Kebeneti
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Route
Kebeneti
We woke up bright and early in Chepkinoiyo, our new favorite village. I looked at the spider web in the corner of the room, and it was still sitting there, unmoved from the night before. Phew.
We did some yoga and went for chai. Sure enough, the man with the whip returned. As I drank tea, he told me he needed money. I asked for what. Phone credit. I gave him 50, the smallest banknote that exists here. Helping the widows in Kilimanjaro has done wonders in putting charity into perspective for me. I don’t feel guilty about paying every poor person I meet as a tax for my privilege anymore. Now, every dollar I give to some dude who leeches onto me and shamelessly asks for money could have gone to a widow or family in need.
With no reason to linger, we hit the road. We kept a good pace and enjoyed a beautiful environment. When men surrounded me in one village, I’m embarrassed to say I antagonized them in my embittered state, “Nini? Nini?” (What! What!). I must have looked like an idiot as the rich American being rude to a bunch of poor guys in their own town. Mostly, locals like to make jokes with white people. The truth is that village life and poverty are pretty boring. The white guy coming through is the entertainment for the day.
We continued onward, both energized and free of stomach problems (knock on wood) over orange dirt roads banked with greenery and pine trees. I never expected to see a single pine in Kenya, but I’ve become nostalgic for Maine a number of times now. We ran through a pine farm and came down over the other side to a stunning view of a big valley and mountains ahead.
I pointed to the mountains and exclaimed to Rocky, “That’s the way to Eldoret.” He looked surprised. “Over those mountains?” I double-checked on the map and said, “Yessir.” We had our climbing cut out for us. We walked into a family’s yard to take pictures of the view. A young man was taking a shower, but he didn’t seem to mind us. We thanked them and bombed downhill.
We arrived at a paved road with a big town, and it felt clear that we’d entered a region with better economic conditions and a milder climate. Fruit sellers crowded the streets. We bought bananas and pineapple. Then we went to a Safaricom shop. After a week of using Rocky’s phone as a hotspot, I was determined to get a SIM card. For some crazy reason, most telecom agents in Kenya can only register the SIM card to a Kenyan ID. In my desperation, I got the idea to ask a local to use their ID.
I went up to a couple of locals, and they told me they keep their IDs at home unless they’re traveling. Eventually, I found a man who said he had his ID. I asked why he had it—he lived behind the Safaricom shop. He gave the woman his ID to register a new SIM card, and I gave him 50KES for helping me.
At last, I had internet! Something I’ve come to look forward to more than dinner after a long day. With the SIM card, we raced off and found ourselves on another paved road soon. Based on my map, I’d assumed we would be on dirt roads the rest of the day and was disappointed by Kenya’s successful road development in this region. But I welcomed the biggest downhill of our entire run. For several miles, we dropped further and further into a deep valley.
The views blew us away, and people smiled at us. After bottoming out, we started going back uphill and stopped in the final village named on my map for the next 70km. We weren’t necessarily headed into desolation, but for some reason, my map listed no villages for the region we were entering.
I was extremely hungry, and my New York impatience came out as I barked questions at the restaurant owner. Finally, I went into the kitchen and pointed at the food I wanted. I saw a man eating avocado and asked for “parachichi.” The woman didn’t understand. A man in the restaurant translated for her, “Avocado!” “Ahhhh, avocado.”
Unlike Tanzania, Kenyan Swahili is a mix of English and Swahili, so many Swahili words are replaced with English. Consequently, it turned out that this Kenyan woman never learned the Swahili word for avocado, and I hadn’t known they use the English word here. Classic bait and switch. I ended up eating lentils, bread, and milk (they ran out of avocado), and devoured my dish.
Dangerously full and raging with heartburn, I stormed uphill and vowed never to eat a full lunch with many kilometers left in the day again. I burped like Charlie in Willy Wonka, as I ascended the hill.
We ran up and down hills for the rest of the day. On one big downhill, kids started chasing me. When we got to the bottom, I sped uphill, never looking back, assuming that would be that. These hills were big enough to separate villages. Was a 7-year-old really going to chase me to the next village? I stopped at the top in the shade to drink water. A couple of minutes later, a couple of extra persistent kids came up over the top. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I’d been too tired even to smile at them on the downhill. Now, I exclaimed, “Safi sana!” (Very nice!)
Then I was off again. As we finished our run, it started to rain, and I prayed for no more big hills. When we arrived, we ducked into a hotel soaking wet. The rain poured harder and harder as we sipped chai safely inside.
We were in a tiny village at the edge of a big forest. The very last town on the road. This town had no guesthouse, so we would have to find a host. I’d grown impatient with Rocky’s African diplomacy. He likes to make friends and slowly work up to asking them to host us. I, on the other hand, have no hesitation capitalizing on my privilege/white skin to ask for a home straight away.
I went into a shop and handed my laminated card to some people. Then I told them I was going to find some water, and I’d return. It worked. When I came back, a nice man escorted Rocky and me to an empty room in the teachers’ quarters of town. They were bare but clean and orderly. Thank God we’d be bunking surrounded by teachers tonight and not drunk patrons of the bar.
Rocky pointed out this town was so small it didn’t even have a bar. Aha! I noticed I had a generally good feeling in this town. It felt safe to me. That explained it. At this point, I’m starting to wonder if my time in Africa will permanently change my views on alcohol. Time after time, I see impoverished men spend the only 50¢ in their pocket on liquor. They tell me it lessens the pain of their difficult lives. Running is all about enduring pain, though, so I feel I don’t have to tolerate that answer.
For dinner, Rocky took charge. He was starving from days of stomach issues and minimal eating. Determined to get a good meal, he not only walked into the kitchen of a restaurant but also took over and started cooking himself. He sent people to buy goat from the butcher, rice, and vegetables. Then he made a fire, and we were off to the races. Gotta love that kind of initiative.
While we waited for the food to cook, a local introduced himself as the East Africa high school champion in the 800m. He claimed to have lived in the Adizero training camp in Kaptagat before getting injured. We chatted into the night about life at camp. It’s possible he’d never been and was making everything up—I figured I would find out soon enough. People here often make stuff up out of thin air, like the man who told me in broken English that he’d visited Colorado earlier in the day.
Around 9 p.m., we ate a big dinner of rice and goat meat and retired to bed. I slept on the floor again, happy in our clean teachers’ quarters.