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.
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.
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.”
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