I saw shiny bead necklaces I wanted to buy-not to wear but to disa.s.semble for my cities. The bright colors tugged on me. I heard my mother's voice say, "Our Hannah is a magpie."

An African man saw me looking and said, "Ah, sister likes the beads, yes?" He tried to draw me closer, but my heart pounded and I scurried back to my aunt. The bargaining stressed me out. Why couldn't there just be a fixed price?

"Sss! Sss!" a woman hissed at me-when a Ghanaian wants your attention, they hiss, kind of like we do to shush someone, but just an s, not an sh. "You like the beads? Mine are better. See."

I was so relieved to drive away from all that wheeling and wheedling and demanding.

As we pulled away, I caught a last, longing glimpse of the beads as they flashed in the sun.

Later that day, after the highways turned into red dirt roads, we finally reached Tafi Atome.

The village-only the size of a football field-sat plunked down in the middle of the rain forest, nothing more than two main dirt streets with three shops, a visitor's center, and one restaurant. The school was the biggest and best structure, and the village water pump-in the schoolyard-marked the center of the village. Residential homes stood on the outside edge of the two main streets; smaller roads lined with houses disappeared into the jungle.

As Ben parked in the schoolyard, he honked the horn, and people came running from all directions. The villagers and the film team greeted each other by name.

The second I stepped out of the van, a monkey s.n.a.t.c.hed the sungla.s.ses off the top of my head (and a few strands of hair with it)!

Villagers and the film crew laughed as I turned red with anger.

The village had created a sanctuary to protect the Mona monkeys that lived there. You could've fooled me that the Mona monkeys were endangered; the little brats were everywhere. Small and dark-the size of house cats-with white faces and bellies, and long tails, they leapt onto roofs and branches of trees, playing, wrestling, tumbling with each other.

I watched my favorite pair of sungla.s.ses go from tin roof to tin roof and then into the dense trees. Izzy shrugged at me.

I tried to let it go when Modesta, one of the main subjects of the doc.u.mentary, approached the van. Aunt Izzy had followed her for three years now. I felt like I already knew her, I'd watched so much footage of her already-a leggy dark black twig with luxuriant lashes any movie star would envy framing her enormous eyes. She wore an oilcloth print wrapped around herself, tied at one bony shoulder. Her smile was million-watt when directed at my aunt.

They hugged each other.

When Aunt Izzy introduced me to Modesta, Modesta's beam vanished. She nodded and looked at the ground.

"Why don't you show Hannah the house?" Aunt Izzy asked.

Modesta turned and walked into the house. I had to run to follow her.

I'd already seen some of this house-a cinder block building painted bright blue with salmon trim-in the footage from previous trips. What made Tafi Atome special compared to the other villages was that they'd given an entire house to the orphans who could not be absorbed into relatives' homes. Eleven orphans lived there-a big number when you considered the small size of the village. All the orphans attended school. Everyone in the village pitched in for their clothing and food. Modesta was the oldest, so she looked after the smaller ones.

She walked through the house, not really explaining anything, hardly looking at me. Great. I had to travel half a world away for another girl not to like me?

The small rooms inside were lined with cots, some bed rolls on the packed dirt floors. Although the beds' blankets were threadbare in places, each bed had been neatly made. "It's really very nice," I said, trying to get her to show me a hint of friendliness.

She nodded.

I didn't notice a bathroom, but I found out later that none of the houses in Tafi Atome had running water. I looked around, noting the absence of outlets and light switches.

Back outside, on the porch, Modesta crossed her arms over her flat chest and looked out at Kick and Dimple playing football-what we call soccer-with several of the children. More than eleven kids were playing, so I didn't know how to tell the orphans from the kids with parents.

The van was gone. I wondered where Ben had gone.

My stomach growled.

I clamped a hand over my belly. "The lion wants his dinner?" Modesta asked.

I laughed. She didn't even crack a smile.

It struck me that I hadn't felt hungry in a long, long time.

I felt good.

I didn't have a headache or that awful hangover feeling. I wasn't tired.

This was all new.

Aunt Izzy and Pearl came up on the porch to talk to Modesta, other children following them. I sat down on the wide concrete edge, wondering why Modesta didn't like me.

I was surprised Izzy and Pearl didn't film. They seemed content to hang out and chat with children on their laps. When Dimple grew tired of the football game, she joined us too. The kids asked us questions, about the U.S., about Ohio, about our politics, about California.

"California?" a young boy named Rafael asked, p.r.o.nouncing all five syllables. "Do you know any movie stars?"

I froze.

I couldn't make eye contact with any of the film team. Don't give me away. Don't give me away, I begged in my head.

"There are movie stars everywhere in Los Angeles," I said. "You get used to it. They're just regular people."

"You are so lucky," Rafael said. "I would like to meet Will Smith. Or Matt Damon. Or Caleb Carlisle."

How did Rafael know these names? Where was the closest movie theater to Tafi Atome?

"You are so lucky," Rafael repeated. "Tell me the movie stars you have met."

Dimple took out a small recorder, which distracted him. The kids sang songs for us, then laughed when Dimple played their own voices back.

It grew dark, and I did everything I could to suppress the snarling noises in my belly, keeping my arms pressed hard across it. Parents began to steal up to the porch and, with gentle whispers, summon their children home for dinner. The cook fires and delicious aromas wafting through the dark violet sky tortured me and my empty stomach.

I recognized our van's puttering noise approaching through the darkness. The children remaining on the porch all cheered, and I realized our team was feeding the orphans tonight.

Ben and one of the older orphans-a tall, serious young man named Philomel-emerged from the van and carried cardboard boxes up to the porch. Everyone got a "tray" of newspaper holding rice, fish, and fried yams, all covered in a spicy tomato sauce.

I couldn't remember the last time food had tasted so good. I remembered Izzy's advice to savor each bite, to truly taste each flavor. I wanted to scarf down the entire tray, but recognized I was full when there was still plenty left. Rafael and the others devoured my leftovers.

Modesta and Philomel made the children wash their hands and faces after the meal, and as they came scampering back from the pump one by one, I saw them going through our trash bag, taking empty water bottles and an empty film canister.

After dinner, we walked to the visitor's center, where it seemed the entire village had gathered for drumming and dancing. I still couldn't get a smile from Modesta, but Rafael carried my white plastic chair for me on his head. He balanced it there with one hand and took me by the hand with his other, leading me to the drum circle. A Dutch couple was there-they were staying in someone's guest room-and a German college student who had paid to camp in the yard of the visitor's center. And us.

We set up chairs in an aerobic circle around an eye-stinging fire, and the men-including tall, serious Philomel-played huge, chest-high drums.

The women and children danced in a circle around the drummers. Most of the women were draped in brightly colored oilcloth. They became a kaleidoscope to my travel-bleary eyes as they jumped, turned, and twisted in the dusty circle, their skin glistening.

One woman danced with a baby wrapped to her back. I watched in amazement as the baby never stirred or cried through the bouncing, jostling, and noise.

Dancers gestured for us to join them. The Dutch couple and the German student jumped right up. So did Pearl and Aunt Izzy. I scootched down in my chair and tried to be invisible.

The weird thing was, the music made me want to dance. I wanted to move after spending most of the day in the van. But...but what? It had become my habit to hold back? To be chicken? To worry about what others might think?

I watched the Dutch couple. They looked silly. But did anyone care? Was anyone mocking them? Of course not. All the faces smiled, white teeth flashing through the dark.

I thought of those beads I'd seen at lunch.

Because of those beads, I let two village girls pull me into the circle.

They shouted their names over the music. One was Ekuba. Her friend was Beauty. Had I heard that right over the music? Beauty would be mocked back home for her wide hips and the rolls around her middle, but she really was beautiful, I thought, with her dimples, her long lashes, her sweet smile.

The music was wild-the drums like your own pulse amplified. I watched Ekuba and Beauty trying to copy their steps and turns. I actually got into a groove and felt I had a rhythm. I lost myself. I found my trance. Just like with my DRH.

Only I didn't feel nothing.

I felt something better: I felt joy. I felt life. I felt happy.

Modesta's gaze met mine, briefly, and I thought she might smile, but she whirled away.

When the music stopped, I dripped with grimy sweat. I stunk, but since I could also smell every other living being in the immediate vicinity, I didn't figure it mattered. I stepped outside the circle of chairs to catch my breath as the drummers began pounding out the next song.

In the dark, away from the heat of the fires, smaller kids played hide-and-seek on the outskirts of the circle. One used me to hide from the others.

I looked up at the purple sky. "I am in Africa," I whispered.

A goat brushed by me.

"I am dancing in Africa, in the middle of the night, in the middle of a village, in the middle of the jungle."

There was a reason to be happy if ever I'd had one.

I vowed to be braver. To do the very next thing that scared me.

Eventually, the drumming ended.

Rafael materialized from the darkness, my chair on his head, and took my hand again. I tripped over a goat and her kids in the shadows, nearly falling. The goat baaed at me.

Modesta's voice came through the darkness. "Sister goat says cross words to you."

The children giggled.

Rafael led me and the rest of the team back to the van. Izzy began explaining where everyone was staying. We'd be in private residences, with people who'd volunteered to host us. Izzy and I would stay with one of the schoolteachers.

"Han-nah can stay with us," Modesta said. She made my name rhyme with Ghana.

Izzy raised her eyebrows at me. She wasn't going to leave me if I didn't want it.

I had just vowed to do the very next thing that scared me.

I watched myself, as if from far away, open my mouth and say, "I'd love to stay here."

Modesta smiled. Finally. She smiled at me.

I hefted my duffel bag to my shoulder, hugged Aunt Izzy good night, and followed Modesta.

I was tired in that really exquisite way, like when you've spent the whole day hiking or at an amus.e.m.e.nt park. I craved one of those tidy little cots. I wanted to sink into delicious sleep.

But my favorite African day was topped by my worst night.

By this point, I was so drained I could hardly stand. I pictured myself falling to sleep on one of the mats on the floor, but Modesta led me around to the back of the house and opened a door into a room with one bed.

She'd prepared a private room for me. That was an honor. "Oh, Modesta. I-I don't mind sleeping with everyone else."

She frowned. "This room is not satisfactory?"

"Oh yes! It is. It's wonderful!" I tripped all over myself not to offend her. "Thank you."

She nodded. "Good night," she said, and slipped away into the darkness.

This private room had an outside entrance. I fumbled in my duffel bag for my flashlight. I shone it around the room's concrete walls. No door connected the room to the rest of the house. I stood in the open doorway and turned my light toward the trees. I had to pee. There's no way I could hold it until morning. Just my luck, the orphan's house had to be on the outskirts of town, with the toilet even deeper into the rain forest.

I'd vowed to do the very next thing that scared me. But you already did, a whiny little voice protested in my head.

I inched down the dark path, heart in my throat. The kids do this, I told myself. They come out here and do this all the time. It can't be that dangerous.

A shriek from the trees above whipped me around and my legs raced me back to the start of the path before I was even aware of moving. What was that? A bird? Some kind of panther? Did I even want to know? Forget it! Just forget it. I should pee right here, off the path. Who would even know? But when I shone my light at the side of the trail, a.s.sessing whether this was a safe place to crouch, I saw, climbing up a tree trunk, a spider as big as my hand.

I fled back to my room and slid the wooden latch into place, locking my door.

I inspected the room with my flashlight. There were three windows-no screens of course-and one small bed on a wooden platform. That was it.

Above the windows were thick cloths rolled up and tied that you could release to keep the bugs out. If I closed the drapes, the room would be sweltering. The mosquitoes didn't seem too bad, plus I was taking malaria pills...but...but...I thought of that monstrous spider.

I'd never be able to sleep as long as I thought that CD-sized spider could crawl into my room!

I released the strings to unfurl the makeshift drapes.

Within seconds, the room became a sauna.

I eyed the bed's legs. In the inch or two visible before the oilcloth drape covered them, I saw the barbed wire wrapped around the legs-to keep snakes from climbing into bed with me.

I stripped down and used baby wipes and a bottle of water to mop most of the sweat, smoke, and red dust from my skin. I stuffed the dirty baby wipes into a plastic grocery bag. (I'd learned not to throw anything away. You never knew when it could be useful.) A clean T-shirt and shorts made me feel a little better.

But I still had to pee.

Bad.