Quiet Village Arrival

On 4/18, our bus rattled through the Kenyan mountains and bush like a neon pink submarine: no one or thing (including fresh air) in or out for the 12 hours of travel, say one bathroom stop. I did not drink any water that day until we were 1 hour from our destination.

In near darkness, the bus pulls off the shoulder of the paved road. Plain pooped, I follow Danielle down the bus steps.

“Ahhh, a quiet village arrival”. I can only make out sandy earth and giant palm shadows from the light of a seldom passing vehicle. Before my foot touches the sandy ground, my safe passage out of my neon sardine can is blockaded by dozens of hungry eyes. The dark faces momentarily blend into the dark outside world before my eyes adjust. For the moment, it’s only eyes I see. Tiny hands grab my faltering body and pull me onto the earth. The same hands pull at my backpacks and touch my white skin, glowing in the headlights of the bus.

Contrary to my Indian molded instincts, I surrender my packs when I see Danielle had all pf her parcels to the rib-high mob. Danielle’s Swahili is easily flowing now toward the children who mop it up with giggles and wiggling excitement. They push my rump, pull my arms in the direction of complete darkness with surprising might! I am swept up alone in the current.

I keep my eyes peeled incase I need to return the way I’ve come and now can make out shadowy huts, Mommas with firewood on their heads, humble kitchen fires. The path is sandy. One child in each of my hands gently ushers me along. Speaking encouragingly to me in a language I do not understand. The kiddos circle about laughing and looking at me as much as possible! By now I am empowered by their protective, loving and excited energy. I distinctly remember feeling empowered, strong and protective right back toward these bite-size guides.

“They are taking you home!” comes Danielle’s small voice, somewhere far behind the mob.

We pass a waving woman whose smile seems to glow against the night. The path turns into a tree lined runway. “This is my life! THIS IS MY LIFE.” As we continue, I ask children’s names and ages in my shaky Swahili. Oh, the glee from those responses! Some are too excited to speak their names. I understand, I am too excited to remember them!