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Route
Chepkinoiyo
I woke up at 6 a.m., not to run, but to finish my grant proposal. Rocky and I soaked in the peace of sitting still for the morning. The hotel brought us breakfast of fried eggs, sausage, and fruit. I enjoyed my first and last sausage of the run. Finally, at noon, I submitted the proposal, relieved to be done with it and able to focus 100% on the run until reaching Eldoret. (At some point, I’ll likely write about the proposal after this mission is complete.)
In the excrement department, the scales tipped back in Rocky’s favor. He reported 80% hardness while I was now at 20% hardness. Fortunately, I still felt energy, so I reasoned that some digestion took place overnight. We called a bodaboda to the hotel to avoid walking a single extra meter… interesting the ways in which running across a country can make you lazy.
They drove us to the matatu (bus) station where we packed into a van like sardines. I would have said it was like Tetris, but after fitting everyone in like Tetris, they squeezed in more people, defying the laws of physics and actually all laws of all types.
When the bus pulled back into the tiny town of Tenduet, where we finished last night, we disembarked into the cold 2600m mist with some dread. I went into a hotel to warm up with chai. Rocky didn’t object. Canada Olly would be mortified by Africa Olly’s newly developed intolerance to the cold. After a very long, drawn-out chai, we could delay no longer and started running at about 2 p.m. That gave us roughly 4 hours to cover as much ground as we could. Right away, we were stop-and-start, as Rocky’s stomach monsters returned.
Sometimes Rocky stays behind me to give me space because I run slower than him. Today I couldn’t figure out whether to run slower to let him catch up or faster because he was giving me space. The route was getting a bit complicated, and I thought we should stay together.
When I turned around, he was on a phone call. I asked if I should run. He said yes, he’d catch up. I told him the route was getting complicated. He said, I’ll stay within 200m. I suspected he couldn’t match my pace and said, “Okay, then I’m not going to stop.” He said, ok. Feeling a bit devilish, I picked up the pace and was out of sight within seconds. I thought there was no way he’d catch up. I went up a big hill and down the other side.
I went around a corner and then down a side path shortcut I saw on my map. I started to worry that Rocky would never find me on the side path. I raced to get back to the main road. When I returned to the main road, maybe 10 minutes after telling Rocky I wasn’t going to stop, I decided to wait for him.
A nice man driving a school bus stopped to see if I needed help. In Swahili, I asked if he saw my friend. He said yes and offered to call him. I realized I didn’t write down Rocky’s Kenya phone number. I would just have to wait. After failing to communicate all of that in Swahili, the man spoke to me in perfect English. He told me if he saw Rocky, he would tell him where I was. After learning I was American, the man told me he has a friend at the University of Minnesota. I asked if he was a runner. He said yes.
After about 10 minutes, Rocky finally walked up. He said he went down the main road and then people told him to go down the side path, so he turned around. Even including a turnaround, he took a really long time, and I suspected he hadn’t run at all. I said, I think we should stay together from now on. He agreed.
I started again, and he continued walking. Finally, I asked if he was walking because I was running too slow. He said no, his stomach really hurt. I should’ve asked directly much sooner.
After two straight days of stomach issues for Rocky, I raised the concern that maybe we should reroute to a doctor. He wanted to continue onward. I was skeptical that he’d get better, but he was confident. We continued through muddy roads, flooded fields, overflowing streams, and herds of sheep and goats. At one point, my GPS showed our altitude above 2700m (900ft). Kids continued to chase us. I thought, “Holy crap, will we ever go downhill again?”
God bless offline satellite maps. As the sky darkened, I saw what appeared to be a small town on my map just a few kilometers away, Chepkinoiyo. We ran up beside a big, jovial man walking home and asked if we were going the right way to Chepkinoiyo. We struck up a conversation with him. He told us he was a teacher; he was walking home to his farm. This confused us, and we asked if he was a teacher or a farmer. He exclaimed, both! He told us American medical workers come to the area to do aid work at the hospitals.
I’d been thinking about asking the man to stay at his house, and I imagined Rocky thinking the same thing. A teacher with a farm would likely be able to feed us well and inform us about the general condition of the community in good English. Before I could ask though, I smelled alcohol on the man’s breath and decided to continue running.
We ended up rolling into Chepkinoiyo right around 6 p.m., racking up a good number of miles for just a half day. Naturally, a crowd gathered around me; this time it was especially big. We asked for a guesthouse and were directed to a bar. Rocky and I exchanged a look to confirm we were on the same page, “There’s no f**cking way we stay here.” The owner showed us a bare room in the back with a tiny cot. We told her we’d come back and left, circumventing the bar.
I’ve become so accustomed to the alcoholism in tiny villages, I sometimes don’t notice anymore. But like clockwork, drunk people walk up to you and try to make friends in any village no matter the time of day. In places where the only work available to the poorly educated is hard labor that barely pays enough to survive—forget supporting a family—I can understand why so many men turn to alcohol in an attitude of hopelessness. But, if you asked for my sympathy on the other hand, there’s none. I’m far more inspired by the men who accept their positions and actually do the hard work—herding the livestock, building houses, harvesting the crops, etc. Rocky, for example, came from a comparable situation to the men in any of these villages. He made the decision not to drink alcohol at a young age, and he’s never had a drop of it in his life. On the contrary, he’s done plenty of hard labor jobs including collecting sand, cutting down trees, harvesting maize, and helping build houses before working as a porter.
We asked for another guesthouse and were directed to another bar. Determined to find a good place to rest, I started walking up the hill out of town to find a quiet home. About 25 kids followed me. I just wanted to be alone. In the dark, I quietly ducked under a fence off the road and walked up to a man on his farm. Rocky followed. I asked Rocky to translate and then explained to the man in English that we’re athletes running across East Africa, and we need a quiet home to rest for the night. We would be happy to help him in some way in exchange for taking us in.
The man said he understood, and that he didn’t need a translator. He took us to talk to one of the leaders of the village. We explained our situation. They said okay and agreed to escort us to a place we could stay. They took us straight to the second guesthouse. Too tired to put up another fight, I agreed to stay, and we paid 300KES ($2.35). We got changed and found our escorts still waiting outside our room. That’s been another problem here that I never even had in Tanzania. If you make a “friend,” you become their employer for the day.
One man showed us his whip, supposedly used to discipline unruly villagers. He promised our security and said he would return in the morning. Great, just what we need… The original dude I asked for a home followed us all the way into the dinner restaurant and stayed after I ordered. Finally, I asked if he was hungry. He said yes. I told him to order dinner and sit with us. He sat down, and I asked him some questions.
He came to this region from “Western”—Kenyans’ name for the western region of Kenya. He bought a farm and was starting a life here. We asked if many people had a difficult life in this village. He said yes, 4500 out of 5000. I didn’t figure out his definition of a “difficult life,” but Rocky and I agreed that this seemed like one of the poorer villages we’d visited based on the aggressiveness/desperation of locals. We asked if life here was good. He said yes, good farming ensures that even the poor have something to eat. Though, he reported that life in Western was better because there’s more fruit, and kids can usually find something to fill their stomachs there. (I would guess it also has a more temperate climate.) We asked if the rain was a problem. He said no, the rain was always good because it makes the crops grow faster. The climate here was exceptionally cold. I was frigid in the only light jacket I brought to Africa.
After the man finished, I told him he could go home to his family if he wanted. He said okay and finally left. Phew. Rocky and I went back to the room to go to bed. I still felt hungry—I think the portions are smaller in the poor villages. I bought some bananas and peanuts on the way back.
The bed was too small for us to share, giving me an excuse to sleep on my beloved sleeping pad on the floor. I don’t mind one-off nights sharing a bed. But sharing every single night with Rocky, who is much bigger than me, has gotten under my skin. I slept great and vowed to myself I’ll share a bed with a long-term partner.
A long-term partner means a man or a woman?
Hi Olly