It’s super gloomy out, my body hurts and I’m sleep deprived. These all seemed like perfectly valid excuses to skip my run this morning.
But now the guilt is starting to set in, so I suppose the least I can do is write about this little hobby of mine that I’ve frequently risked life and limb for… in the most unlikely of places.
So for the rest of you who chose leisure over physical excursion this morning, you can suffer vicariously through my brief tale of another adventure trying to save the chimps in the Congo.
I haven’t gone more than two days without running for most of my adult life. There has been a handful of exceptions, most of which were related to precarious travel circumstances, most of which I would usually find a way to circumvent.
This scenario, however, has taken a little bit longer to navigate. More accurately, the motivation factor has been lacking, especially after experiencing my daily walk to and from work.
My office is located in the Natural Science Research Center. This is the only significant landmark that exists in the village (Lwiro) besides the dilapidated guest house that functions as the ‘fancy’ hotel, local bar, special event center, and wedding venue (for those tolerant enough to endure questionable levels of hygiene and a bathroom with its sink in pieces on the floor).
There is one main, very dusty road that snakes through the heart of Lwiro, connecting to the small villages on either side. The rest of the landscape is cultivated land with a few random collections of banana trees…and lots of children, goats, pigs, cows and women hauling unfathomable loads of anything and everything on their backs.
Every morning on my way to work, there is always a steady stream of villagers traveling from one village to the next. I am now one of them, but I don’t exactly blend in, and my presence is always acknowledged in some fashion. Sometimes I get an enthusiastic Jambo, sometimes a less than friendly glare. But anonymity is not an option.
This brief walk admittedly elicits more anxiety than it should at this point, but I’m slowly adapting. Except when I have to pass a group of young boys. Without fail, they approach, staring straight through me without saying a word. And just after I pass the last of them, the cheekiest of the group will yell out god knows what in Swahili, while the others bust out laughing.
Despite all of this, after a month without running, I was beside myself when the new volunteers, Ruth and Susan, suggested a jog. We were told the safest way was to take the main road uphill, winding through the villages on the same path the women and children take to and from the fields and market area.
I knew the path well and expected dry, rocky and crowded. But adding in the ‘running factor’ was a whole different animal. Imagine walking on an uneven, very dry river bed, completely covered with jagged rocks, deep ruts, and large potholes. There is nowhere to land that is flat or soft. It’s just a matter of whether you want to choose the large slanted rock or go for the collection of small, piercing stones. Now add in the variety of farm animals to navigate- baby goats being the most difficult, pigs, the most unpredictable.
All of this, however, is somewhat manageable until the path narrows and you realize you’re not making life any easier for the women trying to make it down the same trail with twice their weight in tools, wood, sugar cane or any combination of all of the above balanced on their heads…usually with a baby or two in tow. I have definitely hurled myself into a ditch more than once trying to get out of their way, only to have them stop, laugh and cheer us on up the hill.
Then, there are the children. They descend out of nowhere, dozens of them trailing behind us, laughing and screaming, Mazungu! Mazungu! (white person) the whole way back. Not exactly a stress-reducing endeavor.
After our first couple of runs, a couple of the boys we work with, Luc and Simone, asked if they could join us. Having locals with us allows us to roam further out of the village…with the bonus of keeping the children at bay so we can focus on dodging chickens and such.
But the long stretch of open road that I’ve been craving holds its own set of challenges… mainly breathing. It’s still dry season here, which means the occasional UN convoy or random battered vehicle that passes by leaves us literally in the dust. And this dust is not to be taken lightly- a chalky, all-consuming version that goes straight for your eyes, forges its way up your nose and settles into a gritty layer coating your lungs, replacing any thought of the fresh oxygen that was previously propelling you forward.
Everyone we pass feels compelled to contribute in some way – cheer us on, remind us that we are indeed white/Mazungu, and sometimes even join us. It’s usually the women who join in, matching our pace barefoot or in flip-flops, laughing and cheering each other on, clearly unaffected by all the elements I find so annoying. They just take it in stride, enjoying the opportunity to run, simply because they can.
It is precisely the adversity of it all that inspires me to faithfully join Luc each week, even when I’m tired and my body aches. How can I complain to a man who does manual labor for 10 hours a day, 6 days a week, eats less than I do and runs in a pair of old hiking boots split open along the souls?
And yet he runs, almost every day.
I’ve thought about this a lot. What motivates him to run when I know how exhausted and hungry he has to be. I’ve asked him, and he just shrugs his shoulders. I think it might be for the same reason I do it, despite how challenging it can be.
Running is the one thing that’s all his, on his terms. He can relish in the freedom- the power and strength he alone has cultivated- even if only for an hour a day.
…even if the path he takes never gets him any further than the dusty road back to Lwiro.
A pretty brilliant reaction to this lil’ adventure written by anonymole
“Girl, you bein’ chased?”
“Why you runnin’? You late for somethin’?”
“Why you runnin’? You got to go, you know..?”
“Why you runnin’ den?”
Because I can.
“Ah, alright den. You keep runnin’ den. You sure you ain’t bein’ chased?”