We are very happy to host a series of posts by Stephen Pampuro about a wonderful adventure he had in runner’s Africa.
In January 2020 Stephen felt the need to embark on a new adventure in Africa, in the cradle of running, training in the highlands of Kenya and Ethiopia alongside some of the world’s strongest athletes. An experience that made him touch closely on the dramas of a continent struggling to get back on its feet, in the setting of the most serious epidemic in a hundred years. From this experience a book was born: Beyond the border. Journey to the heart of the cbear. It will come out on April 29 and you can already reserve it on Amazon.
Happy reading!
Eldoret, June 20, 4:50 p.m.
I had never been afraid to take the plane until I was mounted on the twin-engine propeller plane of Kenya Airways. The trip from Nairobi to Eldoret takes a couple of hours but we take so many gaps in the air that when we land my head is spinning and I would really want to lie down. Fortunately, the airport is tiny and at least I don’t have to go crazy to find the exit.
I walk slowly, in no hurry. For once I am alone and don’t have to get anywhere on time. In the square outside, some taxi drivers are lounging in their cars waiting for their next customer, while the sun is still high in the sky. There is a giant billboard in the center of a flower bed that says, “Kenya, home of the runners.” I proceed in small steps dragging my three pieces of luggage behind me; there is a bustle of people around and I notice right away that I am the only white person. I counted only three since this morning, and one was me. The first driver in line is fiddling with his cell phone and doesn’t even see me coming.
– Hey man I should go to the Nike camp in Kapsabet, can you get there? – I ask.
– Sure, right, hop in – he makes me get out of the car very quickly to help me with the bag.
For the past four hours I have seen nothing but waiting rooms and runways, but we only need to leave the parking lot and turn onto the highway to receive our first taste of Africa. In a second I am catapulted into the green equatorial countryside, among cultivated fields, forests and herds of animals. It is simply stunning, a glimpse that enters you with genuine violence.
– Welcome to Kenya muzungu – he makes me smiling.
The driver’s name is John and he looks like someone who likes to talk. Me too, so we get along right away.
– Are you also an athlete? – asks me while tuning the radio to a music program.
– Not really –
– Well then you become one. Here they all run –
– Do you run? –
– Me? No, I hate running – he exclaims as he suddenly slows down to let two cows pass.
I knew Kenya was an agricultural country, but when you end up in it and see it for yourself it becomes a whole different thing. My gaze is continually caught by all kinds of details, it feels like being in a National Geographic documentary. Tractors, farmsteads, emporiums and then more machine shops, mattress makers, flocks of sheep.
The drive from the airport to Kapsabet takes less than an hour and is a sight to behold. But maybe it’s just like that for me, because I’m not used to it. As we approach Kapsabet, however, the landscape changes. Slowly at first, then faster, until the plains and fields give way to hills, and the sun is suddenly reduced to an orange disk popping up and disappearing between those round curves.
“Nandi County” points to a rusty sign along the road.
Before I left, I had read that Kapsabet was the capital of Nandi County, famous precisely for these hillsides covered with tea plantations. I had never been to a place where tea was grown.
A few more turns as we are overtaken by two overloaded matatu, then John slows down near a small building surrounded by trees.
The gate is open so we go inside. In the parking lot there are two pickup trucks and a small group of Kenyans talking quietly. As soon as they see the cab they spring to their feet coming toward us.
– Are you Steven? – one asks me as he approaches the window.
– Yes – I do.
– Good! – He exclaims, opening the door for me to get out.
I take my luggage out of the car and pay my driver. Before leaving, John vigorously shakes my hand.
Meanwhile, two more Kenyans pop up, and suddenly I realize that I have already forgotten all the names by which they had introduced themselves. I request them from each one a couple of times, but since they don’t fit in my head I give up, hoping they don’t notice.
– My name is Felix – he gives me a kelenjin almost hugging me.
– How do you do, Martin – my friend does, snatching my backpack out of my hand.
– We were told you would arrive in the early afternoon – another one lets me know.
You’re welcome, I think, these Kenyans really know how to make you feel welcome. Now, however, the sun has almost set, and I just really want to lie down.
One of them shows me the building from the outside, taking care to explain everything well.
Then, almost by accident, I notice a bracelet on the wrist of one of the boys. It is blue plastic, identical to the one I wear. I found it in the race packet of the Malaga half marathon I ran thirty-five days ago.
– Hey, but did you run it? – I ask him incredulously.
He points to my hand surprised. – Yes, in December! –
– Gee, me too! We were both in Malaga! – I exclaim.
The Kenyan is as amazed as I am, the others as well.
– What did you say your name was? –
– Martin. Martin Cheruyot. As of tonight you are rooming with me! –
He judges satisfied by giving me a strong pat on the shoulder.
-Hexia – I reply, following the boys inside the house.
It is almost dinner time, and I think tonight I will finally try their famous ugali.