Palu was awoken by the smell of coconut milk. The rich, sweet scent was thick in his nostrils, and a sudden hunger blossomed in his belly. Breathing deeply, Palu detected the scent of fresh banana leaf, which formed a harmonious scent as it mixed with the coconut milk. He lay flat on his back and opened his eyes, staring blankly at a spot above him. His mother had changed the banana leaf covering of their shelter with a fresh one. The one last night had begun to dry out, allowing droplets of moisture to penetrate the half-roof they had built for themselves. With the bed of leaves and grass underneath him and the fresh leaves over his head, the young Palu was overcome by an immediate sense of peace, which blanketed him with a satisfying warmth. "Come eat, Palu." His mother's soft-spoken invitation prompted him to finally get up and walk out into the clearing that was peppered with other shelters just like the one he had exited. Palu's mother was squatting in front of a clay pot over a fire, using a thick branch to stir an inviting mixture of coconut milk and taro leaves. Palu looked around lazily, observing the activities of his fellow tribe members. Many of them were, like him, just waking up and stepping out of their own shelters, a few of which used palm leaves in lieu of banana leaves for their coverings. The women were wrapping long pieces of cloth around their waists while the men straightened and adjusted their breechcloths. An elder tribesman with stark white hair gripped one of the sturdy supports of his shelter as he stood. The large stick wobbled slightly but stayed put. Palu was impressed: His friend Moyo was the one who had helped drive the posts of the elder's home into the ground last night after one of the younger adults noticed that the old ones were bent and worn. The tribal elder was led slowly to the little firepit a few meters from their shelter. Though his stooped frame implied creaky joints and fragile bones, he squatted by the pit with the flexibility of one much younger than himself. Slanted over the pit was a charred piece of bamboo, and Palu knew that splitting it open would reveal a freshly cooked chicken still steaming from its stint over the coals. The sight of it made Palu's mouth water: only the tribal leaders and elders got to feast on meat like that. It had been only once, during a feast, that Palu had been able to know the taste of chicken. It had been a tiny piece, from one chicken shared amongst the entire tribe. Moyo had sworn that he had only gotten the barest strips of flesh from the leftover ribs of "the animal." (At that time, he had not known what it was called yet.) "Palu," his mother prompted once more. "Come eat while the leaves are still warm." Palu took one last longing glance at the bamboo chicken before shuffling to sit beside his mother. Breathing deeply again, he imbibed the fragrance of the coconut milk, thick with the accompanying scents of chili and garlic. Immediately, thoughts of the chicken left his mind. His mother had just cooked pinangat, one of his favorite breakfast dishes. Eating it was an experience rather than a meal: The first mouthful warmed his body, which was still cold from the night and from sleep. Then, the spice of the chili woke his senses while the coconut milk tempered the heat, allowing him to enjoy the earthy sweetness of the taro leaf. Not far off, he spotted Moyo climbing down from one of the trees that lined the clearing. Moyo held a firm green mango in his hand and his eyes shone with excitement. "I got a good one," Palu heard him announce to his mother, who was the one who had beckoned him down from the tree. Other boys and girls Palu's age were wandering about. Some were drawing figures in dry patches of soil while others were in contests to see who could stack the most pebbles one on top of the other. The adults smiled and spoke animatedly about new areas of the forest they had discovered, making plans to go back and take advantage of the abundant supply of flowers, fruits, and leaves. "I see a feast in the making," he heard one of the women say. It was Taniba, his mother's closest friend. Palu continued to watch the camp as he ate. It was its own little village, humble and simple yet bursting with life. Taking another bite, he thought fondly, "My tribe," and smiled.