January 29, Dar es Salaam

I've taken up running since I've gotten to East Africa. In Kitui I woke up before anyone else, so I escaped both the heat and the stares of my Kamba neighbors; in Ndalat, land of the long distance runners, I (occasionally) ran in the late afternoon. One day a local athlete, Edward, invited me to his house for chai. Edward is 27 years old, married, and still lives in a little hut made of clay and cowdung. Both he and his sister are world-class marathon runners; his younger brother is a medical student at the University of Texas (?) where he got an athletic scholarship. After the usual greetings in vernacular he comments on the quality of my shoes and asks me about my training.

-"What training?" I forgot I had ran past his house that morning.
-"I ran twenty-five kilometers this morning. Later this afternoon...twenty. Every morning, twenty or twenty five kilometers - afternoon training is optional but twenty kilometers every morning."

At no point in our conversation did Edward express even a hint of mockery, but after a few cups of chai with him and his sister I stopped running past his house, in fact I stopped running period. I tried biking once or twice (according to Edward, "Ah! Very good exercise!") but couldn't quite get into a routine. Two days before I left Ndalat I saw another runner flying past me and swore that I would get my ass in gear after christmas. In Kakamega, mainly out of sheer boredom, I ran up and down the block while riot police fired gunshots in the air. The Indian women seemed largely unimpressed but the security guard, Bernard was more conversational.

- "Ah! Mzoezi wa Mwili! (exercises for the body)" Luo people often begin their conversations with Ah!

He also never expressed anything apart from the utmost friendliness, but I never felt comfortable running around Africans. Even in Dar es Salaam where beach jogging is common and where I can keep up with the locals, I do my damndest to avoid crowds.