Sunday 9 September 2012

Sept 2nd, morning...



We are enough of a spectacle as it is; such a large group of mzungu's bewildering themselves around Nakuru. We shuffle around in a confused gaggle on seemingly incomprehensible missions, (mzungu literally means aimless wanderer) talking and pointing, sometimes writing stuff in tiny black notebooks, a subtitled comedy of manners. 

Five of us had decided to go on a run the previous night. By the time we reach the gate of our estate we've all twisted ankles. One has decided to quit whilst she's still... well, whilst not ahead, at least still able to circumvent unilateral organ failure. We are 1850' above sea level and the effect on our collective fitness levels is dramatic. 


I can only imagine what they make of the sight of us. Heaving as we are our pale carcasses around the mechanic sector of town just as everyone is opening up shop. I see their curious and faintly alarmed faces attempt to process the image of this new apparition - 'When a mzunga looks like he is about to die, a miraculous phenomenon occurs, he is no longer white, but beetroot red, and puffy round the edges. He hunches and sags, and yet perseveres in straining onwards, running to meet his doom.'





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