Wake up and smell the...rice

Running has been a major feature of this summer for us. We returned from our trip to South America after seven weeks on the road feeling a little flabby as a result of an awful lot of buffet hotel breakfasts, three course meals and local beverages. To give myself a target to aim for whilst getting into shape I've entered the Valencia Half Marathon, which is to take place on 23rd October.

But it's hot here, very hot, which makes running during the day hard work. Our plan has been to get up early and hope for some cloud. We occasionally get lucky but most of the time our 8am runs are in bright sunshine. Monte Pego is very hilly and our house is around 200m above sea level so in order to make the run more pleasant we drive down to the entrance of the urbanisation and start from there on the flat.

While Su heads up and down the cycle path that leads towards Pego, my routes venture into La Marjal, the beautiful local wetlands. At this time of year the short-grain bomba rice that is the staple of this region's most famous culinary creation, paella, is almost ready to harvest and the smell is amazing. It's like being in a kitchen when rice is being boiled (and as hot because of the humidity down there). The Moors started growing rice here hundreds of years ago, creating a system of channels to use the water provided naturally in the area to irrigate the rice fields in the centre of La Marjal. The farmers use pumps and sluice gates to drain and flood the fields at different times of year and the water level is also affected by the spring and autumn rains and the rivers that come from the mountains.

The area is naturally marshy having originally been a horseshoe shaped bay surrounded on three sides by mountains until a sandbar formed, creating a lagoon and later the marsh. These days the area nearest to Pego is cultivated for fruit and vegetables, especially oranges, while the wilder area nearer the sea is in a more natural state. The rice fields are between the two and various paths criss-cross the whole area. In winter my runs are lonely affairs but at this time of year, while still very quiet, I do come across other beings. There are two herds of animals that graze on La Marjal in summer, one of which is the motley crew of sheep and goats that pass our house on the other side of the valley during the rest of the year. The second flock is a less friendly bunch of brown woolly sheep. Both groups create significant obstacles if I run into them on the road - a problem I've not had in London. However, I can generally avoid them as I know where they live and roughly what time they go out for breakfast.  Experience has taught me that, if I do come across them, they pretty much scatter if you run at them.

The flock having a good munch on the Marjal

From time to time I also have for company the rice farmers, occasional fishermen, herons, egrets and other birds that like the wetlands. All in all running can be quite eventful and I've so far survived being attacked by an Alsatian and being sprayed with insecticide by a low flying helicopter. Fitness is improving and we will soon be running in the cooler climate of north London, probably without sheep and goats. And if there are helicopters it will just be the police chasing rioters.

Into La Boca

Just to the south of San Telmo where we are staying in Buenos Aires lies La Boca, one of the traditionally poorer areas of the city. Unlike San Telmo however, Boca is in no immediate danger of gentrification and indeed tourists are warned not to wander away from the safe area around El Caminito, the quaint street of coloured houses in what used to be a fishing village where the small river Riuchelos flows into the giant estuary of the River Plate.

Here bus loads of tourists arrive to photograph El Caminito and to have their photo taken with locals dressed as tango dancers before being whisked back out of danger.

It is a bit of a theme park but worth the walk from San Telmo to see.  We came on monday evening for the other local attraction - to see the world famous local football team, Boca Juniors, play an Argentinian league match against the wonderfully named Gymnastic and Fencing Club from the nearby city of La Plata.

The opposition and the result (a draw) were however irrelevant.  The entertainment here was the home crowd who, literally, made a spectacle of themselves. For the whole 90 minutes they maintained an anstonishing level of noise, singing rather tunefully along to the drum beat and all the time jumping up and down and waving their arms in unison. There was ticker tape, blue and yellow flares and various antics that would have a UK health and safety inspector closing the place down.  As the game wore on the decibel level rose and they were not even silenced by the late equaliser their team conceded. A shame because if the fans had the team they deserved, they would be world champions.  A world away from the polite applause that greets a goal at Arsenal.

Having enjoyed the show, the next morning we walked back down to La Boca to see El Caminito and find a traditional Italian eating place (the community and football club were founded by poor Italian immigrants).

Bizarrely, after opening the door to what seemed a humble Italian restaurant in a back street near La Bombonera (the chocolate box) stadium, we found ourselves not in the company of tourists or impoverished locals, but tables of men in suits. Since most looked like current or former footballers and yesterday was the last day of the season, we concluded that the constant ringing of mobile phones was down to ongoing negotiations of contracts and transfers.

Despite pretty much everyone else being smart and us being dressed shambolically to avoid being mugged, we decided to tough it out and sat down for a rather enjoyable lunch featuring some of the best home made pasta that we have ever had. After ordering some reasonably expensive wine the waiter started to take us seriously and we crossed our fingers that this would not be the day that the bank decides to block the credit card after a series of transactions in South America.

The Scots Invade!

We travelled 90km north to the normally refined city of Valencia to find that it had been put under siege by an invading army of scotsmen, here (like us) to watch Rangers - Glasgow's bastion of unionism and protestantism - take on Valencia in the Champions League.  They gathered in the morning in the Plaza de la Reina at a place known as Finnegan's Bar, hung up their union jacks and sang "God Save the Queen" and "No Surrender to the IRA" at regular intervals, while consuming a month's worth of beer in the sunshine.  What they said about the Pope in their thick Glaswegian accents was difficult to comprehend, but in any event is probably best not repeated.

We lost them for a while as we went for a civilised lunch in the old town and strolled through the royal gardens but some of them had even made it up to the top of the cathedral bell tower where we watched the sun set.  Fortunately I do not have photgraphic evidence of the blue-clad horde but am pleased to say that their attempted take-over was short-lived and they departed with their team having taken a good 3-0 hiding from our local favourites.  So we left Mestalla stadium happy but with me under strict instructions not to make any wisecracks at the visitors, which I just about resisted!

Eto'o: Living Legend

Football is big news in Cameroon, especially the national hero Samuel Eto’o Fils who has played for more than a decade with Real Madrid, Mallorca, Barcelona and Inter Milan. He won the Champions League, League and Domestic Cup treble with Inter last year and the same treble with Barcelona the year before which is a unique achievement. For Cameroon he has won two African Nations Cups, the Olympic football tournament, appeared in three World Cups and scored over 50 goals including a record 18 in the finals stages of the African Nations Cup. He has also been African footballer of the year three times.

Samuel Etoó in national team action

Football shirts are fashion items here and when I was last here 2 years ago the shirt of choice was FC Barcelona. When they sold Eto’o shirts were burned in large numbers and now Inter shirts are everywhere. Much to my disappointment the second most popular team now appears to be Chelsea. Despite another popular Cameroonian, Alex Song playing for Arsenal, the Cameroonian public seems to favour teams that actually win trophies!
Eto’o is here this week to play for the national team against DR Congo. However Song, like some other prominent players, is not here having allegedly fallen out of favour with Eto’o (who isn’t the manager but I'm told he might as well be). These rumours have caused a split among those of us who think Eto'o is merely a world-class player and those who think he walks on water. I found myself in the middle of a very heated debate on the subject after midnight (and after too many beers) in a bar in Douala. When I ventured that we might be better off without Eto'o if it is true he is influencing team selection like this, I was told that my belongings would be at the airport in the morning and I would be deported for my views!

My plan to travel to see the game in the capital Yaounde was dashed by the sudden late decision to switch the match to Garoua in the north of the country. Despite Congo objecting that Garoua is in the epicentre of the current cholera epidemic and that they had already paid for their hotel accommodation in Yaounde, the African football federation (which has a Cameroonian president) backed Cameroon. So I had to settle for watching the game on tv in Douala. A dreadful Cameroon team achieved a 1-1 draw courtesy only of an embarrassing own goal by the Congolese right-back who will probably have to claim political asylum rather than return home!