Emily's Worldview

On a recent weekend, my friend C from graduate school came up from the coast to spend a weekend up north. The occasion? The Kilimanjaro marathon and half marathon, starting in the town of Moshi. Moshi is a more provincial version of Arusha, with a tiny town center surrounded by tree-lined roads converging on tidy traffic circles (Roundabouts or "Keep-Lefties" to the locals). It is an hour's drive from Arusha. The day we arrived was a Saturday, the typical day for weddings, so the circles were choked with jubilant wedding processions, and on the streets women in party dresses mingled with runners in wind pants and white people who had come from all over East Africa.

After dropping C off at the start line, I took my place as enthusiast/water girl midway up a long hill right before a great view of Kilimanjaro, and waited. The stretch of road was flanked by coffee farms, and from the rows of bushes some children emerged to see what I was doing. We watched the first elite marathoners go by, then eagerly watched for, in order, the first African woman, the first white man, and the first white woman. The race was a distorted version of the marathons I've watched in America: a large pack of elite runners at the front, followed by a small group of gradually more and more casual runners all the way to the people at the end who look determined, but undertrained and in pain. While all of the elite runners looked East African, most of the slower runners were white.

Eventually I got my young fellow-spectators to clap for the runners as they went by. C showed up on pace, eager for the gatorade and sports gels brought from America for the event. I saw her going up the hill, and coming back down, then drove through unfamiliar backroads to meet her after she finished. The villages I passed through were beautiful--red soil and green banana trees--and the people smiled indulgently as I leaned out the window and asked politely how to get to town. I bought a bunch of bananas for my runner and nearly broke my arms helping the woman selling them lift her tray off her head. She probably had 60 pounds of bananas on her head, and was still miles from her market, an everyday feat of endurance.

In the dusty stadium where the race ended, vendors sold popsicles, pineapple wedges on skewers, roasted chicken, and Kilimanjaro brand beer. There were unending announcements over the loud speaker and tents handing out free stuff to the runners (Vodacom t-shirts, Tanga Cement headbands). We hung out for a while but the early morning cool had given way to mid-morning heat, and it was time to head back to Arusha.