(Here's part 2 of that one blog)

Violet speed walks towards me from the borehole with a yellow plastic jug balanced on her 10-year-old head.

“Amy! Amy! Trotting!” She yells. By the time she gets to me, there is water soaking her front.

“Let’s go Vi!” I yell back, helping her remove her load (which weighs about 25 pounds), and set it down next to her grandmother, who waves at us as we leave.

Violet and I snake our way down the red dirt paths to pick up the rest of the gang. Rebecca, who never stops smiling . Little Vi. Gift and Green, identical twins who I call Greengift because I still can’t tell them apart. Junior. Always-dancing Lubutuwe.

And what do we do together? We run. Simple as that.

Of course, in the process we usually make a spectacle of ourselves. To begin with, the sight of one tall white woman surrounded by a blob of anywhere from five to 40 African children is not something that’s always graced these red paths. But on top of that, sometimes we’ll act like lions or sing songs about mangoes or raise our left hands, so I’m pretty sure the community thinks their children are running with a white woman who’s slightly nuts.

Yes, the whole process is not usual, but I guess I’ve never been someone to let a little thing like “embarrassment” get in my way, so I keep going back.

This running club of sorts (called “trotting” by the kids) started in September when I went out on my thirty minute afternoon runs and would notice new giggly shadows behind me every time. Now that I’ve moved away from the village and am closer to town, the club has become a once-per-week event since I have to ride my bike to get to the kids in Chitambala Village. Most of the children attend Kine Community School, so I see our runs as fulfilling the P.E. requirement their school doesn’t have to begin with.

There have been a few things threatening to trip up our little trotting club: a child once punched another, and there have been spills especially now that the paths are muddier with the rainy season. Rebecca also brought her baby brother strapped on her back one week, which was more than a little awkward and prompted me to establish a “No Babies on Back While Running” policy.

But we keep running, and the kids and I both love the team aspect of it. We yell “Speed” down every hill and have to act like airplanes. Violet always tries to sneak her hand into mine and sometimes the kids hold hands with each other. And after the run, when we stretch with lots of deep cleansing breaths and a smattering of yoga, the kids group around me so close I can feel their coughs and have to ask them to back up.

Maybe it’s the endorphins clouding my mind, but when we run together, I almost forget the sad part of these children’s life stories. Many of them are orphans; some are HIV positive. I don’t have shoes to give them, so almost all of them run with me barefoot.

Violet, for instance: very intelligent, natural leader Violet. She is cared for by a grandmother with AIDS and Tuberculosis. A grandmother who gives everything for her grandchildren, all while emitting loud, joyful laughs from her emaciated frame, laughs that rival those of Violet.

But despite the sad part of their realities, the kids keep laughing, they keep making me laugh, and life goes on. And as long as I’m in Zambia and the children keep showing up every week, our trotting club will also go on.