Running on red

Running on red

Bahasha

It was a coincidence that I was on a sojourn on my tenth anniversary of work.  I was still on cloud nine due to the certificate that I had received from the ‘topest’, sorry, top-most boss and a rare photo op to crown the moment.  I am not allowed to divulge the details of the ‘bahasha’ nor that this event occurred during the end year staff party, when drinks are served using vouchers, numbers from drink 1 to drink N.  I have observed ‘the N’ increasing by 1 annually in  the last four years, and it was 2 then.  

Then the teetotalers have the 'good habit' of handing over their drink vouchers, hence the trick is just to sit on the same table with them.  That is a story for another day, however.  

Though I was on official business, having a glimpse at the rock-curved churches at Lalibela or even celebrating Christmas on January 18 was something that I would have wished to experience.  This did not happen but I was invited for a different experience two days after my arrival...

“We go for lunch at six-thirty,” Rehma said, just to remind me of my time schedule as I excused myself to move around and greet folks.

I completely understood her.  Amharic is like Kiswahili.  The number system that is.  With it as the national language, the users tend to first think about issues in Amharic, then translate to English.  Lunch at six-thirty was lunch at ‘saa sita-na-nusu’ in Kiswahili.  Just the right time for lunch – 30 minutes after ‘sita’, six.

Driver

I jumped on to my seat, and… and was surprised that it was the driver’s seat!.  The apparent left-side front door was actually the driver’s position!.  In Kenya our drivers sit on the right of the vehicle, hence my subconscious entry to the left side of the car.  I got out, the joke on me, and walked round the vehicle to take my seat at the front right - where I properly belonged, before the driver of the left-hand-drive got in and took off.

My mind kept playing tricks on me throughout the drive, and was quite fearful whenever we were approaching oncoming traffic.  My Kenyan mindset on a keep-left driving system was so confused when keeping-right.  I severally covered my face in fear, thinking that we are continuously overtaking and the oncoming vehicle shall be crashing us head on!

We left the employer premises and joined the main A2 road at Gurd Shola by turning right.  The oncoming traffic was on my left, on the side of the driver.  A roadside sign confirmed that ‘Ayat 5km ahead’ was our general direction.

“I hope to take a ride on that,” I pointed to the railway in between the two roads.

“Oh, that, the electric train?”

“Yes, the train”

“I have not been in it myself,” Ayele the driver confirmed, paused, then,“Rehma, have you?,” he asked, looking slightly back to draw her attention on the back seat.

“No.  Not me.  It usually is full.  Can’t get space.”

Train

Momentarily, a sound of machinery became apparent, and soon there was a train slithering slowly on my left, going towards where we had come from.  It was observably full, but only two coaches were being pulled along.

“Why do they have only two coaches, when there are so many people?,” I queried.

“This government,” Ayele started.  I noted over time that he had issues with the government, “Just wasting public funds.  They say the structure not possible to pull more than two trains.”

“I really must use the train,” I said with conviction, “Tomorrow,” I added as an afterthought.

“Just be early,” Rehma volunteered, “And be ready to stand all the way.”

“But, mothers and small children can sit,” Ayele updated, “And you have none of the two for now,” he brought home the joke.

All this chatter allowed us to make our way to a restaurant, famous for mouth-watering cuisines and ….

Our entourage had arrived in four vehicles, each carrying around three.  We ended up having a lunch troop of ten.  We sat on two rows facing each other over three tables, five on either side.  The menu was brought and it was all gibberish to me, Amhara to them.  

“Just delicious.  Perfect,” the group kept commenting as they looked through the menu.

“I can’t decipher anything,” I complained.

“Just wait,” they reassured me.

“Yes,” Adele led the ordering, “Raw meat? Yes? Yes, you shall try some raw meat?,” he looked in my direction.

“I don’t think so,” was my protest, “But let me see.”

The known

Let me start with the part that I know.  Some small cooking stove, made of clay ‘was served’ to my table of four.  On it steamed some meat.  It was partially cooked by my standards.  It looked red – it seemed to taste raw.  I did not try it.  While my table mates started grabbing onto the top plate-like part of the stove, the rest of the people on the other tables stayed put, patient and unmoved.  I was also unmoved.  We all allowed the first three to have a go.

A second stove was served.  This also had some more meat, but well done by my standards.  I started on this, even as small dishes of chilly was served as supplements.  They called it ‘sauce’.  Different ‘sauces’ were therefore served.  Then some veggies, which I took a taste and gave up on.  It tasted bad and seemed full of cheese – just my judgement – since all on the table enjoyed every bit of it.  

Some ‘injera’ was brought.  Think of a rolled ‘raw chapati’ but throw in some sourness that seems to come from fermentation, and you can try to guess the taste.  I did not like it despite several attempts at it.  Three travels later and I am yet to adapt?.  I give up.

However, the well-done meat was quite good and ‘well done’.  The hot stove with charcoal underneath and small enough in size to fit on a table and still afford us a serving plate on top was quite genius.  You eat steaming-hot meat (roast? with indirect heat?) until the stove has nothing on top, upon which the charcoal burner is removed and a new one brought, full of meat pieces.  Pure genius this hot plate!!

The unknown

Let me now go the part that I do not know.  The other two tables finally got some action, when red raw meat, straight from a butcher-man’s stock, was served.  I could guess that 2 kilos of this raw unprocessed meat was served onto a middle metallic tray.  (I am in the livestock sector and I know weight by sight).  

Each diner was provided with a small plate and a sharp knife.  Besides the meat tray, a secondary tray for injera and sauces was provided.  And let the eating begin!  Just like that!!  They laughed at my facials as I observed them butcher the meat chunks into small pieces, which they proceeded to dip into the sauce and then shove straight to the mouth!  Injera balls accompanied each piece onto the mouth.

“I only take raw meat,” one participant at one of these two tables declared, “I have taken it since I was small and there is nothing in the world like raw meat. Nothing,” he repeated in deep nostalgia and reflection.  The facial expression was perfect confirmation.

Adele pointed a red piece in my direction, “Try this small piece,” the rest paused and watched in apprehension.  Baptism about to take place.

“No way,” I lifted both hands as shield.  I was finally convinced, “Let me stick to roast.”
The tension in the table broke, as the rest exhaled and sighed in relief.  The baptism having flopped.

On his part, Adele just shook his head and threw the piece, after dipping in sauce, into his mouth.  I could see him savoring the deliciousness.  It was evident on him. 

It was only natural that at this point of ‘sticking to roast’ that the discussion of the famous ‘Fogo Gaucho’ Nairobi would feature… but they did not have any kind words for their local FG franchise that they claimed is housed in a five-star hotel, charging five-star prices and… serving five-types of meat… beef, beef, beef, beef and… beef, and in small chunks, they drove the point home.

We finally left the lunch joint and headed back to the work place.

The next day Adele took me for an evening ride on his car, to take his child home and also show me the sites.

On our way back, I finally found out a way to achieve what I wanted, as already planned for the next day.

“Can I borrow your child tomorrow for the train ride?”

WWB The Marathoner, Nairobi Kenya, December 21, 2017

Running at 36k feet – the unwritten story

Running at 36k feet – the unwritten story
I was supposed to write this story two weeks ago, February 16 to be precise, but this did not happen.  Read the original script to discover why this story was not written after all…

Writing this at 36k feet was not my idea of a blog story, but when you are stuck with 2hours of nothing, you are tempted to get busy.

When I set off with fellow runners from the accommodation quarters at the outskirts of Addis, we had that first delay when a colleague decided that there was ‘no hurry in Africa’ and kept the six of us waiting for her in the chartered van.  That 20 minute delay passed unnoticed, or unvoiced, though you could see it on the faces that none was amused.

Waiting
We were kept waiting at the departure lounge for another hour – just waiting for the boarding time.  When the clock hit 0955hrs, on this Saturday morning, the impatient runners could not take it anymore, so they went ahead and queued on the check-in counter within the formal invitation.  Finally, with a queue already formed, the lady was forced to allow the people through, down from first floor to ground level, where a taxi way bus was waiting to move the bus load to the waiting plane.  Yet another check-in and I was finally seated at the extreme rear of the 767-300ER, the 33rd row.  I have never been this far, but two ‘bodyguardesses’ kept me tamed.  This bird was full to capacity – 237 passengers in total.

The 1040hours departure did not happen, until fifteen minutes later.  Ten minutes before departure, 16 overhead screens, 8 on either side of the aisle, each about 10inch size dropped from the overhead compartment.  We were subjected to 10 minutes of safety demonstrations, which went a long way to unsettle us – but life continues.

Temperatures
Takeoffs have a way of unnerving the body, but seating next to the end of the plane makes it... worse.  During the inflight three days before, a colleague had suggested that he preferred the rear seats.
“Hapa katikati si poa,” he had started, as we cruised at 35k feet on the 154-seater Boeing 737-800.  The vitals were indicating 10668m altitude, 811km per hour speed, 11km per hour headwind and an outside temperature of -44 degrees Centigrade.  The machine also indicated a ‘ground’ speed of 805kph.  Why would you need ground speed 10k up there in the air?  This trip took us just 1hr40min, having left JKIA at 1820 and reaching Bole at 2005.

Back to the discussion on comfortable sitting position, I wondered loudly, “I thought this is the best place, strategically between the vessels.”
I was referring to our almost mid-vessel position on the middle seats.
“From experience,” he continued, “The rear seats are the most comfortable.”
I now wished I was seated next to him so that I could pinch him hard, as the tossing-about began, 40 minutes into the return journey.  The 300 did not display any stats to the runners – maybe it was cruising in 4 digits and the folks would not handle the facts.  It was also gliding 10k feet above the path of the inbound bird three days ago.  This machine was mean!

Chicken
I know chicken when I taste one, and what we took was not chicken.  They labeled it as chicken, but this is the real world.  If horse meat can be labeled beef and consumed as such, then the chicken was even smaller to deal with.

Advise to runners – it is possible to run at 10km up there, but it has its challenges, including extreme temperatures and food that pretends to be the real thing.

Experiences
However, there are experiences that the running track exposed me to over the three day event that I must hereby mention:
Taj – honey beer that is as orange of orange juice: that was a lie, there is no way honey beer can be that colour.
Tradition – went to this Abyssinia place and they exposed us to their tradition. This I agree was traditional music, though I shall take some time to differentiate this from Somali music.  Their buffet however presented some familiar foods.
Left hand drive – I am already used to running on the left when here, so it takes the mind some getting used to, but it sinks in a few days (or never)
Amharic – let me not even try. They told me they have over 300 letters? You write as you pronounce, but they just write symbols!

Raw meat
I sat and watched in awe, every mouthful painful on me that the one before, as two colleagues feasted on raw meat both sides of my seat, during a lunch break.  On my right raw mince was served – red and spiced red.  On my left raw meat cubes – read and spiced.
“Want to try some?,” asked Gebre, directing a pinch or mince in my direction.
“Mmmhhhaa, sweet,” he continued, as he shoved the same pinch into his mouth.
“You should try it.  It makes you feel like a lion,” he finalized, fully enjoying himself.
I cringed, loosing my appetite for a moment.  I did not have anything ordered, since I failed for the second occasion to fest on injera.  I could not get used to the sourness of the tef pan cake.  I had asked for rice, but this was not available.  Ugali was definitely out of question.  Chapo neither.  Their alternative was ‘bread and spiced beef stew’.  What a day!

It is this raw meat issue that made me not write this article.

Wanjawa, Wamkaya Barack – Nairobi, March 3, 2013