My Journey to the Finish Line

"The marathon demands determination and courage. The event should not be taken lightly; it asks us to reach down and test our mettle; rise above our limits, to become more disciplined, and to make substantial sacrifices. The rewards are unique: a sense of achievement beyond the scope of words."

-Toby Tanser, The Essential Guide to Running the New York City Marathon

It is almost the beginning of the 6th week of my training, with 104 days remaining before the Big Day. Most of the participants in this year's edition of the NYC Marathon have just completed the first week of their 16-week program. The journey to the starting line at the foot of the Verrazano-Narrows in Staten Island, New York has been months in the making, starting January 11th of this year. However, my 18-week training plan officially began the week of June 19th, and I completed just over 11 miles in 3 runs.

To prepare for the challenges past and upcoming, I had to move up the start of my training program. I completed the 3rd run of my first week while traveling to a conference in the Appalachians of the southwest corner of Pennsylvania. Lately, I have been battling the extreme heat and humidity by running earlier, skipping over scheduled short runs, or postponing them altogether. My total mileage thus far, 60 miles over 14 runs, is far below what I would have accomplished if I could stick to the plan, but guess what? Life intervened. However, my biggest training challenge is still yet to come. In a week's time, I and a billion of my brothers and sisters in faith will be welcoming the holy month of Ramadhan, where we are not allowed to eat nor drink from before sunrise to after sunset. I do not intend to slack off in my training. Rather, I will curtail my run distances to a maximum of 7-8 miles (60-70 minutes of continuous running) and do them at night, about 2 hours after I open my fast in order to avoid cramping. Yes, this will mark the return of 10:30-midnight runs, stored in my memories since I last participated in them with Michael and Peter around the NTU campus in Singapore 6 years ago.

These challenges can and will be a little trying, but a little toughness will strengthen my resolve, boost my endurance, and make me yearn for perseverance during what could be the hardest and most unique 26.2 miles of my life, shared with 45,000 fellow runners and 2 million spectators. The physical fine-tuning is well underway, but it will all be a waste if my mind doesn't arrive with my body at the starting line on Sunday, November 6th, 2011. I expanded my summer reading list beyond scientific articles just for this purpose, with tomes such as Toby Tanser's The Essential Guide to Running the New York City Marathon and Liz Robbin's A Race Like No Other populating my bookshelf, side table, and dresser. I've only just started reading other runners' accounts of their experiences before and during past NYC Marathons, and I cannot help but be psyched. I just have to keep this runner's high for a 104 more days and then let my endorphins take over for the final hours of this journey. Over the next 15 weeks, I will be logging and detailing my highs and lows in this incredible journey, and hopefully entertaining you. With that, I leave you with a particularly poignant quote from Liz Robbin's A Race Like No Other:

"Marathoners push themselves to the edge of insanity and exhaustion, because when they look back on those 26.2 miles, the view is profoundly satisfying. They see where they have been and what they have become."

Random Statistics

Number of runs: 14
Total distance: 59.63 miles
Total time: 525.15 minutes (8 hours 45 minutes)
Fastest average pace: 7 m 55 sec per mile (3.99 mile run)
Fastest average speed: 7.56 mph

Walk Like an Egyptian

Ana el Masry. "I am Egyptian."

For the past few months, I struggled to find the inspiration to post something new to my blog. I finally found it. People who know me know that I tend to be the most apolitical guy around and tend to take a logical approach to addressing and understanding world events. I have strong opinions about certain things, but I usually keep them contained unless I'm solicited for my two cents. After watching the events unfolding in Egypt over the last 3 weeks, I stand quiet no longer.

The protests in Egypt, popularly known as the 25th January Revolution or the Revolution of the Youth, strike at the very core of my humanity. They displayed human's yearning to be free - free of oppression, free of corruption, free of the circumstances that cause us to trudge along in the well-worn mold that we call our lives. It is very difficult to be impartial after observing these events.

I spent a few minutes nearly every day watching the live coverage on Al-Jazeera and BBC. The courage these men, women, and children displayed was truly amazing. They were steadfast despite being sprayed with water cannons and bullets, dodging rocks and Molotov cocktails, defending themselves with only their bodies and metal barricades. That they did not strike back with violence despite repeated provocations makes me respect them all the more. Mahatma Gandhi and Martin Luther King Jr. would be proud.

We live in very troubled times. Economical and political circumstances are dire. Our cultures, religions, and way of lives are under attack - from within and outside. What the Egyptians did and will continue to do can only give us hope that we can change, starting with ourselves and those around us. They are a fresh beacon that show we can and need to be better human beings, to stand firm in what we believe in, but also push for our basic rights.

Even for a relatively stoic person like me, I couldn't help but be moved by the videos below:

What I'm Thankful For...

Today is Thanksgiving. We consider it as a day to gorge on food, spend time with friends and family, and watch some football. But we often forget its true purpose - to reflect and acknowledge the bounties in life, however difficult it may seem.

I'm thankful that I'm able to go home to Buffalo for the 7th time this year, to share this time with my family. I'm thankful for my two wonderful parents who have sacrificed so much so that we kids could have a brighter future. I'm thankful for my brothers Adnaan and Nabeel, with whom every moment is enjoyable, no matter how annoying they can sometimes be. I'm thankful that Buffalo/Amherst is a place that I can call "home", no matter what outsiders may think of it. It truly is a city of Good Neighbors.

I'm thankful for my family, amazing friends, encouraging advisor and dissertation committee members, cool colleagues, and sympathetic strangers without whose love and support I would have never been able to get through and complete my Ph.D. I'm thankful that I have housemates and a landlady and landlord who respect my privacy and contributions, even though I wish we interacted more. Even though Long Island is a step up in madness from Buffalo, I'm thankful that it has provided a comfortable abode all these years and has considerate, if sometimes aloof and hurried, inhabitants.

This year's job search had been a frustrating one. However, I'm thankful for all the notices of rejection I received because they humbled me and told me that I'm not the most qualified candidate - there's always room for improvement. Because of my advisor's efforts, my near future is clearer.

When I'm running a particularly difficult race, when my focus and motivation to continue starts to waver, I'm thankful that I have two working legs that can carry me to the finish line.

While this year has been full of little and big joys, it will not leave without its shares of sorrows. My grand-uncle Nisar, affectionately referred to as Uncle or Bapa Joji, departed this world on February 9, followed by our dear Maa, my Nana, on September 6, just two days before my Ph.D. defense. I'm thankful that I had the opportunity to meet them both shortly before their passing. I will carry and cherish many wonderful moments I spent with them as long as my faculties don't fail me.

I'm thankful I'm me. I'm thankful to God for making this all possible.

Bust most of all, I'm thankful to you, dear reader, for making it this far.

Happy Thanksgiving!

My Forrest Gump Moment

As I sat in the waiting area at the Jamaica train station seven Sundays ago, surrounded by a staccato of patois-English, I reflected on the incredible events of the previous six days. I don't think I've ever experienced such a wide array of events in such a short span of time, accompanied by emotions ranging from profound sadness to pure joy. While I didn't share my life experiences with my neighbors as Forrest Gump did, I spent those endless minutes mentally separating out and appreciating each of the moments that had become blended together in the fast pace of life.

Monday began with the deepest sorrow I had felt in years. I logged into Facebook and read on one of my cousins' status that my beloved Nana, affectionately known as Maa (Mother) by many, my last surviving grandparent, had passed away. This sad news was confirmed a few minutes later with a phone call from my Dad. I was dazed. While Nana's passing was not sudden - "rather expected" as put by one of my uncles - it did hurt me at my very core. As I've learned to do after hearing of such news over the past years, I read Sura Ya Sin, a chapter from the Qur'an that reminds the people of their impending return to their Lord. Even though I had read the chapter countless times, this time it was the hardest ever. Every few verses, I could not help but choke up a sob and remember the happy moments I shared with my Nana. But somehow, I managed to finish the chapter. I was supposed to be preparing for my dissertation defense, which was to take place on Wednesday, but try as I might, I could simply not focus. Instead I turned to Facebook to chat with my brother and cousins to try soothe my troubled heart. recounted my trip to Tanzania in January, where we spent many treasured moments with Nana, and I told my brother Adnaan that I was glad that I joined him after initially planning to go after I defended my Ph.D. A couple hours after I initially got the news, I called my Mom. Our conversation was filled with more sobs and tears than words, especially unusual coming from me, but I think it was a necessary early part to our grieving. The rest of the day became more bearable and I did manage to go over my slides for Wednesday's presentation.

Tuesday dawned, and while I was still deeply saddened, I was more poised to tackle the day's sole challenge, and that was to be prepared for the Defense. After waking up and getting ready for lab, I presented (to myself) without my notes for the first time. Then I headed to lab and busied myself with some of the other tasks I had planned to work on the following week. Then I came back to my presentation and practiced one more time. I visited the scene of my upcoming showdown, the Bioengineering Conference Room, to ensure that all the necessary equipment was in place. And then I went home and tried to re-read my notes to make sure I was prepared for potential questions that might arise the next day.

I tried to sleep early, but it took me nearly an hour to fall asleep. I suddenly awoke at 2:30 a.m. and tossed and turned fitfully for about 2 hours before finally falling asleep. I finally got up again at 7 and got ready for the Defense. Most people who know me know that I don't like dressing up in dress shirts, pants, ties, and suits. But today was different. Today was the most important day in my graduate career, and probably the most important day in my 26 years and 363 days thus far. Today I was going to earn the signatures that opened the gate to the Ph.D. degree and allowed me to carry the humbling title of "Doctor". More anxious than anything, I spent the hours prior to the Defense browsing the internet aimlessly, reading the news, checking the weather, making my fantasy football picks, anything that wasn't even remotely related to my dissertation. With 1 hour remaining until showtime, several of my lab colleagues and I headed over to the Bioengineering building to set up the conference room. I made sure to arrange the coffee, juice, donuts, and sugar cookies in a way that wouldn't be distracting to me during the presentation. While I wasn't fasting that day, it was still the holy month of Ramadhan, and I was mentally in fasting mode. With the computer, projector, chairs, and food ready, I sat down and twiddled my fingers. The audience members and Dr. Jesty, the chair of the defense committee, started streaming in about 20 minutes before the presentation, and while I made casual conversation with them, the room started to fill up. At 1:28 p.m., the room was packed and it was literally standing room only, with 3 of the audience members hanging out by the door. At 1:29 p.m., Dr. Frame, the final committee member, made her way to the last remaining chair in the room. The clock struck 1:30 p.m. It was time for the Defense! After a brief introduction by Dr. Jesty, it was up to me to impress and prove to the audience that the research I had done was important and beneficial to science and the society at large. After an initial shaky start (due to my unfamiliarity with the handheld clicker and laser pointer and slight twinge of nervousness), my slides began flowing together smoothly, and exactly 40 minutes later, I was done! Not quite. The audience and I were booted out of conference room, where the committee convened to prepare their game plan to grill me. After a couple minutes of chit-chat with the last stragglers out of the room, I was left in solitude and sat outside the room. After 10 minutes, I was beckoned back in. The cross-examination was not as I feared. The committee members gently prodded me about the intricacies of some of my results and methods, and proposed several suggestions on how to improve my dissertation. Fifty-three minutes later, Dr. Jesty asked for my signature sheet, and all 4 committee members unanimously scrawled their John Hancocks on this now-all-important sheet of paper, unofficially agreeing to allow me to conclude my long but rewarding graduate school travails. The official commencement of the next chapter of my life would occur on December 22nd. I presented a small token of my appreciation (from Tanzania) to each of the committee members, prompting Dr. Frame to quip, "You're supposed to bribe us before your defense, not after!" Dr. Bahou responded, "The donuts and sugar cookies were pretty good though!" The members strolled -- no, rushed -- out to their next engagements, while I cleaned up the conference room, trying to entice whatever students walked by to grab whatever sugary delicacies that remained. I finally left the building at 4:00 p.m., and walked back to my lab on the East Campus, where my colleagues awaited to take me to John Harvard's for a nice small meal. I should have been jumping for joy, but I was still a bit subdued by the loss of my Nana just a couple days earlier. However, I slept well that night.

On Thursday, I woke up before the crack of dawn to catch the 6:30 a.m. morning rush hour train towards the city -- for my 10:30 flight to Buffalo. My attempted nap was fitful, as I was often interrupted by the loud snores of a well-dressed executive across the aisle from me. My two-hour wait at the airport and subsequent 1 hour flight was quite uneventful and boring, and I arrived on time for the first time in many trips across the state. After a short stay at home, I went with Mom to Buffalo Hearing and Speech to pick up new hearing aids to replace my museum pieces. After a quiet dinner at home, we were joined by Adnaan, who had driven up from Philadelphia. We all went to bed early.

Friday was an eventful day, both in terms of significance and activity. It was Eid-ul-Fitr, marking the end of the holy month of Ramadhan. It was also my 27th birthday and the 14th anniversary of the passing of my Dadima, my paternal grandmother. Looking back, I think of it as an honor that the peak of my academic career was bookended by the departures of two of the most important people in my life. We all woke up early, showered, and dressed very nicely and drove the two hours to Brampton in Canada to participate in Eid congregational prayers. Now I think some family members paid off the Imam, himself a distant relative of mine, since he mentioned that young people these days put off marriage until later because, "Mom and Dad, I can't afford to marry yet. I need to get a job first and become independent." While he said it in general, I think it was directed at me. I whispered to myself, "Okay, I surrender. No more excuses." And then repeated it one more time aloud to the Imam himself after the prayers. We briefly met some of our family members and then drove across town to the northern suburbs of Toronto to visit and condole two of Nana's sisters. Finally, we ended the long day at Aunty Amina's house, where we enjoyed a peaceful dinner and post- food coma conversation with my Uncle, Aunt, and cousins Javed and Nuzhat. We three brothers played Monopoly to a draw and went to sleep at 1 a.m.

On Saturday morning, Aunty Amina and Javed made us a nice breakfast of omelette and (real!) French toast, after which we went to Uncle Mehdi's house for a small program to celebrate Eid and reminisce about the good ol' days and remember departed elders of the family. After the sumptuous umpteen-course meal of biryani, kachori, samosa, and Nestle chocolates, Aunty Zainab surprised cousin-in-law Nishaat and me with a September birthday cake. I was truly pleasantly surprised, as I thought no one would remember my birthday. After a group photo consisting of 30+ people and as many retakes, we finally departed for home sweet home. Not being able to eat anymore despite it being dinnertime, Nabeel and I resorted to playing knee hockey in the basement, after which the aforementioned knees were baby smooth and hairless for the first time in years. Oh yeah, the carpet burn was painful too. Then Adnaan, Nabeel, and I played Monopoly yet again, but this time we played to a draw, at 1 a.m., because we were keeping Mom and Dad awake.

Sunday dawned and Adnaan left early, eager to return to Philadelphia and recommence his endless studying. I departed for the airport a few hours later. While my flight was only slightly delayed, the luggage in New York took a while to come out, and I ended up missing the 4:20 p.m. train back to Stony Brook and had to settle for the 5:50 train and a cool seat on the platform at Jamaica station.

While bobbing along to the last few strains of sing-song patois, my ears suddenly perked up to the mixed Noo Yawk-Caribbean voice that boomed over the speakers, "Tha Five Fiftee traaainn to Hantingtan stayshun is now approachin'....oll aaabooard!" I tipped my head to patois-chattering ladies and boarded my ride home.

Jambo Tanzania - Part Three: Zanzibar!

The next two days in Dar-es-Salaam were a whirlwind. We spent quite a bit of time with Maa, showing her pictures of our trip so far and and some of the videos I had taken just before we left New York. She was awed especially by the amount of baraf (snow) that had fallen just a week before and complained that she felt cold, even though it was in the 80s outside and very humid. We visited Uncle Husein in the pharmacy that he worked in, then headed off to town. We really wanted to visit Bha Kasoo, our grandmother's brother, and at 100 in Islamic years (97 on the Julian calendar), the oldest member of the community. We visited Jess Opticals, where we met Iblo, our cousin, who offered to walk us to Bha Kasoo's flat about 3 blocks away.

Bha Kasoo was the same as we remembered him, tall and distinguished-looking. He couldn't see very well nor walk around like he used to, but he recognized us right away. He was many things, but senile was definitely not one of them. And his apartment was still neatly organized, but quieter than I remembered it last. He had outlived both his first and second wives (in succession) and his beloved parrot, Kasookoo, who I fed red chillies when he was still alive. After the usual introductory banter ("How are your mother and father? What are you studying? How long will you be in town?"), Adnaan and I asked him his secret to longevity. He mentioned three things. First, he said that for as long as he could, he walked every day and only took a car when long distances were involved. Second, his bloodline. While his and our grandmother's father was a member of the local Khoja community, their mother was a full-blooded Persian, who are well-known for their life spans. And lastly, he thanked God for allowing him to experience so much. The theme of inshaAllah (or "if God wills it") is ubiquitous among the community, and something I have come to appreciate. He also realized time was slowly slipping away, with his eyesight failing and his limited mobility. We bade him Khuda Hafiz and left him sitting his chair, cane by his side, light filtering through the billowing curtains toward his nearly sightless eyes, tended to by the mamas, but still having the resolve to persevere until it was his time.

Adnaan and I then went to the mosque for afternoon prayers, met a few more of our relatives who we had not seen the previous week, including Uncle Yasir, our youngest uncle at age 23. We caught a ride back with Uncle Baker and Suleimani, had lunch with Maa and then attempted to take an afternoon nap. I say attempted because I usually can't sleep for only a couple hours, and the humidity was really making things difficult for me. In the early evening, Adnaan went with Ammaar and Uncle Husein to the cemetery and mosque, while I went for a jog with Alijawad and Yasir. They were a jovial bunch, making fun of people while attempting to teach me Gujrati words. We walked past several landmarks, including the Movenpick Hotel, the Botanical Gardens, the State House, and the Fish Market. After the Gymkhana Swimming Club, we broke into a jog, passing the formerly littered Banda Beach on the right and Ocean Road to our left. As we approached Aga Khan Hospital, Yasir and I broke into a sprint, drawing stares from hawkers and dawdlers on the beach. Thus concluded my lone run for the month.

The next day, Uncle Zaffar, Adnaan and I bought our tickets on Sea Express II at the Port for our trip to Zanzibar, dodging brash touts and staring down potential pickpocketers. We rewarded ourselves with a bowl of mix and some kababs at Al Qaim. Later that afternoon, we spent some time with Uncle Minhaal, playing Wii golf and tennis. We went to bed early for our 7 a.m. departure to Zanzibar the next morning.

The two-hour journey to Zanzibar was uneventful, save for the selection of entertainment shown on the big screen in the cabin: "Rambo" and WWE Wrestling. There wasn't much to see outside, except for the two or three fishing boats we passed, so I entertained myself by watching the people on the boat. The locals were enjoying themselves watching the action on T.V., mimicking the moves of the wrestlers, while the mostly European tourists were laughing at the ridiculousness of the situation. I went out for a little bit to get a breath of the salty sea breeze.

At long last the whitewashed and red- and tin-roofed skyline of the Zanzibar Stone Town pulled into view. The passengers scrambled for space on the stern; frequent riders itching to get off the boat and tourists angling for the best picture opportunity. After clearing customs and immigration (I daresay more civil than at the airport), we headed for the Shangani neighborhood, at the western edge of the town to look for a hotel to stay in. Zanzibar was in the midst of a two-month power outage and happened to be in the hottest part of summer too. After inquiring around whether there were lodgings powered by generators at night, we settled on Jambo Inn. We were apprehensive about the cost, but luckily Uncle Zaffar managed to secure a discount. We went down a hallway lined with doors intricately carved with various patterns and flora, in the traditional Zanzibari style to our room at the far end. It was huge, H-U-G-E! It was a former conference room converted into a bedroom with three 4-poster beds draped with mosquito nets, six ceiling fans, a flat screen TV, comfortable couches, and even came with our very own balcony overlooking the mangrove tree-lined beach and the deep blue Zanzibar Channel beyond. Of course, one of the first things we did was lie on the deck chairs outside and bask in the morning sun, letting the gentle breeze waft over us. Then we set out to explore the town.

Walking through the narrow, winding cobblestoned-lined alleys of the Stone Town, I get the strong sense that history happened here. These thoughts are no doubt fueled by my textbook readings, hearing the childhood stories of my parents, aunts, and uncles, and simply observing the two- and three-storied dwellings rising into the sky, windows lined with iron railings and wooden shutters of a bygone era. Then we are jerked back to modern-day reality by clanging bicycle bells and honking madmen zipping down the crowded alleyways on scooters.

Meandering through the little tributaries feeding into pedestrian arteries such as Soko Muhogo and Pipalwadi, we encouter men dressed in traditional sparkling white kanzus and embroidered kofias plying their wares or whiling away the hours before the Friday prayers. Even though it was only 10 a.m., our stomachs were growling, so we stopped by the nearest mix store we could find. Uncle Zaffar asked the women inside dressed in bui-buis for three bowls of mix, filled to the brim with potatoes and bhajias and topped with dollops of chutney. While finally pacifying our crying bellies, we watched some youngsters and oldsters listening to the highlights of the previous day's football ("soccer") matches while some schoolkids hopscotched their way home. Satiated, we strolled to the market, where we had some coconut juice and meat, purchased some vanilla sticks for Mom, and bought a spiky durian, the smelliest fruit known to man. We walked to Bustani, a family-owned oasis in the middle of an every-changing landscape. By this time, I was feeling uncomfortable and had to use the facilities pronto. Uncle Zaffar rushed to the office block next door to get the keys from Uncle Abdul, while I shifted around nervously, watching the metalworkers next to Bustani welding some pipes together. At last, Uncle Zaffar came back, and I flew through the wooden gates of Bustani, zoomed by the old faded tombstones, up the steep steps and into the house, startling the maid. Relief at last! Settling onto the loo, I looked around and noticed that the bucket of water had a minimal amount of water. The flush looked like it wouldn't work. Worst of all, there was no toilet paper on the roll. Damn! Turning on the faucet at the sink, I saw a little bit of water trickle out and then...nothing. Somehow, I managed to clean myself and wash up, but Uncle Abdul would not be happy to see the little gift I left for him when he got home.

With a sheepish grin crawling across my face, I went outside. Adnaan and Uncle Zaffar were trying to break open the durian by stepping on it with their sandals. After a successful attempt, they proceeded to eat the contents. After a few pieces, Adnaan started to gag, but managed to hold his stomach. We briefly met Uncle Abdul and then proceeded to the Nei Masjid for Friday Prayers. The elaborately carved internal prayer hall was about a century old, but it was obvious that globalization had dwindled its congregants, as they headed for greener pastures on the mainland and overseas. Adnaan and I quickly wrapped lungis over our shorts, performed ablutions, and joined the barely two rows of congregants to listen to the sermon (in Swahili), followed by prayers (in Arabic). Getting permission and keys from the caretaker, we climbed several flights of steep, narrow stairs to the top to get a glimpse of the Stone Town from above. It was quite a sight: red and tin roofs covering whitewashed buildings, alleyways shaded from the burning sun by overhanging banyan trees, the imposing Beit el Ajaib (House of Wonders - think the Courthouse in "Back to the Future"), the chipping plaster of the Hammamni Baths, the drab-looking government apartment buildings lining Karume Road, container ships and passenger ferries crowding the port, mothers accompanying frolicking children home, woodworkers sawing away in the courtyard of a house with no roof, European tourists taking pictures in a doorway, and kids kicking a football around on their impromptu cobblestone-lined pitch. Finally, it was time to go and we warily made our way to terra firma.

We stopped at Bakhresa and partook in some really sticky almond halwa and complimentary strong black kahawa, fed by Uncle Zaffar's hand like a robin feeds her hungry chicks. Being Friday, one of the employees stood at the door and gave free halwa to schoolchildren heading home. Stepping out, we saw Maasai men in traditional outfits, one with a pair of sunglasses perched atop his braided locks. Globalization, eh? By this time, we were feeling the effects of the sun and waking up early, so we headed back to the Jambo Inn to lay out on the balcony. Shortly after, Ammar arrived, having taken the afternoon boat since he had classes in the morning. We swam in the pool downstairs, where Adnaan glided through the water straight into the wall at the far side, breaking his nose. Holding a towel to his nose, he went back to the room, and we joined him shortly thereafter, briefly waking Uncle Zaffar from his deep afternoon slumber.

In the late afternoon, we met Uncle Abdul at the recently renovated Forodhani Gardens on the waterfront, in the shadow of Beit el Ajaib and flanked by the Omani Fort on one side and the Palace Museum on the other. We watched the food vendors setting up, ate Mohammed's mix, cheered on kids diving from the balustrade into the water, and admired the older youth displaying their capoeira and acrobatic skills.

Then, at the appointed hour, tourists and natives came to a standstill and pointed their eyes west and watched the sun disappear below the horizon. Then the electric streetlights, kerosene lanterns, and barbecue grills came alive and the pungent smell of freshly cooked delights wafted over Forodhani Gardens. The stars came out of the spire of the House of Wonders and we gobbled up skewers of cubed chicken, mutton, and greasy french fries, topped off by chocolate and pineaple "pizza" from Zanzibar Pizza, all washed down with sugar cane juice. Then Uncle Abdul treated us to some delectable gelato at an ice cream store on the waterfront in Shangani, and then it was time to go to sleep.

The next day, after enjoying a light but delicious continental breakfast while chasing bees from the plate of jam, we went on a walking tour of the Stone Town. We bought some t-shirts near the Jambo Inn, looked up at the spires of the Old Roman Catholic Church, hunted around for doors with the rare animal carvings (we found 2 of the 3 that Uncle Abdul mentioned to us), admired bright khangas proclaiming "Hongera Obama" ("Congratulations Obama"), dodged two-wheeled and two-legged traffic, took a "tour" of the Hammamni Baths with its echos of its steam-filled past for 2 dollars, heard the sing-song chorus of pupils to the Saturday school teacher's Quranic instructions, took pictures of three boys in kanzus and kofias on a couch, depsite their protests: "No, no, NO!" "Yes, yes, YES," retorted the lady walking behind us. We quickly visited Aunty Zehra in the confusing maze of Darajani before visiting the fish market. We admired the intricate decorations on the facade of the Aga Khan Jamat Khanna. Plodding to the Big Tree (Mtini) on Mizingani Road, we were exhausted. We stretched out of legs on the nearest concrete baraza, looking at the motorboat owners resting under the branchs of the enormous banyan tree, waiting for their next fare to Changuu Island. Gathering our strength and wits, we got up, walked by the Old Dispensary on our way to Malawi Road, briefly visiting the now-defunct fountain erected in the 1930s by our ancestor Hussein Sheriff Dewji before sitting down to eat some kababs and samosas. Then it was time to catch our boat to Dar-es-salaam.

Filling out the embarkation forms at the immigration was the last bit of sanity we enjoyed before rushing headlong into the madness of gridlocked traffic jamming a single ramp to board three big passenger ferries. "This is ridiculous," exclaimed a flustered German tourist, blocking a pushy man from cutting in front of her. Eventually, we made it on the boat after suffering the trials and tribulations of getting on another ramp. At last, we found our seats, and the boat pushed off its moorings. We were home free!

Not so fast. We still had to endure two hours of the exact same Rambo movie and WWE show that we suffered through on our trip to Zanzibar...

Up Next - Part 4: The final days in Dar-es-Salaam.

Click here to see some of my pictures from Tanzania: http://travel.webshots.com/album/576647760xxpRyj

Jambo Tanzania - Part Two: Arusha!

Six a.m. on New Year’s Day 2010 found us at the deserted Kisutu branch of the Kilimanjaro Express (“KLM Express”) bus company. However, the bus was already there waiting for passengers, and that always is good news. At 6:15 a.m. sharp, we bid adieu to Uncle Zaffar and boarded the bus for a short hop over to the Ubungo Bus Terminal, where we were scheduled to pick up the majority of customers.

The fun at Ubungo only began after the fully-loaded bus embarked on the long road journey to Arusha. Since the exit to the front of our coach appeared congested, the driver decided to reverse his vehicle to the central road cutting across the terminal. The next 30 minutes was an agonizing journey through parking lot hell, with the assortment of coaches, city buses and dala dalas (minibuses) attempting to make a mad dash towards the singular exit out of Ubungo, only to realize that they had to cut into the sluggish queue of buses whose drivers were not willing to make any concessions. It was akin to a really viscous liquid trying to squeeze through a funnel with a narrow stem. A cacophony of honking sounds and irate muttering bus drivers, and near misses ensued. It turned out that a dilapidated dala dala had decided to quit on the other artery, leading to this mess. Eventually, we exited onto Morogoro Road, picked up a couple of additional passengers on the outskirts of Dar-es-Salaam, and were on our way to the northern Tanzanian town of Arusha.

The journey was quite uneventful, with the scenery outside changing from palm-tree lined fields to centuries-old baobab trees firmly entrenched in the red mud to steep escarpments rising out of the sisal plantations. The multi-storied concrete buildings gave way to the mud- and clay-enclosures topped with tin and thatched roofs. We passed through villages where residents were taking their noon-time siestas under the shade of the largest baobab tree in town. The increase in elevation was also noticeable, with the heat and humidity melting away to just heat alternating with cool breezes through our non-airconditioned bus. Adnaan and I were willing to forgo this luxury to save a few bucks. Along the way, there were several references to Barack Obama, including a painting on the back of the bus proclaiming “Barack Obama, 44th President of the United States”, with the White House in the background. About halfway through the journey, we stopped at the new bus terminal at Korogwe, a huge improvement over the previous terminal I had passed through 5 years earlier. The cafeterias and bus parking areas were more organized, and there were even regular announcements warning passengers when their buses were about to depart. I was impressed. After 20 minutes, our journey recommenced. Around 3:30 p.m., we reached Moshi, the departure point of the majority of the Mt. Kilimanjaro-bound trekkers. I had hoped to catch a glimpse of Mt. Kilimanjaro, but it was enshrouded by a thick layer of clouds. Fifteen minutes later we were on the move again, reaching central Arusha at about 5:30 p.m.

Djamil Chacha and our cousin Faisal picked us up and took us to the Sheriff compound on Goliondoi Street, close to Tourist Central (i.e. the restaurants, cafes, and curio stores and markets frequented by non-Tanzanian visitors). After freshening up, we headed to the mosque to say our evening prayers and to meet with other members of our extended family. That night we enjoyed a sumptuous meal prepared by Farha Chachi. Even Insiyya, who we hadn’t seen in 7 years, was there. We talked about what had transpired in the last 5 years since we last were here, and I tried my broken Gujrati. Needless to say, it needs improvement. We then turned in for the night. I was pleasantly surprised that I needed a blanket to keep myself warm at night, a situation opposite to the one experienced in Dar-es-Salaam, where I had to strip down to my shorts to make sleep bearable.

The next day was an educational one. We had arranged to get a personal tour of the Shia Ithnaasheri Dispensary and Hospital so we could get a feel for how the greater Tanzanian community was served in the public health sector. I received a crash course in the Tanzanian public health system. At the top were government-run hospitals, such as the Mt. Meru Hospital in Arusha. Next were private, charitable hospitals which provided inpatient services. Next on down were the dispensaries, who provided primarily outpatient and pharmacy services. At the bottom tier were the local clinics which provided basic healthcare and medication.

At the Shia Ithnaasheri Dispensary, the director, Dr. Mohammed Alwani, met us and gave us a brief overview of the daily operations of the Dispensary. He told us that most of the equipment and medication was either purchased out of pocket, despite the dispensary being a charitable organization, or donated by European or American benefactors. He then paired us with Head Nurse Rose, and she took us on a tour of the facilities. We got to see the medical records department, filled with tons of files and folders, and Rose told us about their innovative organizational system. We were then taken to the dispensary, where patients picked up their medication, and then the pharmacy, where we met Simba (“Lion”), nicknamed because of his tall muscular frame and his fondness for working with orphaned wild animals. He showed us a video he had made where he was feeding and training a wild leopard. He hoped to get a contract with Discovery Channel and set up his own nature preserve in Kenya. We then saw the injection room (for insulin shots), the physical therapy room (where a patient was receiving treatment for scoliosis), the ENT room (where a doctor was consulting a mother on her child’s ear pain), and the lab, where the technicians were centrifuging some blood samples and observing them under a microscope. I explained to them how I also work with blood but in a totally different way, and they understood.

We then went upstairs to see the remaining facilities. At the base of the stairs was an incinerator to burn medical waste and behind the back wall of the dispensary was a cemetery, where several of my relatives are buried. How convenient! We met my uncle, Dr. Mohammed, who’s an ultrasound specialist. He described to us how difficult to procure updated machines, necessitating the need to learn how to fix them himself and keep them going beyond their effective life span. We also visited the accountant for the dispensary, who told us about the dearth of speech pathologists, and that he had to look for therapy for his daughter abroad, but didn’t quite see improvements in her speech. We thanked Rose and Dr. Alwani for their time and opening our eyes to a microcosm of health care in Tanzania.

Djamil Chacha then took us to the Shia Ithnaasheri Hosspital. We met Sadiq Chagani, the director of the hospital, who briefly described the operations of the hospital, including the fact that several specialists visit once a week from KCMC, in Moshi, to perform surgical procedures on the hospital’s patient. He then asked the chief anesthesiologist to give us a tour of the surgical facilities. He pointed out that some of the imaging equipment was donated, most recently the CT machine, by a German couple. The anesthesiologist, whose name escapes me, asked us to remove our shoes and wear rubber slippers placed inside the surgical prep facility, which was a narrow room with a small shower stall and a large metal sink with several bars of antibacterial soap. Then we went inside the surgical theater, filled with several pieces of equipment surrounding a foot-pedal operated bed. I observed that the anesthetic-dispensing machine, ventilator, heart-lung machine, and blood transfusion equipment was a far cry from the equipment we take for granted in American hospitals. I don’t even think I saw a crash cart or an automated external defibrillator. Sadiq then took us around the various wings of the hospital and the lab, where I had a chat with the technician about how he prepared his samples. On our way out, we passed the mammography unit, which was also broken. Sadiq explained that the processing board had fried and he was still waiting for the replacement part to arrive. It was extremely disheartening to see old and failing equipment, especially for a Westerner like me, but at the same time, the patients generally seemed more upbeat and appreciative about the fact they were receiving any care at all. A poignant example was when an elderly man shook Sadiq’s hand and thanked him for orthopedic consultation services rendered by the hospital even though he had waited in a long line to see the specialist.

Outside, Adnaan turned to me and said, “Do you notice what’s wrong?” It took me a while to figure out that the ambulance was hemmed in by other cars, so if there was a call to the hospital, the ambulance driver would have to find the other drivers to move their cars, wasting valuable time. Adnaan then went inside the ambulance and pointed out that the simple stretcher and oxygen unit inside was a far cry from the fancy gadgets he used as a member of the Stony Brook Volunteer Ambulance Corps. This concluded our tour and we thanked Sadiq and were on our way. The visit to the Dispensary and Hospital was eye-opening, and the doctors, nurses, and staff were doing more with less and quite resourceful. And, most importantly, the patients showed their gratitude for receiving care when the alternative would be pain and possibly premature death. I think we could all learn from this.

In the afternoon, we went to Mountain Lodge at Lake Duluti with Djamil Chacha to take in the peace and serenity, and of course enjoy the delicious buffet. When I was 7 (and Adnaan 3), my parents and us kids had come here to stay a couple nights. It was also the first and last time I had ridden on a horse. From all this traveling back and forth on the main highway into Arusha, I noticed the distinct difference in the slogans on the back of the buses. No longer were the proclamations hopeful or seeking divine intervention, like in Dar-es-Salaam. Instead, they were full of confidence, optimism, and a bit of brashness. For example, one of the minibuses had “Ruff Ryders” written on the back.

For dinner, we went to Mohammed Chacha and Azra Chachi’s house on the other side of town. The neighborhood was suffering a power outage at the time, but when we arrived the lights came back on, and we were henceforth dubbed the Noor (“Light”) Brothers by our cousins Jehangir and Mubashir. We even got to meet 4-year old Sajida, precocious and assertive, as we got to experience when all of us had to suffer through half an hour of nursery rhymes. Poor Mohammed Chacha.

The following day, we went for an afternoon hill climb with Uncle Muslim and Faisal. However, as we were about set out, a torrential downpour ensued. Stranded under the “Sheriff” sign outside the Sheriff Dewji & Sons offices, we waited out the storm. A concerned Djamil Chacha asked us to reconsider our trek, but the eternally optimistic Uncle Muslim reasoned with him and convinced him we were in good hands and the weather would improve. After eating a few “pipis” (hard candy) and watching the sheets of rain trickle to a drizzle, we set up Goliondoi Road and through the Eastern part of town towards Kijenge. On the main road out of town, we were accosted by hawkers trying to sell headphones and bracelets, to which I responded “hapana, hapana" (“no, no”). On our way, we passed a Stop and Shop convenience store which made me laugh, as the one I am used to is a large supermarket chain in Long Island. We crossed over a rickety wooden bridge with intermittent railing and a few planks missing. Getting a grip was difficult as our sneakers were already caked with mud. We slogged through the muddy alleys of Kijenge, trying to avoid the trash floating in the rivulets and streams passing underfoot. As the tin roofs of the town disappeared below us and the canopy of lush green, rain-streaked leaves rose above us, we though the worst was behind us. Not so fast! We got lost several times trying to search for the main trail up the hill. After backtracking quite a bit, we found a wide muddy path that clambered up the slippery slope. Our travails were momentarily forgotten as we saw Arusha spread out below us, and the clouds parted briefly so we could see Mt. Kilimanjaro’s sister peak, Mt. Meru. It was quite a sight. What was most surprising was that the final hundred yards to the clearing we sought was paved with bricks and a gazebo stood just below the top. The bitter irony was that the whole climb we were seeking respite from the relentless rain, but the rain had stopped when we reached the gazebo. We rested a bit, taking pictures, drinking sherbet, and eating crisps. Then we headed down, slipping, sliding, and falling all over the place. If I had a glimmer of hope of preserving the mudlessness of my clothes, it all vanished during the last fall, as my jacket, shirt and pants were all streaked with wide swaths of mud. Eventually, we reached the main road back to town, where a very worried Djamil Chacha spotted us and gave us a ride back home. And he had every right to be worried, as the road is frequented by bandits who prey on unsuspecting tourists at night. Later, we were rewarded with succulent barbeque, including Adnaan’s favorite, nundu (fat from the back of the cow and a heart attack waiting to happen). All the while, we were making fun of this fat kid a couple tables away who had a peculiar eating style and sat cross-legged on his chair.

The next day was a relatively easy day, as we paid a visit to the curio market nearby and bought a few souvenirs. We roamed the offices and met our uncles and cousins we had missed the previous few days. I also got a few bags of ground coffee beans for myself, even though I don’t regularly drink coffee, just because they smell so good! Adnaan and I visited Phui Fatma, one of our grand-aunts, who emphasized the changing face of Arusha from a sleepy northern town to a bustling, noisy, and dusty hub of tourists, farmers, Maasai, and opportunists.

“Before, I could sleep peacefully at night, even though our apartment is next to the main road. Now, you can hear all the ao-jao (coming and goings) and people laughing and talking. It’s really annoying, but what can you do.”

We met with Uncle Akil at his optometry clinic and ate pizza and burgers at McMoody’s. In the afternoon, we went with Uncle Gulamabbas to visit some lodges. On the way there, we passed by some factories and warehouses operated by Sheriff Dewji & Sons, but half of which were now rented out to others, as the younger individuals in the family move away and take up jobs in the health care and engineering sectors. At Karama Lodge, we observed some of the wildlife at the base of the cabins, placed on stilts above the sloping hill, including a naughty vervet monkey and its children. I was happy to finally get a good view of Mt. Meru and in the distance, Mt. Kilimanjaro. We then went to Coffee Lodge, passing an “Obama Bar”. Uncle Gulamabbas remarked that references to Obama were a common sight since his election, and several establishments had renamed themselves as a result of his win. While at Coffee Lodge, we had some freshly brewed coffee. Although I’m not a coffee drinker, those few cups of coffee are the some of the best I’ve ever had. We drove back to Mohammed Chacha’s place for dinner. Unfortunately, our Noor Brothers magic had rubbed off, and we ate dinner by lantern-light. The lights briefly flickered back on just prior to our departure, and then went off, announcing that it was time to go.

Later that night, we went with Uncle Hameed to the pediatric burns and malnutrition units at Mt. Meru Hospital. While some of the inuries were horrific and the children were definitely in pain, the smile that Uncle Hameed brought to their faces by giving them composition books and pencils was just otherworldly. One of the children was quite the artist too! One of the images seared into my mind from that night was a severely malnourished and orphaned (or abandoned) Maasai boy who had been found on the border between Tanzania and Kenya. His regularly shaped head rested on a neck half the size of my wrist. His body was tiny and his abdomen misshapen. The lady who took care of him showed us the scars on his belly from where a witch doctor had squirted traditional medicine to drive his demons away. But the most poignant memories for me come from the premature ward, where babies are lined up by 3 and 4 and placed in several cribs in a room with wall-mounted heaters. The babies for the most part are normal except for the fact they are tiny. One of the babies was isolated from the rest and placed under a UV light and face covered because she had jaundice. My dreams that night were vivid, but I woke up with a smile on my face because I knew there were honorable individuals like Uncle Hameed taking care of these kids.

Early the next morning, we went for prayers at the mosque, and then departed for the 6 a.m. bus to Dar-es-Salaam. The return journey was great for the first half. It was thrilling to be sitting behind the driver and flinching every time we passed another vehicle or approached oncoming traffic, moving deftly back into our lane with just inches to spare. The fact that the curtains were flapping in the wind made it all the more wild. Just before our bus turned south on the road between Himo and Chalinze, we passed through a weighing station and market that gave us stunning views of Mt. Kilimanjaro, the tallest peak in Africa. I still can’t believe I stood on its summit 7 years ago. As we went further south, the elevation decreased, and the heat and humidity came rushing back. Then we reached Chalinze, and chaos broke out. Only one of the two weighing stations was operational, and traffic moving in all four directions made a beeline for the station. Seizing the opportunity, the bus driver reversed onto the scales, only to be chased out and told to get back in the line. While we were waiting, local vendors plied us with their woodwork, assortment of nuts, and lots and lots of pineapples, since ananasi season was in full bloom. After we departed the weighing station, we were on the final 90 minute leg, and the most exhausting part of the trip. On top of the permeating heat and humidity, my knees were killing me, as I couldn’t move my legs, due to the metal barrier in front of our seats. Never again am I sitting in the front of the bus. Of course, Adnaan slept through it all. Even the bus attendant was sleeping in the space behind the driver, only waking up about 20 minutes from Dar-es-Salaam.

Finally we pulled into the Ubungo bus terminal and disembarked. We were back!

Up Next: Part 3 - Zanzibar

Click here for pictures from my trip: http://travel.webshots.com/album/576647760xxpRyj

Jambo Tanzania! - Part One

“Where is your yellow fever vaccination card?”

After a 28-hour journey in planes, trains, and automobiles, mixed in with a few hours of waiting in lines and lazing around at airports, I was physically and mentally drained. Mix that in with not being able to sleep in the nearly upright economy class seats and you get a cranky person.

“You need a vaccination card to enter Tanzania,” the immigration officer at Dar-es-Salaam International Airport emphasized to my brother and me. After being advised by my family and the Tanzanian consulate in New York that I needed no such thing, I had had just about enough.

“I already have an approved visa from the consulate in the United States and they already cleared me (for yellow fever),” I replied through gritted teeth.

The officer arched his eyebrows and waved us to the immigration line. One hurdle down, two to go. Of course, this next step wasn’t smooth either. Just as we got to the front of the line, we were told that the computer wasn’t working, and so we had to merge with the adjacent line. I glared at the kid inching towards the counter, and he backed off just a bit to let my brother and me through. A couple of stamps and a “Karibu” (“Welcome”), we rushed to the baggage carousel. Half an hour later, after some pushing and shoving through the burgeoning crowds, we proceeded to the customs counter, where the officers there sized us up and asked us to open our suitcases. Pointing to some feminine toiletry items in our largest suitcase, the officer asked us how much they were. I made up a number, since I hadn’t bought them. He asked for a receipt, and I replied it was back in the United States. Last hurdle down, and we were through.

After a brief search, we found our cousin Ammar and Uncle Baker’s driver Suleimani in the crowd. As we climbed into the car and exited the airport, I noticed the heat and humidity. Here we were, half a world away, and had transitioned from a temperature of 25°F (-4°C) the morning of our departure to 90°F (32°C) two days later. The next thing I noticed was the names on the public minibuses, the dala dalas, such as “Inshallah” (“God willing”), “Alhamdullilah (“Thanks to God”), and the ubiquitous “In God We Trust”. Quite apt for the driving styles we observed along the road.

There were two things that were the most striking to me. The first I had grown up observing and was still there every time I visited: beggars. I would be lying if I said that didn’t bother me. My heart broke every time I saw one, especially the blind, the young, and the disabled. I think Suleimani’s example was best. At a couple stops, he rolled down his window, gave a few coins indiscriminately, and drove on. The second thing I noticed was the changing face of the city. There were skyscrapers everywhere. When I grew up in Dar-es-Salaam, there were maybe 2 or three buildings above 6 stories. Now, there were probably a couple dozen, and many more were under construction. Dar-es-Salaam was quickly becoming more cosmopolitan and even more congested.

Even Alykhan Road, off which my family used to live and my relatives still live, was fully paved. No more “craters” and “swimming pools” which we had to artfully navigate around.

The first thing we did after we freshened up was to visit our beloved Nana, whom we had not seen in almost 5 years. She was on bed rest, but was delighted to see us. Oh, you should have seen the twinkle in her eyes! We spent maybe 15 minutes talking to her, but a lot was communicated through unspoken means. The wrinkles uncreasing on her dear face showed a burst of rejuvenation. When it was time to go, I felt sad but knew that to truly savor every moment with Nana, it was better to enjoy a trickle of quality time rather than overwhelm her with a flood of experiences.

The next day and a half was a blur. Barbecued chicken and chips with my uncles and cousins. Paying my respects to my grandparents and aunt at the cemetery. Enjoying some mix (potatoes, fritters, beans and chutney in a thick soup) at Al Qaim. Prayers at the mosque. Coconut juice from a street vendor.

Late the second night, we went to observe a lunar eclipse from the rooftop terrace of Zahraa Towers in the city center. Following a brief presentation by the Astronomy Club, we took our positions on the terrace, taking out our binoculars, cameras, camcorders, and iPhones. While I didn’t get to try out the fancy telescopes, I quite enjoyed the spectacle, and more so, the view of the changing nighttime skyline of Dar-es-Salaam, a scene that I had never observed from high up in my eight years of residence there. Following the eclipse, we had a small literary discussion over hot chai (tea) and marble cake. We then bid adieu and went home.

The next morning, we woke up at 5 a.m. and headed to town for a 6 a.m. departure to Arusha.

Up Next: Part Two – Arusha

Click here for pictures from my trip: http://travel.webshots.com/album/576647760xxpRyj