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.