Walking down the wide rutted road, the aroma of overly ripe mangoes, onions, and unidentifiable trash mixed with dust, creates a heady cocktail in the midday sun. I skip over puddles of black mush, trying to find firm ground within the potholed road while simultaneously looking out for cyclists and hand drawn fruit carts, as I attempt to keep my worn sneakers and the hem of my annoyingly long jeans somewhat dry and mud free for the duration of our visit. The sounds surrounding us are all busy, matatus (the local transport) turning and beeping their horns, artisans hard at work working metal with a blowtorch or sawing wood for end tables, sawdust and chips scattered on the road soaking up some of soggy dirt, providing me with patches of the dry path I hoped to find. There are also lots of women chatting to one another, wrapping and securing their khanga cotton wraps around their waists to keep clean as they work, even as they arrange their fruits and vegetables for sale on recycled plastic woven rice sacks by the surprisingly lush green embankment, where grass and trash entwine above a slow moving stream of murky water.I am guided up the embankment to the little road leading to the Kwa Watoto School, past the tin shacks of the Chiefs office and private homes on left, and the evergreen Kei Apple fence on the right. The sounds of the main road slowly fade, and it seems almost solemn on the road, as we pass two women sitting, one braiding the others hair, who shyly acknowledge us as we take the short walk into the Jangwani community quickly reaching the fork in the road which leads further into Jangwani on the right, and ends in the gate of the Kwa Watoto School and the Believers Centre Mathare Church, on the left. The sounds of the outside world are now completely drowned out by the excited voices of the children as they crowd inside the gate. The numerous shades of browns, greys, blacks and dull greens that we encountered on our short walk from the bus stop are suddenly met with an explosion of color.Over 100 children jostle one another attempting to figure out who goes first and who goes last out the gate. They are all in their sports kit, bright red shorts, with white detail, cinched at the waist, flaring into comfortable bagginess, with an even brighter yellow printed t-shirt. Their shirts are emblazoned with "Kwa Watoto Project, Phil 4:13" in black print, the words forming a symmetrical pattern as the children attempt to line up according to their classes. Despite the dust that hangs in the air, mud on the ground, the lack of obvious signs of clean running water or electricity, and the simple fact that it is past midday in a nursery and elementary school full of energetic children, majority of their uniforms are pristine, some even seem ironed due to the stiffness of their red shorts. On the other hand keeping up their red socks in their rubber soled canvas shoes seems a feat for only a chosen few, as one child after another intermittently leans down, to pull the uncooperative elastic into place above their shins. There is a definite sense of excitement in the air. Surrounded by metal and mud shacks, tightly squeezed together along an uneven dirt path, the school and church enclosed within a chain link fence seems like an oasis. With a tall pole from which hangs the Kenyan flag, still in the afternoon heat, and one lone tree, leafy and green, its branches twisting and leaning low with a wooden bench beside, a rarity in one of the toughest slums in the Mathare Valley.As soon as the kids spot us, there are excited squeals at the sight of visitors and even more so at the sight of Adam, eduKenya's US director. "Adam!" a few yell out, waving enthusiastically as the teachers open the metal and wooden gate and welcome us in with hugs and warm handshakes. The semi-organized lines at the gate lose their cohesion becoming a pushing, squeezing, jumping jumble of giddy kids trying to get closer to greet us with high-fives and hugs around the waist. With each of my hands claimed by two small sticky ones, we fall into line again and quietly as possible weave our way back down the little dirt road, eventually winding a path balancing on the edge of the top of the embankment, a blinding burst of green, yellow and red in the otherwise drab environment, walking towards our rented sports field. The normal bustle of Mathare, is replaced with the hopeful, excited faces of innocence. It's P.E (Phys Ed) time after all, and the excitement that comes from the chance to run and jump and play in one of the few open spaces in the slum for a couple of hours is almost impossible to contain.