Free Love In The Jungle by Ann Walker Page A

houses, but their condition wasn’t as
pristine as our volunteer huts.
    “Why don’t you get settled in?” Henri touched my arm gently
to draw my attention back to him. “There will be a big feast tonight to welcome
you, and you can meet with the rest of the volunteers then.”
    “Sounds like a plan to me,” Grant told him, and I nodded my
shared sentiment. Suddenly, my bags felt really heavy. My feet seemed to sink
into the ground, and all I wanted to do was shut myself in a dimly lit room
somewhere and take a few deep breaths.
    “Let’s see, Grant we have you in bunk one,” Henri said,
conferring with something on his phone and pointing to the little house at the
end of the row, “and Clara we have you in bunk five.”
    He gestured to the one directly in front of us, and I tried
not to let my disappointment show over the fact that we were so far away from
each other.
    I shook my head. Buck up, Clara. You’re here to volunteer,
not mope like some high school kid because you aren’t sitting next to the guy
you like.
    Wait. Not like. Well like, but not like like.
    Uh oh.
    I squared my shoulders and pressed forward, determined not
to let some strange guy I barely knew dictate what I got out of this volunteer
experience. Still, as I strolled toward my new home for the next six months, my
skin prickled. I could practically feel Grant staring holes into the back of my
head, and the feeling didn’t go away, not even when I’d opened the wooden door
and slipped inside.

Chapter Ten
    “S o how was the flight over? It’s always my least
favorite part about volunteering.”
    I held my hand over my mouth, which was full of food, then
gave a quick nod. Yes, I agree, flying is terrible. The woman beside me smiled,
obviously pleased we’d bonded over something, and then pushed some of her pita
bread into the light brown mush that had a similar texture to hummus. Once I’d
swallowed my mouthful, I added more to the sentiment, “I was happy once I had
both feet on the ground for more than five minutes, that’s for sure.”
    “Well, this place will definitely ground you,” she told me.
“Herb and I have been here for almost eight months, and it’s the best place
we’ve been yet.”
    I nodded again, in no position to doubt the claim. “That’s
great.”
    And you know what? I don’t think there’s any reason to doubt
it. I’d only been there a couple of hours, and the queasy, nervous feeling in
the pit of my stomach was finally starting to fade. Sure, I still felt out of
place. Even standing next to Grant and Henri when we’d met with the other
volunteers before dinner, it was like I shouldn’t be there, like my vibe was
throwing off the flow of the whole village.
    That was crazy talk, of course. No one scowled at me, local
or volunteer. No one seemed annoyed by my presence. In fact, everyone I’d met
had been spectacularly welcoming—or so I assumed, given I didn’t speak French.
Some of the locals, mostly the younger generation, were eager to test out their
English on me, but the elders, fluent in French and Kabiyé,
were still a mystery.
    “I’m sure we’ll find a way to communicate,”
Grant had mused pleasantly. That was the last thing he’d said to me before we
were swept off for our evening meal. Seated in a great circle around a roaring
bonfire, my evening meal consisted of pita bread, shaved beef, my hummus-like
mush, and dusty greens that tasted extremely bitter. The food was plentiful,
with plates and bowls continuously making their way around the circle. Closer
to the fire, clusters of children sat together, their parents and family
watching on from the outer ring.
    It surprised me that no one stepped in when
the kids had added things to the fire. Every so often, a little one would grab
a stick or rock and add it to the flames. Back home, someone would have charged
the youngster and dragged him or her away, images of burning toddler flashing
across the worried relative’s mind. But not here.