No Mail for You! NEXT!!!!!!!

It is nice to know that some American staples have crossed international borders. For instance, I have received a few packages, from the wife and family during my time here. The average travel time of each package is roughly two weeks. Which is not too bad, considering how far out in the country I am staying.

Let me tell you about the Kapsabet Post Office. I was fortunate enough, when I first arrived to meet the Postmaster, in Kapsabet. I had inquired with him, how I should I direct mail from the States, to eventually end up in my possession. He said, " Just put, Attn: Postmaster, your name and ph# below, and I will call you when it arrives." I was blown away, to get such first class service without having to sign up for anything special.

Two weeks later, I get a phone call from the Postmaster, alerting me that a parcel has arrived for me. Here is where it becomes a slice of home. That was the last phone notice I received. Since then I have had maybe four other packages sent my way. I do not deal with the Postmaster, and hadn't seen him since my first week in town. My point of contact is now a United States Postal Service clone, or drone you might say.

Here is our routine. "Hi, I would like to see if you have any packages for Neil McDonagh." The reply, "Do have identification?" "No, I guess I will come back tomorrow." The next day, I bring proper ID and they say there is no package for me. I happen to be at the track the following morning, and since it is on the way, I stop into the Post Office. I ask the same clerk, if there are any packages for me. "Do you have ID?" I say, "But I just showed it yesterday to you, don't you remember me?" Honestly at that point, I hadn't seen another white person in two weeks. I found it highly unlikely, that I may have a body double roaming the streets without my knowledge. She of course holds her ground, and deadpans me, " You need identification."

This lady really does not like me. Do I know why? No. Although I am pretty sure that whatever list I have landed on, is not short. The only thing I can compare our interactions for the past eight weeks, is a direct mirror of, Jerry and Newman, from Seinfeld.

I enter the post office.
"Helllllooooo Bernice."
"Hello Neeeeil."

ID through the metal, bars. Bernice disappears with great regret, and without haste. She always disappears for between a 10-30 sec. count, which I presume is enough time to lean against a wall and possibly pick a piece of lunch lodged between a tooth. Re-enters stage right, and my ID is promptly thrown back on the counter, as she walks back to her desk. No explanation, or maybe try again tomorrow salutation. This lady really does not like, which is why I always pay my customs fee in the fashion of the movie, Big. A hodgepodge of bills and coins in no order or reason. I just feign ignorance that I do not understand the intricacies of the Kenyan shilling.

She has been really stonewalling me with my last package. She has resorted to telling me to go to some outside window, around the back of the building. This window is manned by what seems to be a janitor, who seems baffled by my request, notably the English part of it. Next time I refuse to go to the back window, and she takes less than a half-hearted look. I am steamed, because I am really looking forward to this last package.

Jackpot! Two days ago, I am back at the teller window, but this time I have the ace up my sleeve. I am chatting with my buddy, the Postmaster. I tell him I have been waiting a while on my last package. He makes a face, and glares at Bernice. I hand her my SC Driver's license, with a big smile. She returns after a minute or two, with my package and maybe four other US Mail priority boxes, which look to have been punted from USA to Kenya. As I am filling out the required forms, in front of the Postmaster, I can't help but revel in the situation. As I get up to leave, the Postmaster tells me to drop by and say goodbye. I assure him that of course I would. I also assure Bernice that I would come by to say goodbye to her for the last time, with a huge smile, volleyed back with an equally forced grin. Some things really aren't that different.

Training:

The most notable thing over the past few weeks have been the fartlek workouts, that I have been joining. The group is usually in the range of thirty guys. They argue about the scheduled plan for the workout, which I always excuse myself from, because I know I am of no concern. When members of your group were pace-makers for Haile G's WR marathon a few weeks ago in Berlin, you realize that "easy" is a whole different ballgame.

I usually get dropped somewhere on the 2nd or 3rd rep. Of course, yesterday's workout was no different. The workouts span almost an hour by themselves. Yesterday's workout consisted of 3min hard with 1 min jog recovery (not a jog by the way, just not all out) repeated eighteen times! The workout covered roughly 18km. These workouts kill me. I also realize that fartlek workouts have been the weakest link in my training routine, and it really shows. I just hold my ground and finish the workouts and try and keep the pack in sight, up on the yonder hills.

*Postal Employee names have been changed, but if you go there, it will not be hard to find the characters mentioned.