Born to Run

I went for a run last Sunday. Strange that my brother ran for his first time as well within the past week, but that is neither here nor here. I ran mostly just to say, “I ran in Africa.” Dan is right, though: no one runs for exercise here. If someone is running, something must be wrong. So if you want to stick out as a Caucasian, more so than you do already, you go for a run.

I ran through a trail that led out into “the bush,” the forested plain where the development ends and Jurassic Park begins. I’ve heard the John Williams theme music in my head quite often over the past two months as Fr. Francis and I have driven through the jungle environment. I’ve also waited in anticipation for a Velociraptor or a Tyrannosaur to leap from the thicket. No sightings yet.

It didn’t take long before I had a following of children keeping pace, giggling and laughing along. One child ran up to me and held out a stick. Please don’t stab me, I thought. Then several other kids ran in close with sticks, outreaching for me to take them. A kid yelled, “Take my torch!” They think I’m in the Olympics. Most of the children were clowning around, but I have no doubt that at least one six-year old believed that this strange man was running through her village on the way to Athens. So I grabbed some sticks and quickened my pace, perhaps believing for a moment that I was an Olympian.

Then I got tired, so I went home. But you know what, I ran in Africa. And I didn’t get stabbed by children.

-Bob
written 07/12/11