Hello friends and family,
The last few posts I’ve written have been nothing but downers, so I figured I should write about something that brings me joy in the village. It took me a while to think of something (not a good sign), but I finally settled on my latest fitness habit: running.
Running has become a delightful part of my routine. At 4:00 pm almost every day, I close my laptop and don a used T-shirt, swim trunks—which are the best running shorts I have available—and my hand-me-down Hoka running shoes. I found these shoes at a thrift store in Mkushi, Zambia. They were road-worn, but they were my size and on sale for 80 kwacha ($4), so I bought them on a whim. When I told my runner friends about them, their jaws dropped. “Those shoes are stupid nice,” they said, “like, two hundred dollars, easy.”
“Oh,” I said, surprised at my good find. “Well, I guess it’s good to be lucky if you’re broke!”
After a short warm-up, I crank up the tunes and start off on my favorite three-mile loop. The first leg is a sandy decline through a wooded forest. You can’t see the decline, but you can feel it; my pace improves by about 40 seconds going down it. I’m not tired yet, so I often watch the sun as it descends into the treeline, an angry-orange disk in a hazy, smoke-filled sky.
To the villagers, running is probably the “strangest” thing I do. Men rarely wear shorts in public, and they never go jogging. Why would they? What farmer would run in a circle after a long day in the fields? It’s so absurd that they’ll often assume I’m in a hurry to get somewhere. When I tell them that, no, I’m just, “running around,” (“mupeepi,”) they look at me as if I belong in a madhouse.
I pass a water pump and the trees open up to a wide, green field. Gray mounds the size of bowling balls cover the field in a regular, grid-like pattern. For the longest time, I had no idea what these mounds were. Their placement was far too consistent to be normal rocks—there were hundreds of them, but none came within four feet of each other. Then one day, I found one of them cracked open and saw an intricate network of crisscrossing tunnels that could only be built by termites. Thousands of termite mounds right outside my home. How lovely.
After a right turn and a somewhat treacherous footpath, I pass the local community school. “School” may be too strong a word: it’s a round brick building with no door, no roof, a couple of chairs, and a black board. What it lacks in infrastructure, though, it makes up for in dedication. Everyday, dozens of kids from around the community gather together to learn basic arithmetic, grammar, and English. Most of the instruction come from three mothers who live closeby. They have no credentials, governmental support, or salary, but they show up everyday to educate any child who wants to learn. The school has a name that fits it perfectly: Progress Community School.
Another right turn and I’m starting to wind back home. This is my least favorite part of my circuit, partly because the road slopes up to an incline, but mostly because I once saw a six-foot black snake slither across the road and disappear into the bush. That snake is long gone, but I can’t help but think about what would happen if a snake bit me while running. I’d have to sprint to find a nearby home, then try to explain what had happened in my broken and frantic Bemba, then somehow find someone with a motor bike because the clinic is 30 minutes away, but who knows how fast the venom could spread in that time… So yeah, I hate that part.
Now I’m in the home stretch. A maize field opens up on my left and I can see that the sun has sunk a little further. I’m on a busier road now, so I’m passing more people. Each of them smile, glance down at my bare legs, and squint a little, like they can’t quite believe what they’re seeing. I don’t blame them. If I were a Zambian farmer, I too would be bewildered at a giant, paper-white muzungu in shorts who appears to be running away from nothing. Kids are the only ones who seem to “get it.” They usually squeal with laughter and start running alongside me. Just yesterday, a boy no more than five years-old held my hand and ran with me for a full minute. Absolute highlight of my day.
I slow down once I approach my home, then I flop into my outdoor chair, panting and sweating. I wave hello at my host family, who smile and wave back. After a cool bucket bath—the best kind after a run under the hot sun—I change into some comfy clothes and start on dinner. I only cook one dish, bean and rice soup. It’s boring, but it gets the job done. A few episodes of TV later and I’m ready for bed. I repeat the whole process, day-in and day-out, until I can go a little further or a little faster with the same amount of effort. Then I repeat: wake up, read, work, run, eat. Rinse, repeat. Rinse, repeat.
A mediocre photo of Progress Community School. I may be many things, but a skilled photographer is not one of them.
I loved this article. Yes, more like this! This is a pretty awesome story, well written, so thank you.
When I run, I just tell the villagers I'm going for a "morning walk" even though I'm running. They seem to understand "morning walk" better in their world view.