There have been countless moments in Kenya that are
worthy of being written about. Some
would cause anger to stir. Some would evoke
emotion from those who appear to be strong. Some would lead one to unsweep the dirt from beneath the carpet. But then there are those moments that would
cause a dead man to rise from six feet of dirt and just laugh the skin off his
decayed bones.
I learned to ride a bicycle when I was a little girl-
five years old to be exact. I remember
it like it was yesterday. My brother was
about eight or nine and still hadn’t mastered the concept of balancing himself
on two wheels. Always looking for ways to
one-up him, I decided to skip the training wheels and jump to a red teenage
size bicycle. I loved riding around the
rock-path curves.
Since being an adult, I cannot say that I have spent
quality time on a bicycle. Normally if I
have to go somewhere, I don’t think to dig the rusty bike out of the storage
closet from the dusty garage. No! I just jump in my bright yellow 2004
Chevrolet cavalier and speedily drive to my heart’s destination.
Being in a foreign country I have to give up that right
to drive. I have to depend on others to get me around, even if that means
sitting on what should be the driver’s side and pressing my foot deep into the
floor wishing we could brake. Oh. I failed to mention Kenyans drive on the
opposite side of the road! Really and
truly, they drive wherever there is a space to drive and if there isn’t a
space, they’ll make one.
On this particular day I was headed to the church to lead
a girls’ bible study. It seemed to be a
normal day. I’d taken my tea, helped
hand wash laundry, washed utensils and gathered my materials. Eunice and I locked the gate and were off to
pick a boda boda (bicycle). Allow me to
explain something here for I know you’re sitting at your computer desk or
recliner (for those with laptops) and wondering why we’d go to pick a boda
boda. There are men who provide bicycles
for transportation. There is a second
seat on the bike which passengers take and the man is the cyclists. Once you reach your destination, he is paid
for his services.
unfortunately there was only one available. One of us would be forced to ride on the back of a bicycle (boda
boda). Since Eunice wanted the motor
bike, I had to take the boda boda.
I did not think much of it at first but as we were
struggling to ride up the hill, my eyes were opened to the fact that my driver
was as skinnier than my left thigh and about the height of my stomach
down. Sweat rolled down the back of his
neck, adding to the stench that was already being blown in my face. It seemed as if cars would overtake us. He had no command of the road. I asked several times, “Are you okay?” I had forgotten he didn’t speak English. I need to remind you that he is the cyclist;
this isn’t a four pedaled bike. There
are only pedals for the one in front. So
here this 70 pound man was trying to pull himself and a 5 foot 8 inched, 225
pound female up what seemed like a 80 foot hill. I seriously think I heard him cry a
little. At one point he couldn’t make it
anymore and yes, you guessed it – our bike went down. We would have fallen flat on our left side
had I not touched my feet to the ground. He turned around, gave me a look, shook his head and just attempted to
pedal once more. By this time I
seriously felt sorry for the man. I
wanted to pick him up, put him in my lap and just pedal the rest of the way for
the both of us but I’m in Kenya and must follow protocol.
Lesson: Never be afraid to step one foot in front of the
other and walk to your destination
