Last night we went to visit a painter. He lived in a tiny room in a shanty community on the outskirts of Pointe Noire. His art was breathtaking, emerging from the shadows of his tiny gallery shack on the corner of a courtyard community where an amorphous amount of children played and giggled and tumbled and posed for photographs. I loved his art with an inner reaction of truth-beauty. They spoke to me directly. So we have his details and he has our promises to return once we’ve been on our epic journey through the rainforest.
On the way back, as headlights beamed through the dusty windows of our van, our friends started to sing: