We are the champions...

I had a couple bad instances in West Africa, when my pale legs invited unwelcome attention.  So, I have been hesitant to venture out and be athletic here, in this Arab-influenced corner of Africa.  I missed the dirt and sweat and latex of the soccer field.  I missed the taste of salt thickened on my skin.  I felt like a lump, drifting between offices and home and offices.  And, then, my answer arrived.  This perception that I might not be welcomed was confirmed.  When I heard a colleague chatting about an upcoming hike, and asked to come along, I was initially encouraged to join in.  So, I readied myself at 5 am as the muezzin called the faithful to pre-sunrise prayer, and made a quick check-in call before heading off to the meet-up.  My 'host' responded that he had not been able to inform the others about my participation, and "you understand, there are some real mysogynists among them."  I wondered then if it is he that reacts to my participation or he that prevents my participation who is my greatest threat.

So, I took action.  Firstly, my housemate and I are now running. Beat down by the exhaustion of working in multiple languages, trying to understand the new, and meeting unfamiliar obstacles, it is easy to slunk home at night.  This is true anywhere, and even moreso, here.  So, we splashed water on our faces, slipped on our running shoes, and tucked out the gate into the night.  The guard pantomimed running and laughed at us as we went.  He couldn't believe we were really going out there like that.  Did we show him!  We dashed across the street between minibuses and white Landcruisers, past the post office and the telecom building, to the Palais du Peuple, where a singular spot of light indicated that the Iranian Fair was packing up for the night.  I am beginning to know this route well, from my school visits to and from the Quartiers.  I lead my neighbor past the statue of Moussa, who stands with a shield and blade in the middle of the Place, under rows of palm trees, and around the curve of the bay.  A breeze brew across the water, which sparkled dark and light under the waning moon.  We passed couples walking along the Corniche and gatherings of men moving from one location to another.  Several smiled and waved, "Bon courage!"  The evening Mercado - a strip of shwarma stands that faces into the ocean - wafted heady with fried-food smells.  Groups sat at plastic tables chatting in the cooling night.  Past the Presidency, where the guard warned us not to approach his gate, we circled the Rond Point and headed back the way we came.  On this side of the street, rows and rows of chairs had been set out like the "other side of the tracks."  And, here instead of shwarma stalls, the vendors sold Cokes and Fanta to their clients directly from their coolers on wheels.  Another shouted of encouragement, which I rejoined with "Come along!"  So, looking appropriately foreign, with other women, I can run.  And, I will.  For the joy of the night air and the ambience as much as for the sweat and the strain.

Secondly, will be the realisation of a dream.  I am working to promote a step-dance class in a colleague's home a couple nights a week.  If she can build our Jazzercise into her busy lifestyle, we could mingle with other ladies beyond the hijab and sweat in a way that is rarely seen on the Djibouti streets.