It is noon in Nairobi.
I think of the Box Girls.
It’s been over seven hours since Iddah arose. She is most likely sitting down for lunch. I wonder if her mother had money to give her for a car ride this morning, or if she made the hour-long walk to school instead. It’s been over 5 hours since Tabitha awoke, prepared breakfast, and made her 30-minute walk. I wonder how she is settling into the two-room high rise apartment she and her parents moved into just a few days before our trip, and imagine that her personality is helping her make friends quickly at her new primary school.
I wonder if Sarah has a boxing match this week, and if so, who she will be fighting. I hope Jane is feeling better this morning, and that the comfrey salve I gave her is providing some relief to the pain in her knees, so that she may continue her training for this summer’s Olympics.
I fiddle with the lovely soapstone bracelet on my left wrist, a gift from my dear African sister, Judy, and wonder if she is doing the same with my bracelet as she sits at her computer on the other side of the globe.
I think of the Safari Simbaz – Jessy, Chege, Vincent, George and Boss. I imagine that earlier this morning, David – their coach, mentor and role model – led them through some energy-pumped callisthenic warm-up and a training ride, before beginning their work for the day, and that he would laugh at my slow and lethargic morning routine. I look at the seat and pedals lying in a pile on the floor beside me, and wish one of the Simbaz were here to help me put my bike back together. I have difficulty imagining making it up the hill on my next ride without their assistance.
It is half past noon in Arusha.
I think of the Arusha Cyclers.
As I write, I hear the washing machine in the room next door complete the final cycle of the filthy laundry from my trip. I hope that the second wash took the Tanzania dirt stains out of my khaki pants. I imagine Christina is in school, and know if she were here, she would show me how successfully to get them out by hand. I wonder if she is sharing a few of her new English phrases with her girlfriends.
I miss Sophia’s dry sense of humor, delivered with a straight face in Swahili and broken English, and her brother Rajaba’s pleasant smile and attempts to teach me how to say “cow” in Swahili – “ng’ombe.” (I dare you to try it.) I hope that the wound on John’s foot is healing well and that someone redressed it for him.
I think of our hosts with Summits Africa, and my daily conversations with Emanuel, Daniel, and Hussein. I hear Ema’s Jamaican music in my head. I think of my successful bike day with Boni and the exhilaration of speeding side-by-side down the long hill. I imagine riding through the rural areas along side Dani, with him feeding me the appropriate Swahili responses to the crowds of lovely people that cheer us on. I try to remember the names of the plants and animals that Hussein taught me as I relay specifics of my trip to my husband. I yearn for the meal tent and Matthew’s breakfast, and think of his and the other Matthew’s morning greetings. I hope they all slept well and are enjoying a few days off before the next group of tourists.
It is 1:00 pm in Marangu.
I think of the Kilimanjaro Initiative and the large contingency of the UN Women’s Group hiking up the great mountain. I wonder if Bernard is still at the Marangu Hotel, or if he has made it back home to his wife and children. And most of all, I think of Kennedy. Did he make the Kili summit today with the globalbike flag? Did he feel the spirit of all of us with him as he climbed? How changed will he descend from the mountain, this gentle nineteen-year old man, who up until a few weeks ago had never been out of his neighborhood? And where will this experience take him in his quest to better his community?
I do not know what the future holds for my new friends and me. Through the magic of the Internet, I am able to keep in touch with some, while others have no such access or even mailing addresses. Some speak very little English. I speak even less Swahili. I expect written communication will be more challenging without the benefit of facial cues.
I am certain of one thing, this experience has changed me. Their friendship has changed me.
As the sun rises on my side of the world, I miss all of their smiling faces. I miss sharing meals. I miss my impromptu Swahili lessons. I pray that they are all safe.
