Finding Our Neverland in Africa.

It has taken me a few days of cerebral digestion to tell the story of our adventure on this nameless island. And the story of our experience is like all stories a function of the people that give it life.

The international cast landed near sunset and immediately entered a world on supension. Suspended from time and space, from reality (whatever that means) and from anything they knew of themselves before they found their way to this place.

Washed ashore the island is a group of misfits and dreamers, the likes of which include the Spanish professsor, Eduardo, who studied Comparative Literature and Philosophy, yet found his way to Uganda teaching Espanol, a language he admits is useless here. Next is the UN crowd. Quite a riot those diplomatic aid worker types can be. There's Elena, a young and reserved Dutch woman and her Canadian friend, Allie, a WFP volunteer who really says "Eh," a German couple too snobby to have names, an Irish woman named Karinna with a strong affinity for Dunhill cigarettes who works in the amnesty division, two Ethiopian UNDP workers one named Yaron, and Katie the reproductive health worker and sometimes abortionist with an unnamed clinic.

To complete the list of characters, there's the American ex real-estate mogul turned roaming ex-pat and his African "escort," a longtime wandering Afrikaaner, the local Ugandan staff, Alexi the German firstmate of the island and the unbelievalbe character of them all, Tom. Tom owns the island and at some point in his life actually did something. I think he was an explosives engineer for the British Army. He's a colonial Kenyan (read: white) by nation, but is truly a man of the island. Only 46 years old, but the copious amounts of rum he drinks and questionable agriculture he smokes have created a face that looks at least 64. A veritible Willy Wonka to this crew of eager Charlie's. Tom, who would otherwise be a hapless schlep with an offensive tongue by land, is the grandmaster of an island carnivale, by sea.

The only thing bringing this hodge-podge group of ex-patriates together is a strange form of chance. Chance and self-selection. Far from their homes and comforts of the spoiled world, the development workers, nomads, nothing-doers, thinkers, sinners and saints stumbled to a place to ease their minds of the brutal world outside. Western ex-pats have common thread; an arrogant and intimate knowing that a world of modern speed, function and sensibility (and complacency and coldness) exists and that they're entitled to live there. Entitled enough, even, to leave that world to 'experience' the most remote and struggling corners of our earth, and then come back.

This knowing among ex-pats living in the developing world creates a community (unknown to me before) that craves an impatient release from time to time. That's how this island came to be. It's an ex-pat's haven, a relief worker's relief and the weary traveler's Candyland. But why is this place so wonderful, you're asking?

Because it was like seeing life through the eyes of a child again. It's the kind of place that so sweetly allows the magic of childhood to be realized: Neverland, Narnia, or the Nameless Island, call it what you'd like. They are all places where time, place and tradition do not exist. A place where the forthwall of reality is broken and the mystical world glimpses back - taunting you for not believing. By the end of the weekend many of us were getting on like the oldest of friends, all with stomachs sore from laughing eachother into the wee hours. I don't know if I'll see any of them again. But it will be a very long time before I forget them.

It didn't help that we were fully stranded (there's no boat on the island capable of getting to shore) with nothing but time, free rum, questionable agriculture and eachother. One can lie around and wait for the next delicious meal, explore the camp and the surrounding jungle and gardens, risk the parasites and take a swim, read, chat or just stare. The irony of the island's captivity to the water is the pure freedom it breathes to its visitors.

Somewhere in Lake Victoria, so close to the equator you can almost see the curve of our giant orb, and under the cast of a full moon, a lucky few felt their infinity. Their helplessness. And their connectedness.