Eid al-Adha (the other Eid, the one with the sheep)

There are two Eids. There's the first one, at the end of Ramadan, the Great Breaking of the fast, and then a couple of months later, there's another Eid, Eid al-Adha. The one with the Sheep.

The second Eid is to commemorate a story known to Christians, Jews and Muslims alike. The one where God calls Abraham (Ibrahim) to sacrifice his first and only son in an act of obedience, but right at the last moment, when he's just about to go through with it, God intervenes and provides a lamb for sacrifice instead. The God, he's such a messer!

In Muslim countries, this means we get two days off, and families buy a sheep to slaughter at home. To us Infidels, it's incredible. All through the night for the whole week before, all you can hear is the sad little sheep, bleating in your neighbours' gardens, preparing themselves for the big goodbye.

The supermarkets go crazy to get in on the act. Sheep are sold in huge tents in the car park, and families go along to pick them out like Christmas Trees. And they are expensive, the big ones are anywhere upwards of 600DTN, which is about £250. From the supermarket, you can also buy the food and a bit of hay for the poor little fella to sleep on.

Traditionally, the slaughtered meat is divided into three parts. The family keep one third, another third is given to friends and relatives (this is where I really seemed to profit!) and the last third is given to the poor or needy.

Personally, I enjoy the brutality of it. This gigantic slaughter of animals seems so barbaric and old-fashioned in this day and age, and adds to the wonder and spectacle of the festival. On the day of the slaughter, my sister and her fiance were here (more on those adventures later) and we drove through some of the biggest cities in Tunisia, and they looked like complete ghost towns, besides the odd group of men barbecuing a sheep's head at the roadside.

 

It was a great Eid... and an unexpected but glorious by-product of the festival? The wool shops are now very well stocked.

Beyond Walls 2013

Tunis, like all great cities with a swelling population of disenchanted, creative youths, loves a bit of graffiti. The wall just outside my house, proudly displays a number of tags and a dis-proportioned head smoking, hardly artistic, but certainly making some kind of statement - something like, "I never learn to draw".

But the Beyond Walls 2013 murals are different. They are a series of beautiful, carefully designed and executioned paintings of hope, unity, freedom, friendship and comradery  that are in downtown Tunis, very close to my office. They were painted over the summer and I had been wanting to photograph them for ages.

Designed by a group of Tunisian students, working together with international artists, the murals hope to begin a context for cross-cultural sharing and dialogue.

Personally, they just make me smile.

This is my favourite. Tolerance is written in English from left to right in red and in Arabic in black from right to left > تسامح

"Tolerance" is a word discussed a great deal when considering cross-cultural relationships. Many people don't like it as it implies a deep down resentment or lack of acceptance for the acts, beliefs or nature of others and the idea of having to "tolerate" them is seen as an insufficient level of acceptance. In an idea world, I agree. But real cultural clashes are difficult to rationalise, especially if the causes lay deep-seated in religion or histories of fractions, or pride. In this case, even tolerance can seem like an achievement. We can hope in the future for respect and acceptance and love, but let's keep tolerance as a good place to start.

Plus, I think it looks cool.

"Hi, are you busy? Will you come to a circumcision BBQ with me?"

This was the text message that I received from my friend Lucy, on a warm Saturday Afternoon in October. It was a difficult offer to resist. The party was to celebrate the circumcision of the two-year old son of her landlord and would be catered by the chef from our favourite brunch place.

But circumcision holds a history of trauma in my brain, having notoriously passed out in a Religious Studies class at school at the tender age of eleven, when watching a circumcision video in a lesson on Judaism, and having been subsequently reminded of this for the rest of my secondary school life

"Will there be any circumcision done at the BBQ?"

"God, I hope not"

I was sold.

In Islamic culture, unlike Judaism, there is no set time limit on this magical rite of passage. Apparently there are no direct laws regarding it at all in the Qur'an, although the practice is widely and routinely carried out. Kindness and parental guilt seems to dictate that it is done in Tunisia while the child is still a toddler, but in some Eastern Islamic cultures, it is done as an adolescent rite o passage, similar to some Bantu tribes in Africa.

Being British, I come from a culture where circumcision is quite rare, and the idea of having a party to celebrate it seemed a bit bizarre. But, of course, I was happy to celebrate along with little Hedi, who had already has to op' and was prancing around is a little sparkly suit, happy to have all the attention. And, he had a lovely cake, which was, almost certainly, taller than him.

Hey Shelly, Where you been?

Did you miss me?

Oh my. It all got too too much. The India trip and then that marathon. Summer was ending and I just didn't take my foot off the peddle. I got headhunted for a new postion at work, not a proper promotion (yet) but it was very flattering to be moved into this new team, and has involved an increased number of hours, committment and dedication.

And just sometimes, I don't have words. Sometimes, I feel like I have lots to say and I want to tell you all about it. Then there are other times, when I feel like a sponge, just absorbing and enjoying and experiencing everything, but I don't have the words or the energy to tell you all about it.

But don't worry, I have stored the past couple of months up in my brain and I'm planning to explode all over here, every day of advent and tell you all the stories of all the things I have been up to, like more Tunisian weddings, circumcision parties, my sister and her fiance's visit where we went right off the tourist trail, another half marathon, holidays back to the UK, fireworks, more weddings, concerts, hammams and I'm FINALLY going to write about sexual harassment here, because something just happened in the street and I can't smile away and say "Tunisia's lovely..." anymore, because sometimes it's just not (so standby for that one).

Sit tight peeps. It all begins tomorrow, on the first day of Advent.

Oh, how I missed you.

My Dear Mahdia

This weekend I learnt a lot about standards and the fact that it is quite possible that I don't actually have any. Or at least that mine are lower than other people's. I don't really mind about this, but it can make cohesive travel a little bit difficult. I was forced to learn this the hard way.

The plan for the weekend was to travel to the South, to a concert at the amazing amphitheatre in El-Jem and then spend the weekend in neighbouring Mahdia, a coastal, picturesque port, with calm bays for swimming. I was travelling with a colleague, who although had lived and worked in Africa for quite some time, had not really had much exposure to the real world, outside of Movenpick lounges and Lavazza espresso stations. While we had a shared history in Uganda, she had endured no exposure to load shedding, cockroach infestations or washing your knickers in a bucket. Whereas, that's my life blood.

So it was always going to be a difficult partnership, but not one to usually moan, I just need to give you this background, so that you start to understand the context when I tell you the next line:

We missed the concert because we moved hotel rooms 4 times.

Seriously.

And honestly, the hotel was lovely - cheap, clean, secure, welcoming... my companion was just right mental. Anyway, enough about her. 

El Jem was still a feast for the eyes, even though the concert was finished - I'm not mad about classical music anyways.

Once we were over the concert, and sleeping at the hotel where the concierge was now positively glaring at us everytime we walked past, it was time to hit Mahdia. 

The first stop was the Art Galleries. Like most Tunisian towns the commercial district is located around a central medina. Mahdia is famous for art and silk work, really spectacular art and really beautiful silk work. 

To buy anything in Tunisia, you have to have time. You have to be prepared to sit for a long time with the shopkeeper before negotiations begin. Sit. Consider everything in the shop. And of course, drink some tea.

After a lengthy process where you tell the shopkeeper your entire life history in broken French, and you have learnt all about each of his cousins living in the UK and confirmed that you probably don't know any of them, as the UK is a big place and you haven't lived there for four years... you can finally make your purchase.

This is all very exhausting, but luckily in Mahdia, there is a small square in the centre of the medina next to a mosque, where you can sit and have another cup to tea for refreshment before repeating the process over again. 

The silk factories were also brilliant. In every open door was another silk loom and then every few streets an outlet shop where you could look at scarves for hours and hours, quite forgetting that you only have one neck.

In the far East of Mahdia, there is the Fatimid port, hosting the Muslim cemetery, and the remains of the 10th Century Fatimid fortifications. I'm not one for taking pictures of graves, so here are some rocks:

On the way back to Tunis, many of the vehicles were carrying live sheep. Eid al-Adha, the Feast of the Sacrifice is in just two weeks... and my sister and her fiance are coming. I hope they like lamb.

 

Boating around the Cap

Hiya Lovelies,

Things have been pretty quiet around here since all the travelling. The summer is drwing to a close, we probably only have 4 beach weeks left and the relentless head it finally starting to subside. Work has been especially busy as all of the departments rush to spend their budgets by the end of the year.

Last weekend, my friend Lucy hired a boat, on once I had established that it wasn't a sailing boat (to clarify, I love sailing boats, but I'm just not much help on them) I was all too keen to jump on board and take it for a spin.

 We left from the harbour in Sidi bou Said and went northward towards Cap Bon (at least I assume we did, I was too drunk to drive... hic!). There were lots of beautiful little alcoves on the route and secluded beaches. We found one with a natural clay source and got completely covered in clay, lying out in the sun until it dried and chatting with the locals.

Then we had a barbeque and some (more) drinks. It was the nicest day of all the summer. I just wanted to show the pictures, I promise to get you some more exciting stories this weekend.

P.S. Yes, I'm on a diet... yawn...

Remember that Day when I ran a Marathon?

Last year I went out for a Saturday afternoon hungover lunch with a group of (mainly) friends and there was a mean girl there. I ordered the double cheeseburger. As soon as the waiter left she piped up,

“Oh I don’t know how you do that Michelle, I could never finish a double burger…”

Rather than buckle to her implication of my greed and make some apology for my gluttony, I said,

“You should try it sometime, order a double. Until you push your body and really get outside of your comfort zone, you’ll never really know what you’re capable of.”

Of course, everyone laughed at the idea of an extra burger patty being the ultimate achieveable goal for the mean girl, but it was true:

Until you push your body and really get outside of your comfort zone, you’ll never really know what you’re capable of.

Last Sunday, I ran a marathon.

It was the singularly most difficult, most exhausting, most challenging thing I have ever done. I remain in a state of shock, completely in awe of this body which God has given me, and which, despite feeding mainly with chocolate and wine, has achieved this incredible feat. I am humbled by the strength of my will power and drive, by my mental perseverance. That despite the jet-lag and the exhaustion and my muscles screaming at me to stop, I kept going and finished it.

Here it goes.

Last Sunday, I ran a marathon.

I arrived with my Mum about an hour before the start to pick up my electronic chip for my trainers and to use the loo. The queue for the toilets was unbelievably long and full of racing pros bragging pretentiously about ultra-marathons and the 100 club (which is apparently people who have run 100 marathons, dang – get a hobby!). I know that getting into all this running lark has definitely made me think about and talk about running a lot (this blog is perfect evidence of that) but I honestly hope that I am nothing like these people. They were obnoxious.

At the beginning I wasn’t too nervous. As we stood waiting for the start, I examined the people around me. To everyone’s surprise and my complete horror, I’ve put on a bit of weight recently. I, too, thought that all the running training just gave me a license to eat anything I wanted, but apparently it doesn’t quite work that way. So for the past few months I have battled with the intense post-run hunger and my body has become an efficient carbohydrate storer… or something. At the starting like I looked around and whispered to my mum that I was the fattest one there, she assured me that she would still be proud of me, even if I came last, and so, I vowed to complete it.

Then we were off. The route was really fun as there were lots of loops, so I also got to watch the race at the front as the leaders tore past us after just a couple of minutes. We started off at quite a fast pace, 6mins/km which is faster than I would have liked. I wanted to go slower, but I didn’t want to be last, so I kept up. The route was beautiful, my beautiful, beautiful Kent. Past Bleak House, where Charles Dickens wrote his famous novel and the spectacular Kingsgate castle. I was due to see my mum in Broadstairs at around 10km, but I was going much too fast and she missed me. It was different running in the UK. Not having the sun beating down on you or the intense heat was really welcomed, but breathing in colder air felt really strange, I had to keep blowing my nose.

By 15km, I was starting to feel it, so I was delighted to see my mum there to cheer me on, felt really amazing and I had the first of my gel sachets and plowed through. I chatted to a couple of other runners at this stage and made a few friends. They would say “don’t worry, we’re almost there” before looking quite alarmed when I told them that I was doing the full marathon.

Coming up to the half marathon point, I was tired, but okay. I was one of the last marathon runners to come through, and I was wearing a charity top so there was a big cheer. Also Mum was there again with a big smile and words of encouragement.

The next 10km were really hard. Knowing that there is just so far to go and you still have hours and hours of running left, could be crushing, but you have to rise about it, to own it. This part of the course went through Margate town and down on to the promenade, it then followed the promenade along past all of the beach huts down to Westgate. I thought this part would be lovely. I love rows and rows of bright beach huts and being by the sea, but in truth this part was really long and really lonely. The was malicious graffiti written in chalk all over the sea walls and little noise apart from the thudding of my trainers on the concrete. Yes, concrete, the most horrible running surface. This went on for about an hour. It was painful, I was tired, miserable and I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to do it. The sea air was blowing me back and I had already had to dig quite deep to get this far. I ran past the 18mile sign (29km) and plodded onwards.

That’s when I heard him.

C’mon Auntie Shell!

I looked around me but I couldn’t see him, I thought I spotted him on the top of the cliff and I waved up, but it turned out to just be an abandoned kite.

C’mon Auntie Shell!!

And then I spotted them, a good mile away, their cheers being carried by the wind. My mum, my sister Carmen and my cutie nephew, Freddie. I kept my pace, and resisted the temptation to speed up, lest my legs should give way beneath me. As I got closer, I could see Freddie was dancing with anticipation and excitement and when I waved back he suddenly came tearing towards me, presumably expecting some great embrace. Thankfully, Carmen, his mum, told him I couldn’t pick him up and so he was happy to run along side me for a bit and share his sweeties with me. It was the most amazing and best moment ever.

I left them and had a sharp incline to turn off the beach. A little while later at a water station, I suddenly saw my Dad with his video camera pointing in my face. I smiled a waved for him and confirmed that I was at 34km, the furthest I’d ever run before. From here there was 8km to go. 8km is a happy length for me as in Tunis it’s our short run. I know I can get up and go and run 8km on an empty stomach without too much hassle. I kept telling myself this, even though my body wouldn’t let me forget that I had just run 34km.

The next 5km were rough, slow and boring, they took me back along the beach again, and by now I was just counting down the time for it to be over. I was also remembering, remembering the training runs that had brought me here. My first 5kms, which I had practiced on the treadmills in the work gym, my first run outside with Lucy, one of my running friends, and adjusting to traffic and people while trying to chat. Then the training that we did for the la Marsa half-marathon and the race itself and how ill I was and then getting my GPS watch and running constantly in Sousse, in Hammamet, running so much that one day I fell over, badly. Then memories of the second half-marathon and the wild dust and running in America with people in fancy dress and running in Portland in the rain. And trying to squeeze in running when I had to travel for work, in hotel gyms and on foreign streets, getting lost in Singapore in the terrible humidity and watching the men walking to the market with their monkeys on leads from the hotel treadmill in India. All of that brought me here.

I turned a corner and saw my dad, Carmen, Freddie, my brother Aaron, my sister Kathleen and her fiancé Sam. It was just the boost I needed, knowing I would do it now, even if I crawled on my hands and knees. Those last 3km made me want to cry out with every step, such was the pain in my muscles and joints. Though the middle of Margate, and in some places Carmen and Freddie drove along side me honking their horns and shouting words of encouragement.

But I pushed through, ever forward, until that finishline was in sight. All of my family were there, my mum who had been there all day long and my Auntie and Uncle, the parents of my late cousin who I ran in memory of. Coming over the last hill was so amazing and fantastic that I thought I might cry. I tore over to the finish line in a final sprint that came from God-knows-where.

As I went under the arch, and 5 hours, 21 minutes and 45 seconds after I had started, I reached up my arms and the commentator said “This is (my name), wow, she looks so fresh, it looks like she could go again”

No, tah.

Mumbai, India

Just to set the scene, I'm in Qatar. It's 6:30am Qatar time, 9:00am Indian time, 4:30am Tunis time. I don't really know if I'm coming or going. I just took one flight and I know it's three more, until I get a cuddle with my Mummy and I run a marathon. I just ate a pain au chocolat and the TVs are showing horrendous footage from Syria. I'm trying not to watch it, because it's really upsetting, but everyone's eyes are glued.

But I just went to India, and it was Amazing.

My job has taken me to a few unexpected place so far this year, and India is certainly one of them. I won't bore you the details, but the days were long and packed full of meetings, sadly there was no chance for running around town, having adventures and making memories. However, I was still there, so I'll still try to tell you about it.

Are you being Served?

Coming from Tunisia, it was one-hell of a contrast. Indian culture is so polite, so humble, so proud, and very, very friendly. Service is something that you notice immediately in India, and the level of care and attention to detail is all so genuine. I arrived to Mumbai at 4:00am, exhausted and worried that I had a full day of meetings starting at 10am. I was met at the airport and driven back to the hotel and on the way, the driver asked: are you hungry, Madam? we could call ahead with the car phone and order your room service? I couldn't even think of food at that un-godly hour, but I appreciated the senitiment. Then at the hotel, I was taken straight to my (beautiful, shining) room and allowed to sign all the check in forms from there... infact, the lady pretty much tucked me in!

That's what it's like. Namastes everywhere, wonderful service and spectacular food. When I lived in the UK, I have the privilege to waitress with Indian Waiters who had trained at one of the services colleges here. They told me lots of stories about the classes they undertook, from elocution to practical exams in table laying and silver service. There's almost a French "career level" pride to the service industry.

We had some lovely dinners as part of my work trip, but one of the highlights was the service of a sorbet pallet-cleanser in the upturned lid of a teapot filled with liquid ice. So up my street.

 

Another evening, after 12 hours of meetings, I was skyping with the fam, when I decided to order room service. Usually I would rather get out of an evening, but I was so exhausted and my room was so pretty, that I didn't mind spending the night in. I just ordered some carbonara and a lemon tart and this whole princess-trolley of dreams arrived!

 

Hinduism

I don't know if you noticed, but I completely love religions. Not just my own, all of them. I am just fascinated by different belief systems, traditions, customs and the mechanism of faith which drives regular people to do sometime bizarre, sometimes wonderful things. Hinduism is no exception and is actually a religion that I studied extensively at school.

Hindus believe that there are lots of Gods, lots and lots. Like Roman and Greek mythology, the Gods have different responsibilities and are interlinked by complicated personal relationships too.

Idol in the office

The cow is holy. Very holy, sacred actually. India is the only country in the world in which the McDonalds does not sell hamburgers. Fact.

While I was there, there was a very special Hindu festival, the birthday of Lord Krishna, and the people of Mumbai celebrated in a very unique way.

Dahi Handi: गोकुळाष्टमी

Thursday was Dahi Handi, the day where the birthday of Lord Krishna (the eight carnation of Lord Vishnu) was celebrated in Mumbai. Since Krishna loved trouble and mischeif, the way this day is celebrated is by different communities coming together and hanging a cly pot up really high in the middle of their street. The pot is filled with sour yogurt, and flowers. They then invite competing teams to climb up and break it. The winning team is awarded a cash prize, put up by the community. But it's not all that simple. The pots are up really high, the community throw water and try to put the contestants off. Oh and the pots are right in the middle of the street, so you literally have to make a human pyramid to get to 'em.

Sounds like fun? It was brilliant.

So all day Govinda Pathaks, which is what the teams are called, travel around the city on the back of lorries and make attempts at the 2,000 clay pots that are swinging in the sky, ripe for the taking. It was quite a sight.

Here's a picture of a team in strategy talks - they commonly wearing matching t-shirts, sometimes sponsors by a sports club or a politician

Pot spotters - this is a serious business. There were pots yesterday that were worth US$2 mil. No jokes. But most were around $2000, shared between a team of about 50.

 The little children form the top of the pyramid, all barefoot.

Sorry, this is so rubbish - this is the best picture I got all day. Y'know, we had to work and all. And my peals of excitement weren't quite matched by my colleagues, so I couldn't get the driver to stop everytime we saw a good formation.

Hopefully this poster will help, it's advertising a good pot, and it has a nice picture of Krishna on it.

Health and safety was considered extremely important. See how that child is wearing a helmet, and...err... a lifejacket...

I really need the toilet, so I'm gonna have to wrap it up there, here are some quick other pictures from India. I have a year long visa, so it's likely that they'll send me again.

Otherwise, I'm on my way back to the UK... see you at the finish line ;)

Doha, Qatar

My trip to India included a 24-hour layover in Doha, Qatar. Ever since I found out that on the first night of Ramadan, 600 Qataris were hospitalized as a result of overeating, it’s been a place close to my heart. Excess, pride and wealth, are words that are often used when describing Qatar, now the third most obese nation in the world (after the U.S. and my beautiful U.K.).

Flying business, they put me up in a giant suite in the Movenpick – the biggest hotel room I have ever seen, and on arrival from Tunis I had a super sleep with some lovely dreams before hitting the mean streets of Qatar before my evening flight to Mumbai.

I was on working hours, so I had to check in and send a couple of emails every now and then so that no-one would get too suspicious, so the Museum of Islamic Art with its free Wi-Fi was a natural and appealing choice. I rocked up in the appalling heat (it was so unbearably hot, I can’t believe that humans actually live there). I was wearing a new dress from my “made in Tunisia” collection – High Carbon Lifestyle, Low Carbon Wardrobe, and was feeling pretty lovely.

At the front desk, the man was all smiles, “Welcome to the Museum of Islamic Art, here is your map and here is a guide and we have a special exhibition at the moment of gold swords and these can be found on the third floor and by the way, do you have a shawl for your legs?”

“A what?”

“Sorry madam, but you need to cover your legs…”

“Oh, I don’t have anything…”

“Here you are,” And he hands me a nasty-arse skirt to cover up my infidel legs and my pretty dress that was actually made by a Muslim. I scurried to the bathroom to put it on before causing any more offense. (see how I complain about sexism but use blue and pink to denote boy and girl voices...)

 

But the museum was super, it was free and it was very interesting and informative without being too boring. The had some really nice stuff on typesetting and calligraphy, a huge collection of handwritten Korans. Of course, the sword collection was there too, but I would have like to touch them (just an idea for the future Mr Museum of Islamic Art Man) and feel the weight. I was also delighted to bump into my brother there:

 

There was a jewelry collection there too, and I picked out my Christmas present. I have been really good this year, and so a quick word with Father Christmas, and this should be in the bag. It was gold and diamonds and emeralds. I'm sure it was worth enough to feed a small country

... caviar. I'm sure it was worth enough to feed a small country caviar.

I just took the little walk to the main road for the museum to pick up a taxi and it was the hottest walk ever. My skin was damp within seconds. Although I was expecting dry heat, it was really sweaty and humid. I took this picture, because as I was walking along, I couldn't believe that people had just discarded old dates as they ate and walked... then I looked up and realised I was walking beneath some date trees. They were much shorter and stumpier than in Tunisia.

I asked the taxi driver about the humidity and he said that it hadn't rained since last April. That's April 2012. That's insane, my friends.

Then I went to the souk, but everything was shut because there is a kind of siesta after lunch and everyone was napping. But it looked like an Aladdin town so I took a picture and had a milkshake with some Qataris, who told me how excited the country is to be hosting the World Cup and the Olympics.

Outside the souk was a parking lot:

 

Then I did some obligatory tax-free shopping, before taking a little nap of my own and heading back to the airport for the flight to India.

Thank you very much Qatar, it was a lovely day and a brilliant rest-stop for m journey... but I am certain beyond a doubt that I could never live there. Ever.