Children emerge. Yep, they’re short. But they don’t seem that short, especially when they’re standing next to each other. We follow a long, winding path to a collection of small, crumbling mud huts some might call a village, standing like an island in the middle of a sea of scraggly tea bushes. Men and women track me, intrigued. Eric has been visiting this village since he was a child, so I am welcomed and ushered into a tiny round hut made of straw and sticks. As men pack into the space, I’m introduced to the chief, who is dressed in pleated pants and a grungy T-shirt. At first we speak in generalities about the impact of war on the village: looting, rape, and the budding sense of security post-elections. The chief is blunt, “If you have sugarcane, you can leave it for us.” Gimme a little sugar, huh? As in, cash please. “I don’t have any sugarcane,” I tell him. Most people would stop there. Eric is far too polite to imply a donation is expected, so I’m free to do as I please, even offend.
