When I first arrived in Ndjolé in late November 1983, I was 32 years old. I was touring the country searching for a place to do fieldwork. I was immediately charmed by this bustling little town whose central marché was a dusty hub of loud soukous music, honking horns, Gabonese speaking Fang, shouting West African Muslim commerçants, the grinding gears of big logging trucks (grumiers) rumbling by, and Isuzu taxis skittering about like waterbugs. On this first visit, I stayed for six days. Later, in January 1984, I returned to do fieldwork for a year. I lived in Bingoma Quartier, a Fang village, walked everywhere, interviewed Gabonese, West Africans, and French people in French, ate the local food, corresponded (snail-mail back then) like crazy with people in America, and periodically took the Transgabon Railroad into coastal Libreville for some R&R, croissants, and air-conditioning. Fieldwork in Ndjolé was the most intensely memorable and challenging experience of my life. It has stayed with me daily ever since. This memoir is written to honor that experience and all the people of that little town.