There are moments on the Race when you can pretend that you're at home. Right now I'm in a coffee shop sitting on a leather chair and snacking on a chicken Caesar salad. The Wifi, for the moment, is working, and though I'm surrounded by friends, my face is buried in my laptop.
Then there are moments when the truth that you are thousands of miles away from home is inescapable. One of these moments happened to me on Monday.
Our ministry for the day was working at a charter school in the slums. On the drive in, we passed makeshift markets constructed out of tree limbs and canvas sheets. Men with oily hands resetting bicycle chains. Women stirring cornmeal until it becomes ugali. Children screaming "How are you?!" at a car speeding by at 30 miles per hour.
We arrived at the school and began the day's labor — breaking rocks in order to build a fence to replace the one that had fallen from the heavy rains. As we sat scorching in the sun, the children diffidently approached us and asked us what our names were and where we were from.
After two hours of work, I decided to take a break and play with the kids. I ran toward them and started a simple game in which they would chase me, catch me and then dog pile on top of me. Children pulling my facial hair out. Children tripping over each other to get to me. Children with their fingers inexplicably in my mouth.
After rising again, I decided to walk back to my work, but the kids were hanging onto every one of my limbs. Then they started chanting in Swahili.
I couldn't understand them, obviously, so I asked the headmaster, Priscilla, to translate for me.
There I was, standing under the high-suspended African sun, surrounded by 50 African children screaming "We will never leave you."
