I put on my shoes and kykoi (basically a sorang-like cloth which men wear wound around their waist). It was already warm so I dispensed with any other attire and began to stretch. A nice bit of tea and porridge seemed a good idea, so I slipped a couple small sticks into the stove and got them going. I had a grand old cast iron stove like my grandparents used to have. Up here such luxuries as gas stoves were unheard of. (And unneeded! There is no hurry here!)
As the water warmed, I wandered about cleaning up the few possessions I had brought up from Nairobi (everything I owned fit into a single duffle bag, the rest had burned in a Land Rover that caught fire). A cup of "Yellow Label" tea and a small bowl of thin porridge hit the spot. I sat on the back stoop of my house and thought of nothing. Just enjoying being alive.
OK. 'Twas time! I trotted out to the edge of the school and looked around. Which way today? To the North was Mandera, a sprawling town of several hundred block houses and straw huts. Towns are fine, but no place to run. West was the river (empty this time of year) and the border with Ethiopia. A few weeks before we could see the shells exploding during a battle with the Somali rebels trying to free the Ogaden. Not a good direction.
South was desert. Flat and empty for as far as the eye could see. No, that's unfair. The desert is full of life. Short scrub that survives the harsh climate, tiny deer called "Dik-diks" and, somewhere out there, you never know how close or far, the desert lion. He's a dangerous creature. Few lions care for human flesh, but neither are they at all scared of us. South was the direction I normally ran. Not very *far* south, but south.
And west was the army base, the ridge, and somewhere beyond it, Bulla Xawa, the neighboring town in Somalia. I'd never been up the ridge...
I trotted slow and easy south of the school, turned left below the army base and headed towards the ridge. When you run out in the desert, you do have to be careful. Lions are not a particular concern during the day, but Puff Adders are. One bite from them and you are history. Five minutes max. Once when I was strolling back to town at night I saw a "stick" on the road (there was a single tarmac road from town to school, about a mile). Had I been on dirt, I never would have seen it. At night, stick to the road!
Up the ridge I trotted. It was an easy run, only about 200 feet high. Why did no one ever come up here? It was a lovely place. The only place for a hundred miles that wasn't flat. It was clear of brush and easy to run along. From the top you can see everything, Mandera, Bulla Xawa, the army base, the school, the river... (and that's everything).
Back in '63 Kenya and Somalia had fought over ownership of the desert. England had declared that the "Northern Frontier District" should be part of Kenya despite the fact that the population (sparse as it was) was all Somali. It wasn't pretty, but it was long over. The Somali in Kenya rapidly discovered that being Kenyan wasn't all that bad in-as-much-as the currency was stable, the economy was good, and the rest of Kenya largely ignored the deserts. They made nice profits running goods across the border (usually illegally). The Somali Repulic decried this officially, but ignored it in practice.
It was warming up now. By 2pm it would be between 100 and 110 F. I had a nice sweat going and felt fantastic. I have this problem with going back the way I've come. It goes against my nature. So I didn't. I jogged down the far side of the ridge, planning to loop around the top near town and return that way. Good plan.
I came down a long, wide, gentle path at full speed. ("With 200 yards to go, it's Frank Shorter, Kip Keno, and Lasse Viren, neck and neck. But right behind them, the newcomer, Bil Lewis is making his move! And what a move he's making! He's 20 yards behind, now 15, 10! The big three can't shake him. 20 yards to go and he's on their tail. They head towards the finish line, so close... It's Lewis!!!") Exhausted from my world record, I slow to a jog. My heart is pounding, my legs are quivering, I'm sweating like a pig. I *love* running!
Two older men come towards me, waving their walking sticks and yelling. I speak ten words of Somali (five of which are obscene) and they speak no Swahili. We wave and gesticulate. They really want me to come into Bulla Xawa with them. I could just leave them in the dust, but that would be impolite. I have students from Bulla Xawa, we northerners are all friends. I've been in Bulla Xawa with the head master before. These guys are getting all excited about nothing. I smile. "Come on. Hakuna Matata" (Yes, that's real Swahili!)
I'm no dummy. I figure that I've probably crossed the border by mistake. Big deal. We are the only two towns within 100 miles and I'm the only non-African for 200. We don't have border problems.
At the police station, I learn differently. The police chief comes in, sees me, listens to the two men and has a panic attack. The American school teacher has entered a Somali military zone the day after a big flare-up over Soviet rockets in Kisimayu putting US pressure on Somalia. And these two old farts are threatening to tell everyone that an American spy has been in Bulla Xawa. 25 years in a Somali prison is not my idea of fun.
Right, a half-naked runner in the NFD--a place no one else in the entire world has even heard of, is going to spy on a section of desert that he has already seen legally by coming over on a shopping trip. It's stupid, but global politics are stupid. I may be in deep shit.
Two hours later, a Land Rover shows up from the Kenyan police station. I hop in and we drive back to Mandera. The police are quiet until we cross the (invisible) border, then they give me hell. "What the Hell did I think I was doing?" "Did I realize how close I came to 25 to life?" The Somali police chief had to virtually blackmail those two guys to shut them up. They drive me back to the school.
That was the last time I was ever in Somalia. I stayed in Mandera for the rest of that term and the next, teaching maths, physics and chemistry. While on break in Nairobi in May, the gorilla war with Ethiopia heated up near Mandera and I was unable to return.
I think of the desert fondly. I loved teaching, I loved my students. I loved Mandera.