A Sunday morning jog!

Did I mention that I ran a half marathon yesterday? That’s 21km, or half the distance from Kampala to Entebbe and WAY more than 6 laps of the school field (as my kids thought today). Just in case you weren’t in the staffroom for the morning briefing where it was announced, haven’t read my facebook update or read my previous blog or heard me twittering on about it, then I would just like to make it known! I’m not normally one to blow my own trumpet, but I am very proud of myself and today is all about rewarding myself for my achievement! I’ve treated my weary feet to a pedicure, indulged in Indian take-away and am about to have a massage in the comfort of my own room to soothe my aching joints.
Things did not appear to be going to plan at the start. We arrived in Jinja to find that some unscrupulous back-packers had decided to upgrade themselves from their nasty dorm room to our cosy safari tent, the restaurant was almost fully booked and one of us was missing the registration pack. As always these things were soon resolved and we eventually sat down to a carbo-fuelled dinner with a few friends.
Alarms were set for the crack of dawn for the big race, not just one, but at five minute intervals, just in case we overslept as it would have been a shame to wake up at noon to say ‘oh shit, we were supposed to run a half marathon this morning!’ . This proved to be unnecessary, as the torrential rain woke us up early instead. We threw on our clothes and I had my Weetabix by the light of the torch on my mobile phone and set off for the run. Worried glances were exchanged as we had to walk through the mud bath that the boda couldn’t get through.
We arrived just in the nick of time (had the race actually started on time) and with plenty of time to spare for the actual starting time. We positioned ourselves a fair distance from the starting line so that anyone wishing to rush through would not be hindered! So after a few announcements and playing the Ugandan National Anthem, we were off.
We had a strategy in mind from the beginning. Just like ‘The Hare and the Tortoise’, slow and steady wins the race. We let people pass us out and managed to be somewhat unaffected by the fact that most of the runners were hurtling off ahead of us. After ten minutes our theory seemed to be working. I would love to know what happened to the lady who had already virtually given up after about 2 km. We asked her if she’d like to jog along with us, but after another 500 m or so she really had burnt out, poor love! We carried on, chatting away to keep our spirits up. By the time we reached the 5km mark, the fastest of the 10km race runners were catching us up and overtaking us, running gazelle-like in elegant formation. (Time to reassess here – slow and steady just gets you through the race but you need fast and furious to stand a chance of winning that 10km race.)We made a gap and allowed them to pass, enjoying the cheers as we went by.
After the 5km mark, the routes split and we separated from the 10 k-ers. The next 10 km was long and tough going. We hardly passed a soul and any onlookers were very bemused, unsure whether to cheer us on or just laugh out loud whole-heartedly – it was mainly the latter. Thank goodness there were two of us. We intermittently commented on multi-coloured birds, the lush green fields, the ever stunning sky and the way the light reflected so prettily off the. It sure beats running through the pollution fest that is Kampala. If only it wasn’t so bloody long and tiring! Sorry, I was meant to be looking for the positive!
By 9.30am we got onto the main road again and neared civilisation again. And I started to need the loo! Trust me – over an hour of empty roads and I feel fine – surround myself with cars and people and I desperately needed a wee. Focus, focus, focus … oh I know what can distract me – the excruciating pain in both knees. By this point I was having conversations with my legs, ‘don’t worry,’ I promised, ‘you won’t have to do anything all week and I’ll treat you to a massage’. But we were so close, and I knew that if I stopped then it would be all over. Overtaking a few flagging runners was definitely a boost and after a long stretch back into town we saw the sign for the final kilometre. We used every remaining bit of energy to make it to the end and my running buddy grabbed my hand as we made it to the finishing line.
An hour later, the three of us (my flatmate also ran the 10km – yay well done!!) were sitting by the Nile basking in our own glory, enjoying a hearty breakfast and a well earned glass of bubbly, then beer, then … well I’d fallen asleep by then! It’s amazing how the brain works and allows you to forget pain, as we were soon left with just a warm glowing feeling – be it from pride or alcohol, who cares? We bloody did it!

Countdown to the Jinja Half-Marathon

Oh my goodness - in less than 24 hours I will have (hopefully) have completed my first half marathon! We're heading off to Jinja in a little while to stay the night, before setting off on The Source of The Nile run.

It's been a long 5 or so weeks of training since I first started training. I'm not quite sure how I managed to tick the box for 21km and not 10km - probably because I have this secret, underlying competitive streak in me that only rears its head now and again. So myself and my good friend and running buddy have been obsessing over where to run, for how long, for what distance and so forth.

The training has had its highs and lows. We're just coming out of the rainy season, so we missed a practise or two due to the weather. This isn't because we're wimps, but because a rainstorm here means that the roads turn to squelchy mud and even the paved roads get flooded. But on the whole I'd say we've been pretty disciplined. Our training hasn't exactly been hi-tech. I know runners who have these clever devices called Garmins that record your speed for every kilometre, the distance you have run and of course the time. We don't have such things. At one stage, neither of us had a watch, so we had to incorporate a loop into Kisementi where there's a big clock in the car park to have an idea of how long we had been running.

Then there are the clothing issues. Two weeks ago I discovered a big hole in the only running pants that really fit me properly. So I decided to pop to the shops to see what I could find. The first shop had an array of fleece lined trackie bottoms suitable for Arctic conditions and most definitely not appropriate for tropical Uganda. On I went to Mr Price (some sort of South African Primark style shop only with inferior quality clothes at triple M & S prices)to find shiny neon pink or green nylon track suits - not quite what I was looking for either. The next stop was the tiny but genuine Nike outlet in Garden City, but all they had was a pair of white trendy harem pant thingys costing around 40 quid - pass again! My final port of call was another sports shop selling more shiny multicoloured lycra trousers last fashionable in 1986. Needless to say, I am going to wear a pair of slightly big trousers of my own.

This week was meant to be a semi-rest week. That means that you don't run too much so that you can be fully rested and in tip-top condition on the day (hmmm supposedly). I decided that I would go on the hash run as the final practise on Monday. Bad idea. This turned out to be through the the slum areas of Bukoto (not far from where I live) and Kamwokya. Not only did we pass through this area, but the entire run involved leaping over open sewers, tip-toeing along precipitous edges with festering awamps threatening below, dodging people's drying underwear on washing lines and generally making a good attempt not to contract cholera or typhoid in the process. In the end, I did feel a certain sense of karma though. The hare, who is the person who sets the route, thought it would be an amusing touch to have a camel strategically placed at one point of the run. It will come back to haunt her forever though, since she did not have a hash handle (nickname) and came to be baptised Camel Toe!!! I think she will be most upset when she discovers what camel toe actually means!

Finally I come to nutrition and a generally healthy and balanced lifestyle. Last night was a bit of a challenge as I had to (and managed to) avoid the FREE OPEN BAR after the graduation ceremony at school. I decided to also avoid the party afterwards as this would almost certainly lead to my downfall. Tonight we're packing Scrabble and cards to entertain ourselves instead of glugging wine. Although I do have to say there is a bottle of bubbly chilling for afterwards ...

International Day

“I know, let’s have a normal week. You know, one where we just teach our lessons all week and nothing exciting happens!” was the cry from the staffroom. Our school year is jam packed with special themed days to make the year more exciting for the kids. Barely a week goes past without something out of the ordinary happening. If we’re not rehearsing for a school production then it’s Literacy Week and if it’s not that then it’s Earth Day or something! This is all great, but it doesn’t half get the kids hyped up. Sure, we all enjoyed honing our mental mathematics skills on the worldwide online game for World Maths Day, but it was a bit disappointing for those who didn’t have internet at home. Athletics Day is great for a select few, but for many kids, it seemed to be an exhausting and disappointing day. And the less said about Invention Convention the better (OK I will say it ... I HATE Invention Convention – 2 weeks of clutter and confusion in the classroom, where the entire class are expected to invent something completely new and functional out of a bit of cardboard and cellotape. It can’t be much fun for the kids either, as they are told that ‘no, you can’t make a robot out of a shoebox and water bottles and expect it to work’, or, ‘no, you just stole that idea from the ‘Wallace and Gromit’ clip we just watched’).
Anyway, I digressed. This week we had my favourite school event of the year, International Day. Yes I was a little grumpy first thing in the morning as I confiscated a Fez type hat, a Masai stick for clubbing lions, a German flag and an Indian scarf … all before 9am! However, as we gathered on the field for the Parade of Nations, my spirits lifted. Children came to school in their traditional national dress or the colours of the flag, then found other children from their country. We have representatives from all over the globe. Some nations are represented more strongly than others – while the UK, India, Uganda and perhaps South Africa stood out as the biggest groups, on small boy held up the flag for Nepal alone!
Our stomachs grew bigger as the morning wore on. I was impressed that Year 4 were scheduled to go to the Asia tent first as we could get first pickings on the food! By 10am I had gorged myself on falafel, hummus, dips of curry, spring rolls, mini-pavlovas and whatever else I could lay my hands on. My hand was decorated with a henna tattoo and I tried to burn off a few of the calories with an attempt at belly dancing. So in each of the tents, we had a little ‘taste’ of the continent.
In the afternoon, we sang and danced the ‘Waving Flag’ World Cup song so many times it nearly drove us mental. The kids went home happy and energetic. The day’s success could be measured in the children’s smiles!

The Sound of Music, Kampala style

A few months ago, auditions for The Sound of Music were mentioned in the staff-room. Rumour had it, that you only had to turn up to the audition to be offered a part as a singing nun. The hysteria started to build over the next few days as friends debated what song they should use and practised their scales in the lunch hour. I almost got carried away, but thankfully friends from far and wide warned me not to when I updated my Facebook with a comment about trying out for the chorus. It was agreed that somebody had to be in the audience! Luckily, some of my friends are far more musically talented than I am, and they were offered parts.
As time went on, I was very relieved that my inner-diva did not suddenly emerge! There was talk of four-part harmonies in Latin and what’s more, these brave souls had to sit in Kampala traffic three or more times a week to rehearse. My friends came into school with sore throats and tired eyes, but they worked on through it all.
So how was it? I have to say, that if the stage version of ‘Allo ‘Allo ever comes to Kampala, then there will be some serious competition for the roles – the accents were fairly comical. I am not sure what Hitler would have made of the Ugandan Nazis either. A friend of mine who has a reputation for being a little bit cheeky was perfectly cast as the naughty nun. Then we come to the Von Trapp family – well we know that the Captain must have travelled around a fair bit as he had sired children from the UK, Canada, the USA, Uganda and who knows where else! I am sure that the amount of lipstick the male characters wore would have been frowned upon in German occupied Austria too. The nuns apparently broke their vows of poverty and abstinence to have a couple of tipples backstage! This is truly amateur dramatics Kampala style! Well done to all of you I know who took part – you did a great job and I really enjoyed it. Nakasero Hill sure was alive with the sound of music.

So long, farewell ... the comings and goings of Kampala

Life as an international teacher has its ups and downs. Unlike working in the UK, you often find that your friends are your colleagues and at times it can feel as though you are living inside a bubble. Friendships are forged quickly as people share their new experiences and your colleagues become your friends, your exercise pals, drinking buddies and often closest confidantes. It all goes swimmingly well, then around the third month, if you’re not careful, then cabin fever sets in. This is why it is really important to seek friends outside of the workplace. In Colombia, this was a bit of a struggle due to the language barrier and a lack of other ex-pats. Sure, there were people who I met who were kind and patient enough to listen to my crap Spanish for half an hour, but I must have made pretty exhausting company with all my mistakes and misunderstandings!
Kampala, however, is a little different. For an African city, there are literally thousands of foreigners staying here for different reasons. It’s pretty easy to spot who is who too! Anyone who walks around Garden City shopping mall in hiking boots and trousers with too many pockets is here on a visit for safari. Then there are the young gap year volunteers, who can be heard bartering with locals in order to save a ha’penny from a hundred yards away. There are probably thousands of young, well-educated folk working here for various NGO organisations, teachers and medical staff working in both private and public schools and hospitals for an average two or three year stint (this would be my category!), living on a moderate wage. If you walk into the Irish pub, you will find a huge crowd of South Africans watching the rugby or just enjoying a pint or eight, who are working for big multinationals like the phone companies and so on. Then there are the old timers – the families who have stayed here for generations and feel completely at home, be it in Kampala or out in the country.
Many people are only staying for a month or two and it soon becomes clear that people want to know which sort of person you are. A first meeting with a foreigner in Kampala will usually establish what line of work you are in and, the key question, how long are you staying! The long-timers see my time here as a fleeting visit and it would be very easy for me to think the same of the folk staying here for 6 months or so. Many a conversation has ended, and many a friendship has not had the chance to get off the ground in this city, just because of how long you are staying. I get it – it takes much precious time and effort to make new friends, and it’s sad to see them go.
This year though, I have started to break out of the bubble a little. Monday is the hash day which provides me with a good run and a chance to meet new people and catch up with old friends. On a Wednesday I go to yoga and have made a few friends there too. Many of us are trying our hardest to branch out, which then means that we get to meet friends of friends. I know that this does not sound very remarkable to anyone living in their home country, but believe me when I say that this is progress! This weekend I went to Jinja with a couple of friends to farewell one of these newer friends. It’s sad to see people go, but making the effort most definitely helps keep you sane here!

Rainy school days

A rainy Sunday is one thing, but a rainy school day is quite another. As any teacher will tell you, wet playtimes lead to hyperactive kids, who have been cooped up all day with no exercise or fresh air. It astounds me that even the kids who have lived her all their lives, and have witnessed these downpours all the time, still can’t help but stare out of the window at the storm. Our school was not designed for this climate. I think it may have been designed for the middle of the Sahara Desert. The reception area looks very grand, with its shiny marble floor, but add water, and you have a law suit waiting to happen. Every staircase is open plan and made of a different, but equally dangerous, slippery material. To get anywhere, you have to walk outside and get soaked to the skin. Almost every big storm is accompanied by a power cut and loss of internet connection, so you have to sit in the dark and quickly replan any activities that required power or internet. The windows don't seem to be water tight either and every classroom, which should still have a gleam of newness, has watermarks dripping from the windows. Some places have snow days, I think we should have rain days!

Rainy Days and Sundays

A rainy Sunday in Kampala gives you the perfect excuse to curl up in bed and do nothing. This morning, I had planned to get up early to go for a long run, in preparation for the half-marathon in a couple of weeks. As soon as I woke up, I heard the patter of rain and peered through the window to see grey skies and the rain bouncing off the ground. A series of phone calls and texts followed, weighing up the options – should we wait a while, should we go to the gym, should we run on the paved roads? We really ought to be running 18km today, and had hoped to attempt one of my old biking routes through small villages and past the Baha’i Temple. But these are dirt roads, and when it rains, dirt roads turn into mud roads, as slippery and treacherous as black ice in an English winter. When it rains, the potholes turn into crater lakes of unknown depths. In the end, we all decided to do nothing. To crawl back into bed and enjoy the sensation of being wrapped in a duvet while the temperatures dropped to a cool 20 degrees or so. It’s the perfect time to catch up on reading, movies and blogs. When it rains I take the time to cook for the week, or, on rare occasions, I even bake a carrot cake. In all honesty, it is the only time when I actually stop and relax, so for that, I am grateful for the rain!