Of housemates and neighbours


BlueBelle's telling tail gives away her hideout
under the kitchen cupboard





Caught in hiding



 



Famished and weary Bluebelle heads to the garden and perishes :(






There's always something fresh for sale at neighbour Nancy's
(coconuts, pineapples, mango, avocado)

Joy delivers exactly that with her cheery greetings,
fresh oranges and ground nuts

Mr tailor man comes calling at the compound

This wee neighbour comes running out of nowhere and
clamps her arms around my knees with a big hug.
"What's your name?" 
"Patricia." 
"Patricia? That's my name too."
A new best friend.

27/03/2013 Wednesday while waiting

Welcome. Good morning.

Welcome. Good afternoon.

Welcome. Good evening.

Such are Nigeria’s friendly, well-schooled greetings.

Suppose I might as well multi-task while waiting for the Internet to do its thing. In conversation with a Concern Universal communications colleague based at the organization’s UK headquarters I ask if they might do some online research for us. What will take weeks here can probably be done in a few days there. Consider this: Google landing page takes about five to ten minutes to upload.  Ditto that time for sending, opening or filing a simple email without attachments, logging onto Facebook, opening a favourite news website, or hunting for and –then– opening research resources. Skype is about the only thing that’s reasonably fast. Can you imagine what it will take to research government ministries/departments for contact names at local, state and federal levels to build a stakeholder database?

Mid-afternoon, on instruction of our Finance Manager, I’m escorted by Angela and chauffeured to the bank by our driver, Johnston, so that I can cash a personal cheque for N18,600 (monies to do with Makurdi accommodations). We’re hurried past door security and ushered upstairs to the manager’s office. He extends his hand, calls me by name and asks if he can get me a drink. I’m taken aback. What’s etiquette?  Why such overt customer service? I agree only if he and Angela join me. We select our beverage from his office fridge and settle in for small talk. Banking the Nigerian way is nasty. Savings accounts pay 3 to 4% interest. Mortgages can be had for 18% and personal loans for a mere 24%.  “I make my money on the spread,” Mr Big Boss banker beams. And he IS big. A healthy belly sags over his belt. It’s so very lovely and cool in his air conditioned office.  Fifteen minutes later monies are brought to the office by an assistant. She hands a stack of N1000s to Mr Banker who hands them over to me. No counting. More pleasantries exchange, a few more sips of pop and we take our leave. Under Angela’s “go quick!” insistence we dash from the bank’s front door to the car.

6:30pm:  Poor Bluebelle  When I first moved into this house I spotted a lizard dart under the cooker. Collins and I did a cursory room check and all seemed clear. Until today.  There on the kitchen floor when I came home from work, sat Bluebelle. It scampered under the cupboard just far enough in to maybe feel like it was hidden. I got a great snap of its telling tail and wedged body. Eventually Collins coaxed it out with a broom handle and pushed it to the door. Sidebar: damn it - 6:45 and napa’s out already?!  Anyhow, the poor thing perished in the garden. I suspect it was a combination of no food or water for weeks (months?) and a good broom whack during the height of its capture and release. Lizards are to Nigeria as squirrels are to Canada: plentiful, cute and largely ignored. At least they eat insects rather than carry them. 

What lizards, insects and other weird and wonderful things will present this weekend and next? Adventures are populating the social calendar. First stop: Akpap. It’s the remote village seasoned VSO’er and Calabar colleague, Christine, calls home; the place where mangrove forests thrive and the river is swimmable.  Check out this Concern Universal vid for a visual sense:

http://www.concern-universal.org/saving_nigeria039s_mangroves

 A new friend is coming along for the ride. Kim, 26 years young, hails from Holland. We learned of each other through Calabar’s informal Diaspora network of western women. In this town if you’re white you’re an instant friend. We met yesterday for dins, enjoyed Nigerian BBQ and quaffed pop. This baby girl is amazing! She’s a primate specialist.  The club scene is not her gig as much as the "let's go hiking" thing. SOoooo. We're going on a journey. We leave next Thursday, April 4^th for the Afi Mountains where one of Africa’s most endangered primates, the Drill Monkey, can be found. We’re there till Saturday then travel to the rainforests of Obudu and Cattle Ranch Resort for Sat-Sun-Mon. Travel back the 9th. Return to our offices Wednesday the 10th.  She’s booked our accommodations. I’m looking into transportation with Concern’s drivers and trucks.

I can't think of a better companion to be visiting monkey territory with!  For her Master’s Degree Kim spent a year deep in old growth forests of Borneo, Malaysia tracking orangutangs. Her research was part of a brand new international study examining the vocalization habits of these fascinating creatures. Base camp was a good 20 km inside an area unscathed by modern man. Her days would often start at three in the morning so that she could be at the nest before the group stirred. She’d track her subjects through swamp land, emerging covered in leaches, and up over climbable mountains. Kim drank from crystal clear waterfalls, encountered a wild cat and her kittens, lived in primitive conditions and loved every minute of it. To say the people, politics and conditions of the primate sanctuary she signed on to manage here in Calabar for two years is a disappointment, is a gross understatement. After just three months she’s tendered her resignation. The organization hasn’t even bothered to ask her why. Huh that?

I don't expect our travel to be half as extreme as Kim’s Borneo adventure. Regardless, I need to equip myself with a pair of high cut runners from the market. Hiking boots would be ideal but they’re impossible to find. Funny thing, the clothes and shoes piled in heaps for sale at market are used items. It donned on me when I saw a woman washing a pair of shoes (?!) They were lathered with soap - being scrubbed clean for resale. This is one truly mind-twisting world.

 

Picture stories



Bone jarring "highway" from Calabar to Makurdi

Traditional thatched roofed houses clustered under an umbrella tree

Mango pit stop

military chop stop

 

 

25/03/2103 – A Monday of littles

Little comforts of home equal big moments of joy. Sunday night I had a wee window of power (without internet access) and watched a flick (thanks Dad).

Today Christine invites me to go swimming after work with her two boys Josh (6?) and Michael (4). N1000 gets you into an almost Olympic sized pool at the Princesomething hotel. The water is warm but damn it feels sooooooo good. Of the 20 or so people there, I’m one of the littlest sveltest ones (go figure – pun intended).

Which reminds me: back in Abuja Stacey tells about a focus group she is invited to monitor. Not knowing they’re being watched, the young women participants say things to one another like: “oh I wish my belly was as big and round as yours.” Now wouldn’t that make for a stellar Dove love yourself as you are ad back in North America?

 

Another small comfort is on my plate at this very moment: cucumber and tomato salad. 

 

It’s the little things, as they say, that make all the difference.

A little frustration like lousy internet service is a different-kind-of case in point. Pour moi, not only does it create keep in touch problems, it makes getting anything done at work near impossible.  Lekan, the IT guy has been instructed to keep wifi on after work hours. He’s sporadic about this, like daytime power.  He’s also been asked by the Big Guy and me to modify my Concern Universal e-addy. He’s insistent the extra dash is “no problem.”  No problem? How about not being able to send or receive messages and hearing from others that their messages bounce back?  I need to figure out what little things make all the difference in this guy’s world cuz he definitely needs to be on this gal’s best friend A-list.

Gated suburban community outside of Abuja -Nigeria's capital

Parlour of high level government officer; kitchen/dinning room in background

Stacey and Pat

Infamous Collins

Effion and Christine A

24/03/2012 No napa Sunday

Computer battery is running low. Above title says it all. Energy hasn’t been one once since I woke. Day is spent hand laundering and reading. Time to prep dins before sun sets and darkness covers us with her blanket.

23/03/2013 – Saturday at home

Today is the quintessential domestic Nigerian day. Marketing in the morning and cleaning in the afternoon. Found a cockroach the size of my thumb. Lovely.

It’s now kick back with a bottle of Star beer time. Collins is visiting, chowing down on ground nuts (peanuts) and plantain chips, glued to TV. The football world cup qualifier between Nigeria and Kenya is today’s town talk, especially since it’s happening just down the road at Calabar stadium. As he watches I begin this catchup:

Bright and early Wednesday I catch a ride to Abuja with Salihu, Chief Officer of water quality and sanitation control for the Nigerian federal government, and his scientist counterpart, Yemisisas, a petite soft spoken woman with stylish flare.  En route we buy bags of giant and supremely sweet “Julie” mangos to share with our colleagues back at the office. Salihu makes a pit-stop at his home in a gated suburb. His wife is professor of chemistry at a neighbouring State university so I have North American expectations for the residence of this well-placed-and-paid family. Instead it’s a slap up the side of the head to see very basic surroundings: a grey painted and peeling cement floor just like mine, walls the colour of light mangos just like mine, and matching drapes hanging across door entranceways and windows just like mine. 

Sidebar I: Nigerians, it’s since been explained, have little appetite for decorating. Hence, the lack of art works and crafts. This must be the reason behind all those plastic flower stalls I keep seeing; despite a veritable treasure trove of exquisite exotic flowers, plastics here reign supreme.

Recounting my Salihu’s-house observation to a seasoned VSO colleague, she asks, “Does he have at flat screen TV?” Yup. “Air conditioning?” Check.  “And two separate homes?” Uh huh. “He’s definitely privileged and quite possibly on the take.”

Seemingly everyone is.  You’re forever negotiating the cost of any purchase– an extra N20-50-100-or better is always better for the pocket. You pay chop (eat) money at military and other road stops. Siphoning, nepotism and bribes are expected and accepted norms. Elected local government officials are generally “voted” into their positions as a reward of or by sheer blood relationship to State officials. Dunno how they work around the election process, but they do.

Over the next few VSO days I see and hear other different, disturbing practices. For instance, during a gender sensitization session with colleagues and their placement counterparts (aka employers) an elderly gent, head of another State’s education system, asks in all seriousness, “How many of you have been bossed by a woman? I have and it was horrible.” Stacey, a delightful young woman from the UK pipes up “And we have all had horrible men as bosses, no?!” The room cracks up. Stacey’s pissed and ready to rampage.

“Here in Nigeria the more successful a woman is, the less likely she is to marry. In fact the Federal Minister of Finance was divorced by her husband when she was appointed to the post. Meanwhile in the Netherlands, gender equality is so far advanced that when a baby is born the mother and father must take the same amount of time off. If the mother is home with the baby for seven months, the father must be home with the baby for seven months. This time is taken separate from each other.”

Mr Education scoffs and talks over Stacey, dismissing her from the room.

“Ha, what would a man do all day? That is just ridiculous.” His male counterparts giggle.

“The man changes napees just like the mother.” Stacey retorts. “The mother expresses milk from her breast and the father feeds the baby with bottles of her milk. The man also cooks for his wife so there is food on the table when she gets home after work. And he cleans.”

More laughter.

 Really rankled, Stacey starts rattling off stats. “Did you know out of a survey of 187 countries - to find out where the best places are for a woman to live - Nigeria ranks 161? Only 26 countries are worse than Nigeria. That is a terrible thing!”

Official conversation moves off in other directions. Stacey and her liberal-minded male cohort, Francis, carry sidebar discussions that also veer off in all sorts of directions. At one point for some reason I miss Francis asks, “What is sodomy?”

“It is what two men do together, or a man and a woman if they wish.”
“It is a good thing, a pleasurable thing?”

That launches lots of sex talk.

* In Benue, where I’ve just been, attitudes towards sex are wildly out of control. Muslim men still commonly albeit quietly present their male guests with the gift of intimate company from one of their many wives. Tradition prevails in the face of HIV/AIDs.
* Also in Benue, extra marital and multiple partner activity is commonplace. No gender discrimination in the field of play, both men and women partake. It should come as no surprise then, that Benue is Nigeria’s HIV/AIDs capital.

* Across the nation older women in polygamous marriages suffer unprecedented rates of depression. With the husband favouring newer and younger wives, many of these first wives have not had touch in decades. They are often seen sneaking off to hotels for rendezvous’ with other willing partners. Yet another conduit for HIV/AIDs.

• In northern parts of Kwara State, where Stacey and Francis are based, Muslim men restrict their women to the compounds where they live. Repression unabated. “You can literally go weeks in these areas without seeing a single woman.”
• To the south, Ibo tradition treats women more favourably however other types of horror stories come from these parts. Example 1: There are some Cross Rivers State communities that believe in witches and wizards. Child witches suffer at the hands of religious zealots who cite crying, among other natural childish behaviours, as demonic signs. Children are exorcised by hammering nails into their heads or they’re killed as ritual sacrifice.

Sidebar II: On Friday evening over dinner drinks Leanne, a young white woman working on her PhD in anthropology, tells me she found a ten year old boy lying in the streets outside her Calabar home. Nails had been hammered into his head. Hospital refused to provide treatment: “He is a witch and will do terrible things here.”  She ends up taking him to an organization for abandoned maltreated children.”

• Example 2: Seemingly BBC ran an expose on people gone missing in the local government area of Ugep, Cross Rivers. Rumour has it these unwitting folk were killed for fun and cannibalistic ritual.  SidebarIII: A quick Google search did not verify this. Stacey says she’ll forward details, which in turn I’ll pass along too.

Stacey, by the by, is a fun-loving foodie, a Scottish lass with an awesome command of Nigerian speak. Wednesday evening we find ourselves along with Esly (the Dutchess) and Lyndsey (newly arrived Canadian-betrothed-to-a-Nigerian) at an outdoor restaurant, aka Bush Bar, feasting on pick and kill pepe fish. Essentially you point to a catfish in the bush bar’s tanks. They kill it, gut it, season it with a spicy hot pepper sauce, wrap it in foil, slow cook it over an open fire and bring it to your table still foil wrapped and Yummmy. It’s here that I quaff my first beer. It very nearly puts me on my butt.

Thursday Stacey and I take off from VSO’s offices mid-afternoon. Healthy-sized, lazy-eyed, good-natured Francis joins us. We find a pet store that carries choke chains – the perfect training tool for Lola and Whiskey. Next stop: Abuja’s one and only arts and crafts centre. It’s conveniently located beside the Sheraton Hotel, temporary home to wealthy travellers. Mid-way through the thatch-roofed collection of artisans and wares Stacey and I spot a 3’ x 4’ acrylic painting depicting market frenzy. The artist, Tola, tells us his works are in UN and other corporate and individual noteworthy collections.  Truth or fiction? Whatever. We talk and work out a price that’s just so cannot-quibble affordable.  This lovely colourful scene will add much needed punch to drab quarters and inject a sense of home. Problem is, I don’t have sufficient funds on me and we’re expected at a group VSO dinner in less than 30 minutes. Tola graciously offers to deliver the work to the hotel later in the evening and agrees to accept U.S. dollars.

Dinner at Abuja’s renowned Wakkis turns out to be a meat-fest. Preceded by a smooth sweet Lassi, it all tastes so good - at the beginning. Chicken wings, ground beef somosas, tandoori chicken, roasted lamb, curry fish.  Well before the last course, though, I’m meated out and dealing with an unhappy stomach.

Down but not finished, Stacey and I grab one last brew together at the night club next to Crystal Palace, our Abuja home away from home. We swap stories, trade contact info and promise to keep in touch. Tola delivers. The night winds down. Shut eye time arrives.

Sidebar IV: Power’s out. It reliably shuts off around 8pm every night. What I thought was intermittent when I first arrived is predictable after all. No power means no fans and no fans means hot and sweaty, and hot and sweaty means I think I’ll pass on going Saturday night clubbing with some of the other white women of Calabar. Leanne, the PhD anthropologist is one. Sarah a Brit VSO’er working with Girl Power is another.  Rain-check please and thanks.

                                             
Friday is largely uneventful. Flight back is delayed slightly. While waiting I strike up conversation with a woman who turns out to be a scientists with Nigeria’s federal agriculture department. Her area of focus is cocoa – chocolate! Her colleague tells me his speciality is genetically modified maize. By the end of a 15 minute exchange, they’ve taken my picture with each of them and I’ve been asked and obligingly flash them. (No I’m not flashing flesh! It’s a street term for dialing their phone; when the call comes through they add your number to their contact list). As we part I’m told they’ll come visiting Calabar sometime soon, bearing gifts of chocolate wine!

Days of air conditioned pampering increase sensitivity to the heat and humidity of home. Nausea sets in fast. Add in sensitive stomach syndrome and I opt to lie down for the hotter part of the afternoon.  Just as I’m about to doze a text message comes bleeping in, then another and another. It’s Aswini, a VSO’er in town from Kwara; housemate of Esly and Stacey. A good week or more ago we agreed to get together. No chance of reneging on this one, it’s Freddy’s for seven.

Aswini is a strong-souled New Yorker of Chennai India origin. She wears her beautiful long black hair in a single braid that hangs to her waist. In due course Sarah arrives with another white gal pal. Both brunettes wear daring-for-Nigeria short black dresses. Both present as party girls and from Sarah’s stories partying with uninhibited abandon is indeed her hallmark. Leanne shows up in a demure sleeveless cotton dress. Her fair skin and blonde hair stand out with striking simplicity. 

I tell the table how I find a pot of boiled water left standing on the stove while I travel, on return is seething with little white somethings. They make me think of the “sea monkeys” comic books once advertised way back when. Oh how I’d wanted pet sea monkeys.

“Those squiggly things are worms,” Leanne cautions. “You must be watchful for them. They can be found in food. I once cut into a mango and it was full. That is also why people iron their clothes.”

"Iron their clothes?”
“Yes, those worms can get into your garments. It is important to dry your clothes in the sun and to iron afterwards.”
If that’s not gross enough, Sarah adds that these worms burrow into your skin.
Nice.

20/03/2013 Wednesday back in Abuja
Very tired. Doing a quick cut'n'paste and going to bed....

17/03/2013 Sunday in Makurdi, Benue

Lots doin’ over the last while. I’m sitting in my room at Haf Haven hotel in Makurdi, Benue State writing this catch-up with my legs crossed and curled under my butt. Why? Out of the corner of my eye I spot something run along the wall behind a couch. Rodent?  Nope. A big fat lizard! It’s now hiding under the chair in which I’m sitting.

Sidebar: LOL for real. A duo from housekeeping just chased the lizard out. Silly me – I start screaming and then clapping like a kid when it scoots across the floor and out the front door. I’m gonna have to get me one of those wispy brooms on a long stick.

So back to catch up: Thursday is sweltering hot – the sun is shining. I notice the heat in my body rising uncomfortably. By11:30, just shortly after the daily delivery of sweet biscuits arrives, my arms are sticking to the top of my desk and my face is covered in a greasy gleam.  Come 3:00, wilted and unable to concentrate, I pack up and head home, shower, and ask Patrick, one of our drivers, to drop me at the Marian Street Market for a solo adventure. I have 45 minutes to collect items from my list before Patrick returns. Walking through the market I feel like a celebrity. It's silly, funny and deeply humbling. There’s Jane, the freezer lady with chickens for 1,000N. The old fellow who sells me a good sized mat and then poses for a photo, and the fish lady who thrills at being photographed and then tries to go for a pay off, all in good fun. Goods good to go, Patrick drops me home where the next few hours are spent dressing the house. At 8pm when the power flickers, dims and dies, I’m happy to crawl into bed and call it a day.

Friday morning is overcast so the heat isn’t as intense, though an internal clock triggers sweat and clammy skin before noon. It’s becoming something of a routine. At day’s end Collins comes calling at the house. He’s spread bitter Kola nuts to keep snakes at bay and has some change for me.

“You don’t watch tv?”
“No, not really.”
“You should put it on. Make some noise. It is too quiet here.”
He flips the set on and cranks the volume so loud it’s inaudible.

Christine A..., a VSO colleague posted an hour away texts to make plans for a visit. She lives in a remote village in the middle of a mangrove forest. Her household water is fetched from a stream a good walk to and from. And power? She’s lucky if it works once a week. That’s primitive. Not my cuppa, though I do hope to visit.

I pick flowers from the garden, sweep floors, wipe counters, enjoy a salad of fresh mango, pineapple and coconut, upload pictures, skype type with a few folks from home, and hunker down to read by LED when the power dims and quits.

Saturday morning sleep-in is dashed when Collins calls at the front gate. It’s 7:49. Maybe if I ignore him he’ll go away. Not. He moves to outside the bedroom window, “Pat? Pat?! I have something for you Pat.”

“Oh,” long pause. “Good morning Collins. Can it wait?”
“Yes, of course. Sorry to disturb.”
Too late, the damage is done. In the blink of a Nigerian brown out I’m showered and with Collins, collecting N8,000 Ousman gave him to pass on for personal travel expenses in Makurdi. Hand-laundering smelly clothes fills the rest of the morning.

Just as the sun is about to claim its high spot in the sky Christine arrives with her counterpart, Effion. Hailing from Egyptian/Greek decent Christine is an exotic looking young woman with kinky dark hair pulled back in a casual pony-tail and soulful green-grey eyes. Born in Halifax, she calls Montreal and Florida home. She’s been on post in Nigeria for two years. Unable to pinpoint her accent, when asked she tells how she’s hard of hearing; that “accent” is her own unique signature. Effion is a petite man from the village next to the organization where he and Christine work. They appear to be friends, though as the day progresses Christine becomes the assertive boss and Effion the acquiescent help.

We travel to Watt Market. It takes a good dozen taxi pullovers before we find one that will take us; Calabar south is saddled with a not-so-good reputation. Watt Market though, is an astounding hodgepodge of human condition. Large spanking-new SUVs travel the same road as the legless beggar perched on wheeled planks of wood.  Garments lie in heaps. Shoppers hover. Vendors holler, shoppers yell back. Women, men and children weave through this pandemonium with trays of water bags and oranges and nuts balanced on their heads. The occasional waft of sewage sends me reeling. While Effion and Christine haggle over the price of a giant sack of rice, I check out a hole-in-the-wall liquor store. Gin is clearly the beverage of choice. Christine tells me, and Ousman later confirms, gin is the preferred gift for village chiefs.

Effion points out Housa housing, the Muslim peoples from the north who live on Watt Market’s fringes. It’s here where money-changers can be found. The black market. “They’re very fair,” Christine says. Finally a place to exchange U.S. dollars; I wonder if they’ll take the bundles of ones and fives no one seems to want.

Dinner finds us at Freddy’s. Calabar’s finest turns out to be an overpriced haunt for the rich and cravers of “Lebanese” food. Meh. Not worth it.

My guests leave early evening. I pack for early morning.

The drive to Makurdi is bone jarring. What Nigerian’s call their main highway is a two lane road sometimes paved but more often just a simple dirt road so badly pitted it rivals mogul mounds. For six and a half brutal hours our driver plays dodge the potholes. At one point we pass a motorbike with driver, passenger, and a subdued hog hog-tied between them.  “Drive-through fast-food” takes on a whole new meaning at the gas bar where women and children clamber around our vehicle to hawk their wares. Ousman purchases ground nuts and bananas.

Crossing from Cross River State into Benue State, housing changes from square concrete block structures with tin roofing to round mud huts with thatched roofing. These traditional African homes are clustered in communal circles beneath towering palms.

                                                                              
Pulling into Haf Haven, we settle into our rooms, grab a bite then convene in the hotel’s conference room. For two and a half hours Ousman and his team decide their workshop agenda. It baffles to realize nothing formal is in place until this very last moment; all will likely change again tomorrow. It appears some 35 delegates are in for a seat-of-the-pants event.

18/03/2013 – Monday: Day One of the Global Sanitation Fund (GSF) Workshop

Workshop attendance exceeds expectations. Literally. Invited guests have taken the liberty to invite others. Concern Universal’s quandary is to manage expenses. Haf Haven hotel is full to capacity. There’s no room at the inn for all participants.  Not a bad situation to be in, I suppose. It shows a definite interest. It also illustrates how people jump at the opportunity to stay in air conditioned lodgings and collect travel expenses on someone else’s tab.

Sidebar: During tea break we’re served meat pies and BBQd gizzards. As I struggle to bite through the spiced meat it flings off my toothpick, smacks my neighbour’s cheek, falls onto his sleeve, leaves a stain and plunks to the floor. I’m mortified. “Sorry! Sorry!” we exchange.  If there’s a situation that deserves an apology, regardless of where fault lies, Nigerian’s share the pain.  

Lunch brings me to a table of women.  Everyone sits in silence except inquisitive you know who. Answers are brief.  Tony, one of my Concern Universal colleagues, explains after the fact that etiquette is to eat quietly. “As a child I was instructed not to talk and to eat meat last. I don’t worry about the meat rule so much anymore. But silence, yes.” Ah hah, meanwhile back in Canada mealtimes are times for catch up and socializing. Mental note: mind shift required.

Take away observation from today’s workshop:

At breakout session the presence of Benue State’s General Manager of Water & Sanitation impedes/intimidates input (and consequently important hands-on learning) from underlings and representatives of local government agencies. “Big Boss” syndrome prevails.

The villagers to whom this program is targeted need very basic handholding. To quote the GM’s explanation:
“You ask them: ‘Where do you shit? Show me.’
They take you to a bush at river’s edge.
‘You shit in the river?’
‘Yes’
‘Where do you get your drinking water?’
‘From the river.’
‘So you drink your shit.’”
~ Ah hah moment.

Village women play an enormous communications role in program outreach. Streams, rivers and boreholes where they meet daily to fetch water and catch up on local gossip are the very conduits that facilitate information sharing. Get to the women and you’re half-way home.

 

Contrary to naïve supposition, attendance at this workshop is not motivated by interest. Nigerian practise pays people to attend meetings.  Lively discussions around per diem payment consumes the last hour. Attendees point out Concern Universal’s daily subsistence allowance of N16,000 (4,000 for food and 12,000 for accommodations) pales in comparison to UNICEF’s N25,000 rate.

 

At day’s end, energized and ready to blow off steam all six of us Concern Universal folk pile into two trucks to tour Makurdi. We cross Benue River a wide sludge brown waterway that provides livelihoods for fisherman and drinking water for residents, and is used by many to cool, wash and empty the body. We pass a woman, disoriented and naked, walking roadside. We stop to shop at a handful of stalls offering traditional Benue cloth woven or dyed in black and white patterns. I snag a funky tie-dye scarf and a wicked horse tail duster (sorry Jennifer) to hang on my walls.

Back at the hotel we meet for a debriefing. Discussion turns to the matter of Daily Subsistence Allowances and a policy that restricts staff from claiming the full accommodation rate. Unfair! cries Janet, CU’s anorexic-thin, high-strung logistics planner. Considerable soul-searching-later Ousman and Finance Manager, Aishat (silent t), agree the policy is unfair and should be revised. They decide all six of us will receive the balance between the actual cost of our hotel rooms and the N12,000 accommodation rate. The difference adds up to a sweet N15,000 each.

Just before wrap up I ask whether any of our delegates are from Abuja so that I might hitch a ride back to the State Capital for VSO meetings. If not, “I’ll need a lift to the local bus company in Makurdi sometime tomorrow so that I can buy a ticket.”

“Public transport by road?”Aishat asks.

“Yes, I’m to take buses when travelling for VSO.”

“That’s not right. We have a strict public-transport policy. You’re one of us. We’re responsible for your safety. Public buses are out of the question.”

“Well Dashun the last VSO volunteer took buses,” Janet pipes up.

“Because we did it incorrectly for Dashun doesn’t mean we should repeat that error again.” Ousman asserts. “We need to book Pat a flight.”

Wow. Really? Generous travel allowances and flight privileges?! Today brings fortuitous blessings.

 

19/03/2013 – Tuesday: Day Two GSF Workshop in Makurdi

Official delegates from the State of Benue bestow two royalty titles upon flattered, humbled and more than a little embarrassed me.

Torkwase u Tiv = Queen of Tiv

Ochanya k’Idoma = Queen of Idoma

This show of friendship comes by virtue of my skin colour and the fact that I’m wearing the Benue scarf purchased yesterday which bonds me to the people.

It’s a form of honorary recognition and respect and seemingly, will endear me to the peoples of Tiv and Idoma should I have occasion to visit communities. Whether these nicknames will ever be used is beyond me though Tony tells me if chiefs in these regions catch wind of my titles I could be in for celebratory dance and formal naming ceremonies.

My new Benue friends kid about my becoming a wife to the Kings of Tiv and Idoma.
“I’ll have to check them out first,” I say.
“You wouldn’t want them. I know your society. They have already five wives and many concubines.”
“Well in that case you’re right. I’ll pass”
We share a good laugh.
Talk shifts to sexists notions in Nigeria.
In pidgin the term to describe “players” – men who love to love many women
= woman wrapper. It also refers to the man i) who is under the total control of his wife; she sends him to the kitchen to do all the domestic chores and ii) men always in the company of women.

A few other expressions I’m taught in the Tiv language (from Benue State):

Msughur (mmsu gaaaa)  = hello, thank you

 

U nder nena  (ooon dar nayna) = good morning

U pande nena (ooo panday nayna) = good evening (could also be afternoon greeting)

Msughur za van (mmsu gaaaa za van) = welcome

Mngerem (mnn garem) = water

Hgungwa (hue-ng-wa) = toilet

Chahul  (as it looks) = soap

Mtwem (mmmtwem) = ashes

(mmm sa) = I’m lost

(mmm kav ga) = I don’t understand

(umm-goo-gendi-yem) = you are my friend

(va k) = come to Canada

“k” represents far/west/east

 (va she) = come to Calabar

“she” represents south/close

(va sha)  = come to Abuja

“sha” represents north/up

 

 

 

13/03/2013 – Wonderful Wednesday

Today was the closest thing to a tourist experience yet. It begins with a brief lesson in Efik, the local language, compliments of Angela.

amesiere (am-ay-see-air-ay) = good morning

so song = thank you

no me = give me

ifang (ee-fan) = how much

ntog (ng-toe) = toilet

me fre (may-fray) = I’m lost

afo akeredie (a-pho akayready) = what’s your name?

Stella invites me to join her for lunch at her favourite local eatery. We walk down the laneway and around the corner. Take a plank-of-wood bridge across stagnant, green-scum water I can only guess is the open sewage system. On the other side of this walkway is a semi-enclosure that opens to a yard with roaming chickens, barefoot children and a village I didn’t know was there. Hearty welcomes and few guffaws later we’re seated at the single table with other customers.

Stella asks what’s on the menu. It turns out to be a really yum delish treat by Nigerian standards: Efere Abak (ef-airey aback) soup and Eba (aye-bah) dumplings. She orders a meal for each of us. The owner/slash/cook moves to containers stacked against a wall and ladles out a thick red stew in one bowl and a generous mound of what looks likes kinda-mushy but kinda-not corn meal patties in another. Bowls of water arrive at our spots. We wash our hands.

                                                                                           
Stella tells me to use only my right hand, roll a piece of the eba (cassava dumpling) into a ball, dip it into the soup, pop it in my mouth and swallow without chewing. The meal is a medley of those wriggling, pinky shaped periwinkles I saw at the market, hunks of snail, chunks of goat and beef, and curls of animal skin in a spicy hot fish sauce. The periwinkles are surprisingly good once you suck them out of their shell. The other stuff – well, I simply can’t muster the courage to taste curled skin, and the meat and snail are rubbery beyond mastication (it’s the dumplings you’re not to chew). The rest is okay. It’s definitely an acquired taste I’ll have to acquire. Or not.

On our stroll back to the office Stella tells me she’s a widow with four children ranging from 22 to 15 years in age. Her husband died 10 years ago.

Oh my, how did your husband pass?
“Poison.”
“Poison?!”
“Yes, his girlfriend poisoned him.”

Yikes. How do you respond to something like that?

After work I decide to take Lola for a walk through the neighbourhood. We pass half a dozen women sitting in two rows on benches in the middle of a field, singing. I stop to listen, give them the thumbs up; they thumbs-up back and beam without losing a note.

I buy a pineapple from the skinny weary-looking lady who sits at her tiny stall day in and day out, just a few paces from the compound. This time her weary face gives way to wariness and outright fear; the dog. Nearly everyone we pass, children and adults alike, give us wide berth or cross to the other side of the road. Despite the threat of “such a big dog!” the “good evenings” and “hellos” string together along the street like strands of festive lights. The most memorable comment on today’s walk goes to the guy, a tad on the thin side, hanging out with his bros: “That’s a nice dog. I eat dog. Good sweet meat.”

12/03.2013 – Tuesday at the office

Today’s task is to familiarize myself with a Global Sanitation Fund (GSF) project that’s just getting off the ground. I’ll be working on the communications plan and implementation. Here’s an abbreviated overview:

“With an estimated population of approximately 150 million, Nigeria is the most populous country in Africa. About 12.37million people in the country gained access to improved sanitation between 1990 and 2008. Notwithstanding, Nigeria is not likely to meet the Millennium Development Goals (MDG) for sanitation by the year 2015, as nearly 100 million people have no access to improved sanitation, and a large portion of the population practice open defecation. Hygiene promotion is crucial if people are to use facilities properly and avoid water and sanitation related diseases. By adopting basic hygiene practices such as hand washing at critical times, families can reduce diarrhoeal diseases in children.

Nigeria’s infant mortality and under-five mortality rates are currently 75 and 157 per 1000 live births respectively. Unhygienic practices, lack of sanitation facilities and the use of contaminated water undoubtedly contribute to these elevated rates.

 Lack of toilets with hand-washing facilities in schools affects educational enrolment, retention and performance. Girls are particularly affected, and poor sanitation is a contributing factor to Nigeria’s low girl Net Attendance Ratio of 59.1% as compared to 64.9% for boys.

…village governance system will be utilised to dig latrine pits for the old, indigent and female headed households. The business development aspect will include facilitating local people to own businesses around sanitation, the training of local workers and the promotion of locally available and suitable materials.

Three main indicators have been identified to measure the key results of the GSF programme in Nigeria and indicative targets have been set by the PCM. These include i) people living in Open Defecation Free environments, ii) people washing their hands with soap and iii) people using improved toilets.”

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1:30 pm - On the 17^th I’m travelling with Ousman to attend a critical GSF planning session the 18^th and 19^th. Partners from Federal, State and Local Government Agencies as well as top media moguls will be in attendance. Our destination is Makurdi, the capital of Benue State which I believe is to the east of my home base in Cross Rivers. Early the 20^th I’m to take a four hour bus ride out of Makurdi and head north-ish back to VSO’s offices in Abuja for more in-country training. Come Friday, the 22^nd it’s back on the bus for a good 12+ hour return ride to Calabar. The comfort level on these journeys is hit and miss, I’m told. Sometimes the A/C works, often times not.

6:36 pm Damn! I was just about to write how dinner is cooking, the fan whirling furiously, all is cool in this world and ~ZaP~ power’s out and the living room is in near darkness. The sun sets between 6:40 and 7:00 around here, at least that’s reliable. Oh, surprise, all is up and running again; down for only a few moments. Good thing too, the carpenter just appeared at the door. He’s here to rig the bed with wooden braces from which my mosquito net will hang.

Mosquitoes. Christine tells me she sprays her home once a week with an insecticide called Mortein.  She aims the stuff into the air and corners, in the evening when the insects are most active and likely to be around.  She and family sit outdoors for a half hour or so to let the spray settle.  Seemingly it’s not too smelly. Helps to keep down the cockroaches too, she assures.

In an afternoon of camaraderie Christine shares her dry goods grocery list with prices. Each month she makes a call to her “man” in the market. He gathers together the items, packs them up, and when he receives her text that she’s nearby, he’s ready and waiting curb side to load her car.

How long things keep in this heat becomes kitchen lesson 101. It helps to know just how much to buy. Watermelon – one, maybe two days max, “that’s why it’s best to buy in pieces rather than whole. But I ask them to cut it in front of me, so I can see,” Christine advises. Mangoes and papaya, oranges and pineapple have a much better shelf life. “Best to buy small pineapples; you can cut into one and save the other until you’re ready to use it.” Cabbage?  “Just use the leaves – don’t cut into it or it spoils.” We’re able to have this amiable chat because the Internet system is down for a good few hours. So much for productivity.

Using her social connections, Christine summons a banker to our offices earlier in the day to open a savings account for me. Talk about personal service – they come as an entourage, complete with a photographer to take passport size pics. I have a hunch they’re thinking stereotypically: rich white person! Opening an account here is typically an exercise in futility for internationals like me. One needs a permanent resident visa, but these takes months to obtain, eight minimally according to VSO. We’ll see if the folks from First Bank actually come through.

During one of my jaunts from the office back to the house, to wash away sweat and grab some fresh drinking water, I run into my best friend Collins the grounds keeper. He tells me I need to keep on the light at the back of the house “to keep away snakes.”

“Keep away snakes? What has light got to do with that?”
“Last night,” he begins, “the guard walked into a snake in the back garden. Light keeps the snakes away. They don’t like light. It’s very important or they might find their way into your house.”
“What?! Into the house?”
“Yes, they come into the house. But we killed the snake from last night. I could have shown you. But we threw it away. The big birds came and took it to hang in their tree.”
“What do I do if I find a snake in my house?”
“You kill it. Very dangerous.”
“And if it bites?”  I didn’t hear his answer though, my mind still reeling with thoughts about snakes in my house. (your worst nightmare LeahM!)

I was quick to mention this conversation as soon as I returned to my desk. Christine and Stella (the program manager responsible for Gender and Human Rights) are alarmed.

“We need to tell our logistics people. The grounds were fumigated a few weeks ago as we were worried about rodents.”
“Rodents?”
“Yes, rodents. Snakes like rodents. This is not good. Collins needs to make a report. We will take this up immediately.”

Marvellous.

So here I sit, with as many lights on as I can, finishing my meal of chick peas, tomato, chunks of coconut and onion seasoned with fresh ginger and nutmeg. It’s not typical Nigerian fare, but fare that’s palatable to me.

(as an aside - dunno what's happening with the fonts - they seem to be leading a life of their own)

11/03/2013 Monday – first day at work

I sit in complete darkness except for the backlight coming from the computer. Sweat collects on my upper lip and pools in the crooks of my arms and back of my knees. It’s so sticky I have to purposefully lift each finger from the keyboard. And to think this is how so many live. In fact I’ve more luxury than most. Go figure.

Today, my first at the office, I edited a proposal for funding. The project? Widow Empowerment. Rather than try to explain it in my own words, I’ll do some cut and paste from the document. Here goes:

 In a patriarchal society like Nigeria, men tend to hold sovereign power, controlling households and society as a whole. Women are generally expected to be subservient. In the rural communities of Ebonyi Cross and River States, despite State and Federal efforts, poverty has engulfed rural women largely because most assistance channels through men. Although laws were passed in both Ebonyi and Cross River State in 2000 prohibiting all forms of violence against women, maltreatment of widows persists.

The backward practices of widowhood ritual as proof of innocence in the death of their husband, includes among others, drinking of the water used in washing the husband’s corpse, confinement/not bathing for one year, wearing of sanitary pad for a year, eating of cooked meat from the mouth of the dead spouse, taking oath, etc.

A recent study (November 2012) on violence against women by CUN revealed that widows in the rural communities of Obubra in Cross River and Izzi and Ikwo in Ebonyi States of Nigeria go through dehumanising rites upon the death of their spouse and are in most cases denied access to productive resources which leads to socio-economic disempowerment. To earn a meagre living, according to the recent survey, the majority of widows are involved in casual labour at stone quarry sites (breaking rocks for road and house construction), weeding grass in rice farms, or bush clearing – all for a token payment of N200 per day (the equivalent of US $1.25).

A widow from Izzi LGA recounts: “I delivered my last baby at the building site. I knew my pregnancy was of term but since there was no food at home I had no option than to go for daily job in order to get at least some food.”

According to the study, 90% of widows in target communities are also continually suppressed by the relatives of their late spouse which includes among others: a) denied access to revenue generating resources (e: bush mango is a major source of household income in target areas; b) seizure of farm land; c) taking over of good shelter and forcing widows and their dependents to seek housing elsewhere - the majority take refuge in dilapidated buildings. Under the guise of tradition and fuelled by abject poverty widows are made to live unimaginable lifestyles. Despite HIV/AIDS awareness programs delivered through the efforts of Government and NGOs widows are traditionally regarded as free commodities in their communities. As such, it is not uncommon for widows to accept gifts from men in exchange for intimate favours. If they become pregnant they are abandoned. Traditionally the children from these pregnancies are named after the widow’s deceased husband.

 The Igbo tribe with their rich culture are still observing some backward practices including limited involvement of women in the decision making process. Targeted communities for this project present distinct access challenges. These include rough terrain and the need to cross small rivers or streams and/or makeshift bridges. These remote communities, cut off from mainstream methods of communication, are where perennial problems of widowhood ritual flourish. 

To contribute to economic empowerment of widows and create an environment for social change, specific project objectives are to directly improve the quality of the life of 960 persons (120 widows with an average 8 children each) in 24 rural communities. The project will provide technical and basic enterprise-management training on chosen vocational and agricultural improvement skills. Participants will be encouraged to select life skills with which they are familiar, skills that offer economic viability within their communities, skills that require little technical expertise but ensure the greatest possibility of success and long-term sustainability.

At the project’s conclusion, the income generating activities of the widowed beneficiaries will continue to change their lives for the better. Their children will have access to school and food, and, importantly, other families will learn from their successes."