “Amali.” And the women around the circle each told me their names. “Nashuru.” “Yantai.” “Naasha.” “Leela.”
    I bowed my head. “Alé. Thank you. Very honoured,” I said. I fought a smile for the rest of the day.
    * * * *
    And so the days went, each day’s routine the same. The chores always varied, but I spent my days with Amali, Nashuru, and Yantai mostly, doing whatever they were doing. Damu was never far away, and I likened his role in the tribe to a maintenance man: he did whatever was asked of him. He never went with the men, and he didn’t truly interact with the women either, but he was always around, always busy, always smiling.
    Damu and I would talk, usually me asking a bunch of questions about their culture. I was learning some words in Maa, and he was learning new English words. I liked him. He was peaceful and content. He was proud but humble, he had next to no possessions, but he was happy with what he had.
    And before I knew it, I’d been there a week.
    I drank uji for breakfast and ate ugali as my only two small meals a day, and in one week, I knew I’d lost some weight. My shorts were too big, but I found I could roll the waistband over a few times to help keep them up. I also still slept on the ground in Damu’s hut, but I didn’t mind. I usually fell into sleep too tired to care.
    And every night I dreamed the same dream.
    It was of Jarrod, but that didn’t surprise me. My dreams were always of him. I dreamed he was here with me, walking through the long brown grass of the Serengeti, toward the river where Damu and I walked every morning. Jarrod looked beautiful, ethereal, as he moved in slow motion through the field. His hand skimmed the top of the grass, feeling it dance at his touch, and he gave me the most amazing smile. He never spoke, but I understood what he was telling me just fine. He was telling me I was where I should be, and in my dream I called his name but he couldn’t hear me. I longed to hear him speak, to smell his skin, and I ached to feel his arms around me. And when I tried to run to him, he was gone.
    The dream never changed. I yearned for the ending to be different. I wanted to reach him, to touch him, to hear his voice. I longed to see his face, to hear his voice. But in my dream, as in real life, he was gone. Every morning I woke in a sweat, trying