One of the most memorable
moments of our 600-mile, 2-week bicycle excursion through Kenya in May was the
afternoon we arrived at the Free Methodist children's academy on the top of a
hill in Kericho.
Our team had ridden the
week in sunshine up until our arrival in Kericho. On the outskirts of
town, a thunderstorm moved in and the clouds opened up with heavy rain.
Our cycling gear soaked, we wearily rode through the city's slippery
streets. We descended steep hills and climbed even steeper ones in the
rain on our way to the academy, which was our destination for the evening.
The last street we turned onto was a sharp uphill climb that was nearly a
waterfall of mud and debris flowing toward us. Broken and rutted, it was
impassable on our bikes (only one of us, Kevin, an expert cyclist, managed to
make it up the treacherous hill). Drenched and tired, slipping and
sliding and shivering, we trudged up the hill with our bikes to the gate of the
academy. Most of us were grumbling on the inside if not on the outside.
But when we guided our
bikes the through academy gates, we were met with a surprise. Shouts of
jubilant welcome from more than 300 children who had been waiting for us with
anticipation erupted uproariously. They cheered. They yelled. They called
out. They chanted. They sang. Completely surprised and
overwhelmed, we soaked it in, forgetting both the pouring rain and our
weariness. We were speechless. Our grumbling turned to joy.
All we could do was to laugh and cry. It is an experience I will
never forget.
