Saturday, August 9, 2008
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Rain
It's gonna take a lot to drag me away from you
There's nothing that a hundred men or more could ever do
I bless the rains down in Africa
Gonna take some time to do the things we never had
- Toto, “Africa”
In case there’s any confusion, Toto is the 80’s rock group, not Dorothy’s dog from The Wizard of Oz, although he probably could better sing lines like:
The wild dogs cry out in the night
As they grow restless longing for some solitary company
I know that I must do what's right
Sure as Kilimanjaro rises like Olympus above the Serengeti
It’s only now, sitting in Africa, that I can appreciate how ridiculous that song is. I’m still not sure how a dog (or anyone, for that matter) is ever going to find solitary company, but the band gets full marks for trying to find a word to rhyme with “Serengeti”, though I would have personally gone with “spaghetti”. My guess is that the band didn’t spend much time in Africa during the rainy season before they penned this song, because if they had, they likely wouldn’t be blessing the rain.
Of course, this is just the grouchy batauri in me speaking. The local residents do bless the rains, because they are dependent on them for survival. Despite the immense wealth that Nigeria enjoys from its oil reserves, it remains essentially an agrarian society, its citizens relying on subsistence agriculture to carry them from year to year. If you had told me in March that the parched landscape around me would soon produce more than dust devils and my chronic cough, I would have reckoned you were crazier than a cactus cuddler. Nuttier than a one-armed rattlesnake milker. Loonier than a coyote…..you get the idea.
But the rains did come, and it would be difficult to overstate the dramatic transformation of the countryside. If you blindfold me now and drop me 200 feet from my house, it would take me some time to recognize where I am. Of course, the same was true before the rain began, so this might not be the best gauge. But the speed of the growth of the grass and other plants is startling, as though they’ve been conditioned to maximize their existence before the rain disappears. Left to grow as it chooses, the greenery has even overtaken roads, reducing passing lanes to a single track in some places. I’m sure if I stood in one place long enough, I could grow another couple of inches taller. And gain some moss on my willy.
Not all of the growth is unplanned. As soon as the weather hinted at a change, people headed for their fields to prepare them for planting. Wielding a tool that’s a cross between a shovel and a hoe, the men dig their fields by hand, an extraordinary thing to witness. No tractor. No horse or oxen. Not even a plow. Just a shovel swung into the ground, acre after backbreaking acre. I wouldn’t last five minutes. Every morning as drove to the office, I would watch the men at work, already hours into their labour. Somewhat uncharitably, the one thought that dominated all others was not an admiration for their effort but rather a sense that there must be an easier way for them to farm the land. And the short answer to this is “Of course”. But the farming techniques we take for granted in Canada all come with a price tag that few people here can afford. With 90% of the population living on less than $2 per day, a plow might as well be a Cadillac.
Whether these men take the same amount of satisfaction in seeing their crops grow as people do with their hobby gardens back home, I don’t know. Given the stakes involved, I suspect the overwhelming feeling is rather one of relief. Whatever the case, the corn has now grown as high as an elephant’s eye, to paraphrase the old song (not from Toto, thankfully), so the first harvest will soon take place and the ground quickly replanted in an effort to make the most of the growing season, due to end in the early Fall with the final drop of rain.
The odd thing about the rain at the beginning of the season was its regularity. In Canada, storms blow in and out with little predictability. An early morning shower might not repeat itself for a week or a month. Here, I could set my watch by the approaching clouds. Almost invariably, the morning offered no clue to what would happen in the afternoon, with bright sunshine and warm temperatures befitting a brilliant summer’s day. By mid-afternoon, the clouds would slide in as though they were punching a clock and by four, one would swear the apocalypse had descended. Thunder, lightning, torrential rain and wind blowing like a hurricane’s nasty little brother. And within an hour, it was all over; any birds not blown to Cameroon tentatively resumed their songs and the storm was reduced to a memory to be replayed as déjà vu the following day.
Now that the rainy season is fully underway, that predictability is gone, replaced by a simple likelihood that the rain will fall at least once during the course of the day. This consistency has turned the dirt roads to muddy wallows, and the dampness in the air has people running to their closets to dig out the same jackets they wore during the height of the Harmattan. Perhaps it’s a sign of my adjustment to life here that I’ve also been favouring my waterproof coat lately, much to the amusement of my coworkers, who call me fully Nigerian now. The worst of the rain is still expected, as August tends to produce days of unrelenting drizzle, broken only by the occasional downpour. This makes everyday living a different kind of challenge, as even a quick trip to the store on the back of a motorbike will leave one soggy and sad. A planned trip to the South in a couple of weeks will likely exhaust my supply of garbage bags to keep everything dry. If Toto ever reunites for a tour of Nigeria, my guess is they’ll be seeking our solitary company during the dry season. It’s much easier to bless the rains when they’re not soaking you through to the skin.
There's nothing that a hundred men or more could ever do
I bless the rains down in Africa
Gonna take some time to do the things we never had
- Toto, “Africa”
In case there’s any confusion, Toto is the 80’s rock group, not Dorothy’s dog from The Wizard of Oz, although he probably could better sing lines like:
The wild dogs cry out in the night
As they grow restless longing for some solitary company
I know that I must do what's right
Sure as Kilimanjaro rises like Olympus above the Serengeti
It’s only now, sitting in Africa, that I can appreciate how ridiculous that song is. I’m still not sure how a dog (or anyone, for that matter) is ever going to find solitary company, but the band gets full marks for trying to find a word to rhyme with “Serengeti”, though I would have personally gone with “spaghetti”. My guess is that the band didn’t spend much time in Africa during the rainy season before they penned this song, because if they had, they likely wouldn’t be blessing the rain.
Of course, this is just the grouchy batauri in me speaking. The local residents do bless the rains, because they are dependent on them for survival. Despite the immense wealth that Nigeria enjoys from its oil reserves, it remains essentially an agrarian society, its citizens relying on subsistence agriculture to carry them from year to year. If you had told me in March that the parched landscape around me would soon produce more than dust devils and my chronic cough, I would have reckoned you were crazier than a cactus cuddler. Nuttier than a one-armed rattlesnake milker. Loonier than a coyote…..you get the idea.
But the rains did come, and it would be difficult to overstate the dramatic transformation of the countryside. If you blindfold me now and drop me 200 feet from my house, it would take me some time to recognize where I am. Of course, the same was true before the rain began, so this might not be the best gauge. But the speed of the growth of the grass and other plants is startling, as though they’ve been conditioned to maximize their existence before the rain disappears. Left to grow as it chooses, the greenery has even overtaken roads, reducing passing lanes to a single track in some places. I’m sure if I stood in one place long enough, I could grow another couple of inches taller. And gain some moss on my willy.
Not all of the growth is unplanned. As soon as the weather hinted at a change, people headed for their fields to prepare them for planting. Wielding a tool that’s a cross between a shovel and a hoe, the men dig their fields by hand, an extraordinary thing to witness. No tractor. No horse or oxen. Not even a plow. Just a shovel swung into the ground, acre after backbreaking acre. I wouldn’t last five minutes. Every morning as drove to the office, I would watch the men at work, already hours into their labour. Somewhat uncharitably, the one thought that dominated all others was not an admiration for their effort but rather a sense that there must be an easier way for them to farm the land. And the short answer to this is “Of course”. But the farming techniques we take for granted in Canada all come with a price tag that few people here can afford. With 90% of the population living on less than $2 per day, a plow might as well be a Cadillac.
Whether these men take the same amount of satisfaction in seeing their crops grow as people do with their hobby gardens back home, I don’t know. Given the stakes involved, I suspect the overwhelming feeling is rather one of relief. Whatever the case, the corn has now grown as high as an elephant’s eye, to paraphrase the old song (not from Toto, thankfully), so the first harvest will soon take place and the ground quickly replanted in an effort to make the most of the growing season, due to end in the early Fall with the final drop of rain.
The odd thing about the rain at the beginning of the season was its regularity. In Canada, storms blow in and out with little predictability. An early morning shower might not repeat itself for a week or a month. Here, I could set my watch by the approaching clouds. Almost invariably, the morning offered no clue to what would happen in the afternoon, with bright sunshine and warm temperatures befitting a brilliant summer’s day. By mid-afternoon, the clouds would slide in as though they were punching a clock and by four, one would swear the apocalypse had descended. Thunder, lightning, torrential rain and wind blowing like a hurricane’s nasty little brother. And within an hour, it was all over; any birds not blown to Cameroon tentatively resumed their songs and the storm was reduced to a memory to be replayed as déjà vu the following day.
Now that the rainy season is fully underway, that predictability is gone, replaced by a simple likelihood that the rain will fall at least once during the course of the day. This consistency has turned the dirt roads to muddy wallows, and the dampness in the air has people running to their closets to dig out the same jackets they wore during the height of the Harmattan. Perhaps it’s a sign of my adjustment to life here that I’ve also been favouring my waterproof coat lately, much to the amusement of my coworkers, who call me fully Nigerian now. The worst of the rain is still expected, as August tends to produce days of unrelenting drizzle, broken only by the occasional downpour. This makes everyday living a different kind of challenge, as even a quick trip to the store on the back of a motorbike will leave one soggy and sad. A planned trip to the South in a couple of weeks will likely exhaust my supply of garbage bags to keep everything dry. If Toto ever reunites for a tour of Nigeria, my guess is they’ll be seeking our solitary company during the dry season. It’s much easier to bless the rains when they’re not soaking you through to the skin.
Saturday, July 5, 2008
The Pie Nazi
The menu at the Crystal Palace in Abuja comes with the following warning: “Beware the food at roadside stands. You may be putting your life in danger!” A bit extreme, perhaps, but experience has shown that menus in Nigeria should at least come with a warning label that the food you receive may not resemble the order you placed. In some cases, this may be a good thing. Sitting at a roadside eatery in Gusau, Kristel and I examined the extensive list of breakfast options and debated whether we should take a chance on the “cock out with custard” before deciding that it was a dish best left unexplored.
On another occasion, we did make the mistake of placing an order for breakfast. It seemed safe enough. The Suhljuiced Breakfast Bar in Abuja was bright and clean, its staff apparently wide awake and ready to please. So my order of waffles with butter and syrup appeared to be bland and uncomplicated, especially compared to Kristel’s banana and Nutella challenge. When she opened up her breakfast box and found only a thin Nutella coating on her waffle and her banana MIA, I gave a supportive shake of the head while secretly thanking the breakfast gods for smiling on me, since the odds of lightning striking twice and both of our orders being screwed up was surely on par with picking the right numbers in the 6/49.
Sure enough, my waffle arrived in perfect condition, with a pat of butter melting leisurely in the centre and syrup running in all directions to provide a flawless coating. As the staff dusted off a banana from a back cupboard that they had apparently been saving for a special occasion, I smugly dug into my waffle. The first bite met expectations, the second one decidedly less so. Kristel noticed my grimace and asked what was wrong. “I think there’s something wrong with this butter,” I said, “I think it’s a little off”. The strength of our relationship was then put to the test, as I speared another square of waffle and said, “Here, try this.”, which is the gastronomical equivalent of asking, “Does this look infected?” Gamely putting the suspect piece in her mouth, Kristel chewed for a moment with that faraway look in her eyes that one gets when trying to identify a taste that defies recognition. Brightening suddenly, she said triumphantly, “No, it’s not off," she said, “It’s mayonnaise!”
It’s a true sign of my experience in Nigeria that this really came as no surprise and even more indicative of my time here that my gag reflex wasn’t triggered. Instead, I calmly walked over to our waitress and mentioned the curiosity that my breakfast had become. She shrugged and said it might have had something to do with using the same knife that had previously rested in the mayonnaise container. When I suggested that the combination of mayonnaise and syrup was best left to haute cuisine and requested a replacement, I received the blank stare that is apparently the universally recommended response for service providers faced with a demanding customer, followed by the inevitable sigh and a muttered comment that clearly translated to “Like, whatever”. Waving off the butter this time, I chose to go with the syrup straight up, and Kristel watched with amusement as I waited and fumed, her own Nutella and banana creation long ago consumed.
But all of these misadventures pale in comparison to my encounter with the Pie Nazi. With Kristel’s birthday coming up soon, I decided to find her an apple pie, her dessert of choice. Apples don’t exist in abundance in Nigeria; in fact, I’d be hard pressed to recall seeing any apple trees in the country since I’ve been here. As it turned out, her birthday coincided with the start of our stay in Abuja to facilitate the in-country training for VSO rookies, so this would hopefully make my search somewhat easier. If any place was going to have apple pies, surely it would be the capital city of the country. I was given the name and number for an upscale bakery by one of our VSO comrades. She said she had received instructions from the owner of the bakery that orders for special items like apple pies must be received at least a week in advance. “Or he may have said ordering a week in advance is too early," she said, “ I couldn’t really understand him. Anyway, good luck and save me a pie!” This is what’s known as foreshadowing.
On the designated day for ordering, ominously enough being Friday the 13th, I called the number:
“Yeah?”
“Hello? Is this Cherry’s?”
“Whaaaaat?”
“Is this Cherry’s?”
“Yeah, what do you want?”
“I want to order an apple pie, please”
“Whaaaaaat?”
“I WANT TO ORDER A PIE”
“OK. OK. You come in and place order.”
“I can’t come in. I’m in Kafanchan, I’m two hours away from you”
“Whaaaaaat?”
“I’M IN KAFANCHAN.”
“OK. OK. You send someone in to order pie.”
“I can’t do that. I’ll be there to buy the pie on June 20th, next Friday”
“OK. OK. How many pies you want?”
“Just one.”
“You want just one pie?”
“Yes, I want only one…..Phone disconnects.
Redial
“Yeah?”
“Hi, I just called about the apple pie.”
“Yeah?”
“So, I want to come in and buy one apple pie. Only one pie. Next Friday, June 20th”
“Yeah. OK. OK. Bye bye.”
Not exactly bursting with confidence at this point, I followed up the calls with a text message to confirm my order and hoped for the best. The following week, I arrived in Abuja on the Thursday and decided it might be a good idea to visit my friend to make sure everything was set for the next day. Arriving at the bakery, I found it to be very upscale, the type of store that would fit in among the chichi shops of Bloor Street. I approached the counter and said I was there to confirm my order for tomorrow. Receiving the familiar blank stare, I asked if the owner was available, and the cashier rushed to the side of the store and whispered something to a man with his back to me. With an annoyed shrug of his shoulder, he brushed the cashier back to her post and turned to deal with me:
“Yeah?”
“Hi, I called you last week. I ordered a pie for tomorrow.”
“Yeah?”
“Ummm, I just wanted to make sure the order was OK and will be ready tomorrow.”
“Yeah, sure. Tomorrow, you come and buy a pie, like this one.”
He pointed at the display case, where a lonely apple turnover sat forlornly on a plate.
“Right, but I want a whole apple pie, not just one piece.”
“That is apple pie.”
“Right, but I want many pieces of pie. Not just one.”
“That is apple pie.”
“But I want a big, BIG pie!” I helpfully gestured with my arms in a circle in front of me.
“That is only pie.”
“So, you’re telling me that is the only size of pie you have?”
“Yeah”
“Can you make a big pie?”
“No”
Visions of the six people attending Kristel’s birthday dinner having to divvy up one apple turnover started to dance in my head.
“OK, so can I have six apple pies tomorrow?”
“Maybe, lemme check”
At this point, he stormed off to the back of the store, likely for his smoke break. Returning minutes later, he placed HIS order:
“Tomorrow, you come in the morning. You may get six pies. You may get five. I dunno.”
He shrugged his shoulders to indicate the end of the conversation.
In Canada, I would have told him how many pies he could shove in his pie-hole, but in Nigeria, he remained my best hope for apple pie, so I smiled and wished him a good day and said I would see him tomorrow.
The next day, I kept one eye on my watch as a full morning of preparation for the in-country training rolled by. I was sure that if I arrived one minute past noon, the Pie Nazi would refuse to sell me any pies. Likely, he would stand there and eat all six of them in front of me. So, by 11, I made the flimsiest of excuses to leave Kristel in the VSO office and dashed to Cherry’s to meet my deadline. Rushing in through the front door, I found him standing behind the counter in the same location as the day before. I resisted the urge to point to my watch and declare, “I’m here! I’m here!”. Turning around, he greeted me with a nod of his head. Or maybe it was just a twitch.
“Hello, I’m here to pick up my pies.”
“Yeah, today, you get four pies. That’s all.”
And that was all. Service with a snarl. Resigning myself to the fact that I would never see the two remaining pies, I boosted my order with the addition of two chocolate éclairs and left the store muttering a curse that his éclair would always be limp.
In the end, the effort was worth it. Kristel loved her apple pie and the rest of the dinner guests enjoyed their desserts as well. And I had a great story to tell as we finished off our meal. But I hope this will also serve as a cautionary tale for all of those seeking pastry in Abuja. Beware the Pie Nazi. His creations may be sweet, but he is definitely not a treat.
On another occasion, we did make the mistake of placing an order for breakfast. It seemed safe enough. The Suhljuiced Breakfast Bar in Abuja was bright and clean, its staff apparently wide awake and ready to please. So my order of waffles with butter and syrup appeared to be bland and uncomplicated, especially compared to Kristel’s banana and Nutella challenge. When she opened up her breakfast box and found only a thin Nutella coating on her waffle and her banana MIA, I gave a supportive shake of the head while secretly thanking the breakfast gods for smiling on me, since the odds of lightning striking twice and both of our orders being screwed up was surely on par with picking the right numbers in the 6/49.
Sure enough, my waffle arrived in perfect condition, with a pat of butter melting leisurely in the centre and syrup running in all directions to provide a flawless coating. As the staff dusted off a banana from a back cupboard that they had apparently been saving for a special occasion, I smugly dug into my waffle. The first bite met expectations, the second one decidedly less so. Kristel noticed my grimace and asked what was wrong. “I think there’s something wrong with this butter,” I said, “I think it’s a little off”. The strength of our relationship was then put to the test, as I speared another square of waffle and said, “Here, try this.”, which is the gastronomical equivalent of asking, “Does this look infected?” Gamely putting the suspect piece in her mouth, Kristel chewed for a moment with that faraway look in her eyes that one gets when trying to identify a taste that defies recognition. Brightening suddenly, she said triumphantly, “No, it’s not off," she said, “It’s mayonnaise!”
It’s a true sign of my experience in Nigeria that this really came as no surprise and even more indicative of my time here that my gag reflex wasn’t triggered. Instead, I calmly walked over to our waitress and mentioned the curiosity that my breakfast had become. She shrugged and said it might have had something to do with using the same knife that had previously rested in the mayonnaise container. When I suggested that the combination of mayonnaise and syrup was best left to haute cuisine and requested a replacement, I received the blank stare that is apparently the universally recommended response for service providers faced with a demanding customer, followed by the inevitable sigh and a muttered comment that clearly translated to “Like, whatever”. Waving off the butter this time, I chose to go with the syrup straight up, and Kristel watched with amusement as I waited and fumed, her own Nutella and banana creation long ago consumed.
But all of these misadventures pale in comparison to my encounter with the Pie Nazi. With Kristel’s birthday coming up soon, I decided to find her an apple pie, her dessert of choice. Apples don’t exist in abundance in Nigeria; in fact, I’d be hard pressed to recall seeing any apple trees in the country since I’ve been here. As it turned out, her birthday coincided with the start of our stay in Abuja to facilitate the in-country training for VSO rookies, so this would hopefully make my search somewhat easier. If any place was going to have apple pies, surely it would be the capital city of the country. I was given the name and number for an upscale bakery by one of our VSO comrades. She said she had received instructions from the owner of the bakery that orders for special items like apple pies must be received at least a week in advance. “Or he may have said ordering a week in advance is too early," she said, “ I couldn’t really understand him. Anyway, good luck and save me a pie!” This is what’s known as foreshadowing.
On the designated day for ordering, ominously enough being Friday the 13th, I called the number:
“Yeah?”
“Hello? Is this Cherry’s?”
“Whaaaaat?”
“Is this Cherry’s?”
“Yeah, what do you want?”
“I want to order an apple pie, please”
“Whaaaaaat?”
“I WANT TO ORDER A PIE”
“OK. OK. You come in and place order.”
“I can’t come in. I’m in Kafanchan, I’m two hours away from you”
“Whaaaaaat?”
“I’M IN KAFANCHAN.”
“OK. OK. You send someone in to order pie.”
“I can’t do that. I’ll be there to buy the pie on June 20th, next Friday”
“OK. OK. How many pies you want?”
“Just one.”
“You want just one pie?”
“Yes, I want only one…..Phone disconnects.
Redial
“Yeah?”
“Hi, I just called about the apple pie.”
“Yeah?”
“So, I want to come in and buy one apple pie. Only one pie. Next Friday, June 20th”
“Yeah. OK. OK. Bye bye.”
Not exactly bursting with confidence at this point, I followed up the calls with a text message to confirm my order and hoped for the best. The following week, I arrived in Abuja on the Thursday and decided it might be a good idea to visit my friend to make sure everything was set for the next day. Arriving at the bakery, I found it to be very upscale, the type of store that would fit in among the chichi shops of Bloor Street. I approached the counter and said I was there to confirm my order for tomorrow. Receiving the familiar blank stare, I asked if the owner was available, and the cashier rushed to the side of the store and whispered something to a man with his back to me. With an annoyed shrug of his shoulder, he brushed the cashier back to her post and turned to deal with me:
“Yeah?”
“Hi, I called you last week. I ordered a pie for tomorrow.”
“Yeah?”
“Ummm, I just wanted to make sure the order was OK and will be ready tomorrow.”
“Yeah, sure. Tomorrow, you come and buy a pie, like this one.”
He pointed at the display case, where a lonely apple turnover sat forlornly on a plate.
“Right, but I want a whole apple pie, not just one piece.”
“That is apple pie.”
“Right, but I want many pieces of pie. Not just one.”
“That is apple pie.”
“But I want a big, BIG pie!” I helpfully gestured with my arms in a circle in front of me.
“That is only pie.”
“So, you’re telling me that is the only size of pie you have?”
“Yeah”
“Can you make a big pie?”
“No”
Visions of the six people attending Kristel’s birthday dinner having to divvy up one apple turnover started to dance in my head.
“OK, so can I have six apple pies tomorrow?”
“Maybe, lemme check”
At this point, he stormed off to the back of the store, likely for his smoke break. Returning minutes later, he placed HIS order:
“Tomorrow, you come in the morning. You may get six pies. You may get five. I dunno.”
He shrugged his shoulders to indicate the end of the conversation.
In Canada, I would have told him how many pies he could shove in his pie-hole, but in Nigeria, he remained my best hope for apple pie, so I smiled and wished him a good day and said I would see him tomorrow.
The next day, I kept one eye on my watch as a full morning of preparation for the in-country training rolled by. I was sure that if I arrived one minute past noon, the Pie Nazi would refuse to sell me any pies. Likely, he would stand there and eat all six of them in front of me. So, by 11, I made the flimsiest of excuses to leave Kristel in the VSO office and dashed to Cherry’s to meet my deadline. Rushing in through the front door, I found him standing behind the counter in the same location as the day before. I resisted the urge to point to my watch and declare, “I’m here! I’m here!”. Turning around, he greeted me with a nod of his head. Or maybe it was just a twitch.
“Hello, I’m here to pick up my pies.”
“Yeah, today, you get four pies. That’s all.”
And that was all. Service with a snarl. Resigning myself to the fact that I would never see the two remaining pies, I boosted my order with the addition of two chocolate éclairs and left the store muttering a curse that his éclair would always be limp.
In the end, the effort was worth it. Kristel loved her apple pie and the rest of the dinner guests enjoyed their desserts as well. And I had a great story to tell as we finished off our meal. But I hope this will also serve as a cautionary tale for all of those seeking pastry in Abuja. Beware the Pie Nazi. His creations may be sweet, but he is definitely not a treat.
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
The Dinner Party
pot·luck (pŏt'lŭk') n. A meal at which each guest brings food that is then shared by all. Also called potluck supper.
shit·out·ta·luck (shit'out'a'lŭk') adj. What you are if you try to plan a potluck in Nigeria.
A clash of cultures always makes for an entertaining, if not entirely successful, evening. Last weekend, a sextet of VSO volunteers made the trek to Birnin Kebbi in the extreme northwest of Nigeria to visit Coco Roschaert, a fellow Canadian VSO volunteer posted there. I’ve mentioned Coco in a previous post. She has earned the admiration of many of us by volunteering in Nigeria despite her visual and hearing impairments. After visiting her in Birnin Kebbi, I think it’s safe to say that our admiration has grown exponentially. Travelling to BK is like travelling back in time to March of this year when I was convinced that Nigeria was a slightly dustier version of the Sun. Since that time, my hometowns of Kafanchan and Kagoro have received much needed rain, resulting in cooler temperatures and greener pastures. BK has not been similarly blessed as of yet, so the increase in heat made me groan as Kristel and I made our way to the heart of the desert surrounding the town. It didn’t help that I managed to spill my weekend’s supply of sunscreen all over the crotch of my pants as we rode in the car, making it look like I was extremely excited to be on the trip.
Arriving in BK is somewhat like reaching an oasis, and we both breathed a sigh of relief when we passed through the arches defining the outer reaches of the community. Coco’s intervenor, Marufat, met us in the motor park and led us to their house a short distance away. Marufat’s role as intervenor requires her to be a kind of super interpreter, acting as both eyes and ears for Coco as she makes her way through the day. Coco still has limited vision in one eye, although the Usher’s Syndrome that she suffers from will likely rob her of that as well in time. For now, her eyesight allows her to communicate with other people through lip reading and writing notes. (For more about Coco and her experiences in Nigeria, check out her blog at http://www.tactiletheworld.wordpress.com/ .)
As we were the first to arrive, Kristel and I had the opportunity to visit the school where Coco has been working since her arrival in March. Set up to provide classes for children with hearing and visual impairments as well as those who are physically and mentally challenged, the school houses about 350 students in all. It was slightly surreal to be in a schoolyard where children are freely running around and yet totally silent. Kristel and I were led around to all of the classes and introduced to all of the children, and like all of the other kids we’ve met, they enthusiastically greeted the batauris. At the end of the tour, Coco met up with the other teachers working at the school and confirmed they would be coming to her potluck dinner the next night, with an emphasis on the explanation of the term “potluck”.
The arrival of the other VSO’ers later in the day was followed by a visit to the army barracks on the outskirts of town, the only location in this Muslim town that is permitted to serve alcohol. For some reason, the site reminded me of those old films showing the effects of nuclear bomb tests, where everything in the desert is blown away by the blasts. Putting this unfortunate association behind me, I pulled up a plastic chair and sat with the others on the concrete platforms that dotted the landscape like landing pads for tiny helicopters. The next day was spent close to home, with treks to the market to buy supplies for the dinner that night being as far as we dared to travel in the heat that crept steadily upward.
Preparation for the dinner began in earnest in the late afternoon, and Coco’s kitchen was soon a flurry of activity as we began peeling the vegetables and making the salads. As with many of the smaller centres in Nigeria, the variety of vegetables in BK is fairly limited, but the local selection was supplemented by what we brought with us from our hometowns. The courses prepared were best described as eclectic, with macaroni and potato salads finding a spot on the table next to the sliced mangoes and a bowl of sardines sitting next to a plate of corned beef artistically rendered as a happy face. By six o’clock, the prep was completed and we complimented each other on the feast we had created. With the food that the other guests would be bringing, there would be more than enough food for everyone. With full hearts and empty stomachs, we waited for the teachers to arrive and the party to start.
The gang from the school arrived en masse and filtered into the living room. A slightly larger group than expected, about a dozen people, all very hungry and very empty-handed. As we greeted them, the VSO’ers all came to the same terrible realization. There wouldn’t be nearly enough food to feed everyone. Backing out of the living room with smiles on our faces, we bolted for the kitchen for a huddle and a mad search for any supplies still unused. Rummaging through the fridge, we found a pot of spaghetti sauce that had rested undisturbed for a few days. Uncovering it and expecting the worst, we each took a quick smell and put its viability to a vote. The “yea”s won a tighter contest than the one decided by hanging chads, so we had found the sauce for our jollof rice and pasta. Splitting the VSO team in half, some of the group headed back to the living room to be hospitable and stall our visitors, while the others remained in the kitchen to quickly come up with our main courses. As with most volunteers, Coco’s kitchen is best described as spartan, so even finding pots and pans for the cooking required the juggling skills of a circus star.
Eventually, a pair of guests recognized that something was strange, so they paid a visit to the kitchen to find vegetables and spices being tossed around in an effort to create a semblance of Nigerian dishes. Rolling up their sleeves, they jumped in to prevent a culinary disaster and international incident. Meanwhile, the other guests in the living room pulled out their cellphones to provide the music for an impromptu Bob Marley dance-a-thon. Rice and pasta in hand, the VSO’ers and recruited chefs brought the final pieces of the meal to the table and invited the guests to come up and serve themselves, at which point the guests refused to budge and said they expected to be served.
Now, I know this is a cultural thing and we shouldn’t judge others too harshly, but it was all the VSO’ers could do to keep from saying, “Get off your arses and come to the table.” Eventually, a compromise of sorts was reached, as two of the women from the school agreed to serve the men in the room. And they served monumental portions, with food heaped on each plate delivered. The VSO’ers tacitly agreed to wait until all others had been served, so we watched with hungry eyes as the food steadily disappeared from the table. If there had been a window, we would have pressed our noses against it. Finally, the last teacher was served and the VSO’ers descended on the table for the remaining scraps. Thankfully, with a few exceptions (notably the corned beef smiley face), there were still helpings of everything available, albeit none to compare with the mounds of food served earlier.
The meal consumed, our guests thanked us and took their leave, at which point the VSO’ers collapsed on each other and brought out the cake that we had decided would be our little secret. To be fair to our dinner guests, the concept of potluck is a foreign one to them and receiving a request to bring food to a dinner party must have been like being asked to buy your own birthday present. But the evening was not meant to be a strictly Nigerian affair – it was a chance for two groups of people to get together and experience each other’s culture, including the notion of a potluck. In the end, it felt much more like the VSO’ers were catering their dinner party, and that’s unfortunate. Hopefully, Coco will benefit in the long run from the evening, because she can use the friendship and support of the people living around her. If that proves to be the case, then the dinner party will have been well worth the effort.
shit·out·ta·luck (shit'out'a'lŭk') adj. What you are if you try to plan a potluck in Nigeria.
A clash of cultures always makes for an entertaining, if not entirely successful, evening. Last weekend, a sextet of VSO volunteers made the trek to Birnin Kebbi in the extreme northwest of Nigeria to visit Coco Roschaert, a fellow Canadian VSO volunteer posted there. I’ve mentioned Coco in a previous post. She has earned the admiration of many of us by volunteering in Nigeria despite her visual and hearing impairments. After visiting her in Birnin Kebbi, I think it’s safe to say that our admiration has grown exponentially. Travelling to BK is like travelling back in time to March of this year when I was convinced that Nigeria was a slightly dustier version of the Sun. Since that time, my hometowns of Kafanchan and Kagoro have received much needed rain, resulting in cooler temperatures and greener pastures. BK has not been similarly blessed as of yet, so the increase in heat made me groan as Kristel and I made our way to the heart of the desert surrounding the town. It didn’t help that I managed to spill my weekend’s supply of sunscreen all over the crotch of my pants as we rode in the car, making it look like I was extremely excited to be on the trip.
Arriving in BK is somewhat like reaching an oasis, and we both breathed a sigh of relief when we passed through the arches defining the outer reaches of the community. Coco’s intervenor, Marufat, met us in the motor park and led us to their house a short distance away. Marufat’s role as intervenor requires her to be a kind of super interpreter, acting as both eyes and ears for Coco as she makes her way through the day. Coco still has limited vision in one eye, although the Usher’s Syndrome that she suffers from will likely rob her of that as well in time. For now, her eyesight allows her to communicate with other people through lip reading and writing notes. (For more about Coco and her experiences in Nigeria, check out her blog at http://www.tactiletheworld.wordpress.com/ .)
As we were the first to arrive, Kristel and I had the opportunity to visit the school where Coco has been working since her arrival in March. Set up to provide classes for children with hearing and visual impairments as well as those who are physically and mentally challenged, the school houses about 350 students in all. It was slightly surreal to be in a schoolyard where children are freely running around and yet totally silent. Kristel and I were led around to all of the classes and introduced to all of the children, and like all of the other kids we’ve met, they enthusiastically greeted the batauris. At the end of the tour, Coco met up with the other teachers working at the school and confirmed they would be coming to her potluck dinner the next night, with an emphasis on the explanation of the term “potluck”.
The arrival of the other VSO’ers later in the day was followed by a visit to the army barracks on the outskirts of town, the only location in this Muslim town that is permitted to serve alcohol. For some reason, the site reminded me of those old films showing the effects of nuclear bomb tests, where everything in the desert is blown away by the blasts. Putting this unfortunate association behind me, I pulled up a plastic chair and sat with the others on the concrete platforms that dotted the landscape like landing pads for tiny helicopters. The next day was spent close to home, with treks to the market to buy supplies for the dinner that night being as far as we dared to travel in the heat that crept steadily upward.
Preparation for the dinner began in earnest in the late afternoon, and Coco’s kitchen was soon a flurry of activity as we began peeling the vegetables and making the salads. As with many of the smaller centres in Nigeria, the variety of vegetables in BK is fairly limited, but the local selection was supplemented by what we brought with us from our hometowns. The courses prepared were best described as eclectic, with macaroni and potato salads finding a spot on the table next to the sliced mangoes and a bowl of sardines sitting next to a plate of corned beef artistically rendered as a happy face. By six o’clock, the prep was completed and we complimented each other on the feast we had created. With the food that the other guests would be bringing, there would be more than enough food for everyone. With full hearts and empty stomachs, we waited for the teachers to arrive and the party to start.
The gang from the school arrived en masse and filtered into the living room. A slightly larger group than expected, about a dozen people, all very hungry and very empty-handed. As we greeted them, the VSO’ers all came to the same terrible realization. There wouldn’t be nearly enough food to feed everyone. Backing out of the living room with smiles on our faces, we bolted for the kitchen for a huddle and a mad search for any supplies still unused. Rummaging through the fridge, we found a pot of spaghetti sauce that had rested undisturbed for a few days. Uncovering it and expecting the worst, we each took a quick smell and put its viability to a vote. The “yea”s won a tighter contest than the one decided by hanging chads, so we had found the sauce for our jollof rice and pasta. Splitting the VSO team in half, some of the group headed back to the living room to be hospitable and stall our visitors, while the others remained in the kitchen to quickly come up with our main courses. As with most volunteers, Coco’s kitchen is best described as spartan, so even finding pots and pans for the cooking required the juggling skills of a circus star.
Eventually, a pair of guests recognized that something was strange, so they paid a visit to the kitchen to find vegetables and spices being tossed around in an effort to create a semblance of Nigerian dishes. Rolling up their sleeves, they jumped in to prevent a culinary disaster and international incident. Meanwhile, the other guests in the living room pulled out their cellphones to provide the music for an impromptu Bob Marley dance-a-thon. Rice and pasta in hand, the VSO’ers and recruited chefs brought the final pieces of the meal to the table and invited the guests to come up and serve themselves, at which point the guests refused to budge and said they expected to be served.
Now, I know this is a cultural thing and we shouldn’t judge others too harshly, but it was all the VSO’ers could do to keep from saying, “Get off your arses and come to the table.” Eventually, a compromise of sorts was reached, as two of the women from the school agreed to serve the men in the room. And they served monumental portions, with food heaped on each plate delivered. The VSO’ers tacitly agreed to wait until all others had been served, so we watched with hungry eyes as the food steadily disappeared from the table. If there had been a window, we would have pressed our noses against it. Finally, the last teacher was served and the VSO’ers descended on the table for the remaining scraps. Thankfully, with a few exceptions (notably the corned beef smiley face), there were still helpings of everything available, albeit none to compare with the mounds of food served earlier.
The meal consumed, our guests thanked us and took their leave, at which point the VSO’ers collapsed on each other and brought out the cake that we had decided would be our little secret. To be fair to our dinner guests, the concept of potluck is a foreign one to them and receiving a request to bring food to a dinner party must have been like being asked to buy your own birthday present. But the evening was not meant to be a strictly Nigerian affair – it was a chance for two groups of people to get together and experience each other’s culture, including the notion of a potluck. In the end, it felt much more like the VSO’ers were catering their dinner party, and that’s unfortunate. Hopefully, Coco will benefit in the long run from the evening, because she can use the friendship and support of the people living around her. If that proves to be the case, then the dinner party will have been well worth the effort.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
The Crocodile
As pickpockets go, my travelling companion was short on technique, but I gave him high marks for artistic merit, or maybe that should be con artist-ic merit. Wedging himself next to Kristel and me as we rode in the back seat of the Kaduna taxi, he presented himself as slightly deranged and more than a little infectious, as he proceeded to sneeze all over the woman seated to his right. If you’re keeping count, that’s four of us jammed into a space that should only accommodate three. Depending on the size of the commuters and their respective asses, four people can survive the fifteen-minute trip to the heart of the city by taking turns with their breathing and not being especially sensitive about where their neighbours place their hands.
Soon after sitting next to me, my new best friend started behaving even more erratically. The battle for seat space is usually won through the covert shifting of one’s buns, but this guy took the fight to a new level. He began to stand up and wag his rear end like it had spontaneously combusted. After the second time this happened, the driver of the van pulled over to the side of the road and ordered him out of the vehicle. Being well aware of how much the taxi drivers value the collection of their fares, I thought anything short of an armed robbery or projectile vomiting would be tolerated, but the door was opened and the passenger shown the street. Except he refused to move from the back seat, even when the other passengers joined in the chorus calling for his expulsion. Promising that he had learned the error of his ways, the guy settled down beside me after receiving a serious staredown from an irritated fellow seated directly in front of us.
With the door closed and the van in motion, it wasn’t long before the ass wagging started again. Daggers came our way from the rear view mirror. I started to become suspicious that the ants in my neighbour’s pants might actually be serving a nefarious purpose, so I reached for my wallet that I hoped was still there. Unfortunately, the tight squeeze in the rear end (of the van, that is) prevented me from touching it to confirm its continued presence in my back pocket. Finally, after another repetition of the tailfeather shake brought renewed complaints from the other passengers, the driver reached his breaking point and pulled the van over for a second time. There would be no third chance given. As my friend exited the van, I spun around to check for my wallet, grabbing my right butt cheek so quickly that I also earned a silent rebuke from Mr. Penetrating Stare, who had apparently decided there was still one too many freaks in the back seat. To my relief, my wallet was still there, but sure enough, the gyrations of the nearly departed had forced it almost all the way out of my pocket. Only the fact that it was overstuffed with business cards and hand-drawn maps had prevented it from popping out like an overzealous jack-in-the-box. Letting loose a sigh, I noticed the question in Kristel’s cocked eyebrow, so I let her in on my brush with the criminal mastermind and we laughed about it until we reached our stop at the market.
The attempt at thievery was notable as much for its occurrence as its ineptitude. Kaduna has become my home away from home….away from home, and despite its status as the capital and largest city in Kaduna state, it often presents the same safe vibe that Kagoro takes pride in. Petty theft likely occurs on a regular basis, but one rarely feels targeted, even when travelling after dark. In other respects, however, the city lives up to its name, for “Kaduna” translates to “crocodile” in the local dialect, and like the crocodiles that used to inhabit its main river, it has proven repeatedly in the past that it knows how to bite.
On the cusp of its centenary, Kaduna finds itself still suffering the emotional outbursts of a raging adolescent. Most of the conflict stems from the religious strife that divides the city, and in this case, the division is physical as well as spiritual. Though no formal agreement was ever drafted, the two major religions have reached a tacit understanding about where their adherents should live, so Muslims occupy the northern part of the city, while Christians inhabit the south. The line dividing the two may be invisible, but it is also palpable. Of course, there are those who choose not to recognize the recommended plan and cross the borders to live on the other side, but they form the distinct minority.
Such a divide wasn’t always in existence, but repeated clashes between Christians and Muslims led to the decision that living together but separate would reduce the number of incidents in the future. Some of the battles are infamous and have attracted worldwide attention. The most notorious of these occurred in 2002 when the Miss World pageant decided to hold its annual competition in Nigeria. A writer for one of the local papers covered the event and threw in a comment that not only would Mohammed, Islam’s prophet, have approved of the pageant, “he would probably have chosen a wife from one of them”. The Muslims in the country were outraged by this comment and a subsequent riot in Kaduna killed at least 200 people, injured another 1000 and left over 10,000 people homeless. An even bigger outbreak of violence in February of 2000 killed over 2000 people in the city. In its Muslim-Christian divide, Kaduna represents a microcosm of Nigeria as a whole. As in the city, Muslims are strongly represented in the North and Christians dominate the South. The recent adoption of the draconian Sharia law by many of the Muslim states has only made the separation that much more tense.
I can attest to that tension, although its consequences were much less severe on the day that I witnessed it. Attending a double wedding in southern Kaduna, I watched as relatives of the grooms and brides were invited to come up and say a few words to the congregation. The uncle of one of the grooms stood before the massive group of people and said that they should all thank Allah for… I couldn’t hear the rest of his sentence, because the collective gasp from the assembled throng drowned him out. Keep in mind that I said this ceremony was in southern Kaduna. Mentioning Allah in the House of God is a definite no-no in Nigeria, especially in Kaduna. Luckily, the pastor leapt to the poor man’s defence before he felt the wrath of the crowd, but he was too late to save an otherwise joyous celebration from being momentarily overshadowed by much darker thoughts.
All of this is not meant to paint Kaduna as a dour, dangerous place. The city hums with life and it has a vibrancy that is both exciting and exhausting. Prior to visiting it for the first time, my only experience in a large Nigerian city was the time I spent in Abuja. It’s not much of a stretch to say that Kaduna is about as similar to Abuja as Rome is to Ottawa. Abuja attempts to restrain chaos, while Kaduna embraces it. Plus, there’s a place in Kaduna that serves pizza with real cheese and olives. In short, this Crocodile rocks, and I’m glad I’ve been able to experience it, even if I have to put up with the odd mugger (with an emphasis on the word “odd”).
Soon after sitting next to me, my new best friend started behaving even more erratically. The battle for seat space is usually won through the covert shifting of one’s buns, but this guy took the fight to a new level. He began to stand up and wag his rear end like it had spontaneously combusted. After the second time this happened, the driver of the van pulled over to the side of the road and ordered him out of the vehicle. Being well aware of how much the taxi drivers value the collection of their fares, I thought anything short of an armed robbery or projectile vomiting would be tolerated, but the door was opened and the passenger shown the street. Except he refused to move from the back seat, even when the other passengers joined in the chorus calling for his expulsion. Promising that he had learned the error of his ways, the guy settled down beside me after receiving a serious staredown from an irritated fellow seated directly in front of us.
With the door closed and the van in motion, it wasn’t long before the ass wagging started again. Daggers came our way from the rear view mirror. I started to become suspicious that the ants in my neighbour’s pants might actually be serving a nefarious purpose, so I reached for my wallet that I hoped was still there. Unfortunately, the tight squeeze in the rear end (of the van, that is) prevented me from touching it to confirm its continued presence in my back pocket. Finally, after another repetition of the tailfeather shake brought renewed complaints from the other passengers, the driver reached his breaking point and pulled the van over for a second time. There would be no third chance given. As my friend exited the van, I spun around to check for my wallet, grabbing my right butt cheek so quickly that I also earned a silent rebuke from Mr. Penetrating Stare, who had apparently decided there was still one too many freaks in the back seat. To my relief, my wallet was still there, but sure enough, the gyrations of the nearly departed had forced it almost all the way out of my pocket. Only the fact that it was overstuffed with business cards and hand-drawn maps had prevented it from popping out like an overzealous jack-in-the-box. Letting loose a sigh, I noticed the question in Kristel’s cocked eyebrow, so I let her in on my brush with the criminal mastermind and we laughed about it until we reached our stop at the market.
The attempt at thievery was notable as much for its occurrence as its ineptitude. Kaduna has become my home away from home….away from home, and despite its status as the capital and largest city in Kaduna state, it often presents the same safe vibe that Kagoro takes pride in. Petty theft likely occurs on a regular basis, but one rarely feels targeted, even when travelling after dark. In other respects, however, the city lives up to its name, for “Kaduna” translates to “crocodile” in the local dialect, and like the crocodiles that used to inhabit its main river, it has proven repeatedly in the past that it knows how to bite.
On the cusp of its centenary, Kaduna finds itself still suffering the emotional outbursts of a raging adolescent. Most of the conflict stems from the religious strife that divides the city, and in this case, the division is physical as well as spiritual. Though no formal agreement was ever drafted, the two major religions have reached a tacit understanding about where their adherents should live, so Muslims occupy the northern part of the city, while Christians inhabit the south. The line dividing the two may be invisible, but it is also palpable. Of course, there are those who choose not to recognize the recommended plan and cross the borders to live on the other side, but they form the distinct minority.
Such a divide wasn’t always in existence, but repeated clashes between Christians and Muslims led to the decision that living together but separate would reduce the number of incidents in the future. Some of the battles are infamous and have attracted worldwide attention. The most notorious of these occurred in 2002 when the Miss World pageant decided to hold its annual competition in Nigeria. A writer for one of the local papers covered the event and threw in a comment that not only would Mohammed, Islam’s prophet, have approved of the pageant, “he would probably have chosen a wife from one of them”. The Muslims in the country were outraged by this comment and a subsequent riot in Kaduna killed at least 200 people, injured another 1000 and left over 10,000 people homeless. An even bigger outbreak of violence in February of 2000 killed over 2000 people in the city. In its Muslim-Christian divide, Kaduna represents a microcosm of Nigeria as a whole. As in the city, Muslims are strongly represented in the North and Christians dominate the South. The recent adoption of the draconian Sharia law by many of the Muslim states has only made the separation that much more tense.
I can attest to that tension, although its consequences were much less severe on the day that I witnessed it. Attending a double wedding in southern Kaduna, I watched as relatives of the grooms and brides were invited to come up and say a few words to the congregation. The uncle of one of the grooms stood before the massive group of people and said that they should all thank Allah for… I couldn’t hear the rest of his sentence, because the collective gasp from the assembled throng drowned him out. Keep in mind that I said this ceremony was in southern Kaduna. Mentioning Allah in the House of God is a definite no-no in Nigeria, especially in Kaduna. Luckily, the pastor leapt to the poor man’s defence before he felt the wrath of the crowd, but he was too late to save an otherwise joyous celebration from being momentarily overshadowed by much darker thoughts.
All of this is not meant to paint Kaduna as a dour, dangerous place. The city hums with life and it has a vibrancy that is both exciting and exhausting. Prior to visiting it for the first time, my only experience in a large Nigerian city was the time I spent in Abuja. It’s not much of a stretch to say that Kaduna is about as similar to Abuja as Rome is to Ottawa. Abuja attempts to restrain chaos, while Kaduna embraces it. Plus, there’s a place in Kaduna that serves pizza with real cheese and olives. In short, this Crocodile rocks, and I’m glad I’ve been able to experience it, even if I have to put up with the odd mugger (with an emphasis on the word “odd”).
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