How I Ran a Marathon in Africa

It finally happened... I ran a marathon in Africa. And I survived!

The 9th annual International Accra Marathon (AIM) on September 27, 2015 was my slowest marathon (4 hours and 35 minutes), but it was my most rewarding one: I finished 9^th overall and placed 3^rd among women! If I did another marathon in America, I would have been one of hundreds finishers. But here in Ghana, where running community is still fairly small, it was simultaneously easy and hard to run among so few athletes. On one hand, the race did not look like a race but a long and uncomfortable urban run among exhaust-spewing tros, drinking spots, gaping locals and occasional police officers. But on another hand, it was a race, all right: you could see a string of runners ahead of you thinking – could you reach one of them? And how many are right behind me now?

But let me start from the beginning. Two days before the race, me and several other volunteers had a nice pasta dinner at my friend’s Michael’s house. It felt like a dinner party in America – we were sitting in a nice dinning room, eating from porcelain plates with real metal forks and knives. There was cheese, wine, salads, real coffee and dessert. What can I say – Peace Corps changes the way you look at food. Food (especially Western food) becomes an obsession. It can be a blessing and a curse: in this case it was both, because we really enjoyed every bite, but the next day our stomachs were reminding us that we were still in Africa, and consuming copious amount of food that you haven’t eaten in a while could cost you more than one trip to the bathroom. Good thing we did it two days before the race, eh?

On the big day (or, better say, night), we woke up at 2:30am and took a taxi to Labadi Beach Hotel – a posh resort where a finish line was. From there, we took to the start – Prampram neighborhood, in front of the road to Central University College. In the pre-dawn darkness, we counted our opponents – couple dozen expats from England,  Japan, France, one tourist from Poland (who specifically has flown to Accra to run the marathon), and only several Ghanaians (one of them was Kwabena, who works at the Salvation Army Hostel). The organizers were setting up drums and snapping pictures of us. The runners were sizing each other up and dashing into bushes for a last-minute pee break. I put on my flashing mini-lights that I used during relays and adjusted my tu-tu (which I brought from US specifically for the race!). One of my colleagues gave me a GU gel (which later helped a lot). The sky changed from black to gray. Dawn was approaching. Somebody yelled “Go!” and we were off.

In retrospect, running one marathon in Africa equals three marathons in the US. Simply put, it’s hard! The roads are not blocked from traffic, there are no Gatorade or granola bars at water stops, there are no encouraging supporters with whistles, posters and flags. Thankfully, the organizers had a team of cyclists who kept close to us and waved the incoming traffic away. They also gave us water and motivated us in their own way (my biker’s way to give me a boost was this phrase: “Your speed is looow.”).

With the exception of the finish line at the resort and a final stretch along the beach, the race took us through parts of Accra that are not mentioned in tourist guide books on purpose: there was simply nothing there. We ran through industrial yards of Tema, scary roundabouts of Prampram, and past typical container stores, tro stations and food vendors’  shacks of Beach Road. The most exciting part for me was running through a college campus – which at that early hour was empty. But at least it was traffic-free and had nice tall trees for a change.

I still remember that during my first marathon in Pittsburgh I never hit a wall. This time, however, I started hitting wall after wall, and the finish was still 18 km away! It’s hard to admit it, but I had to stop and walk (which haven’t happened since Moscow marathon, which was also not an easy race).

As locals would say, the race was not easy-o. The course was stretched mostly along busy streets where runners had to constantly dodge traffic. The air was full of car exhaust, dust and various smells from gutters; the heat was rising with every hour. Even though there were water stops, some of them were out of water by the time I reached them. The course was also not marked correctly: after the last sign that said “5 km left” I felt like I ran five miles! My knee was literally killing me, and my overall energy level was loooow. It was simply brutal. I was getting upset and kept asking my biker; “How much longer? Where is Labadi?” Instead of showing me some sort of visual sign, he kept saying: “Oh, it’s close.” (one of typical responses of locals who never want to say the exact distance so you wouldn’t get discouraged). Despite all of these obstacles, I managed to pass my colleague Jeff (who was well ahead of me at the beginning).

When I crossed the finish line I was wet, sore, cranky and exhausted. Moreover, I’ve had bloody blisters on my feet (it never happened before!). But I accomplished two goals that I set to myself – I finished a marathon in Africa, and I did not shit my pants (pardon my French). Because – guess what? There were no port-a-potties at the course at-all! During our shuttle journey we were looking out for gas stations just in case the call of nature would be too much to handle.  

Jeff wobbled right after me and then several more volunteers finished the race. We were done! We slowly made our way towards the post-race fest where there was food (rice, chicken, coconuts), goody bags and medals. It turned out that I placed third among women! When they announced my name, I was trying to get my meal ticket, which was blown away by the wind right from my hand (as you know, your reaction slows down after constantly running for 4.5 hours). I kept hearing my name, but I couldn’t come right away: I had to get my meal ticket! Finally I screamed: “I’m coming! I’m coming!” and sprinted towards the announcer. My feet and brain did not believe I could still run after 26.2 miles – that’s how excited I was about getting a medal. I was also happy for my colleagues, Katja and Cyrus, who placed 2^nd in women’s and men’s category.

After some rest, I managed to hobble to “my” biker and gave him a hug – I was grateful that he stuck around despite my frustrations and “loooow” speed. His presence gave me a boost.

But the best thing in any marathon (including this one) was to have a nice shower and go out to eat with your fellow athletes. We celebrated our athletic feat by going to a local Italian restaurant where each of us got pizza (eating pizza in Africa is very special!). The icing on the cake was getting a free piece of teramisu (split eight ways) and lemoncello shots from the restaurant’s owner. Bravissimo!

So, this is how I completed a marathon in Africa.

Meg and I: a Peace Corps Legacy

I wrote this story for our diversity newsletter, and it received some attention from our PC training director who wants to publicize it. Unfortunately, I was not able to upload pictures of Meg without having them being sideways. Maybe someday they'll find their place here.

My name is Anastasia, and I am a 1^st –year Agriculture volunteer. I’m stationed in Western Region, in a little village surrounded by cocoa groves. I am a naturalized American citizen, and what makes me unique is that a Peace Corps volunteer played a prominent role in my education, back when I still lived in my native country, Kazakhstan.

Me circa 1995

Peace Corps Kazakhstan started its mission in 1993, and volunteers participated in such programs as Community Development, Education, Health and HIV/AIDS and Youth Development not only in small towns and villages, but also in big cities like mine, Almaty. Many moons ago, right after the collapse of the Soviet Union, Peace Corps English teachers started to frequent my high school – an austere concrete building with rusty monkey bars sticking out in a deserted playground.

I remember one volunteer very clearly. Her name was Meg, and she was from Chicago (later on I had to find it on the world map, which was wall-papered in my room). During lessons, she used old issues of Rolling Stone and SPIN and snapshots of her friends to teach us such important and exotic-sounding words and expressions as “awesome,” “mashed potatoes,” and “cool stuff.” She had curly hair, bright smile and clear voice. To us, teenage “lost generation” of the 90s, she was very cool. She was also very brave. Coming to a crumbling post-Soviet republic half the world away to live in an old apartment, take a rickety exhaust-spewing bus around the city to teach a bunch of gloomy teenagers in a gloomy unheated classroom took a lot of bravery, sense of humor, and determination.

Looking back, I realize how lucky I was to have Meg as a teacher. Not only did I have an awesome* opportunity to speak English with “a real American” (as many of us would proudly tell our families), she also showed us her own version of America, which differed from Hollywood movies, music videos and commercials that flooded our ascetic media channels. Meg’s lessons helped me to improve my English and gave me enough confidence to apply for a coveted foreign exchange program, as well as college and, later on, graduate school.

Thanks to those Rolling Stone magazines read in our unheated classroom, I am a Peace Corps volunteer myself… My experience is very different from Meg’s: instead of living in a big post-Soviet city surrounded by mountains, I live in the African bush surrounded by cocoa farms. On a typical day I fetch water from the well, go to the farm with a cutlass, hand-wash my clothes, take a nap in the shade, greet neighbors and let local kids draw on my courtyard walls with crayons. However, based from our correspondence (we still keep in touch), both Meg and I have similar emotional ups and downs, little victories, frustrations and epiphanies. Back in Kazakhstan, Meg also felt different (even though her shade of skin was the same as ours). She also craved American foods (which is why she sends me care packages now). Moreover, she didn’t think that her presence at our school made any difference in our lives (it did!). And even though I’ve only been serving for less than a year, I am hoping that my presence in the community will also make a small-small impact – even if it is teaching a local kid to draw or speak a little English (other than the sing-songy “I am fine, how are you?” chant).

We are also a family now – a Peace Corps family. I am honored to be part of this great legacy, and passionate about its mission which, for me, started about 20 years ago when one sunny but cold winter day Meg came to our classroom, smiled and started talking to us in American English with her clear voice. 

  

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*Thanks, Meg.

Coming and going

So, I went to the US in July for two weeks. What a trip it was.

Generally, it was great to come back to good old New England, walk in my favorite Boston  neighborhoods, see friends, eat cheese (aaah, cheese!), and feel generally ignored (as in not being stared at and being called “Obroni!”everywhere I went ). However, I didn’t feel like I missed America all that much. It was just….there. And I was just…..a visitor who politely dropped by on her neighbor to check on things. As my plane was descending at Logan I did not feel any butterflies or urges to cry as I saw familiar buildings of the downtontown. I felt like I was cryogenically frozen for nine months and then woke up one fine day and started walking around Boston. In short, not too much changed in the Beantown while I was in Africa. And yet something was different. It was my perception of Boston and the US in general. For one thing, I was overwhelmed by choices in my life. If in my market town there were only a couple of types of canned sardines, several brands of crackers, and only one type of margarine (Blue Band, baby), Harvard Square was this overwhelming jumble of shops, eateries, brands, sales, coffee houses and ice-cream shops that all screamed: “Buy, buy! Spend, spend! Eat me! We know you want it!”

Many volunteers go back to the States to visit families, attend weddings, eat their favorite food, drink their favorite beer and shop till they drop. I heard some volunteers had hard time coming back to Africa. Some had trouble while they were already in America – there were too many meetings, too many events, too much time driving around and seeing too many people. Many wanted to simply sit and people-watch for hours like they did back in the African bush. I even heard how one volunteer stayed in London on the way back to Ghana – she simply decided not finishing her Peace Corps service.

As for me, I did not have trouble adjusting and re-adjusting myself between my lives in America and Africa. True, there were some comical moments during my visit: at one party, while sitting in the kitchen, I picked all plates clean because  - come on! – it was a crime to leave all this salsa and hummus uneaten. I also put cream cheese on almost everything – cookies, bread, fruit, pasta (how can you NOT put cream cheese on everything? It’s so good!). Ok, so most comical things involved food. I admit, I did miss American food in the bush, and I was happy to be reunited with as many dairy products as I could lay my eyes on. I was also glad to spend my first week in rural New Hampshire – that made my transition from African laid-back way of life to American hustle and bustle easier. I swam in the lake, hiked in the woods and enjoyed a simple camp food (pizza! Mac and cheese! Salad bar! Ok, I’m stopping now….).

When it was time to go back, I did not go to the airport kicking and screaming – I was simply excited to return to Ghana. With two suitcases stuffed with snacks from Trader Joe’s and Whole Foods, that is. They will keep me sustained until my next visit. Cheer up, America – I’m still your #1 fan. But I still want to roam around in the African bush and learn a thing or two about its people and myself.

Small-small victories

At this point of my service, small victories are still very important. If you picture me building an entire school for a community with my bear hands, or digging wells with just a shovel, think again. Because my main purpose here is to build people's capacity instead of deciding what they need and then do it all by myself (which is a common mistake of a lot of development workers). As our program director once said during our training: "You are here not to bring things. You are here to bring knowledge."

So, the most important success story (or a small-small victory) so far is that I continue to live in my village, get to know local people, live like them and at the same time, explore Western Region and Ghana on a shoe-string budget and rely on self-sufficiency, kindness of strangers, divine providence and good weather.

So, some highlights of my current life in Ghana include:

Carrying plywood on my head through the jungle for 1.5km one way for a church’s roof.

Visiting local women and learn how to make groundnut paste, toffie (candy) and sobolo.

Planting pepe (pepper), plantains and rice with fellow farmers. And running through the bush to take cover from unexpected downpour!

Managing to change tros at Kejetia Station without getting lost (Kejetia is perhaps the most vast and confusing market and bus terminal in Kumasi and probably in Ghana).

Walking from my village to the junction (instead of taking a bush taxi). This simple routine of mine often prompts many conversations about why I do that. Sometimes I refer to exercise, saving money for ice-cream, enjoying the outdoors, and saving time by walking instead waiting for a taxi to fill to the brim (a common practice here).

Foraging in the forest for palm oil mushrooms, pears (avocados) and oranges. Instead of going to giant grocery stores, I simply take a walk outside my cottage and see what I can find (for free!).

Ghana Life in Pictures

 Tractors rock! Our little Ag group had recently attended a No-Till Conservation Agriculture Center training run by Dr. Koffi Boa - a rocking farmer (and a Cornhusker fan - "Go Big Red!"). Unfortunately, thousand of acres of farm-able land is slashed and burnt which puts the soil quality in danger. So, we came, we saw, we weeded. And rode a tractor small-small. Now it's time to share our knowledge in our villages and spread the word about no slashing-burning techniques!

 An oak tree. There are a lot of big trees in Western Region where I live. They are beautiful! They also get cut illegally...

 A typical market town. You can buy your groceries, meet other volunteers, drink sobolo (a hibiscus ginger drink), fend off marriage proposals and browse "dead obroni piles" - second-hand clothing and shoes.

 Koffi the beekeeper visits me and my new cat, Jasper (I'm happy to report he is still alive). Jasper, that is. Koffi is doing well too :).

 During my short vacation, I went to Lake Bosomtwe in Ashanti Region. It is made by a meteorite, and has clean swimmable water!

Pounding the infamous fou-fou. Basically, it is mashed boiled cassava, plantains and yams. It's made into a ball and served with soup.

The Irony of Fate

The longer I live in Ghana, the more often I see numerous connections between this little hot African county and my home-land, the big and cold  former USSR. How so, you may ask? Well, here are just a few examples:

·         Children roam free! When I was growing up on Sakhalin Island, the entire town was like a big playground for me, my brother and our friends. We visited each others’ wooden cabins, played in abandoned jeeps strewn around the local airfield, dug giant snow tunnels and picked cloudberries in the swamp, just off the rickety boardwalk. Our adult neighbors would watch over us, of course - especially when our parents wanted to sneak out for a movie at a local “culture club.” By watching I mean cracking a window open to listen if we made any distressing noises while we slept.

Well, Ghanaian kids roam free too. They invent their own games, make their own toys from rubbish, watch over one another and go from house to house to get some food and keep themselves entertained. They’re super-independent and tough; nothing around here is baby- or child-proof; they always play with fire or sharp objects that would cause a lengthy lawsuit in America. What am I trying to say? Well, when I was growing up, I was also playing with sharp objects (there was plenty of broken glass in those abandoned jeeps), but somehow I stayed alive and didn’t maim myself or my friends. Yes, I’ve got some injuries - like a scar on my foot from when I fell off my bike, or a giant bruise on my butt when I fell from a metal swing (metal and wood were the only materials from which all playgrounds were constructed back home), but scars build character. And they have stories to tell. I guess I’m kind of glad I didn’t grow up in a cushioned and baby-proof America…

·         Sharply defined gender roles. In Ghana, men clear land for farming, women fetch water and cook. If a man is seen helping his wife carry groceries at the market, he will be made fun of. Women take care of children; men take care of building a house for their families. Yet both men and women pound fou-fou with equal zeal.

Russian culture also has these roles spelled out since the early childhood. I was always to help my mom with housework like doing dishes and cleaning rooms, while my brothers melted plastic toy soldiers in the yard. Just kidding – I was there with them J. But in any case, I was doing more housework than my brothers because I was a girl.

Russian influence. I’ve met numerous Ghanaian and other African nationals who studies in Russia or Ukraine and could converse with me in my native tongue. It’s wonderful! This is why my friend Abdullai is so dear to me – he can even quote some Russian movies. There are also a lot of my former compatriots – the other day I met a lovely pediatrician from Rostov who has been living here for over 20 years, and is fluent in Twi, Russian and Ghanaian English.

Speaking of movies... My lil’ village life continues to amaze me. I went to a local barber Koffi (he is also a beekeeper, but that’s another story), who has a TV in his shop, which plays movies for kids. So, here I am waiting for my turn, minding my own business, and all of a sudden I noticed that the city in the movie looked painfully familiar. When I looked closer I realized that it was…Moscow. Yes, Koffi was showing a Russian movie – it was called “Black Lightning”, and it was about a flying car (“Volga” to be precise).  That was the most nostalgic haircut I’ve gotten so far! It’s a small world after all. 

The Unpublished Sun Magazine Article

I am a fan of The Sun Magazine - it's beautiful, thought provoking and deep. It has a great section called "Readers Write" where readers can submit their own stories based on a certain theme (in the past they included "Love," "Family Vacations," "Saying 'No'", and "Coffee"). A couple of weeks ago I mailed my own story based on the "Noises" theme where I described my experience at the home stay family during our training. But I don't think my story made it to the US in time, so I'm posting it here.

READERS WRITE - NOISES

Last October, after working for a corporate America for almost a decade, I was heading for my next adventure -  Africa! I've joined Peace Corps, and was going to Ghana. After one week in Accra where our group of trainees did necessary paperwork, learned each other’s names and got a little used to the heat and humidity, we were transported to a small town hidden in the hilltops of Ghana’s Eastern Region. For the next two months, we were to live with local families where we were to learn a local language, get used to Ghanaian cuisine, and do household chores.

We arrived in the local Presbyterian church – a large unfinished concrete building with lizards scattering on its beams. Our new families, dressed in their Sunday best, were already waiting for us, sitting on flimsy plastic chairs. By a stroke of fate, my name was called first, and here was Madame Aduewa, my Ghanaian mom, talking to me in an accented English and telling about her family. She brought her nephew and niece with her, and they helped me to carry my giant suitcases on their heads.

Madame Aguewa’s house was right next to the church. Once at my new home, exhausted and sweaty, I took my first bucket bath. Then I hung a mosquito net above my bed and started watching my Ghanaian mom cook my dinner on a coal-stove: fried fish and rice. I ate my dinner on the porch while my new family sat around me, watching. Then I crawled under the mosquito net and fell deeply asleep.

A crowing of a rooster woke me up at around 4 am. Oh, well – I could get used to that, after all, I was in the village. But after a short slumber, I was woken up yet again: a short-wave radio in my mom’s room started playing religious marches and hymns. Really loudly. Shortly after, my “grand-mom” started singing along with the radio, and my “mom” called her nephew: “Imma! Imma!” so he would get up and start the fire going for the stove. I kept lying on my bed, no longer sleepy, listening to the noises outside of my room: the roosters, the radio, the calls, the off-key singing. Later that morning other trainees were complaining of being woken up really early by typical (as we later found out) noises of a Ghanaian village: goats were bleating, babies were crying, and people were praying. We were not “in Kansas anymore”. We were in Africa!

Two months later, after the successful training, I became a volunteer, and moved to a village in Western Region. I am now used to village noises around me: the squealing of kids, the chattering of neighbors, the preaching from neighboring churches (amplified by giant loudspeakers), the pounding of cassava.

At the same time, I still vaguely remember the noises back in the US that I could hear from my apartment’s window on Commonwealth Avenue  - the humming of morning traffic, the ringing of a T tram’s bell, the breathing of lovemaking neighbors, the moaning of firefighters’ sirens, the hooting of sports fans after a successful game. I wonder how I would react to them when I’m back...