It was not yet dawn. The subtle sibilance of bare feet on trail was the only evidence of a man in front of me. His dark skin disappeared, but there was enough light to see irregularities underfoot – a dip, a stone, a root. But bare feet perceived more than eyes, this hour.

River crossings had a dim glow, trees unable to touch hands above the river’s expanse. The sound of water over rocks testified to shallow fords. Even in daylight, feet play a large role in negotiating underwater obstacles. Doubly so before sunrise!

The man ahead left a smell in the air – in no way unpleasant, but definitely human. I left the same smell; I’d eaten the same food and washed in the same rivers in the days preceding.

The trail followed the river’s calm but persistent journey to the sea. The team had a boat to catch to reach the airstrip to board the plane to fly home to family. Home: where security lights dim the stars – earthly concerns, however relevant, concealing heaven’s glory.

In that moment on the trail, my body desired nothing more than to walk the dim forest eternally, without fear, without thought, without knowing the passing of time. In the dark, I followed the man who knew the trail without seeing it. This was his ground. I was accorded the privilege of enjoying the profound present with him, in silence.

But time did not stop. Someone adjusted the light setting, ever so gently, revealing browns, greys, and the dark greens of the jungle. Eyes found more upon which to alight, more in which to delight. With my eyes’ awakening, the brain grew busier, and my body’s pleasure in the present faded.

The man I followed was now more than a shape. He became a young man who sometimes went barefoot and sometimes wore flip-flops; they were stored in his bilum as needed, along with very little else. His shorts made river crossings straightforward. His t-shirt prophesied the day’s coming heat. His hat and shaped beard showed attention to style.

Paradoxically, on this primordial ground at this hour of the day’s birth, the young man in an ancient world carried on his shoulder a Canon Pixma printer. It was being transported to our center for repair.

And thus the people of this land live between. Between the Past and the Future. Between depending on the generous earth and a fortnightly wage. Between wise, gnarled hands tending crops and savvy, city hands handling paperwork. They are masters of transition, of seeking to draw the good from each opportunity, leaving the bad. But evil is sticky.

Much of my life is in the Future; we move too fast to risk not focusing on what is coming at us. And so my feet remember that dark trail with longing. Perhaps I can find the grace to be Present, even here.