We have adopted Peterson as our safe guard and our translator. He is a gentle giant. There is nothing “nice” about a dry, long, sand road. There is something magic when a figure in the distance is slowly walking towards you on the same dusty road. The figure got clearer and it was an old man, dressed in his best suit and tie, which was torn and shaggy. He has broken shoes with no socks and skin covered in itch. We stopped the wise old man to ask where we could find the elder of the village we were we headed to. He looked at us, summing up our intentions. He made a decision that our visit was of more importance than the reason he was wearing his Friday best. How is it possible that two Mzungu girls and a Peterson were more important than his ceremony? How important must we have been to these people? The answer only came when we were introduced to the head woman of the village; again she looked at us, almost as if she was looking straight into our souls. She sat us down on an old wooden plank and we calmly explained that we come in peace, empty-handed but with full hearts. Again we realized our importance when the very women who had no food to feed hungry children, offered us four eggs from their cooped chickens in regret for having no tea as an offering. Incredible. As we continued on the dusty road we were greeted with applause and a magnitude of handshakes and smiles. The school had an energy like no other, it was almost as if one could feel the excitement of every child before we even entered the gates. We went through the grades and got serenaded by each child as they grew from babies into eager teens. Then we took the same dusty road back towards civilization, where it rains and people eat.
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