'Early Morning Run in... Stockholm'

The opening line is always the most difficult to write. Two possibilities. 

“Now is the Winter of our Discontent / Made glorious Summerby this son of York…”

Alternatively, and my choice, “Mama Mia, here we go again…”

Sweden has thousands of coastal islands and inland lakes, along with vast forests and glaciated mountains. Stockholm spreads across 14 islands. It has more than 50 bridges, as well as the medieval Gamla Stan (Old Town).

Moreover, an exceptional guest runner this morning. Let me introduce her. Please meet Fernando. “C’est voulez-vous, and you have, er… adorable shoes Fernando…”

No snooze cycles. 0531 hrs. 13 degrees. The first day of September. The year 2016. Winter is coming.

“Good morning Fernando, you look bright and breezy this early hour.”

“Hi, Mark.”

“Fernando, a name I’m not familiar with?”

Fernando laughs, “It’s not my real name, you said to use a codename, remember? You said link it to Abba.”

“Whoa, don’t let the readers know I've scripted this. I’m happy you’re my Stockholm Guide this morning...”

“Mark, we discussed all this yesterday. The sound, can you hear it. The music?”

“I can… what about you, can you hear the drums, Fernando." 

Fernando smiles, “Haha… come on, let’s run…”

We’re planning for an hour this morning. ‘Fernando’ is from Helsinki but has lived here six years. She proposes a real smorgasbord, “Gamla Stan and then east to Djurgarden?”

“Sounds good to me.”

“What would you like to see, Mark?”

“Fernando, for me, culture all the way please.”

“Good, I have some treats… the Vasa museum, Sweden’s most famous ship from the 17th century. Sank 15 minutes into its maiden voyage. They say the Titanic of its day. Laid at the bottom of the Baltic Sea for 300 years. Now lovingly restored.”

I nod, “Um, OK.”

“The Royal Palace, see over there?”

“Er, OK.”

“Also, Parliament perhaps, again over there in Gamla Stan?”

I nod, “OK.”

“We'll see the Skansen museum featuring 500 years of Swedish and Scandinavian history?”

I nod again, “Interesting.”

“You must know of the famous author, Astrid Lindgren, one of the most famous children’s authors in the world. She wrote of Pippi Longstocking. She sold millions of books all over the world.”

I half nod this time, “Um, vaguely…”

Fernando is on a roll, “What about the Alfred Nobel Museum, who funded and began the Nobel prizes?”

I nod, “Top fellow.”

Fernando sighs, “Of course, and I suppose… there’s always, the Abba Museum…”

“That's more like it, come on, let’s go…”

Joking aside, Stockholm is beautiful. Lakes, paths, forests, history, islands, boats, trams, bridges, the water; has everything and more, stunning.

Following a quick stretch, it’s north, a short distance, into Gamla Stan. We run past and around the Royal Palace, Parliament and the historic streets. 

We head back south. Fernando is sprightly and enthusiastic, “You know of the ‘Stockholm Syndrome?”

“I have a good ikea,” I reply, “It’s when everything costs a fortune and the price of watery beer beggars belief.”

Fernando ignores me; we deviate over to the square where forty-three years ago the term was first coined at the end of a bank siege. Four workers were taken hostage after a messy robbery. Six days later when the stand-off ended, the victims had formed some positive relationship with their captors. 

We run south-east along a cobbled street with commuter boats, to serve the islands, on our right; to our left some expensive real estate. Oh, and a pink truck with a gorilla heading to Rwanda.

Over the bridge into the park village, a village within a city. A blue tram crosses towards us. Fernando tells me autumn is here and how she loves the sound of leaves beneath the wheels of a tram. We reflect on the first day of Sept being symbolic in this part of the world. Was another summer gone?

“Do you watch Game of Thrones, Mark?”

Fernando hasn’t stopped talking since we began stretching 30 mins ago.

“I’ve heard of it.”

Fernando informs me, ‘Winter is Coming’, was the title of first episode/series. The motto of the ‘House of Stark’. People in the north always strive to be prepared for the coming of winter. As a metaphor, make the best of the good times (summer) the bad times will come around (winter), and we must be ready.

The pace remains healthy as we pass, in close succession, the Skansen Museum...

… the masts of the ill-fated Vasa rise through the trees and the roof of the building housing it.

Fernando is patient and jogs on the spot while I take the snaps. A bright red Viking ferry comes into port as we discuss famous Swedes born in Stockholm. I need three. I settle on… Alfred Nobel, Ingrid Bergman and Benny from Abba. Then...

… bang... THERE IT IS; it emerges nearly 40 mins into the run. No words are necessary.

We run along the water, all of which runs into the Baltic Sea. A magnificent sunrise rises above the park… I reflect on how much I’m liking Sweden. A world leader in many areas. Given the population is only 10 million? 

The best place to grow old. Third best country to be a mother. Second best country for youths. An unsurpassed record of success in the Eurovision Song Contest. The fifth happiest country in the world. One of the first countries to ban smacking children. Three years off for maternity/paternity leave. Some say the best healthcare in the world. Environmentally advanced. The shortest working days in Europe, outside of the naturally idle southern Europeans (& France). They seem to start work about nine-ish, and finish about three-ish, earlier if they've a boat to catch to the islands; and Fridays, well, anything goes. Ten week’s annual holiday, the list goes on.

OK, some 'facts' might be tongue in cheek… I mean France isn’t completely idle for starters. So, how do the Swedes pay for all this? What’s the secret? Must be more to it than just tax and prohibitively expensive alcohol?

I think, and to their credit, have they figured out the work/life balance thing? Perhaps they work to live; maybe they’re less materialistic and utterly happy with their lot?

We leave the village and start the push back to the hotel. We complete the run in under an hour. Fernando seems as fresh as a daisy and still chatting away. Brekkie time with a local treat - cinnamon buns. Put good coffee and these buns together, magic.

In Sweden one only works four hours a day, meaning plenty of time for navel-gazing. I'm a method writer; so I sit around for 10 minutes reflecting on work/life balance. Instead, my mind wanders over to West Africa. I'll soon be back at the other end of the economic scale following this little jaunt…

There's a saying in Freetown, ‘lack of money means a lack of friends; that if you have money at your disposal, every dog and goat will claim to be related to you’. I’ll be flat broke by the time I arrive back… I'll miss the goat.

Fernando, you’ve been special, a real pleasure, the best guest runner ever.

My number one city run is now Stockholm. An enjoyable experience. I recommend visiting if you've never been.

'Early Morning Run in... Malta'

Reveille 0600 hrs. A Sunday morning in mid-August. First, grab a takeaway coffee and croissant from the hotel lobby. Second, the early bus to Valletta.

We’re in the middle of the Mediterranean, Malta. The smallest country in the European Union. Independent since 1964. Population 420,000. Great Britain awarded the George Cross to Malta in 1942 as recognition of the country's bravery during the Second World War.

Talking of bravado, I arrived courtesy of Air Malta a few days ago. 

Next up was the getaway driver; sorry, I mean the taxi to the hotel… the drivers seem to all dress the same; white shirts, black trousers, blindfolds like they’re ready for a firing squad. Kidding, of course, not all of them wear white shirts. I'm also trying to figure the side of the road they drive on. The left? On the right? The old joke here? In the shade.

The number 14 winds its way down from Pembroke through the down-market Paceville area. The bus quickly fills with mostly tired young men after a long Saturday night out. The faint odours of sweat, alcohol, tobacco and cheap takeaways permeate the air. I smile and recall the ‘good old/bad old days’ as a young soldier in Germany, and my old Drill Sergeant’s wisdom and wit… “Never take life too seriously, no one gets out alive…”

The windows become makeshift pillows for some as we meander through Sliema, hugging the dramatic coastline. I finish the coffee. The historic walls of Valetta appear invitingly on the other side of Floriana Bay.

Just after 0700 hrs, we pull into the capital’s bus station. The old city looks majestic at sunrise. The limestone buildings enjoy that sweet orange-yellowy tinge. Smart-phone poised, let’s run east. The pedestrianised streets appear mostly deserted.

Presidential Street. The main artery. In past runs (Juba & Conakry) I’d say wear your seat belt. Metaphorically. Things could get interesting.

Relax today. We're in the sleepy laid back Med, buckling up not necessary. Metaphorically. Oh, and smoke if you wish, wherever and whenever you like.

A beautiful full boulevard, inspiring to run along. The problem being there’s photo opportunities everywhere. 

I’m hearing church bells and some beautiful singing at this early hour. I see street cleaners, pigeons, and some of Malta’s old and bold shuffling slowly along. I’m smelling the good smells of Malta.

Head all the way down Presidential Street at a good pace, the Presidential Palace on my right, my senses scrambled by the never-ending flow of beautiful architecture. Before the main square is Caffe Cordina which appears to be slowly waking up. Back for brekkie methinks.

Turn right and head south to the Siege Bell War Memorial. The bell is sounded daily to honour the 7,000 people who lost their lives during the siege, by air, of Malta by the Nazi’s and Italians between 1940 & 1943. The recumbent figure lays serenely with stunning views across the Grand Harbour. The plaque is a poignant minder of that sacrifice. I take a brief moment and head back to the perimeter wall and continue southwards.

The panorama from this elevation is breathtaking. Next stop the Upper Barrakka Gardens. Further spectacular vistas across the cannons below. I gaze at the plaques reflecting the past. A peaceful place to sit, pause and reflect. Not today, though, we’re on the run after all. I’ll be back…

The yellow brick road continues as we turn north and leave the gardens behind, jogging slowly through the imposing Auberge de Castille and the bombed-out Opera House. Back onto Republican Street. Briefly, take in St Paul’s Cathedral and Independence Square on this circuit.

The next destination is Archbishop Street. Did you know Gladiator filmed in Malta? The Coliseum was built here. Malta provided over 2,000 extras to Ridley Scott; bright CGI did the rest. Perhaps Russell Crowe’s finest moment. Arguably, Oliver Reed’s as well. The legendary British hell-raiser was making a comeback at the age of 61. He cast as Proximo the slave trader and gladiator trainer. Reed was apparently well-known for his love of the occasional lager shandy. Somewhere on this street, he enjoyed his final session in 1999, during a break in filming.

Here we are, on my left, ‘The Pub’; doesn’t look too inspiring does it? At least from the outside? A heart attack on his bar stool after reportedly downing three bottles of Captain Morgan's rum, eight bottles of German beer, numerous doubles of Famous Grouse whisky and Hennessy cognac, and beating five much younger Royal Navy sailors at arm-wrestling. His bar bill for the Sunday lunch session was said to be over £450. All this before half-past 2 in the afternoon? What happened on a typical Friday night? A New Year’s Eve perhaps? As for beating 5 Jolly Jacks at arm-wrestling, surprised it wasn’t more. He died with his boots on. And, with a brilliant performance in an Oscar-winning movie.

Finish back at the Presidential Square. 35 mins of wonderment this morning. Brekkie time at the Caffe Cordina. Behind me the impressive main library, also a statue of Queen Victoria. To the front a building where the poet Samuel Coleridge once lived over 200 years ago. Coleridge is credited with the expression, ‘the suspension of disbelief’.

History. Malta is home to the ancient Megalithic Temples. These are among the oldest human-made structures in the world, some date back over 5,000 years. Makes the formations older than the Egyptian pyramids, my mother in law, the Great Wall of China, and Stonehenge.

As I type these thoughts/ideas into my smartphone, with Google’s help, of course, I'm approached by a distinctive Code Blue. He's 71 and would like the ashtray from my table. I smile and gesture for him to take it.

He tells me he's dying, his age, and that he shouldn't be smoking. Tells me he smokes ten a day. Tells me his doctor has told him to stop. Tells me nicotine is excellent for his mind, not so good for his lungs. He has a full head of white hair, and a large Roman nose rounded off with a winning smile. In fact, his head is enormous. As my old Drill Sergeant used to say, “A snipers dream.” Was Victor an extra back in 99, I wonder?

He asks me to share coffee with him. I haven’t spoken to this point. Remember, this is a Code Blue. Tradecraft, make your excuses and move on, instead; “I’d like that a lot, thank you.”

Why not, I’ve had 2 cups already, and this is by far the best coffee I've experienced in Malta. I love many things about this island. Culinary pleasure isn’t one of them. I went to a Maltese dinner 'through the ages' the other evening. All you need to know is the national dish is the rabbit. I endured Maltese wine (paint stripper), Maltese coffee (rabbit droppings), Maltese ice cream (made with condensed milk), I digress…

Victor is apparently a regular at Caffe Cordina. With his promptly delivered coffee, he receives a small glass of water and two crunchy Italian biscuits. No water and only one wafer for me. Both his cookies are dunked into the coffee at the same time, held under and then eaten individually with his teaspoon. I want to be Victor.

We chat briefly about Malta, the Olympics, and the local economy. In summary, Malta is doing fine, thanks to tourism and rich people residing here. Like France, they’ve never triumphed at the games, and the economy is holding up well. Victor has saved his cigarette as a treat; he’s content. The perfect time to exit stage left, shaking his hand and wishing the Maltese Olympic squad every success.

To close the post, I’d like a firework display. You’ll have to use your imagination and close your eyes.

They adore fireworks here, any excuse. Street processions, festivals, warding off evil spirits, celebrations, weddings, mildly amusing blogs, even a decent meal.

So, there you have it. Some of the best architecture I’ve ever seen; and… pyrotechnics aplenty, rabbit tagliatelle, and I forgot to mention a considerable fondness for water polo. There’s far more to Malta than meets the eye. I’ll be back…

Early Morning Run in...'The Sponge'

It began raining in Freetown on Friday, June 13th.

As Supertramp once sang, "It's Raining Again." Unlucky for some. Unfortunate for us. The rain came through the ill-fitting windows and the ill-fitting doors and the ill-fitting floor and the ill-fitting roof, and most unbelievably through the walls. The storm would swirl up through the hills and hammer our residence at all angles.

I rented ‘The Sponge' in April 2012. The house sat majestically at the mouth of a meandering valley in the undulating hills of Hill Station, Freetown, Sierra Leone. We quickly discovered this was a one season house. Dry season.

Lukulay House. The owner was Mr Lukulay. The road was Lukulay Drive. The drive was off Fadika Drive. The most prominent house on this drive was Mr Fadika's. He had a life-size grey paper mache elephant in his garden. His home was called Fadika House. Both my birthday cards took six months to arrive that year.

‘The Sponge' had five bedrooms. I lived upstairs in one, the others were guest rooms for visitors from North America. Downstairs was office space.

Mr Lukulay, much to his horror, had hired a cowboy project manager. Let's call him ‘The Fox'. The house was 70% complete when we signed up. ‘The Fox' was to finish the build after payment of half of the two years rent in advance. The balance to be settled when the House passed a third-party safety audit. Check the electrics and the plumbing? Does the roof leak? The possibility of being fried in the shower? A fire risk with a fuse box the size of an ashtray? The generator?

My Divas visited the site regularly and quickly realised ‘The Fox' was a well-meaning amateur. Mr Lukulay lived in America and worked a long-distance trust with his project manager. ‘The Fox' when in doubt painted everything and everywhere. The place was becoming thicker by the day.

After much to and fro around the findings of the audit, we eventually moved in three months late. We had been waiting for the washing machine to arrive. ‘The Fox' informed us the ship bringing it from the UK had sunk in a storm, all cargo lost, including our washing machine. ‘The Fox' would tell us funny stories most days and at every deadline. Then he'd shout at the painter to slap on more paint.

‘The Fox' wore red socks and red braces and was an amiable bandit. I liked him. He cut down on building materials by diverting or 'stealing' bags of cement to other projects, simultaneously billing the absent landlord the correct quantities. No wonder rain was penetrating the walls. This skullduggery can be standard in parts of Africa. I know this now. This can lead to structural collapses or buildings being washed away due to shortcuts in concrete and steel and regulators being paid off.

After we moved in, we had two floods and a fire and a break-in and two snakes in the compound in the first three months. I renamed the house ‘UnLukulay House' which now sat on UnLukulay Drive. ‘The Fox' kept himself engaged applying waterproof paint to the walls. I thanked him for his wisdom and inquired further of the sunken vessel, which somehow had escaped the news. My wardrobe was taking a pounding on a vintage wooden washboard. My ‘unshrinkable' Rohan trousers were slowly moving up my leg.

A geologist came to stay. I could see Charles was nervous about the house. We all were. The evening before Charles arrived a group of bad boys had visited in the middle of the night and made off with a brand new flat screen TV and a DVD player and two sheets and the remote control for the air conditioning unit, and more importantly my ‘Little House on the Prairie' box set.

Fortunately, the bad boys only made access into one bedroom, or it could have been a house clearance. I slept right through, apparently along with my three security guards...

Charles came with his Texan manager to help settle him in. Geologist's always travelled in pairs, like lawyers. His boss enquired of the living arrangements.

"Come on, let's go upstairs," I said. "Charles, this is your room. We had a minor burglary last night, nothing to worry about."

"What happened?"

When providing any comfort repeat their name; "Charlie, some thieves cut through the razor wire from next door, dropped 8 feet to the ground. Charlie, they sawed through the metal bars in a downstairs window but couldn't make access."

"I see, what about the security guards?"

I continued, "Don't worry; they're all fine. Charlie, then they cut through the bars on your window with a saw, came into your room and stole your TV and your DVD player and your sheets and the remote control for your air conditioner. They climbed back out and scaled the 8-foot wall into next door carrying their swag Charlie." I said nothing of the box set; I didn't want to alarm him.

Charlie appeared in the morning; I didn't know if he'd slept well. I was instantly distracted by his outsized purple footwear. He was wearing a smart shirt and tailored trousers. He looked every inch the professional he was. But what about those purple monstrosities on his feet.

"Charlie, what are those?"

"Er… Crocs."

"Charlie, the only people who should wear crocs, are children under 5 and folk who work in hospitals."

"I've just got to pop upstairs."

Charlie came back down 5 minutes later wearing a pair of solid brown brogues. I felt bad.

"Charlie, only kidding, wear whatever you like in the office. How did you sleep by the way? Please don't worry about security; the old guards have been fired, the new ones doubled."

As my old Drill Sergeant used to say, if in doubt, double the guard.

Charlie Chuckles grinned, laughter didn't come quickly. Might have been nerves.

Four things we never saw again. Break-ins. Purple Crocs. The washing machine. And, ‘The Fox', Mr UnLukualy fired him.

A fire? The staff covered in foam and water from errant hoses somehow managed to extinguish the flames. The Freetown Fire Brigade turned up the next day.

'Charlie Drakes' hissing around in the garden? Two of them, a long thin bootlace one and a proper fat black snake. The Divas shrieked in hysteria. Meanwhile, the gardener and security and the cook and the driver's and the houseboy chased around in circles, with whatever came to hand.

Looking back, ‘The Sponge' was a particular time, my welcome to Sierra Leone, the memories come flooding back (excuse the pun)...

With special thanks to the cast. Charles, you had a baptism of fire (forgive the pun), you came through brilliantly like a real professional. And you did laugh, in the end. The Divas, what can I say, don't worry, most people are scared of snakes. 'The Fox' has bounced back and is now Director of Air Traffic Control at Heathrow. And, last but not least, Mr UnLukulay. We lived in your fine house for 18 months. You've since restored order, and the house is now once again and officially Lukulay House on Lukulay Drive.

'Early Morning Run in... Nuremberg'

0630 hrs. A gentle pace to begin. I ease past a fellow jogger. Strange, he's wearing leather lederhosen type shorts with a bib, long socks, a trilby hat, sporting a rather sizeable bushy moustache.

"Guten morgen," I offer cheerily. No response, how miserable, as he cuts me up on the pavement, shoving me into a bush.

Joking. There was no bush. I do however notice the jaunty grey feather in his soft green trilby.

Folks, we have an utterly fantastic short notice weekend to Germany. I travelled here from South Sudan; via Nairobi, Amsterdam, & Paris. One meeting and a trade show.

Time to slip in a quick run around this beautiful Bavarian City? Of course. Time to take the clock back with an evening of big beer and big sausages? Of course.

You see I was posted here with the British Army as a young soldier at the end of the 70s, early 80s. The ‘Cold War’. Four years of waiting for hairy arsed, vodka-swilling Ruskies to spill across the German plains.

Germany 1978? At barely 19 you're not entirely ready for a cultural experience, for learning a new language, for exploring Europe.

A reader recently asked what had been the most terrible thing I’d ever experienced in the Army? Simple has to be seeing Jim Davidson in concert, tough going. Germany is bringing back memories of my former shipmates. 

I arrived in Nuremberg 2230 hrs last night. My taxi driver was funny in the German way of ‘funny’. He didn't speak English. Luckily I do have some German. After the four years as mentioned earlier, here's my British Tommy playbook;

Guten tag, wie geht?
Sprichst du Englisch?
Ein bier bitte
Ja, noch ein bier bitte (Yes, another beer please)
Ja, noch ein bier bitte (Yes, another beer please)
Schnellimbiss
Bratwurst mit pommes frites und mayonnaise bitte
Taxi
Mercer Kaserne, bitte (Mercer Barracks, please)
Wie viel... sie scherzen? (How much... you're kidding?)
Bandido (Bandido)
Wonderbra (wonderful)
Danke, auf Wiedersehen

I ask the rather stout driver if he takes credit cards. "Ja", he does. He's sat in his big cream Mercedes with the heater on full blast wearing a colossal leather parka with the collar up. German taxi drivers don't do layering. He apparently says to himself, in German, let me show you what a great driver I am and how fast this baby can go. The only thing missing, which would have transported me directly back to 1980, was Boney M, or perhaps The Goombay Dance Band.

How did we end up in a remake of 'The Italian Job'? Traffic is light allowing us to hit high speeds and change lanes at will. He now mumbles under his giant walrus moustache, and signs with his hands there's a problem with credit cards, there needs to be at least €25 on the meter. No problem I say and sign back, just keep speeding round in circles, we'll get there... Bandido. As they say, Bavarians are the Germans of the Germans.

The first thing to point out is the temperature swing. 42C in Juba last week, this morning 2C with snow earlier. The second is I'm completely ill-equipped. I wonder, are there other joggers in dirty sandy coloured trainers, shorts, with street clothes added to a T-shirt for extra layers? Probably not...

I've taken an Airbnb 3 km south of downtown. Let's head towards town... it's freezing, by the way, my hands, fingers... I need to get a wiggle on this morning…

I'm setting myself a target of writing this post without reverting to any cheap German stereotyping. Let's see how I do...

A real quick run today, pausing only briefly for a few photos to bring Nuremberg to life for you. Mission? Find a good cafe for brekkie. Perhaps a gym for tomorrow, and most importantly a Bavarian-style restaurant with the requisite big sausages and big beer for later this evening... keep your eyes peeled...

So, let’s go. I've seen off the fellow with the grand facial hair. We're heading now towards the old city. Cobbled streets and mostly pedestrianised. It's early, and there's public transport everywhere. Trams, and an underground. The town, home to around 500,000 souls, is beautiful. A staggering amount of churches and old fortifications near a beautiful looking castle. I weave back and forwards over a meandering river. It all blends in so wonderfully. I'm liking Nuremberg.

Not too many fellow joggers for any company, mind you it's barely 0700 hrs and bleeding chilly. I run through the main square. All cobbled, about the size of 4 football pitches. I've read they have a substantial Christmas market annually. The plaza sits beautifully, with great architecture and churches mixing with higher-end retail.

Ah, now, this looks like the place.

I’m already picturing packed wooden benches. A boisterous atmosphere. Well rounded blond frauleins, some with moustaches, all with pigtails; wearing white frilly lowcut blouses managing three giant foaming beers in each hand. I imagine leather attire everywhere. Checked shirts, red braces. There are thumping great bratwursts flying around. A Kenny Loggins soundtrack? David Hasselhoff? Different these days? Hope not.

That’s for later. 20 mins into the run, I'm feeling slightly less cold. Going OK this morning considering 5 hours sleep and 9 hours yesterday cooped up next to the tail gunner. A fellow jogger glides past me, with a self-satisfied look. He hasn't; he looks perfectly reasonable. My imagination wanted him to be smug. He’s appropriately dressed in thin running gloves, a beanie (wish I had one), running tights, all layered up. In response, I turn up the collar of my short-sleeved polo shirt, my outer layer. Try to respond and match his pace. He’s lucky this time; I have to stop for another photo. The blog comes first, see what I mean about the architecture?

25 mins. Need to start heading back. I lift the pace. Can’t get Herr Loggins out of my mind. But then, I've got this feeling... that times are holding me down... I'll hit the ceiling... or else I'll tear up this town... perhaps cut loose, Footloose… let's get back.

Arrive back at Cristina’s Airbnb (thanks, you were a fabulous host) with just over 40 mins on the clock. A great run in uplifting surroundings. Light years away from Juba. Feels fantastic to be back in Europe, albeit for a weekend.

P.S. So, how was ‘Bratwurst Roslein’ last night?

Well, the place was jam-packed as expected. I was sharing. Sit down and go straight into my British Tommy playbook. Lo and behold this fellow, in the leather jacket, isn’t Herr Smit from Bavaria. He’s Herr Wee Robbie, a short arse ginger nut from Glasgow. Apparently, here for a trade show.

I have to close with a line from PJ Wodehouse, who once said it's never difficult to distinguish between a Scotsman with a grievance and a ray of sunshine. How accurate... thanks, Wee Robbie you made me laugh. A lot. Wonderbra. A top night, rounded off with a couple of German schnapps… see you all back in Africa.

Es ist schon nehmen Sie ein Vergnugen, um Nuremberg. Ich liebe Deutsche Volk. Danke, auf Wiedersehen.

Another… ‘Early Morning Run in… Juba’

Let's sing...

On a dark desert highway, hot wind in my hair

Warm smell of cow poo, rising up through the air

Ahead in the distance... back in Juba…

0645 hrs. Southern Sudan. Folks, we have the youngest guest runner to-date. Let me introduce 32-year-old ‘Otto’. “Otto, good morning, what detergent are you using, by the way, those shorts have shrunk?” Otto self consciously tries to make his tiny Ron Hill’s appear bigger. We exchange greetings. Otto looks lean, he looks fit, he has a spring in his step and that certain boyish enthusiasm. This might well be a little slicker than usual.

When you run in a small group, or pairs, it can mirror life; you’re either the hammer or the nail. I wonder… damn, why didn’t I ask Fred, the chubby Swedish fellow…

Walk through the double set of stern-looking security gates at Acacia Village. TIJ. This is Juba. Otto is the compound manager. We turn immediately right and head north, along ‘Sandy Lane’. Already 28C, later a high of 42C. Run early, or not at all. Otto had suggested we run up Jebel Lodge. He said we could easily do it in an hour. Great idea I said, but let’s do my regular 35 mins circuit today, around the ‘hood’. Do the mountain another year…

Yes, back in Juba working a task with an old partner, ‘Ops’. I actually wanted 2 guest runners this morning, ‘Ops’ actually wanted more sleep this morning. We’re based 8 km west of downtown. An ordinary poor district of Juba. This area surely has more heart. More soul.

We’re in Gudele II. There are no street names. I’m naming this first one ‘Sandy Lane’. A rough dirt track. The houses either side are a mixture of brick and traditional. Traditional meaning mud and wood. There’s rubbish everywhere, mostly plastic.

There’s a virtual menagerie around us. Ducks. Chickens. Sheep. Goats. Dogs. Even cows with substantial curly horns being led by youths. Poo everywhere. Plenty to take in. All senses engaged.

“Otto, that’s a strange nickname?” “What’s the story?” Otto tells me a tale from his childhood where some idiot takes out plenty of Europeans queuing at a chairlift. Bodies, poles and skis everywhere. ‘Otto’ is shamed, blamed and named, it stuck. The full name apparently, ‘Otto, you little bugger’.

A luack, ahead left at 10 o clock. A fenced off cattle area, about 40 of the substantial curly horned variety waking up. Luacks dot the neighbourhood. Some kids stand on the fence poles gazing in. We turn right into ‘Sandy Square’, heading east. The sun rising majestically.

Plenty of kids in simple uniforms walking to school. A few vehicles too, mostly motorbike taxis – boda boda’s. “Kerwadja”, “Kerwadja”. The word follows us everywhere. Repeat it back, makes things worse. “Kerwadja”, particularly enchanting when the toddlers say it. A wall of sound… “White man, white man.”

Swing left and head north again. We’re on ‘Sandy Drive’. The sight of 2 white fellows, one of whom looks questionable, prancing through their district must be amusing. Apart from poo, there’s the more pleasant whiff of charcoal as morning chop is prepared, also the occasional scent of sweetened chicory type coffee. I need my morning Joe…

Some children run and hide behind their mothers. For most, it’s “Kerwadja.” A few say “good morning”, no matter the time of day. Repeat everything and have fun with the kids, feels pretty interactive this morning.

 “I’m enjoying this run Otto, does Swedish Fred jog?” “What, never?” Forget for a moment about weaving Abba lyrics into the post… problem… at 12 o clock, ahead…

… stray dogs. Running in the evening can be preferable when the pesky hounds have been zapped by the daily furnace, hotter here at that time than the devils waiting room. We’re quickly making an impression from River Dance. Michael Flatley’s feet haven’t moved this fast. A couple of locals laugh and come to our rescue. They pick-up and toss baked poo to see the mutts off. I thank them… however, stop short of shaking mitts. Mutts and mitts, let’s push on…

Reminds me, Ops and I need to visit upcountry, but options are limited. Many roads/areas are unsafe. Fortunately, yesterday I found a reliable helicopter charter company. The words of my oil & gas safety mentor, Randy Splash, echoed as I inspected the cockpit and rotors. “Safety. Safety. Safety.” Randy, this machine has everything; it’s in great shape. Randy, I know you’re focusing on one of those hoses, fret not, being replaced as I type. More importantly, need to manage these fellows down on price...

Otto is like the Skippy the bush kangaroo, very springy, very chatty. He tells me he’s been in Juba 9 months and had been in the Territorial Army with 4 Para, as he went through university. The pace is good, I’m the nail this morning…

As we get deeper into the hood, the mix of houses turn more traditional. The kids don’t relent. I don’t want them to. Makes for a happy run. This is a poor area; no power, no water, few facilities. However, there feels a real sense of community. We enjoy a fantastic reception. This area most definitely has more heart and soul.

Has anything changed in South Sudan since the previous visit last Oct? Well… the peace process rumbles on. The country is now completely bankrupt. The currency has been devalued more than once. Most business has folded. Little outside investment. Civilians being attacked and killed when supposedly under the protection of the UN. Prices increase daily… but, hold the front page… the 2 main protagonists, who began all this in Dec 2013, are kissing and making up… what can possibly go wrong…

So. Really. Any hope? Strangely, I think there is. I feel more positive this time than 5 months ago. Maybe, it’s these simple folk here in Gudele II. Perhaps, no further to fall. Maybe, leaders can put egos aside. Maybe, they can filter out bad advice from their ‘loyal’ courtiers. Maybe, cease vested interests. Maybe, forget splitting the country into tribal thiefdoms, sorry… I mean chiefdoms… to control territory and resources. Perhaps, work together for the greater good. Simples. Maybe…

Finally, we’re heading at a good pace south along ‘Desert Highway’. Ahead in the distance, is there a shimmering light? Yes, all around us. “Kerwadja… Kerwadja….”

Here’s a young family from ‘Desert Highway’, the future…

Thank you to everyone in our adopted neighbourhood. Last Oct when downtown we often felt as welcome as a Jehovah’s Witness at the front door on a Friday evening. You know the drill; you’ve a second glass of something chilled, feet up… “you answer the door, I went last time…” 30 secs later… “Darling…,” a face appears around the living room door, “we’ve a ‘Code Red’…”

We’re pushing on now, heading up towards Mundri Road. The twin masts of the leading telecom provider is where we’ll warm down, jogging steadily to the finish. The poles stand out along with the bright pink coloured walls. The Zain tagline wraps this post nicely, Louis takes us out…

“I see skies of blue and clouds of white. The bright blessed day, the dark sacred night. And I think to myself what... “

Enjoyed this 28 mins run (35 mins previously), thanks, Otto… great fun. Good luck to you & the team at Acacia Village. Stay safe. However, if my optimism is misplaced, then please remember what my old Drill Sergeant used to say when all else fails, “keep low and move fast,” he’d bellow. You might recall my old drill Sergeant’s wisdom from an earlier post, he said to always expect the unexpected. I miss him, he was killed by a low flying teradactyl a few years back, in Basingstoke town centre…

We opened with The Eagles? When I worked oil and gas, there's a cycle of investment in any project. The final part was the exit strategy. In Africa we called this the ‘Hotel California Syndrome’, in that; ‘you can check out any time you like, but you can never leave…’ Exiting, for any number of reasons from Africa, can be difficult…

I’m exiting, for a weekend at least. Heading from Juba to Germany. What a contrast. An ‘Early Morning Run in… Nuremberg’, could well be on the cards… and soon…

Wrap up warm, see you in Bavaria…

P.S. Back to the UK for Easter in a couple of weeks. Reminds me, I must drag my tight-fisted Scottish neighbour up a nearby Jebel…