The heavy village air came down on me as a burden when I stepped out of our ramshackle car. Red dust and flies surrounded me, buzzing angrily as if to tell me that I am an unwelcome guest. I felt like one, too. The villagers stared at me coldly, with wide eyes and bared teeth. I felt as if I had stepped between a hungry herd of lions, and I was the one holding the meat.
I couldn’t breathe, either. It was hot and humid – the most dreadful combination. But I had to get used to it – we were to live here for the next couple of months, and the climate was almost always the same. Sticky and hot. Very sticky and hot.
The children playing in our village gave out sharp yelps, and my head was starting to hurt. Will we ever get accepted? I tried to shake off a little boy that was climbing my shoulder and pulling me to the ground. He was laughing at me. He said something in a language foreign to me, and pulled up to the top of my head.
“Kengo, no,” I heard my father say. “The boy isn’t used to carrying you yet,” he chuckled. Yet? What was that supposed to mean?
Meanwhile, the adults started to surround us as well. I looked around with an increasing feeling of unease – I didn’t know whether their cool smiles were a way to say “hi” or simply means of making us look and feel more appetizing.
