Runner's World

For those of you who know me even a little, you probably know that I am no athlete. I have tinkered around with running and jogging. I fenced for a while when I was younger and when I’m feeling especially sportive, perhaps I will shoot some baskets. But that’s it! Yet over the past couple few weeks, I’ve been learning more about running and the politics of national sports than I ever thought I would. I spent a week living in a poor area of town with the family of a girl who runs and is close friends with many of the best runners in the country. Running is a big game in East Africa. Some of the best and most famed long-distance runners, marathoners, and even sprinters come from Ethiopia, Kenya, Uganda, and Somalia. And yet in the arena where it should shine the most, little Djibouti has often been shamed and completely unable to match the competition in surrounding countries. Perhaps until now.

Lately, I have seen the some of the best and most hilarious of Dj’s runners. Right now it is the cool season (low 80’s) which means lots of races both in the capital and in surrounding towns. There is a ministry of sports and it seems that politics is always involved as there are different teams competing for money and notice, which team you are on determines which races you can run, some people get lots of attention while other talented runners are left to train on their own without coaches, proper shoes or even water bottles. And generally, the men seem to get most of the glory while the women are left with little support or are sometimes even discouraged from running.

On the men’s side, besides the national team (which consists of mostly army guys and police), there is also a School of Sports where young guys train six days a week just outside a small town way up in the mountainous highlands of the country. About a year ago, there was a group of runners training at the stadium in the capital that got noticed, so the government moved the boys and their coach up to this sports school in the mountains to do some more serious competitive training (the girls got left behind at the stadium without any coach). While I was staying with one of the female runners, we went to Ali Sabieh where the guys train to surprise them on their day off. The boys at the school are like brothers to my friend. They have traveled together for different running competitions, so when we arrived they all came darting out and jumped on top of her, embracing her like a sister. We toured the new stadium and the school built especially for these up-and-coming athletes and lamented that there isn’t anything even close to the same support for girls. Two of the top guys at the school are Ayaleh and Saeed. Saeed is a hurdler who has won the East African junior championship in his event and Ayaleh is probably one of the fastest up-and-coming runners in the country and he seems poised to make a name for himself in long-distance running. I’ve seen him win two 10K races, one against other student athletes from Ethiopia, Rwanda, and Somalia and the other today in Arta. Both are about 18—sweet kids, but I think both know they are pretty good at what they do. Their English is so minimal, but they use it boldly and often with hilarious results. Both guys are about an inch taller than me (which is an accomplishment—I tower above the women and many of the men here) and they are very proud of this. One time, Ayaleh was showing me some pictures of a running competition he went to in Beirut and I commented on how much taller he is than the other Djiboutian runners. He stood up, slapped his chest and said “Ah yes. I am such a big tall man!” Certainly he does not suffer from confidence or self-esteem problems. :)

Today, I went with John and Lorraine, some American friends who’ve lived here for fourteen years and work closely with young athletes, to a race in Arta, a neighboring town. Even those runners who didn’t participate in the 10K went along to cheer on their friends. When the time came for awards, John, Lorraine, Saeed, Manuel (the coach) and I were standing off to the side. Saeed did not run today, but that did not stop him from joking with the man issuing the awards, shouting “Hey, Mister Big Man! Speak my name! Speak my name! Where is the trophy for me? I am the best!” Sometimes I think these guys really get a little carried away with themselves, but then I remember that I am not an ambitious teenage athlete with the world at my feet like they are. When I hear them calling their coach “dad” or watch them embracing John and Lorraine as their parents or supporting the female runners as their sisters, grinning as they stand on their tiptoes to reach John’s height, I remember that they are still just boys. They are all mostly from poor families and who knows what things are like at home? Like many others here, they probably can’t even read and write in their native language (Somali). Today, while we were touring Arta, the town where the race was held, I met Fathia, one of the female sprinters. Fathia was the only Djiboutian athlete to compete in the Olympics in Beijing—she’s kind of a big deal, but not as big as she would have been had she been a boy. When I asked her who she thought had the potential to go to London for the 2012 Olympics, she pointed to Ayaleh (who I later found out has only been running a year and a half) and said “He is strong and very fast. The whole country is depending on him.” A heavy burden for an 18 year old kid.

So we spent the morning in Arta, cheering all the runners (but particularly the girls). Both John and Lorraine are/have been runners. Lorraine has run for years and competed and done well in several races in east Africa and John was training for the Olympic Marathon back in the day before he injured himself. Right now, they are trying to start a sponsorship program for the girls who got left behind at the stadium to train on their own. They want to provide basic running gear, transportation, coaching, medical and training advice as well as help each of the girls acquire a trade and learn English so they can support themselves after they stop running. Lorraine is a great cheerleader and was so thrilled that each of the girls she has encouraged did well and completed the 10K. At first, the organizers tried to resist her signing up her girls, giving all kinds of excuses and saying the 10K was only for men, but they finally relented after she put up a bit of a fight. The first four girls to finish were ones who she had encouraged and it was remarkable to see them finish their first 10K ever—actually the first girl to finish looked like she could run another 10K right there. The girls don’t get much encouragement elsewhere. About a month ago, there was a race in Ali Sabieh (where the School of Sports is) and some people in the crowd threw rocks at the girls. A few of the girls were hurt and had to drop out while teammates and friends protected them and tended to their wounds. They’re all ok now—no major injuries, but it gives you an idea of what they sometimes face. Many of the girls even injure themselves while training because with no coach, they just run however fast and long they want without much knowledge of pacing, gait or even stretching. So if you want to help sponsor an aspiring female runner, let me know!

By far, the most amusing and craziest part of the race in Arta were the more minor races held after the 10K. They also organized a 5K, 3K and 1K for younger boys, locals, and girls. Most of them ran in whatever clothes they had—we saw girls in jeans, boys in boxers, and the majority of them were either running in flip flops or barefoot holding flip flops in their hands and a few oddballs who ran in socks. Out of dozens of runners, you could have counted the number of shoes they had on one hand. (Most of those who ran the 10K train for it and do have shoes and real running clothes.) Some of the runners looked as young as 8 or 10 and it was easy to see most of them were running just for the love of it. How else could you run a 5K barefoot unless you just loved to run? Some of them flew by us at lightning speed too. I wouldn’t be surprised if one day, the whole country is pinning their hopes of Olympic glory on one of the little ones we saw today.

Pictures above—me playing ping pong at the School of Sports in Ali Sabieh. This is where the male up-and-coming athletes live and train. One of the coaches challenged me to a ping pong match and after I beat him (or we’ll say I did—no official score was tallied), he passed the paddle around until at least a dozen of the runners had had their crack at me. I don’t think their ping pong skills are quite equal to their track and field skills. :)

The other picture is after the 10K race in Arta. The white folks are John and Lorraine. Manuel, the coach at the School of Sports, is on the right, the upper left is Ayaleh, the winner of the race, and lower left is Mahado, one of the girls John and Lorraine want to sponsor. She had just finished her first 10K!

No Burkas At This Party

Recently I went to my first wedding function. Actually, it was not really a wedding. The party we went to was called a “diiqo” and it’s supposed to be like a housewarming/bridal shower party where everyone brings the bride gifts as she and her husband move in together. It is stage three in the marriage ceremony process. First, there is the legal ceremony, which mostly men attend, where the papers are signed and the couple is legally married. Usually it is between the groom and/or his family and the male representatives of the bride. Then there is a wedding party, which is mostly for the bride, where women come and dress up, eat, dance and shower their friend with congratulations. Then there is a diiqo, which is similar to the women’s party, except for at this function everyone brings gifts. The ironic thing was that the bride (who was nineteen) had been married for two years and already had two children! We are friends with the bride’s sister and she explained to us that it was the groom’s family’s fault for having delayed so long because they are the ones who are supposed to organize the diiqo. But such is life. I guess when you have two small children, it’s hard to squeeze a bridal shower in.

So we (Rachel, Kristie and I) were told to come around 9:00 and we arrived about 9:30. We waited with some other women for a while in a neighbor’s home and after an hour or so we got the phone call that the bride was ready! (Even though it wasn’t the normal marriage party, the bride still wore a huge frilly white dress with perfectly coiffed hair and loads of makeup). So we went to pick her up and arrived at the party at probably 11:00 or 11:30 pm (parties start very late here). It was at this little house in Balbala, a generally poor area which encompasses most of the slums in Djibouti. As the bride got out of the car, there were people lining this tiny little dirt path clapping, cheering and ululating. The three of us followed behind with the bride’s sister. We never saw the groom. As soon as we entered this little house, the bride sat on a fancy decorated couch for pictures and the three of us were grabbed and dragged onto the couch with her—my guess is because we were the only white people there. Still, we didn’t even know the bride, so it is weird getting the seat of honor next to her and having the photographer take tons of video of us just because we are white. Actually, the strangest part is that it is normal to not smile and to look completely bored and disinterested—this is what is expected and becoming for the bridal party. Rachel played the part very well. Kristie tried her best to remain calm and stony-faced. I, on the other hand, probably ruined the video with my smiling, laughing, clapping and general happiness. Every time I tried to be serious I started laughing.

After pictures, we were ushered into the bedroom to sit and chat with some of the other women. After a while the music started blaring and there was a local band playing Somali songs that everyone seemed to know. So we went out to see what was happening and got caught up in the dancing and a scenario ensued that I had never imagined myself taking part in in a conservative Muslim country. First of all, we were all wearing “wedding dirahs” which are like the everyday dirahs (what they call big flowy traditional dresses here) except that only young, unmarried women wear the special “wedding dirahs.” There is a reason for that. These particular dresses are very sparkled with lots of sequins and are completely transparent. You might think I’m kidding about this. I’m not. My first reaction when I put on the dress was, “Wow, why don’t I just go in my underwear? It will save me the trouble of tripping over this long dress.” Fortunately, it comes with a thick underskirt, so you are covered from the waist down. I asked if I could at least wear a tank top under it. The answer from my friend was, “Well you can, but you’re not supposed to and the other women might look at you strangely.” “But seeing my bra and my stomach and everything else from the waist up is normal?” “Yep. It’s how all the other young women dress at these things. I was a little freaked out at my first wedding too, but after a while you get used to it.” Strange that the same girls who wear black robes and large head coverings on the street go to wedding functions half-naked, but rather than argue about this hypocrisy, I decided to go with it. I just made sure to wear a nice new bra so none of the other women could make fun of my cruddy old underwear.

So anyway, as we headed into the room with the music and dancing, we got pulled into the middle of the melee. All of us women were smashed up against each other in the main part of the house, having a great time singing along to the music and dancing. And who else was there? A group full of men sitting stony-faced in chairs two feet away watching all of us shaking and dancing in our shimmery and transparent dresses! I had heard that there are very few men at these functions, but we found one where there seemed to be lots of men. In fact young boys and teenagers were hanging around outside the house because they had heard there was going to be a party and wanted to see all the women in their sheer dresses. Usually a scarf around the head and chest is sufficient covering, but my scarf was quite thin and slippery as an eel, so it was a little hard to keep on and quite ineffective in keeping me covered. As I started copying how the other women were dancing, they laughed and took great delight to see me enjoying myself. They pulled me into the middle of the circle and I started spinning and whirling as they laughed and danced around me. What a surreal experience it was to be the center of attention, dancing in the middle of the room as women fawned over me, clapped, laughed, smiled and danced around me, all of us half-naked under the glaring lights, my scarf never staying up and men in the corner boring holes through my thin little dress with their eyes. The room was a blur of colors, perfumes, scarves, jewelry, sparkles and happy faces. I felt a little silly because I kept stepping on my dress, or someone else’s dress or readjusting my clothes, etc, etc. But if any of the other women thought I looked silly, they didn’t show it. Many of them were very warm and complimentary. After a while we started getting tired, went to the back room to have some food and then were the first ones to leave at 1:30 am. All in all, a fun, strange and interesting experience. I just hope that next time, either the men stay home or I can find a dress that doesn’t make me feel like I should be working at a brothel!

P.S. Pictures above are of us. I'm in light green. Kristie is wearing pink. Rachel is in orange. The bride's sister is in dark green. And of course, the bride in white and several layers of henna, makeup, sparkles and jewelry.

Are You Sure You're American?

Walking around town, the question I get most often is "where are you from?" Many of the westerners here are either French or American. But people rarely guess that I am American. In fact, they usually guess everything but American. From students, taxi drivers and in the marketplace I have had guesses of French, British, Canadian, Scottish, Irish, Swiss, Swedish, German, Belgian, Dutch, Norwegian, Caribbean (haha!), and Arab. Maybe it's the way I dress or the fact that I speak French, but most people just don't believe I'm American. One girl insisted I must be Arab, if even just a little, half-Arab perhaps. An old woman at the market looked me up and down, made her guesses and then refused to believe me when I finally told her I was from the US. "No, no! Not American! Not possible!" I tried to argue that "I was born in the US and my parents are both American, so I'm pretty sure that makes me American too." But this old woman wouldn't have it. "Not American--Somali!" I also get this a lot. Particularly when I have my head covered and am wearing a long skirt, people on the street will smile and call out to me, "Hey Somali!" or they will say "Salaam Alaikum" (a traditional Muslim greeting). It makes me feel good that people see me as someone who fits in here, but Somalis' lack of ability in determining where us white folks are from is hilarious at times. Kristie (who has light blond hair) once had a girl ask her if she was Chinese. When Rachel (whose hair is only a couple shades darker than Kristie's) wears Pakistani clothes to weddings, people ask if she is Algerian or North African. Once a man in the market argued with her that she must be a Somali because there is no other way a white woman could speak Somali so well. Although Rachel is very obviously not Somali, he insisted that at least her father must be Somali. Perhaps he was one of those rare albino Somalis!

One thing most of the locals all seem to agree on here: the Americans are much nicer than the French. I have asked many different people who they think is nicer and the Americans have it! Perhaps it's because we don't have a colonial history with the Djiboutians, make an effort to fit in, and don't generally walk around in tank tops and miniskirts.

I'm So Cold!?!?

Every once in a while, the American Embassy opens their private pool for any Americans who are here to come and swim. It was the weekend and I had never been swimming outside in November before, so I (and many others) decided to take advantage of the offer. The pool is in the embassy compound which is very well shaded by trees and other lovely greenery. It was great fun at first, but as the sun started going down, it just kept getting colder and colder until I was shivering uncontrollably and even my teeth were chattering. We started talking about warm soup and hot chocolate and all the other comforting things of winter. As Rachel was driving Kristie and I home, my one resounding thought was "I AM SO COLD!!!" When we got home, I quickly dried off and put on some of my warmest clothes and curled up on our sofa while waiting for this terrible chill to dissipate. I had a terrific laugh at myself when I checked the weather and found out that the temperature outside was a freezing 87 degrees! Haha! I guess I must be starting to adapt to the Djiboutian way. After all, they all say that we are in the "cold" season now. I talked to one girl who said she has to use four covers at night just to stay warm. I laughed hyserically and told her that I myself sleep under a fan with no covers in shorts and a tank top. She was amazed at my tolerance for "cold" weather. (Usually the coldest it gets at night is the mid-70's.) Perhpas my tolerance is not so great after all. :)

How Do You Know What Food Is When You Only Eat Trash?

There are a few goats who live in our little neighborhood, and in an effort of goodwill toward them, I started saving food scraps so they could have something to graze on instead of the usual trash and dirt that they're used to. A few nights ago, I decided the time was right to set out some scraps for our little friends. I went outside our gate and dumped some orange peels and chicken bones for the goats to pick up. But this caused a huge and completely unintended scene. Several men saw me dumping something out and ran over in a highly distressed manner shouting "Oh no! No! No! No, no, no!" I tried to innocently explain "Oh, mais ca va, ca va. C'est de la nourriture pour les chevres." ("It's ok. It's only food for the goats.") They were not having it. Not on their street. Our guard ran out and saw the commotion. He was absolutely horrified. He ran back inside to get the trash bucket and started sweeping the food back into the bucket. I tried to explain again, but to no avail. He took the bucket back inside, set it down, made me throw my plastic bags into it, pointed at the trash and said "Halas!" (Meaning "enough" or "finished"--his way of saying, "hey lady, don't dump trash outside anymore because we have a bucket for that stuff"). I went back inside determined to try again later.

Yesterday, another opportunity presented itself. I heard a goat outside and ran out to greet it with my orange peels. He was winding his way through the little market stalls on our street and by the time I caught up, he was chomping away at a dirty plastic bag. I gleefully threw down my orange peels, content to have found a recipient of my benevolence, when what did I see? Monsieur Le Chevre (Mr. Goat) sniffed my fresh and delicious peelings with indifference at best, then snubbed them and turned back to his plastic bag! As a Djiboutian goat, he has most likely been grazing on trash, dirt and filth for most of his life and couldn't even comprehend the feast I had set down before him. He was like a child "who goes on making mud pies in the slums because he cannot imagine what is meant by the offer of a holiday at sea." (C.S. Lewis) I suspect this is true of the wider adult culture here as well. Sometimes people get so set in their ways, even if they are doing something that is clearly not working, they will keep on doing it that way because change is too hard or too frightening or it makes the future too unknown. Even the simplest of animals have something to teach here!

English Club

Recently, Kristie took me to my first meeting of the university’s English club. It is a completely student-run group and each Thursday, university students gather to have a debate and practice their English. This week, the three topics were “How do you see (what do you think of) the youth of this country?” “What are the good and bad aspects of modern society?” and “What is the importance of learning English?” It was very culturally instructive and quite hilarious at times. Students would take turns going up to the front of the room and giving their opinion on one of the questions then the other students would raise their hands and either ask questions for further explanation or challenge student #1 on a point they had made. Question #3 (what is the importance of learning English?) was by far the most popular one. And there were many opinions ranging from one guy who thought that English was the best and easiest of all languages to learn (I couldn’t fathom this—I’m a native speaker and I don’t even think that) to another girl who thought that we should all focus on our mother tongues and not sacrifice culture for language. The first guy got many questions and challenges. When people agreed with a point very well made, they would burst into clapping, cheering and even laughing. I have noticed that while Somalis can be harsh in their criticism and quite aggressive, they can also be very friendly and warm in their approval and laughter. I think at least part of it depends on whether you are an insider or an outsider in the community. But anyway, then the students egged us white folks on and asked for one of us to stand up and talk. I got up and let them choose the question for me. They agreed on #2, so I gave my opinion on the effects of modern society and then introduced myself and told them I would be one of their English professors next semester. They peppered me with questions and asked for my advice about learning English. Many of them seemed quite excited and although many of the students had been chatting while others were up front, they were almost all silent for me. After an hour or so, there was a break because it was prayer time, so many of the students went to the mosque next door, but a few of the women stayed behind. I chatted with a very sweet girl whose family was originally from Yemen. After the break, the students played some American rap songs which kind of baffled me. I couldn’t even understand the lyrics, so I’m sure they didn’t get much either. But considering what most rap songs are about, that was probably a good thing! Afterwards, I met some of the student leaders (most of which were young women) and they crowded around me asking lots of questions. One girl wanted to know if I was Arab. I told her no, that I was purely American. “Really? But you must be at least half-Arab. Your coloring and features look right, even though you are a little light. The way you dress and cover your head, the phrases you use—you must be!” I told her I was very sorry to disappoint, but I was not even half-Arab. Another girl asked if I spoke French as well as English. When I said yes, she seemed very pleased. When I told her I wanted to learn Somali also, well...that did it. Soon there was a group of girls chorusing around me “Oh! We will teach you! We will teach you!” One girl said she had a grammar book and would teach me the Somali alphabet. They were already making plans before I could even really accept their offer. I was planning on waiting a few months before starting on Somali, but I’m not sure these girls will let me wait. :)

One Hot Tamale

As you may imagine, life as a single white woman is very different here in Djibouti than it is in the US. I have been abroad before—spent a summer in Europe, summer in Malawi (southern Africa), even traveled to Djibouti previously, so through the course of various travels, I’ve gotten used to male attention and unusual encounters with foreign men. Or at least, I thought I had until I moved here. But nothing could have prepared me for the way the men here react to me. In a week and a half, my encounters with them have ranged from hilarious to borderline obscene. From the first day, it seemed that every time my roommate and I stepped out the door, all male eyes were on us. Men routinely call things out to us as we pass by. Some of my favorites are “Hey! I really like you!” “Oui, oui, Madame!” “I like the way you dress. It is very good here.” “You are so beautiful!” “Hey, tall girl! Tall girl!” and “Yay for Obama!” (This last one doesn’t have as much to do with how we look. I just think it’s funny that people shout Obama as we walk past. Africans really love him.) The two of us together are an unusual combination. Kristie has light blond hair and I am pale and tall (taller than almost all the women and many of the men). But even when I’m out by myself, men still react to me. It is so weird to see a group of men chatting with each other, and then stop cold and stare at me as I quietly walk by. Their eyes light up as if I were some exotic, beautiful gift from heaven! I rarely smile or talk to men on the street, but even when I have my head down and am draped in lots of clothes, I can still feel them staring at me. It is so strange to go for a walk through our neighborhood and to see men slowing down or even stopping their cars and craning their necks just get a look at me.

I had already been dressing conservatively, but I thought a solution to all this gratuitous attention might be to dress even more modestly and always have my head covered. Yet ironically, I realized, this only makes me more attractive to the men here! A friend pointed out that because I have dark hair, dressing ultra-conservatively might make me seem like a Muslim who just happens to be lighter and therefore, more “beautiful” than their women. So instead of looking at me like an unavailable foreign woman, they see me as one of their own. If you think I am exaggerating, a few days ago I went with Rachel to the market and to tour downtown. She and Tom have lived in Djibouti for six years, and in that time Rachel has gotten her fair share of both comical and inappropriate attention from men. Yet she said that she had never gotten so many cat-calls and comments and so much attention as that morning that we walked through the downtown together. I am used to being treated as a normal person in the US, so it is extremely strange to be the “hot chick” here! But just so you don’t worry, I want to make it clear that this city is quite safe even for a single white woman. Kristie said that in her experience, once people in the community get used to you being there, they become very protective and will shoo away anyone who looks like trouble. Rachel said that when she has been out alone and a man bothered her, she told the people around her and they immediately came to her rescue. Aside from being an object of desire, I have never felt truly threatened in any way and there are many other women out on the streets, so it’s not as if I were putting myself out in society in ways other women aren’t. I am very careful about who I talk to or smile at and have not been (and probably will not be) alone with a local man. Additionally, Tom has helped Kristie and I deal with a man who we felt was a bit suspicious. Tom is well-respected in the community and calls both of us his ‘sisters’, so people know he is our protector. I’ve also asked him to spread the word that I am not available. :)