The Runner by Markus Torgeby

Author:Markus Torgeby
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing

TANZANIA

AFTER EIGHT HOURS in the air, I am desperate to stretch my legs. Peter, the documentary filmmaker, is fast asleep in the seat next to me. He’s going to film my first days in Tanzania.

I bought my tickets through the students travel agency Kilroy Travels – 5500 kronor [$635] return Göteborg Landvetter–Nairobi. I’ve got 6000 kronor [$690] in travellers’ cheques and 500 kronor [$60] in cash.

I feel nervous as we leave the plane. The air is thin and warm and smells different. I collect my 50-litre rucksack from the baggage carousel and it still smells of smoke from my tent. A thousand memories wash over me: darkness, cold, me warm in the sleeping bag, alone with my calm heartbeat.

The rucksack contains everything I will need for the upcoming six months: two pairs of running shoes, running shorts, long tights, a thick cotton sweater, two pairs of long johns, three pairs of socks and woollen underwear; two books by Dostoevsky, The Idiot and Crime and Punishment; a cheap CD player and some Mogwai and Low CDs; a new diary with unlined pages. Apart from that, only the clothes I’m wearing and the anorak that I’ve tied around my waist. Peter and I work our way through the crowd outside passport control, looking for the bus that will take us over the border to Tanzania. We find ourselves in another world. I’m not used to airports, they stress me out. I can feel my Adam’s apple straining as I breathe before we find our bus.

We buy our tickets, set off and bump along through Nairobi’s teeming streets and out into the countryside. I calm down as soon as I can see a bit further. I’ll never get used to the urban environment. I can see grass and open fields with giraffes and water buffalo. A dark green horizon far away.

We reach Arusha at early light. There’s a sea of humanity as we get off the bus. No asphalt, just compacted earth. Gentle on the feet. Peter and I are the only light-skinned ones around, and people come right up to us to have a look. That’s OK.

My rucksack is covered in a film of red dust when the bus driver chucks it down from the roof. I take a deep breath and suppress my anxiety. Peter is standing to the side filming, a silent eye that watches and preserves images.

I feel the hunger in my stomach. I haven’t eaten for ages, I’ve only drunk tepid water. I catch sight of a gangling young guy who is holding up a sign with my name on. I hold out my hand to him.

‘Hello, my name is Markus.’

‘Hello, Markos, my name is Thadey.’

‘Not Markos, Markus.’

‘Markos?’

OK, I think to myself, I’m going to be Markos here.

‘The coach asked me to pick you up,’ says Thadey.

After that we don’t say much more. Thadey’s English vocabulary seems very limited. We walk out of the town and follow a red dirt path up the slopes towards Mount Meru, 4565 metres high.

Download

Copyright Disclaimer:
This site does not store any files on its server. We only index and link to content provided by other sites. Please contact the content providers to delete copyright contents if any and email us, we'll remove relevant links or contents immediately.