White people who ride motos with helmets have strange markings of dust on their faces. Unable to pacify the kid, I shove on to the village, which is blissfully close. The president of the women's group is waiting for me. Sloshing over to her, I rip off my gloves and helmet to embrace her. At last, we can get down to business.
Drums sound nearby.
The president leads me to a group of dancing women, who each hug me and invite me to join them in celebration of an old man who lies dead on a cot. We dance, and I try to conceal my discomfort in celebrating death, even that of an old man. No community farms today, folks. Development will have to wait. When the drums finally stop, the group escorts me somewhat officially to the president's house.