A Real Turkey, Bwana!

Even from a distance of 6,000 miles, a Kenyan athlete's debut is quite an adventure.

By Jon Rosen | 04.12.07

After thousands of years as a spoil of the world's great empires, the city of Istanbul had better be used to foreign invasion. There was the capture by Rome in 196; the sacking by crusaders in the thirteenth century; the 1453 siege by the Ottoman army that put an end to the Byzantine Empire. And finally, on April 6th, 2007 — donning running shoes in place of heavy armor — the city's latest would-be conqueror: A 110-pound Kenyan named Philemon Kiplangat Terer.

More than two-and-a-half years after I coached Philemon as a high school senior in the village of Sigor, Kenya, the 21-year old stepped off of Emirates flight 121 and onto the Tarmac of Istanbul's Ataturk International Airport, en route to finally achieving what is the foremost goal of any aspiring Kenyan runner: Becoming an International Athlete. Just 36 hours later — after a 14-hour bus ride to the Mediterranean city of Tarsus — Philemon made it official, placing 6th (1:04:55) at the 4th annual Tarsus Half-Marathon. Though no wars would be won because of his feat, no epochs of history altered, the event was nonetheless a milestone — for Philemon as well my father and me, his overseas support squad and biggest fans.

For more than a year, in fact, as Philemon logged 100 mile-weeks in Kenya, we'd worked to find him races overseas, part of our effort to help him chase his dream of lifting his family out of poverty by becoming a professional athlete. Naturally, our first attempt was to bring him to the US, a painstaking process that resulted in two consecutive visa denials. On his second trip to the American embassy he was told that if he returned with a letter of support from Athletics Kenya — the country's running governing body — the visa would be granted. Yet armed with this new stamp of approval, the new interviewer all but told Philemon, a farmer by default were it not for his running, to get lost and go harvest some maize. The Land of Opportunity 3, Kiplangat Terer 0.

Yet just as darkness came to Lady Liberty, the sun began to rise in Anatolia. That weekend, while watching the 2007 World Cross Country Championships in the Kenyan coastal city of Mombassa, Philemon happened upon an agent.

"If I get money for the flight," he told me on the phone later that day, "this guy will send me to race in Turkey... Is that in Europe?"

"Part of it is," I responded. "But part of it is in Asia — the Middle East, near Iraq."

"Ay! I'm going to meet the Taliban there!"

And so, after assuring him the Taliban would be gone from the course before race-time, we shifted our focus to the Turkish embassy, this one easier to navigate, yet still far from immune to the miles red tape endemic to any and all official business in Kenya. As the race date drew nearer, Philemon and two other Turkey-bound athletes still didn't have their visas, and each night that week I lay in bed restless, expecting an early-morning phone call from Philemon delivering good news. But each day the "slight problem" was something different: the manager in Turkey hadn't faxed the invitation letter; the letter from Athletics Kenya could not be corroborated because the phone lines in Nairobi were dead. It got to be almost comical, except for all of us, this was serious business.

Finally, on the last day that making the race would still be possible, the Turkish visas were granted, and the trio immediately booked a flight departing that same evening. Relieved, I instructed Philemon to call me once he arrived at the airport. When I hadn't heard from him 45 minutes before the departure — this being Africa — I expected the worst.

"I am seeing there is a small problem," he said, as he picked up when I dialed. Instead of Nairobi to Dubai, where he was to connect to Istanbul, they'd booked him from Istanbul to Nairobi.

"The airline employees are attempting to fix the problem," his naivete kept him optimistic. "I'll call you with the full details when we get it settled."

"No," I responded, "Just get on the plane as fast as you can. You can email me from Turkey."

Two hours later, my stomach in knots, I tried calling his cell phone. "Samahani," (Swahili for "Sorry"), said the automated female voice. "The mobile subscriber you are calling," she switched to English, "cannot be reached." At that point I knew he'd made it on the plane. And nearly 48 hours later, after his first ever flying experience and the subsequent overnight bus ride, the email he'd promised arrived in my inbox. It began:

"This is a real Turkey, bwana (or, "man" in Swahili) "A country which is very smart and beautiful."

A real Turkey that I'd get to see for myself. Later on that night — 2:30 am Sunday morning east coast time, to be exact — my girlfriend Nora and I found ourselves seated in front of a laptop computer, tuned into an online stream of Tarsus' local TV station for the much-anticipated live broadcast of the race. 100 miles away, connected to us by telephone, my father and college cross-country coach did the same.

Like a Latin American village watching its local hero take his first Major League at-bat, we sat glued to the screen as the gun was fired. As 1000 some-odd runners began the 21.1 k circuit, the camera sat transfixed on the now-runner-less starting line. One minute went by. Then two.

Then twenty.

We saw crowds of spectators mingling about, heard interviews with local officials, even saw a five-minute long traditional Turkish circular dance — but still no shot of the athletes.

Finally, after more than 40 minutes of us gaping at the absurdity of the situation, the channel, Guney TV, came to its senses. Around 3:10 am, the broadcast cut to a shot of what appeared to be the race's lead pack. Grainy, and masked by a blinding white light (the sun perhaps? Or Jesus' practical joke on a Muslim country? — it was, after all, Easter Sunday) it was impossible to make out any features of the athletes, but we could clearly identify the distinct mechanics of their strides as they cruised through the palm-lined streets of Tarsus. My heart raced as the screen cut back to the familiar crowd — still mingling away — after a mere five seconds. Had Philemon been one of them?

Suddenly...there it was again! A pack of 6 runners...

"You say, he has a short stride with quick turnover?" asked Nora.

"Yes, yes..."

"Could that be him, in the light blue top and dark shorts, second from the left?"

"Yes, yes... I think it could..."

Twenty minutes later, following two Kenyans, an Ethiopian, a Moldovan, and a Turk, the camera captured that light-blue colored athlete as he entered the finishing chute.

"Terer Kiplangat," we heard the race director announce.

6,000 miles away, this was Philemon.