The little Thanksgiving that was...n't a disaster!

I will not lie.  This past Thanksgiving was a little bit challenging.  The week prior to Thanksgiving I felt okay, but as the days to Thanksgiving got closer and closer, I was a little jealous of all of you back home.  Lazy fall days, coziness, the long weekend, and just overall preparing for relaxing with family and friends.  While you all were having holidays, we over here were working are butts off.

To help alleviate the homesickness, my boss—ever intuitive as she is—suggested we all have a Thanksgiving party.  We decided to have a Thanksgiving party the Saturday after the “real” Thanksgiving.  This party would entail me making all the Thanksgiving foods...for about 20 people.  S***!

You should know that I’ve never made Thanksgiving anything before.  Not pumpkin pie, turkey, nothing.  It’s not that I haven’t wanted to…there just has never been an opportunity, as my mom’s pretty much boss in the kitchen followed by my brother.  So this was my opportunity to make it or blow it.  Just in case I would blow it, I advised people to bring their own food.  In the meantime my coworkers teased me that they would video and post my culinary prowess, or lack thereof, on YouTube.

So the venture began to find all the ingredients I would need.   While I found some ingredients, and substitutions for others, I could not find a turkey.  Actually, I did find one that wasn’t very big for over $100.  No way was I going to pay for that.  As time drew nearer, I asked embassy folk where I might get one.  They have their own commissary, of which you need to be a member.  If I had prepared in a more timely manner, I might have been able to buy one for about $40.  But, time was running out, and the only option I had left was to buy a live turkey and then butcher it.  (My boss refused to accept chicken as an option.)

We  (meaning my boss, her colleague, and I) ended up driving two hours to pick up the turkey.  It cost about $40.  I had to stay in the car when they went in to get it, because the color of my face would drive up the price.  As I waited, fear began to settle in the pit of my stomach.  I became more and more anxious, because for a week, my coworkers had said I would be the one to kill, de-feather, and clean the turkey.  I didn’t know if they were serious or not, but decided I could force myself to de-feather and clean it; but not kill it.  Imagining having to do all these things was like sinking into an abyss of despair.  And then I saw them coming out, carrying the turkey by the feet.

The turkey was stressed, with its legs tied.  During the ride back into town, it stayed relatively quite.  I kept looking back at it, checking to see if it was okay.  It reminded me of Chloe, my conure.  I couldn’t believe I was going to have to kill and eat a bird, when a bird is my pet  (even though I eat chicken all the time…but it’s different when you see it alive before you eat it).  When we got home, it sat in the kitchen until it was time for beheading.

Thankfully, gratefully, sometime while I was working, the caretaker killed and de-feathered the bird.  I found out later that he de-feathered it wrong, as there were still feathers embedded in the skin, and darn near impossible to pluck out, but beggars can’t be choosers.  I also found out that you are supposed to clean the turkey as soon as you kill it.  But, out of ignorance, I refrigerated it overnight with innards and all, which, gratefully (again), the cook cleaned out for me the following morning.  She seamlessly pulled out the intestines, liver, and whatever else is in there.  I did keep the gizzards for the gravy though.

Before:  Head and neck are on the far left.

Saturday evening was our scheduled Thanksgiving.  I began cooking at 6 am, starting with the pies.  The apple went off without a hitch, but the pumpkin didn’t turn out as nice.  I made it from whole pumpkin as canned pumpkin was nowhere to be found.  Although the pie tasted good to me, the crust got messed up because 1) I didn’t have a pie pan, and 2) there are no temperature markers on the oven…so I was guessing.  The pie was not good enough for presentation, but I did make it from whole pumpkin…a goal I have had for quite some time.

By the time I finished the pies it was about 10 or 10:30 am.  By now all the kids are up.  This was also the weekend that the school was preparing for their annual Christmas competition, Sing for Joy, which is televised.  40 of them spent the night so that they could practice all of Saturday.  So, in addition to being stressed about making food I’ve never made before AND making it for people who will judge me and my culture based on it  (truly they will want to know if I can cook, and many have never had American food before), there were a minimum of 5 people at a time in the kitchen, not to mention kids coming through here and there asking for this and that.   The kitchen consists of a fridge, sink, small stove with two functioning burners, a freezer, etc.  It’s a good size kitchen and functional; but with five people plus, it gets a little too close for comfort. To top it off, I am irritable because I am overwhelmed.  Everyone kept telling me, “Don’t worry Amy, we’ll help you.  You won’t have to do everything alone.”  Yeah right.  They were all busy with the kids, and my Pity Pot self took over for a bit…maybe a half hour or so…then I let it go.   

Crowded kitchen.  People hovering, literally…watching every move I make.  I know they are just curious, but it is driving me crazy!  We run out of salt and flour.  I continually can’t find what I put down.  Aagh! While I finish up the pies I start the stuffing.  I season bread for stuffing, bake it and set aside.  Some people try the bread; some like it and some lie and say, “It’s nice.”  Nigerians are not very adventurous when it comes to foreign food.  I think it’s funny that when someone says, “It’s nice,” before it barely touches their lips.  I was surprised though that no one would taste the prepped apples for the pie.  Apples with cinnamon and sugar?  Yum!  To them, not so. 

Thankfully, the staff helps peel potatoes while I surmise the turkey situation.  That was a HUGE help, because I suck with the type of potato peeler they have here. I had wanted to brine the turkey, or at least marinate it in beer for a while to prevent it from being dry.  No such luck.  No beer on hand.  And people are soo busy, I don’t want to ask to send someone to the market.  So, I decide to clean the turkey, and rinse out the insides with boiling water, because it doesn’t smell right to me.  Good thing I did because there was crap, really, inside the cavity.  People wonder what in the world I am doing.  The cook gives me a look, asks, and leaves me alone.  I put it back in the fridge.  Even though it has parts of feather (akin to whisker stubble) in it, and smells a bit off for my liking, I’m still going to cook it.

I take a break for an hour or so, look for a gravy recipe, and go back downstairs to start the turkey.  First, I finish the stuffing.  Then I stuff the turkey.  It is said that if you don’t have a meat thermometer, that you shouldn’t put stuffing inside your turkey.  No can do here; people want it stuffing stuffed in the turkey.  I don’t know how to cook a turkey; and we don’t have any foil to cover it, or string to tie the legs.  Also, you are supposed to fold the wings back to support the neck.  I can’t do it; it doesn’t seem to work.  So I ask my coworker to help me, who also finds some parts that need to be removed.  She twists the wings back, cracks and tears bone out.  I realize that I’m not quite cut out for the bush, as I really don’t like hearing those sounds.

Anyway, she says to leave the heart in and asks where the gizzards are.  I told her I was using it.  Nigerians like organ meat.  Eating liver and kidney, among others, is common.  I’m grateful my coworker was there, and I admired the way in which she handled the bird with such dexterity!  She tried removing feather stubble by sticking it over the gas burner…but it wouldn’t work.  So, into the pan it went, and I basted with butter (there wasn’t much juice from the turkey…it was a scrawny bird), rotating every half an hour.

Potatoes were the easiest; I didn’t have a recipe, but watched my mom enough to know what to do.  I was really pleased with the gravy too.  As a kid I wouldn’t eat the gravy because it was made with gizzards.  Here, though, I depended on those suckers to give flavor and heartiness.  It worked!  I was so happy that it turned out, especially since I deviated some from the recipe to make it taste good, get to the right consistency, etc.

After:  FYI...there was no string to tie the legs together.

We did have about twenty people, with fried rice and salad for those who might be hesitant to try some traditional Thanksgiving foods.  The favorite amongst everyone was the mashed potatoes and gravy, most likely because it similar in texture and consistency to pounded yam (and maybe pepper soup…they kept calling the gravy “soup”).  We all gave thanks, ate, danced, and were merry.  It is always said, “Be careful what you wish for.”  The past several years I have wanted to make a Thanksgiving dinner for friends…for a diverse group of people.  While I envisioned making dinners and meals for friends when I came here, I had no idea it’d turn out like this.  Not only am I grateful that everything turned out, tasted good, was edible  (although the turkey was dry…an apparent genetic marker I did not avoid, and the stuffing wasn’t perfect) I made everything from scratch!  YES!!  AND the oven didn’t have a temperature dial.  Anyway, I am so lucky and incredibly blessed.  I love the opportunity I have and the people I work with.  This truly was a memorable Thanksgiving.

Destination Wedding: Nigeria

Any wedding (most often) is a treat to attend; yet it’s double the pleasure and double the fun when it’s a traditional Nigerian wedding.  They last anywhere from two to three hours, and while ceremonial, involve dramatic reenactment, dressing “native”, and don’t happen too often.  It’s been only a month, and I get to attend one!

It’s a Saturday and we (meaning Intellichild staff) are leaving at 7:00 in the morning to attend Ms. Tolu’s wedding.  Her wedding is taking place in the North, in Zaria, about a 3 hour drive from Abuja.  We are all dressed in some form of our finest; something native—which means traditional Nigerian clothing consisting of some dress/skirt/suit you’ve had made for yourself into a special style.  Because I don’t want to stand out anymore than I do, I choose to have something “native” too.  And I love it—clothes tailored to your fit at a reasonable price!  What more could a girl want? 

There were some misgivings the week prior to the wedding.  That was the week following the el-saheed  (check spelling) holiday.  Maybe a few days just before that long weekend, the US embassy sent out warning messages asking everyone to lay low, as there was a possibility that some buildings in Abuja might be targets for the Boku Harem (or Boku Crazies, as I fondly refer to them).  Though everything was peaceful in my area (thankfully), fighting did occur in some parts of the north.  It was through one of these areas that we would have to pass, indirectly, to get to the wedding. 

Anyway, we all packed ourselves into the bus at around 7:30 am and headed out.  One thing I love about my stay in Nigeria is that the energy is always set with prayer in some form.  As we make our way out, a staff member leads us in a song of thanks---thanks in advance for a safe journey and time to be together.   The road trip is scenic.  We pass by Zuma Rock, the tallest rock in West Africa, which they say is haunted.  And I get to know new teachers on a more personal level. 

We arrive about ½ to an hour late  (it’s African time).  This is in part due to the many road blocks and check points.  In Nigeria the military is always checking for bombs.  You’ll find yourself at these checkpoints on entering and leaving a state.  The military men are still intimidating to me, as they always look so stern and hard.  But all Nigerians greet them cordially, and in most cases the soldiers greet them cordially back.  Yet, if you look suspicious  (and I don’t know how you look suspicious), you are asked to pull over.  In most cases, people just have to slow down at the checkpoint a bit.  Sometimes they stop you and knock on the sides of your van/car.  Then you get the okay to go.  I’m not sure how knocking on people’s cars indicates whether a bomb is present or not, but I think it’s pretty funny that that is the solution.  One woman in our party rode up separately to the wedding.  Her bus driver got asked to pull over, and he refused.  Instead, he sped away and a police chase ensued down the expressway.  Once caught, the drivers and passengers were all dragged to jail.  Luckily, after much pleading, law enforcement released the passengers, and she did make it to the wedding before it was over!

Despite our tardiness, we realize that we haven’t missed much of the wedding.  The groom’s relatives (I think) are making their entrance.  (I say “I think” because the wedding is conducted mostly in Hausa, with some Yoruba mixed in.  This is an aspect of what makes it traditional.)  At this point in time, I don’t think things are too different from weddings I have attended.  The wedding is outdoors and has themed colors. The groom’s party is seated on one side, beneath a canopy, and the bride’s party is seated on the other.

There is a big hulabalu when the groom’s party enters.  They are requesting the bride’s family for their daughter’s hand in marriage.  The groom’s family is turned away at least three times before an acceptable offer might be made.  That offer includes a letter, a “why is your son good enough” sort of thing, money, etc.  Once the offer has been accepted by the bride’s family, the groom and groomsmen have to go and prostrate themselves before his prospective in-laws.  Then they have to perform a serious of exercises: jogging and jumping jacks to prove fitness levels, bending over and hoeing to ensure good farming skills, and dancing to make sure he can move well. 

Once the groom is seen as fit to be a husband, his offer is accepted, and the bride enters with her party.  Friends from the audience, in addition to the bridal party, escort her to meet her husband.  It is at this point that I am pressured to go and help escort her in.  I don’t want to because 1) I don’t know the bride very well and 2) I don’t want to stand out.  Too late.  They’ve pulled me up and I stay in the back, following the party.  There’s singing and dancing.  I have no idea what I am doing.  Smiling, feeling uncomfortable, I try to match the moves and chants as best I can.    I finally see my boss and she ushers me to come back to my seat.  Thank God.  I felt as though I have overstepped boundaries.

During the nuptials part of the wedding (which seems a bit more ceremonial, yet is different than what I am accustomed to) we are served a meal, desert, and favors.  After all is said and done, we take photos, blablabla and pack it in to haul out.

It’s a little after 2 when we leave.  It’s hot of course, and about an hour into our drive back, the fan belt starts acting up.  We pull off the side of the rode, across the way is a mechanic, thankfully.  However, the mechanic intends to rip us off with a replacement belt, so the concensus is to have people in our party hop on a motorbike to the next village/town and get the part for the correct price.  Enter waiting in the hot sun.  I am tired, and my stomach is acting up.  We had shut off the air earlier because of the belt.  At least we have cold water and drinks.  Finally, after about forty-five minutes or so, we are back on our way.

We are squished a bit, as we have more passengers than on the way in, but it’s not so bad.  As dusk approaches it cools off a lot, and I am thankful for the breeze.  It feels soooo good!  We are lucky to have uneventful anything until we get near Abuja.  By then it’s dark, and our luck changes.  First, traffic is awful.  It’s worse than SF traffic…and it’s hot!  (I don’t know what happened to the breeze.)  Some of us are dripping, while others of us are merely glistening.  But we could have it worse; there are vans next to us packed with twice as many people, without air too.  To top it off, someone bumps us.  No damage is done, yet it is at this time we realize water is leaking.  We all hop out and get some air.  It feels good! People wash off, make calls, and otherwise just hang out on the side of the road watching traffic not move.  It’s at this time that a passenger in a jam-packed bus a few lanes over shouts, “Oyinbo  (white person), are you lost?  Don’t you know where you are?  Do you know you’re in Nigeria?”  The response: laughter.  It was funny. 

I’m not sure how they fixed the water leak, but we finally, FINALLY get home safe and sound.  It took us 3 hours to get to Zaria and 6 hours to get back.  Although I was exhausted, I had a fun adventure.  I think breaking down on the side of the road was one of the highlights; I’m not sure why.  Maybe it’s because Nigerians are so good at making any situation a humorous, fun one.

PS--I DO have pics, but there's I can't seem to get them off of the camera because we can't find the cable. They will be posted though, hopefully sooner than later. 

Oy-een-bo

I am Oyinbo. And if I’m sunburnt, I’m Oyinbo Pepe.  I am white.  Whitey, white girl, white bread---a clear identifier in a sea of black.  I don’t mind this moniker as a mark of my background.  I find it funny.  It is amusing seeing the sometime gawks as if I were part of some sideshow attraction.  Kids seem to be especially mesmerized by my skin, or the freakish look of me altogether.  I get stares of curiosity and interest.  Yet if I speak to these skin-gazers, these oyinbo ooglers, the eyes go down and silence ensues…for the first couple of times anyway.  After that, it’s all open arms and hugs and smiles. 

Part of my job entails going out to different communities throughout participating states in Nigeria and monitoring the activities of Sesame Workshop.  I love this aspect of the work I’m doing, because through it, I get to see the many diversities that encompass Nigeria:  the different schools and architecture and the varied landscapes and ways of life.  The first time I did this type of visit happened during my first or second week here.  I was so excited because it was my first time in the field; my first assignment in my role as an IFESH volunteer. 

The first site I visited was an orphanage in Kari, and the only orphanage I have ever been to to date. I was amazed.  It was a huge compound, home and school to about 100 forgotten children.  When we drove up, the students were on their break: laughing, playing, wrestling.  I considered breaking up a wrestling-about-to-turn-fight match…but I left it alone, as we were on a timeline.  It was only about 5 minute walk from the entrance of the compound to the admin office.  Who knew what could happen in five minutes.  

When we began our mini-trek down the dirt path, a few of the students pointed and murmured.  A bold little girl pointed, smiled, and enthusiastically said, “Oyinbo!”  That bold little thing, though sweet, ended up getting everyone riled up.  In a matter of moments my colleagues and I found ourselves in a throng of children. They followed us down the path, swarmed us, chanting, “Oyinbo! Oyinbo! Oyinbo!”  I kept the surface me cool, I think, but inside, I felt overwhelmed.  I repeatedly looked to my colleagues to the right and left of me, both Nigerians, who I knew were amused yet were conveniently avoiding eye contact.  I wanted them to do something, to rescue me from the mob of children who had surrounded me, pulling on me, immobilizing me, and freaking me out.  But no. They remained cool, calm, and collected.  Maybe this went on for seconds or only a minute or two.  I don’t remember.  I do remember being relieved when a teacher finally came along and shooed all the kids away. 

The same thing occurred on our way out, but to a far less extent (thank God).  Now, when I go to village schools, I’m better primed to be seen as a Side Show Bob.  And though the attention is well-meant, I’m still not quite comfortable knowing that my appearance can be so distracting.  Hearing Oyinbo, my first Yoruba word, always brings a smile to my face, even when it’s from adults  (though they don’t do it nearly as often).  I imagine that I may have gotten a taste of what it’s like to be a celebrity; and  I realize I’m not ready for it...yet.

My Assignment

It’s the first workday in my new space at Intellichild school/Sesame Workshop.  Each Monday the staff meets to set the energy of the week with prayer.  I’m a little intimidated, as my way of praying is non-existent in the traditional sense.  This is also my first day…like your first day at a new school getting introduced to the class.  Although everything is different, everyone is very kind to me, and treats me with extreme respect.  (Some too much though…as there are a few teachers who will not even look at me.)

We stand in a circle and the prayers begin.  The prayers are unlike anything I’ve ever experienced before.  A staff member begins by singing a hymn, and the rest of us join in.  The melody of voices is unlike anything I have ever heard before and moves me to tears  (but I try to hold them in because this is my first day, and I don’t want people to see me cry).  The prayers last for 30 minutes, with pauses in the singing (and dancing) in between to allow each of us our own personal space with God in order to voice our own individual prayers/gratitudes/concerns, etc.  Usually, in churches I’ve attended and the faith I grew up in, we do this silently with eyes closed.  Here, people still have their eyes closed, but there is no silence.  Rather, there is a continuous hum of murmurs until a staff member redirects us again into song, and then the benediction.  Maybe this is like being in to churches in the states with gospel choirs, yet I don’t know, as I’ve never attended.  What I do know is that I love the spontaneous, continuous flow of song and dance, all for gratitude and praise to whatever higher power one believes in.  

Fast forward two weeks and I receive an African name.  It is Chinyere…it’s Igbo and means “gift of God.”  If you’re Nigerian, you can call me ChiChi for short…but if I know you and you have a similar culture to my own, you can forget it because you know as well as I that ChiChis is latin slang for boobs. I live and work at Intellichild School in Abuja Model Estate in Gwarinpa.  My room is similar to my studio in San Francisco; maybe not as quaint…but close in size, clean, and functional.  By day I work with the Sesame Workshop team on education, research, and outreach.  AND I visit classes and teach dance…well…salsa for now.  I work from 7 am to 7 pm…so by night I do nothing except read, watch TV, and or personal projects if I’m not too tired.   Each day, someone cleans my room, and each day, I have my meals prepared for me if I choose.  Or, I can request certain foods, but usually feel guilty about it. I don’t want to come off as a white princess, even though my body’s acting like one  (as her digestion’s not as hearty as I thought).  Weekends are spent catching up on projects or giving to myself with reading, writing, meditation, and shopping.  For now, it’s a little lonely.  I miss my friends.  I miss the routines of my day-to-day life.  And I really miss dancing.  It’s funny; I did everything (move to the other side of the world, leave my job, etc.) to get out of my routines, and now I miss them.  BUT I’m still in adjustment mode.  And even though I’m on the pity pot right now, I am extremely grateful for the opportunity I have.

Abuja is a sprawling city home to much of Nigeria’s government agencies and mission organizations  (CBOs and NGOs).  There is a large expat community here, yet I am surrounded by the local people.  This is thanks to my environment and host.  In fact, we went to a popular restaurant last week and I was amazed at the number of foreigners in the restaurant.  The number of foreigners well out-numbered the locals, and I found myself gaping, thinking in the back of my mind, “What are they all doing here?”  It was a bit surreal.  Before coming here, people would say, “You’re lucky.  You can get almost anything in Abuja,” which is true.  However, I do not frequent hot spots within the expat community, and I’m not sure if I want to, given the political climate.  (To ensure safety, the embassy has warned to not frequent “hot” expat spots and to avoid crowds.) I feel a bit “holed up”  at times given embassy warnings and with conflicts happening in the north.   The fighting, in case you’re unaware, has to do with extremist Muslims in the north exercising their beliefs that everything western  (which is everything not based on the Koran and fundamentalist Islamic ways of life) is evil.  However, what I’ve been told is that that is just an excuse.  When there has been conflict in the past between Muslims and Christians, Muslims would kill not only Christians, but also Muslims from different tribes.  This is not to say Christians are innocent.  They have retaliated and instigated in their own way…but they have not  (as far as I know) killed Christians from other tribes.  Again, I do not have hard facts about the chronic, long standing religious and ethnic divides that plague Nigeria.  I only have hearsay from the locals, who I find know a whole lot more than anyone/anything else I’ve spoken to/read about. 

There are three main tribes in Nigeria: Hausa, Yoruba, and Igbo.  Hausa people are from the north, Yoruba are from the west, and Igbo are from the southeast.  Those in the north are very poor, with the rich (who are really, REALLY rich) being few and far between.  Those in the south, by contrast, are very wealthy thanks to the oil boom and refineries  (yet there are still poor and those who have been disenfranchised due to western conglomerates).  Central Nigeria has a mix of both of worlds.  And it is in the center that the goals of these many mission organizations, including mine, seek to provide villages and schools, particularly those in remote areas and in the north access to education.  Through access to quality education and initiatives, it is believed that many limiting mindsets that contribute to Nigeria’s class inequalities might be eliminated.  As development work goes, this is an ongoing, slow, and many times challenging process.  I often find myself struggling to keep busy…or look busy…but maybe that’s because I’m still in the beginning of things.  Yet I was warned many a time that development work is slow. 

The people I work with are mainly Yoruba and Igbo.  I’m still learning how to curse.  The only curse I “Waka” which is Hausa, and akin to flipping someone off.  If you do that while you’re driving you are asking for a throw down.  I can’t wait to learn other phrases and spontaneously curse at people, if only to see the surprise on their faces followed by laughter  (well, the latter is a big assumption.  I’ll try it on the office folk first). 

On the Road

It’s 6:30 am and I hear some kind of sound.  It sounds like maybe a siren, maybe an alarm.  I sit up and listen for it again.  There it is.  It sounds like it’s coming from outside my hotel room door.  I sit alert and listen for it again, afraid that it is my door.  On the fourth ring, I get up and peer into the peep hole.  Outside my door I see a man with a stern face.  No smile.  He knocks this time and I stand there watching him.  I think, “Maybe he has the wrong room.”  He definitely does not look happy.  And after about 5 minutes of ringing, I realize he is not going away.  I call through the door, “Who is it?”  No answer.  Again I ask, “Who is it?” Still no answer.   Scared, I take a deep breath, and open the door a little ways.  I ask, “Can I help you?”  The man looks at me and says, “It’s time for you to wake up.  Fanisa says you need to be ready by 8:00.”  I say, “Okay.”  (Actually I was trying to clarify the time with him that it’s 8:30, but it was only making him confused, so I gave up and said, “Okay.”)  Fanisa and Sophia had asked that I be woken up so as to ensure my readiness.  Here, at Bayecu Guest Palace, wake up calls are personal;0)

Today we are making our way to Abuja, where we’ll stay the night, attend a briefing at USAID  (I haven’t figured out what the difference is between a meeting and a briefing is yet) and then I’ll be taken to my assignment.  It’s a five hour drive from Kano to Abuja and I am exhausted.  It is seriously hot and I’m already dirty.  As we get ready to go, three young boys in tattered clothes come up and start singing to me.  This is their way of asking to be given money.  The driver shoos them away.  My first thought, “Why aren’t they in school?”  Throughout our journey I see many similar boys along the side of the road.  They are working in some way, as none are idle.  What I find out is that even public school is not free after elementary grades (grades 1-5).  Because of this, many families cannot afford to pay the fees for their children to continue.  *Hence, you see many children, ages 9 and up, doing various tasks along the sides of the road.  You do not see girls though.  They are either at home or in the Islamiah schools.

Before coming to Africa, they (IFESH) told us to NEVER drive.  Now I know why.  Nigeria, the second most corrupt country in the world, is not known for safe driving practices and standards, as enforcement of such practices is few and far between.  In fact, you don’t even have to know how to drive to get your license.  You just pay a fee and there you go.   You learn how to drive AFTER you get your license.  Kano is notorious for mad (like crazy) drivers and driving in general.  The roads are of okay quality, meaning that they are paved, yet there are no lines or markers dividing lanes.  This means that when you drive, you make your own lane.  And even if there is a marked lane, people still drive in the middle of the road.  I cannot tell how people navigate their way, with few street signs and exits and zero traffic lights.  (Actually, in Abuja, they are beginning to install some.  Police in Abuja direct traffic at busy intersections…but in Kano it’s every man for himself.) 

Amidst the crazy traffic there are motorbikes.  These motorbikes are a convenient, cheap way to travel.  However, they are inherently dangerous.  No helmets are required…and even if they were no one would wear them unless there was some severe penalty for not doing so.    Yet, these dangers do not phase Nigerians.  You’ll see moms on motorbikes with their babies in papooses or you’ll see two adults on a bike with a kid (or two) sandwiched between them.  [For this reason…it is illegal to use a motorbike like a taxi in Abuja.  The penalty = your vehicle being impounded.  Instead, people use taxis OR teppakappli  (I have completely messed up this word.)…little go cart like cars that safer than motorbike…though still precarious.  Still, people in the outlying villages use motorbikes.]

The road to Abuja is a bit long…a five hour drive with normal traffic conditions.  As we head south, the landscape variably changes.  The dusty, oil thick air gives way to a more tranquil landscape.  On either side of us, along the freeway, there are nothing but farms and villages.  You see most people, adults and children alike, working with millet.  Some villages look quaint, while others look like shanty towns, hewn together like tin shacks.  It is in one of these places we stop to  “take some rest”.   (Actually, it’s more of the market adjacent to the village…I think.)

I do not know the name of this place.  This place is my first encounter with a public latrine  (as they say here).   These ones are akin to joined, seven foot tall port-a-potties, built of metal with a large swinging doors.  I venture in and am greeted by an unpleasant smell and a concrete floor with a step at the back.  The step gives way to a recessed hole in the ground on the left hand side, and a basket with used toilet paper on the right.  Damn!  I forgot to bring my own toilet paper.  I’m already in the stall and don’t want to go back out and ask Fanisa how to do “it” properly without making any unnecessary mess.  I surmise that my rear goes where the step is…judging from the toilet paper and the hole.  I do my best to squat without touching anything, but, not having a penis, I cannot really aim.  My pee has a mind of its own, and seems to go every which way except where it’s supposed to.  Thankfully  there is running water outside to wash your hands and feet.  A nice lunch and a blended fruit drink help to wash public restroom culture shock away too.  

*This is true from what I’ve seen in the North.  I’m not sure if this applies to Nigeria throughout.

Kano

So I arrive safe and sound in Kano.  As we exit the plane we are delivered onto the airport tarmac.   It’s hazy outside and the air smells of campfire.  We walk across the way to a white, adobe like building and enter a dimly lit doorway, outside of which is labeled “Arrivals” in black paint.  When we get inside I line up in front of a podium labeled with the placard “Other”.  Across from me a line forms in front of another podium labeled “Nigerians”.  Even though there’s a booth behind the podiums, fortified with glass, complete with immigration officers policing the modest crowd with their gaze, there’s an air of familiarity about as each person shows their passport and banters with acquaintances and officials.  Fanisa, my country advisor, and the program officer, Sophia, are some of them.  They send someone over to my side (of immigration) to assist and interpret if need be.  He’s very nice;0) 

When I approach the podium, my passport is inspected and everything is written down on a blue slip of paper.  I guess these papers don’t get lost.  I have a whole manilla envelope declaring my “legality” to the Nigerian Immigration Service…so I guess it doesn’t matter.   Once I’m allowed entrance my helper guy directs others to get my luggage, and I have to stand in front of a table while two immigration officers, or police, or military…I can’t really tell, demand that I open my bags. 

These guys are intimidating.  They don’t really smile and they look stern  (as I’m sure they’re supposed to).  They are dressed in khaki fatigues, wear berets, and have rifles with long, narrow barrels slung over their shoulders.  (I wonder what would have happened if I had asked to take my picture with them.)  When they aske me to open my first bag, which is locked with the airline’s lock, I ask for scissors to cut it.  One of the officers disappears and comes back with a knife.  This knife is unlike anything I have scene before.  It curves from the hilt, and then curves again…akin to something you might see in Arabian Knights, but much more discreet.  Part of the blade is lined with red.  It’s not blood; maybe it’s there so you’ll think it is.

My next bag is inspected by another officer.  He takes out index cards, holds them in the air and then close to his face.  I’m not sure if he has never seen index cards before or thinks that they are some sort of weapon in disguise.  After some contemplation and digging, he puts them back.  I try opening the third bag in a timely fashion, but because I forget the combination I am waived through.  Sophia, says it’s because the fact that I am willing to open it shows I have nothing to hide.  Phew. 

I am staying at the Bayecu Guest Palace; an establishment you’re invited to “test” and then “testify” to…really…it says so on their sign.  As we check-in I am quickly realizing there are people to do everything here for you.  I was so worried about managing my bags, but there are three young gentlemen who handle them for me.  They graciously carry my things, which are at least more than half their body weight, up the three flights of stairs to my room.  I say good night to Fanisa and Sophia, who remind me to be ready bright and early  (they even arrange for a wake up call for me).

My room is austere, simple yet functional, and I am welcome by a cricket serenade.  Exhausted, I decide to wash the last eight hours away.  What I don’t know is that there is a switch to turn on your water heater.  I also don’t know that if you’d like a hot shower, or bath as they refer to it here, you need to turn that switch on at least an hour beforehand.  Not to mention that the water pressure is weak…hence the hose like attachments, and a bucket, to douse where you need.  End result: a cold, yet refreshing, shower in a bucket.

As I get ready to plop into bed, I inspect the sheets.  They look clean, but upon closer inspection, there are some bugs and mosquitoes.  I should not be surprised, as this is Africa, right? Still, I’m glad I brought my own blanket.  I curl up on the settee with every limb covered when I hear something hit the floor.  It sounds like a soft thump.  I look up and see a giant brown blob on the wall.   I put on my shoes…not to smash it but to avoid it touching my feet in anyway.  I look again to the wall, but it’s gone…and then I see a big brown thing jump in the air and hit the ground again with that same soft thump…probably because it can’t fly due to its heavy bug body weight.  This, my friends, is my first encounter with a giant flying cockroach.  Thank God I did not have my glasses on to measure in clear detail all its giant abnormal cockroachiness.  With lights on  (except during power outages, which happen anywhere from five to ten times a day), blanket and clothes covering head to toe, I do not sleep a wink. 

Getting Here, Pt. 1

I'm in Africa now.  Or on the African continent, specifically in Nigeria.  It seems like it took forever to get here, a constant waiting game.  Waiting to be accepted into the IFESH volunteer program.  Waiting to tell others.   Waiting for my VISA.  Waiting for my final destination.  During this waiting period life went on.  I took a leave of absence from work, sublet my apartment, found a temporary, loving home for my birdie, fell in love, and experienced the trials and tribulations that happen as one tries to maintain balance in separating from one way of life and opening up and embracing another.

Part of my waiting involved three weeks sharing a teeny, tiny room with my brother, his huge TV and the contents of bags of luggage at my parents’ house.  While extremely grateful for having a rent-free place to live, the three weeks offered an uninvited flashback to adolescence.  Mother daughter competition.  Being in trouble.  Blame in the interrogative form.  “Amy,  what happened to ______________?” or “Why did you ____________________?” or “Who ate ______________________?” or “Where’s the/my ______________________?”  All minus the grounding AND the lectures  (save for one…and it was a little well-deserved).  After about two weeks, things sorted themselves out and we parted ways in a cum-ba-ya sort of way.

I didn’t realize how much this journey scares some people.  The response I get when I tell people what I’m doing can be boiled down to disgust, curiosity, enthusiasm, fear, support.  Some people view being sent to Nigeria as indentured service in Hell, while others can’t be excited enough for you and wish they were doing it themselves. My parents fall into the category of fear, mostly.  They fear I’m going to turn into a Muslim  (God forbid!), be kidnapped, killed, or persecuted in someway.  While some fears are understandable, all can be devastatingly consuming.  This is not to say that I don’t have fear. Today, while waiting for my connecting flight to Kano I became very anxious.  "What am I doing?" "What am I thinking?"  I had these same thoughts on the flight to S. Korea years ago when I last ventured abroad for work.  "What am I doing going to a place that I know nothing about?"  "How am I going to get around?"  "I am alone."  Those thoughts caused me to whip out my Fodor’s guide and learn as much as I can.  That probably lasted about an hour.  This time around I don’t have a Fodor’s guide…yet I do have the support of those around me to guide me.  I’m counting on their help of others and my sharp wit and wily ways to make a memorable, growing life experience. 

Getting Here, Pt. 2

It’s Oct. 23, the day I’m officially to begin a new journey.  Finally!  I am so excited!  No more waiting!  No more living in limbo!  I have my VISA and passport in hand, the luggage thing is all sorted out, and everything seems to be in its place.  We have a safe, uneventful journey to SFO, arrive before the countering agents and are even the first in line…only to find that there’s a change in plans.  My scheduled flight to has an eight hour delay.   This means that I will miss my connecting flight in Amsterdam to Kano.  Okay.  Not a problem.  I invite Resolve to permeate me and affect an aura of calm.  I will make some phone calls and see what the solution should be.  I try to call my country advisor, the IFESH office, and the travel agency.  Nothing.  It’s Sunday and all offices are closed.  It’s the wee hours of the morning in Kano.  Freak Out is starting to creep in.  I approach the ticketing counter once again; by now there are 50+ people crowded in line.  (It is not a fun day at KLM, who has now issued out a memo apologizing for the inconvenience.)  I let the agent know that I’ll take my flight out and go from Amsterdam to Kano the following day…only to find out that there are no connecting flights to Kano the following day.  Flight 577 is scheduled only several times a week.  Grrrrreeeeeeaaaatttttt…..I take it.  I’m trying to keep my inner Freak Out in check.  I send out mass emails and voicemails to my country advisor, colleagues, and the IFESH staff noting them of my new itinerary along with pleas to PLEASE have someone pick me up in Kano.  By now my Inner Freak Out has made her way into the public’s view, with brief appearances here and there…saying hello to all my colleagues, program officers, and Delta and KLM staff.  To get her out of the limelight I ground my time in Amsterdam and look forward to it as a time to recoup…if it weren’t for all my damned luggage.  How am I supposed to get around with four bags at the airport…half of which are half my weight?  F***!

While other like, back and forth, airline dramas occurred during the time of my delayed departure, I found solace in the knowing that this is all a great exercise in letting go.  So, I let go as much as I could, got on the plane, and got ready for Amsterdam.  

Amsterdam

Amsterdam was good.  Luggage was not a problem;0) And what I liked best was that I think it set the tone of my journey.  Case in point is my van driver.  Unfortunately I don’t know his name, but he goes by the initials H.V.  He is an enthusiastic Dutchman, with a keen sparkle in his blue eyes.  He’s 63, married to his “very young wife”  (whom I assume is at least half his age) and has two five year old sons…twins.  He’s termed being a shuttle driver as a “crap job”, yet plans to retire in a year to go sailing around the world…as soon as he finishes building his new boat.  This will be his second sail around the globe.  The only difference is this time he’ll bring along his “very young wife” and two sons and sail for an indefinite period…10 years or more. 

H.V. is a unique individual…the kind I find most fascinating.  He grew up son to a sailor.  That sailor, adamant that his son should have a better, more prestigious life than he, discouraged boating and sailing of any kind.  That discouragement only piqued H.V.’s interest.  At 18 he gained acceptance into a maritime academy.  All that was needed for admission was his father’s signature, which he refused to give.  Dejected and infuriated, H.V. became an engineer, and after a while, began pursuing maritime courses on the side.  By the time he was thirty he had built himself a boat and took off for a five year venture around the world.  During that time he encountered many wonders and experiences, some of which include seeing a dolphin funeral and sailing alongside breeching whales. 

This is one thing I love about traveling; the people you meet and the stories they have to share.  H.V. is living his life on his own terms.  He refused to give up on his dreams and passions, and because of this, is living a life he loves.  He is completely happy…not to mention personable, enthusiastic, philanthropic, and funny.  And I got to know all of this in a matter of 25 minutes.  H.V.’s life validates my own choices.  Most people think I’m exceptionally crazy or brave or both for doing what I’m doing.  Others might feel sorry for me because I’m still single, and because I don’t have a family of my own, have to do these things.  I don’t really know what I’m doing, but I do know that H.V. changed his life in a big way with his first journey around the world.  And now I am changing mine.