Unrelenting was the equitorial sun as I carried dusty, handmade bricks from one pile to the next like a mule. On the first day I estimated each brick to weigh 2 pounds. By day three I swear the weight had nearly tripled! My blistered face radiated heat; yet, I was being offered scorching hot tea by the women of the village. My ankles were already a connect-the-dots pattern of mosquito bites. I wondered how bad malaria actually is. "Muzungu [white person]!" was my call. The bricks needed to be moved to a new pile down a hill and placed precariously near the edge of a 33 foot deep pit latrine. Somewhere in the distance someone was personally contributing to global warming with a noxious fire, and my lungs protested every breath. Later, a rogue monkey would abscond with my sunscreen.

But back home when people would ask me about my trip to Africa, none of that would come to mind. Instead, I would always retell the story of being invited to share a meal with a family. Immediately I was transported back to that mud shanty in the biggest slum in Kampala. Two women, refugees from war-torn areas, shooed their 13 children (many of whom were taken in as AIDS orphans) outside so that I could be served a meal. I recall the sun-baked mud of the walls had cracked and fallen off in chunks, piercing the dark interior with shards of sunlight. Oppressive heat and the lived-in smell of 15 bodies greeted me. These women had spent all day cooking green bananas in anticipation of my arrival. I knew it was the only food they had. I knew it was the only food they might have for a few days. I knew someone would go hungry because I was being served. As per African custom, I could not refuse an offer so I accepted the steaming bowl held before me.

As I struggled with my conscience I noticed the beaming smiles of my hostesses. I had never before seen such poverty; they had never before shared a meal with an American. I felt pity; they felt nothing but happiness. Nay, joy. Joy! When was the last time I had felt joy, wholehearted, unabashed, shake-like-a-bowl-full-of-jellly joy? In that moment how I approached my new surroundings changed forever. So when people ask me about Africa I always smile and say, "What I remember is the joy."

On my ultimate trip I would strive to share the joy. I would love to spend a year, two years, my lifetime building a house and sharing a meal in remote places all over the globe. I'd build a bamboo house in Nepal, a dar in Morocco, a teak home on poles in Thailand, a childcare home in Romania, an HIV clinic in Swaziland, a school in Haiti. And in each of those places I'd sit down with a family and share the joy that is breaking bread, no matter how few the slices, with a new friend.