05/04/2013 Friday Morning at Afi Mountain Drill Ranch
It feels like we’re on the set of Jurassic Park waiting for a towering reptile to step into the clearing at the base of an enormous buttress-root tree. Our home is a wooden screened hut on cement block stilts. Unknown-to-me birds trill and sing. Insects buzz and hum. Occasionally chimpanzees hoot and holler over something of interest or alarm. Their calls echo through the rainforest. In the distance a group of drill monkeys climb down from their tree nests and gather, waiting for the day’s first feeding. Some black winged moth keeps dive bombing my head as I spy the action.
Earlier, happening upon a second group of drills, I crouch staying still and silent. A big male, I’m guessing the dominant one of this clan, saunters over to check me out. I smile. He bares his teeth in a return smile then takes a seat slightly away but in clear view of my whereabouts. I gather his smile signals approval to the others. Curious Georges take turns coming near for a closer look.
Yesterday evening during the last feeding at the chimpanzees’ quarter one especially sly guy gathers up armfuls of bananas and waddles off to enjoy his cache. Others happily sit in the midst of the pile, peeling and eating, nodding in delight, slapping chests for more, lip smacking with a “pop” sound. All of these charges come from domestic pet life. Some prefer human company over their own kind. Their keeper tells us how intelligent they are, one in particular. “She climbed to the top of a tree and stay put for 10 days while her clan suffered through a bout of chicken pox. She stayed clear and stayed healthy.” She also likes to help the keeper sweep and scrub, and is the one who does a lot of lip “popping” during meal time. If life treats her well this twenty-something primate could survive well into her sixties.
Enclosures here are anywhere from 5 hectares upwards dependent upon the species and number in a group. I must say after seeing this setup, thinking back to the spaces Toronto Zoo animals are given is a travesty.
Friday late afternoon
Ahhh, phewwww; a contented body sigh after five hours hiking in blistering heat. Our trail-blazing, machete-man Chris, manager of Drill Sanctuary, took us on an adventure par extraordinaire. Into rainforest thickets that haven’t been traversed by others; past gigantic ancient trees; vines thick as thighs others fine as hair; thinner trees cloaked in deep red and soft pink bubble-like flowers, others sprouting hairy puff balls; the ground a thick carpet of decaying leaves, termite condos here and there.
Sweat covers the body. Somehow it’s a soothing sweat that keeps you in the moment. Clambering up and down inclines, tripping over vines that catch and snare, we come out into a clearing decimated by a mud slide during the peak of last year’s rainy season. Red gritty soil slips under foot. Oppressive heat beats with intensity. The journey becomes a test of resilience. Maja P definitely feels her age. Feet and knees and hips remind me I’m not as agile as “my three Afi Mountain children” – Chris, 32, Seattle Marine Biologist; Kim, 24, Dutch Primate Specialist; and Ozan, 18, Cyprus Bio-med student.
Climbing rivets carved by the mud slide takes time. A wee slice of heaven presents in the form of a trickling stream with just enough pooled water to dunk heads. A few more mammoth boulders and steep, slippy inclines further we head back into rainforest. Chris cuts a swathe through dense vine and undergrowth. The cool of the jungle canopy feels magnificent, momentarily. A few more paces and we step out onto another expansive open space. The mountain vista is breathtaking. So are the swarms of sweat bees. Our salty sweat draws them buzzing into our eyes and ears, mouths and noses. Yup. This is Africa.
It’s in this region that the Nigerian Gorilla once roamed. Not a single one has been spotted in ten years, save for the gorilla killed by a hunter last year. That hunter is now in jail, not likely to see freedom for a long, long time.
Friday dinner
Chris cooks us a traditional Nigerian meal sans fish: Melon Soup. Start with lots of palm oil; cook chopped onion and garlic until limp; add ground melon seed – stir and cook until lightly browned; add chopped greens –mix until wilted. Serve with Ebe (gari – ground cassava - mixed with boiling hot water til it clumps into one big mass). Use ebe as a utensil, break off mouthful bits, roll, dip, scoop up melon soup and swallow. Chris suggests seasoning soup with other herbs and spices, adding tomatoes and whatever veggies fancied...but know you’re breaking from Nigerian tradition.
After dins we take a night walk with torches (flashlights). Spot a bush baby (teeny tiny night monkey), tree frogs, pale yellow spiders of varying sizes and crickets of the celery green variety. Walking under night darkness reveals nibbled greens not noticed in daylight, and ushers in a magical sense of Mother Nature.
Bagged, we bed early.
06/04/2013 Saturday morning
We visit a 14 hectare part of the sanctuary Chris is preparing as a new chimp enclosure. The electric fence has been sitting in a container for over a year. Bribe payments are not yet sufficient enough for release. Such is the Nigerian way.
Sharing contact information and hugs, Kim and I bid “ka di” and hop on motorbikes to the town of Wula. Nab a cab from there to the town of Obudu. Do some marketing. Cab on to the foothills of Cattle Ranch. Catch a high-speed chair lift. At the summit we’re picked up by motorbikes and transported deep into cloud cover. Fog is so heavy you can barely see three feet ahead. The cool temperate air brings skin to a goose bump salute. Ahhh, it feels so very, very good.
Saturday afternoon
Abebe Lodge, our home for the next few days is a shabby rundown disaster. Broken bathroom tiles, exposed water damaged walls, dirty blankets, grey pillows and shoddily finished electrical work reveal and conceal things we’d rather not think about (bed bugs and cockroaches for starters). It’s frightful.
Meanwhile, next door stands a mammoth gated home with exquisite floral patterned fencing. It isn’t too long before us oboyo (white women) are invited indoors for a tour, by the architect no less. Elated and oh so proud, 29 year young James Atoki takes us through the generous main floor sitting room (duplicated on the second floor as well) boasting mega sound system and giant flat screen TV, followed by the dining room, kitchen, library and five bedrooms one more garishly furnished than the next. Each ensuite bathroom features sci-fi tub and shower enclosures with ambient music and lighting systems. The piece du resistance is the master bedroom. Strands of glitter rope bind plum-size black and white pompom balls into a carpet that defies taste. A gauche white leather Victorian-esque daybed inlaid with bits and pieces of this and that matches a super-size-me bed and ticky-tacky mirrored vanity. The geometric black leather couch with no aesthetic connection to the rest sits smack dab in the centre of it all.
Kim and I are suitably gobsmacked by the indoor pillars, 15 foot high ceilings and sandstone/suede walls flecked with sparkle. Utterly everything has taken inhumane manual toil, from digging the foundation to mixing and pouring concrete. The furnishings purchased and shipped from Malaysia by the owner, however, are tasteless to the extreme. Nouveau wealth tends to give itself away. Architect James tells us the home cost N40million to build. The owner? A civil servant with the Nigerian National Petroleum Commission. Hah. Tell me there’s no siphoning going on here. Meant to be officially occupied today, work pressures keep owner and family in Abuja while festivities carry on in absentia. We chat and sip non-alcohol malt beer, dance and have a jolly good time.
Could go on with other highlights from the day, but for brevity’s sake:
• The driver of my motorbike from Afi Mountain to Wula tells stories of witchcraft, visions, sickness and death as we zip along at 60km/h
• Prepping dinner at what appears to be Abebe/Obudu community centre; some 20 or more people gather on a beat up old sectional couch watching TV Nollywood soaps and playing cards; the kitchen in rear of this room is gut wrenching filthy. Glad it’s just Eme noodles tonite.
• Talking with owner, Victor Abebe, about the unfaithful practise of Nigerian men he tells us typically a man will have his house wife and three or four girlfriends from different villages. “A good wife will let him bring his girlfriend from another village into his home." Really now.
• Learning that Abebe Lodge is actually part of a family compound, as is the mammoth gated house next door, and the tidy bungalow across the street owned by Mrs. Florence the honey seller. Everyone is brother, sister, uncle or aunty.
07/04/2013 Sunday
Definitely not a day of rest, we rise early to cook omelettes for breakfast. Kim lifts a fry pan down from the cupboard to find if coated in oily goo. My appetite vanishes. No cloths, no dish detergent, not a towel in sight, Kim uses a chunk of palm soap and her hands to wash away the grime. I use a dot of palm oil to coat the pan for our fry up and cook over a small gas container. We eat in the community TV room, watching people come and go from different parts of the house, rubbing sleep from eyes. At one point the local drunk sways through clutching an empty beer bottle. Children fill deep buckets with water from the kitchen tap, heft them high to rest on their head and trek out.
By 8:30 we’re on the first leg of our journey: a walk to Igagu Falls. We pass through a settlement with hairy spotted pigs, baying sheep, shoeless children, red-eyed women and a dilapidated communal latrine. “Spying on this bit of heaven” to quote a local, doesn’t come easy, that is – not until the cloud cover lifts to reveal stunning rolling mountains dotted with every now and then lonesome trees. Farming, ignorance and disregard for conservation has deforested what was once lush canopy jungle.
Our gentle meandering walk quickly turns into a rough terrain hike. Jarring pains shoot through my feet up to my knees with each descending step. I can hear the waterfall. I can see it way way down in a valley crevice. But I have to listen to my body. If going downhill is this arduous, the return climb will be triply so. I find myself a rock, watch the others move onward, then settle into a lovely long “sit” while long-horned cows and herds of grazing sheep keep company.
Journey two we walk back through the sewttlement to the Bechere Reserve. It’s noon now. Our bodies are telling us we’re pushing the limit, but the moss draped temperate rainforest is SO beautiful we’re drawn deeper and deeper into its cool darkness. We spot Green Turcottes in flight – large birds with vibrant red under wings, enormous brown grasshoppers, orange and yellow and patterned butterflies mostly small, a few monarch size. One settles at path’s edge. I snap a pic of its heart-shaped print.
We walk and walk and walk and walk and walk nearing exhaustion, hoping around the next bend we’ll find a place to rest and lunch. We daren’t sit just anywhere. Nasty biting red ant colonies and snake holes don’t make for hospitable picnicking. We spot a bridge up ahead, then a clearing with half a dozen picnic benches. Fortune smiles on us. Under a canopy of moss and vine we spread fresh avocado on hunks of bread and finish off with mango. I lie out on a bench, Kim stretches across the bridge and we chillax. It’s probably the first and last time we’ll be sitting under Nigerian sun in comfort. Fortified, we decide to carry on to the “canopy walk.” Force of habit, I tap my shoes against the ground before putting them back on. A butterfly flutters out of one – another perfect moment.
The canopy walk brings a good giggle when we cross paths with two Nigerian couples; the women are gussied up in snug club wear – one of them is wearing an outrageously high pair of heels. They snap our pics, we snap theirs.
Journey three we meet our Abebe Lodge guide at the reserve entrance and walk to the playground resort of Nigeria’s rich and famous. It’s only then that we realize we’re at the site of the annual Mountain Race. It takes place every November. Olympic calibre athletes race each other from the base of the mountain up Intestine Road (the cross back) to the summit finish in 45 short minutes.
Abebe Lodge bound, we wander by a few other small settlements. A group of children dig holes roadside. On closer look we discover they’re digging up grubs for dinner. Ohhh. Heavy sigh. Six or eight military trucks carrying heavily armed soldiers pass by. When we turn up our laneway a short time later we realize they’re all staying at the same rundown lodge as us. Yikes!
08/04/2013 Monday
Home sweet home. Weary. Happy.
Abebe Lodge was too dodgy. Two nights suffice. We catch a ride homeward bound with Mrs Florence, the honey seller we met at the grand house. She’s headed to Calabar to sell 20 litres of Nigeria’s finest. We taxi to Obudu proper, transfer to another cab and head out for Calabar sometime around 11:00. Spot a couple of Harpies in flight en route. Six hours later we arrive in town covered in grit, hot and frazzled. Our maniacal driver takes the road like an Indie track, then turns haughty and hostile at destination ignoring his passengers’ instructions to stop and drop. Kim’s lucky, she manages to get out first. The young student running late for a school seminar is near tears; Mr Driver has no change for his N1000 and won’t stop to let him try to break the note. I fork over part of his fare to help the poor kid out. Then it’s my turn. Mr Driver and I end up in a yelling match. Mrs Florence sits in the passenger seat uncertain what to make of the commotion. I refuse to pay until he drops me in an area where I can catch another drop ride. Trust the good ol’ Nigerian system: money trumps all.
It feels like we’re on the set of Jurassic Park waiting for a towering reptile to step into the clearing at the base of an enormous buttress-root tree. Our home is a wooden screened hut on cement block stilts. Unknown-to-me birds trill and sing. Insects buzz and hum. Occasionally chimpanzees hoot and holler over something of interest or alarm. Their calls echo through the rainforest. In the distance a group of drill monkeys climb down from their tree nests and gather, waiting for the day’s first feeding. Some black winged moth keeps dive bombing my head as I spy the action.
Earlier, happening upon a second group of drills, I crouch staying still and silent. A big male, I’m guessing the dominant one of this clan, saunters over to check me out. I smile. He bares his teeth in a return smile then takes a seat slightly away but in clear view of my whereabouts. I gather his smile signals approval to the others. Curious Georges take turns coming near for a closer look.
Yesterday evening during the last feeding at the chimpanzees’ quarter one especially sly guy gathers up armfuls of bananas and waddles off to enjoy his cache. Others happily sit in the midst of the pile, peeling and eating, nodding in delight, slapping chests for more, lip smacking with a “pop” sound. All of these charges come from domestic pet life. Some prefer human company over their own kind. Their keeper tells us how intelligent they are, one in particular. “She climbed to the top of a tree and stay put for 10 days while her clan suffered through a bout of chicken pox. She stayed clear and stayed healthy.” She also likes to help the keeper sweep and scrub, and is the one who does a lot of lip “popping” during meal time. If life treats her well this twenty-something primate could survive well into her sixties.
Enclosures here are anywhere from 5 hectares upwards dependent upon the species and number in a group. I must say after seeing this setup, thinking back to the spaces Toronto Zoo animals are given is a travesty.
Friday late afternoon
Ahhh, phewwww; a contented body sigh after five hours hiking in blistering heat. Our trail-blazing, machete-man Chris, manager of Drill Sanctuary, took us on an adventure par extraordinaire. Into rainforest thickets that haven’t been traversed by others; past gigantic ancient trees; vines thick as thighs others fine as hair; thinner trees cloaked in deep red and soft pink bubble-like flowers, others sprouting hairy puff balls; the ground a thick carpet of decaying leaves, termite condos here and there.
Sweat covers the body. Somehow it’s a soothing sweat that keeps you in the moment. Clambering up and down inclines, tripping over vines that catch and snare, we come out into a clearing decimated by a mud slide during the peak of last year’s rainy season. Red gritty soil slips under foot. Oppressive heat beats with intensity. The journey becomes a test of resilience. Maja P definitely feels her age. Feet and knees and hips remind me I’m not as agile as “my three Afi Mountain children” – Chris, 32, Seattle Marine Biologist; Kim, 24, Dutch Primate Specialist; and Ozan, 18, Cyprus Bio-med student.
Climbing rivets carved by the mud slide takes time. A wee slice of heaven presents in the form of a trickling stream with just enough pooled water to dunk heads. A few more mammoth boulders and steep, slippy inclines further we head back into rainforest. Chris cuts a swathe through dense vine and undergrowth. The cool of the jungle canopy feels magnificent, momentarily. A few more paces and we step out onto another expansive open space. The mountain vista is breathtaking. So are the swarms of sweat bees. Our salty sweat draws them buzzing into our eyes and ears, mouths and noses. Yup. This is Africa.
It’s in this region that the Nigerian Gorilla once roamed. Not a single one has been spotted in ten years, save for the gorilla killed by a hunter last year. That hunter is now in jail, not likely to see freedom for a long, long time.
Friday dinner
Chris cooks us a traditional Nigerian meal sans fish: Melon Soup. Start with lots of palm oil; cook chopped onion and garlic until limp; add ground melon seed – stir and cook until lightly browned; add chopped greens –mix until wilted. Serve with Ebe (gari – ground cassava - mixed with boiling hot water til it clumps into one big mass). Use ebe as a utensil, break off mouthful bits, roll, dip, scoop up melon soup and swallow. Chris suggests seasoning soup with other herbs and spices, adding tomatoes and whatever veggies fancied...but know you’re breaking from Nigerian tradition.
After dins we take a night walk with torches (flashlights). Spot a bush baby (teeny tiny night monkey), tree frogs, pale yellow spiders of varying sizes and crickets of the celery green variety. Walking under night darkness reveals nibbled greens not noticed in daylight, and ushers in a magical sense of Mother Nature.
Bagged, we bed early.
06/04/2013 Saturday morning
We visit a 14 hectare part of the sanctuary Chris is preparing as a new chimp enclosure. The electric fence has been sitting in a container for over a year. Bribe payments are not yet sufficient enough for release. Such is the Nigerian way.
Sharing contact information and hugs, Kim and I bid “ka di” and hop on motorbikes to the town of Wula. Nab a cab from there to the town of Obudu. Do some marketing. Cab on to the foothills of Cattle Ranch. Catch a high-speed chair lift. At the summit we’re picked up by motorbikes and transported deep into cloud cover. Fog is so heavy you can barely see three feet ahead. The cool temperate air brings skin to a goose bump salute. Ahhh, it feels so very, very good.
Saturday afternoon
Abebe Lodge, our home for the next few days is a shabby rundown disaster. Broken bathroom tiles, exposed water damaged walls, dirty blankets, grey pillows and shoddily finished electrical work reveal and conceal things we’d rather not think about (bed bugs and cockroaches for starters). It’s frightful.
Meanwhile, next door stands a mammoth gated home with exquisite floral patterned fencing. It isn’t too long before us oboyo (white women) are invited indoors for a tour, by the architect no less. Elated and oh so proud, 29 year young James Atoki takes us through the generous main floor sitting room (duplicated on the second floor as well) boasting mega sound system and giant flat screen TV, followed by the dining room, kitchen, library and five bedrooms one more garishly furnished than the next. Each ensuite bathroom features sci-fi tub and shower enclosures with ambient music and lighting systems. The piece du resistance is the master bedroom. Strands of glitter rope bind plum-size black and white pompom balls into a carpet that defies taste. A gauche white leather Victorian-esque daybed inlaid with bits and pieces of this and that matches a super-size-me bed and ticky-tacky mirrored vanity. The geometric black leather couch with no aesthetic connection to the rest sits smack dab in the centre of it all.
Kim and I are suitably gobsmacked by the indoor pillars, 15 foot high ceilings and sandstone/suede walls flecked with sparkle. Utterly everything has taken inhumane manual toil, from digging the foundation to mixing and pouring concrete. The furnishings purchased and shipped from Malaysia by the owner, however, are tasteless to the extreme. Nouveau wealth tends to give itself away. Architect James tells us the home cost N40million to build. The owner? A civil servant with the Nigerian National Petroleum Commission. Hah. Tell me there’s no siphoning going on here. Meant to be officially occupied today, work pressures keep owner and family in Abuja while festivities carry on in absentia. We chat and sip non-alcohol malt beer, dance and have a jolly good time.
Could go on with other highlights from the day, but for brevity’s sake:
• The driver of my motorbike from Afi Mountain to Wula tells stories of witchcraft, visions, sickness and death as we zip along at 60km/h
• Prepping dinner at what appears to be Abebe/Obudu community centre; some 20 or more people gather on a beat up old sectional couch watching TV Nollywood soaps and playing cards; the kitchen in rear of this room is gut wrenching filthy. Glad it’s just Eme noodles tonite.
• Talking with owner, Victor Abebe, about the unfaithful practise of Nigerian men he tells us typically a man will have his house wife and three or four girlfriends from different villages. “A good wife will let him bring his girlfriend from another village into his home." Really now.
• Learning that Abebe Lodge is actually part of a family compound, as is the mammoth gated house next door, and the tidy bungalow across the street owned by Mrs. Florence the honey seller. Everyone is brother, sister, uncle or aunty.
07/04/2013 Sunday
Definitely not a day of rest, we rise early to cook omelettes for breakfast. Kim lifts a fry pan down from the cupboard to find if coated in oily goo. My appetite vanishes. No cloths, no dish detergent, not a towel in sight, Kim uses a chunk of palm soap and her hands to wash away the grime. I use a dot of palm oil to coat the pan for our fry up and cook over a small gas container. We eat in the community TV room, watching people come and go from different parts of the house, rubbing sleep from eyes. At one point the local drunk sways through clutching an empty beer bottle. Children fill deep buckets with water from the kitchen tap, heft them high to rest on their head and trek out.
By 8:30 we’re on the first leg of our journey: a walk to Igagu Falls. We pass through a settlement with hairy spotted pigs, baying sheep, shoeless children, red-eyed women and a dilapidated communal latrine. “Spying on this bit of heaven” to quote a local, doesn’t come easy, that is – not until the cloud cover lifts to reveal stunning rolling mountains dotted with every now and then lonesome trees. Farming, ignorance and disregard for conservation has deforested what was once lush canopy jungle.
Our gentle meandering walk quickly turns into a rough terrain hike. Jarring pains shoot through my feet up to my knees with each descending step. I can hear the waterfall. I can see it way way down in a valley crevice. But I have to listen to my body. If going downhill is this arduous, the return climb will be triply so. I find myself a rock, watch the others move onward, then settle into a lovely long “sit” while long-horned cows and herds of grazing sheep keep company.
Journey two we walk back through the sewttlement to the Bechere Reserve. It’s noon now. Our bodies are telling us we’re pushing the limit, but the moss draped temperate rainforest is SO beautiful we’re drawn deeper and deeper into its cool darkness. We spot Green Turcottes in flight – large birds with vibrant red under wings, enormous brown grasshoppers, orange and yellow and patterned butterflies mostly small, a few monarch size. One settles at path’s edge. I snap a pic of its heart-shaped print.
We walk and walk and walk and walk and walk nearing exhaustion, hoping around the next bend we’ll find a place to rest and lunch. We daren’t sit just anywhere. Nasty biting red ant colonies and snake holes don’t make for hospitable picnicking. We spot a bridge up ahead, then a clearing with half a dozen picnic benches. Fortune smiles on us. Under a canopy of moss and vine we spread fresh avocado on hunks of bread and finish off with mango. I lie out on a bench, Kim stretches across the bridge and we chillax. It’s probably the first and last time we’ll be sitting under Nigerian sun in comfort. Fortified, we decide to carry on to the “canopy walk.” Force of habit, I tap my shoes against the ground before putting them back on. A butterfly flutters out of one – another perfect moment.
The canopy walk brings a good giggle when we cross paths with two Nigerian couples; the women are gussied up in snug club wear – one of them is wearing an outrageously high pair of heels. They snap our pics, we snap theirs.
Journey three we meet our Abebe Lodge guide at the reserve entrance and walk to the playground resort of Nigeria’s rich and famous. It’s only then that we realize we’re at the site of the annual Mountain Race. It takes place every November. Olympic calibre athletes race each other from the base of the mountain up Intestine Road (the cross back) to the summit finish in 45 short minutes.
Abebe Lodge bound, we wander by a few other small settlements. A group of children dig holes roadside. On closer look we discover they’re digging up grubs for dinner. Ohhh. Heavy sigh. Six or eight military trucks carrying heavily armed soldiers pass by. When we turn up our laneway a short time later we realize they’re all staying at the same rundown lodge as us. Yikes!
08/04/2013 Monday
Home sweet home. Weary. Happy.
Abebe Lodge was too dodgy. Two nights suffice. We catch a ride homeward bound with Mrs Florence, the honey seller we met at the grand house. She’s headed to Calabar to sell 20 litres of Nigeria’s finest. We taxi to Obudu proper, transfer to another cab and head out for Calabar sometime around 11:00. Spot a couple of Harpies in flight en route. Six hours later we arrive in town covered in grit, hot and frazzled. Our maniacal driver takes the road like an Indie track, then turns haughty and hostile at destination ignoring his passengers’ instructions to stop and drop. Kim’s lucky, she manages to get out first. The young student running late for a school seminar is near tears; Mr Driver has no change for his N1000 and won’t stop to let him try to break the note. I fork over part of his fare to help the poor kid out. Then it’s my turn. Mr Driver and I end up in a yelling match. Mrs Florence sits in the passenger seat uncertain what to make of the commotion. I refuse to pay until he drops me in an area where I can catch another drop ride. Trust the good ol’ Nigerian system: money trumps all.
No comments:
Post a Comment