Mzungu, mzungu! How-a are you…mzungu?” echoed across the sun-drenched farmland as barefoot kids scampered down mud-caked roads to greet us.

“Msuri sana,” Amanda, Holly, and I replied in our best Swahili, smiling and waving as we walked along.

It was our second day in Kiminini, Kenya, and we were eager to explore the small village where we’d be spending the next four weeks. Back home in New York, I’d imagined our volunteer program location would be set in a vast, parched savanna similar to the variety shown in Out of Africa. But instead, we’d been plopped into a vibrant, pastoral canvas painted with immense sunflower-sprinkled fields and cotton-ball clouds.

Since a mzungu, or white person, was still very much a novelty in this part of the country, we knew our presence was bound to garner at least some attention. But we could hardly have expected the overwhelming welcome we received from the pint-sized ambassadors of Kiminini. Even when we replied to their greetings with the correct Swahili phrase, “Msuri sana” (very well), the brood trailing us burst into a fit of giggles and high-pitched squeals.

By the time we reached the edge of town—little more than a cluster of tin shacks and wooden stalls offering everything from used bicycle tires to ice cream cones–we’d acquired quite the entourage. These kids, who ranged from about three to eight years old, were dressed in a hand-me-down collection of smock dresses, pajama pants, khaki shorts, and cartoon T-shirts. At first our wide-eyed onlookers kept their distance, but eventually they grew bolder and started walking directly in our footsteps. When we’d turn around and pretend to run after them, they’d shriek and dash away, clearly thrilled at the prospect of being chased by three strange, but seemingly friendly, women. Before long, they started sneaking closer and touching us gently, egging us to play this new and exciting game over and over again. But it wasn’t until we broke out our cameras that the real fun began.

We’d learned in South America that children would often get extraordinarily excited to see a photo of themselves—for many of those in rural or impoverished areas, it was for the very first time. And as I tilted my three-inch Olympus viewing screen down so the kids of Kiminini could see their own reflections, they had a similar reaction. Jumping up and down, they squealed with joy as if as I’d unlocked the doors to the world’s largest candy shop. They formed a tight circle around me, leaping onto my back and pleading, “Again, mzungu, again!” At the same time, Amanda whipped out her camcorder to capture what she already knew would be a moment I’d want to relive long after leaving Kenya.

“So, Jen, does this experience fulfill all your Flame Tree fantasies?” she asked, mirroring the tone of a reporter interviewing a fresh-off-the-field Super Bowl champ.

“Well, I’m glad you asked that, Amanda,” I replied, striking my best interviewee pose. I then launched into a speech about how unbelievably lucky I felt to be crouched in the dirt, surrounded by children, in a country I’d dreamed of visiting since I was still carrying a lunch box to school. Anyone who knew me well would have heard about The Flame Trees of Thika, a PBS miniseries I’d fallen in love with decades ago.

Unlike my friends’ parents, mine had the crazy notion that cable television was an unnecessary luxury I could live without. Despite my constant begging and pleading to be “like all my friends,” my Nickelodeon-fueled fantasies never came to fruition. Instead, I became the only kid in my neighborhood with an in-depth knowledge of the Saturday-night Masterpiece Theatre schedule.

One evening, my parents called me into the TV room to watch a new miniseries called The Flame Trees of Thika. Naturally I was skeptical. I could barely pronounce the title, let alone get excited about some nature program about a burning forest. That all changed after the first scene when I realized that the show was actually about a little girl my age—score one for Mom and Dad!

Based on the true story of Elspeth Huxley, whose parents left England in 1913 to start a coffee farm in Kenya, The Flame Trees of Thika was my first introduction to life in East Africa. By the end of the first episode, I was already intrigued by the mysterious culture of Kenya’s indigenous people, the exotic animals that roamed freely across the plains, and the country’s breathtaking natural beauty. I longed to be just like Elspeth: to mingle with the native Kikuyu tribe, to explore the vast expanses of wheat-colored savanna, and to have my very own white pony. Aside from slumber parties and soccer practice, each new episode was the highlight of my week. That was, until the sad day when the series ended.

Sobbing uncontrollably to the rolling of the credits, I was consoled only by my mom’s insistence that she was certain PBS would rerun the series and I’d be reunited with The Flame Trees of Thika again in the near future. But no matter how many hours I logged rewatching my coveted VHS copy in the years to come, the viewing experience never replaced my desire to see Africa for myself. And now, after almost two decades of planning the pilgrimage in my head, I’d finally made it.

By the time we’d arrived in Kenya, my expectations couldn’t have been higher. A wave of nervousness had washed over me as our plane approached the Jomo Kenyatta International Airport in Nairobi just a few short days earlier. I could only hope the experience would be all that I’d imagined.

After a brief two-night stint in the country’s capital (which, fortunately for us, didn’t live up to its “Nairobbery” nickname), Amanda, Holly, and I were escorted to the bus station by our on-ground volunteer coordinators.

After extensive online research and personal inquiries, we’d committed to a one-month program with Village Volunteers, a Seattle-based nonprofit that partnered with rural towns across Kenya. Since all three of us were interested in youth education, the company’s founder, Shana Greene, recommended that we work with the Common Ground Program, a grassroots NGO (nongovernmental organization) that housed a primary school serving hundreds of children, many of whom were orphans or had lost at least one parent to illness or disease.

We’d been warned that the eight-hour journey toward Mount Elgon in the western part of the country would be a tad bumpy. In reality, our vehicle bounced and crashed over the rain-gutted roads like a mechanical bull on warp speed, forcing its riders to hold on for dear life—and us to change into sports bras at the first opportunity. The ride may have been jarring, but no amount of head-to-ceiling bumps and bruises could knock me off my cloud. Hoping Amanda and Holly wouldn’t notice, I set my iPod to play Toto’s “Africa” on repeat and gazed dreamily out the window.

While almost a century had passed since Elspeth Huxley had lived here, Kenya’s most distinctive features had stood the test of time. Delicate acacia trees, masquerading as wispy umbrellas, rose majestically from silky cornfields. Ginger red roads streaked the landscape, winding in endless pursuit of the horizon. And a family of zebras held court around a crystal watering hole that reflected the sapphire sky.

Eventually, sporadic signs of civilization punctuated the vast wilderness. Men emerged from ditches carrying hammers and machetes, while women balancing large bundles on their heads returned from the market. As we crashed and banged through one of the isolated roadside towns, my attention was diverted to a grassy ledge jutting out from the hillside. On it was a tiny boy, maybe three or four years old, sitting alone swinging his legs and singing to himself. When he caught sight of our bus, his face lit up like a jack-o’-lantern, and it seemed as if his doe eyes locked directly onto mine. In an instant, he leapt to his bare feet, jumping up and down and waving furiously.

I sat frozen in place, blinking rapidly to ensure the boy wasn’t a product of my Flame Trees fantasy. But he kept staring and smiling and fluttering his arms in the air. I grinned from ear to ear and waved back, which propelled him to run along the ridge, giggling and chasing the bus from above until it drove too fast for him to keep up.

I turned to tell Amanda and Holly what had happened, but they were sprawled across the brittle plastic seats, trying to catch a catnap between jostles. I smiled, recalling one of my favorite scenes from Stand by Me, in which the main character has a sentimental encounter with a deer by the train tracks that he doesn’t share with anyone until he writes his novel. In that moment, a tear slipped down my dusty cheek, and I decided to keep my encounter with the boy to myself.

As our bus continued down the lonely dirt road, the image of the boy stayed with me and I couldn’t help but interpret his presence as a sign. Starting that day, I would be living out a dream I’d been harboring for twenty years, and I knew without a doubt that I was finally on the right track.

It was approaching nightfall by the time we reached the grounds of Pathfinder Academy. Even in the dim light, there was no denying that we’d landed squarely in farm country. The school, built of cinder blocks and tin, sat to the left of the main gate. Down on the right, I spotted a traditional mud house and two round huts with thatched roofs. A menagerie of cows, chickens, and stray dogs wandered the sludgy lawn, replacing the giraffes, elephants, and gazelles we’d romantically envisioned.

Joshua Machinga, our volunteer leader, waited proudly outside, greeting us with an enthusiastic karibu (welcome). He introduced us to his five children, Sandra, Tracy, John, Cindy, and Shana, who ranged from two to thirteen years old, and his wife, Mama Sandra, a bright-eyed, full-figured woman with a youthful complexion and a high, ringing belly laugh that echoed across the entire farm. Joshua ushered us into his family’s modest two-room house for a meet-and-greet tea party, only here the china saucers had been replaced by small tin cups and lightbulbs swapped out for old-fashioned kerosene lanterns. Once we were seated on a long bumpy sofa covered with crocheted lace, I noticed that the walls and floor were made of some kind of hardened earth. It wasn’t until days later that I learned they were actually made from cow dung and a fresh layer was spread on every few weeks to keep things, uh, well…fresh.

Sitting shoulder to shoulder, Amanda, Holly and I made small talk with three naturopathic medical students from Bastyr University near Seattle who’d been working at various Village Volunteer sites across Kenya. According to them, Common Ground was one of the most modern and prosperous programs, and Joshua’s family was considered to be fairly well off by local standards—a sobering thought given that there was no running water and very limited electricity. Before I could ask the volunteers more about the poverty that lay beyond the barbed-wire fence surrounding the property, a petite brunette burst into the room. She wore a T-shirt that read THIS IS WHAT AN ENVIRONMENTALIST LOOKS LIKE, and her green paisley wrap skirt was streaked with flour.

“Oh! You must be the New Yorkers. I’m Irene, one of the other volunteers. I’ve really been looking forward to meeting you guys!” she exclaimed with a grin, placing a covered dish on the table. She dusted her palms on her skirt before reaching over to offer each of us a handshake. “I’ve been helping the cooks make chapati bread, so I hope it tastes all right.”

Within a matter of minutes, we learned that Irene was an undergrad at Yale but was taking a semester off to travel and pursue philanthropic endeavors. Already she’d constructed a solar dehydrator so that Joshua’s family could dry fruit for longer storage and was spearheading a tree-planting project the following day.

“I’ll introduce you to Emmanuel, who organizes the sustainable farming projects, so maybe you can help too,” she offered.

Still slightly disoriented, I breathed a sigh of relief at having so many friendly faces to greet us. Hopefully Irene could show us the ropes and help make Amanda and Holly feel more comfortable. Because although they’d fully supported my dream to volunteer in Kenya, I couldn’t help but feel responsible for their happiness here. This was a pretty huge leap from even the grittiest of conditions we’d faced in South America, so I could only cross my fingers and hope I hadn’t gotten us in over our heads.

Just then, one of Joshua’s eldest daughters came in to set the table, followed by three men carrying bubbling cast-iron cauldrons. Joshua and Mama Sandra settled in nearby chairs, cranked up the kerosene lamps, and shared what was on that evening’s menu: stewed chicken with tomatoes, lentils, potatoes, two kinds of beans, flatbread, and an overflowing bowl of mangoes.

As children of the “We Are the World” generation, the girls and I had envisioned the food in Africa as being rationed out by the spoonful, so we’d strategically stuffed energy bars in every crevice of our backpacks for this part of the trip. But what lay before us was a veritable feast. We could only hope that everyone on the farm enjoyed the same generous portions and that this meal wasn’t being served just for our benefit.

Once everything had been laid out, Joshua cleared his throat and turned in our direction. “So, to our new volunteers, Jenni-fa, A-men-da, and Howly, we welcome you to Common Ground and to Pathfinder Academy. After the meal, the fourteen girls who are boarders here will arrive to provide you with entertainment. They have won many district awards for their performances in the areas of singing, dance, for poems, and also for scholastics,” he said, his shoulders set back with obvious pride. “So I hope that you will enjoy it.”

Shortly after we finished eating, I heard light footsteps and giggles from outside. The calico fabric curtain covering the doorway was pushed open slowly, allowing excitable whispers and “Shhs” to float across the threshold. Peeking shyly at us, fourteen little women filed in two at a time and formed a circle around the room. Suddenly the boarders erupted into song, clapping and swaying their hips in a choreographed rhythm. Most of the lyrics were in Swahili until they pointed to Irene, who shouted her own name. After that, every tenth word or so was “Irene,” like the Kenyan version of the “name game” (“Irene, Bean, Mo Mean, Banana Fanna, Fo Fean”).

Soon we were all twisting our hips, shaking our booties, and repeating the lines as best we could. I waited for my cue and then yelled “Jennifer!” at the top of my lungs. That made the girls giggle, and one called out, “Ooh, like Jenni-fa Lopez!” Once they shouted my name another nine times, the group moved on to Amanda and Holly.

The festivities continued for another half hour before Joshua released his charges back to their dorm to get ready for bed. The girls approached us one by one to shake our hands before dashing out the door. After only a few hours at Pathfinder, there was no doubt in my mind that I was going to love getting to know them.

“That was amazing. Thank you, Joshua,” Holly said. “The boarders were so brave to sing in front of us. Will we get to spend time with them tomorrow?”

“Yes, that is certain. After their classes end around three o’clock in the afta-noon,” he replied. “But now we need to determine where each of you will sleep for the evening. There is one space with Irene in the volunteer hut, then there’s another room here in the house for two more.”

Since it’d been my idea to come here, I figured it was only fair to let Amanda and Holly stay together, so I offered to bunk with Irene. Entering the cement hut, I was surprised to discover that it had working overhead lights and a linoleum-tiled floor. There were two windows, a small table, and a couple folding chairs. In the center of the room sat two twin beds with oversized mosquito nets that hung from the ceiling and floated above the mattresses. A few creepy-crawlies were scaling the walls, but hopefully they’d stay put. All in all, it was pretty much like camping—only with a stray cow or two moseying by outside.

“So, that blanket should be enough but there are extras on that shelf if you need them,” Irene said, explaining that the weather in this part of Kenya was a lot cooler than she’d expected. Selecting a book from a huge pile, she settled under her own woolly throw.

Although a thin layer of dust still clung to my face and bare arms from the open-window bus ride, I was too worn out to care. In less than a minute, I’d swapped my dirty clothes for slightly cleaner pajamas and cocooned myself in my silk sleep sack.

“I can’t believe it’s only eight thirty p.m. It feels so much later,” I said with a yawn.

“I know. I rarely go to bed after ten p.m. here,” Irene said. “Especially since Elijah, that’s one of Joshua’s workers, wakes us up at six a.m. for our showers. So do you think you’ll want to go first tomorrow?”

“Oh, well, I don’t know. I kinda assumed showers weren’t an option,” I remarked.

“Well, it’s more of a sponge bath, but it’s really a very effective system. One of the cooks puts out two buckets of water, one boiling and one tepid. Plus a third that’s empty, so you can mix your own hot-to-cold ratio to take into the stall. You probably didn’t notice it in the dark, but it’s the one to the left of the toilet,” she added.

As we’d discovered upon arrival, the “toilet” she was referring to was actually a shed with a crude hole cut into the ground—and quite the social venue for families of flies and gnats. After hours of riding with no potty breaks, our bladders had been bursting, and the girls and I were squirming around like kindergartners, desperate to go almost anywhere—even in a scary outhouse that added a whole new level of negative stars to our rating system. I shuddered at the thought of trying to do any, er, extended business in there, but I figured we’d cross that daunting bridge when we came to it.

“Gotcha, okay. Well, why don’t you go first, that way if I screw up the bucket system, your shower won’t be ruined,” I said, still a bit unclear how it all worked (and admittedly not a fan of early mornings).

“Sure thing. But I’m confident a savvy New Yorker like you can figure it out,” she joked, setting her book down and flipping onto her side to face me. “It must be so exciting to live there. Do you love it?”

Pulling up the extra blanket I’d grabbed from the shelf, I told her about working in television, the late nights and crazy parties, Sunday brunches on the Upper West Side, and other silly details of a typical week in the city. In turn, she enlightened me about her experiences as a Yalie, the coed naked parties at secret, off-campus locations, her passion for environmental studies, and the gorgeous new guy she was dating and currently missing like crazy.

“So do you have a boyfriend?” she asked, propping her head on her hand.

AAaa…BOoooYyy…FRIEeeeNnnDdd. The letters wafted across the room in ultraslow motion, smothering my face like the psychedelic caterpillar’s smoke rings in Alice in Wonderland. A boyfriend. I’d desperately been trying to avoid thinking about that word—and Brian—since we’d gotten onto the plane, but now that Irene had said it, even my “curiouser and curiouser” new Kenyan reality couldn’t stop me from reliving the heartbreaking one I’d just left in New York.

I could hardly believe that less than a week earlier, I’d been sitting on the floor of Brian’s studio, sobbing hysterically into a plate of chicken pad Thai, struggling to face the inevitable demise of our relationship. Though a breakup had clearly been on the horizon since I first announced my plans to travel, somehow the months had slipped carelessly through our fingers like a worn-down sliver of soap.

I’m sure most people thought we were nuts for dragging things out as long as we had. But in my mind the reason was simple: Brian and I just weren’t a cold-turkey kind of couple. We needed the emotional equivalent of, say, the patch or Nicorette gum. We had apartments only an M86 bus ride apart, and Central Park never proved a powerful enough barrier to keep us apart for any significant length of time. Even after the worst fights, we easily succumbed to temptation, sprinting back to the source for just one last fix, “we swear.”

Maybe it had been unfair of me to run away. But the only way I could think of to finally end this relationship was to literally put oceans and continents between us. My justification: If we were meant to be together, we’d find a way back to each other. If not, then at least Brian could have custody of New York for a while and we’d both have our space to grieve.

The logical side of my brain could accept that rationale until all the easy distractions—the happy hours, Yankees games, dinners out, lazy hours in bed—came to an end. It was my last night in town, and that far-off future moment we’d been dreading and avoiding for so long was staring us down. It was finally time to face reality.

I kept my eyes glued to the greasy takeout containers while Brian’s ultimatum hung in the air like an ominous rain cloud. “If you can’t promise me you’ll come home after Kenya or at least after India, then we’re over,” he said quietly. While I was tucked safely away with Brian in “our” apartment, my fingers wrapped tightly around his, the round-the-world trip temporarily melted away. For one brief moment, I thought, Just stay. Stay here cuddled up with the man you love and never leave.

The old me would have broken the tension with a witty one-liner like “C’mon, sweetie, I’ll throw in half a spring roll and raise you a dumpling if you fold.” He’d pretend to be mad for a second but would quickly start laughing. Then we’d both snuggle together on the couch and forget the silly argument had ever happened. But I couldn’t joke my way out of this.

It took every ounce of strength I had to say the words that needed to be said. “I’m so sorry, Brian. I just can’t quit the trip. I need to see it through to the end.” And then that was it. We were really over. I was going to lose him. Not for a few days, not for a few months, but probably forever. By the next day, I’d be on another plane with Holly and Amanda, preparing to face the world again. Only this time there wouldn’t be a boyfriend waiting for me when I got home.

Although I’d shed plenty of tears that day in New York—hysterically sobbing my way down Second Avenue the entire morning before departure—somehow my grief just didn’t feel appropriate here in Kenya. One of the main reasons I’d wanted to volunteer in the first place was to transfer some of the focus off myself and channel that energy toward someone else in need. If there was one time that my own struggles could—and should—take a backseat, it was now.

So, very simply, I told Irene that I’d dated the same guy for the past few years but it just hadn’t worked out. I could tell that she sensed there was more to the story, but since we were still getting to know each other, she didn’t press the issue. Instead, she gave me a friendly half smile, maybe to let me know that she understood. Grateful, I smiled back at her, then rolled over and finally succumbed to exhaustion.

While unexpected early-morning construction wasn’t a factor at Common Ground, evil roosters swooped in to continue our wake-up curse, piercing the air with their persistent squawks at 5 a.m. I buried my head under my pillow, snatching morsels of sleep until it was my turn to take a bucket bath. Somehow I bumbled through the three-bucket process and managed to scrub a surprising amount of dirt off my body. By the time I emerged from the shower shed to face the rising sun, all the volunteers, including Amanda and Holly, were already seated in the living room.

As we dined on another surprisingly huge meal of omelets, fresh mangoes, bread with jam and peanut butter, and popcorn, of all things, our conversation quickly turned to our volunteer applications. We’d each filled out a detailed questionnaire about which areas we were most interested in—with child care and youth theater topping my list—and were eager to see how everything worked.

After breakfast Joshua took us on a brief walking tour to help us get acquainted with the grounds, which included the Pathfinder Academy school and several fields used to grow the food that we were eating at each meal. Reaching the main entrance at the far side of the farm, we were almost swept away by a flood of children that poured through the gates.

Dressed in faded navy and lavender uniforms, some two sizes too big for them, the knee-high super troopers marched proudly toward their classrooms, shouting, “Good morning, Headmaster,” when they spotted Joshua. The tiniest of the group, a boy no older than four or five, ran over to get a closer look at us. To my surprise, he dropped his small bag and reached up for a hug. I couldn’t resist. I got down on one knee and hugged him back.

“Joshua, do you think that we’ll be able to work with some of the students, like maybe teach classes or do after-school programs?” Amanda asked. “How can we help while we’re here?”

The students already had full-time instructors, Joshua explained, but several of the boarders still needed sponsors who could assist with the cost of their school tuition, uniforms, and meals. He wondered if maybe we knew some people back in the States who could help. “It does not matter how much—any amount great or small would be very useful,” he added.

“Well, we’d be happy to ask our friends and family for financial support and raise awareness for your program,” Holly said.

“I have acquired many more boarders this past year, so that is much appreciated,” said Joshua.

“We’d love to learn more about them. Do you think we could sit down and talk with the girls later today?” I asked.

Joshua agreed, then gave us a bit of background to explain why and how they’d ended up at Pathfinder in the first place. He said most of the girls boarded here because they lived a great walking distance away and had been attacked on their way to or from school. In most cases, it was a crime of opportunity, an attempted rape by drunken idlers on the side of the road. Some girls had managed to escape, while others were not as fortunate. “It happens a lot of the time,” Joshua said. “But sadly, there is nothing that can be done.”

Sorrow and disgust churned in my throat, dropping like a lead weight into the pit of my stomach. What did he mean, nothing can be done? We could teach these girls to fight back. Get them some sort of alarm key chain to blow the eardrums out of those bastards. Or we could organize a self-defense program!

From the incensed and horrified looks on Amanda and Holly’s faces, I knew all three of us were on the same page, if not thinking the exact same thing. I was just about to share my sentiments when Joshua added, “Yes, it is very sad for these girls, but that is the way it is here in Kenya.” He explained that the government didn’t do much to stop rape—and most of the time, neither did local citizens. The most effective thing he could do, he said, was to keep the students out of harm’s way so that this didn’t happen to them again.

“It is very good for the girls to have volunteers like you here as role models. To show them what can be accomplished if they stay in school and study hard,” he said, leading us back to the main house. It sounded as if this wasn’t the first time he’d explained the issue to female volunteers.

Raised to believe that a woman had a right to protect her body at any and all costs, we instinctively wanted to push the envelope and advocate a radical new way of thinking to keep the boarders from harm in the future. But one of the main reasons that the Village Volunteers organization was so effective at its mission was that it developed programs with local sensibilities in mind rather than trying to force-fit Western ideals. So, for the time being, we bit our tongues. Our best course of action, it seemed, was to observe, learn, and simply be available to Joshua and the boarders.

Since Holly and Amanda had been assigned a tiny room in the big house until the Bastyr students left in a few days, they spent their after-meal hours hanging out with Irene and me in our hut. Sprawled out diagonally across the two beds, the four of us fell into our own little worlds—Irene and I pored over books, Holly caught up on journal entries, and Amanda uploaded our latest crop of photos onto the computer. As groups of boarders passed by our open door, they smiled and waved but continued on their way. As the evening progressed, the more outgoing girls popped in to say hello or ask what we were doing. Irene reintroduced us to each girl as they entered. There were Naomi, Nancy, Esther, Calvin, and Joshua’s eldest, Sandra, a thirteen-year-old girl, who made the others feel less self-conscious about coming inside.

The moment they spotted the computer, any shyness they harbored instantly dissolved. “What is it that you ah doing, Miss, umm…?”

“Amanda,” Irene offered.

“Miss A-men-da,” Naomi repeated. “Will you please instruct us on how to use this?”

“Of course, come over here and I’ll show you some pictures.”

“Pic-chores?” Nancy asked. “Ahh, yes, photo-graphs. I see,” she said, smiling and moving closer to see the screen.

Although Joshua had mentioned that almost all of the boarders could speak Swahili and English, I was amazed at how proficient they were at both languages. Not to mention how dedicated they were to doing their schoolwork and learning new things. They told us all about the subjects they were studying and then peppered us with questions about the books and electronics that filled our room.

“Have you girls ever seen a movie?” I asked, remembering our bootleg library of DVDs from Peru.

“Yes. Yes, we have. A volunteer that stayed here before you. He had a movie with him,” Naomi explained. “I do not rememba what he called it, but it was very good.”

I scanned our selection for the few PG-rated titles and popped in Mona Lisa Smile. Our audience was over the moon. Six boarders piled onto the beds that we’d pushed together and were mesmerized by the scenes of girls only slightly older than them running around on a school campus covered in snow.

As we sat and watched, the girls chatted animatedly, and before we knew it, a slumber party of sorts had ensued. Sandra drifted to sleep, Calvin and Holly distributed lollipops, and Naomi played with Amanda’s hair, which prompted Esther and Nancy to follow suit on mine. They grabbed a handful of strands and began twisting them into braids.

“Your hair is very funny, Miss Jenni-fa. It does not stay in the place that we put it,” Nancy said, giggling. “Maybe you have a rubba-band we could use?”

“Yes. I know. It is funny,” I replied with a sleepy laugh, my eyes half closed from the relaxing head massage. “Holly, will you grab a few ponytail holders from my stash over there, please?”

“No, you silly mzungu. Get them yourself,” she said, but as always, helped me out.

“Silly mzungu,” Nancy repeated. “That is very funny too, Miss Holly.”

“You know, when I first got here and heard the word mzungu, I wasn’t sure if I should be offended or not,” Irene interjected, looking up from the storybook she was reading to Shana, Joshua’s two-year-old, who’d toddled in after the boarders.

“But it’s not meant in a derogatory way at all,” she continued. “In fact, I learned that it originally meant ‘one who travels around,’ referring to the European traders who came in the 1800s. Mzungu just became synonymous with ‘white person’ because of the color of their skin.”

“Impressive, Irene. You certainly did your research,” Amanda said.

“Actually, Emmanuel explained it to me. But he was much funnier. He said that even though there were a lot of European settlers, they all looked alike to the locals. So even if different people passed by, they’d think it was the exact same person they saw before, just wandering around in a circle because they were lost.”

“Someone who wanders around because they are lost, huh?” I remarked, throwing sidelong glances at Amanda and Holly.

Oh, yeah. We were mzungus for sure.