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His companions fill in the blanks. They are a conservation group that’s just spent the day in Kahuzi Biega Park. Though decked out in trekking gear and prepared for hours of off-trail bushwhacking in search of great apes, they stumbled across a gorilla after a ten-minute stroll. As I’m introduced to D, he makes it clear he is only tagging along on this group’s trip; he is not part of their organization. He hands me his card: founder and CEO of an environmental nonprofit. His voice, with indistinguishable accent, seems so familiar. I’m convinced I know him. I must have heard him speak. Maybe in a video podcast from one of those global-ideas forums? He asks me to join them for dinner.

“That would be lovely,” I respond.

“Yes, that would be lovely,” he says.

Uh-oh.

We take a seat. D leans over at every opportunity, offering me his tomatoes and bread as we try to talk over Modern Stanley, who sits between us. Conversation turns to the subject of risk. D points to me as an example. “You see, Lisa, your being here in Congo is a major risk, but you must get something out of it. Something bigger than your potential regret for staying at home.”

D gets a call and excuses himself for a moment. Modern Stanley leans over to me, unable to conceal his pride as he informs me how truly Big, Important, and Rich their traveling companion is. He lists D’s credentials: his stint teaching in the Ivy League, his role as founder and CEO of a multinational software corporation that serves half of the world’s banks, the number of zeros in his bank account. Mr. Stanley’s boasting makes me cringe with embarrassment—he is grasping for status by osmosis—but I am even more pained for D. Though we have never exchanged a private word, as D returns to his seat and briefly looks at me, his bulletproof persona seems transparent. I know what people say about him when he leaves the room. When I look into his eyes, the weight of isolation seems clearer to me than their color.

He tells me about befriending malnourished kids in a village today. They were hungry, so he bought them eggs. Then more kids wanted eggs, so he bought eggs for them too. Then everyone wanted eggs. He bought every last egg the sellers had and before you know it, kids were laughing and eggs were flying, falling on the ground and cracking. Beautiful egg chaos. Here’s a guy who would seem more in his element skiing in Vail or sailing the Mediterranean, but he’s in Congo buying eggs for hungry kids. I think of his Egg Kids to my Peanut Girl, and I can’t help but smile and remark, “That’s the kind of thing I would do.”

Still, I do what any rational woman would do upon meeting an intriguing man in an exotic locale; I excuse myself and go back to my room. Sitting on the edge of my bed, I hold the phone in my hand. I contemplate a call to Ted to tell him about my night with the Mai Mai. I wonder if it is worth the leap.

I dial.

Long calls from the Congo to the United States would eat up all my phone card credits in no time, but they have special rates for calls from the States to the Congo. So if I want to talk to someone back home, I always ask them to call me back. Ted picks up, so I say, “Hey, can you call me back?”

I’m met with silence. Finally, with a distance far greater than any crackling phone line, Ted says flatly, “I’m working.”

All I can eke out is, “Oh.”

We are quiet for a long time.

In his English way, he cuts it off. “I need to get on and do.”

THE NEXT DAY, I join D’s group for dinner again as they go out on the town for their last night in Congo. We drive across Bukavu to a restaurant that sits above the lake, sprawling and empty. In the old days this place must have been grand and happenin’, complete with swimming pool, but tonight it is obvious those days are long past. We are the only group in the restaurant all night. The power goes out, leaving the worn room to be lit with dim, buzzing florescent lights powered by a generator; we wait two hours for curried mush. In the meantime, D gives a talk to the group, explaining his vision for future