Do you know anyone crazy enough to drive from South Africa to China? I do.

Today, while I was trying to get a visa at the Ethiopian embassy for an upcoming trip, I met an older, soft-spoken South African man. When I casually asked where he was coming from, he answered "Nepal". "So you flew?" "No, actually my friend and I drove." I couldn't believe it, but it turns out that wasn't even half the story. As we chatted, I learned that they were on their way home--both men had driven all the way to Nepal (they had aimed for China, but couldn't get in) from South Africa and were now on their way home. They left in the summer of 2008 and are slated to return to South Africa this June, just in time for the World Cup and to promote some sort of peace initiative with Nelson Mandela. "So what would possess a person to drive from South Africa to Nepal and back again? Were you just bored and looking for something to do?" He laughed and smiled. "Something like that...and people said it couldn't be done." "So you set out to prove them wrong?" "Exactly." At first, I thought this might be some crazy person just pulling my leg, but then when he got out his three passports (because one was not enough to hold all the entry and exit stamps) and explained to the official, "Well look, here you see the stamps for Tanzania, Malawi, Kenya, Sudan, Egypt, etc. And here is Jordan, Syria, Iran, Pakistan, India, etc" I knew that perhaps these two guys were for real. After my meeting with the visa official, I went back to the waiting room to wish them well on the rest of their journey. One of the men gave me his name and told me that if I looked on google, perhaps I might see something about their trip. Here is a link I found:

http://www.thenational.ae/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20091128/MOTORING/711279940/1196/rss

What a wild ride they seem to have had...amazing the people you meet at embassies and airports.

On Beggars

One of the constant questions on my mind is "How do I interact with the beggars here?" Everytime I leave the house and walk down the street, beggars follow me and ask for food, money or whatever I have. They come in many shapes and sizes, from old men with canes, people in wheelchairs or with other handicaps, women with babies, and children from about two to twelve years old. Many people have told me not to give out money, especially to children, because they often give it to an adult who functions as their "pimp" and takes most of the money the child collects. I've also heard that some younger boys will use money they get from begging to buy khat (a legal drug that is widely used by men here) because they want to be like the older men. Begging is such a part of the culture. Even children who clearly are well-dressed and well-fed will leave their parents when they see me coming, run up to my side and hold out their hand asking for money. It's hard to resist a white lady, I guess!

At times, I've seen adults berate little children because they know they should not be begging. The other day, a little boy and girl merely said "Bonjour" as I passed, so I smiled and greeted them back. Then out of nowhere this old man flew into a rage, started yelling and swinging a huge stick around. At first, I thought he was coming for me (and had some of his blows been an inch or two closer, he probably would have broken my nose), but he soon ran past me to chase the kids and rain down blows on them. I still can't figure out why--perhaps it was his begging territory and the children were encroaching or maybe he thought they shouldn't be asking me for anything. Still, I couldn't imagine that that would warrant beating them with a stick. Another time, a little boy approached me to ask for food, but when he opened his mouth and said "Baksheesh", crumbs and chunks of food fell out! I laughed and told him "Look at you, little one. You've got so much baksheesh, it's coming out of your mouth!" I then pointed at the food he had in his hand and he sheepishly tried to hide it from me, but it was too late. He knew the jig was up.

It's hard to give to every single person who asks (if I did, I would come out of the grocery store with sacks full of food and be empty-handed by the time I got home). It's also hard to give to people who just expect something, try to manipulate me or who are ungrateful when I do give. It seems easier to me to give to someone who is clearly in need but doesn't ask than to someone else who puts on a fake sad face and then gives me this look like "Yeah, that's right. I deserve this and you don't because you're rich and I'm poor." This reaction can certainly test whether or not you are truly a 'cheerful giver'!

At times, when I refuse a child they will walk with me and then their friends or whoever else will join in too until I have a little chorus of voices calling me Mama and Auntie and asking for 10 franc or putting their hands to their mouths to ask for food. Some of them laugh and smile and enjoy themselves as they beg while others look like the most pathetic little street urchins you've ever seen. Sometimes I feel like the Pied Piper of Little Beggar Children and I'm not sure if it's better to laugh or cry about it.

So what to do about all these people when I have so much and they have so little? Whether begging is their job or their only means of survival, I still have much to lose before I am ever going to have to go without food. There are many people in genuine need and I want to help, but in a way that is actually meaningful and not just massaging my conscience. So I started carrying around a water bottle to give people a drink out of and little bits of food here and there. The test for me if someone really needs help is if they will take a drink of water first. If so then they probably need some food too. If not, then they just want money for something that isn't food or drink.

I finally felt I was getting to a place where I had a little system going and I knew how to react when the masses of women and children come looking for something, but today I saw a sight that almost undid me. It was during the afternoon rest break, so the streets were mostly empty. I saw a little boy up ahead, but his expression was different. He didn't put on his sad little beggar face like most children do. He looked panicked and truly desperate for someone, anyone to help. He was standing over another little boy the same age who was lying on the sidewalk. As I approached, I could see the boy on the sidewalk twitching and shaking uncontrollably and foaming at the mouth. He looked like he had a severe disease or had been badly tramuatized or injured. I had never seen anyone, much less a child of 7 or 8 years old, in such a state. My first thought was "Oh my gosh! What do I do? Call 911! No wait! This is Djibouti! There is no 911!!!" This little boy looked like he was at death's door and his friend was hysterical. I looked around and saw one of my students passing by. I called him over and asked him to talk to the boys and see what was wrong. After a few seconds he said, "The boy is just hungry. He needs something to eat." I was shocked. I knew you could die from hunger eventually, but had never seen hunger like that with my own eyes before, not as a statistic but in the face of a young boy just a few years older than my nephew. There was no parent or guardian or anyone older than eight that I could see.

So Omar, my student, gave the friend a couple hundred franc (a little over a dollar) to buy some food. We tried to make sure he knew to use the money for food and not for anything else. To my surprise, when I pulled out my water bottle, the little boy was able to sit (with his friend supporting him) and drink a little. I urged him to take more, but he could only handle one little sip. It broke my heart to walk away, but what else could I do? As much as I wanted to give him a piggyback ride and take him home, I was supposed to teach a class. As I walked to the university I scanned the road, but every cafe and restaurant was closed. Most of the street vendors had gone home and the only ones who were left were just selling candy and pop--not much nutrition for a little boy who needs a bowl of rice much more than a Coke. I tried to find them after class, but their spot on the sidewalk was empty. A dollar and a sip of water hardly seems even close to adequate. I've had other kids turn up their noses at me when I offered a banana or a drink of water, but this kid was literally dying for one.

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!