Running From the Law, and other Less Eventful Jogs

Ottawa Race Weekend is here!  For the last four years, I’ve run the Sunday half-marathon with several thousand of my closest friends.   Training for the run has become a bit of a seasonal marker for me – I start on a treadmill at the gym in the middle of winter, move outdoors at the first hints of spring (usually when it’s still way too cold, snowy, icy and windy but with promising sunshine), and gradually build up to running farther as the weather warms up.  This leads up to nervous excitement at the crowded start line and, finally, exhausted satisfaction at the finish.  Last year training and running with Dad was awesome, and it’s strange that I won’t be there again this year.  This has got me thinking about the last decade or so I’ve spent jogging (very slowly)…

I’ve done countless jogs along the bike paths of the Ottawa River and Rideau Canal, and couldn’t ask for nicer routes to stretch my legs each day.  My travels have also led me on some pretty wonderful jogs.  Somehow running in different places seems to imprint then in my memory differently than walking or driving, and I can clearly recall how I felt running in so many places:

• the seashores in Victoria and Vancouver,
• on the island of Bol in Croatia;
• in Torrey Pines State Park of San Diego, followed by a plunge in the ocean;
• past Shakespeare’s stomping grounds in Stratford-Upon-Avon;
• along the Lachine canal and through the Town of Mount Royal in Montreal;
• on trails surrounding Jasper Park Lodge in the Rocky Mountains;
• past the baobab and eucalyptus trees in King’s Park of Perth, Australia; and,
• through corn fields surrounded by volcanoes just outside of Xela in Guatemala -to name a few.

Just writing that list is a great reminder of how amazingly lucky I am, getting to live, travel and experience so many places (corny, but worth noting!).  And now that I’ve left Rwanda, I think it’s safe to share one of my stranger jogging experiences.

In Kigali, I had played Sunday morning pick-up soccer a few times with our house-helper Joseph and his friends.   The soccer field was about fifteen minutes away, tucked within Kigali’s urban farm-fields.  I decided to go for a jog one afternoon and headed through the fields of beans, maize and tomatoes.  I soon reached the soccer pitch, which is mostly mud, but with a great view of downtown Kigali on the next hill over.  To the amusement of the mamas, kids and goats hanging around, I starting running laps around the field.  This got kind of boring, so I continued through the red-dirt streets behind the field, past small homes with wide-eyed kids staring at me and sometime yelling muzungu at me.  When I saw a police station with big gates and barbed wire fencing, I turned around, jogged back to the field, did a few more laps, and started my route back home.  It was at this point that I noticed a policeman running towards me.

He was yelling at me, so I stopped and in broken English and French, he said that he needed my help back at the station.  I politely declined, explaining that as it was getting late and the sun was setting so it was really time for me to get home.   He persisted, and that’s when I noticed four or five other cops all coming towards us from all angles, some on their walkie talkies.  I only caught the word muzungu in their fast Kinyarwanda.  After a few more minutes of protesting, it became clear that I would need to go back to the station with them, where I’d turned around on my jog about 20 minutes earlier.   As we started walking I got pretty nervous, which my guards obviously noticed.  Luckily the first policeman I met was very sweet, reassuring me over and over that I shouldn’t be scared.  He explained that I had jogged through the staff housing of Rwanda’s National Police Headquarters.  The whole area is off-limits, so I was required to visit the station and explain myself.   I, of course, had no idea that this neighbourhood was any different from the others I wandered through daily.  It’s surprising because government buildings, businesses and homes in Rwanda all have guards who let you know if you’re getting too close; yet the police grounds were apparently lacking any…  in any event, we made it back to the station, slipped past the gate and into a small building with a single room.  There were a couple of guys sitting around in handcuffs, and a tiny desk with about eight cellphones plugged in.  The phones kept ringing, and random officers wearing tiny ties kept coming in to answer, screaming into the phones, fumbling with them, plugging and unplugging them.  They screamed even louder as one of Rwanda’s epic rainstorms swept in and the tin roof roared.

After what felt like forever given my nervous state (despite many comforting reassurances from the policeman that caught me), I was summoned forward by an officer.  In between answering the phones, he questioned about what I’d been doing.  I was wearing my baseball hat, dry fit T-shirt, iPod, shorts and sneakers – it was pretty obvious, and he didn’t seem overly concerned.  He explained that for any athletic training in Rwanda, one needs official authorization, and I should seek that immediately – I still have no idea what that means.  After apologizing profusely, the officer took my e-mail address and the name of the bank where I work (deciding on my contact info was a bit complicated, as there are no real addresses in Kigali and I could not remember my phone number) and let me go.  I was escorted to the road, flagged down a motorcycle, and made it home no worse for wear.  It was reassuring that there was no request for a bribe during my visit to the station – Rwanda is working hard on its reputation as a country free of corruption.  I do, however, have lasting evidence of my run-in with the law.  My new friend, the first cop I spoke with, has sent me a couple of very long and very hilarious emails requesting a date, or a wife.

After that incident my runs in Kigali were limited to a few main roads and my sidestreet, where the kids sometimes joined me.  Though I was decked all sorts of athletic gear and they wear rags and flip-flops, they would often get bored of my slow pace after a few minutes and leave me in their dust.  I also found that my lungs were hurting from running, and with all the exhaust and wood-fuel, figured that it would probably be healthier just to run indoors, which I did occasionally at a boring Western hotel.

I’ve started running outdoors again in Tanzania.  I’ve found a nice route along dirt road that is parallel to the ocean. It’s got lots of potholes but almost no traffic.   Unfortunately the mansions block the ocean view, but if I time my evening  run well and have a bit of luck, I end by running out to the end of a pier that juts into the Indian Ocean just as the sun is setting over my left shoulder.  It’s awesome.

Slipway's pier, moments after sunset

Last weekend, I headed out for an early morning run and was stopped by Henry, a Kenyan now based in Dar.  He runs marathons and ultramarathons for fun, between working as a gym teacher and hosting a reggae radio show.  The day before we met, Henry had run 35 km.  Since it was his ‘rest’ day, he offered to join me on my five click  saunter.   I was a bit hesitant at first, but when we got going, I felt fine, as Henry knew every single other runner and walker along the route by name!  He was super encouraging and just loves to run and share his passion.  We parted ways and I was huffing and puffing, but Henry hadn’t even broken a sweat when he turned around to jog the 8km back home… crazy!  Maybe I’ll jog with him (correction: I will run hard, he will amble peacefully) again next weekend.  If I do, I’ll be thinking about everyone running in the Ottawa Race Event – to Dad, my friends and everybody else participating, best of luck and enjoy your runs!

Sweet Memories at Home and Abroad

Below is a post that was originally published on the Kiva Fellow’s Blog :

The Rideau Canal in my hometown of Ottawa, Canada is the world’s largest skating rink.  Each winter, the canal freezes into a winter wonderland, and I love skating along its 7.8 kilometres of ice.  No skate would be complete without a taste of beavertail at the end.  Despite what its name might imply, beavertails are actually a delightfully deep-fried pastry, covered in cinnamon and sugar.  They are available at huts along the ice, and in my mind, beavertails are as much part of winter as skating, cold feet and hot chocolate.

That’s why it took me a moment to place the distinct beavertail scent while wandering the hot, congested and sandy streets of Dar Es Salaam, where I  am serving as a Kiva Fellow.  My nose quickly led me around the corner, to some young women selling maandazi – donut like pastries available on street corners throughout East Africa.

Maandazi sellers

Maandazi are often enjoyed for breakfast with chai (tea), or as an afternoon snack.

Breakfast is served, complete with yesterday's soccer scores

Many of the clients at Kiva Field Partner Tujijenge Tanzania run small street-stands, selling maandazi, chapatti (flatbread), grilled meat and cassava, nuts, fruits and vegetables.   In the coming weeks of my Kiva Fellowship, I’ll try to support them by sampling as many of their products as I can.  And maybe next winter, when I can’t feel my fingertips after a long skate, the scent of a beavertail will momentarily transport me back to tropical Tanzania and memories of maandazi.

Sara Strawczynski finished her first Kiva Fellowship in Rwanda, and is now serving (and eating) as a Kiva Fellow  in Dar Es Salaam, Tanzania.  Consider making a loan to a Tanzanian entrepreneur here, and check back often for more opportunities.

Pole – Pole (or please please please slow down!!!)

Upon arrival in Tanzania, most of my Kiswahili vocabulary was learned directly from the Lion King – a lovely movie, but not a great basis for learning a new language.  These past couple of weeks I’ve been trying to pick up a few key phrases, and pole-pole has been a critical to my limited lexicon.  Pole-pole means slowly-slowly.  It’s quite important when riding in taxis and bajajis (tuk-tuks), which is  something of an extreme sport in Dar Es Salaam, comparable to riding motos in Kigali.

2pm jam. Moments later my bajaji would be driving on the sandy-grassy-bumpy 'shoulder'

The traffic on the major roads in Dar Es Salaam is appalling, and the side streets are barely passable (especially after the rain if you don’t have a 4WD).   Yet drivers will do anything possible (and often try the impossible) to get somewhere faster.  This requires regular off-road detours, sending sidewalk vendors and children fleeing,  and at times being engulfed in pot-holes.  Hence my use of the word pole-pole, essentially begging my driver to take it easy on this queasy muzungu.

My daily commutes to work by bus (dala-dalas) are no better.  Getting on and off is a legitimate rugby scrum.  If I am lucky enough to jam into the bus, the ride to work is still an adventure.  My arms and legs are quite bruised from hitting the seats and other passengers on the short but bumpy ride.  At least I’ve never hit my head, which the woman next to me did as she flew out of her seat and hit the ceiling when we hit a pot-hole yesterday morning.

Weaving through colourful dala-dalas

Today I thought I was in for a treat because my roommate has a car for the day and offered to drive me to the office – well, that became less pleasant when a bajaji driving the wrong way down the street drove into us, busted the car door and wheel, and drove away… (everybody is okay).

I find the commuting culture and here is interesting, because Tanzanians pride themselves on being super laid-back and relaxed.  So far bus scrums and road-rage are the only exception I’ve observed.  At my Tujijenge Tanzania workplace, people work hard but I have yet to seem stressed or upset.  Nor have I seen any signs of anger when it takes two hours to get lunch at a restaurant (clearly nobody here is related to my family with our hunger induced mania).  Nor have I seen any of Tujijenge’s clients (who you can support yourself in the coming days through Kiva’s website here!) look at all impatient when waiting hours for their loan disbursements.  Unfortunately this happens too often, because the armoured money truck carrying their cash to the bank is delayed – it’s stuck in traffic of course!

Karibu Tanzania

I’ve settled into a new routine in Dar Es Salaam which has been a bit of culture shock for me.  Compared to Kigali, this city is big, congested, flat and hot.   And there are palm trees – lots of them, and the Indian Ocean.  I am actually renting a room in a house on the beach, and have the luxury of watching stunning sunsets each evening!

Sunset at low tide. Fishing boats in the distance heading out.

My days so far have been spent at Tujijenge Tanzania’s lovely and modern office.   This is a small and new microfinance institution.  It’s not faith-based, and is a for-profit company (with a double bottom line to serve the poor and make a profit), which makes for an interesting comparison from my experience in Urwego Opportunity Bank of Rwanda… more on that later.  In the next couple of months I will focus on evaluating some of Tujijenge’s Kiva processes as well as its social performance.

In contrast to my lovely home and office, I had a chance to meet some of Tujijenge’s clients yesterday, at their group meetings.  They assembled under a massive tarp at Tujijenge’s branch (one of two).

Group meeting

The clients are fairly poor microentrepreneurs who  run tiny businesses such as selling peanuts at busy intersections, or used clothes at the market.   They generally work at least 12 hours a day, just trying to scrape by and support their families… a contrast to the lavish lives lived on the other side of the tracks (or in this case, on the other side of Bagomoro Road, which divides the swank Msasani peninsula from the rest of Dar).  You can support some of these women and men by lending to them on Kiva’s website.

And in case you were wondering about my partner in Rwanda – Urwego Opportunity Bank is still working through some technical issues trying to get up and running.  Before I left, I had a few days with a new Kiva Fellow named Austin, who will take them forward from this point.  Check out his blog for more info on the direction they’d like to go.

Earth from Above

I loved the book Earth from Above.  It kind of felt like I was photographing a sequel to it on my flight from Kigali to Dar Es Salaam, which included a quick touch down in Bujumbura, Burundi.  I wasn’t hanging out of an open helicopter with a massive camera to capture these images, I was able to snap them with my point and shoot from the comfortable Rwandair flight.  Awesome!

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Murabeho (goodbye) Rwanda

Hard to believe my three months in Rwanda are over! My colleagues at Urwego Opportunity Bank worked really hard and tried to surprise me on my last day today by posting the bank’s first ever Kiva profiles.  Unfortunately there were some issues that couldn’t be resolved, but I was really touched that they tried so hard.  They really wanted me to have the satisfaction of posting a loan before I go. I’m sure they will succeed soon (keep checking Kiva as these clients are amazing -they are taking loans to add rechargable lights to their village shops; this will bring safe and affordable lighting to remote communities that lack electricity).

After some afternoon rain, I was treated to a beautiful street-scene on my way home:

My street in Kigali. My house is behind the metal gate (front left)

This evening I shared a delightful dinner with new friends from my short time here, and was again touched by their thoughtfulness and warm send-off.  On the way home, we formed a five-strong motorcycle gang, racing the streets of Kigali with the sparkling lights in the valleys below. It was a fitting final ride. Now I’m just about ready to go.  While goodbye is always somewhat bittersweet, I’m mostly feeling excited about the next phase of my work and travels.  I’ll keep you posted from Tanzania…

Go-Go-Gorillas

With just a few days left in Rwanda, I finally made it to the country’s #1 tourist attraction, the famous mountain gorillas.  The morning of the trek was quite stressful – I wasn’t sure how my body would handle things, since I’m recovering from my latest stomach bug; it was pouring rain; and I also  managed to misplace the gorilla permit that I had purchased in Kigali the week before.  This led to much confusion at the office, frantic calling to Kigali (where the office was closed due to a shotgun local holiday), and eventually, agreement that I could still trek.

By the time Liz (my travel buddy) and I made it to the assembly gazebo, dozens of people were already formed into 7 groups, and were being briefed by guides on the treks and proper gorilla etiquette.  One guard started yelling at us, wanting to know why we weren’t in a group yet.  He went off to find us one and came back 20 minutes later, only to yell at us again and ask why we weren’t with a group yet…  Anyhow, after many discussions and misunderstandings, Liz and I had no choice but to join separate groups.  None of the groups had fewer than 7 people, and the max is 8.  It was too bad we couldn’t share the experience.  Luckily, my group was pretty nice, and we set off on the thirty minute drive to the start of the hike. Like many places I’ve visited in Rwanda, we drove on little dirt paths, past farmland with small homesteads and storerooms, built with mud, tin and thatched roofs.  Kids in rags were waving at our Land Rovers.

Farmland near Volcanoes National Park

The first part of the hike was through wet fields (mostly potatoes), and  we entered the park through a pass in a massive stone wall.  It was built by local communities and runs the length of the park, from the Congolese to the Ugandan border.  The wall keeps buffaloes inside the park and out of the crops which they quite enjoy.

Crossing the wall reveals a different world.  The bamboo forest is dense and dark and extremely muddy.  Aided by useful gorilla-carved walking sticks, we trekked uphill through the bamboo, stinging nettles, and elephant tracks. This was one of the easier hikes, but it was no joke! An hour later, we joined some trackers, who hike to the gorillas at sunrise, and stay with the group until evening when they create nests for the night.  This allows the park to monitor each group’s location, so that people can visit every day.  Their presence also discourage poachers, who are still active within the park , and whose traps had caught one of the gorillas we saw, and cost her two fingers.

Trackers and Guide

We met Group Thirteen (named for the order that groups were discovered).  This group has one silverback, nine females and a bunch of kids and babies.  I have to admit that seeing them was surprisingly amazing!!

215 kilo Silverback!

Chilling with the Family

At the beginning of the visit, the gorillas were feeding, grooming and some of the kids were playing.  Then it started to pour rain again, and the gorillas hunkered down, moms protecting their young.   The park says people should stay at least  7 meters away from gorillas, but due to terrain and the group’s arrangement, we often found ourselves within a couple of meters (for better or for worse).

An amazing/surreal place to find myself

It was crazy to be watching gorillas in front, turn around, and then see a bunch more behind.   The sixty minute visit flew by, and I wished we could stay longer because we were just getting started.

That said,  I even felt a bit weird visiting the gorillas, like we were infringing on them (they seemed quite ambivalent towards their human guests).  I had no such reservations seeing Akagera Park’s savannah wildlife and was surprised that I found this visit both extremely awesome and a bit disconcerting. I guess gorillas look and act a lot more like humans…

Mama and her one year old

Anyhow, I understand tourism isn’t perfect, but it has helped balance the often conflicting requirements of gorilla conservation and the needs of local communities.  It’s been an honour to visit both of them during my stay in Rwanda.