I travel, do you?

Pushing my rickety green bicycle out from the haven of home, I stole a glimpse of the panorama that reminded me everyday - I am in Africa. Luscious, majestic green hills with thin, whispery clouds swimming around its peaks. The sky stretched on forever, a solid light blue as if painted on canvas while the sun, bright orange, emitted warm rays of light to my darkened skin. All evoked a sense of serenity in my heart. I was ready to start the day.

I pushed my bike through jagged, misshapen rocks, careful not to puncture my bicycle tyre, yet again. The local carpenter, whose toothless grin always greeted me with a brisk wave of his hand, stood at his shop, busy building cabinets. I hopped on my bicycle and zoomed downhill on the slab of tar mac road, keeping one eye out for dangerously driven lorries.

I passed the umbrella shaped trees. Old branches reaching out from its trunk, ran parallel to the ground, shading everything that lied below it. The mixing of natural shades of colour gave a warm ambience, marking its traditional African stamp to a very rapidly developing town. Matatus, resembling white degenerated boxes on wheels, raced past, with people filled up to the brim. Colourful costumes, with brightly loud reds and blues are seen through the windows, everyone exceptionally dressed up for Sunday service.

I swerved left, off the cemented road to the first bare earth road, which was the pioneer of many. Wind often swept the miniscule specks of glittery sand off the red earth and twirl them around to form a mini tornado, resembling an astounding spectacle of dancing elements. Most times, I find myself riding my bicycle blindly, for fear that my eyes would be scarred by the sharpness of the sand.

At the bottom of the hill, many children, muddy from their hours of playing in the nearby streams, stood there stunned. They ran up to me shouting ‘Mzungu! (European!) Shake my hand!’, chasing after my bicycle, with their dusty hands shot up high, with their palms exposed and fingers stretched.

After five more minutes of pot holes, I arrived at a small, shallow stream with edged rocks, strategically put to help pedestrians cross. The water trickling down slowly, made a relaxing sound that overshadowed the stench of garbage framing the perimeter. Everyday I cross this stream, and each time I manage to get everything from the balls of my feet to the hems of my trousers soaked in murky water. This never gets me down because I knew that the destination was nearby. I arrived at a blue gate, faintly painted with its name, Jamii Childrens Home. I crouched down and entered through the steel door. With one foot into the compound, I heard the pitter patter of footsteps rushing towards me. I looked up and saw twenty brightly lit, smiling faces, arms apart ready for a big embrace and I realised how lucky I was to be here.