Well, it's certainly not a sprint...

Marathon training is long. And I don't even mean long like 26.2 miles. I mean 'long' like British slang for tiresome, tedious, is it really worth it? long. But, of course it is, and I am very glad that I haven't given up up to now... even though I am quite sure that the worst is yet to come.

My long run is getting longer (now we are talking distance... do try to keep up!). This weekend, I tore through 23.5km. I run so slowly, sometimes I think it's a bit of a liberal interpretation to even be saying 'run'. But for now, I suppose I just need to work on building up the distance.

Here's my watch, isn't she lovely? I got her for my birthday and she does all sorts of things that you couldn't imagine and I am yet to discover.

I'm still running without music, and lately I've been running without company too as my running buddies have been injured or on missions (yup, they actually call it that in my job, it never gets old). It's not too boring though, Tunisia keeps me busy, early in the morning there are stray dogs to avoid, then as people start to wake up there's lots of honking and, what shall we call it?, verbal encouragement. The cars that take their time to loop the next roundabout and drive past you again to make sure you heard their helpful jeers - they are the ones that really spur you on. But sometimes (rarely) I'm impressed. Yesterday, a big car of girls drove past me and one shouted out:

Prends un taxi, Madame!!

Thanks Tunisia, I like. She got a little smile.

Also keeping me busy is the ill-maintained pavement and the narrow pedestrian walkways. I took a little tumble this week, not too bad, but it really taught me the importance of running with a phone and money, just in case. I cut all the palms of my hands, which has been very troublesome, as it's been a week of professional success, and I keep eagerly high-fiving people before remembering the hard way about the damage to my hands. This is also hindering my handstand practice.

I also cut my elbow and arm quite badly, and it's amusingly disgusting. The other day the blood/puss combo saturated the plaster on my arm and even seeped through my coat lining making a visible blood stain on the outside of my beige coat. Incredible. The silver lining to this cloud, of course, is that in a weeks time I'll have some fantastic scab-picking to get on with. The anticipation killing me, but I think we all know that if you go at a scab too early, you only regret it.

And that, boys and girls, is me done for the night. xx

La Guerre des étoiles en Tunisie

Legend has it that on driving through the salt desert of Matmata in Central Tunisia, on a tourist trip to visit the Berbers, George Lucas felt so inspired by the landscape that he decided to use it as the backdrop for his glorious Star Wars series.

Here's a little sidenote: the French title for the saga is: La Guerre des étoiles, the war of the stars... one war, many stars. Whereas in English: one star, many wars. Read into that what you will...

So there are several sites you can visit, but we went to two, Lar's Homestead in Matmata and Ong Jemel in the desert, close to Tozeur.

Lar's Homestead

Lar's Homestead is in Matmata which is prime Berber country. The Berbers are a semi-nomadic ethnic group indigenous to Tunisia and Algeria. Their rich culture has grown and developed with the spread of Islam and with the global technological developments, for example, although many chose to live in cave dwellings, they commonly have a plumbed toilet, electricity and television satellite.

Lar's Homestead was filmed in one of these such structures, and although much of the set remains, it is in an 'interesting' state of repair, many of the parts having been repainted (in different colours?) since my visit last year. Still, it's pretty exciting and fun, and most tours that are passing through here stop at the set (which has now been made into a hotel) for a traditional Tunisian lunch (which my fussy-eater Dad did manage to eat, after confirming that nothing on his plate had figs in it).

Ong Jemel

Ong Jemel literally means 'Camel Neck' (or 'dromedary neck'?) and refers to a large sandy camel-necked shaped hill nearby. It's accessed via a 4x4 joy-ride over the desert from Tozeur and is literally in the middle of a sand filled abyss. I had done the 4x4 joy-ride thing before, so if you are organising this, you need to make sure that your tour goes through Ong Jemel as some cover other parts of the desert.

The Tunisian tourist board has wildly underestimated how exciting this location is. You will be surprised not to find a gift shop, tour guides, or even a person dressed up as Chewbacca for the photo ops. But then, there is no French word for entrepreneur...

 

You should also note that I rocked an incredible headstyle for this touristic exercise - facilitated by Easter gifts from my sister, Kat. When you also understand that we had to be on the tour bus at 5am that morning (oh yes, "5 o'clock in the morning... conversation got boring", when Lily Allen is just creeping up to your bedroom, I was climbing those coach steps) and we got our wake up call at 3:40am in order to have breakfast first. Who wants to have breakfast at that time? (who am I kidding? I ate two doughnuts!). Anyway, when you consider that, then my hairstyle is nothing short of spectacular.

... And she knows it...

Holy Zeus! In Sousse!

I've been so busy! First my parents visited and then I had a two week training course, which sounds like fun, except that you have to attend lectures all day, complete assignments and coursework and also continue to keep up to date with your day job... lest your return workload will rise up and crush you... This is what awaits me as I return to the office tomorrow - pray for me.

In addition, the new beautiful and amazing GPS watch which I received for my birthday has encouraged a competitive demon within me, and him aside, I have been really enjoying racking up the mileage of my runs and did a total of 40.9 miles last week (and yes, I'm taking that .9 thank you very much, because I deserve credit for every footstep). More on running later.

Anyway, sorry for taking 150 years to get back to you with this one - and please all stop your moaning, especially you, Dad, because, let's be honest, you already know what happened on our great trip to central Tunisia, and all of your comments about my blog not being updated are born out of a desire for stardom. He's your moment to shine. Granting me some liberal artistic license. Naturally.

When you live overseas and you spend a great deal of time on skype calls coaxing your family back home to send you biscuits and Anglophone magazines, it's difficult to know how to play it when they visit. On the one hand you need to show them that you are safe, comfortable and happy, but you really don't want to let life look too luxurious so that they stop sending the care packages... or even stop caring. It took me a few iterations to get this right. My first visitors to Uganda, my darling, Western sisters, were left weeping in terror as we arrived at most of the accommodation that I had booked for our safari. So when my parents came, it all went a bit far the other way, and the spectacular resorts that I had booked left my parents declaring that they had eaten some of the best food of their lives in Uganda and could they come back on holiday again next year?. As luck would have it, I actually left Uganda soon after that, and so didn't get to do the sun-creamed, insect repellant-ed, AC to AC tango again... but it's something I look forward to in my next sub-Sahara posting.

Messing aside, it really is great to have family to visit (even if they bring over bags of dry-roasted peanuts that they scoff while you are sleeping) as it also gives you the opportunity to be a tourist in your host country, learn formally about the rich culture and history, and see her as she wishes to be shown off. With my guests wanting good access to Star Wars sites, we decided to travel down to Sousse, and pick up a desert tour from there - I'm going to do another post about visiting the Star Wars filming sites, because when I was researching online, it was hard to get much information, so I think it would be helpful to do a full informative post about how to do it.

Juicy Sousse-y

Sousse is a destination in its own right, to the extent that many flights come in from Europe straight to Enfidha airport, full of pasty, package-holiday patrons. While many of then will stay in their resorts, Sousse does have a massive Fort, Ribat and Mosque, if you're feeling adventurous. Luckily, I was born adventurous, to adventurous parents, so we hit the city at the earliest opportunity.

In Sousse, I experienced some moments of extreme discomfort as a result of touristic cultural pollution (which may or may not be a real term, but just exploded out of my brain). Walking through the Medina, you're subjected to lots of invitations to look into souks, of varying levels of aggression, from gentle coaxing, right up to rudeness, cat-calling and crude gestures and language, that make you stop and wonder - what is this person really trying to achieve? Some of the things that are called out in this market place really aren't designed to get you to browse the souks, but rather to get your attention, and to maybe get a rise from you. Let's face it, it's a boring job, and one up-sale to a unseasoned tourist will probably cover the day's wage... the rest of the time can be used for the shop keepers own amusement.

So none of this actually bothers me, I bartered for every single tomato at Nakawa market in Kampala during my two years there, I'm used to the trading spirit. I'm also used to bear-faced aggression in the face of desperation, I was in Zimbabwe in 2006. But the disturbing thing about the traders in Sousse, was much more unsettling:

Some of the traders, on discovering that we were British, would shout out, plays on famous British advertising: "Cheaper than Tescos", "We have Asda price", or up the ante with some British slang "c'mon 'av a shufty", "c'mon 'av a butcher's" (both of which mean "come and have a look" in British Arabic slang and Cockney rhyming slang respectively). This got a smile from us, as the vendors would adopt a funny, playful British Accent.

Then they called out "cheaper than a ... shop" and used the racist word that is wildly un-PC and often used to define a cornershop. You know the one, guys, I'm not going to type it out. 

To hear that word shouted in the street naturally grates on me and burns my face and throat with anger, but the uncomfortable realisation that the regional specificness of that word and all the other phrases, means that they have been taught all of this by British tourists, passing through, spreading the dregs and the filth of our embarrassing sub-culture... well that's pretty hard to bear.

Onwards and upwards - people, go to Sousse, you can see Tunisia at its best (good restaurant service, nice museums and clean beaches) and my culture at its worst.

A Jem in the Desert

Just three hours from Sousse (ish, I wasn't really counting) is the Roman Amphitheatre at El Jem. I had been once before for the International Symphonic Music Festival, where you go at night and the whole Amphitheatre is lit up, and you can take a picnic, and cushions. We forgot the cushions. Never again.

Anyway, it was super to finally visit in the daylight. The El Jem amphitheatre is huge and beautiful, the biggest in Africa, and was digitally remastered for the Gladiator film. Like all Tunisian monuments, it was gloriously quiet and hardly anyone was visiting. We ran around pretending to be lions, Christians and Russell Crowes.

We also hit the desert hard and took a cheeky camel ride down at Tozeur. You hear "Camel, camel" everywhere in Tunisia, but let's be honest - they're dromedaries. They have just one hump and long, long legs. Even the traffic signs know it, the word is right in French, but mis-translated to 'camels' in English. 

Maybe a dromedary is a type of camel. I'm no expert. Neither is my mother, who, while aboard, asked me if camels eat meat. This woman is the "Head of Science" at her primary school. 

Britain has no chance.

Easter Weekend Round-up

Hello again! So much has been happening and I want to get you all caught up and current with all the stories and happenings before my MUMMY and DADDY arrive on Thursday and the fun really begins.

Easter Weekend started quietly - I was still aware of my physical limitations, given all the excitement and medical complications of the week before, I just went to church on Good Friday evening and took it pretty easy. On Saturday morning I did my first run since the half Marathon. Just a little 7km, and for the first couple, my legs were a bit shakey. But towards the end I was really feeling it, comfortable and happy and keen to get training again.

On Saturday lunchtime, Jasmin, the hood-rat that she is, text me about an event that I had promised to go with her to. Feining my illness and near-death experience, I tried to back out... but she called me a flake. For all of my nearest and dearest, you will know if there's one way to get me to do something it's to imply that I am being a bit flakey. Because, I may be a lot of things, but 'flake' I am not. If I say I'm gonna call you, I will call you. If I say I'm going, I will be there. And if I say I'm going to run a half-marathon (okay, promise this is the last reference for today)... then food-poisoning or no food-poisoning, you will find me at the finish line. Which is how I ended up at the:

Tunisian B-Boy Championships
Oh yes.
So Tunisia has a lot of dis-used churches. From what I have been led to understand, indiginous and coptic strains of Christianity in Tunisia were persecuted, assimilated and wiped out by the Catholic church, so that at the time of independence, the Catholic faith was all that remained. At this time, French settlers intending to stay in Tunisia were counted and a proportionate number of churches were kept for them to worship in. All of the others were demolished.
The Saint Louis Cathedral on Byrsa Hill in Carthage is one of the defunct survivors, but it is now used to host the odd concert, theatrical event, or street dance competition.

A heady smell of tobacco, testosterone and pure swagger greeted us as we entered. Dance groups from all over the country were battling with precise rhythm, intense attitude and the kind of stomach muscles that dreams are made from. I left with real inspiration to do some core stability exercises, and some headspins.

After this and on to:

Ladies' Moroccan Night

The sweetheart Moroccan intern at my office was hosting a special culinery journey through Morocco (if you will) with a night of tajines, cous cous and mad gossip. I was really alarmed when she told me that she had invited sixteen people, and I wondered how she would handle all that cooking, but from further questioning, I established that her femme de ménage was doing it all and I really have no clue about how people actually live here at all.

The food was completely spectacular. I am a complete sucker for sweet things and so I was delighted with the Lamb and Prune Tajine. Absolutely gorgeous. My friend has promised to do a cooking night so that I can come over and learn to make it. It's the contrast of the sweet, sticky prunes and the super tender, buttery lamb. Oh my. Sorry the picture is a bit naff, justice has not been done.

There were also lots of beautiful Moroccan pastries, fresh off the plane. These ones were in the shape of fruits, no bigger than a fingernail and tasted of almonds.

We had the loveliest of evenings, the time flew by and we were still eating at 1am - this is how the North Africans do it. Massive sugar high all night and I had no chance of sleeping.

Easter Sunday
Easter Sunday was a gem, church and the gym, followed by a massive lamb roast at my friend, Penny's, house. Yes, more lamb. I can't get over that fact that lamb is the "standard" meat here, like chicken is in the UK. At home, lamb is such a treat, and usually the most expensive thing on the menu. But here, especially after Eid al-Adha, you'll be lucky not to eat lamb everyday (or unlucky, if you're like me, and adore lamb)

I used Easter as a further opportunity to develop my fruitcake making skills. I made a Simnel cake, which is a traditional British Easter cake covered in Marzipan with an extra sneaky layer of marzipan in the middle. It was extra Eastery as I used loads of dried figs in the mix (in Mark's gospel Jesus gets a hankering for some figs on the way into Jerusalem, and is narked off when he realises it's not fig season yet - Mark 11). You have to decorate it with 11 marzipan balls to represent the 11 faithful apostles (Sorry Judas, that's how it goes sometimes).

Fruitcakes are my strength.  Fruitcakes are where I am at. Yeah, not everyone may like them, but it's what I'm good at. Like the London 2012 Olympics Logo, they don't ask to be liked. Cupcakes may be more cute and twee and girlie and fashionable and Cath Kidston apron on a rainy day, but they are not me. I'm about the big, rich, brandy-laced Grandma Fruitcake. And it's a pretty nice place to be.

Happy Easter x