So you think you can(not) swim?

I know there's still an 'IOU' out for part #2 of a previous blog, but I couldn't post about my superficial observations of the media's portrayal of Ugandan complex political monopoly board, without acknowledging the life of a friend I mentioned in a previous blog.

I was at the airport saying goodbye to a close friend who came to visit me for a week (the topic of another 'still to come' blog). He is one of those people who is as introverted as he is extroverted, and can fill an MCG with his company, generosity, ideas, good and bad jokes, chitter chatter and general silliness. If you can imagine going to the MCG in the midst of raucous grand final day energy, then blinking for a second, only to find that when you open your eyes the only life in the grandstand or on the ground are a few people picking up leftover chip buckets, then you'll understand what I was feeling. Sitting downstairs at the airport with a cup of tea (also conjuring up mixed emotions about the fact it would soon be me hopping on that flight), I did what most people of my generation know is the best way to fill an emotional void. I logged into Facebook.

As the plane took off, I read this post from John Fleming (president of the Coomealla Tri Club, and also the husband of one of my Godmothers):

"Last night one of our life members, Peter Mills peacefully passed away at the Mildura Hospital after a courageous and long battle. In 1987 we shared the vision to form the Coomealla Tri Club after an adventure to Copi Hollow for the inaugural Broken Hill Tri. No one told us Millsy could not swim a stroke, the night before the race we strapped an esky lid to his chest for buoyancy, chucked him in the channel for his first swim. Our love of this new sport of swim-ride-run filled the old van most weekends with anyone that was remotely interested in giving it a try. Millsy was a gifted athlete in many ways, he possessed a silky running style, owned a sub 3 hour marathon time, sat well on the bike and had been racing with the Mildura Cycle Club. One thing he never mastered well was the swim leg, but determined he was. The early days filled our lives with the amazing, wonderful adventures we all had. As time moved on Millsy achieved his dreams of finishing his own personal IRONMAN getting out of that 3.8k swim. Millsy represented Australia in the World Duathlon Championships, raced Ironman and completed more than 200 triathlons/duathlons/marathons & fun runs. Our first tri was held at the Rowing Club Lawns in 1988 - his love for that adventure remains today."

If you haven't met Peter Mills, you may recognise his name from my post "Beanies on the Equator". I can't say I knew Peter well. I can only say his impact on my life was great. And I know I was one of thousands. Sitting at an airport in Uganda, with Mildura four flights and more than 100,000 kilometres away, I felt winded and even the sound of rattling tea cups and luggage wheels seemed to be blurred by my tears. Even though we have no evidence to suggest that what comes after death is dark and horrific, and despite the fact the passing of someone we care about can mean their release from intense and ongoing pain or illness, we can still feel overwhelming sadness. **In varying orders, we feel for ourselves - for the things we didn't say or do, the time we wish we could still have with the person, and perhaps even fear and anger (arguably the same emotion) at being left behind without them; we can be overcome as we are confronted with our own fears about losing someone close to us, as we feel deep sadness for those who are closest to the person who has passed away; and even though we know the future and our own death have no impact on our current happiness, we are often terrified at having to contemplate our own mortality when we grieve for the individual themselves. This is especially the case if we decide they have died too young or early, as we feel a sense of loss for the things we wish they'd experienced.

But sadness isn't the only emotion one feels when someone passes away. And at Entebbe airport, my tears weren't just of sadness. In fact, they were more of an overwhelming sense of gratitude. Not just for myself, but also for every person he has come across. I also laughed out loud when I read Flemo's (the gentleman previously referred to as 'John Fleming') story about how he strapped Millsy to an esky lid (or was it the other way around). I knew Millsy preferred the run and ride leg, but this certainly explained why my introduction to triathlon began with a struggle in the water. Millsy had plenty of advice for me on how to change gears, keep my knees in, practise the bike-run transition by running 'off the bike', and the benefits of elastic shoelaces. But for the swim leg, he just lent me his wetsuit.

One thing which was very apparent to me on this particular Saturday, was the glowing example to back the argument that you no longer have to live in a small town to say "news travels fast". Social media has even changed the way we grieve death and celebrate the life of those who have passed. I was able to learn of my friend's passing, from the other side of the world, within hours. People began posting their condolences, 'Millsy' stories and photos almost immediately. The funeral details have been shared with a global audience. Facebook even allows users to 'memorialise' a person's profile, to allow people to grieve and celebrate publicly. Sites such as Facebook allow information about a death to spread like water in a sprinkler. It may save the mourning family from making hundreds of difficult phone calls, from having to manage their text message inbox on their now constantly beeping phone, and have time to repeatedly reflect on messages of support at times when they need the comfort most.

Lugazi has its own special way of announcing a death. I'd say its reach is not as broad as Facebook, but the strategy is much more efficient and less painful than a bunch of phone calls. The first time I heard it, I thought one of Musevini's cheer squad had been given a speaker phone. Or maybe war had been declared? A cyclone coming perhaps? Or could it just be the ice-cream man? There are times, when even the closest reading of tone cannot penetrate through the language, vocal morphing and distortion of someone making a community announcement in Luganda through a speaker phone. When a person in the village dies, someone is given the task of walking or driving around the place with either a speaker phone, or with a microphone and speakers, to announce the person's death. Everyone in the community hears about it, and everyone drops everything. The announcements last all night long, as members of the community move to the house to sleep around the body. Most of the women sleep inside, while the men stay outside and light small fires. They will sleep and pray around the body all night long. And in the morning, the body is taken from the house for a burial. As in many places in Australia, where 'Sorry Business' gives respect and space to people's right to grieve, many things in the person's home village will shut down on the day of the burial. But death is a regular part of life here. The demographic triangle of life and death is upside-down, with high birth rates and high death rates. Most of the young women who are members of the YOFAFO's Microfinance Loan bank have lost their husbands. The woman who comes to the house each day to help Doreen cook and clean, has lost four of her eight children and she is only in her 30s. Almost every day, I meet someone who has lost both their parents. Almost two weeks ago, mudslides killed at least 30 people in Eastern Uganda, with 100 still missing and unlikely to be found alive, and thousands displaced. Yet the government does not see the need to consider this a 'natural disaster'. Although the fact death is as much a part of life in Uganda, as barbecues are to Summer Saturdays in Australia, there is a tendency to console ourselves with the notion people are desensitised to it. But accepting death as a fact of life, and being forced to continue with your life so you can still feed your children, doesn't mean you grieve less or that it hurts less.

So today, as I start my goodbyes to Uganda, there was a huge celebration in Mildura. I know hundreds of people must have turned out for Millsy's funeral and there would have been some hilarious and uplifting stories told. I wondered today if his departure from this earth was a little like leaving Uganda. I have been torn about whether to stay longer, or go. My heart is tied to the people here, the landscape and the rhythm of it all. But I can feel a pull to somewhere else, to the next adventure, and I can see things shifting and changing around me, like a new era is beginning. The sugar cane I used to run in the shadows of, has been chopped down, revealing a magnificent view across Lugazi to the regal-looking Catholic church. Three new volunteers are here, Beth is learning new words faster than I can keep up with them, and the sunflowers which were brighter than a year's worth of Sunday Ugandan suns are dying. So I don't feel sad about leaving. I just feel grateful for the amazing experience I've had, for the people I've met, and am looking forward to what is to come. It just feels like the time has come to say goodbye.

But keep your blogging eye out for a few more stories yet :)

**I note that my experience with death has been very minimal and largely second-hand, through supporting friends and family who have lost loved ones. Also, I am not a grief counsellor, psychologist or any kind of professional in the field. Therefore these thoughts are merely my own observations and should not be interpreted as fact or even well-researched analysis.

*** Special thanks to Jesse Curran, Arron Veltre, Leanne Wright, Leah Fleming, Katrina Bolton, Ian Walker and Mum for telling me to conserve my energy and kick less, kick more so my bum doesn't sink, brush my thigh with my hand, push the water DOWN the body, kick from the hip and not hte knee, make an 'S' shape underwater, keep your shoulder to your ear, stretch forward and straight, don't twist or roll the body when you stretch, keep your head down, do awkward one-armed-no-kicking-drills, 'shut up and swim', just breathe and look to the finish line. Oh and to John Fleming... cause even if the swimming goes out the window and you have to float, at least you've organised a swim leg with a strong current.

Congratulations to: Sarah Scopelianos, who has not only completed her first marathon, but is now conquering her doubts about her swimming abilities and will soon be a swimming teacher!

Putting the call out to: Sarah Scopelianos, Eleanor Marshall and Shane Browne (and anyone else): Coomealla Tri 2012.

Beanies on the Equator...

“Just do your best, it doesn’t matter. You won’t come last.”

Everyone had finished the race and I was still half way down the oval, readjusting my sports skirt so it wouldn’t fall off. Pushing my legs so fast, my five-year-old freckles nearly burst off my face. I wasn’t just last. I was dead last.

My mother will attest to the fact I was never much of a sprinter. I was no faster at the school sports than I was going through the shower or putting my tights on in the morning. But from the age of five, I was determined to find a way not to come last again.

By late high school, I had worked out that if I run for long enough, the others would eventually conk out.  That’s the only strategy I had then, and the only one I have now. Fast twitch muscles and leg length are not on my side. 

In 2008 I was going through a bit of a rough patch, and jogging wasn’t high on my priority list. But then I met two people who changed my attitude to running, and in essence, my outlook on life.

I have never known anyone to be as excited about a drop of water on a tin roof as Mark Wilgar. Or sunshine. Or any incremental change in temperature. So when there is a dust storm brewing, or an impending minor flood event, this weatherman is positively peaking. And don’t even start me on long-range records and weather pattern statistics. Mark is a husband, father and all-round enthusiast. He and his wife Karen take their kids to the swimming pool, on treasure hunts through Vanuatu, outback orienteering, birdwatching or paddling kayaks in the jungle just like someone else takes eggs for breakfast. It’s hard to find Mark without a smile on his face and runners on his feet. I was reporting in Mildura, in the north-west corner of Victoria, when I went for a trip out to the weather station to interview Mark about the running event he was organising. Suddenly, I was signed up to the Mallee12. I’m not sure how he convinced me I could run 12 kilometres, but I suddenly believed it was possible.

I couldn’t walk so well the day the after the event.  But in my elated “I did it!” state, I signed up for another fun run. And then another…

In the course of chatting to people at the back end of the race, I also reconnected with an old friend of the family. Peter Mills competed for Australia in duathlon events and has been running a small gym which I think can safely boast being host to the funnest Spin classes in the world. How can you go wrong with 70-year-olds in lycra, Britney Spears tracks and a disco ball? He has trained many a group for Great Victorian Bike Rides and has managed to convince 60-somethings to take up cycling. The man is magic. He is not doing a lot of cycling at the moment as his battle with cancer is pushing him in the direction of a Harley, but that is not before he inspired me with his enthusiasm, his fun attitude to cycling and to just “having a go” and having a great time in life.

I never thought I'd be able to do a triathlon. I was not a fast runner, I could barely make it to the end of the swimming pool, and I was terrified of hopping on one of those skinny road bikes where you have to stick your feet in the pedals (let alone inflicting my lycra-clad physique on the world!).

But again, people like Mark Wilgar and Peter Mills seem to have this affect on me which finds me in an Australian representive tri-suit, trotting comfortably over the finish line!

Okay, so the Australia suit wasn’t mine – it was Millsy’s. And I was coming last in it. And he had also lent me his wetsuit, his favourite bike, and a spare tyre tube (which I still don't know what to do with)!

Since then, I have completed four triathlons, one Olympic distance triathlon, one half ironman and eight fun runs. I have run in the outback, cycled up mountains in Italy, jogged through the side-alleys of Tokyo, put sneaker to bitumen under a full moon on the Great Ocean Road, and been swimming in waters including the muddy Murray and the crystal blue northern Queensland.

And now I have my running shoes in Uganda.

You may remember me writing about the challenges of running here: boda drivers asking for your phone number, hundreds of people yelling out “Mzungu”, the mixture of confused / thoroughly amused / not at all amused faces of the women, and hoards of children running around your feet. Not to mention the fact that people don’t seem to like any form of dirt on your shoes… which means my sneakers are constantly wet as the women keep taking them to soak and scrub them after every use. Things started to become a little easier when Valence pulled out his joggers, even if we were a little slow. At least they started laughing at him more than they did me. I am told people only run in Uganda if they are trying to catch a taxi or run from the tax man. But when Valence’s “I really love walking” comments began to increase, I began to feel that perhaps this wasn’t his physical exertion of choice. He thinks it is giving him chest pains he insists is a heart strain, and other injuries. It has been pointed out to him that his heart is not actually in the centre of his chest and that the pains he is having may be indicative of anxiety. He assures me he has absolutely nothing to be anxious about in life.  I have also suggested the running could also be blamed for any eyelash losses he has had recently, but he assures me this is not the case.

Running is not for everyone, and some people will gain much more from walking.

But I found another victim. Doreen’s brother Dickson. And I think he is hooked on the crack of running endorphins. He still won’t run in shorts (always long pants), but his long legs have quickly started overtaking mine on our bi-weekly trots through the region’s tropical flowers and shady banana leaves. Thankfully for me, I have the pity of the locals on my side. They look at my skin colour, look at my gender, look at the length of my legs and just start waving their hoes about and cheering desperately for me from the sugar cane. It’s enough to ensure I can at least beat Dickson on the home run.

Merely registering for the Nile Marathon was an adventure in itself. First of all, there is no ‘marathon’. It is a half marathon. Then, when you go to the website to register online and find out more information, the website doesn’t actually exist. But at least if there is a website on the poster, then the whole event looks organised, right?

There were only a few locations we could register, and it meant a two hour return trip in a very squashy taxi bus. I dragged my poor friend Erin and her luggage around Jinja trying to find the registration point. Eventually, we found the event office at a service station. And were told the person who does the registrations was not around. After much coaxing, we were directed to another location. And then another, before we finally received some information. Registrations had closed. It was a week before the charity run, and even though their registration numbers were low, they apparently weren’t taking any more. I asked where on the poster there were details about the deadline for registration, and as it turns out… there weren’t any. “But didn’t you hear our announcements on the radio?”. No, no I did not. I do not even have a radio. Thankfully Ugandans are very friendly, and took my money and wrote our names on the back of a scrap piece of paper.

There were no ‘gear tents’ at the event, but there was an excellent stage and speakers. Music before Management in Uganda. Available pre-race nutrition was samosas, chapatti or cake. And even though it would have been a miracle if the race started on time, for some reason, we still all expected it.

First there was just a 10 minute delay for no apparent reason. Then they needed to call some kind of electrical specialist to come flying in on his white boda and save the day because the timing chip mat –belt thingy wasn’t working. Then it was “when we fire the gun, DO NOT RUN… I repeat DO NOT RUN, when we fire the gun. We need to test the gun is working”. Never mind the microphone is working and they could just say “run!”.

Every 21 kilometres of pleasure and pain was worth it. I was conscious of every breath as the sun came up over Lake Victoria down below. I was every part grateful for those Ugandans who were prepared to hold back their finishing time just for the opportunity to run with you for an hour or so, to connect and cross the finish line together. My heart was full of encouragement and hopeful momentum for the soccer player who had been training for just two weeks to give this event a go. My laughter was uncontrollable when at the half-way mark, a chapatti maker cheered me on with: “Go, go, go, faster, faster! You can finish! And then you come back and buy my chapatti!!”. I had my cheeky face on when young guys would come and run alongside me, and puff their chests out, have a casual chat, and then be left in the dust when I would sprint past them in front of everyone, leaving their audience rolling around in stitches of laughter at the mzungu girl who had left them behind. And my heart melted when I heard from the sideline: “Go my daughter, my daughter, go, go, go!”.

And when it really hurt, and when I wondered if I was going to have to walk it home, and if I could even do that….I thought of the beanie in my luggage at the hotel. It was my green Mallee12 beanie and it had arrived in Kampala two days before the race. It was the only mail I had received in Uganda thus far. Mark had gone to the trouble of sending me the M12 beanie so I could take a photo of myself in it and send back to him. It made me think of the people in his life who were facing challenges at the moment. And it made me think of Millsy. I know it is cliché, but I am not sure how else to describe what went through my mind. I know how much Millsy has fought, and I can’t even begin to imagine what pain his body has been through. But I know he is still here, inspiring every person he meets because he understands that even if you can’t control external influences - such as the way other people behave or what is happening to your body or the world around you – you can control yourself. And no matter how much pain he is in, this man always has a word of encouragement, a disco ball to Spin to, a laugh to share, or a daggy joke to contribute. He reminds me that even when it is hurting like hell, you can always laugh at yourself, and that it is just as much fun to come last, as it is first. 

One of my other favourite moments of the weekend was when I finished the half marathon and found Dickson. He had finished his 10km event and was on top of the world. I have been very blessed to have at least one special person slow down their training to run with me. And now I understand a little part of why that is. The reward of beating your time can never compare to the reward you receive from sharing something which makes you happy, with someone else. To watching someone else discover those endorphins. To learning about someone and from someone, and to building friendship.

I completed the 21 kilometre race and have these particular thanks to offer to four phenomenal human beings (not in order of appearance).

1. Mark Wilgar: For sucking me in in the first place.
2. Millsy: For being you, for laughing at me in your ‘Australia’ suit, and for taking photos of me on the finish line. 
3. Dickson: For waiting for me when I slept in. I still owe you that ice-cream truck... 
4. Arron: For running with me, for slowing down my jogs by making me laugh too much, and for teaching the importance of chatting while trotting. You are patient, inspiring and beautiful. x 
5. Scopes (who recently SMASHED her first marathon): For reminding me about the value of friendship and chocolate. Thankyou. Am so proud of you xox