First Run on African Soil

Sunday, 16th February

First thing this morning after I woke up, I decided to go for a short run along the dirt roads into the village (probably about 10 minutes in one direction before I decided that 7:30 was definitely leaving it too late for the heat so headed back). Advised by Tom the previous day, I jogged along the pebbly tracks carrying a couple of stones in case either stray dogs or baboons decided they wanted a piece of mzungu for their breakfast - a bit of a change from the UK where at most you might get the odd marauding sheep.

Despite it being hard work with the blazing sun and the steep ups and downs of the hillside, when I got to my halfway point I felt serene. (Though I probably looked like I had run a marathon, drenched in sweat and bright red, instead of reaching some sort of inner peace.) As I looked out at my view, gentle African music rose up from the valley below as the morning routine of the tiny tin-roofed households was already well underway; African mornings start a lot earlier, usually around 4 or 5 for most working people. The outskirts of Siavonga looked timeless: women busied themselves making chima (the Zambian word for mealie meal) over wood fires whilst children had started their morning hike to school. Nobody seemed in a rush though, everyone just seemed to be soaking it all in.

The family I was staying with were Mormon and kindly invited me to their home church service later that morning. It was very interesting to see the different hymns and the blessing of the water and the bread and offered me a chance to reflect on my journey so far, where I had come and what the next few weeks held.

After lunch I walked to the village shop with Elijah and Lewis, passing what I assume was the only village toilet and its open sewer. On the way back we were surrounded by local children who the boys were friendly with. Among some of the games we played, I introduced them to bulldog, unwittingly signing myself up to sprinting races every time I walked down the road in future. They were all fascinated by my glasses, each wanting to try them on and recoiling with giggles as the world fuzzed up in front of them. From then on I was known as the blind mzungu.

I was struck by the age range of the children; tiny 2 and 3 year old toddlers were chasing after us laughing and just mucking in with the rest of the kids up to teenagers. However from the age of about 5 years old there were no girls. I was told later that this was because they were expected to stay at home and help with chores, whilst the boys were able to go out and play to their hearts' content until they were old enough to find jobs. The poverty was also very apparent: since the town had no tap, all the residents had to walk down to the lake (minding the crocodiles) to collect the water, which was far from pristine. The kids of course were all wearing scrappy, dusty clothes and hardly any had shoes; a lucky few had some broken flip flops. I was told that the local bar is regularly frequented by husbands and sons who blow all their day's earnings on drink, leaving their wife and children with no supper. I felt selfishly privileged as we walked back home to have a hot shower and dinner.