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.