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at the edge of a rain forest.

She rises like dragonsmoke

to my nostrils.

She burns like a burning bush

driven by a godawful wind.

IN THE MIDDLE OF the African night, I am haunted by the title. You and I Are Disappearing. When I was fourteen, I hadn’t a clue how the title related to a poem about a girl burning in a napalm attack. During the Q&A period following Komunyakaa’s reading, I asked him, “Who are the ‘you’ and ‘I’ and how are we disappearing?”

Who are the ‘you’ and ‘I’? How are we disappearing?

I understand his answer now. I crawl out of bed and scrawl it down in my notebook. I know exactly who the “you” and “I” are. The burning girl is almost every person I’ve met in Congo, and me, or us, when we watch the Congolese burn “with our hands at our sides.”

We wake up and stroll down to the sea. In the daylight, the whole resort is like a giant set for a stock photo shoot, no retouching required.

The day unfolds in a slow-motion haze. An elaborate breakfast buffet, a swim, iced tea on the jetty, massages at the hotel spa, a visit to a fishing village overrun with backpackers, a long nap. The resort is nearly empty. In the quiet moments, I occupy myself by mentally sketching a shoot here—casting, storyboarding, forming shot lists, framing shots. Otherwise, I continue to barrage D with intrusive personal questions. Nothing if not gracious, D obliges them all. I will do anything to keep the focus off me, off Congo, off cracking.

Alone at the resort’s bar perched above the sea on a jetty, we gaze out over the ocean. I realize it’s the first time I’ve looked at the night sky over Africa. D points out constellations he remembers from his childhood in South Africa. They’re playing one of the Buddha Bar albums in the background, one we both own. Each of us loved it at first, we discover through conversation, then grew bored with it. It’s just us and the bartender, who remains remote. I say, “I imagine you live in a place like this, modern, clean.”

“Nope. I’ve lived in the same Victorian townhouse for the past twenty years, since I left academia.”

I’m impressed. To build a global software empire and not upgrade your house? To use all of your resources—money, time, and influence—not for a better lifestyle, but to save the planet? Those are values.

We fall into a deep conversation about wealth as the great divider. We talk about two kinds of philanthropists: those who write big checks and those who doggedly work for something bigger than themselves. He tells me about acquaintances who fuss and send back a glass of water if it has four ice cubes instead of three. I tell him about my grandfather’s work with Dominique and John de Menil founding the Rothko Chapel in Houston, an interfaith place of worship dedicated to human rights. Family legend had it Dominique de Menil, aka “Mrs. D,” insisted on riding public transportation until she was in her eighties, when her staff finally had to talk her down: “You’re eighty. It’s okay to take a car!” Or the Vogels, who I saw on a segment of 60 Minutes I watched with my Dad many years ago. They built an art collection worth hundreds of millions of dollars, yet still live in the simple two-bedroom apartment they bought when Mr. Vogel worked for the postal service. I comment, “Artists love them because they’re in it for art, and not—”

“The commerce of art,” D says, finishing my sentence.

“Exactly.”

The more we talk, the more I realize he doesn’t quite fit into the Big Important Guy demographic. He likes to secretly meditate in the woods, craves all things simple, and writes in his spare moments, scrawling down poetry to zone-out in board meetings. He’s undeniably intense. Of all things, lurking under his thick persona is a quirky-pensive-brilliant artist. As we do that odd dance between foreigner and friend, I wonder if I might be sitting next to someone I will know outside of Africa.

We return to the room and, snuggled next to D, I sleep for the first time in days.

In the morning, we walk across a vast, pristine beach, arms stuffed with snorkeling gear. There’s nothing