Courir tôt le matin à… Paris

Dawn is breaking. We stand in the shadow of the Basilique du Sacré-Cœur. 

 

Early o'clock. We are in the arty bohemian 18th arrondissement of northern Paris. A modest hotel in Montmartre is our base.

 

Bohemian, you say. Hold my paintbrush… Picasso, Van Gogh, Toulouse-Lautrec, Monet, Dali…

 

Writers? Hold my quill… Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Porter, Reading, Proust, Joyce…

 

Inspired? I feel the urge to stroll with a baguette under one arm and an easel under the other. Then climb the 222 steps to the hilltop, don my old army beret, sip a small, strong coffee, ponder life until midday, and then paint an apple.

Where can I take you for inspiration to plan tomorrow’s run? Perhaps a well-known watering hole. I book an Uber to The Ritz. I stroll through the hotel’s splendour, and there it is - the famous bar. A queue. A civilised line. 

“Monsieur, qu’en penses-tu? Combien de temps?” The security fellow tells me it’ll be at least an hour.

 

When anyone tells me they’ve queued for a long time, I usually respond with, ‘I’ve spent longer in the NAAFI queue.’

 

The creatives and literati drank here in the 1920s. Before them, the painters and artists in the 1880s. Legend has it that Marcel Proust ordered a cold beer from here on his deathbed, and that Hemingway liberated the hotel from the Nazis by storming the bar and ordering 50 martinis. 

 

It’s one out, one in. There are only 25 seats. After 70 minutes, I find myself in this shrine to Ernest, the bar named after him, Hemingway’s. I’m not sure I’ve ever spent this long in the NAAFI queue. I‘m allocated a seat at the bar. I enjoy a few Havana rum cocktails in quick succession and munch on some fantastic nibbles. I breathe in the atmosphere. Is it worth it? Absolutely. 

 

They say that every French bar and every NAAFI have a resident philosopher. I’ve brushed up on my Nietzsche. I’m equally prepared to discuss philosophy or why everything is “merde.”

 

I can pretend to go heavy, “Libérez l’amour” (capitalism is a prison) or go light, which comes far more easily… or army, or civvie… all bases covered.

 

Light. There is a French cat named ‘un deux trios’, and an English cat called ‘one two three.’ They decide to have a race across the canal. Naturally, the English cat wins: one, two, three. The French cat, un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq…

 

Army. Why are they shooting at us, Sarge? Because we are here. Why are we here, Sarge? Because they are shooting at us. 

 

Civvie. I’ve sailed in here and dropped my anchor, wearing a shirt that makes me look like a wa*nker.

 

All this philosophy is making me thirsty. I smile, “Quand le seagull suivre le trawler… “

 

“Pardon, Monsieur.”

 

I present my glass: “Ah, oui, merci, un autre… un plus pour la rue… santé… (channeling my inner Monsieur Cantona…)."

 

Oh, la la, these cocktails have a mighty kick.

 

“L’addition, s’il vous plaît.” 

 

La facture arrive. €108. Merde. I tap my card.

 

“Le reçu, monsieur?”

 

« Oui, personne ne me croirait. » 

 

I leave a €20 bill with my witty server. I’m bursting with ideas for tomorrow’s early morning run. Time for an Uber back to our base in Montmartre. 

 

Who knew? A few drinks, and my French fluency is off the charts when speaking with my West African Uber chauffeur. She has a smile that makes the City of Light shine even brighter. Try saying that in French, and I tried… 

 

Where were we…

 

Ah, yes, under the shadow…

 

Allons y…

 

Montmartre is dreamy, filled with photo opportunities and cobbled streets. There are steps everywhere. Our lungs and calves will suffer this morning. Buckle up. Let’s climb…

 

Voila, and that everyone is Sacré-Cœur Basilica. The climb to the summit, and the highest point in Paris. The breathing out of our rear ends has been worth it, non.

 

At the top of the stairs, let’s all do the Rocky dance. You know, from the film, when he reaches the top of the steps in Philly, he raises his arms like a champion and does his little jig. I do it all the time in those moments — a great training session, just feeling good or happy, England scoring a try at Twickers, that kind of thing…

Down there is Paris at dawn. A stunning view…

 

Let’s descend smoothly to Abbesses. Some of the cafes are starting to open. Time for coffee... and jot down some of this post while it’s fresh, pretend I’m a writer…

To quote Bogie, we will always have Paris; it’s time to say au revoir — literally until we meet again.

 

La Fin

Early Morning Run in… Cairo

There’s nothing like that first breath of Cairo air after a month on the road in West Africa. The dust, the energy, the slightly chaotic charm—it feels good to be back.

People often ask, ‘What do parts of West Africa have in common?’ A friend once summed it up perfectly—two things. The tourism boards face uphill battles, and you’re just as likely to be robbed by the security forces as by anyone else.

I step out of a battered jalopy and gaze up at the grand old palace frontage. The Marriott. Zamalek. My R&R home for the next three nights.

In the early 2000s, I was a regular here during breaks from the harsh realities of Sharia law and Sudan’s earlier civil war. Back then, this was my sanctuary: Egyptian cotton sheets, a room service breakfast, a hot shower, working internet, a balcony view of the Nile, cold beer, the Phil Collins soundtrack, and the occasional roll of the dice in the casino. Who could ask for more…

It’s just past 10:00. The hotel kindly allows an early check-in. I unpack my month-old laundry— “dobie” as we used to call it—and head for a shave.

Abdullah is still at the hotel barbershop. His theatrical wet shave includes the removal of nose and ear hair. It’s 800 dib-dobs according to his calculator (plus baksheesh), but hey—it’s R&R.

Is the old shoeshine fellow downstairs? He is. Mustafa wears those billowy cream trousers gathered at the ankle, a white shirt, an open black waistcoat, and a fez. I sit on the old high-backed throne while he restores my boots. 200 dib-dobs, plus baksheesh… he’s an artist.

A late breakfast follows of scrambled eggs, pancakes, and decent coffee on the promenade. Three hundred dib-dobs well spent, plus baksheesh. Cairo, you’ve still got it.

Early O’clock: Running Zamalek

Sunday morning. Just after dawn, 22°C, light traffic, and I’m feeling good—perfect for a run. We head west along the Nile with the sun on our backs (you’re with me). 

Weaving through Zamalek, crossing three bridges, heading toward Tahrir Square—the epicentre of Egypt’s modern history. No headphones. You need all your senses in downtown Cairo. This city doesn’t have rules; instead, it has traffic suggestions. 

With any Egyptian security personnel or authorities, you must roll with it. First, there’s the uniformed black jumpers brigade and then the ever-present plainclothes brotherhood. The plainclothes fellows are easy to identify; they are short, bald, sporting proud moustaches, and all wear brown leather jackets with a half-smoked cigarette hanging from their bottom lip.

The museum doesn’t open until much later. There’s a change of shift at the perimeter involving the black jumpers. About ten of them are smoking, drinking chai, and giving instructions towards me in Arabic and English.

As my old drill sergeant used to say, we can go left [flanking], right [flanking], or, hey diddle diddle, right up the middle. So, walk confidently straight through, feigning ignorance. One man in a black jumper raises his hand and asks me where I’m going. Another joins him. At times like this, I say, “Salam, kaflik, cull sewag fee Khartoum madgenoon.” One laughs; one doesn’t. I gesture that I’m only taking a few photos of the area, and I’ll be back later when it opens. One says, “Tammam” and waves his arm. “Shukran.” I’m through…

A few hundred metres later, here we are, Tahrir Square.

The Egyptian revolution of 1919, the Egyptian revolution of 1952 (monarchy to a republic), the bread riots of 1977, the Iraq war protest of 2003, and the Arab Spring of 2011 (‘bread, freedom and dignity’) resulted in the rapid demise of Mubarak, as well as the fall of his successor, President Morsi, in 2013. If revolution had a postcode, this would be it.

Let’s jog back for breakfast. 

The following afternoon…

“I need some help. Can you please give me $100 for a wheelchair?” I’d seen this elderly gentleman, who had mobility issues, using two walking sticks and an oxygen mask, struggling along the promenade at the hotel. He has a splendid mane of grey hair. He claims he has $150. He needs another $100. He looks like he’s had quite the paper round. I’m thinking, Chernobyl.

I ordered us some chai. He tells me he’s from Jordan. I share a story about once having lunch with the then-Crown Prince Abdullah, now King. He laughs at the punchline involving sheep. We’ve bonded. He quickly returns to the wheelchair. In this part of the world, it’s customary to engage in the small talk before moving to the big talk. 

I tell him: if I win $100 at the casino tonight, it’s his. He puts a hand on his heart. We have a deal. A wheelchair isn’t a big ask—if the blackjack gods are kind.

You come across some characters in this hotel. Gary Kasparov once sat at the table next to mine, almost in the same spot, back in the day. I remember asking him to pass the salt. It took him 28 minutes…

That evening…

I’m quickly down to my final $10 chip. I go to the roulette table. Always bet on 22.

Round and round she goes… 37.

No wheelchair tonight. Sh*t happens.

Three days of R&R in Cairo—clean boots, good food, a sunrise run, and some unforgettable characters. There’s something timeless about this city. You never quite know what you’ll find or who you’ll meet.

Next stop, next blog: Paris.

Early Morning Run in… Berlin

23:30 9-Dec 1980

Nearly midnight, it was snowing hard in West Germany. I'm in an army prison cell in Berlin. After finding a warm spot, I'm hunched with my back pressed to the wall. The snow drifts through the bars. 

I've no shoelaces or belt, personal possessions and empty pockets - and there's an army bed and no mattress.

We're (1 DERR) here to play the Grenadier Guards in the Infantry Cup. The Regimental Sergeant Major (RSM) is also the football officer and a strict disciplinarian. I think you could safely say he was old school. His name was 'Sir'. 

'Sir' appeared at the cell door.

14:05 6-Dec 2023

In mid-afternoon, it was snowing steadily in Germany. The taxi driver from the airport was chatty and spoke excellent English. He asks me if I've been in Berlin before. I smile and say yes, 43 years ago as a young soldier. I'd been here to play football for 6 days. He tells me I'll see many changes. I told him I didn't leave the camp all those years ago - a long story. I had wanted to see the Berlin Wall, Checkpoint Charlie, the Reichstag, the Brandenburg Gate, the Olympic Stadium, and where David Bowie lived. I didn't mention being on 6 days of open arrest.

Herr Hans was a good fellow and said he was sorry I didn't have the Berlin experience those 43 years ago. He told me he was under 40; I felt old as I gazed out the window. "You're staying in the Pullman Hotel, ja?" I nod. "There are two things to see on the way. Interested?" 

01:00 10-Dec 1980

Sir has been dragged out of bed because 6 of his team are in the clink. To say he's upset would be an understatement. "I'll be back in the morning; the RSM of the Guards will handle this matter. I'll deal with it personally when we're back in Osnabruck." Silence…

I wanted to say this is frontier justice, with no due process, and we're innocent, by the way. I'd been in the army long enough to keep such thoughts to myself.

I also realise we're up the ol' shit creek without a paddle. 

14:20 6-Dec 2023

Herr Hans and I are sat looking up at a nondescript apartment. "This is where David Bowie lived and wrote 'Heroes.' Did you know the song was about the Berlin Wall and divided Germany?" I told him I did and loved Bowie and this song in particular. 

09:00 10-Dec 1980 

We've sobered up. No breakfast. We're marched in to have a chat with Garrison RSM. He's Scottish, the type who goes to bed angry and wakes up furious. His guard's No2 hat with the little slashed peak made him look even more frightening. 

14:35 6-Dec 2023

Hans says, "You see that building there? This is where President Kennedy stood on that balcony in front of, they say, a crowd of 100,000 and said Ich Bin Berliner." He drops me at my hotel, and we shake hands. It's a great ride into town. 

10:00 14-Dec 1980 

Osnabruck. Officer's Commanding Orders (think magistrate's court). Marched in at warp factor 3… STAND STILL… charges read out, remanded by the OC for CO's Orders (think crown court). Marched out at warp factor 3. 

11:00 18-Dec 1980 

Osnabruck. The Commanding Officer could dismiss this case, find us guilty & pass a sentence, or ask you if you'd prefer a court-martial, which is your right.

The Commanding Officer (GC) was a kindly man, more of a benevolent uncle figure. Marched in at warp factor 4 by the RSM…. STAND STILL. Charges read out. 

GC opened with how sad & disappointed he was. Bright young men, some of the most promising young soldiers in the battalion, stood here before him. We had let ourselves down, the regiment down, the army down and above all, let him down. I remember thinking this was promising; we could get away with it. As they say in France, it's only done when the carrots are cooked. Please let us off…

I remember an ominous sign on his desk. A bowl of oranges. Oranges always appeared in The Godfather when someone was about to get whacked. 

He asked in his soft-spoken manner, did we have anything to say for ourselves? A brave member of the 'Berlin 6' said, "Sir, we…" A loud voice boomed behind us, "SHUT UP." Sir had spoken.

The colonel said, " I've decided not to charge you and blight your promising careers. The case is dismissed (hurrah). The RSM will handle this matter in his indomitable fashion (schiesse, as they in Germany). 

The upshot was the RSM going radio rental; we'd each get 14 extra guard duties, day on, day off. Starting 20-Dec. I had one of the 5 seats booked in a Ford Escort Mk II to Hook of Holland for the Christmas ferry home. The ferry was paid for. Not this year… we were to stand guard, Christmas was cancelled, and we were to think about our behaviour in the early hours as we froze our nuts off. Frontier justice…

To continue the German theme, the RSM had some Nietzsche in him, in that what doesn't kill you makes you stronger. You always learned lessons in the army...

Happy New Year to all and best wishes for 2024.

Zero dark thirty 9-Dec 2023 (Part 2)

To be continued... we'll run and take in the sights: the beautiful snow-covered Tiergarten Park, the Brandenburg Gate, and the stunning Reichstag. The post will also contain the epilogue from December 1980. Let's finish for now with the words of David Bowie...

I, I can remember (I remember)

Standing, by the wall (by the wall)

And the guns, shot above our heads (over our heads)

And we kissed, as though nothing could fall (nothing could fall)

And the shame, was on the other side

Oh we can beat them, for ever and ever

Then we could be Heroes, just for one day

'Early Morning Run in... Mozambique'

While I was sleeping, it quickly became the 12-Sept 2023. I stretch on my balcony at the Cordoso Hotel, overlooking the Indian Ocean. I love this hotel. More than 100 years old. It's been a rebel HQ in the war. I imagine a place for buccaneers and spies in WW2. This place is solid, old school, retro charm, iconic, incredible sunsets, the best vantage point in the city, and sundowner central. Thank you, Gonçalo, for your hospitality.

In a few minutes, it'll be 07:00. I gently tap on the blacked-out window of a battered yellow taxi. The window slowly lowers to halfway. A wonderful smiley face and a dark green bobble hat greet me.

"Bom dia", I offer. I'm armed with only 4 phrases in Portuguese. Obrigardo, frango and boa sorte are the other three.

We're on the eastern coast of Africa, in Maputo. This city was known as Lourenço Marques until 1976 when it became independent from Portugal. 

He can drive me downtown, he understands I have no local dib dobs, only Euros. He'll wait for me; he knows where the railway station, Independence Square, and the Iron House are. He pauses, and he tells me 5 Euros each way. I tell him I'll give him 10 each way and a bonus for a safe drive. 

I jump in the front seat of Caro's humble taxi; we shake hands and drive downtown. Caro speaks a little English only because he spent 5 years in neighbouring South Africa some years back. 

Caro tells me how his life changed 11 years ago when he was in a severe car accident. I note his gammy hand. The fall-out from the accident hasn't been resolved. He tells me it's complicated. I asked him not to have an accident today. We've nearly had 2, and we're only halfway to the railway station. Mind you, one was a frango running out from nowhere.

Taking photos in Moz is involved, especially of government buildings and infrastructure. I'll be discreet. I tell Caro I'll meet him at the 'Casa de Ferro' (the Iron House) near Independence Square in about 15 minutes. "Please wait for me, Caro."

This station was built in 1916 and remains operational. Its architecture is renowned. One of Gustave Eiffel's shipmates designed the famous dome. There are a few early-morning commuters. It's freezing, by the way. I should have thought this through. I stand out a little. Looking around, I quickly realise I'm the only one wearing blue shorts.

I leave the station and note Caro has moved on, hopefully to the next RV. I want to jog through this area towards Independence Square. This is the area where the movie Blood Diamond was filmed. Moz was chosen due to its similarities with Sierra Leone and its capital, Freetown.

The movies Ali and The Interpreter were also filmed here.

The Iron House was designed by Gustave Eiffel and built in Belgium in 1892. The Iron House was then shipped to Maputo. Eiffel knew a thing or two about iconic landmarks. It's still early, and I'm the only one here; a kind lady invites me inside to look around. I smile and decline. I take a few snaps and jog around Independence Square, and ta-dah, Caro is leaning on his car and beaming - good man. I am wondering about a giant metal house in a hot tropical city.

We're driving back along the Indian Ocean. Halfway back, I ask him to pull over; I'll jog back. I reckon it's only 2-3 clicks back to the Cordoso. Caro is reluctant to leave me; I tell him it's okay. I see a quick WhatsApp from an ex-Army friend. Sadly, another late mid-life crisis, another separation and marital strife. Des writes he's fighting fit again and has lost 110 lbs; he notes he couldn't be happier without her. 

I paid Caro 20 Euros and a 10 Euro bonus and wish him boa sorte. We shake hands, and I enjoy a steady run back, looking forward to breakfast. 

My first post in nearly 2 years. When this blog started in 2014, I was fond of calling myself a halfway to 100 type of guy. 10 years later, I am approaching 60, albeit from the wrong direction. This means entering 'sniper alley'; as my old and long-retired drill sergeant says, anything can get you at any time - get on with life. There's only so much sand left in the hourglass. In that spirit, a Christmas post coming from Berlin…

'Early Morning Run in... The Gambia'

'Early Morning Run in... The Gambia'

Summer 2021. SN Brussels is bringing him from Manchester. I haven't seen 'him' for more than 2 years.

My first overseas travel in 16 months. I'm staying in 'him's place (below is our local watering hole, 'Sailors'). We fine-tune the run here.

 

Back on the road? Covid in Africa? International travel? Well, on the one hand, you've experts, top scientists and epidemiologists saying Covid is real and potentially dangerous. On the other hand, there's a fellow down my local gym who says it's all a crock of sh*t. It's hard to know who to believe...

He's phoned, he's in the car, on his way from Banjul International Airport. 66 mins later… the bungalow door bursts open…

And lo: he's here. The thick, luxurious slicked-back mane of black hair, the Brillo pad stubble, the killer smile, the cologne, the bling, the Kirk Douglas dimple, the travel outfit… a cross between Ali G and Dame Edna. He's looking fantastic.

Usually, bro hugs are not me; it's different with Cameo. We hug, embrace and back slap for several minutes. 

"Yo bro... bro, you're looking great, bro." 

"You too, Cameo."

'Cameo' hits the large vodkas, gin for me. We sit on stools at his kitchen island and pick up where we left off over two years ago like it was yesterday. Cameo knocks em back like there's no today; as always, we agree tomorrow will take care of itself… 

After a few drinks, we talk about our ambitions post Covid. Cameo says he wants to run 5 miles in under an hour. I say I want to run from Cairo to Cape Town in under 4 weeks. He laughs and says, isn't that a tad over-ambitious. I reply, "well, you started it." We laugh and clink glasses; it's good to be back with this man.

'Cameo' was a former guest runner in Banjul in 2017; we discussed another run. It's on… read on…

Seeing Cameo again has warmed my heart, as did this exchange the day I landed back in The Gambia. One week ago. 

The Sennegambia Strip. A shout from the road towards my open cafe terrace. It sounds like "Mr Mark, Mr Mark." I'm surprised; my last time in Banjul was in 2017. The man, dressed like a Senegalese lottery winner, has my attention. I look up from my coffee and phone.

Before the interruption, I'm reading a sad email from a friend whose wife (who I also know) is leaving him. I went to their wedding. She's had enough, he writes. She wants out. Apparently, her main beef is that Dave had become totally obsessed with watching sport on TV during the lockdown. 

Separation is always a cruel thing, but Dave seems relatively sanguine. He writes it's a great pity because they'd been together for nearly 7 seasons.

"Mr Mark, Mr Mark, it is you. You're back."

"Er, yes, I'm back."

"I was your man. It's Suliman. I did your SIM card, your top-ups, you remember?"

Fantastic, my comms man from 4 years ago. Suliman pulls up a chair, and unprompted, begins unpacking phones from his oversized backpack. 

"Suliman, I don't want any phones." 

"Please, sir, business is so slow, the Covid. No business for more than a year. The landlord has kicked me out for no rent. My wife is having another baby. She's gone back to Guinea Bissau."

Suliman, meanwhile, isn't listening to me. He's unpacking tablets.

"Suliman, take a drink, a coke." The waitress brings a coke. 

Suliman pleads for me to buy something. He'll take his commission down to next to nothing for a sale. I tell him he'll have me crying soon. He smiles. 

We talk about the situation in Banjul, no tourists for 2 seasons. Life is hard for everyone, especially those on the margins.

Suliman is now unpacking some crap Nokia's with only one function, remarkably a phone. A throwaway burner phone is helpful in West Africa for local calls and for when bad boys come calling. Freetown, where I lived for 6 and a half years, was a tough neighbourhood, every time I closed a window, I'd hit someone's fingers. Five finger skullduggery in West Africa is an art form.

"Suliman, look, I have to pay for my coffee and go." I pay him more than he's asking for the phone. "Are you hungry? Would you like something to eat?"

The waitress brings the plastic menu with the meals pictured. "How about chicken and chips, or steak and chips," I enquire. "Or, this spaghetti bolognese looks good."

Here comes the punchline and why I love Africa and these interactions. Suliman declares, "I don't like chicken." 

A good deed turns into a minor palaver. The waitress and manager are now involved in trying to temp his tastebuds. We eventually settled on fish and rice and another coke. I pay the bill and head off smiling. It's beautiful to be back.

The most recent blog post finished with 'yours truly' in self-isolation in West Africa.

At the time, what was the difference between Mark Knopfler and my situation? Probably somewhere between Dire Straits & sh*t creek. After nearly 2 months on the West African highway (at the time), I'm undone at the final hurdle. As my old Drill Sergeant used to say, 'sh*t happens, even when you have your sh*t shield on'.

Cameo and I are running in the morning. 

06:55. 'Cameo' looks good but tells me (privately) he's had recent problems with constipation. I ask him if he knows the German word for constipation. He doesn't; 'farfrompoopen', my years as a young soldier in Germany were not entirely wasted.

Right, let's go. We set off towards the nearby golf course nice and steady. A quick shout out to the second-best golfer in the Gambia. His name is 'Fast Eddie', he's a golf professional, plays off scratch and makes his living giving lessons, modest prize money and taxiing. He drives me sometimes. The caddies are ready early this morning.

We head down the first fairway through the 5 little piggies. 

We'll head down the inland footpaths to Solomon's and back along the beach to the compound. 

On this path, there tend to be animals. There's a large family of pigs, a good-sized family of cows and a lone horse. Cameo is scared of all of them, not to mention the odd stray dog. He always holds my hand with the pigs and the cows and is sh*t scared of the lone horse. I coax him through this jungle of wild beasts...

3 km complete. Solomon's ahead - fantastic fish & chips. A regular haunt. 

As we hit the beach, we reflect on 'Operation Cameo' and the heroes of Gambia 2017. We never talk about it! The elections here in Jan 2017, the fallout, Senegalese troops crossing the border, the FCO advising British nationals to leave, the airlift, the evacuation planning, over 25 clients in a safe house off the beach, the laughs that went along with it all. Great flashback memories last night into the early hours...

Beach running early in the morning, you can't beat it. 'Cameo' is a different man; he's in shape and sprightly this morning. He's running so well; he's turning the tables on me. We've run with more purpose today. Extremely enjoyable. 

Right, hard all the way to the finish, back to the bungalow, and then brekkie at The Butchers Shop in Fajara. 2 km to the bungalow...

Thanks 'Cameo' for your hospitality and friendship, and generosity over the past weeks. See you early in 2022. Is there someone missing? Alice, of course. Don't worry, Alice, you'll feature next time, standby...

In closing, may I wish everyone & anyone who reads this a safe, healthy and prosperous New Year. 

'Early Morning Run in... pre Covid Times'

I've been back in West Africa 7 weeks following a 14-month travel hiatus. An 'inconclusive' covid result today means the planned 7 weeks will inevitably extend. I'm now self-isolating in The Gambia, waiting to see what next weeks test brings. Hopefully, negative all the way. Then home...

The most recent post on the blog was in late March 2020 (Djerba, Tunisia). That trip climaxed in a repatriation flight to a locked-down Paris. 

All new material is coming soon following some fantastic experiences on this trip, including 'Another Early Morning Run in... Banjul', starring 'Cameo' - the same guest runner from 2017. 

Above, where the recent Banjul run was planned (CoCo Ocean Hotel).

Meanwhile, an outtake below from a European post before Covid. 

----   

It doesn’t take long before one of the old-school (sat next to me - damn) makes a perceived salty, off-colour remark. Someone from Google is offended and stands and states just how offended she is. Was her point to do with investor venture capital in deepest Africa and the associated risks. No, and while she’s up and everyone’s listening, there’s, of course, another bugbear. Opportunities for women in the higher echelons of risk management. Blah blah blah... old boys clubs, same military & police backgrounds. I challenge her; in my head, it’s a company right to hire who they want. The right mix of qualifications and experience. The best person for the job. That told her.

Times, they are a changing. These get-togethers are meant to exchange ideas, trends, networking, oiled by the frequent clinking of glasses, war stories, and laughing deep into the night. Old school.

There were always speakers and subjects you’d have to take a pass in the good old days. When I say take a pass, I mean ‘take a conference call’ with corporate HQ, a crisis in wherever. In reality, a spot of Egyptian PT (on your bed) to catch up from the night before. The afternoon pass to fit in a quick gym session ahead of another night of the night before. Old school.

This conference brought a new dynamic. Enter the quisling. The convert. The one who’s gone to the dark side. 20 plus years in the UK police. Now embarking on a 2nd career in big tech on the security side. He opens with a confessional about his first career and how much better and enlightened things are in the Google world. Maybe it’s the playing ping pong all day and going down kids slides in the afternoon that has addled his brain. I’m not hanging around to find out. Pick up the phone and hand signal gestures heading for the exit, whispering into the non-responsive phone halfway across the auditorium, outta here. Old school.

As the conference breaks up, I promise myself I’m done. No more of this BS. I need to get to the airport, congestion and rush hour, chaos trying to get a taxi. Might miss the plane.

A shout from a car in traffic, a guys head is out the window. It’s the Google convert, Ben. He shouts, jump in, you won’t make the airport (I’d rather jog the 15 miles to the airport on bare feet).

I jog over to the car; 2 Googlelites, the other is the woman (Jen) with the bugbear. Hey, jump in; you won’t get a taxi now, she says.

Being a man of principle, “Thanks very much, very kind of you.”

They reintroduce themselves. For some reason, I say my name is Ken. It sets me up for the icebreaker. Deepwater, here we go, “ah… Benny, Jenny & Kenny”. They look at me.

Ken, did you enjoy the conference? We both really enjoyed your presentation, says Jen. 

We fumble around for business cards. Hey, says Jenny... you’re Mark on your card. Oh yeah, Kenny’s a nickname, an army thing, everyone has a handle, yes I’m Mark...

Changing tack, “Ben, I loved every minute of your presentation; very informative. Very interesting. Google sounds wonderful.”

We arrive at the airport. “Thanks for paying for the taxi, Ben - most kind.” I’m on a roll with my new amigo’s, “Hey, listen, I appreciate the ride. I know a small bar in the airport; let me buy you both a drink before we say goodbye?” They look at each other...

Jen says, “We’d love to, but we have a crisis brewing and need to dial in.”

I smile, thinking maybe we’re not so different after all. OK, one more conference, and then I’m done. New school.

New post from Banjul coming later this week...