The 6th International Half marathon – The reset

The 6th International Half marathon – The reset

It shall not happen

This final run was not going to happen.  Most team members had said their ‘Adios’ loudly or by action when the end year party took place on Friday, Dec. 14.  I had sent the weekly call-for-marathoners-to-run but the number of out-of-office responses gave me the first indication that there was not going to be any run.  I met few runners at the Friday party and they told me straight on the face, “We are off the run until next year.”  The Dec. 21 run was a no-no until 2019.  And this is why they were not doing any more runs in 2018….

The music had been getting louder, especially after 6pm, with each hour causing an increase of ten or so decibels from the boom box.  Prior to that evening, I had watched with embarrassment how many staff had been dissed ‘live’ on stage for failing to adhere to the dress code of ‘denim and white’ or was it ‘white and blue demin’?.  What does that even mean?  Who are these two guys?  Are they a couple?  I never heard of them!  Not on my running tracks.

Embarrassment did not end there, since I was lucky by a whisker not to be called out when the MC called to stage the most out-of-dress-code staff of the day.  This was a ‘peoples choice’ thing, where those seated around the various tables shooed one of their own to the stage.  I was in my formal attire, It was just the earth-wire missing.  There was more to come while there was still daylight.  

Bread-and-tea eating competition – how do you set yourself up the stage, while under the watch of a multitude in a big tent, who are cheering you on as you tear off bread from its form until it is fully dismembered and disappeared into the digestive system?  With hot tea?  To win, what… a ‘k’?.  While you earn the honours of staying on our lingua for the next year until another moment (if ever) shall overtake this particular one?  

How about competition for the team that can down the most alcohol?  At least this one did not happen since the ‘most drunk’ who represented the whole of the ‘congregation’ confessed to have been ‘saved’ but could still do with the prize – a crate of beer.  However, he refused the prize due to his changed status and negotiated for a voucher instead.

While the music was increasing in volume with every passing hour after six, and the bass was now hitting at the very heart by ten, there were ‘manenos’ going on at the dance floor.  I feel ashamed to even talk about this, since I see the people involved in the light of day like daily these days and shudder in disbelief.  We have this shy guy in the money department who planted his lips on another gals.  This is something that he denies to this day… but we have witnesses.  How about this other guy who works in my section.  I know him to be the type who cannot hurt a fly.  However, many cans latter, he was on stage with loud music as his witness, caressing a madam visibly to the level where other guys told him off of his action for ‘embarrassing’ the ‘boy child’ in such a fashion.  Manenos did not end there, I know a ‘waifi’ who got a text from SQ that she was ‘queening’ the waifi’s man.  Our security had a real tough time restraining the ‘waifi’ from storming in and slaying the slayer.  Of course, she finally got in and missed both…  you can only imagine how the drama, searching, name calling and vitriol that rent the air was.  For disclosure, SQ is not servants quarters… it is slay queen, silly!

Finally, the drinks got finished at some point.  But that point was long into the night, about eight hours after the drinking started at two.  Usually, the revellers start by ordering ‘cans’ of their choice.  This is called the ‘choice time’.  Around seven, the choice is reduced to ‘some alternative’ but same category, beer-for-beer, wine-for-wine, soda-for-soda, nonetheless same category, call it the ‘same category time’.  By eight, there is no longer choice in the same category, you have to cross over, call it the ‘cross over’ time.  Those on cans are the first ones to suffer after no can is left.  They hit the bottle – usually the non-popular brands that have remained.  Wine people move to the same non-popular league.  At nine, we move to the ‘no choice time’, where anything goes… a beer guy is scrapping the wine dregs or sobering up with a soda.  The soda person has gone to water.  The wine people are on soda water or something like that and it is a scramble for anything left.  After that…. That is it.

It may happen

One day to the event and there was little hope of the run taking place.  However, there was hope, as I got a message from one of the runners that she shall tag along for as long as she could, then shall turn back at her limit.  I also got a phone call from Nick that he shall join in on the run.

I was also bidding farewell to some friends on the same Thursday evening, since I was heading for a short leave after ‘the reset’.  I had seen Fay and some other gal sit on a next table at the club of farewell.  When I saw them at that time, around six, I had just waved my ‘Hi’ and each table continued their whatever-they-were-doing.  On my table, we were having tea and farewell speeches, on her table I could only see a green bottle from far.  It looked full and untouched.  

When I joined the duo around eight, after my ‘farewell’ table had dispersed, I started by the matter at hand.

“Tomorrow, we are on, right?,” I asked Fay.

“First meet my classmate,” she volunteered.

We exchanged greetings and exchanged chit chat on dis-and-dat for a moment.  After that it was back to business.

“We are on the road kesho?”

“Are you seeing this?,” Fay asked, pointing deliberately at the green on the table.

I re-observed, taking note of the JB bottle, now about half empty.  I nodded.

“After this,” she said, pointing at the centre of one of the tables where JB was resting, “I am going nowhere,” she updated me, “You are not seeing me on that wretched road of yours until next year.”

“What do you mean?,” I sought clarification.

“I mean that you need to take some of this yourself,” she beckoned for a glass, which I let come over to the table but declined to fill.

“You can’t do us like this,” her friend questioned, “Take some,” she pleaded.

“I do not drink before a marathon.”

Later on, I was on water for the duration, but the saying that you get drunk when you are with those drinking was true, since I was as loud as the rest by eleven when we parted ways.

It was inevitable that we shall discuss all manner of things, but things changed for the worst when ‘the short man’ joined in.

“To the short man!,” the gals lifted glasses, excited, as they welcomed him to join in.  He sat next to Fay’s friend, just opposite me around the two hex-shaped tables.

He acknowledged by calling for his own glass and immediately joining the cheer.  I know him for many years.  He is not short by any definition.  I was still wondering at the ‘short’ form of his name… but that would not be for long.

“Remember how you messed us up at KCO?,” Fay directed at him.

His response was to call for another glass, pour in a shot and give it to Fay.

“Take that!”

“But why?,” Fay protested.  Fay’s Friend (FF) and I looked puzzled… a bit perplexed… observing the unfolding.

“That one is for cheating these distinguished friends that I messed you up at KCO.”

We were soon lifting glasses, water in my case, as Fay downed the shot in disbelief, hardly five minutes since welcoming the newcomer.

Later the conversation was concentrated on this whole KCO event.  How it unfolded, two years prior, from our very current sitting position, all the way to the various stops within the 300km route, leading to the before-, during- and after-KCO.

“You recall how the fracas that ensued caused Bill to shatter the bar glass?,” Fay stated.

In response, another ‘shot’ was filled in and directed to Fay.

“Now what again,” Fay protested in amused chagrin.

“That is for distorting the facts,” he said, “Bill shattered the windscreen of his own car.”

Many more shots later and I now knew that the ‘short man’ was actually the ‘shot man’….

And as if things could not get any worse, finally, FF was ‘shot at’.

“We had a 5 litre JD last Christmas at shags,” she had said as part of the many story lines that were keeping the bar man amazed at the noises and glass clinks coming from our table.

“Hakuna JD ya 5 litre,” the shot man responded and proceeded immediately to prepare a shot for FF.

But this shot missed out, since FF clarified that, “JD means Jug-Daniel, the local brew”

“Lift your glasses for the shot man,” Fay finally got her revenge, and we did raise our glasses, as TSM was forced to drink his own shot!

The gathering however came up with something good in the end – setting up the date of the next international marathon that FF shall join in and shall end up with a celebratory teq and choco.  The date being set for Friday, January 25, 2019.

It shall happen

On the run day, I met Beryl at the lunch hour.  She confirmed that she was also out of the run since she was having ‘homa’.

“What does homa have to do with running?,” I questioned.  It is like that scene in some movie where someone cannot sing because she has a sore finger.

“I shall just slow you people down,” she decried.

“It is just a fun run.  Give it a try,” I had pleaded.

“Watch me walk out of this,” she said as she exited. Without looking back.  Never to be seen again that day.

At four-twenty-five I got off the locker room and headed to the starting point aka ‘the generator’.  I was not sure if there was going to be any other runner apart from ‘the coach’.  This turned out to be true since by four-thirty there was no one else.

It is happening

Just as I was about to countdown at four-thirty-five, Nick stepped onto the arena from nowhere and joined me, with a, “My shin has been hurting for some time, but I believe I shall make the run.”

“Are you sure you want to do this?,” I asked the typical ‘coach’ question.

“This is a two and a half hour run, are you sure?,” I repeated.

“I am here,” he confirmed his presence, “We shall just have to go, though slowly.”

We set off, slowly, and started on the ‘new international route’ for a second time.  The first time being during the fifth international done by the B-team.  This time however the B-team was no longer defending the title.  Nonetheless, the run was as per script.  You get to the 4k point at the Ndumbo river, then you are faced with the 7km of uphill all the way to the Nakuru highway at Gitaru.  This is where ‘the new international’ gets its name as the ‘meanest’ of circuits so far.  I was taking it slowly at the head of the pack, with Nick tagging along.  I set a slow pace and kept monitoring the footsteps behind to time my pace.  By the time we reached Gitaru, I had to walk a bit to let Nick catch up, and then join me in the walking.

“We still have another 10km back, are we making it back?,” I asked.

“Slowly by slowly,” he said, as we kept walked upto the Gitaru-Wangige road where we eventually resumed the run at some point, then redirected back on Kanyariri road, for the downhill to Ndumbo river.

We finished the run at 0.00.00, this is because I hit the reset immediately we reached the finishing line.  The run was done.  I was happy to have finished the year with this run.  And it did happen, despite it not happening… almost not happening.

Nick’s final word was, “This is my PB time of all these international halfs.  I did it in 2.18.20”

We have reset and are ready to start the running odometer on the zero come January.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year 2019. 

WWB, ‘the coach’, Nairobi, Kenya, Dec. 21, 2018

Communication is dead – language has gone for a run

Communication is dead – language has gone for a run

The confrontation

“Passport?,” a voice commanded.

This was unexpected, since I had already cleared with the entrance security, and usually no one would bother an innocent passenger thereafter?

The passport is an ‘at hand’ item from when you get into the terminal until you are seated in the plane and landed on your destination.  You only keep it once you have left the airport.  I therefore just shoved it on his face.

“Dollars? Show me!”

“What do you mean?,” I thought of saying, but decided to say that inaudibly.

This was a public facility, hence probably nothing to worry, but this was still strange.

I extracted from my breast pocket the two greens and held up.

“That is all?”

“Yes, that is all”

“Other pocket?”

“Phones only,” I responded, making his work easy by removing the two gadgets and holding them up high.

“No other dollar?”

“No!”

“You go,” he said, letting me proceed to the check in and enabling me to glance over my shoulder to see his Government clad and tag, as he had also turned to confirm my walk past.

This was the second not-so-friendly encounter I was getting at this hub with the second longest runway in Africa.  For now, I was heading back home and was already longing for home.  Sitting on the benches brought me nothing but ‘hard bench’ agony and memories.  It was just nine and the ‘hard’ was set to persist until 2315hrs.  However, that is how the world of international avionics is – you are forced to arrive early, usually 3 hours prior, then you sit for long…. and the benches tend to be hard.  Bole added a new twist to the agony – lack of power sockets at the waiting areas.  All had to scramble for two sockets on the whole of the lounge that had gates 1 to 13 on the ground floor.  That is the level of power sockets that I saw anyways.

Re-confrontation

The first encounter was six days prior when I had just arrived, landing at seven hundred hours and disembarking fifteen minutes later (How long does it take to open a godamn plane door!!).  After finally stepping out and heading to Immigration, with a queue that was like one hundred travelers long, I decided that I would rather first get a relief before joining and staying in the forthcoming and imminent ‘forever’ queue.  No sooner did I get into one of the restroom cubicles at the main entrance written ‘Gents’ did I get shoved out.

“Get out,” the lady who was just following me from behind heading to the same cubicle shouted and motioned.

I got out, pressed to the leg, too pressed to even feel any emotion, but I had been commanded out and I had to obey.  

“Is this a gender-neutral washroom or what?,” I asked inaudibly.

But being kicked out?  By a madam?  In the Gents??

I continued hanging around, walking aimlessly to lessen the pressure, but hopeful since I could see that there were three other cubicles, occupied.  Some gents were waiting outside the various cubicles.  

“What happened to good old urinals for men!!  Where 5 or six gents would usually stand and let go all at once?,” my inner voice asked, loudly internally.

Nowadays we have to queue to have a single moment in the cubicles?  This is just supposed to be a standing piss stop!.

I was still suffering the pressure, when from nowhere the madam shouted at me, once more, with the usual motion of the hand,

“You use.”

I learnt that she was just the cleaner.

That probably is where my troubles on this arrival day were to start.  There was more to come.  When I left the terminal after check-out, and went to the parking lot, I was in shock to find nothing waiting for me.  There was nothing familiar at the parking lot.

The trip organizer has taught us this ‘bad habit’ of taking care of stuff from your residence door on departure, all the way to the residence door at your arrival.  All you needed to do when traveling was to step out of the door of your residence and all the rest is taken care of, from being alerted to get out, to getting a chauffeur, all the way to getting a big welcome sign at your destination.  Nothing to worry, nothing to bother, just step out of your door and you shall reach the door of your residence at the destination, the ‘other side’.

On this occasion, there was no name board waiting.  There was nothing.  My SIM cards were useless.  One showed a signal alright but with the letter R.  I thought that meant RED.  I was persuaded to believe so, since I momentarily received an SMS confirming that I was ‘roaming’, and I could send an SMS for ‘only’ 48 shillings (back home, the normal SMS rate is 1 shilling).  The other SIM did not even bother to show activity, R or otherwise.  Of course, the SIM card showing R did not have any semblance of airtime.  It would have been better had it stayed quiet and useless than sending the alert SMS.  So I was stuck.

Nowhere to run

Figure this, I am in a parking lot, at a high security lot, where everybody treats everybody with suspicion.  The security personnel are constantly moving all people off the gate area.  I do not know the details of where I am going.  I do not have a telephone contact and…. I cannot call, I cannot send a message.  To sweeten the dilemma, I have dollars as currently, the local transactions are conducted in Birr.  I do not even have intelligence as to the approximate cost of taxi fare, where to get public transport or even how to get out if I exercised the option of using public transport.

These were the longest two-and-a-half hours of my life.  I just kept walking about at the lot.  I just stayed on with the ongoing chaos, which did not take long to hit me.

“Taxi?  Town?  Only two fifty Birr.  Very cheap,” one ruffian approached.

“I am OK,” I responded.

“No two-fifty?, OK, I take two-forty.  Very cheap,” he continued, following my retreat.

“I am OK,” I repeated, and continued walking.

He ran in front of me, momentarily blocking my path.

“I reduce. Two-sati. Final, two-sati”

For crying out loud!!!

I had to endure many other taxi negotiations until I was finally exhausted.  That is when the idea of WhatsApp (where ‘I am not on WhatsApp’ anyway) came up.  I just looked at the contacts and realized one familiar local contact.  This elicited an ‘Eureka’ moment in me.  However, without SIM access or public wifi, I was still cooked (in the sun) with no much help yet.  Nonetheless, out of desperation, and with nothing else to do, I just typed an SOS message and observed it stay unsent, with the hour symbol displayed at the bottom of the message.  The text message that I had typed just indicated that I was stuck at the lot and was standing next to a notice board, and was in a branded blue jacket and out of communication.

Then… then the phone picked an open wifi.  I saw “Samsung Galaxy J3 Open” displayed on screen, on the list of wifi networks.

I do not know what happened when, but I found myself connected to the open wifi.  Before long, the message was showing two ticks that indicate delivery to recipient.  While still wondering what just happened, the phone beeped and indicated “No network”.  I rechecked on the list of available wifi which now had “Samsung Galaxy J3 Secured” amongst many other networks.

“What just happened,” I asked myself.

Nonetheless, I still hoped that the two ticks on the WhatsApp was what I thought it was – a confirmation of successful delivery.  There was no way of finding out than waiting it out and seeing how long the bluff would last.

At ten, a big blue van approach my standing place, before a driver beckoned.  He stated the name of a hotel that I was familiar with, and crowned it with the name of my SOS contact person.

“Rachel call me,” he informed my reluctant and suspicious frame, “We go hotel now.”

I got in.

“Sorry, was to come one-thirty, but late, now four,” he tried to explain. 

I am now used to hearing time stated the Kiswahili style, where seven o’clock is stated as one o’clock.

Start of confrontation

I sat on the back right, instead of the usual back left, and had a mental challenge as vehicles kept driving on the ‘wrong side’ of the road.  I kept being afraid of an imminent head on collision amongst vehicles which unfortunately never happened, since all seemed to be used to the ‘wrong’ driving.  I just closed my eyes and relaxed the confusion for a moment.  It is at this moment of closed eyes, heading to the hotel that I remembered yet another saga on this very same day.  This happened in the morning at JKIA.  It was soon a full-blown drama, almost claiming casualties.  The blame for this however goes to KCAA, the national civil aviation authority.  This is why…

The departure lounge was fully full.  There were no vacant spaces on the seats at the departures waiting lounge, while travelers kept filing in.  There was no place to sit, despite the boarding being about 30 minutes away.  New and late travelers like me just had to keep walking around the crowded benches, with nostalgia of how a sit-down would feel like.  I try not to be judgmental, but I believe that we have some badly-behaved travelers.  Sample these – how do you sprawl your whole body on a 3-seater when fifty people are standing and looking for places to sit?  How about placing a bag on the seat ‘to book’ it?  What of sitting on one and placing your legs on the opposite seat so that you are having a 2-in-1 couch?  All this while over fifty homo sapiens are just hanging around looking for a place?  

The incident in question has the above ‘bad behavour’ scenarios as the setting.  To be precise, this scene involves two of these bads at the same place, at the same time – talk of lighting not striking a tree twice!!  Add to this the fact that I was caught up in the mix!!!

Pardon

The scene involves two 3-seater benches facing each other.  I am seated on the last slot of one, with someone else opposite.  Next to me is a madam with legs stretched to the opposite bench, asleep, snoring.  Next to her is a bag sitting on the seat.  Opposite the ‘sitting bag’ is a guy just staring at the ceiling, absent mindedly minding his own business.  In summary, a set of benches that should sit six is currently sitting only four.  A bag and a pair of legs are occupying the other two slots.  

Finally, with this scene set, the boiling point that was bound to happen, did actually happen!

“Remove bag, I sit,” a man approached the gentleman who was staring at the ceiling.

“It’s not mine,” he responded and continued his ceiling gaze.

“Just remove I sit,” the ‘approacher’ repeated.

“I beg your pardon!”, the man seated was evidently agitated, “Do you want us to square it out?  Do you have the balls?”

The man who had wanted to sit just decided to leave.  Meanwhile, I wondered, amusedly as to why men like playing games with balls.  I did not see any around, though on the TV screens projected across the aisle, I could see some ball game ongoing – one ball though, as some twenty-two men kept chasing after it.  What is this obsession?  Did I not even see a sign that balls were among the items not allowed on hand luggage?

Second pardon

As if that was not the end of this act, a new madam approached the scene, hardly five minutes later.

“Get bag out,” she said, aiming her words at the ceiling-staring gentleman.

“It’s not mine,” he mouthed out, anger in each syllable.

“I want sit,” she said.

“Why are you asking me for? Do what you want!,” he responded angrily.

“I not know English”, she continued, “Remove bag.”

I could just figure out a physical confrontation coming up.  And it is the guy who almost stood up ready to punch it out, since I could see his restlessness visibly growing.  Truth be told, he was just unlucky to be coincidentally seated opposite an open seat (rather a sitting bag).

Just then, when the tension was so tight, it could easily be slit by a razor, the owner of the bag came over and took her seat.

“This is my seat,” the now seating lady stated, removing the bag and placing it on the floor.  She was evidently sensing the tension between the standing woman and the restless man opposite.

“Why can’t you sit next there,” she pointed to the ‘seating legs’, just next to the man.  These were the legs of the lady sitting next to me, stretched to the opposite seat.

“But…,” the standing lady started, probably noting that the owner of the legs was asleep.

The just seated lady nudged her neighbor, the sleeping lady, and asked her to remove her legs from the bench.  The sleeper stirred, regained consciousness for a few seconds, and removed her legs from the seat – slowly, reluctantly, hesitantly and with some frown on the face.  She even mouthed the f.

Delicacy

My stay at ADD was largely uneventful.  Five days of work that ended up with a dinner in honour.  The dinner was injera and firfir.  I was surprised to enjoy the combination of the sour injera and very sweet firfir.  The latter is a soup made of some ground grains and goes quite well with the starch.  Of course, no Ethiopian meal ends without buna, which must be taken very strong, very dark and in a very small cup.  In fact, even breakfast consisting of coffee ends with a cup of buna.  I took some.  (Buna is the Amharic word for coffee).

Finally it was a Saturday, time to get back home.

But just a few hours to my travel back to Kenya, I managed to have my own day out.  I first went to the UN complex for the annual multi-nation cultural show.  My colleague was to pick me up, but the traffic jam was so bad that she decided to send a taxi cab instead.  Being a Saturday, I would have assumed that the jam on the road would have relented, but not on that Saturday.

“Roads closed, celebration at Meskel,” my colleague Rachel sent a WhatsApp message.

“How do we meet then?,” I whatsapped back.

“I shall send taxi, just wait at gate.”

The taxi came over some ten minutes later.  After getting in, with instinct naturally telling me to belt up, the driver immediately reminded me that, “Don’t touch, no work.”  It took almost an hour to drive the 6km distance from Gurd Shola to town.  At the complex we moved around stand to stand, seeing the various offerings by the different countries.  Most of them had clothes, food and drinks as the main showcase.  All items were on sale.  The proceeds were for charity.

Elephant

It was while sampling the various cultures at the complex, when we finally got to our stand, where my motherland was well represented with two symbols – the two Ts.

“What is Tusker?,” Rachel had asked as we passed by the Kenyan stand.  She had earlier insisted that I say hi to the exhibitors in Kiswahili, just for the fun of it, to demo to the exhibitor that their country person was also here.  After that greeting, we started touching-touching the items on display.  That is when I was confronted with the question for the motherland.

“Are you serious or joking?,” I started, “Tusker is the best beer in the world”

To elaborate further, and to respond to her puzzled look, I had to update her that, “The biggest beer event in Belgium, the Monde Selection, has voted Tusker as the best beer in the world, every year for the last many years.”

The other ‘T’ representing Kenya was Tea, of course.  Kenya is internationally recognized for the best shayi on the planet.

After visiting the many stands, and even benefiting from some sampled foods from Africa and Europe, I decided to walk to town, to see the sites and purposefully visit the famous Meskel square.  I only had instinct and open eyes to guide me.  I did not have a map nor a working communication gadget.  The instructions were, “Keep going along road.  Do not leave road. Meskel there near that big building.”

Central America

I found myself in ‘Mexico’ instead.  That was because my ‘open-eyes’ failed to notice Meskel on my left, across the road, about 2km from my starting point.  One km later and I was at Mexico, where at least there was a public city map.  I studied the map and noted a few familiar buildings that I had passed on my way here.  I could now even figure out Meskel and why I had missed it.  I had assumed that it shall be a big park akin Uhuru park back home.  It turned out to be a non-so-gigantic public terrace, just next to the main highway.  In fact I had seen it on my way towards Mexico.  It is my interpretation of the expected size of the grounds that misled me.  

I also spend lots of my time looking at the overhead electric train.  I however kept wonder why it was only pulling two coaches when the demand was so high.  I know the demand is high since I had observed through the glass windows of the passing train as to how packed the travelers were in the coaches.  I had intended to take a ride but had been warned that I would not survive the trip. 

“I don’t care,” I had told Rachel, “I want to be stepped on.  I want to struggle to get in.  I want to be shoved about.  I want to be forced past my destination because I cannot get out!.  That is the fun that I am looking for.”

But they said No, unless they would accompany me, and they themselves did not have the stomach to take the train.  That is how I missed out on my inaugural ride.

On my way back from Mexico square, I decided to cross the road so that I could walk by Meskel square.  I had the pleasure of paying respects to ‘the lion’.  As I was just crossing an adjoining road to get to Meskel, I noted a tough tag on my elbow.  I was now standing at the traffic jam mid-road, waiting to follow suit on what others were to do – either waiting for the lights to turn green for pedestrians (though I did not see any) or just waiting for a cue from the others as to when we should cross.  I was just observing my fellow ‘crossers’, who were now at a pause, as the vehicles came to a standstill at the junction.  There was a second tag on my hand, which caused me to stir.

I quickly tagged out, then looked back to see who was pulling on my sleeve.

“Birr,” the ruffian said, and tagged me again, as I noted another three such roughly looking men approaching to join in, as we all waited to cross the road.

“Leave me alone!,” I said in haste, pulling my hand off.

“Birr, birr,” he tagged again as the other three converged for the kill.

I ran across to Meskel, not caring to look out for vehicles.  A heard a few hoots and some cursing, but I was already across the road and walking the terraces of Meskel.

You are on your own

I was to pick my taxi, same taxi that brought me, outside the UN at ‘eight-thirty’ i.e. saa nane na nusu.  I walked back and was ready for my taxi at that time.  I was apprehensive however, since I did not know how the taxi person was to identify me.  Additionally, I was completely out of communication and was just relying on the good faith of the taxi person, as per instructions passed to him by Rachel.

“You?, Research?,” someone called out.  

I looked around and saw the taxi person.  I just had to assume that he was the taxi person anyway.  I followed him to where he had parked and when I got in the taxi, I for sure knew that I was in the right taxi.

Crank!  Crank!  He tried the starter.  It did not give.  The blue painted old structure remained unmoved.  After a conversation with his fellow taxi people in a language that was familiar in tonal structure, but not understandable, the three gents outside the taxi gave it a push.  It started rolling down the road while the driver tried to start it ‘somehow’.  I have learnt through other experiences that the ‘somehow’ is done by engaging the reverse gear while in forward motion.  By fifty meters the taxi had not come to life, it was just rolling on free.  It was a lucky break that the machine roared to life just as we hit the main road.  The very main road that I had seen with a sign written 'Jomo Kenyatta Av' during my walk to Meskel.  We hit the road and kept going.  Every stop due to traffic jam spelled doom to our vehicle, since it threatened to switch off, or actually did.

The taxi switched off one or two more times and the driver had to use his genius to restart it each of these times.  I started making other observations.  The machine did not even have an ignition.  The driver would strike the junction of two bare wires with a third bare tipped wire to ignite the engine.  The car did not have the knob of the gear lever.  A metallic bar protruding from the floor of the taxi turned out to be the gear lever.  However, these adventures are what makes me enjoy my sojourns.  I liked every bit of my life in the taxi, including a few curses thrown to our car for either crossing in front of some ‘posh’ car or the fact that it could stall in the middle of the highway.  When he finally dropped me and paying the charge of Birr 250, I was all praise for the driver.

“Ride? How the ride?”

“I liked it,” I said, and I meant it.

Therefore, drama, drama, drama was how my last run was…. And I liked every bit of it, even as I finally traveled back at five-twenty in the night – rather, now that I was back to normal time, it was actually eleven-twenty in the night, or to be ‘aviationically’ correct, twenty-three-twenty hours.

WWB, the Coach, Nairobi, Kenya, Dec. 9, 2018