Jason Apostol's Story
By the time we reached the Kenyan rainforest, our butts were nearly worn out. We’d been sitting for hours on hard wooden seats in the back of a truck, and the driver seemed to have chosen to drive down the bumpiest dirt road in the whole country.
When we finally stopped, we peered through the haze of dust and dirt to see a line of trees standing like majestic gates to the rainforest, and our aches and pains were instantly replaced with awe and excitement.
This was my first visit to Kenya and my first trip with Leaders Today. I was pumped.
All 20 of us piled out of the truck and began our pre-hike process: securing canteens, tying laces and, of course, strapping on cameras. Our group leader quickly went over what to do—and what not to do—while hiking in a Kenyan rainforest and, a few minutes later, the pungent smell of diesel was all that remained of our only motorized transportation.
Being 12 at the time, I quickly positioned myself at the front of the group, wanting to make sure I was the first to experience all the surprises, sights and sounds of the journey. More importantly, this way I would also be the first one to finish!
The first part of the hike went by slowly as the beauty of the rainforest stopped us in our tracks at every turn. In one place, rays of sun peeked through mile-high trees, reflecting off small ponds bordered by colourful plants and vegetation. In another place, rivers wound through vast tunnels of lush trees.
There was no marked path or even a semblance of a trail. One moment we would be clawing through the giant branches of trees, the next we would be sliding down to crystal clear pools of water. All of this difficult maneuvering seemed an admission fee set by mother nature for letting us into one of her most beautiful sanctuaries.
After three hours of hiking, we came to a place where all of the rivers of the rainforest converged into one giant waterfall that cascaded for hundreds of metres. To the sides stood cliffs covered in green vines, and before us stretched the savannah where we could see elephants, lions and gazelle roaming the plains.
The hike finished and we headed back to the centre, where during dinner one of my fellow group members gave a presentation about global hunger. As I listened to the talk and reflected on my day, one question came to mind: In a place with so much poverty, disease and hunger, how can such beauty and magnificence exist? My answer would soon come.
Our first day had been an introduction to the nature of Kenya, so it was fitting that the second day would introduce us to the country’s people.
We awoke early the next morning and left for the village of “Ol Moran”, where a market and goat auction would give us our first taste of Kenyan life in action. The village had no running water and no electricity, the small homes and shops were all that made it distinct as a village.
As I walked past merchants selling everything from jewelry and clothes to spears and swords, I couldn’t help feeling an overwhelming sense that I was in a world unlike any I was used to, the same feeling that being in the rainforest had given me the day before.
Shortly after arriving at the village, the over 40-degree Celsius weather started making me sweaty and thirsty. I set my sights on a drink vendor a few feet away and headed in that direction.
Suddenly, I heard laughter. There, on my left, stood two small kids, their smiles covered by their hands. I turned toward them and waved, belting out a loud “hello.” But my boisterous greeting only silenced their laughter. Their smiles turned into screams and they ran away, disappearing behind one of the vendor’s wooden signs.
For a short 12-year-old kid who had never scared anyone in his life (although he had tried), I was completely taken aback by such a strong reaction.
But it was sweltering, and my thirst made me forget about the kids and instead refocus on making it to the drink vendor.
Then there was that laughter again. Was I hearing things? Sure enough, there in the same spot stood the same two kids.
My previous attempt at an introduction had completely failed, so this time I simply knelt down and whispered the only word I knew in the local language. “Jambo,” I said, which means “hello” in Swahili.
The kids’ once-smiley faces now looked perplexed but curious, an expression that remained as they tentatively approached me. Very carefully they touched my hand, then pointed at my face, their smiles returning. Although there were no words, this was their own version of hello.
Within minutes we were playing games together. I picked them up and spun them around, and in return they taught me their versions of tag and hopscotch.
Before long, my thirst had returned. I desperately looked around and found a small water cooler that had been set up for the occasion of the market. I stumbled toward it, cupped my hands under the tap, and took a big gulp of cool water.
As I went for a second sip, I noticed four small hands had also taken their place under the tap. I looked and found that the same little kids had followed me.
Smiles once again lit up their faces, this time not because they were looking at me or playing a fun game, but because they had found clean water to drink. Because of something I always had at home; because of something they rarely had here.
In the face of so much despair, these kids looked at life with such a fresh and bright perspective that in that one moment they taught me more than I had ever learned back home.
It was here I found the answer to the question I had asked myself only the day before: The beauty of Kenya exists despite the hunger and the poverty, because the beauty exists not only in the landscape, but also in the smiles and the hearts of the people, and in the laughter and hope of the children.
Mailing List