Thursday September 19

Here are a few expressions from around these parts.

“We are happy to greet you, in Jesus’ name.” – “Amen!”

“I tell you your name has gone so farO. Well doneO.”

“People finish their dirty jobs anywhere.”

“Glorious exit” (funeral notation)

“A gossip centre for women. A kindO place to exchange stories for men.”

“Mosquitoes settle, breed, and come to attack us.”

“So that we leave you better than we met you.”

“YesO. I pray so.”

“By the special grace of God I bring this message” ..that's from someone with a loudspeaker outside the compound walls at this very moment of writing.

 

SIDEBAR: Good heavens – pun intended – the street preacher is aggravating. Big megaphone voice disrupts neighbourhood normal.

“Jesus Christ!”
Stroll somewhere else brother.
“Remember the story of the ten virgins?”
Ummm, no.

“…Thank you father! Thank you Jesus! Thank you Lord!"

The strolling sermon is over. Halleluiah.

Saturday is Calabar Municipal Election day. Restricted movement will be enforced from 7am to 4pm.  Taxis will not be on roads. Individuals can be arrested if out and about without the specific intent to vote or return home from doing so. Now that’s an interesting sense of democracy. Actually that’s not fair. It’s more a matter of proactive security should the politically engaged become enraged.

 

 

Saturday September 14^th

I attend my first Nigerian wedding and never once see the bride. Go figure.

Some months ago I met the bride’s father while on a mission to replace the stove’s gas canister.  He caught a lift with my driver for a drop off in South Calabar, the sketchiest district in town where posses of frustrated boyz rule after dark.  He’s the chief of Duke Town, a rather large section of Calabar where reminders of British colonization hug the shores of a once-ago slave trade corridor. Chief Duke is modest; I’ve since learned this gentle man has a rich and royal heritage. 

Although today’s bride, Bassey Duke, and her groom, Patrick, both come from royal lineage they opt for a small simple wedding. Small and simple are subjective, yes? Typically Nigerians profess their love in two different ceremonies held on different days. These two decide to economize and do it in one.

I miss the 10am White wedding; a conventional church and princess gown gig that carries on for hours, but arrive at Duke Palace mid-afternoon for the Traditional version.  At least half a dozen canopies provide protection from intermittent sun and rain.  People sit on chairs set in rows under the canopy that bears the name of their social group: Girls Power Initiative (GPI), Women of Active Faith, The Creator’s Family…. 

 

Entertainment comes by way of a lively band and an MC who keeps the crowds laughing. Too bad I don’t speak Efik. 

Surprising to me, lots of guests show up in outfits made from the same cotton print though styles vary as much as the people wearing them.  “They’re uniforms worn by people close to Bassey, She tells you where the cloth can be purchased in the market,” Sarah explains, wearing one herself as one of Bassey’s GPI work colleagues.  Interestingly, the colour theme for the day is blue, again, brides choice – announced on the invite; lots of blue on guests too.

Women carry enormous shallow brass bowls into the palace. They’re filled to the brim with gifts for the bride’s family from the groom’s: dowry 21^st century style.

After an appreciable amount of time, groom Patrick arrives in the thick of a boisterous crowd clapping and dancing, flapping a giant patio umbrella up and down and banging animal skin drums. Mr Groom is wearing a felt top hat and carrying a cane. Can’t see his clothing for the throngs of bodies and poof in an instant he disappears into the palace. 

 

Sidebar: What palace conjures in western minds is far from Nigerian reality. We’re talking a basic one storey concrete building with a door and a couple of windows. C’est tu. That’s all.

 

It’s been a long day for those who have followed festivities from the start.  Fortunately we’re fortified with food…what decent Nigerian gathering doesn’t include feeding? Instead of hiring caterers or ordering off the venue menu, family friends prepare massive quantities of whatever they feel like making. Each food donor is assigned a canopy group. Our potluck draw is fish heads, hunks of meat and spicy jollof rice. I take a pass on the meat. A taste of the dried fish delivers bone slivers, lots. Warm beer chases the heat of the rice.

 

Disappointingly all traditional happenings happen indoors and out of sight for most of us guests. Seemingly the bride and her family are in one room, the groom and his in another. Eventually the bride is presented and turned over to the groom’s family. Gifts received. Payment accepted. Goods sold. We leave before the transaction is complete and the newlyweds are formally presented.

MEANWHILE, BACK IN NIGERIA…

Much has occured since the last blog. Sometime mid-July Amanda, my Geneva-based communications counterpart visited from the UN. Court was held with Benue state's Commissioner responsible for water and sanitation. Media swarmed. Turns out they were paid hefty sums to show up. News coverage, like most everywhere, is propoganda.

 

Road-trip day one also finds us watered and dined at a popular roadside haunt by the head of a local government. Etiquette in these parts is to feed guests well. Not hungry, especially for Nigerian food, I order Edikang Ikong soup - "vegetable" soup with a request for nmeat or fish. Gratefully, the soup, which is actually the consistency of stew, has no crayfish flavouring because we’re inland rather than on the coast. Phew that. Typical ingredients include pumpkin and water leaves cut sliver thin; beef, kanda (dried hunks of animal skin), shaki , periwinkles and dry fish; salt, pepe and ground crayfish to taste; a couple or three boullion cubes and atleast a cup of palm oil - the principle liquid. Pounded yam comes as a side. It’s like one big tasteless ball of playdoh the size of a big man’s fist. Roll it between thumb and fingers, scoop into the soup and swallow. No chewing allowed. Yech.  A plate of bush meat arrives: antelope. Political correctness dictates at least a try. It’s welcomingly tender and tasty. One or two bites later I’m satisfied our host is satisfied.
 

The next day takes us, unannounced, to a certified Open Defecation Free village; the stereotypical African scene with thatch-roofed mud huts.

Tribal scarification marks many faces, two lines etched into each cheek like tears - visible on the face of the woman in blue.

Goats perch atop one of the rounded huts. Chickens free range. Women busy themselves with domestic chores.

 

 

Children shyly follow our entourage.

Family elders lead us to their homes to show off their latrines. Be it hole-in-the-ground squat spots or the N150,000 throne mounted on a concrete pad, collective pride gleams in broad smiles.

 

 

 

 

 

This village is visibly community proud.

It`s a shocking sensory assault to arrive at destination two: a semi-urban location, complete with power and satellite service, on the shores of cross river.

Stepping out of the truck, the stench is so putrid the natural response is to mouth breathe - except I can taste it on the air. We meet with a village elder who pleads for help.  Five minutes along a littered pathway we happen upon a vile scene; a 24 foot long community toilet bench for women on one side of a “privacy” wall, the men’s communal shit space on the other.  Larvae writhe in mounds of feces, blood and piss. Unbelievably, this is the daily morning meeting spot. Women, men and children take a seat, exchange gossip, and piss and shit with nary a hint of modesty; whatever empties from bodies, seeps into the river below and flows downstream to the community just across the way on the opposite shore. 

Wandering back along the littered pathway we see tossed plastic bags concealing dried hunks of shit - a convenient and easy disposal option. Disgusting.

The roads from Benue state back to Cross River state are potted and bone-jarring uncomfortable.  Weavers take advantage of the slow-moving transit corridor by setting up a production and sales site. With arts and crafts seldom available, we stop to take in the scene and make a few purchases.

We pass trucks crammed with people, motorbike-mounted cages crammed with dogs for slaughter, and a market crammed with freshly harvested ground nuts.

 

 

 

 

 

THURSDAY AUGUST 29  (photos to come)

This post finds me half way around the world from Nigeria in the stunningly beautiful pacific coastal place of Vancouver and islands. Suffice it to say it was an unexpected surprise to find myself here, but here I am nonetheless, revelling in the company of my dajas and the splendour of mother earth.

The journey took me by way of Lagos…the good…the bad…and the ugly.

Enormous waves crest and smash over crashed plane remnants. Scavengers pillage the wreckage for metal.

A ghostly white-gauzed prostitute stands in stillness looking out over the angry waves that days earlier cleared the beach of shanty shacks and their bawdy business. On the horizon a line of ocean vessels entice women to sell their sex for funds and food. Some of them never return, immortalized instead in snuff film.

Trade on the beach continues unabated.  Suya-man plies beachgoers with his spice-dusted grilled meats. Children squeal with delighted fear as they summit a man-spun ferris wheel.

On the road leading away from the beach, Lagos, a city of 30 million, lies exposed and real.

Some six-ish flight hours directly north, I back my pack into a pint-sized Yotel space at Heathrow airport,  freshen up and set out for a whirlwind few hours.

Back on the Western Canadian coastline, a romantic getaway for three gets underway on Denman and Hornby islands, British Columbia.

Hornby Island oyster farmer shares secrets.  He and his family build rock walls to prevent oysters from washing onto shore with the tides, inviting them instead, to attach and grow on low heaps of boulders. Being able to keep open to feed on nutrients in the water is what plumps up molluscs. In natural conditions it takes two to three years. In large commercial operations they’re placed on skids and sunk out in waters where levels never fluctuate, reaching edible size within six months. And yes the occasional few do indeed produce pearls.

Vineyard pitstop 

Denby tidal time

Inukshuk for Rose

BIG and beautiful

… and breathtaking

Blindsided b-day surprise: gelato decadence 218 different ways.

Squamish sailing

Kaleigh and Christina arrive in town

Come Labour Day weekend we head into the interior, camping at Silver Lake Provincial Park outside of Hope, BC (Fraser Valley area). Tent mate Ginny gets things started.

Saturday takes us to Ross Lake. This glacier fed reservoir provides water to Seattle. Nestled in the valley of an exquisite mountainous range, the water is surprisingly warm for swimming and pristine clear. It’s the quintessential BC experience, except that – woot woot! we actually picnic on the U.S. side of the lake revelling at the unprotected border marked by a carved out section of trees climbing up mountains either side of us. 

Hidden some 53 kms away from our home camp, along a well-maintained logging road, we take photo op pit stops en route.

Sunday takes us to a series of blasted mountain tunnels long-ago used for railway service.

The tunnels rest above rushing river waters that course and stream through a gorgeous gorge. A path leads us to the river’s edge where we build Inukshuks for Guy, Christina’s cousin Angie, a young woman in her prime who failed to wake from sleep, and Rose. “We were here, you were with us.”

 

Sunday evening Kaleigh decides to lop off her (dread) locks. We take turns using a dull knife to hack through her signature do. A milestone event.

SUNDAY July 14, 2013

One day this week during travel and meetings in Abuja our driver inadvertently delivers Ousman and me into the midst of a chaotic traffic and pedestrian jam. It’s Ramadan. The faithful are leaving mid-afternoon prayer, randomly crossing between honking cars.  To be in this situation is a tad unsettling given that security briefs advise staying clear of crowds and mosques and churches in the nation’s capital; these being the likeliest places for terrorist bombings.

While Ousman fasts my body calls for replenishing. We stop at a local market to pick ground nuts and bananas. A heap of slaughtered goats lay ready for sale.

Outside the city’s largest mosque our driver pulls over to a makeshift pet store where baby monkeys sit tethered to a metal post. One appears near death, lying listlessly. The others wear cuts and sores on their brows and bodies: for purchase at a mere N20,000 ($125 give or take). Birds of prey, a grey parrot with red tail feathers, canaries, green parrots and exotic waterfowl peer from behind the bars of their cage. 

One of the vendors mutters with scantly hidden hostility as he tries to avoid being caught in any snaps.  Another seizes the opportunity and pulls out a photo album. You want turtles? We have big turtles (enormous sea turtles actually). Chimpanzees!? Yes, for only N300,000 ($2,000). You want lion? A male and female? We have for N2million (around $13,000). What you want? What I want is to see you shut down I think to myself, but simply thank him and hop back in the car with pictures attesting to this horrible trade.

                         
Back in Calabar it becomes espionage and international police intrigue. Drug smuggling through African water channels to European destinations; a suspect vessel bobs unsuspecting, in the harbour. Human trafficking. Prostitution. Financial duping (4-1-9). Fraudulent matters of the heart. It’s a feast of more fodder for a book of shorts. 

As sun sets across the river, small sailing boats come ashore, their hulls heavy with wet sand. Each day teams of two sail out in their boats; one dives down into the murky water, down to the river bed where he scoops a bucket of sand, surfaces, and passes it to his colleague for emptying. What heavy toil. This premium haul is sold to contractors. The river and its water life suffer at the hands of men desperate to earn a living. Further along “the beach” hauls of illegally lumbered mangrove are stacked in heaps for sale to the highest bidder. Desecrated mangrove forests impact spawning beds. Fewer fish leave greater numbers of indigenes who subsist on the mangrove, dependent on handouts. It’s a vicious domino game. One move crashes into the next after the next after the next, leaving one big ruinous mess. Well done-oh. Not.