Reflections
Tales of two marathons: Paris and Peru
Sitting on a chair by the window of the eighth-floor apartment, I could see the Eiffel Tower glowing like a yellow-hot sculpture, as if held admiringly by its sculptor against the pitch-dark Paris sky. In front of me on the dining table, I could see and savour the smell of the sumptuous dishes prepared by Anna Islam, my Paris-based artist friend Shahabuddin's wife. The aroma from the food was surpassed by her innate desire to make her Calgary guests (my wife and me) enjoy the Bengali meal and the Paris moment. I was physically spent from running through the Paris streets earlier. But there at the dining table, I could not be happier with a Paris Marathon medal audaciously hanging around my neck, exuding Eiffel-Tower-high pride. That was April 15, 2012. In the evening of the marathon in the city of lights and love and art. One continent away, lying inside a used and unwashed sleeping bag in rain-wet running clothes with my head sliding up and down on the un-cushioned floor searching for a non-existent pillow, I could barely see the orange interior of the tent. Two feet away was faceless Greg from Vancouver, Canada, a fellow tired runner with his head fully hidden inside another bag. His snoring was only surpassed in loudness and pitch by that from an unknown woman runner from a tent nearby. I was over-spent after running, climbing to and descending from three peaks since six o'clock in the morning, sometimes at 14000 ft, through thin air like a freshly-caught carp gasping for air, through incessant rain, thunder and hails, and suffering a few falls on the slippery Inca stairs, and fighting the rain-induced hypothermia. Inside the tent, I was comparing my then sorry state with what could have been had I not missed showing up in the ridiculously high-priced hotel room I had reserved near the entrance gate for that night. That was July 5, 2012. The night of the Inca Trail Marathon, in a campsite only a short distance away from the Machu Pichhu ruinsPeru's tourist Mecca and a UNESCO World Heritage archaeological site. The tales of the two marathons in two continents completed three months apartin pursuit of my new goal of running seven marathons in seven continentsare different in so many ways. The only thing common is the distance of 42.2 km. The Paris was a 40,000 plus city marathon with a massive organization, complemented by thousands of volunteers. The Inca Trail was a 42-runners debut marathon organized by a husband and wife team from North Carolina, USA, with a few hired Peruvian porters and guides. While Paris had medical tents, emergency medical services, and transportation for runners with issues, Inca had a strict instruction to move forward no matter what, unless, of course, one could not move or breathe and then had to literally wait for help from heaven to come, that is, only if seen and reported by others. Paris Marathon made possible for two university-days' friends from 1974-1975 to meet in 2012, after 37 years. In September 1974, Shahabuddin and I, along with ten others, came to Paris (on our way to Royan, France) from Dhaka for post-graduate studies: he in art and I in chemical engineering, after learning French for one year at Royan, an Atlantic-side resort, an hour's drive from Bordeaux, famous for its wine. After six months, I came to cold and white snow-covered Canada in April to study at Waterloo, and he later moved to where he belonged: Paris, the Kashi (a place for Hindu devotees) for artists. Even at Royan, Shahabuddin earned respect not only because of his artistic talent, but also for his reputation for rifle-wielding participation in the liberation war for Bangladesh in 1971. We developed a liking for each other, perhaps because we were about the same age and had similar views on many things, including religion and politics at that time. At Royan, he was already a blossoming artist, whose passion was to paint: paint at home, paint at the beaches, drawing followers and fans from the resort town. He later graduated from the top art school in Paris and has been living in and painting from Paris since 1975. Chosen as one of the 50 sports painters from all over the world for the Barcelona Olympics in 1992, his works are auctioned by Christiea rare feat for an artist from his native country, Bangladesh. Shahabuddin's recent area of interest is figurative art, expressed by human movements, and portrait paintings of political, spiritual and literary giants like Gandhi, Sheikh Mujib (father of Bangladesh), Tagore (literature Nobel Laureate from undivided Bengalnow Bangladesh and West Bengal state in India), and Jesus Christ. Sitting in his living room sofa, my eyes were feasting on the master artist's strokes, capturing on canvasses those giant figures. The largest is the painting of a pensive Mujib (aka Bangabandhu, friend of Bengal) with eyes welling up and his right hand resting on his heart, leaving room for interpretation of the mood by the viewers. Were those tears of joy for delivering a free country to his people, or tears of unfulfilled promises? When I asked the artist, Shahabuddin changed his facial expression to show respect and subconsciously put his right arm over his heart and paused for a few moments, looking himself like the Mujib in the painting momentarily. I thought I also saw his eyes welling up. Then he said, “It is not for sale.†As if I could afford it even if it were! Through his actions, words and paintings, Shahabuddin proves that he belongs to the worldnot to one religious group, one community, or one country. As we were sharing views and stories of our Royan days, his freedom fighting feats, interactions with Bangabandhu and his daughters (one of whom is the present Prime Minister of Bangladesh), about the nobility and the greatness of Gandhi and Tagore, I saw him playing very affectionately with a little girl from his apartment complex, whose father is his friend, and who is Jewish. Shahabuddin is a Muslim and I am a Hindu. And the little girl a Jew. Three persons. Three religions. In one room. All one people, bonded by humanity. That to me was a Gandhi moment! A teachable moment for tolerance. Although we had talked about him creating a painting for me running the Paris, I was pleasantly surprised to see not one but two paintings on the easels in his studio, in both of which a person resembling me and possessing my gait was running ahead of the pack. As an artist, he albeit had absolute freedom of expression. So I did not mind, justifying this exaggeration as being correct locally, but not globally. In Paris, running was by and through all the attractions on a breezy and blossom-filled April day. It took me only ten minutes to go to the start line on the Champs-Elysees on foot from our apartment on the Avenue Mac-Mahon. When I made to my starting corral, I became an artist's dot (representing a person), standing on the cobblestones among thousands of dots. Doubts crept in as I was waiting for the gun: “How would the body hold up today for that long?†A breeze calmed down the doubts, replacing them with a sense of pride for being at the start of the marathon in Paris, a city I first set foot in in September, 1974. Young and ignorant at that time, I did not know much about marathon. I also took solace for being at the startthe first requirement for finishing any pursuit. Soon this Calgary dot gained energy from the other dots from all over the world and kept moving east on the Champs-Elysees, and then by the Place de la Concorde and the Louvre, the world-famous museum. Near the Louvre, my mind drifted to the Mona Lisa smile and a scene from the Da Vinci Code movie when I felt a gust of museum-area wind trying to take away my Canadian maple-leaf hat, as if to put it inside the museum for others to see. With lightning-fast reflex of a good goal keeper from university time, I reached and grabbed it. A hatless young woman looked back and reached out to the hat in my hand. Her hat became history. We continued running by the Place de la Bastille to the eastern-most part of the city through the treed area of the Bois de Vincennes and then turned west to run by the Seine River, which looked rather gloomy, perhaps being disappointed to see the intruding sweaty runners in lieu of the regular romantic Parisian duos of the evening in designer clothes and wearing made-in Paris perfumes. Then we ran by the grounds of the magnificent Notre Dame to our right. Further west to the left of us on the south side of the Seine, standing tall was the Eiffel Tower that was having a full view of us by then. It had changed its colour from the night's yellow-hot to the day's cool grey, as if to show its displeasure with the runners for snatching attention away from it. Soon we were on the western-most side of the city through another treed neighbourhood of the Bois de Boulogne. Here I heard “Allez Taapaaaa!†screams from Parisians directed to this energy-depleted runner. The encouragement was timely, as at that stage of the marathon the needle of my fuel tank had already hit zero. We then turned east. The mind needed some boost. That came from thinking of the two paintings waiting to be picked up and the dinner invitation at Anna's place that evening. “I can't go there without finishing the marathon,†I reminded myself. That worked and pushed me to the finish line with only a strained and stiff adductor muscle on the left side. Finally, I made the finish mat acknowledge my arrival and felt the medal around my neck placed by a Parisian beauty. The triumphant I was then walking east on the Avenue Foch, facing the famous Arc de Triomphe. The Paris went smoothly, but the Peru almost did not happen. I came so close to calling it off after spirit-sapping flight delays, confrontational customer service at Mexico City airport, a lost luggage and staying in three hotels in three cities: Houston, Mexico City and Lima before arriving at Cuzcothe base city at 14000 ft to acclimatize before the marathontwo and a half days later than the scheduled arrival date. While the Paris was a 10-minute walk to the start, the Peru required 10-km hiking to the campsite at the start of the Inca Trail and eating the porter-prepared cold dinner on the night before the marathon, and sleeping in a tent. Alone in the tent, I enjoyed the diffused light from the cloud-covered moon on July 4th and listened to the sound-making duel between the raging Urubamba river and a Peruvian dog, with the former finally winning the contest after the latter had run out of energy and lulled to sleep. (Paintings are by Shahabuddin. The concluding part of this article will appear next week). Tapan Chakrabarty writes from Calgary, Canada.
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