Spies like us November 30, 2008

Hello Friends and loyal readers.  I know I’ve let you down over the past few months.  You were so good to me in the summer giving me my best day of all time and then I repay you by not writing for five months.  It’s bad education on my part.  I’m sorry.

Here I am, back in Africa.  Have been here for 4 weeks already–two in Mali, 1 in Senegal and 1 in Ghana, where I currently find myself.  I have another half-week here then 1.5 weeks in Ethiopia and then back home just in time for Christmas.

It’s been a frantic four weeks.  Today is the first day I get to myself and so I write.

For the most part, it’s been a pretty uneventful month from the perspective of adventures.  There is, however, one adventure of note.

On week three, my Malian colleague and I traveled to Dakar together for a week of meetings.  One evening I dragged him out of the hotel to go for a walk along the seawall.  Most of you will remember that Dakar has a gorgeous coast that has been manicured to provide walkers and runners with a picturesque path along which we can exercise while enjoying the fresh air and the ocean.

This past April when I was last in Dakar I ran along the seawall everyday by myself and never had any safety concerns.  Granted, I was usually back by sundown, but never did I feel unsafe since it was rather well-populated by other “sportifs”.

One evening last week, like pulling teeth, I fought to convince my colleague to go for a walk with me.  It was already after dark and after dinner, possibly 9 pm.  But my colleague is a black giant.   He is about 6′4” and as thick as a brick.  Without thinking too much about it, I figured we’d be fine and I certainly wouldn’t be a target having Le Geant Noir with me.  The truth is that I left all the precautions I would usually take in roaming African streets by the wayside.  I put my wallet, cell phone and camera in my little snakeskin purse which I carried daintily on my shoulder.  I don’t EVER carry a purse in Africa when I’m walking around, especially not a flashy one like that.  I usually stuff my bra with money, cell phone and camera (my cleavage has an unusually large capacity for hiding items) and none is the wiser.  This time, I was accompanied by Le Geant Noir (LGN) and thus was far less cautious.

We exited the hotel and walked away from the bustling city toward the ocean.  The seawall, although usually well-populated, appeared to be rather sparse that night. On the west, it is flanked by a beach and the ocean on the East side, there is a rather busy four-lane highway with a three-foot concrete median in between the two sides.  If there are not many people around, it feels pretty deserted even though the car traffic is always raging on the road.

The truth is, I wasn’t even paying attention to the surroundings, given my bodyguard-like company.  We were walking and chatting, enjoying the ocean air.  The first thing I remember noticing was a man in a wheelchair rolling himself up the steep hill that we were walking down.  I almost considered offering a helping hand, but didn’t, mostly out of precaution.  We kept on walking into the night on the left side of the road, against traffic, stopping periodically to look and listen to the waves crashing below.  We were about to come upon the Millennium Gate which is a huge monument with a golden statue, a fountain and a door leading toward the sea.  This part of the path was much more populated.  There were merchants, youth and lovers sitting on the steps, along the beach and in the darkness.  We stopped to look at the monument and decided to start walking back to the hotel.  Right in front of the monument, there is a small lane to allow taxis to stop and let people on and off.  In this little lane, we noticed some unusual activity.  There were two large white vehicles–one SUV and one pick-up truck–parked along the side of the road.  One had three big man inside and the other was occupied by one driver.  I had seen this, but again, not really thought anything of it.

As soon as we passed this scene again, LGN says to me, “As-tu noté les 4×4 la-bas et les hommes qui nous observent?  As-tu noté les divers taxis qui se sont arretés pour quelques moments, qui ont parlé avec les hommes des 4×4 et parti?”  Basically my colleague had been observing the whole environement like a spy from the moment we saw the disabled guy.  He filled me in on what was happening, namely that he was sure that we were about to be the target of some kind of organized crime, most likely a kidnapping and that a large proportion of the people we saw around us were implicated in the crime–the disabled guy, the series of taxis,  the random woman who walked across the road and onto the dark beach alone, and, of course, the four beefy men with their SUVs.

We both suddenly got into defense mode.  He made me take the notebook he had in his hand, which I took voluntarily given that he was in a way better position to beat someone up than me, even though I would certainly put into action my Capoeira Jinga surprise if need be!  He also instructed me to hang my purse on my right shoulder which was in between the two of us.

Our bodies tense with adrenaline, we maintained our pace but stiffened our postures.  We walked with traffic back toward the city.

Suddenly, one of the two white vehicles drove up slowly past us and stopped 5 metres ahead of us.  This activity confirmed our suspicion.

“Let’s cross the road,” I whisper frantically.

“Ok, allons-y,” he concurs with decided fear.

Irrespective of the cars zooming down the highway, he grabs my wrist and we leap across the road like gazelles being chased by lions.  With one felt leap, we jump synchronistically like trained spies onto the median, stop for a second, look toward the oncoming traffic, and leap across the other half of the road.

We make it safely to the other sidewalk, not that we feel all that safe since we are now right in front of the federal prison wall, with its dark alleyway just ahead.  But at least we are now across a highway from the kidnappers…but not for long.

We have bought ourselves a few seconds to regroup and to decide on our next course of action.  LGN susses out the situation.  As we continue our walk, increasing our pace, now breathing rather heavily, we notice that white car #1 (with one man) has sped ahead down the highway to the turn-around point so that it would meet us on this side of the road.  White car #2 (with three men) is still on the other side of the road, observing us intently.  Both vehicles, with their respective occupants, along with all accessories to the crime are now acutely aware that we are onto them and we are trying to escape.

I want to run, but LGN replies sternly, “On ne court pas!”

He realizes that Car #1 has already made over to this side of the road and has stopped up ahead, not 7 metres in front of us.  He also knows that the other car  with the three burly men is waiting for us to cross back to the other side of the street to accost us.  I just follow his lead.  I’m gonna need him to fight if we do get caught.  It’s in my best interest to stay with him.  Incidentally, my wrist is still firmly in his worried grip, so I wouldn’t be able to get away anyway.

We walk slowly toward the pick-up truck up ahead.  We’re almost cornered with him in front of us, the prison wall to our left, a road full of implicated taxis on our right and three beefcake criminals across the road.  Lucky for us, a guy on a motorcycle stops on the side of the road right in front of Car #1to take a phone call.  LGN has already determined that this guy is not part of the crime group.  He’s an innocent bystander.  So we stop right beside the motorbike, a metre in front of car#1and wait.

The man in the pick-up truck leans over the passenger seat with his right arm outstretched.  LGN squeezes my wrist with fear.  I look at him.  His forehead is beaded with sweat.  His eyes are wide open trying to determine if he sees a weapon in the hand of the man.  I don’t see one.  It appears that he wants to roll down the window or open the passenger door to “speak” to us.  We look across the street and notice that Car #2 has now been forced by the flow of traffic to move up ahead and drive toward the turn-around point.

LGN, now panicked with terror, yells, “On traverse!”

He grabs a tighter hold of my arm and pulls me across the first half of the street.  We jump on the median and wait.  Car #2 has been forced to leave its post on the ocean side of the street and speed around the bend.  So we jump onto the other side of the highway and run to the ocean-side sidewalk.

As soon as we get to this side of the road, the man in car #1 yells out across the four lanes of traffic, “C’est la police!”

Oh yeah, as if we’re going to believe that!  He realizes that we’re not falling for that so he speeds ahead to reach the turn-around point so that he can catch us on the other side.  Finally, LGN is ready to run.  “Courons!” he yells.

I’m down with that command.  I break free from his grip and zoom off toward the city.  He’s a giant and not in very good shape so he’s a bit slower than me.   I run right into a pack of wild dogs, something that would normally freak me out, but that is the lesser of all evils.  Christ!  I’ve got my rabies vaccination and getting bitten by a dog is an African adventure I’ve already had.  It’s like getting struck by lightening: It’s not gonna happen twice.  The dogs disburse anyway.  They are more scared of me than I am of them.  LGN is almost right behind me.

We make it off the seawall and back into the city streets before the crime cars can catch up to us.  There are are more and more people in the streets, but we’re not so sure that the criminals aren’t following us.  When LGN catches up to me he grabs my arm again and, panting and sweating, he says, “Don’t worry, I think we’ve lost them.”  I wonder if his grip is to offset his own fear rather than to keep me safe.  He is terrified.  I think he just mostly felt the need to protect me and was so worried about what might happen if I had been caught.

His theory is that we had been tartgeted earlier that day and that they followed us from the hotel out to the ocean.  I just thought we were at the wrong place at the wrong time.  They may have mistaken us for somebody else–politically strategic people maybe?  I couldn’t imagine that they were just after my little bag… All that coordination to get a few hundred bucks?  It didn’t really gel, but I suppose desperation and poverty might make people do all sorts of things, even work out the most elaborate of organized crime scenes to get a few bills.

The next day we found out that these kidnappings have become very frequent in Dakar over the past few months.  We were really lucky to get away.

After the fact, far from danger, I can say that it was exhilarating to outwit and outrun a whole group of criminals.  We felt like spies.

LGN realized that he needs to get back in shape.  He called me yesterday to tell me that he joined a gym back in Bamako so that he has enough stamina to keep up with me next time we are chased…

Pick-ups and Put-downs April 10, 2008

I may have just been subjected to THE WORST pick-up line ever. I was sitting at the Cafe de Rome in Dakar tonight finishing my cornish hen, salad and glass of wine while pulling out my hair reading a terribly-structured document when a man taps me on the shoulder: “Mademoiselle, si vous me cherchez je suis juste deriere vous.”

You have got to be kidding me! “If you’re looking for me, I’m right behind you”!!!!!!!! Come on, dude. Can’t you see I’m busy? I was, actually, ripping hairs out of my head while reading this doc and hadn’t lifted my eyes to the world in a good 25 minutes. I was, for all intents and purposes, engrossed in my own shit.

So I replied, “I certainly wasn’t looking for you, unless of course, you are a French Language editor.”

“Lucky for you, that is exactly what I am.”

Handing him the papers: “Cool. Here’s a document I’d like you to read. Get back to me with all the edits in half an hour.”

The game goes only so far and he was in way over his head. He giggled, pushed the papers back into my hands and sheepishly went back to his seat.

It works everytime. No one wants real responsibility when trying to shag a chic.

I ran like a serious HO tonight. I had taken a two-day break since I’d totally overdone it Monday night. My quads were giving out on me and my back was aching. So today, after the most frustrating meeting with people who don’t believe in the universality of human rights since they contradict their religion, I geared up in my freshly-washed skort suit, and hit the Dakar’s seawall.

The first 15 minutes of any run are always the toughest. Generally, I spend that time trying to find a justifiable reason to stop running–The hard concrete is injuring my knees, my lungs are about to collapse from the African heat, the wind is causing unnecessary strain on my lower vertebrae. Luckily tonight, around minute 14, just as I was about to stop running for my hypochondrized herniated disk, three guys popped out in front of me running exactly at my pace. For the next 10 minutes, I followed them as quietly as a mouse, overcoming all the constrction-related obstacles by treading in their footsteps. Their presence kept me motivated. I really didn’t want them to see me, but that becamed inevitable. One of them my have heard me panting behind. Immediately, he informed his comrads of the Tubab in a skort running after them.

For a moment I realized that, in any other context, I might be considered a stalker. I did, in fact, follow them for about 2 km at a 3-foot distance… So I figured I should come clean. “Vous me motivez,” I said.

“Allors, tu es esportive?” they answered. So our conversation and group run began. I accumulated enough energy in the 15 minutes we ran together to carry me all the way home at very fast pace. We ran together to my usual mid-point which is essentially an outdoor gym on the ocean. Imagine on this cliff overlooking the Atlantic, the city has built all this excercise infrastructure: inclined planks, bars, benches, etc. that people (only men) freely use for resistance training. The place was crawling tonight with dozens of guys working out like juice monkeys.

When I got there with my newly-created posse, the world came to a halt and all faces turned toward me. Not only was I the only woman, but I was also the only person wearing a skort. I ignored the unwelcomed attention, stretched out my back and said goodbye to my new friends. I proceeded to sprint all the way back to my treasured Cafe de Rome. As I was leaving the open gym area, the one comment I did catch was, “Hey, toi tu es vraiment forte! Ca se voi que tu as beacoup de puissance!” If nothing else, that comment forced me to run hard and fast.

I did it. I will probably suffer for it tomorrow, but I rocked my world tonight. There you have it: The Warrior Goddess prevails again.

Good night from Africa’s Western Coast.

I AM A WARRIOR GODDESS! April 9, 2008

My mother came up with this taxonomy for me two years ago when I was preparing to run the marathon. “Warrior” is my Genus and “Goddess” is my species. My mother couldn’t have picked a more accurate description of me. This nomenclature drills to the very core of my being while equally describing my superfice and default personalities.

The truth is that I wish I could be something cooler than this, but the reality is that I am simply not. I wish I were a tragic hero or a mad scientist or an insane genius; however, I will have to settle with being but a warrior goddess, which implies nothing more than physical prowess and divine beauty.

Where exactly the mind fits into the mix, I am not sure. But the more I deconstruct myself, the more I realize that I am a fighter and I am unbearably attractive to the world.

This can be illustrated by this time in Mauritania when I was running around a track for exercise one afternoon. Stupid me, I was carrying a diskman… Not such a smart thing to do in one of the poorest countries (hence no taxonomical identification of intellect). Anyway, the school yard cleared out almost too quickly, but I thought nothing of it since it was daylight. Behind the bushes at the far end of the track hid a man with less-than-noble intentions. As I approached the bushes he jumped out and ordered me to give him my diskman. Well, if any of you are runners, you will know how important a runner’s music is to her psychological (and by association, physical) fortitude. Convoluted writing aside, I didn’t wanna give up my machine. So I said, “no way” and kept on running. The guy ran after me and pawed at my machine. I pulled my hands away and ran faster. The guy then tried to trip me and pull me down, but I manged to stay the course. By now my adrenaline was pumping, as any warrior’s would. So I grabbed the guy’s shirt, elbowed him in the ribs and pushed him to the ground. Then I sprinted toward the exit of the school yard. He ran after me but couldn’t catch up. When I got to the populated street outside, I solicited help but people just stared at me like I was a Goddess.

So there you have it.

The healing power of the setting sun April 7, 2008

Hello loyal readers and new recruits,

I know I’m long overdue for another edition of “What the hell is going on around me?!” I just made that title up, but it’s actually what I feel most of the time when I’m in Africa. Maybe I should change my blog’s name to that? Comments anyone?

Ok. Well, after our trip north in Ghana, Jackmac came to meet us to join in on the fun. Jackmac is one of my favourite people around. He’s 70 years old and has three lifetimes of experience under his belt. I swear he must have been reincarnated a good three times. That is the only thing that could possibly explain how he had the time to accomplish everything he’s done. The guy was a Catholic priest for 10 years, left the clergy, got married, had six kids, has 4 university degrees, including a PhD, ran a hospital department for 20 years, had a major influence on how Canada dealt with HIV when it was discovered in the 80s, was a professor for 20 years, lived in the US, the UK, spent years in Ukraine, has 14 grandkids and plays a mean game of golf. WHAT?! I’m 30 years old. I only 40 years to catch up and I have no kids and no prospect for insemination at this point…

Anyway, spending 2 weeks with Jackmac and Teebee was like being stuck for eternity between Walter Matthau and Jack Lemmon during some aggrevated discussion about whose better looking than who or whose lawn in greener or whether Ghana’s hills were logged and if so what happened to the stumps? I don’t know in which circle of hell Dante would place this as punishment, but may I hazzard to say it would approach the core…

That aside, I always learn so much from these two guys and hope that one day I have so much experience that I too may earn the right to be crotchety and polemic with everyone I meet.

Ghana ended with a farewell meal at a Chinese restaurant, of course. The ironic thing was that it was the only place in Accra that fed me a proper espresso.

Finally I’m in Dakar which I like to call African Paris. I can drink all the good coffee my hypertensed body can handle and eat all the gourmet food my perdiems will cover. Then, I can run it all off along the ocean’s coast. I can’t even express to you how beautiful my running route is here. If I could, however, I would of course leave out the the neighbourhood through which I have to hold my breath for fear of vomiting from the rancid smell of sewage. I would also leave out all the obstacles I have to run over or through like the perilous construction zone, the metal wire skeletons of the concrete they are about to pour, the random man holes that appear out of nowhere in the middle of the sidwalk and the children that jump out in front of you to ask for money with their red tin cans. All that aside, my route follows the coast as the setting sun sooths the lactic pain in my muscles.

Tonight I even ran right to the edge of a steep cliff which provided me with a balcony from which to watch the powerful waves crash below. I did 20 mintues of yoga there “con il sole in fronte”, as my dad would say. And for the first time ever in Africa, no one stared at me. The only people who were around were a handful of athletes who were doing their own exercises, minding their business.

So I closed my eyes and used my other senses to take in this moment of stillness and gratitude for all that life has given me.

Culinary misadventures March 23, 2008

After 8 days of being on the road through northern Ghana, we’ve made it back to Accra, safe and sound (of body anyway), but probably by the skin of our teeth. Nothing too out of the ordinary occurred; however, if you’re driving copiously on Africa roads, I am certain that you too would be placed in an actuary’s “high risk” category. Although we had a great driver and a safe vehicle for the trip up to Bolgatanga and back, which was probably about 1400 Km in total, I basically feared for my life anytime I had my eyes open while we were driving.

Not only are the roads narrow, but they also pass through villages and are littered with pot holes, speed bumps and other blemishes, not to mention the randomness you encounter along the way, like bed sheets of yams drying RIGHT ON the highway since the pavement is hotter than the fields. Despite these conditions, the drivers still speed like maniacs. I caught our driver going 140 and 150 on 2-lane highways, down steep hills, plummeting toward ancient 18-wheelers loaded with sacks of charcoal, grain, yams or god knows what, piled to twice the height of the truck itself. I know we came within inches of giant vehicles, but thankfully we never collided. Most of the time I just slept as a defense mechanism against massive cardiac infarction.

In this edition, I think I need to describe for you some of the culinary experiences I’ve had. As you all know by now, I’m training for the marathon at the end of May, which means I’m running daily, but also I’m desperately trying to eat healthily… That is a TALL order in Africa, where most everything is fried. It is virtually impossible to have one meal that is not soaked in oil. Even if it is not deep fried, somehow, the Africans find a way to infuse everything with oil.

Example #1: We were in Sunyani, small town Ghana that TeeBee called “Funyani” since he hoped to have a fun time there. Well, I don’t think he left the hotel (neither did I for that matter, but that was the one city that had this spectacular gym where I ran like mad because there was this other white guy running of the treadmill beside me and I wanted to prove that I could outrun him…I have a bit of a competitive edge, I know).

Anyway, all I wanted for dinner after that was something really light. When I opened the menu at the restaurant, I didn’t know what to do. Ghanaians, for whatever reason, have some kind of obsession with Chinese food. Most every restaurant serves Ghanaian dishes and Chinese dishes, unfortunately, neither is particularly low in fats and oils. This night, I happened to find “Grilled Grouper” on the menu. It was to come with French fries or fried plantain or fried rice. I order my grilled fish with a side salad, thinking, there was no way that they could drench this in oil… Boy was I wrong.

First, I got my salad, which was a meal in itself, but lovely since the fatty dressing came on the side. So I ate my plain salad sans dressing and awaited my grilled fish. When the waiter put the plate in front of me, I had to gasp for oxygen. It was a massive plate, half of which was overflowing with French fries, the other half of which was covered in, well, I wasn’t sure what.

All I could see was a pile of something that was blanketed in a fried egg. Maybe grilled fish usually comes covered in egg, I thought? When I peeled away the egg, I was utterly horrified. There were about 6 pieces of mixed meats—chicken, pork, liver, kidney and FRIED beef! How could this be?! All I wanted was a simple grilled grouper and I got a mixed grill covered in a fried egg with ten pounds of fries on the side? There was nothing I could do. It was 10:30 pm. The kitchen was closing. So I ate the whole thing, minus the innards. This is my problem: I like tasty things and if you give me fries I will eat them. That is why I try to avoid them, but evidently, Africa thinks I need temptation.

The other culinary story of note occurred in Tamale. Teebee had been talking about this place called Dot’s that he used to visit when he lived here 15 years ago. As is common for him, he neglects to understand that things change. He expects everything to be exactly as it was in Ghana 15, 25 and 40 years ago in Ghana. After much consultation with his friends who still live in Tamale, he came to believe that Dot’s had been transformed into “The Drop-in”. Even still, despite the new name, he thought all would be the same. So we went to the drop in for “dinner”. Drop in is basically an outdoor restaurant that is probably tables on gravel, though I couldn’t exactly tell since there were no lights. There was, however, a television that was blasting the news so we positioned ourselves close enough to get some of the light’s reverberations.

The waitress comes over and Teebee asks whats on the menu tonight. “Fried Guinea Fowl,” she replies. Teebee: “…and what?” “That’s it,” she retorts. Awesome, I think to myself. I wouldn’t have expected anything more, really, given the s condition of this place.

Lots of time goes by. Teebee is losing his cool. “The service sucks here. 15 years ago at least there were lights and the honeys (meaning waitresses) knew about customer service.”

The waitress finally comes back, this time with an entire giant pot in her hands. She throws a couple of plastic plates in front of us, opens the pot and says, “Which piece do you want?”

Get this! They fry up Guinea Fowl, then you get to choose your piece out of the pot!

The vein in Teebee’s forehead is about to burst. “How are we supposed to choose if we can’t see anything!” Our other friend lights his cell phone and shines it in the pot. “There are only bones in here! Where are all the good pieces?!” Teebee shouts as I prepare the defibrillator under the table for Teebee’s eventual fate. “Go back and get us some real meat!”

I took 3 wings (it was either that or the back and I was starved from having done hot yoga in my bedroom). They were really tasty. Half an hour later, she came back with a pot full of breasts and legs. Teebee was pacified at best, though he couldn’t wait to get out of the joint and mumbled obscenities under his breath until we finished eating.

“This place has really deteriorated in 15 years. This used to be the place we hung out every night. Now you can’t even see what you’re eating…”

The thing is, whether you can see it or not, here in Ghana, you can never really be sure of what you’re eating. On this point, Teebee and I almost see eye to eye.

The challenges of exercise in Ghana March 19, 2008

Since arriving in Ghana, it has become rather apparent that my mind is lacking in stillness. It is so fidgety, in fact, that its noise and incessant movement has begun to cause ripples and waves to resonate far outside its diameter and well into the world around me.

Back in my more hippy days when I lived in Vancouver and was practicing Yoga everyday, sometimes twice a day and then on the nude beach by sunset, my body was one supple temple and my mind was like still life attracting seagulls to perch atop my head for hours.

Those times are gone. In this weird reality in which I find myself—this compartmentalized life, living half in Africa, half in Canada and all in some dreamland I hope to find one day soon, I have totally abandoned the meditation and the peace of yoga. In recent years, I traded in that form of exercise for long-distance running. Now don’t get me wrong. It’s not like I’m running a half marathon per day like Tabby. But I go through phases in which I do. Most recently though, my chatty mind has taken over all the exercise and left my body to vegetate in a pathetic state of inactivity and self-loathing.

Thankfully, Tabs came to my rescue a few weeks ago and forced me to indulge in shopping therapy. She ended up treating me to the hottest running outfit I have ever owned—a bright blue running tank and (yes hold your breath for this one) a running SKORT! She got herself the very same outfit so that we could run the Ottawa marathon in the same attire and be the hot running babes that we are. So I’ve been running like a ho ever since.

Now, I don’t know much you all know about running in Africa, but I generally would not recommend doing it on the roads in any city. First, the fumes from those old emissions-guilty vehicles render breathing at a resting rate labourious at the best of times. Next, pedestrians have no rights. Third, I am a white woman. I would attract attention if I were covered in a sheet and promenading elegantly, so you can only imagine what would happen if I were to squeeze my body into that hot skort and bounce my way through the streets of small-town Ghana.

Therefore, on this northern road trip, I have been seeking out hotels with gyms. On the whole, I’ve been pretty lucky. And if I haven’t had a gym in my hotel, I’ve been able to find one somewhere in the town. Tamale, however, is another story altogether.

There is no gym or pool at this hotel. So I asked approximately 42 people who work here if there is a gym in this town. It took them something like 8 hours to get back to me. Finally one of the waiters today at lunch came over to me like a sleuth passing on classified information.

“Ma’am, were you looking for info about the gym?”

“YA! That was me,” I respond in a completely opposite tone of voice.

“Well there is this one place.”

“Cool! Where is it? How do I get there?!”

“Ma’am, I should tell you that they don’t use ‘regular methodologies’.”

Somewhat confused, my tone lowers, I lean into him and whisper back, “What kind of methodologies do they use?”

“You know cars?”

“Cars?” I reply totally lost.

“Yes. Cars.

“Yeah, I know cars,” I retort.

“Well, they use car wheels.”

“Car wheels? For what, exactly?”

“You know, to strengthen your muscles.”

“Aha..” I answer. My mind conjuring all sorts of weird images of a tire factory that doubles as a gym with muscle-bound black men running on transport-truck tires. Instead of the word “Goodyear” running along the side, “TREADMILL” is emblazoned on each.

“I can take you there if you want to see if you like it.”

I didn’t go, but now I kind of wish I had to see what the heck he could have been talking about. Maybe I’ll go tomorrow.

So I did yoga instead. That’s the great thing about these hot countries. All you have to do is shut off the air conditioning in your room and you’ve got yourself the perfect hot room! I sweat out all my impurities. But that is when I realized that I have no mental stillness. First, I couldn’t settle on a type of music. Van Morrison was the soundtrack to the first 30 seconds of my session. That quickly changed when I caught myself singing instead of focusing on my breath. Then it was a sequence of Bjork, some acid jazz and finally some classical piano music that actually allowed my mind to rest.

Every time I attempted a balancing position, my body would jerk from left to right, with one leg shooting out one way to find balance and the other arm shooting out the other way to correct for the leg’s overzealous move. Eventually I would just fall onto the bed.

Half way through my session I got bored of doing yoga in my room, so I looked for another place to finish it. I realized that I actually had a key to the patio outside my room. When I got out there, it was enclosed like a balcony on the ground floor. So I hopped the railing with my towels and walked barefoot out to the “courtyard” which is really still a construction zone. But the sun was setting so I thought it was perfect.

I was a quarter-way into my first sun salutation outside when the mosquitoes started biting. “I’m sure the yogis in India don’t let mosquitoes bother them,“ I thought. Well, when I saw two potentially malarial mosquitoes on my legs during my first downward dog, I decided it was time to scrap the “romantic” yogic setting and go back into my room.

I’m rather certain that no yogi would approve of this dismembered practice. At least I’m trying right?

It’s 10:13 pm. I’m eating an amazingly good grilled snapper and salad. If I don’t get amoebic dysentery from the salad I’ll sleep well tonight.

Love to all,

Tir

The perils of childhood March 18, 2008

Every day in Africa, children walk for miles upon miles to get to school. Like independent little adults, they get up before dawn, get themselves ready in the dark, without electricity, without running water. They head out from their little villages along the roadside. They walk stoically along the unpaved shoulders of main thoroughfares for an hour or more every morning and every evening. They put their lives at risk every day as maniacal drivers speed along the highways, as logging trucks swerve across the lanes, avoiding potholes, as vehicles of questionable security try to negociate treacherous hill and curves.

This morning was no different on the road from Sunyani to Kintampo in Brong-Ahafo, Ghana. This morning, a little Ghanaian girl in her yellow and maroon school uniform had almost reached her elementary school, which is located right along this perilous road. She had maybe 200 m left to walk before joining her friends for a day of learning. Maybe she was skipping. Maybe she was singing. Maybe she was laughing with her walking companions. Whatever the case, this little girl had no idea that this would be her last walk to school.

By the time we drove by, her tiny, innocent, mangled body lay on the side of the road. A crowd of community members had gathered around. Her classmates down the road had assembled at the edge of the school yard, mourning the loss of their friend. Soon her family would be notified and would dissolve in pain.

The guy who hit her tried to escape by driving into the bushes. Luckily the military police caught and arrested him almost immediately. Had the community members caught him first, his fate may have been far worse…

These tragedies happen far too often along these roads. Still, short of community members tearing massive holes into the asphalt, doubling as speed bumps (or rather potholes), nothing official is done to slow down the vehicles. There aren’t enough resouces to send kids to school in buses. And so, little girls and boys put their lives at risk everyday just trying to get an education.

As I try to fall asleep tonight, all I can see is the haunting image of that little child whose life ended far too early. May her death not be in vain. May her story be a testament to the desperate need for reforms and for the implementation of safety measures for school children.

One little life was lost today. She may not make the news. Her story may never be shared with the people who have the power to make changes. I didn’t know her. I never saw her alive. However, she is now part of my life. I will carry her image forever. She is a true victim of poverty.

On social cages November 16, 2007

Stepping into a different culture is like lobotomizing oneself. No matter how intelligent one might be in a familiar context, that intelligence is as good as sucked out through the nose in a new one.

I am a prime candidate for making a fool of myself on most days here. I have one Ethiopian friend, in particular, who tells me on a daily basis what an embarrassment I am. It’s true. Let me recount one such story.

We visited an incredible disability and rehabilitation organization in the southern part of the country that provides orthotic and prosthetic services to people with physical disabilities. This organization is exceptionally well equipped and skilled in making custom prosthetics for amputees and then rehabilitating them. We were being given the tour of the centre, room by room, learning how prosthetics are made, testing out the rehabilitation machines and meeting some of the patients. We come upon this room with a large cage, the size of a prison cell. Inside were a bunch of gadgets that were obviously used for rehabilitation of some kind. The physiotherapist introduced this room to us, in his accent, as the “puolleea cage”. I obviously hadn’t quite understood what he said, but being the “disability sensitive” person that I am, having worked in the field for some time now, I was sure I knew what this cage was all about and so decided to follow the “natural” train of discussion. “I didn’t realize there was still a high rate of polio infection in Ethiopia.”

Everybody, all 7 people who were around, stopped dead in their track, spun around and fixed me in their respective gazes. Nobody knew how to respond to me. The physiotherapist, as kindly as possible, replied, “This is the pulley cage, not the polio cage.” In fact, the cage was equipped with all sorts of pulleys and weights. It made sense.

All I wanted to do was lock myself in that cage and have the weights pound the stupidity out of me.

No Road. No Back. November 7, 2007

When my mother calls from Canada, she always ends her calls by saying, “Don’t be too intrepid!” On any normal day, her admonitions disappear from my memory faster than she can utter them. This past weekend, however, I found myself in a situation that brought her words to the foreground of my mind. In fact, during the odyssey, I knew that the activity in which I was fully engaged was well beyond the realm of intrepidity…

This story was written in my head long before I got myself out of the imbroglio, hoping that I would be able to recount it.

It all began last week when my mission plans were thrown for a loop as a result of some unexpected work-related events. I had to scramble together a new team for our trip south. I was able to bring Demo and Dagim on board to accompany me and Emily on what promised to be a hectic but wonderful adventure. Little did we know what adventures we would have.

After four days of long voyages to and successful meetings in Wolaita Soddo and to Arba Minch, our desire to see wildlife sucked us into a day in Nechisar National Park, in Arba Minch. You see, we had the great luck to find this splendid hotel at the top of a cliff looking over this 500 square kilometer park, bordered by two lakes. We woke up every morning only to be greeted by a family of Baboons that had made its way up the cliff to our front lawn. Incapable of being outside observers to this splendor, we forced the guys to accompany us into the park for a day-long safari.

Obviously we didn’t start too early since Emily and I can’t ever mobilize fast enough. I think we had made an appointment to meet the guide at 7:30 and we didn’t get there until 8:15. We pick up our guide, Daniel. Dagim had selected him based on the low price he charged relatively to the rest of the guides. Now in retrospect, I may have opted to pay an extra 5 bucks (since that was the price difference) for someone who wasn’t a clinically insane masochist.

The entrance to the park is right in the town. Dagim drives in like he’s finally been unleashed from diplomatic shackles, throwing the 4×4 into huge potholes and flying off massive moguls. No problem, though, he’s a great driver, he tells us. We knew from experience. It’s not like he had hit a child on a bike on the way to Arba Minch or anything…

Emily is asking her usual series of 500 questions, but to no avail. Daniel doesn’t speak English. What a guide! So while Daniel, Demo and Dagim have their own conversations in Amharic, Emily and I roll down the windows and photograph the baboons and the Dik Dik. We begin to notice a worrisome increase in the number of flies in the car. Daniel sees the beasts and freaks out.

“Open the windows! Open the windows!”

“They are open, “ we retort.

“I mean close them now!” Sometimes he gets the two words confused. Understandable.

“Why?”

“TseTse files! Sleeping sickness! Dangerous! No cure! Kill all Tse Tses in the car!”

Awesome, we think. So we go on a killing spree, but we aren’t quick enough. We both get bitten by the sneaky buggers. What are you gonna do? We drive deeper into the park and come upon the gorgeous cliff overlooking a huge jungle that fades into Lake Chamo. Daniel points to the forest and says, “Cheetah Habitat! Let’s get out of the car!”

The area is still swarming with flies. “Is it safe?” we ask.

“Very safe. No disease in these flies.”

“But are there Cheetahs?”

“No Cheetahs. Sleeping.”

I guess all the diseased flies had stung the cats. Perfect for us, no?

Misguided Assumption #1: Em and I assume that Daniel’s statement is based on fact and that his alleged expertise is reason enough to trust him.

We walk to the edge of the forest and come upon a scout camp. We meet the scout who is proudly sporting his rifle. Hokay, I’m thinking. At least we’ll have an armed man as we venture into Cheetah country. The scout greets us, he and Daniel exchange some words in Amharic and then says goodbye and sends us on our way, unarmed.

Misguided Assumption #2: Em and I assume that there is no need for a scout.

Three seconds into the hike, both Dagim and Demo turn around. “We’ll meet you at the top of the hill with the car.” They point to the summit of this cliff that appears to be an eternity away. But Daniel agrees that this is a good place to meet.

Misguided assumption #3: Em and I assume that Daniel knows how to get us there with relative ease and that we can put our lives in his hands.

The hike begins by rock hopping at the lake’s edge. “Crocodile Habitat,” Daniel yells pointing to the water, in which our feet are currently treading.

“Are there crocodiles?” We ask with trepidation.

“No problem. Only at 2.” It was 10. By this time, well into our intrepid trek, we knew better than to be startled by the woman’s flip flop floating bottom-up amidst the rocks. Rather, we knew enough not to ask about it, since we could easily anticipate Daniel’s flippant reply.

I am holding my breath as I jump my way from rock to rock, using my hands like a monkey to keep me from slipping into the crocodile infested waters. I am wearing sneakers with no treads. Emily is wearing but sandals. I have a tank top on and my pants are already soaked from the ankles to the crotch.

We finally turn out of croc country and into the forest. For a moment I feel like I can breathe more easily as Daniel points out that we can see the car and the boys waving down at us. They are about 150 feet due UP.

My thoughts in that moment: Ok! We’re almost there. The crocks are well behind us. We’ll find the trail and I’ll hike up that cliff like the Warrior Goddess my mom tells me I am.

We take a couple of pics, thinking that we were so cool to have made it out of the lake with all our limbs securely fastened. Then, without notice, we turn into the thicker jungle. Daniel starts bushwhacking, plowing through spiky plants and vines; reaching a lot of dead ends. We try to keep up as best we can, but our unprotected bodies are slowly being maimed by the caustic flora.

“Is there a road?” We ask.

“No ROAD!” He grunts.

“Should we turn back?”

“NO BACK!”

By this point, our only means of getting through the bush is to crawl through the dark black mud on a path that was apparently forged by the Leopard whose prints were clearly visible beneath my increasingly muddy hands. Daniel moves ahead quickly. At certain moments he would look back and say: WAIT! He would crouch down to investigate, seem to see something either terrifying or dangerous and then run past us in the other direction, with no explanation, into even thicker bush. Huffs of frustration coming from him.

Me: “Are we coming?”

Daniel: “Yes, coming!”

Plowing through the thorny thickets, Daniels keeps stumbling and falling to his knees and then expecting us to follow. We notice that he is wearing pointy black leather shoes that look like they were made from Crocodile skin.

Em’s ‘fro is getting caught in spiky vines. Our bodies getting more and more scratched, quads getting worked as we reluctantly imitate large cats skulking through the brush. All I could think is that if I had come face to face with a cheetah, I’d have nothing on him. What would I do? Would I actually try and quickly crawl away knowing how futile of an attempt that would be or would I attempt some less orthodox approach, like trying to befriend him? Darwin was never as compelling to me as in those moments. It’s no wonder that Homo sapiens evolved the hell out of the wild.

As we reach a small clearing, at the foot of the cliff, Daniel starts shouting (somewhat panicked) Kassahun! Kassahun! Over and over. No reply. No explanation about what kassahoun is. It was at this point that I was really about to lose it on this guy. I gave Em a look indicating that I was betraying my mother’s wise words of advice. She knew persuasive action needed to be taken.

Emily: “Should we go back now?”

Daniel: “NO BACK!” Ze water is far.

Emily: “Well, it’s better to walk far than to be lost in the jungle amid Cheetah dens!”

(pause)

Daniel, looking at our scrapped bodies and Emily’s nest of a head: “Ok, back.”

Getting out of the jungle was no easier than getting in. Tumbling over vines and rocks, easing our bodies over large cacti, crouching under low lying bonsai trees, we finally made it back to the lake’s edge. I was never so happy to be walking though a crocodile habitat.

When we finally reach the road leading out to the scout camp, Daniel turns to us with his hands outstretched and pleading eyes, and says “so sorry” at which point we burst into relieved hysterics. When the scout sees us walking toward the camp, he runs over, takes one look at the state of our battered bodies, our muddy faces and disheveled hair filled with thorns and grass and exclaims: JESUS CHRIST!

Our men finally came to “rescue” us at the scout camp. Once they got over the shock of our physical appearance, they proceeded to tell us two interesting things.

1) They spent the better part of their time standing at the top of the cliff discussing, “We were saying to ourselves, let us suppose that a lion were to jump out from the cliff, What are we going to do? What would we do? We finally came to an agreement: Ze car needs more bumpers.”

2) “We saw a crocodile swimming across the lake, where you were walking.” Em and I, however, knew this was not possible since it was still four hours before 2…

EID MUBARAK! October 14, 2007

Hi Friends,

Well, our first week in Ethiopia has now gone by. Time and perception thereof are totally skewed, as is the norm on these missions. Here, however, the notion of time is even more acutely confusing for the Faranji (foreigner). You see, Ethiopia works on a thirteen-month calendar, in which 12 months have 30 days and the thirteenth month has 5 or 6 epagomenal days depending on whether it is a leap year or not. The first day of the year is September 11 of the Gregorian calendar (12^th on a leap year). The Ethiopian calendar is also 7 years behind its Gregorian counterpart, which means that Ethiopia just celebrated its Millennium this past September 11^th.

The reference points for time are also different here. The still work on a 12-hour basis, but 7am Western time is known as 1 o’clock and 6 pm is 12 o’clock. And the counting begins at 1 again with 7 pm Western time.

All this to say that I don’t know what’s going on. I travelled back in time 7 years, just in time to avoid my 30^th birthday! I was thrown into the turn of the century and millennium all over again in a city where every building is still adorned with multi-coloured Christmas lights and neon signs declaring “MILLENNIUM 2000!” Apparently, the event will be celebrated for the entire 13 months!

Addis has grown like crazy over the past year, since I was last here. Buildings and tall condos are popping up like tulips in springtime. And every new establishment is appropriately named the Millennium something (Millennium Gym, Millennium Stadium, Millennium Restaurant, Millennium Hotel).

Work has of course been intense, but satisfying. We have already held two two-day participatory workshops with local NGOs working in some very impressive intervention areas. I continue to hear that no funding agency ever invests time in meeting with local partners to discuss ideas and project ideas in depth. Through our very human approach to project development, an intercultural dialogue is inaugurated, personal connections are made and incomprehensions are nullified right at the inception of a project. I will write more about this at a later date.

There are two adventures of note. Last Friday or Saturday was to be EID, the day that marks the end of Ramadan for the Muslims. The actual date is not confirmed until there is a verification of the moon. You see, Islamic dates are based on the lunar calendar. Ramadan can therefore be either 29 or 30 days long, depending on when the naked eye can detect the new moon. So as of Thursday night, every Muslim in town is holding their breath that someone will see that moon cause they are all waiting to break their month-long fast. At 4:56 am on Friday morning, the phone company sends out a text message to every cell-phone user saying “EID MUBARAK!”, confirming the holiday on the Friday. I think it means Happy EID.

We had scheduled a meeting for Friday morning with local partners, who kindly agreed to give up their day of rest to work with us. Everyone failed to mention that the streets of Addis would be filled with 3 million Muslims praying and that it would be impossible to get anywhere. We were, surprisingly, totally blocked into our hotel that morning as the oceans of people stretched for miles around the Stadium, which, coincidentally, is across the street from our hotel. It was such a gorgeous sight to see the women covered in the spectrum of colourful head scarves praying in waves of synchronized movement.

The other event of note was our debaucherous night of Ethiopian poker. We assembled at Mimi’s house, in a smokey room where Whiskey was the sustenance of choice, and laughter and joy its manifestation. Our friends pulled out the two decks of cards, amalgamated into one and said with great severity, “Now, girls, it is time for B’BANKO!” We didn’t know what we were getting ourselves into. I’m not sure if I won or lost a lot of money that night. All I know is that it’s a good thing that 1Birr (the smallest bill) is only worth 9 cents.

Today I’m thinking of my two good friends who got married yesterday and whose weddings I missed. Brad and Patrick, congratulations to you both and to your lovely wives!

I’m off to walk down the famed Bole road. I send love and joy to you all.