50 Oranges & The Near Drowning of Henry - Arusha

Banana Boats in the Caribbean - Banana Trucks Here

Having done major damage to my fitness level after a very indulgent summer trip home following the Kigali Marathon in May, I decided to sign up for the Safari Marathon in Arusha, in early September.  They market it as a marathon when in actual fact it is a half marathon and a 5K run through what is a most unattractive route.  However if you have a fetish for dodging huge transport trucks and boda bodas (motorcycle taxis) while running, enjoying the smell of rotting garbage,  inhaling copious of dust and insects and having to beg for your race t-shirt from the organisers when you finish the race, then this is the run for you.

The Road to Arusha is Long and Dusty

Arusha is about a 10 hour bus ride from Dar es Salaam, which was about 10 hours more than I would have liked to spend on any bus.  But being the team leader (again) for a group of VSO volunteers running the race, I decided to turn down a discounted flight and rough it with the two other team members that were bussing it Arusha. This time around we only attracted a team of six (6), as opposed to the 25-odd volunteers we attracted for the Kilimanjaro and Kigali marathons.  It might have had something to do with the fact that each volunteer had to raise a minimum of US$500 for our Mobile Health Programme in Zanzibar, in order to benefit from VSO-paid transport and accommodations. I think the real reason though was the fact that there would be no free food! For like everything else here, if you don’t have free food and drinks, no one will participate or help you.  Try going to the police station to report being mugged and the first thing you will be told by the officer taking the report is “I need 10,000 shillings for a soda.”  At that price they must be buying designer sodas.

You Can Basically Buy Anything From Your Bus Window Here

Only three (3) of us ended up on the bus ride to Arusha on the Friday, with two others driving from Dodoma and one deciding to fly in on the Saturday (smart girl even though she almost missed her flight, forgot to pack underwear and slept in the morning of the race).  One person cancelled at the last minute so we had an extra seat on the bus which we protected with zeal from other passengers for our bags and other stuff.  I took great pride in flashing the ticket for that seat to any passengers who dared to try and sit there. The ride was quite scenic with occasional rest room stops, where if you spent too long in the nauseating “toilets” or used the nearby bushes, the bus driver would have no qualms in leaving you behind.

Barbara With Our 50 Oranges

Although the ride ended up being a tedious 12 hours, a spur of the moment purchase of 50 oranges through the bus window for Tshs 2,000 (US$1.25), provided us with much sustenance and entertainment for hours.  We gave away oranges to our neighbours on the bus (particularly the ones with the very green skin), taught my seat mate Barbara how to peel an orange properly with a Swiss Army Knife and peeled and ate about twenty (20) of them, and practiced throwing the peel and waste out the window from the moving bus, hitting many  unsuspecting bystanders.  More entertainment was provided at the lunch rest stop, where we witnessed a raven like bird swoop down in the car park and grab some roasted meat off the plate of an unsuspecting young lady, who stood perplexed for a couple minutes wondering what had just happened.  I felt sorry for the raven and not the lady, since I had bought some of that same meat and eating it was like trying to chew rubber bands.  Again though, with a long bus ride it was something to do to pass the time.    

We Should Have Read This Notice

We got to a very cold Arusha just before dark and after a not so encouraging taxi ride through a side street that made Kimwheri Road look like Bond Street in London, we got to the L’Oasis Hotel, where VSO was putting us up in the backpacker rooms for the weekend.  Thankfully, our Dodoma colleagues who arrived earlier in the day had stayed there before, and because the hotel was quite empty, they decided to upgrade us to the fancy cottage rooms at the backpacker price.  This was quite fortunate on my part, having vowed never to repeat my lone hostel-staying experience of 1997 in Amsterdam. The property was indeed an Oasis compared to the rest of the neighbourhood.  There were beautiful gardens, a fountain area, a comfy lounge and bar with overstuffed sofas, a swimming pool and free wi-fi.  The biggest surprise was the rustic looking cottages which looked a bit mshamba on the outside but were very quaint and luxurious on the inside. I ended up in a cottage with 4 beds, with beautiful Tanzanian furniture and artwork. 

The Rescue of the Flightless Henry by the Brave Juanito

But the absolute highlight at L’Oasis had to be the golden crested crane and pet dog that inhabited the grounds – Henry and Jeffrey.  Or at least so we thought.  It was only the day before we left we discovered that the dog’s name was actually Skippy, which incidentally was on a big sign posted at the front desk.  Henry’s wings were clipped and lazily walked around the compound, which provided us with ample opportunities for photo ops, once with almost disastrous consequences. I tried to get a shot of Henry and I in front my cottage one afternoon, and my VSO colleagues decided to help out by trying to corral him towards me and the cottage.  Basically they spooked him, he tried to fly which ended up being more of a leap, and he ended up falling into the fountain.  With clipped wings he was stuck there and started frantically flapping his wings in an attempt to get out of the fountain, which only resulted in him banging his wings against the concrete sides of the fountain.  Thankfully disaster was averted when Juanito, our brave Philippino colleague sprung into action and rescued Henry, despite being pecked on the arm.  For the next hour Henry stood next to us in the garden, screaming and trying to dry off his drenched feathers in cold 16°C weather.  Skippy, aka Jeffrey, got lucky that we didn’t get his name right for most of the weekend, for who knows what mishaps we might have gotten him into.

The Coffee Is As Good If Not Better than Its Famous Big Brother

The day before the actual race, we ventured into town to register and do some sightseeing.  After giving up on finding the registration office for the marathon, we had a nice lunch at Stiggbucks (we also have Darbucks and several other variations of the Starbucks name in Tanzania) and some even better coffees.  Arusha sits in the foothills of the impressive Mt. Meru and has some of the best coffee in Tanzania.  After eventually finding the race office and registering, we walked walk through town, and came across the Rwandan War Crimes Tribunal building and compound.  As we were walking past I explained to my colleagues that I read somewhere that this tribunal had spent close to US$1.5 billion but only convicted about 50 persons. Whereas the Gacacas (community based trials) in Rwanda had convicted about 500,000 persons in about 15 years and had cost just over US$40 million.  Armed with this knowledge, we had to pose in front of the building for photos – another photo-op idea what ended up going awry.  Someone casually commented that we were not supposed to take photos in front this compound, but we ignored this and did so anyway.  

My Mug Shot Before the Real Mug Shot

As soon as we strolled away a policeman came hurling up the street and told us that we had to accompany him back to the security office for breaking the no-photographs rule.  We protested untruthfully that we were not aware of this rule - another bad idea.  You see the grounds and the fenced area of the compound are full of surveillance cameras and microphones, and so our conversations were all caught on video and audio tape, including someone mentioning that we should not take photos and my little rant about the exorbitant costs of the tribunal.  After viewing and deleting our photos, we got “released” by the security personnel.  But not before they found out I was Trini and made some remark to the equivalent of “damn Trinis again”.  That was not the end of this story though, for later that evening poor Juanito went to meet one of his country-men who lived in Arusha, who immediately recognized him even though they had never met.  He turned out to be the head of security for the War Crimes Tribunal and had seen the tape!

The VSO Tanzanian & Rwandan Team

Race morning approached and I was not feeling well.  Before arriving in Arusha I was a bit flu-ish and the cold weather there (it dipped to 14°C in the evenings) did not help.  So on race day I struggled through the half marathon, especially since the first half which was all uphill.  The dust and unattractiveness of the route did not help either.   Good thing my nemesis and VSO-boss Jean was not competing, so there was no need to push myself too much to once again win bragging rights.  I eventually finished in about 2 hours and 10 minutes, thanks mainly to my colleague from Dodoma who ran with me for most of the way.  Two of the four female Rwandan VSOs that made the trip finished way ahead of me, even though they had quite a bit of wine the night before, and also were competing in their first half marathon (must be their Irish genes).  Oh well, I guess the sins of the summer had caught up with me.  

Poor Skippy - We Drove Him to the Bottle

After the race we chilled at the hotel, drank some wine, played asshole (my new favourite card game), drank more wine and then went out to dinner at an Italian place. As soon as we got there they announced they had a chef from Las Vegas in the kitchen.  Wow we thought!! Turns out he has been living in Arusha for several years, failed at operating a Mexican Restaurant and was moonlighting at this place.  The dinner ended up being was terrible, and to keep us in the joint, they offered us free special desserts, which they claimed were ready.  After 20 minutes passed and there was still no dessert and we attempted to leave.  They insisted we stay, which we reluctantly did and when the dessert came, it turned out to be some horribly sour-tasting strudel type thing, which would have been more useful for pelting mangoes in the Caribbean.  After the trauma of that dessert we decided to stop briefly for a drink at a local place with a live band.  Our two Rwanda-based VSO colleagues got into the music and started dancing (they don’t get out much in Rwanda), while the rest of us headed home for some shut eye.  I needed some rest for the next day I was going on my first safari to Lake Manyara and the famed Ngorongoro Crater.  Here I would see another animal struggle to get out of water alive.  But this time around it was a water buffalo and the culprits were nine (9) hungry lions.  But this will be my next blog. Stay tuned.

Umuganda & Akabanga: Running & Liming in Surprising Rwanda

The Believed - Amazing How the Country Has Turned Around 

I have to apologise to my huge ardent fan base (all 21 followers and perhaps as many as 5 others in 204 countries) for the lateness of this blog posting about my Rwanda adventures, which is about 3 months overdue. Let’s just say a 6-week vacation to 6 cities in 4 countries in early summer, and too much of a social life in Dar, got in the way.  But, as an eager wannabe first time mother would say, “better late than never.” My trip to Rwanda at the end of May 2012 was the 60th country I have visited in my short life, and was perhaps the most surprising.  Generally associated with the horrific genocide of 1994, when 1 million people were slaughtered in about 100 days, I was pleasantly shocked at how clean, orderly, developed and beautiful was the capital city of Kigali.  Words you normally do not associate with Dar es Salaam or perhaps any other Sub-Saharan African cities.  I was team leader (again) of a group of CUSO International and VSO volunteers based in Tanzania, Kenya and Rwanda, who were running the Kigali Peace Marathon on May 27th, to raise money for the economic empowerment of women in East Africa.  This was right on the heels of our successful run at the Kilimanjaro Marathon in February, where we raised over US$10,000 for education programmes in Tanzania, and drank the bar at the Honey Badger Lodge dry over several days. 

My New Most Favourite Airline in the World

When I tried booking my flight on the national carrier Rwandair and applying for my visa online, I had an inkling feeling to expect something special from Rwanda.  The online visa application process was extremely user-friendly and a PDF of my entry visa was emailed to me the next day.  An even bigger surprise came when I was booking my flight.  For some reason when I got to the credit card payment part, I kept getting an error message.  I therefore decided to send an email explaining my problem to the generic address that was on the website. I was not hopeful of getting a response, as my experience with emailing airlines in this part of the world with questions has not been good.  But less than 5 minutes after sending the email, I got a response saying someone from the Rwandan office would contact me.  A couple seconds later my cell phone rang and it was the airline apologizing for the inconvenience I was experiencing, and confirming with me that someone from head office would contact me (take note Fly540 and “im”Precision Air).  Later that evening while running on the treadmill (I was training for a full marathon you know) someone did call from Rwanda and gave me alternate instructions on what to do.  After trying to pay with the card again the next day and it still not working, I emailed Rwandair again.  They said to come into the office in Dar and pay cash, and they would waive the US$35 fee for not ticketing online.  

Bet You Don't See These Type of Faces on an AA Flight

What is this?  This sort of service is unheard of where I come from.  When I was on American Airlines from Montreal to Miami in June this year, the frumpy stewardess poured me a cup of tea which leaked over my arm and on the tray table because there was hole in the cup.  When I pointed it out to her she said “Chances of that happening is a million to one”, dumped a couple napkins on my tray and continued along her way.  By the way American Airlines, your stewardesses all look like they were in the casting call for The Golden Girls.  If there was an emergency on your planes – they would be the first ones reaching for the oxygen.   And while I am at it, your US$25 charge for the bloody 1st check-in bag within North America, and the overpriced food, blanket and head phones that you sell (when you have it on board), sucks big time.  A cookie for $5 dollars – really!  No wonder you had to file for bankruptcy recent AA.

They Don't Call it That for Nothing - As I Discovered on Sunday

Anyway back to the ticketing story with my new most favourite airline in the world (Emirates is a close second by the way Karyn and Phil).  The next day I got a message from Canada saying that my credit card was suspended due to suspicious activity - again.  Sometime in April, my card got cancelled as someone had charged 2 Pizza Pizza pizzas, 2 airline tickets on USAir to Florida, something on Kijiji, and sexual escort services (you can do that?) to my card.  By the way, whoever the culprit is, I hope they got something itchy and leaky from the escort, that required more than just a cortisone cream.  Anyway I called my bank, got the card reactivated, booked the ticket and then sent a nice email to all the customer relations people Rwandair saying how much I enjoyed their service.  24 years flying with American Airlines and I don’t think I have ever sent them any such correspondence.  

You Don't Just Get Peanuts - But a Selection & You Can Have 2

But even bigger surprises were in store for me when I checked in at Dar es Salaam airport for my flight to Kigali.  The check-in girl recognized my name from speaking to me on the phone, said a special hello and even was kinda amenable to upgrading me.  The Rwandaair planes were spanking new with great seats and they served a choice of nuts and free drinks, including a super good red wine. And this was on the 40 minute flight leg from Dar to Kilimanjaro.  From Kilimanjaro to Kigali, which is about 1 hour and 40 minutes, we got a delicious hot meal with even more drinks.  By the time we got into the super nice airport in Kigali, walked past the flower pots that lined the immigration aisles, heard all the beautiful French being spoken, and watched as the Rwandans scanned their fingers and passports to self-clear immigration, we thought we were in Europe somewhere. After collecting our bags, playing hide and seek with some of the stragglers, we boarded some pickup trucks courtesy of VSO Rwanda to head to our hotel.  We hesitantly threw our luggage into the open back of the trucks, but the welcome committee assured us that our bags would be safe and would not be stolen (definitely not an option in Dar).  We were greeted with fresh juice at the hotel, which had beautiful landscaped grounds and small but nice rooms.  Next it was then off to a group dinner to meet our Rwandan and Kenyan counterparts at Sole Luna Restaurant.  Here we feasted on a great Italian buffet in this really nice restaurant set on the edge of a hill, which made you feel as if you were in Italy. This place was growing on me really quickly – and it was not just because of all the red wine.

The Woodlands Hotel - Great People and Service

The next day (Saturday morning) we were told to stay put at the hotel, as it was Umuganda.  This is the mandatory community service day which runs from 8:00am to 11:00am on the last Saturday of each month.  By law, all able bodied persons above the age of 18 and below 65 are expected to participate in volunteer community work, which could range from clean-up campaigns to repairing a bridge damaged by flooding.  You are not allowed to be on the streets during this time, unless you are going to the airport or hospital, or have special permission.  The practice of Umuganda apparently goes back to colonial times, which got me thinking that is must be related somehow to the dying/almost dead Gayap practice in Trinidad.  But this takes it to another level, with even the President and politicians getting involved.  No wonder Kigali was so clean and organized.  This incidentally is also a function of the fact that street vending is also outlawed.  I was beginning to like this place even more.

It's Like Duty Free - Better than Advil for After Run Pains & Aches 

That afternoon, following a nice breakfast, a couple of us went for a short run close to the hotel.  After a few minutes, a funny smell wafted in the air, to which I thought, what on earth did Margaret and Liesbeth (my running colleagues) have for breakfast. I didn’t remember refried beans or dodgy boiled eggs being on the menu. They also thought the same and that I was the culprit.  Only for us to realize later on that we were running past a prison, where obviously water and soap were in short supply.  One (1) km or so into the run things got worse, as the heavens opened up and we got drenched.  Wet sneakers and a marathon scheduled for the next day is not a good combination, and the cool, damp conditions at the hotel was not going to get them dry in time.  We eventually used the hand blower in the public washroom at the hotel to dry the sneakers, which made for some awkward encounters every time someone entered to use the facilities.  By the way, the urinal basins in Rwanda are mounted high up on the walls because the people are all so tall.  Nicholas Sarkozy would be peeing on his feet every time unless, he brought his travelling foot box with him.  Although I tiptoed when using the one at the hotel, I still got my feet peed on, as the drainpipe below the basin was missing.  Oh well, I guess everything can't be all perfect in this country.  Also I guess I won’t be getting any foot fungi infections in a while.   

80% Pepper and 20% Vegetable Oil - Not for the Eyes

Later that day, after a nice lunch and coffee in town (Rwanda Estate coffee is amazing) we headed off to the stadium to pick up our registration pack.  I also encountered a first here.  If you were running the full marathon or the half, you actually had to undergo a medical examination before they registered you.  I think one of our volunteers discovered they were pregnant during their examination – or maybe that is just me being scandalous and "mauvais langue".  After getting our clean bills of health we headed off to a liquor store – we needed supplies for the after party on race day.  It is a running thing people.  You train hard, get healthy, run the race, and then you undo all the good health gains by getting thrashed for the next few days.  Well actually this might just be my thing.  The liquor store so was nice we did a mini photo shoot in there, loaded some bottles and boxed wine, and headed back to the hotel for dinner.  We had requested a special pre-race dinner buffet of fish and pasta and were expecting grilled fillets of fish and whole wheat pasta tossed with vegetables.  What we unfortunately ended up with was a lot of large scary fried fish heads and some plain spaghetti. Let’s just say something was "Lost in Translation" between the manager and the kitchen staff.  Thank god for the Rwandan Akabanga – the potent and flavourful chili oil (pili pili) that comes in an eye-dropper bottle.  It makes everything more palatable - I bought 10 in the supermarket to bring back home!

40 Year Old Marathon Virgin - My 1st Start at the Front

Sunday morning and it was race day.  After an early breakfast we found out that our bus driver was missing in action.  We thus had to hastily arrange a taxi for the early starters to get to the stadium on time, with the others (read: Venessa and her stop-for-a-coffee drinking 5K posse) coming by dala dala.  By the way, on Rwandan dala dalas, neither standing nor eating is allowed.  I wish this practice would come to Dar es Salaam.   This incident immediately gave me flashbacks of the Kilimanjaro marathon, where our bus was stuck in the mud and we had to dala dala it to the stadium.  But like the Kili marathon, we should have taken our time as the race start was delayed (TIA: This Is Africa), which gave us enough time to take some group pictures, and also for me to trip, fall and bruise my palms and knees, after peeing in some bushes outside the stadium.  I can be such a klutz sometimes. There were not many starters for the full marathon, so for the first time in 7 marathons, I would be starting close to the front with the elite runners.  If I thought the Eau de Prison smell the day before was a bit tough to stomach, there worse things to come.  Our course involved four (4) grueling laps around the city and back through the stadium track each time.  They don’t call this place “the land of a thousand hills” for nothing.  The stinging rain and gushing water towards the end also did not help.  Nor did seeing some of my colleagues who were doing the 5Km race, stopping at the coffee shop for a beverage and a smoke during their race.  

The 18-Year Old Girl that Helped Me Finish

The last lap was tortuous – so much so I wish I was back at the hotel chomping on those fish heads from the night before.  Thankfully, an 18 year old Rwandan girl ran next to me for the duration of the last lap, and we chatted in my bad French and Swahili.  I allowed her to finish ahead of me and wish I had seen her after to finish line to take a proper picture with her.  I ended up finishing in 93rd place in a pedestrian 4 hours, 42 minutes and 56 seconds. It was my worst time ever but it was my best placing ever so I was happy (mind you there were only about 125 runners that took part in the full marathon). I did beat my VSO boss again by about five minutes, securing me bragging rights for the rest of the trip.  After a massage and a warm beer, it was time for shower, some food and the after party at Erica and William’s house – a Canadian couple who are volunteering in Kigali.  It was a good lime, although the combination of red wine, white wine, shots of Smirnoff from a brown bag in the bus, and Amarula, did not agree with some people.  I had to eventually be the sober one to prevent some of my colleagues from soiling the clean streets of Kigali, and possibly ending up in the foul smelling prison I ran past the day before.   We did go for a nice restaurant for dinner afterwards.  However, many of the diners had no recollection of the great view, the super food, and warm service or about trying to sneak a 5 litre box of red wine into the restaurant.  Good times!

The Childrens' Exhibit Will Break Your Heart

The next day we headed off to the Genocide Memorial Centre which is excellent and a must see.  Although I am not sure that the word excellent is one you would want associated with any museum of this kind.  The museum is quite well done with numerous audio-visual presentations and exhibits.  It was quite an emotional experience, especially the children's exhibit and the massive concrete vaults where the remains of 250,000 persons are interred.  That very touching and reflective experience necessitated some retail therapy and lunch, so we then headed to one of the malls in the city centre.  On the drive there, I was again struck on how clean the streets were, with lots of beautifully manicured roundabouts, modern traffic lights, and nicely paved roads.  They even taped the plants to the beautifully terraced walls along the road so that they would grow properly and cover the walls. The mall was also very modern, but walking up and down the steps to the different levels were a bit challenging for those who ran the full and half marathons.  We did get some funny stares from the locals as I guess we kinda looked like we spent the previous night at Father O'Reilly's church quarters in Boston, on the choir boys' night off.

Kili and Kigali "Konquered" - Arusha Next 

A quiet-ish dinner followed that evening and then it was back to Dar the following day.  It was another fun and successful marathon run and we raised over US$7,500 to facilitate economic empowerment grants to disadvantaged women in Tanzania.  All energized and motivated by this effort, as soon as we got back to Dar, we started planning for our next race and fundraising effort.  This will be the Safari International Marathon in Arusha, Tanzania on September 9th.  We will be running this race in support of our Mobile Health Project, to improve maternal health in Pemba Island.  This island is part of Zanzibar and is one of the poorest regions in Tanzania.  You can visit my personal  Run for the World fundraising page to learn more about the dire health situation in Pemba and to also donate.  I know this is the third time I am badgering you for sponsorship this year but I can’t help it - there are so many worthy causes to run for in this country. That and the fact that there is also so much cheap good beer to drink after the race.  Altruism and volunteerism do need a good dose of inebriation now and then.  

An Indian Beggar in Dar es Saalam - Didn’t See That Coming!

The Lovely View from the Econo Lodge - Was My Temporary Home for 2 Weeks

It was either comedian Chris Rock or Dave Chappelle who used to use a monologue that went something like, “I was robbed by a white man in the New York subway in 1984…..didn’t see that coming, didn’t see that coming.”  Well a few weeks ago I had a sort of similar experience, as I had an elderly Indian gentleman approach and beg me for some food twice in one week in my neighbourhood. “Napenda chakula kaka tafadhali (I would like some food please brother)?” was the phrase used.  My Swahili is terrible as everyone  knows,  but even I figured out what he meant, and I certainly did not see that coming at all.  Now I know what you might be thinking and the answer is no! I did not run away from Tanzania and relocate to Channa Market in New Delhi where the incidents took place.  This happened right in Dar es Salaam city centre close to my apartment, where by the way, I have also started noticing Indian vagrants.  You see I live the city in an area that I call Little India – but more on that later, let me relate to you how I got there.

Reception Area at the National College of Tourism

You see four months ago I moved from Zanzibar to Dar es Salaam to take up my new placement with the National College of Tourism located in the heart of the city. And what an adventure, culture shock and education it has been. I must say up front though that the dusty, crowded, dimly-lit, rat infested city I landed into last year July has grown on me immensely and have actually become fond of living here, as everyday is a different adventure.  My first adventure was finding a place to live in the city centre within walking distance to the College where I work.  Finding a decent reasonably priced place to live in Dar is as easy as finding a sober and celibate Catholic priest in the Boston diocese.   One real estate agent told me that she was taking me to see a flat, which she confidently exclaimed, “was THE place to live in Dar.” This turned out to be a neighbourhood that would make the back streets of Bratislava look like Park Lane in London.  Also, as we were opening up multiple grid iron gates to get up the stairs to the apartment, the neighbor came out to complain to the agent that the water pump had been stolen again. She pointed to a metal cage at the base of the stairs with the unbroken lock still on but no water pump inside. I guess the free magic show featuring the disappearing water pump must be the reason my agent thought it was a hip place to live.  By the way that place was going for US$1000 per month plus utilities, and 1 year’s rent paid upfront is the norm here.  These days the asking price for a broom cupboard with rats in City Centre is around US$400.  I exaggerate – it $400 might actually get you a coat closet.

Food from Cook Shops Such as These in the Fish Market is Very Cheap

You see the Tanzanian economy is growing at around 8%, with the precious metals, oil, gas, tourism and agriculture sectors all expanding rapidly.  Heavy foreign investment has resulted in a huge influx of mainly wazungu (whites) expats.  This coupled with an expanding middle-class and significant rural-urban migration has created a serious shortage of good housing.  Through friend of a new friend I met during the Kilimanjaro Marathon, and good fortune, I found the place I currently live at.  Good thing the College pays for the rent or else I would never be able to afford it on my VSO accommodation and living allowances.  Let’s just say it is twice as expensive but not nearly as nice as my 2-bedroom/2 bathroom fully-furnished house with a sea view that I left behind in Montserrat last year. I am very happy with it though – the apartment is on the top floor, has AC, some cable, regular water and electricity supply, and a pool and gym on the ground floor.  I can also get half a tandoori chicken with fries, salad and 3 sauces for US$3 close to the entrance of my building.  And when they say half a chicken they don’t mean a portion size – it is literally a chicken split down the middle from the neck to the foot.

The Spirit of Tanzania - It Comes in Bottles & Sealed Plastic Packs

I do have to share the flat with Dai, a Japanese volunteer who also works at the College. Prior to moving in, Dai was taking the dala dala (local bus) to work and back for about 3 hours everyday, so he is extremely happy to be within a 15 minute walk from work.  With his commute time drastically reduced, he now spends most of his newfound free time learning English, imbibing  nightly copious amounts of Konyagi (local papaya gin) mixed with beer on ice, while watching Ally McBeal with Japanese subtitles on his laptop.  I am teaching him English by the way and most of our subject lessons revolve around food and booze.  Well he is a trained sushi chef and both of us love to lime.  Poor guy though, he is learning English with a Trinidadian accent.  By the time he gets back to Tokyo he will be saying things like “Whaddie Ass,” “Where we liming tonight?” and “One fuh de Road”.  He is a great house share and hopefully soon I will be mastering the art of Japanese cooking and also will improve on the 8 words of Japanese that I know, which I am sure are dirty words.  I learnt them from a “crazy” Taiwanese girl (she had the Guinness world record for the shortest bathrobe in the world) who lived on my floor at University in the UK in the mid-1990s. But that is a whole other blog in itself.  

An Indian Was Even Miss Tanzania Once

Well getting back to this Little India story now.  Now I always knew that East Africa had a sizable East Indian population – and not the kind that just came in the last decade to develop computer software, set up Taj and Oberoi Hotels or start curry houses on every corner.  These are Indians who have been on the continent for over 200 years.  They came mainly as traders or as “coolie” labourers that were brought by white settlers to build the Kenya-Uganda railway line. This is from a piece called Indians of East Africa by Rudy Brueggemann which explains it well.  “….many stayed on to work as "dukawallas," the artisans, traders, clerks, and, finally, small administrators. Excluded from colonial government and farming, they straddled the middle economic ground above the native blacks. Some even became doctors and lawyers. Despite animosity from native Africans and restrictions by colonial whites, Africa still provided more opportunities than crowded, caste-rigid colonial India. East Africa became America for Indians in the first half of the 20th century, and their resourcefulness cannot be understated or discounted.” 

Islamic Influenced Architecture in My Neighbourhood

Of course all of this sounds all too familiar to me – being a 4th generation Trinidadian of East Indian descent.  In our case my forefathers were indentured labourers who were brought to the Caribbean to work the sugar plantations after the abolition of slavery in 1834.  The first ship called the Fatel Rozack arrived in Trinidad in 1838 and the trade continued until the start of World War I.  Ironic isn’t it.  I am a 4th generation West Indian that moved to the other side of the world for the African experience and end up living among 4th and 5th generation African Indians.  The area I live in Dar is probably about 95% Indian populated, and other than my Japanese housemate and one African tenant, the rest of the occupants my building are all head bobbing Indians.  The lobby area looks like the set of The Kumars at No. 42, there is the smell of grilled tandoori (from the BBQ place at the base of the building), curry and geera (cumin) smell in the elevator most days, and  seemingly daily pujas (prayer services with lots of singing and loud music) on the 12th floor that I live. 

The Slightly Chaotic, and Smelly, Fish Market on a Sunday

There are a lot of differences though between our diasporas though.  Not to generalize, but my African Indian friends do not say good morning in the elevator, are generally quite crass and rude in their shops, and seem to lack even the faintest sense of humour.  Oh well – we can’t all be gregarious, fun loving and jovial West Indians. Growing up in the warm, friendly and boozy Caribbean, this is all alien to me.  They look at me strangely, and then in the usual Indian-standoffish way, wait for the other person to start the conversation.  If any conversation gets started, they look even more perplexed when they realize I speak English with a funny accent, I cannot converse in Hindi and my Swahili is kidogo (little).  Like when I was travelling in India a couple years ago, if I say I am from Trinidad or the Caribbean they give me this constipated look – the kind that George Bush Jr. used to have when the word he had to pronounce had more than 5 letters or a country name ended in something-STAN.  But if I say I am from the West Indies or mention Brian Lara, their eyes light up, the head bobbing starts and they even crack a smile – albeit an unnerving one, the kind Wednesday Adams cracked in a scene from the Addams Family Family Values movie, when she came out of the harmony house.  Well at least the West Indies cricket team is still good for something these days. By the way with the English weather conditions and half of the real team in India in the IPL or not playing because of West Indies Cricket Board petty politics, look for England to put a good cut-ass on the West Indies cricket team in the series this summer.  Which reminds me – I need to teach my housemate Dai the word cut-ass.

A Bajaj (Tuk Tuk in India) - A Cheap Transport Means for People & Goods

Other than enjoying my daily adventures in little India, my other favourite thing is reading the Tanzanian Guardian and Daily News English language newspapers.  Aside from numerous grammar and spelling errors, I think they also have an Alzheimers-dyslexia afflicted staffer doing the layout.  Every single paper seems to have a news story that appears twice in the same paper.  Recently though I had a good chuckle while reading the April 27th edition of the Guardian about how Alessandro Benetton is trying to revive the “colours” of the famous Benetton brand. When I got to the last three paragraphs of the story, it started with the sentence “Can’t Say No entered the British singles chart at No. 2…” What the hell – didn’t see that coming! This section was actually from another news story in the paper about singer Conor Maynard, who is considered to be the UKs version of Justin Beiber. Incidentally, I would not consider this news, and also, if I were Conor Maynard, I would not be proud to be compared to Beiber.  It is like telling Adele she is the next Celine Dion.

Church Close to the Harbour in Dar

But wait –it gets better.  In the same paper in the Business and Foreign section there is a story and photo of a Brazilian prostitute who is suing the US embassy for damages.  And then in the Entertainment and Sport section, a picture of the same picture of the Brazilian woman appears next to a story entitled “Filipino Singer’s Journey to the Tribeca Stage”.  Well maybe Brazilian lady-of-the-night carries two passports like me. Or, maybe the editor could not decide which section of the paper to put the Brazilian prostitute story - Business News, International News, or Sports & Entertainment, so he/she slotted it in as many sections as possible.  To be fair to him/her, Ms. Braizil was engaging in an entertaining international sport that is big business. I might have actually missed one of these errors if the layout editor had mistakenly mixed in the “Can’t Say No” Conor Maynard bit into the Brazilian prostitute story, like he did with the Benetton story.  Well perhaps not - because I guess she did say no unlike Conor, and was now suing the American Embassy.  Gosh, I really need to stop spending so much time critiquing the daily papers.  But no chance of that happening anytime soon as I found a gem in today’s paper.  The daily “Sayings of the Wise” on the Opinion page is from all people the tied-tongued mouth of Mike Tyson.  I rest my case about the questionable editorial practices of the Guardian.  

A Good Reason to Sponsor Me -  Struggling Women Street Vendors

In addition to scrutinizing the Guardian these days for editorial faux-pas, I am trying to get some training in for the Kigali Peace Marathon in Rwanda in less than two weeks on May 27th.  And, one of my blog entries would be complete with me mentioning the words Running, Marathon, Sponsoring and Good Cause.  I am leading a team of over 30 VSO and CUSO International volunteers from Tanzania, Rwanda and Kenya, as we try to raise funds for the economic empowerment of women in East Africa.  You can support my efforts and modest fundraising target of US$1000 by going to this webpage and donating - CUSO and VSOs Run for The World Every contribution  small or large will make a big difference in the lives of many underprivileged women, as in the picture above, in the countries we are volunteering in. 

If You Can’t Climb It, Run It – Kilimanjaro Conquered, Kigali Next!

11 Hour Bus Ride - Felt Longer for Some People with Me on the Bus

After months of preparation, and expending all my social capital badgering friends, family and foes for sponsorship money, I conquered Mt. Kilimanjaro.  I didn’t attempt to trek to its snow-capped summit, a journey that that takes about 5-7 days and can result in severe altitude sickness.  I choose to run Kilimanjaro, or Kili as it is commonly referred to here in Tanzania.  I completed my 6th full marathon in 4 hours and 39 minutes and in the process I also raised the incredible sum of US$5,300 for education programmes in Tanzania.  Yes it was a full hour slower than my best marathon time, which I achieved in Reykjavik a few years ago, but I am just glad to have completed the course.  The Kili Marathon is not for the faint hearted.  I thought the crazy, hilly, volcanic, ashy landscape of Montserrat where I lived and ran for 5 years was bad, but this is in a special category of its own.  The second half of the race starts with a seemingly endless uphill climb that goes on forever.  Heartbreak doesn’t even begin to describe what runners experience on that climb.  But before I get into the actual race day, let me start with a recap of the weekend.

Endless Miles of Sisal and Mountains

We started our trip from Dar es Salaam Friday February 24th at around 8 am in what was supposed to be an 8-9 hour bus ride.  About 20 of us, VSO staff and volunteers piled into the bus and set off to Moshi, a major town in the foothills of Kili.  Our first stop was by the police for speeding – I think we were doing about 30 mph in a 25 mph zone.  They had a speed gun and everything, so to get things moving, the driver had to bribe them while we looked curiously at the transaction from the back window of the bus.  They actually saw us looking so they moved the payment of chai money (money for tea as they call it) payment to the back of the police car.  After 5 hours, with me providing much of the amusement for the occupants at the back of the bus, we finally stopped for lunch and an opportunity to drain the lizard.  I took a bit of everything that was on offer at the lunch buffet – a decision that came back to haunt me that night and for the next couple days.The ride resumed through beautiful plains littered with sisal plantations, which looks like a giant pineapple plant and is used for rope making. Incredibly beautiful mountains, reminiscent of Table Mountain in Cape Town, framed the plains.  I got excited every time I saw a herd of animals in the distance, thinking they might be a migrating herd of something exotic like wilder beasts or zebras.  Alas they were only weathered cows that looked as if they had already run a couple marathons earlier that day.

Anything to Break the Monotony of the 11 Hour Bus Ride

You know how West Indians will tell you something is just around the corner when actually it is about 4 hours away or they will tell you they coming to see you in a few minutes and will show up the next day.  Well we have the same kinda thing here in Africa.  Earlier someone had told me it was only 20 more km to the lunch stop it turned out to be 200km.  True to form, when they told it was going to be an 8 hour bus ride – it turned out to be an 11 hour ride to get to Moshi.  By then everyone on the bus had had enough of me chatting incessantly; whining about insufficient pee stops; remarking about how the tourist board should tie some big game animals to trees along the route to entertain us during the long journey; not to mention my eclectic music choices on my Ipad.  One occupant who had given up alcohol for Lent, started back drinking immediately upon disembarking from the bus, remarking to someone, “Jesus Christ would understand, he did not have to spend 11 hours on a bus with Ishwar.” Good times!  If he only knew he spent 11 hours with God on the bus – but more on that later.

View of the Majestic Kilimanjaro from Outside my Room  

On entering Moshi we caught our first glimpse of Mt Kilimanjaro, the highest free standing peak in the world.  We found our way to the beautiful but affordable Honey Badger Lodge, named after one of the most ferocious animals in the world.  Similar to a weasel, lions and other large predators have been known to be killed trying to mess with these creatures.  The Lodge is home to a number of blue-balled vervet monkeys who are quite fresh and randy – one of them was caught peeking at one of the volunteers while she was having a shower – which might explain its testicular coloration. The first thing everyone noticed though was the inviting swimming pool, which we all ended up getting thrown in over the next few days, mainly because of our over-exuberant gregarious VSO country director.  “Do you have a phone or wallet in your pocket?”, followed by a loud splash was the most common sounds on the weekend. We met up with two UK Kenyan-based VSOs, Dan and Eddie and their partners, who I had been communicating with over the past 6 months.  They were also crazy enough to be attempting the marathon.  A group dinner, a few cold kilis and an early night meant we were all fresh and ready for the next day.  

With Some Keynan Runners During Registration Day

On Saturday morning we headed to the town of Moshi to pick up our registration kits.  One of the first things that strikes you about Moshi, especially coming from Dar es Salaam and Zanzibar, is how clean the streets are.  They are very strict on tossing garbage and litter, for which you can be fined 50,000 Tanzanian Shillings.  One of our fellow volunteers, who in addition to backsliding on the no-drinking alcohol during Lent, also fell off the wagon with the no-smoking pledge, decided to test the vigilance of the local authorities by tossing a cigarette butt on the street.  He was promptly accosted, and ended up in the police station.  Claiming ignorance of the littering law, he eventually got away without the fine, much to the relief of the others accompanying him.  The actual race registration site was a bit chaotic and confusing, but we all got our race kits consisting of basically a bib and some pins – absent were things like an electronic timing chip, and a gift bag with granola, lip balm, deodorant, Vaseline, bagel and other giveaways.  I had to remind myself I was not in Toronto or Reykjavik.  When I got to the desk to pick up my kit the South African Indian guy asked for my name, to which I responded “Ishwar.” He immediately looked and pointed to the heavens, leaving a couple of my friends looking perplexed.  OK – I will fess up – my name means “God” and I’ve even been told sometimes that is means “God of all Gods”.  I have never been able to live this name down.  Once when I was in University in the Bahamas we went to a magic show at the Cable Beach Casino.  I got asked to come on stage to help the magician with one of his apple juggling tricks.  He asked me my name, and then surprisingly what it meant, to which I blurted out “god.”  He then turned to the huge audience, with a smirk and said, “Everyone, meet God!”

The Strategy - You Can't Get Thrown in if You are Already In the Pool

That night at dinner, a betting pool was started by a fellow volunteer, as to whether I would finish before my country director or whether he would beat me to the finish.  The overwhelming majority bet on him - I guess my month of training in Dubai and anthroponomical (related to my name) considerations were not compelling enough reasons to put their money on me.  The plan for race day was to have a solid good night’s sleep, be up at 5am, get ready, have some breakfast and then at 5:45 a.m. take the bus we had chartered to the stadium for a race start of 6:30 a.m.   As fate would have it, and is usually the case when I am doing a marathon, things did not go to plan.  One year heavy volcanic ashing in Montserrat closed the airport and I nearly did not make it to Toronto.  Another year when I was in British Virgin Islands, the door of the aircraft would not close, and I eventually got to Toronto the day before the race.  This time it was a combination of mishaps.  First of all I got eaten alive by mosquitoes all night.  Then the abdominal discomfort and “fallout” from the lunch buffet a couple days ago, reared its ugly head several times during the night.  Then at about 3am the loudest thunder I have ever heard, apart from the erupting Soufriere Hills Volcano in Montserrat, started cracking and rain came pouring down.  My roommate had not locked front door properly, so I eerily awoke to a wide open door, a yellow burst of light and thunder.  My immediate thought was that the real god was coming to get me for impersonating him or her for the past 40 years.   After a few more hours of restless sleep I got ready and headed out to breakfast.  This is where the good news continued.

A Muddy Affair - The Bus Got Stuck the Morning of the Race

Our bus was stuck in a ditch on the muddy road leading to the hotel and could not get out.  We trekked in the drizzly darkness up the muddy road to where the bus was stalled, and valiantly tried to push it out of the ditch to no avail, which resulted in most us being smothered with red mud and my sneakers felt like lead. We decided to give up on the bus and made it to the main road, where miraculously a small dala dala (local bus) appeared with enough cramped space for the 12 of us who needed to get to the stadium for 6:30 a.m.  Despite the bus driver getting a bit lost trying to find the stadium, we made it on time, feeling like we had already ran a full marathon.  The good thing with this part of the world is that nothing really starts on time and the race would now start at 7:00 am., which was ample time to take care of my stomach issue which was flaring up again.  I did find a loo, but it turned out to be of the squatting variety, and notably absent were toilet paper and water.  My predicament reminded me of my friend Rod Stewart’s (all my friends have cool names) story about being in Reggae Sunsplash in Jamaica in a thick crowd, and getting a case of the runs.  It took him half an hour to get to the facilities only to realize that he had only 30 Jamaican dollars in his pocket and they were selling toilet paper at 10 Jamaican dollars per square, with the two-ply being split into one.  Rod isabout 6’3” and over 250lbs – 3 squares of toilet paper was not going to cut it.  Urgently needing to “go”, he pleaded with the vendor for some more tissue for his J$30 to no avail.  She did provide him with an option which was to use his hand, and then she would sell him J$30 worth of disinfectant to wash his hands.  Rod never told us what he eventually decided. Well I didn’t even have that option to consider so I chose to bear with the discomfort and hoped that when I started running the problem would go away.

My Country Director and I Battle it Out with a Bet on the Line

At 7 am about 250 marathon runners set out on the course.  It was drizzly and overcast, which turned out to be a major blessing since we never had to face a blazing hot sun.  Although the clouds did block out Mt. Kilimanjaro for most of the day.  The first 16 km of the 42.2km course was relatively flat and comfortable and then we hit the hellish portion.  Basically we had to run a 13km section, all uphill, mainly through coffee plantations to an elevation of 1300 metres.  In Montserrat where I trained for years, there were steeper hills to climb, but they were not that lengthy and usually you would encounter a nice flat section which would help.  No such luck here, it just kept going up and up and up, and to add to the misery my stomach started acting up again.

The Hills Didn't Seem to Have Bothered Him Too Much

The organizers did not help my situation with their offerings at the refreshments stations.  In any normal race, water, Gatorade, gel packs, bananas and even Vaseline are the norm, plus multiple porter-potties. Not this race.  It was a choice of water or tepid Coca Cola, and worse yet, chappatis (greasy Indian flatbread) at one station at the top of the uphill climb.   I racked my brain to try to recollect whether old folks from the Caribbean said that hot Coke was good for stomach ailments and hot Guinness was an effective morning-after fixer for women, or was it vice versa.  Dropping that thought, I started giving cut-eye to the coffee trees and their lush green leaves with serious excretionary intentions. Dammit, I should have paid more attention to that documentary on which leaves are safe to use as toilet paper in Africa.  Alas, I decided this would be unbecoming of someone whose name signified the omnipotent.  Well actually, the truth is I really didn’t want to lose valuable minutes to my running nemesis (my Director) crapping in a coffee plantation, after all I had a bet to win.  So I plodded on, surprisingly running without stopping about 12.5 km of the uphill climb. I only walked a short portion to get some rest, and then resumed the arduous climb, trying not to be disheartened too much by the other runners coming down the hill, heading for the finish line.

I Actually Sprinted to the Finish Line With This Guy - I Lost

You would think reaching the top would mean the worst was over and the next bit would be a leisurely 10km downhill descent to finish the race. It wasn’t to be.  My quad muscles were tighter than Joan River’s face and I had to resort to running backwards down the mountain to the amusement of many.  At one point I leaned up on a tree next to a refreshment station and almost gave up.  But then I saw my competition coming around a bend at a hurried pace and I summoned all the will in those achy muscles, reminded myself what my name signified, put my sneakers back on and took off like Forrest Gump.  What did help immensely was that an Aussie guy started running next to me at the same pace, and also some magic spray on my quads from the lady at the First Aid station.  I actually picked up the pace and left the Aussie with 2km to go, and entered the Moshi stadium to the cheers of my fellow VSOs in 4 hours and 39 minutes. By the way the Kenyans dominated, with the winner coming in 2 hours and 13 minutes and they took 18 of the top 20 places.

We Did It - Dan, Eddie, Me & Jean and Cold Kilis

After picking up my medal and t-shirt, I had a quick stretch and then came the treat which makes it all worthwhile – a cold Kili beer.  I then cheered on my competition who came in 6 minutes later and also Dan and Eddie who came in shoulder to shoulder in exactly 5 hours, but somehow in the official results Dan was ahead by 2 minutes. You can’t beat African timing.  I spent most of the afternoon trying to avoid getting thrown in the pool and collected about 25,000 Shillings as the winner of the bet with full bragging rights. I am not particularly religious, but maybe someone should have told my colleagues that when you bet on God, you can never lose. Next morning it was saying goodbyes to most of the group, as a couple of us were staying on for a few days.    Anyway it was a super experience and in the process I raised US$5,300 for education programmes in Tanzania, thanks the generous sponsorships from many friends and family.  Next up is the Peace Marathon in Kigali, Rwanda in May - now that’s a place that could have done with having me (God) around in 1994.  I say this in jest by the way.