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Published: April 17th 2010
Bekoji running track
The guy in the yellow and green tracksuit in the foreground is Sentayo, the coachIf travelling through Africa is considered a holiday, then I am in the enviable situation of having a holiday within a holiday. That's right. I am currently in Moshi, Tanzania, revisiting old friends in the area in which I volunteered three years ago. After the carnage of Ethiopia and a hectic birthday in Kenya, familiar faces in a place I consider a home from home is exactly what I needed before embarking on the next stage of the trip: the long pedal south.
Before leaving Addis I met up with Lindsey and Laura, two of the seven now in the English Army cycling to the World Cup. We had similar plans of trucking/bussing as far as Kenya (Lindsey was recovering from a nasty fall on her bike) so we hooked up and travelled together. Had I been on my own I would have got a direct bus from Addis to the border but the girls had other plans, plans which led to some incredible and surreal experiences.
From Addis we headed south to a place called Bekoji where we intended to stay the night and spend much of the next day. The reason for this is that Bekoji is
known for producing a remarkable number of world champion runners, especially given it's tiny size. Lying at an altitude of about 2600m it was the birth place of Derarta Tulu, Tirunesh Debaba and (the one you will have most likely heard of) Kenenise Bekele. From the bus we met the coach, a portly man named Sentayo, of the Bekoji running club and he took us to Bekele's hotel to spend the night.
Sentayo has coached all of the above-mentioned and a number of other successful runners. He was enthusiastic for us to visit the club the following morning so at 6.30am we received a wake-up call. We were taken to a track, over-looking the village, where 200 15-25 year-olds were limbering up. Wearing my QPR shirt, cleanest shorts and totally ill-equipped trainers I joined the fastest group of runners for the 15 minute warm-up. After one kilometer at the pace of these guys I was gasping for air and opted to join the slowest group for the five kilometer run around the roads that followed. It was incredible to run around the same roads that so many previous champions have and I found myself wandering which of those I
was running with (many of whom were already recognised runners for Ethiopia and Bahrain) may accomplish success in the future.
If this was not enough, the three of us were then invited into the home of Kenenise Bekele's parents. We met his mother, father, brother and nieces and nephews. There were piles of trainers everywhere in this very understated house. His family were very welcoming and pleased to see some foreign tourists appreciating this beautiful village. Sentayo informed us that they only see tourists in Bekoji once every three months.
Much of the next two days was spent hacking our way to the Kenyan border on numerous bus journeys. Each journey would entail the rigamarole of unloading and reloading the girls' bikes and chatting with locals who wake you up from your sleep to ask you questions like: 'What is your dream?' It was a tiring two days but we did enjoy a few hours in Sheshamene, which boasts a large rastafarian community. The town was visited and loved by Bob Marley who (it is rumoured) is to be reburied in the town sometime soon. I visited the rastafarian HQ to take some photos of Jan's (Polish guy
I'd travelled a bit with in northern Ethiopia) artwork as he had painted some lions on the pillars of HQ. I met some really cool guys, proper rastas, but we were not able to stay the night and it became one of our many stops on the journey.
The final night of the journey was spent in a place called Dilla. Fairly non-descript, we arrived late and were heading to the border early the next morning. After food and beers we returned to the hotel room to find that someone had let themselves into our room and stolen my camera and pen-knife. At midnight, and totally furious, I woke up the guard and the owner and demanded an explanation. The owner was a young guy and appeared genuine. The guard, on the other hand, was shifty, and I made no secret of the fact I suspected him. The owner was literally spitting with anger and I sat and waited until 1am when my camera case (no camera) was brought to me from the guard's room. Furious, I awoke the girls (I needed someone to calm me down) and on returning to the camera case which I'd thrown to the
floor I found someone had since slipped my camera inside. Strange. It took a further half an hour for the guard to bring the pen-knife out and I eventually got to bed, with all my belongings returned, at about 2, not nice considering we had to be up at 4.
The next day we made it to the border at Moyale and were offered a lift to Isiolo in a coffee bean truck. We had been expecting to have to wait until the following morning for a military escort (banditry is (or was) commonplace in northern Kenya) but neither was necessary and at about 5 in the afternoon, curled up amongst these enormous sacks weighing 100kg each and with about ten other Kenyans for company, we bumped southwards towards the central Kenyan town of Isiolo. From stories heard from other travellers we'd heard that the journey would take between 12 and 40 hours so it was more than likely that my birthday (the next day) would be enjoyed on this filthy, dusty, smelly, hot truck.
As midnight passed I was lying flat on the canopy on top of the truck, staring at a blissfully clear sky of stars.
I slept there for hours. Happy days. The next day I awoke to a rendition of 'Happy Birthday' and loads of bubblegum, lollies and biscuits as we set about celebrating my quarter of a century in style. In the 24th hour of the journey we finally rolled into Isiolo where, tired and filthy, my spirits were lifted as I met a local wearing a QPR shirt. I didn't care that he had no idea what 'QPR' was and that he'd only bought it because it was cheap. It was great to see another QPR shirt in Africa, the first I have ever seen, on my birthday. Minutes later, on arrival at the hotel, I turned my phone on to be informed we'd beaten Palace 2-0 in a relegation six-pointer. After meeting two other cyclists, Dicken and John, the night of my birthday really gathered pace. We headed out for nyama choma (barbecued beef), beers and then on to several bars and nightclubs. The guys bought me a fake Man Utd top to wear with some green Arsenal y-fronts. We had a great night and I was so grateful to the others for making the day so memorable.
The next
day, hungover, I headed to Nairobi and stayed in the same hostel I had in 2007. There were still pictures of me and my friends (I'd spread them all around East Africa) on the wall and it was crazy to be back. I had considered spending more time in Nairobi to locate a suitable bike fro my journey from Tanzania but, after some discussion with a friend in Tanzania, I decided I would buy one there. I hugged the flag as I entered Tanzania, much to the amusement of the locals, before heading to Arusha, in northern Tanzania, where I stayed with Ben, an old friend, for two nights. It was so great to be in a familiar place where I know where to go, what to eat, what the real cost of things should be, etc.
It was here that I bought the first of my two bikes (read on). For 140,000Tsh (don't panic, it's only 70GBP) I purchased a brand new Chinese bike a long with rear rack, spare tubes, puncture repair kit, pump and front and rear lights. Sorted, I thought. I have since met Muksin, a cycling enthusiastic who deals in touring bikes in Moshi.
I described the bike I had and showed him a photo. He was scathing in his assessment and said that it would not get me 300km down the road. We talked for ages and I trusted him. He was recommended by one of the other cycling guys and his business relies on the quality of what he sells. He has theefore agreed to fix me up a strong Japanese thing for 300,000Tsh with everything I need including rear panniers. I will collect this on Monday before returning to Arusha to take back the other one.
Doesn't sound like much of a holiday within a holiday does it? In fact, it's been pretty busy. But the 'holiday' factor really kicked in when I returned to my old house and school, Nkwarungo, in Machame, north of Moshi in the foothills of Kilimanjaro. Nothing has changed (except the volunteers I am currently staying with). The children are all well, as are their teachers and my former colleagues. My former landlord still has the hat I gave him when I left and he still has a picture of me on his wall. All of the adults I have met remember who I am
and, with some memory-jogging, most of the children do as well. This is really touching. I have been invited to the school for food and it was wonderful to see that the dining hall Joe (my teaching partner) and I fundraised for and coordinated construction of is being put to really good use, with all the children using it for what was intended.
On Monday I will head back to Arusha, where I will meet the other cyclists. The exact date of departure from there (AND ON BIKES!) is still not yet known but I expect it to be around Friday 22nd April. Things seem to be falling into place and I hope to have a charitable cause sorted out soon.
Enjoy the pictures!
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Joe Lester
non-member comment
wow im so jealous! and im glad the dining hall is being used! haha what are the new volunteers like? its nice that they have let you stay with them! send my greetings! :)