Apapam

By Loren Yancey

My favorite place to sleep has sounds that soothe me into slumber: nature’s natural lullaby. The breeze softly slips through my window, warm enough to wrap my body in a thick blanket of humidity, moist enough to cool me down.

Waking up, the sweet air intoxicates my lungs. The extreme beauty of the jungle that surrounds me overwhelmingly paralyzes my senses. All I can do is breathe and just be.

As I sip my instant African coffee on the rooftop of where I sleep, I think of home and how the sunrise is nothing in comparison to the way the sun raises itself over the mountains of lush rainforest in Apapam Village.

The clay ground beneath my feet is solid-embedded with pieces of crystal quartz that stick out like the luminous stars at night in the African sky so bright and bold, they seem as though one could simply grasp them.

The children of the village, so pure and innocent, embraced our American culture with shy eyes and bright smiles.

Then, drums started pounding. Rhythm led me to the courtyard. As I danced with locals in the hot winter night, the children quickly became our partners and our friends. Where we went, the children followed-giggling for every word we spoke, loving for every hug we took.

They hugged us as though it would be the last. Sadly enough, it eventually was the last hug, the last coffee on the roof, the last sunrise, the last glance of true beauty, the last dance. And the last time I laid my head to rest in Apapam.