Red-Hot Brakes and Zebra Tails: The Wild Ride of Eldoret’s Early Settlers

 By William Kiptoo

If you’ve ever cruised down the Nakuru–Eldoret highway in air-conditioned comfort, spare a thought for John Eric Wolston-Beard. On January 1st, 1925, he and his wife set off from Nairobi in their Model T Ford, braving the Rift Valley in a journey that tested nerves, mechanics, and sheer will. That trip wasn’t just a drive into the countryside—it was a step into the unknown, the wild edges of what would become Eldoret.

“We left Nairobi on the very last day of 1920,” Beard once recounted, “but the real journey began five years later when we pointed our Model T westward and didn’t look back.”

Their first stop was Nakuru—a full day's drive across rough terrain. Day two was the real ordeal. The descent down the escarpment was treacherous, with boulders, loose gravel, and blind corners at every turn.

“We were scared stiff of going too fast,” he said. “The brakes glowed red-hot from the strain. When they gave out, I had to throw her into reverse to slow us down. Thank heavens the old Ford could handle that!”

There were whispers—grim stories of travelers who didn’t make it. Cars had gone off the cliffs, swallowed by the escarpment. Splash Point, where a stream crossed the road at the bottom, offered a brief reprieve.

“That little stream at the bottom was like a baptism. You made it that far, you celebrated with a picnic under the thorn trees and thanked the heavens.”

Along the way, Automobile Association (AA) signs announced: “Water for thirsty cars.” Springs along the roadside became lifesaving pit stops for drivers and overheated engines alike.

But Eldoret itself—when they finally arrived—was barely a town. Zebra herds roamed freely, crashing through any attempt at fencing.

“The DC, Mr. Schofield, had to offer two shillings for every zebra tail. Folks turned it into a side hustle! They brought them in by the handful. Problem was, the vultures and hyenas couldn’t keep up with the carcasses. The stink! You could smell it halfway to Sergoit.”

Public spaces were just as makeshift. The church doubled as a courtroom—a curtain drawn across the altar during trials. And while a train station stood proudly, there was no railway yet.

“They say the Governor opened it. Others swore it was General Botha. All I know is we had a station with no trains.”

Shops were sparse: a butcher opened once a week, and most settlers hunted their own meat. Windowpanes? Forget it.

“The Gailey and Roberts building didn’t have glass—just chicken wire in the windows. It kept out the monkeys, mostly.”

Despite the challenges, Beard and his contemporaries built lives. Indian fundis constructed their homes with remarkable craftsmanship. And Beard, in time, would serve Eldoret on the Municipal Council and champion the Scouts Movement, dedicating himself to shaping both town and youth.

“It wasn’t easy, but we made something out of nothing. Eldoret grew out of grit, generosity, and a good deal of luck.”

Today, Beard lies at rest in Eldoret Cemetery, his adventurous spirit etched into the very history of the town. In his stories, we see the birth of a community carved out of wild plains and stubborn hope. Eldoret has changed—but its roots run through men like John Eric Wolston-Beard, who braked hard, steered carefully, and still made it to the top.