# Iya odo on ommo re ko ni ija, agbe li o dija sille fun won : ommo odo ki ina iya re lassan.
The pestle and the mortar had no quarrel between them, it was the farmer that caused the quarrel (by supplying the yam for pounding) : the child of the mortar (i.e., the pestle) does not beat its mother for nothing.
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
Monday, April 28, 2008
Thursday, April 17, 2008
what happened in Africa.
How can I tell you what happened in Africa? I, myself, barely understand. I’ll have to tell you what happened to me there by telling you other stories.
First, the story of the last supper. Where the Master is there washing his disciples feet. He…the creator of the universe stoops to wash the feet of his own followers. He was their guest from heaven for a short time. But he cleans them up. He cleans up their dirty lives. He does so as the dirt and the grime of the Galilean roads dirty his own feet.
He eats the Passover meal they have prepared for him. It was their own ritual. It was their own food. And yes, they served it to the Son of God, the Creator of the universe. And he ate it and he did not die. He did die. Later. Later, they killed him, with their very own hands.
But he didn’t stay dead. And that is the point.
The terribleness of their messy lives couldn’t kill him and keep him dead.
The second story is the story of the celebration of the last supper from my childhood.
Now, I’m not going to sensationalize the Amish practice of shunning that was very much present in the way my community practiced the Lord’s Supper. We all have our shunning and excommunication rituals. Every culture has them. Minnesota, America tends to excommunicate by means of indifference through the practice of silence and unresponsiveness. There are no rules written anywhere but the practice is fully enforced whenever one wishes to exclude another from the group of the included. Every social group has their insiders and their outsiders.
It is clear, unless one is simply blind or in denial, there are insiders and there are outsiders. There are those who are included and those who are excluded. In my community of origin, the included sit down and eat the Lord’s Supper together and wash one another’s feet. The excluded don’t. The excluded take their plate and eat over there at a different table. Please understand I am not passing judgment on the practice itself or on excommunication practices everywhere other than to simply say that sin separates. There are those that eat at the table and there are those that don’t.
These two stories go together. One is the story of grace the other is the story of the fall. One is the story of Christ embracing us in our sin. The other is the story of how sin separates us from the community of God.
Now, against this backdrop I go to Africa. I am a stranger among them there. I am their guest. I am their very honored and distinguished guest. And I come from the land of the chosen, where the streets are gold and the angels sing. Well, maybe not quite but Africans had some idea that where I come from, life was unimaginably better, by comparison. In America food is cooked in ovens. There are toilets that flush. The pure water comes in bottles and is too expensive for them to buy. Everything else is really sanitary.
So in the most amazing expression of hospitality I have ever seen, the Nigerians opened their hearts and arms and received me. They would have even put me up in the most costly place they could find so that I would be comfortable, like I was back home. So that my toilet would flush and so my food would be cooked “properly” in a kitchen. This was the heart of the people toward me in the most amazing expression of love, other centeredness and hospitality.
But I quickly became almost angry as I recognized the other voices whispering through the people despite the people’s good hearts and arms loaded with hospitality. There were social structures and evil overlords and the all important colonists who were speaking also. There were people from the past, people from the present, sitting in high places in Abuja, Lagos, Washington DC or wherever.
Wordless things were being conveyed.
In the village I was preparing to eat the food that came out of the pot sitting on three rocks with the firewood underneath. They said, “No our food will make you sick! It might even kill you.” You must go to the restaurant where your food can be cooked properly.
What were they saying? Were they excommunicating themselves to their own humble table? Or were they excommunicating me also, as I sat alone in the restaurant situated inside high walls with barbed wire and a guard at the gate. This is more than excommunication! It was as though I heard, “Here, sit in this prison and eat, while we sit down at our own table to eat the terrible food that we have prepared for ourselves that even kills us, according to the official sanitation codes.” Who’s codes were these? My people’s sanitation codes? I read them half-heartedly on the plane trip over: a thick stack of documents that the Travel Clinic gave me in preparation to travel.
Excommunication works both ways it seems.
As I prepared to live and sleep in the village where the dirt floors were swept clean and the animals and the bugs ran freely. They said, “No, you must stay in the hotel in the city where there is electricity and your toilet flushes and everything is sanitary. You can’t stay here with us in our terrible situation. It will kill you. A mosquito might bite you and you’ll get malaria and die.”
I said to myself, “Ah. Ah!? Who has done this to these good people? Who has made these people believe this about themselves?” Your food is amazing and I don’t care if the toilet flushes. Get me out of this whitewashed prison!
The Master said of his mission, “I come not to be served but to serve and give my life for others.” The creator of the universe says this.
If your food kills me. If your viruses kill me. If living with you in your country kills me. So then I will die and it will be worth the dying. And even if I die. I will not stay dead. And that is the point.
So, I ate their dinner with them. And we sat at the same table. And we washed our feet in the same bucket of dirty water. And as you can see, I did not die. And the people saw and were amazed. They said to each other, “Ah, Ah!? Who is this who has come to eat with us and sleep with us and walk the dusty road with us? And the terribleness of our messy lives did not kill her.”
How can I tell you what happened in Africa. I, myself, barely understand.
First, the story of the last supper. Where the Master is there washing his disciples feet. He…the creator of the universe stoops to wash the feet of his own followers. He was their guest from heaven for a short time. But he cleans them up. He cleans up their dirty lives. He does so as the dirt and the grime of the Galilean roads dirty his own feet.
He eats the Passover meal they have prepared for him. It was their own ritual. It was their own food. And yes, they served it to the Son of God, the Creator of the universe. And he ate it and he did not die. He did die. Later. Later, they killed him, with their very own hands.
But he didn’t stay dead. And that is the point.
The terribleness of their messy lives couldn’t kill him and keep him dead.
The second story is the story of the celebration of the last supper from my childhood.
Now, I’m not going to sensationalize the Amish practice of shunning that was very much present in the way my community practiced the Lord’s Supper. We all have our shunning and excommunication rituals. Every culture has them. Minnesota, America tends to excommunicate by means of indifference through the practice of silence and unresponsiveness. There are no rules written anywhere but the practice is fully enforced whenever one wishes to exclude another from the group of the included. Every social group has their insiders and their outsiders.
It is clear, unless one is simply blind or in denial, there are insiders and there are outsiders. There are those who are included and those who are excluded. In my community of origin, the included sit down and eat the Lord’s Supper together and wash one another’s feet. The excluded don’t. The excluded take their plate and eat over there at a different table. Please understand I am not passing judgment on the practice itself or on excommunication practices everywhere other than to simply say that sin separates. There are those that eat at the table and there are those that don’t.
These two stories go together. One is the story of grace the other is the story of the fall. One is the story of Christ embracing us in our sin. The other is the story of how sin separates us from the community of God.
Now, against this backdrop I go to Africa. I am a stranger among them there. I am their guest. I am their very honored and distinguished guest. And I come from the land of the chosen, where the streets are gold and the angels sing. Well, maybe not quite but Africans had some idea that where I come from, life was unimaginably better, by comparison. In America food is cooked in ovens. There are toilets that flush. The pure water comes in bottles and is too expensive for them to buy. Everything else is really sanitary.
So in the most amazing expression of hospitality I have ever seen, the Nigerians opened their hearts and arms and received me. They would have even put me up in the most costly place they could find so that I would be comfortable, like I was back home. So that my toilet would flush and so my food would be cooked “properly” in a kitchen. This was the heart of the people toward me in the most amazing expression of love, other centeredness and hospitality.
But I quickly became almost angry as I recognized the other voices whispering through the people despite the people’s good hearts and arms loaded with hospitality. There were social structures and evil overlords and the all important colonists who were speaking also. There were people from the past, people from the present, sitting in high places in Abuja, Lagos, Washington DC or wherever.
Wordless things were being conveyed.
In the village I was preparing to eat the food that came out of the pot sitting on three rocks with the firewood underneath. They said, “No our food will make you sick! It might even kill you.” You must go to the restaurant where your food can be cooked properly.
What were they saying? Were they excommunicating themselves to their own humble table? Or were they excommunicating me also, as I sat alone in the restaurant situated inside high walls with barbed wire and a guard at the gate. This is more than excommunication! It was as though I heard, “Here, sit in this prison and eat, while we sit down at our own table to eat the terrible food that we have prepared for ourselves that even kills us, according to the official sanitation codes.” Who’s codes were these? My people’s sanitation codes? I read them half-heartedly on the plane trip over: a thick stack of documents that the Travel Clinic gave me in preparation to travel.
Excommunication works both ways it seems.
As I prepared to live and sleep in the village where the dirt floors were swept clean and the animals and the bugs ran freely. They said, “No, you must stay in the hotel in the city where there is electricity and your toilet flushes and everything is sanitary. You can’t stay here with us in our terrible situation. It will kill you. A mosquito might bite you and you’ll get malaria and die.”
I said to myself, “Ah. Ah!? Who has done this to these good people? Who has made these people believe this about themselves?” Your food is amazing and I don’t care if the toilet flushes. Get me out of this whitewashed prison!
The Master said of his mission, “I come not to be served but to serve and give my life for others.” The creator of the universe says this.
If your food kills me. If your viruses kill me. If living with you in your country kills me. So then I will die and it will be worth the dying. And even if I die. I will not stay dead. And that is the point.
So, I ate their dinner with them. And we sat at the same table. And we washed our feet in the same bucket of dirty water. And as you can see, I did not die. And the people saw and were amazed. They said to each other, “Ah, Ah!? Who is this who has come to eat with us and sleep with us and walk the dusty road with us? And the terribleness of our messy lives did not kill her.”
How can I tell you what happened in Africa. I, myself, barely understand.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Thursday, April 3, 2008
the Fulani village
I was taken around a cluster of huts in the Fulani village during a pre-funeral gathering. Escorted by a woman who only spoke Hausa, she linked arms with me as she shutteled me from one hut to another. There I sat among the chattering women, while the teenaged girls peered inot the doorways, staring at me in wonder. I was offered food and a dirty spoon that looked like everyone had been sharing it. I ate and it was good.
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
Mongoose Parables #8
The charmer had only continued to tap the land for only a short time and suddenly the stick broke. It shouldn’t have broken but it did. The rod of justice between good and evil had broken! The dove was fluttering its feathers and cooing in distress. The cobra was twisting and turning about. The people as usual had not a clue as they continued their work, their dancing, their singing and their watching.
Mongoose Parable #7
The land formers were brought to settle the ground. They tapped the ground to speed up the time. They tapped for each other and the other danced. The megaphone was the strongest tapper. She tapped and everyone danced, with fear and care. The charmer also tapped and danced to others' tapping. The Mongoose knew it would turn into a simpering dog on the heels at midnight. The Mongoose knew it could dance. It knew it could tap for others. It tapped a bit for the people and they danced. It tapped even for the megaphone and she also danced. But the Mongoose knew it would turn into a simpering dog on the heels at midnight once she danced to the 100th tap of one stick. It would became a whining dog on the heels of even the most intolerant master. The mystery lay in the disparity between the mongoose and the people: they tapped and danced into the thousands.
Now, the mongoose had forgotten to take count of its hopping to the rhythm and the song of the charmer but calculated shrewdly that the rate drove the time of the 100th tap fairly near. Thus, a plan was devised in her head to delay if not circumvent the undesired mutation. She scribbled away, composing a drafted list of conditions and dates for the working of the building. The charmer received them well enough but slept fitfully and said but a few things. His desires were left to be discerned. His obedience was commendable...or perhaps disturbing. One had to wonder who tapped the stick and who danced to it. The Mongoose wished for a palette…a palette upon which both could paint parables and orate them to each other, orate them to the people, the people outside the walls and within the walls.
Now, the mongoose had forgotten to take count of its hopping to the rhythm and the song of the charmer but calculated shrewdly that the rate drove the time of the 100th tap fairly near. Thus, a plan was devised in her head to delay if not circumvent the undesired mutation. She scribbled away, composing a drafted list of conditions and dates for the working of the building. The charmer received them well enough but slept fitfully and said but a few things. His desires were left to be discerned. His obedience was commendable...or perhaps disturbing. One had to wonder who tapped the stick and who danced to it. The Mongoose wished for a palette…a palette upon which both could paint parables and orate them to each other, orate them to the people, the people outside the walls and within the walls.
Mongoose Parable #6
The construction was delayed. The work crew sat wearily under the hot sun. The people gathered to watch. They stood on each others shoulders peering over the wall, through the barbed wire. Were they hopeful? Were they doubtful? Then the charmer spoke a parable to the mongoose and his work crew. When two irons are put to the fire, one will cut and one will be cut. The mongoose responded with another parable. When two yoked oxen pull a cart, it is more easily moved than a cart that is pulled with one ox. The people cheered and demanded the house to be built. The work crew groaned. The charmer fiddled with the ring that bound the cages to his staff. The mongoose considered how it would burrow a den outside the wall so it could live with the people. The people continued to stand on each others shoulders, peering over the wall, through the barbed wire. Were they hopeful? Were they doubtful? The megaphone came that day to put order to the project.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
the tongue and the teeth
The tongue and the teeth reside under one roof. Despite their differences they can’t do without each other. If there are disagreements all things in the house suffer.
The parables that the Nigerians tell each other are amazing. This is one I encountered recently. I think my affinity to literalism and scientific explication are gone forever.
The parables that the Nigerians tell each other are amazing. This is one I encountered recently. I think my affinity to literalism and scientific explication are gone forever.
Monday, March 10, 2008
the rooster in pepe soup
Here I am back home cooking African rooster in African gingered soup. The ginger is my touch to traditional pepe soup.
Sunday, February 3, 2008
the rooster
This is one of the two roosters I was given as a gift from the family and the other was from the church.
security checks, immigration and hungry men
Okay, so what did I get through immigration? Raw honey, bags and bags of dried ginger that the villagers gave to me (at least I thought they were dried) and that rooster the church gave me as a gift. According to Mary’s very strict orders the guys delivered the rooster to me at the airport. The Pastoral Assistant’s wife cooked it up for me and gave it to me through her husband at the airport in Abuja at 9:30 pm. I carried it in my handbag through Amsterdam, New Jersey and Minneapolis. And at about 9:00 pm our time, I put it in my refrigerator to eat whenever I feel like it. After all I have eaten; I don’t know why I bother putting it into the refrigerator.
The young immigration guy who questioned me about my agricultural goods asked if I had been in contact with any livestock. I was in the bush…but of course, I had been in direct contact with lots of livestock: goats chickens, dogs, cats. “Well, do you have any dirty shoes,” he queried.
“No, I didn’t wear shoes,” I responded.
He looked a bit shocked. I pressed it a bit further by letting a bit more of the too much truth Mennonite come out, “I went barefoot or wore flipflops.”
He let me pass. And nobody opened my luggage.
I’ve also been able to get up to 4.0 oz bottles through anywhere except the Minneapolis airport. Pretty girl factor works on almost anyone in security checks with the exception of American security checks. Atlanta, when it is full, security was more lax. In Minneapolis I have always found it to be tight, routine and unprejudiced. Only, Americans seem to take security searches super seriously. They yell and order you around like they’re managing a bunch of convicts. Nobody gets any special treatment. In Nigeria it was quite different. I got off the plane and almost immediately I run into a uniformed man holding a sign with my name. He had been “paid” to provide me with good guidance and hospitality. I walked past all the lines others were waiting in while he worked the paperwork, through the back door of the booth.
On the way out, I was sent various other messages from Fr. Vincent and his PA on the other side of the glass via another uniformed airport worker, while waiting in line to check in. I elbowed my way further up the mangled line by joking with my neighbors. One needs to be charming and happy in Nigeria and know how to give the right kind of incentives.
Before getting on the plane, I set off the metal detector. All the Nigerian men manning the detector turned their attention toward me. I remembered my hair was up in barrettes under my Nigerian head wrap. (Err, I mean my handgun was under my Nigerian headwrap. Check it out the photo below. A gun certainly could fit under that headwrap.)
“Shucks.” I thought. “I can’t plead religious conviction like I can with a covering.” I looked at the guy and pointed to my hair.
“Take it out,” he said.
My Amish-Mennonite inside was offended that a man had just ordered me to take off my hat and take down my hair but I had to remind myself this man was not Amish-Mennonite and I took down my hair, while everyone else watched, drooling. Except for the Nigerian lady with the severe look on her face, who had a wand in hand and who looked like she was going to hit me with it. I think I would have gotten away with telling the guy bluntly that he just wanted to see a white woman taking down her hair. In America, they would have given you an extra roughing up for that kind of lip. But for me, on this side of the world, I think I could have passed a gallon of palm wine through the screening, offered them all a sip and they would have let me go.
In Amsterdam, while I was going through the carry-on screening, I had forgotten to drink my liter of water before passing it through the conveyor. They pulled it out and asked, what’s this? “Oh, I forgot,” I whined. “I’m really, thirsty. Can I drink it right here in front of you?” I ask, while a white woman and a male Nigerian audienced. I watched the white woman’s face hardened quickly. The Nigerian was caving though. It went into the trash, unopened.
“You can go back out and purchase another drink if you like,” the Nigerian offered. “The plane isn’t leaving quite yet.”
I declined and moved into the lobby. Not two minutes later he came after me and started the array of questions. Where are you going? Who do you know?...ending in I like how you look.
What does one say to that? Go buy me a drink?
Hmm…and Africa is not full of hungry men?!
I had a bit of a discussion before the trip with my priestly friend in which he exclaimed to me in exasperation, “Africa is not a bunch of hungry men out for women.” I responded that I was quite certain of that but it was I that had to express my expectations of him to take care of any situation, should some man become overly zealous and desire to take me away with him, should such a rare situation occur. There were no issues, and as long as I was in the company of the family there weren’t even any approaches but in the short hours enroute, four Nigerian men took it there. And that’s not even counting the consulate experience.
January 16
The young immigration guy who questioned me about my agricultural goods asked if I had been in contact with any livestock. I was in the bush…but of course, I had been in direct contact with lots of livestock: goats chickens, dogs, cats. “Well, do you have any dirty shoes,” he queried.
“No, I didn’t wear shoes,” I responded.
He looked a bit shocked. I pressed it a bit further by letting a bit more of the too much truth Mennonite come out, “I went barefoot or wore flipflops.”
He let me pass. And nobody opened my luggage.
I’ve also been able to get up to 4.0 oz bottles through anywhere except the Minneapolis airport. Pretty girl factor works on almost anyone in security checks with the exception of American security checks. Atlanta, when it is full, security was more lax. In Minneapolis I have always found it to be tight, routine and unprejudiced. Only, Americans seem to take security searches super seriously. They yell and order you around like they’re managing a bunch of convicts. Nobody gets any special treatment. In Nigeria it was quite different. I got off the plane and almost immediately I run into a uniformed man holding a sign with my name. He had been “paid” to provide me with good guidance and hospitality. I walked past all the lines others were waiting in while he worked the paperwork, through the back door of the booth.
On the way out, I was sent various other messages from Fr. Vincent and his PA on the other side of the glass via another uniformed airport worker, while waiting in line to check in. I elbowed my way further up the mangled line by joking with my neighbors. One needs to be charming and happy in Nigeria and know how to give the right kind of incentives.
Before getting on the plane, I set off the metal detector. All the Nigerian men manning the detector turned their attention toward me. I remembered my hair was up in barrettes under my Nigerian head wrap. (Err, I mean my handgun was under my Nigerian headwrap. Check it out the photo below. A gun certainly could fit under that headwrap.)
“Shucks.” I thought. “I can’t plead religious conviction like I can with a covering.” I looked at the guy and pointed to my hair.
“Take it out,” he said.
My Amish-Mennonite inside was offended that a man had just ordered me to take off my hat and take down my hair but I had to remind myself this man was not Amish-Mennonite and I took down my hair, while everyone else watched, drooling. Except for the Nigerian lady with the severe look on her face, who had a wand in hand and who looked like she was going to hit me with it. I think I would have gotten away with telling the guy bluntly that he just wanted to see a white woman taking down her hair. In America, they would have given you an extra roughing up for that kind of lip. But for me, on this side of the world, I think I could have passed a gallon of palm wine through the screening, offered them all a sip and they would have let me go.
In Amsterdam, while I was going through the carry-on screening, I had forgotten to drink my liter of water before passing it through the conveyor. They pulled it out and asked, what’s this? “Oh, I forgot,” I whined. “I’m really, thirsty. Can I drink it right here in front of you?” I ask, while a white woman and a male Nigerian audienced. I watched the white woman’s face hardened quickly. The Nigerian was caving though. It went into the trash, unopened.
“You can go back out and purchase another drink if you like,” the Nigerian offered. “The plane isn’t leaving quite yet.”
I declined and moved into the lobby. Not two minutes later he came after me and started the array of questions. Where are you going? Who do you know?...ending in I like how you look.
What does one say to that? Go buy me a drink?
Hmm…and Africa is not full of hungry men?!
I had a bit of a discussion before the trip with my priestly friend in which he exclaimed to me in exasperation, “Africa is not a bunch of hungry men out for women.” I responded that I was quite certain of that but it was I that had to express my expectations of him to take care of any situation, should some man become overly zealous and desire to take me away with him, should such a rare situation occur. There were no issues, and as long as I was in the company of the family there weren’t even any approaches but in the short hours enroute, four Nigerian men took it there. And that’s not even counting the consulate experience.
January 16
goodbye Fadia
Pictured here are myself and Sister Mary, getting into that horrible car that smelled of gasoline. On the good days it didn't make me feel sick but it certainly got one from point A to point B in good-ol-Nigerian style--fast.
January 12
a goodbye dance
A crowd gathers as I am leaving. A lady challenges me to a dance off. Does it look like I'm doing it. I don't know. But it sure was a crowd pleaser.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Sunday, January 20, 2008
running away from Baruka.
In the early afternoon, I attempted to get Neicy to fall asleep by pretending to sleep myself. My feigned sleep was only credible to Baruka who went to lie down himself. Eventually, I told Neicy I was going running and she could either stay or come with. I took off toward the railroad tracks, which lead to Zankwa to the east and to a large mountainous rock to the west. I headed west only to find Neicy trailing me. We climbed the rock and looked out across the surrounding landscape. We cheered because we had succeeded in loosing Baruka. Our freedom was short-lived, for on the way back down the rock, we saw someone come crashing through the brush at us. It was Baruka, winded, shirtless and with a frightened look in his eyes.
While he was accompanying us back, he exclaimed about how he had lost us and persuaded, “We will go and rest now. We are finished for today.”
I was barely winded. I told him, "I have only begun. I will also run to Zonkwa today. I will wear you out, I promised.”
So much for the delicate white lady.
As for Neicy, her commentary went like this, “I tell you, she is very strong, Truly!.”
I did run to Zankwa later that day. Neicy and another visitor, Nola, missed me and were on their way to Zonkwa also. I met them coming on my way back.
There is no escaping community and togetherness in Africa. For me there was especially no escape. Eyes are everywhere people are. All Baruka had to do to find me is stand out on the porch and ask, “Where did the white lady go?” And the people would point. A few paces from the house he would only have to ask the bushes, which way did the white lady go, and the bushes would point, also. Even in the bush, there were people everywhere. The population density is amazing. And everyone knows each other in the bush. Even in the city, we were running into folks the guys knew on the street, stopping traffic to talk to them.
January 10
Here is Baruka. Notice the Bulus scarification on the left cheek.
While he was accompanying us back, he exclaimed about how he had lost us and persuaded, “We will go and rest now. We are finished for today.”
I was barely winded. I told him, "I have only begun. I will also run to Zonkwa today. I will wear you out, I promised.”
So much for the delicate white lady.
As for Neicy, her commentary went like this, “I tell you, she is very strong, Truly!.”
I did run to Zankwa later that day. Neicy and another visitor, Nola, missed me and were on their way to Zonkwa also. I met them coming on my way back.
There is no escaping community and togetherness in Africa. For me there was especially no escape. Eyes are everywhere people are. All Baruka had to do to find me is stand out on the porch and ask, “Where did the white lady go?” And the people would point. A few paces from the house he would only have to ask the bushes, which way did the white lady go, and the bushes would point, also. Even in the bush, there were people everywhere. The population density is amazing. And everyone knows each other in the bush. Even in the city, we were running into folks the guys knew on the street, stopping traffic to talk to them.
January 10
Here is Baruka. Notice the Bulus scarification on the left cheek.
this is Baba and son
I didn't take this photo but I like it because it is a good image of African expressiveness.
running from stereotypes, catching a moment
Everyone else bathes in cold water, yet they insisted on heating up some water on the fire for me. But while doing so Imma cautioned in Hausa, “Now, don’t get it too hot, her skin isn’t as tough as ours.” Evidently black skin is synonymous with tough skin.
I got used to being told to step carefully and to being coddled in other ways. They wanted me to rest a lot. Sometimes I went stir crazy. I’m accustomed to being much more active here. I didn’t want to rest or be served hand and foot. Baruka was my “servant.” He was assigned to get me everything I needed while I was in the village. The first evening he sat in the guest room with Neicy and I. He answered all my questions but mostly he sat a waited for me to need something or he simply sat with us to be with us, I couldn’t figure out which it was. Later Neicy expressed how I felt, “Why is that guy always following us? Let’s run away.” The next day we did.
Despite the uncomfortable traditions and habits of the people we were amongst, it was fun to stand outside of myself and laugh at how my own independence was hardwired into me. After the melt-down about the high walls and barbed wire, the guys always ribbed me about it. In the village, it was all open space, “Hey check it out,” they’d say, “no walls and barbed wire.”
“Just one spy,” I would counter and point at Baruka and laugh. He, however, served as a wonderful guide in meeting folks in the village and was invaluable in explaining things I didn’t understand.
On our first day in the village we took a short walk to a neighboring huddle of huts to meet the tribal chief, I was telling Baruka that I wanted to put on my converse and run to Zankwa that afternoon, which was a 3k trip. “Oh, no, you must not,” he countered, “You will be so tired. After this walk, we will rest.”
“You may rest, I can run to Zankwa by myself. I will be okay. Fr. Vincent gave me permission.” I persuaded.
“No, I must go with you. We will wait till tomorrow” he said. “Watch your step,” he cautioned, as I stepped over a shallow ditch. “White people take small steps. Africans take big strides,” he said.
One of the bigger barrier breaking habits I engaged in was the food I chose to eat. I ate the food that the people prepared. I was a bit more careful with the water. I mostly took tea so it was all boiled before I drank it. But the food was great. It didn’t affect my digestive system at all. I even ate bush meat. Bush meat is the meat you buy along the road that somebody killed and skinned and dried. It could be a few weeks old but it stinks and it has flies all over it. And when you stop the car to inspect it, the vendor will throw it on top the dusty hood of the car and everyone will touch it and there will be some negotiating. After you buy it they’ll throw it into the trunk with the luggage. And somebody at home will cook it up. The picture below is of elk meat the guys bought. We ate it for breakfast the next morning. It was really tasty.
I got used to being told to step carefully and to being coddled in other ways. They wanted me to rest a lot. Sometimes I went stir crazy. I’m accustomed to being much more active here. I didn’t want to rest or be served hand and foot. Baruka was my “servant.” He was assigned to get me everything I needed while I was in the village. The first evening he sat in the guest room with Neicy and I. He answered all my questions but mostly he sat a waited for me to need something or he simply sat with us to be with us, I couldn’t figure out which it was. Later Neicy expressed how I felt, “Why is that guy always following us? Let’s run away.” The next day we did.
Despite the uncomfortable traditions and habits of the people we were amongst, it was fun to stand outside of myself and laugh at how my own independence was hardwired into me. After the melt-down about the high walls and barbed wire, the guys always ribbed me about it. In the village, it was all open space, “Hey check it out,” they’d say, “no walls and barbed wire.”
“Just one spy,” I would counter and point at Baruka and laugh. He, however, served as a wonderful guide in meeting folks in the village and was invaluable in explaining things I didn’t understand.
On our first day in the village we took a short walk to a neighboring huddle of huts to meet the tribal chief, I was telling Baruka that I wanted to put on my converse and run to Zankwa that afternoon, which was a 3k trip. “Oh, no, you must not,” he countered, “You will be so tired. After this walk, we will rest.”
“You may rest, I can run to Zankwa by myself. I will be okay. Fr. Vincent gave me permission.” I persuaded.
“No, I must go with you. We will wait till tomorrow” he said. “Watch your step,” he cautioned, as I stepped over a shallow ditch. “White people take small steps. Africans take big strides,” he said.
One of the bigger barrier breaking habits I engaged in was the food I chose to eat. I ate the food that the people prepared. I was a bit more careful with the water. I mostly took tea so it was all boiled before I drank it. But the food was great. It didn’t affect my digestive system at all. I even ate bush meat. Bush meat is the meat you buy along the road that somebody killed and skinned and dried. It could be a few weeks old but it stinks and it has flies all over it. And when you stop the car to inspect it, the vendor will throw it on top the dusty hood of the car and everyone will touch it and there will be some negotiating. After you buy it they’ll throw it into the trunk with the luggage. And somebody at home will cook it up. The picture below is of elk meat the guys bought. We ate it for breakfast the next morning. It was really tasty.
mongoose parable #6
Evening came and the villagers gathered, in fact they had been gathering all day. The mongoose watched, scribbled and calculated and did not do much more. The villagers mumbled to each other. The charmer, becoming distracted with their mumbling brought out his turtledove and cobra. They played freely with each other. The people watched with listless glee as the dove flitted here and there and the cobra slithered here and there. Lists of numbers and people in fancy cloths came to see the charmer and his workers that day. The workers began to get messy in their building as the charmer grew more and more tired. This night he even forgot to put his pets back into their cages. The mongoose watched and waited for the morrow in the hopes of an improved morale. The scribbling became more intense although there was little light to write by.
January 10
January 10
Saturday, January 19, 2008
the problem is hunger
Today, I started to give food away. Better to give it away than to horde it. I began to notice how the cycle runs and specifically where it is implemented under my own nose. On our way out of Kaduna this morning we were gathering a spread in the back seat. Two different people had offered to prepare a take-along meal for us. We took them both. As we sat beside a roadside market, a girl comes to peer into the darkened glass. She made the “I want food,” sign language and I asked if I could give her a banana. The guys said, “sure” with gusto and ran on to express themselves in angry tones, “those are fine girls,” they said. “All they need is some food and they will be fine. Hunger is the problem!”
Later, I wished I’d given them my chicken. I don’t need it. I still feel stuffed. And I haven’t eaten since lunch.
Tonight, also, I looked at the stash of food in the room that would soon go bad. I had noticed earlier how the stash of food on the fire in the courtyard was getting dolled out in thermal containers. One ended up in my room. I felt too full to eat even a bite. I noticed the women and girls gathered in the courtyard, all were speaking Housa but mostly I was hearing the scraping of the bottom of the large community pot. I sent out a salad to the courtyard with Baraka, my assigned personal assistant. He protested, I insisted. I followed him soon thereafter and found him with his hand in his mouth before the courtyard door. Traditionally people eat with their hands here. I began being suspicious of how close to home the hunger problem was.
In our traveling up and down and here and there in a car loaded with tag-alongs—food and getting it seemed to be a tedious process and a constant worry. At first I thought it was simply hospitality and routine. I ate despite not being hungry. Then I began to realize eating and finding food had a deeper almost psychological connection with the “hunger is the problem” declaration made often by those of us in the hunt for food. Those scads of children running through the streets with bowls often in the Muslim part of town, they were running and looking for food. Running to where? They didn’t even know yet. Those kids in the field, they are looking for food too. Those of us in a hunt for food were also once those children running through the streets, combing through the dirt in a field, whose brothers and sisters hadn’t survived, who were now in a position to buy themselves out of the food shortage/distribution situation.
The multiple wives per man situation exasperates the food shortage in my calculation and in the estimation of many of the more educated. Multiple wives often happens in the Muslim communities, where the more wives the greater a man’s status. This occurs especially among the most traditional Muslims. Yet others have more than one wife also. More than one wife means more hungry children. And traditionally the man is not held responsible for them. Traditions change as folks are educated but decent education is also a problem.
January 12
These are children in the field looking for food. I think they are finding the remaining ginger, since ginger is currently being harvested.
Later, I wished I’d given them my chicken. I don’t need it. I still feel stuffed. And I haven’t eaten since lunch.
Tonight, also, I looked at the stash of food in the room that would soon go bad. I had noticed earlier how the stash of food on the fire in the courtyard was getting dolled out in thermal containers. One ended up in my room. I felt too full to eat even a bite. I noticed the women and girls gathered in the courtyard, all were speaking Housa but mostly I was hearing the scraping of the bottom of the large community pot. I sent out a salad to the courtyard with Baraka, my assigned personal assistant. He protested, I insisted. I followed him soon thereafter and found him with his hand in his mouth before the courtyard door. Traditionally people eat with their hands here. I began being suspicious of how close to home the hunger problem was.
In our traveling up and down and here and there in a car loaded with tag-alongs—food and getting it seemed to be a tedious process and a constant worry. At first I thought it was simply hospitality and routine. I ate despite not being hungry. Then I began to realize eating and finding food had a deeper almost psychological connection with the “hunger is the problem” declaration made often by those of us in the hunt for food. Those scads of children running through the streets with bowls often in the Muslim part of town, they were running and looking for food. Running to where? They didn’t even know yet. Those kids in the field, they are looking for food too. Those of us in a hunt for food were also once those children running through the streets, combing through the dirt in a field, whose brothers and sisters hadn’t survived, who were now in a position to buy themselves out of the food shortage/distribution situation.
The multiple wives per man situation exasperates the food shortage in my calculation and in the estimation of many of the more educated. Multiple wives often happens in the Muslim communities, where the more wives the greater a man’s status. This occurs especially among the most traditional Muslims. Yet others have more than one wife also. More than one wife means more hungry children. And traditionally the man is not held responsible for them. Traditions change as folks are educated but decent education is also a problem.
January 12
These are children in the field looking for food. I think they are finding the remaining ginger, since ginger is currently being harvested.
Thursday, January 17, 2008
the two little girls who ran toward me
Among a number of terrified children incidents, there were two little girls who embraced me. Here they are.
This one was Muslim and was the daughter of a leather merchant we went to browse at. She came to me wanting to be held.
This one was the daughter of a politician who was elected by the people but denied the post. A political corruption thing. She was my constant companion on our first trip to the village. Her family lived in Kaduna. We returned her to the care of her parents on the Friday the 11th, then stayed the night. She was marvelous. She was incredibly engaging and bright. She translated the Hausa phrases I kept hearing, so I could learn them. It was her first time in the village also. I took care of her and she took care of me. She didn’t leave me out of her sight. He father was telling me that she was so excited to meet me that she barely slept the night before I came.
And here are the screaming children.
This one was Muslim and was the daughter of a leather merchant we went to browse at. She came to me wanting to be held.
This one was the daughter of a politician who was elected by the people but denied the post. A political corruption thing. She was my constant companion on our first trip to the village. Her family lived in Kaduna. We returned her to the care of her parents on the Friday the 11th, then stayed the night. She was marvelous. She was incredibly engaging and bright. She translated the Hausa phrases I kept hearing, so I could learn them. It was her first time in the village also. I took care of her and she took care of me. She didn’t leave me out of her sight. He father was telling me that she was so excited to meet me that she barely slept the night before I came.
And here are the screaming children.
Impromptu Sermonettes
Tonight we wandered into the church by Archbishop Jatau’s house. The music and dancing and worship drew us. Of course we were a spectacle and all three of us were required to speak, Fr. Vincent (in the black and white), myself and Ben a former Sem friend of Fr. (the guy in orange who is on the far left).
I had a small moment of stage fright but took one look into the eyes of the people and it dispelled immediately. I could get used to this. They were charismatic, responsive and happy to pray for us and have us pray for them. There were also moments to speak to dialogue with the people in the village church of Fadia.
I had a small moment of stage fright but took one look into the eyes of the people and it dispelled immediately. I could get used to this. They were charismatic, responsive and happy to pray for us and have us pray for them. There were also moments to speak to dialogue with the people in the village church of Fadia.
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
remnants of the caste system
Later that week in Kaduna, after going up and down and all around from one high walled courtyard to another, transported in a tinted windowed car, I was about to have a melt-down. Whereas, at first it felt like a mysterious conspiracy that I had time warped into, it soon was extremely restrictive to an independent person like myself. I took a little jaunt on an okada with my name’s sake to an internet café and that helped. We also took a walk on the streets out side the offensive walls, but I was still angry at the walls. As I was expressing myself dramatically, I countered their "protection from theft and lawless people" reasons for the walls and the barbed wires. "This is not security, it is jail! These walls are remnants of the caste system, which allows the rich to live with plenty while those outside the walls dig in the gutter for daily sustenance." It’s a systemically acceptable bondage that binds the poor to their poverty and the rich to their wealth. Both are equally in bondage. "Get me out of this jail!"
And as if to emphasize my point all the lights went out on our half of the city as I finished my tirade, sending us all into a fit of uncontrolled laughter.
And as if to emphasize my point all the lights went out on our half of the city as I finished my tirade, sending us all into a fit of uncontrolled laughter.
January 8, 2008
The powerful powerless.
Today we took breakfast at the house of a woman who was elected to the state assembly. Her husband also is a politician. I don’t know how Fr. Vincent knows them but he calls her mother. We were to assist her daughter in the college application process. Daughter Abigail is to study in the US. I offered my assistance and was well received. Much of our time is being used up helping and guiding these identified numbers of University age students in the application process and the visa process, getting them letters of commendation, reading them and getting mad when the spelling was wrong and the reference to the applicant was misplaced.
There were loose webs of connection between these who were attempting to better themselves and the officials we went to visit. It is bit bizarre to be driving up to the gated, walled entrance to the home of the bishops, the arch bishop, a few ministers, a few politicians, then drinking and dining with them in their posh surroundings. Earlier today we went to make an appointment with a minister, who had schooled at Harvard and had studied in Europe only to come back and be a parish priest. He was an incredibly busy man. The waiting room next to his office was full of people waiting to see him. Fr. Vincent and I somehow simply walked into his office and waited till he was finished discussing a personal matter with one of his visitors. We were introduced and we chatted. I asked him about the manuscript I noticed sitting on his desk. He seemed happy to discuss it. Everyone else seemed to want something from him: money, letters of commendation, etc. Later, as we were leaving, the man walked through his courtyard in his robes to go to an appointment. We watched as the people went running after him. We were invited to breakfast with him the next morning, along with a student friend of Fr. Vincent and the lady politician of the previous morning. Later I was told, Immanuel, Fr. Vincent’s pastoral assistant was actually this man’s pastoral assistant but was on loan to Fr. Vincent.
Later we went to see archbishop. I chatted with him for almost an hour, because Fr. had disappeared downstairs with a good friend. Archbishop was good company. We talked about everything from politics to education and church issues and theology. He will likely be coming to the US for some medical treatment. He also just put in his retirement notice.
Today we took breakfast at the house of a woman who was elected to the state assembly. Her husband also is a politician. I don’t know how Fr. Vincent knows them but he calls her mother. We were to assist her daughter in the college application process. Daughter Abigail is to study in the US. I offered my assistance and was well received. Much of our time is being used up helping and guiding these identified numbers of University age students in the application process and the visa process, getting them letters of commendation, reading them and getting mad when the spelling was wrong and the reference to the applicant was misplaced.
There were loose webs of connection between these who were attempting to better themselves and the officials we went to visit. It is bit bizarre to be driving up to the gated, walled entrance to the home of the bishops, the arch bishop, a few ministers, a few politicians, then drinking and dining with them in their posh surroundings. Earlier today we went to make an appointment with a minister, who had schooled at Harvard and had studied in Europe only to come back and be a parish priest. He was an incredibly busy man. The waiting room next to his office was full of people waiting to see him. Fr. Vincent and I somehow simply walked into his office and waited till he was finished discussing a personal matter with one of his visitors. We were introduced and we chatted. I asked him about the manuscript I noticed sitting on his desk. He seemed happy to discuss it. Everyone else seemed to want something from him: money, letters of commendation, etc. Later, as we were leaving, the man walked through his courtyard in his robes to go to an appointment. We watched as the people went running after him. We were invited to breakfast with him the next morning, along with a student friend of Fr. Vincent and the lady politician of the previous morning. Later I was told, Immanuel, Fr. Vincent’s pastoral assistant was actually this man’s pastoral assistant but was on loan to Fr. Vincent.
Later we went to see archbishop. I chatted with him for almost an hour, because Fr. had disappeared downstairs with a good friend. Archbishop was good company. We talked about everything from politics to education and church issues and theology. He will likely be coming to the US for some medical treatment. He also just put in his retirement notice.
January 7, 2008
This morning I woke up early and went outside to look at my surroundings. The hotel courtyard was small and the walls around it high with barbed wire strung along the top. It was super posh. The staff was all yes ma’am. There were gate guards that watched me. (Well, everyone watched me. I was the white lady.) The place didn’t seem very occupied. I went back to my room. Soon thereafter the men came striding in looking sharp with their black suits and ties. They told me to order breakfast. They’d already eaten. They left for their first meeting. I ate breakfast alone. They came to pick me later that morning. We drove all over Kaduna. And they tried bringing me back to the hotel to eat. We waited and waited for the food. Finally, I insisted that we simply buy bananas bread and tea to supplement our collection of non-perishables. I would then have behavior management tools in my hand when tempers began getting a little off kilter. At the time, I didn’t understand why it was so difficult to persuade these guys that I didn’t care what I ate: tea and fruits from the roadside vendors would work for me. Mamma Putt would also work. Food isn’t that important for me but check out the post entitled, “Hunger is the problem.”
We found fruit. I found this photo to be classic because here are guys in perfectly pressed suits stuffing their faces on the dusty, dirty street, only to later hob knob with the politicians, dignitaries, the bishops and archbishop. By the end of the day the suit was dusty and rumpled and the person in it was crabby and frustrated. The lack of a dependable source of power, the maybe we will be on time and maybe we will do what we said we would do Nigerian attitude frustrated a lot of appointments and delayed every day into the next.
Here is the Mamma Putt that is too unsanitary for Americans. The guys later relented to allowing me to partake here. I ate and was satisfied. There were no digestion issues. Again this is our dignified looking PA, stuffing his face with his hands.
We found fruit. I found this photo to be classic because here are guys in perfectly pressed suits stuffing their faces on the dusty, dirty street, only to later hob knob with the politicians, dignitaries, the bishops and archbishop. By the end of the day the suit was dusty and rumpled and the person in it was crabby and frustrated. The lack of a dependable source of power, the maybe we will be on time and maybe we will do what we said we would do Nigerian attitude frustrated a lot of appointments and delayed every day into the next.
Here is the Mamma Putt that is too unsanitary for Americans. The guys later relented to allowing me to partake here. I ate and was satisfied. There were no digestion issues. Again this is our dignified looking PA, stuffing his face with his hands.
Tuesday, January 8, 2008
Nigerianisms
Aclomitize. I was told I aclomitized very quickly. Otherwise known to us as acclimate. Aclomitize is accented like kilometer, with that accent on the "o". The word is virtually unrecognizable to me when they say it.
For a centennial memorial a building of guest rooms is named “Centinary Block.”
There is a plant in Jos called the “Mineral Benification Plant.” Would the company motto be to benify minerals for capital benefit or where does the benefit part come in.
“You are welcome.” You are welcome. This is what I have heard everywhere I have gone. Every friend of the family and every person who I meet says, “You are welcome.” Not you’re welcome as in thank you and you’re welcome. Not welcome to my home. It is “you are welcome!” or in Hausa it is “Sanno.”
Mamma Putt. Mamma Putt are the “restaurants” of the locals. They may or may not be up to the American sanitary standard. Below is one of them.
The logic behind calling it Mamma Putt is because one can... "come in and sit down and mamma put some food on plate for you.” It is also a mild insult. (Above you see two individuals mashing yam in the courtyard of Mamma Putt's establishment. Below are the pots of food ready to be served.
For a centennial memorial a building of guest rooms is named “Centinary Block.”
There is a plant in Jos called the “Mineral Benification Plant.” Would the company motto be to benify minerals for capital benefit or where does the benefit part come in.
“You are welcome.” You are welcome. This is what I have heard everywhere I have gone. Every friend of the family and every person who I meet says, “You are welcome.” Not you’re welcome as in thank you and you’re welcome. Not welcome to my home. It is “you are welcome!” or in Hausa it is “Sanno.”
Mamma Putt. Mamma Putt are the “restaurants” of the locals. They may or may not be up to the American sanitary standard. Below is one of them.
The logic behind calling it Mamma Putt is because one can... "come in and sit down and mamma put some food on plate for you.” It is also a mild insult. (Above you see two individuals mashing yam in the courtyard of Mamma Putt's establishment. Below are the pots of food ready to be served.
Nigerian English
I took tea for my first breakfast. It came with a tin container of milk that looked a bit pink. I asked what kind of milk it was. I was told it was tin milk. Where does it come from? Thinking which animal produced this. I thought I was told this is pig milk. Pig milk! Okay, no problem, I will drink pig milk. Yet tonight when I was taking my tea, I took it with pig milk again...then I read the label on the can. You can see it here.
I was at the Nigerian Consulate, when I asked another Nigerian who was waiting with his sister to help her get her passport. I asked him where I could get a money order. He told me two blocks south on the right hand side the citi gas station does money orders...or so I thought that was what he said. Later, as I was running to get the money order, I couldn’t find a citigas. I turned around to look for a gas station that fit the parameters, with a two syllable name that might sound close to citi. QT was it.
I was at the Nigerian Consulate, when I asked another Nigerian who was waiting with his sister to help her get her passport. I asked him where I could get a money order. He told me two blocks south on the right hand side the citi gas station does money orders...or so I thought that was what he said. Later, as I was running to get the money order, I couldn’t find a citigas. I turned around to look for a gas station that fit the parameters, with a two syllable name that might sound close to citi. QT was it.
Mongoose Parable #5
After a day of work, the following morning came bright and early. The morning light revealed the high wall that had been built around the property. Barbed wire was strung upon the top of the wall to keep predators out. The construction crew arrived early with polished shoes and shiny dark shades. They poured over the blueprints and decided to start over again, making fresh new ones. The mongoose’s scribbling didn’t even catch the notice of this crew. They merrily stroked the mongooses coat and tickled behind its ears and continued to construct the house.
Mongoose Parable #4
The charmer reappeared suddenly in his usual fashion, with turtledove and cobra. His eyes glowed again, mesmerizing. The house project was started and the bricklayers and foundation pourers were present to assist. They came in dark sunglasses and protective clothing because the sun was much too bright. Meanwhile, The charmer and the mongoose tended to the surrounding landscape. They called on the charmer to lay the strategic bricks while they mixed and laid the mortar. The work was tiresome but necessary. At the end of the day they all fell into a deep sleep induced by the Mongoose, who tickled the noses, so it could return to its incessant scribbling.
January 6, 2008
According to Nigerian projected plan, early this morning (instead of yesterday) we went to “the village” in Kaduna: otherwise called Zankwa, Fatia. We went to the large catholic church for their third mass. The place was packed. People came from everywhere. When we arrived, after some wicked driving, they were pouring out the doors from the previous service. There are three services in all and from what I hear they are all packed. Father Vincent had been taking the place of the parish priest who had been on a short break, since his return to Nigeria. Today he became a “free man.” We all lived it up in the energy of that freedom. It was much easier to encounter the local folks, with the three guys. There was no place closed to us. We interrupted a Sunday school class taking place in the back yard of a cousin priest’s parish house to take photos with the kids. We stopped at a New Year’s celebration where there was drumming and dancing. We chased down the scared children, who ran away from their swinging at the sight of a white woman. We walked into their home sight and made peace with them. We stopped at a mission to the poorest of the poor who’ve taken in orphaned babies. I have no concept of who is who and what the social classes and rankings are. I was told afterward that a man I had been discussing corruption and politics with was associated with the military somehow and had armed guards around his house. Later, in Kaduna I am given the red carpet in a posh hotel where we will be staying for the next few days. I am told that this man owns the hotel. I find it very bizarre that a humble Amish girl is in this very interesting place. This is too weird.
Yet I was reminded that I am being well cared for, as Sister Mary has called her brother (Father Vincent) several times and wondered or rather, demanded, if I am being taken care of properly. She called twice. Once when we were in the car. She must have heard the radio music and it didn’t sound like church music to her. Thus, she demanded of her brother, “Where have you taken her?! What is that music? Will I have to come and bring her back to Jos?” Believe me these guys have no choice in the matter as to caring for me properly, since they would have Mary to recon with and I assure you they are afraid. I spoke with Mary later to reassure her I was enjoying myself and well cared for. She laughed at my stories of the terrified children.
Yet I was reminded that I am being well cared for, as Sister Mary has called her brother (Father Vincent) several times and wondered or rather, demanded, if I am being taken care of properly. She called twice. Once when we were in the car. She must have heard the radio music and it didn’t sound like church music to her. Thus, she demanded of her brother, “Where have you taken her?! What is that music? Will I have to come and bring her back to Jos?” Believe me these guys have no choice in the matter as to caring for me properly, since they would have Mary to recon with and I assure you they are afraid. I spoke with Mary later to reassure her I was enjoying myself and well cared for. She laughed at my stories of the terrified children.
January 6, 2008
Today was a bit of a different pace and a much different exposure.
I have been Mary’s constant companion since I got here. She is a good woman who runs a hospital with very little capital. She has a hired driver she takes around in an old banged up car that constantly smells of gasoline. She is jolly and very giving. She loves people but does not tolerate any nonsense. And she wouldn’t mind me saying so. I have no idea how lackadaisical Nigeria produced such a hardworking woman. She is all justice, social equity to all and fears no one. We spent our time in the village and then three guys and I traveled up to Kaduna, where I will be staying for a while before going back to the village. A two hour drive took close to 4 hours, because we stopped here and there along the road when the guys saw something they wanted to see or someone they wanted to visit. We drove in a sleek car that was in perfect condition with tinted windows and air conditioning and leather seats. The armed men on the road saluted us as we gave them a rolling stop. I figured out who the other guys were along the way. There is Father Vincent. There was the driver, of course. And the driver is of the lowest class. He does not eat at the same table as the rest of us. There was the “borrowed” pastoral assistant, who helped Father Vincent with his business. He answered the phones, his and the father’s phone and spoke for him to the armed guards when we drove up the mayor’s house for an evening meeting. Hmmm...
Here are some men selling fish and a local animal for meat: bush meat. Perhaps it is a mongoose.
Here are kids swinging on a tree. The two brave ones stayed. The girls ran off, collected their brothers and came back to see this ghostly white woman.
This poor child was too small to run fast like the others so she was reduced to screaming in terror at the edge of the field.
This is a typical image of Mary at her desk pouring over numbers with her accountant.
I have been Mary’s constant companion since I got here. She is a good woman who runs a hospital with very little capital. She has a hired driver she takes around in an old banged up car that constantly smells of gasoline. She is jolly and very giving. She loves people but does not tolerate any nonsense. And she wouldn’t mind me saying so. I have no idea how lackadaisical Nigeria produced such a hardworking woman. She is all justice, social equity to all and fears no one. We spent our time in the village and then three guys and I traveled up to Kaduna, where I will be staying for a while before going back to the village. A two hour drive took close to 4 hours, because we stopped here and there along the road when the guys saw something they wanted to see or someone they wanted to visit. We drove in a sleek car that was in perfect condition with tinted windows and air conditioning and leather seats. The armed men on the road saluted us as we gave them a rolling stop. I figured out who the other guys were along the way. There is Father Vincent. There was the driver, of course. And the driver is of the lowest class. He does not eat at the same table as the rest of us. There was the “borrowed” pastoral assistant, who helped Father Vincent with his business. He answered the phones, his and the father’s phone and spoke for him to the armed guards when we drove up the mayor’s house for an evening meeting. Hmmm...
Here are some men selling fish and a local animal for meat: bush meat. Perhaps it is a mongoose.
Here are kids swinging on a tree. The two brave ones stayed. The girls ran off, collected their brothers and came back to see this ghostly white woman.
This poor child was too small to run fast like the others so she was reduced to screaming in terror at the edge of the field.
This is a typical image of Mary at her desk pouring over numbers with her accountant.
Mongoose parables #3
The charmer was not to be seen once he made his way off in a huff. Representatives came in his stead. They accompanied the mongoose, making their way to the local market for lunches intended for the workers on the project. It was a colorful place full of noisy vendors. There, other charmers with caged pets attempted to snag the attention of the mongoose company. They were especially taken with the mongoose’s beautiful coat. They offered some great deals but the mongoose decided to not purchase a pet at this time.
Mongoose parables #2
There are others who have spoken of building houses. “Maybe it is time for this one to build a house,” they will say. The sacred heart rabbits spoke of it while nibbling cabbage and sipping tea. It was a conversation smattered with native tongue and phrases in euphemistic meaning. Later one stopped us to inquire of us an address, perhaps it was the one who needed to build a house. One wouldn’t want to build it in the wrong place. No?
January 4,2008
Taking photos at the roadside market.
We stopped to get roadside fruit and yams. The yams here are the size of your forearm. The vendors swarmed the car with their food products on trays. After it became apparent that I wouldn’t buy (I have absolutely no naira because I haven’t changed over anything yet) I got out my camera and snapped some photos. It was a crowd pleaser as I could show them the end picture. Two little girls were so shy they disappeared when I took one out the car window, in their direction. It sent us both into a fit of giggles. I checked out all the head coverings the girls were wearing and had the one who’s wrap looked most like mine—I had her retie mine. There is no blending in here. I am white. I am pinkish white by comparison. I no longer sport olive toned skin, tweaking it this way or that. I am white, so very white.
The only complaint I have here is that they treat me too well. I don’t want to eat at these restaurants where they have the secured front gate and you see other white people there. I want to eat at Mamma Putt. Oh, well, so I fill up on cooked vegetables at the fancy places. Mamma Putt seems to do a lot of rice and meat and that is about all. I also told them I want to stay in the village. That would be the place where there is no electricity and running water. Mary thought I would go to visit for a short time but not to stay there. I told her this is the place I wish to spend most of my time.
January 4, 2008
I’m in Jos tonight, in a guest hospitality house of a Catholic center. We traveled up from Abuja this afternoon. I spent the whole day with Mary, her driver Ojo and Father Vincent’s next older brother Thaddeus.
All of my checked luggage was lost. It matters not though. Thaddeus will be following up on that, while Mary and I will continue to do our things in Jos and the village. I came prepared with enough in my carry on to survive. They just had me check my contact solution at the airport. I also have no pajamas until the sister gave me a housecoat tonight. Mostly, the items were gifts and fabric to give away. I was looking through the handcrafted items my mother sells. Among them were these wildly colorful baby quilts and braided rugs. Nobody in America finds them very appealing. But here in Africa, it is a different story. I think the items would go very well with people here.
I can see the likeness between Vincent and Mary. They are almost like twins in their opinionated commentary they carry with them everywhere. It is not uncommon to hear Mary give a frank commentary on what should be the case and what must be done and end in “...and you will do it!” The conversation is punctuated with a bit of name calling in a manner of speaking. A girl served me a donut on a napkin and she sent her to the kitchen “to do better than that, bush girl.” And when we stopped for Mary to “take lunch” at a roadside restaurant or a “Mamma Putt” as they call it, she asked for a table knife to eat her meat and they said they didn’t have one, she called over the waiter and gave him a hard time and then she called over the manager and told him that when he goes to the market on Saturday that he should look into some table knives. He agreed to do it of course, after she began the conversation by asking if they had no table knives because they were mamma putt.
Thaddeus is much more calm. He lives on the outskirts of Abuja with his wife and one child. Mary is a wonderful traveling companion. We’ve covered politics, religion, sports, the economy, trade, climate changes and so on.
The roads are full of people walking along side them. The women wear the beautiful colorful dresses all the time. They all wear them. There are very few who wear jeans. The men also wear beautiful traditional clothing and they should as it is likely the coolest clothing for the weather.
The weather is hot during the day. But it is not at all unbearable. It is cool at night. But it is dusty also. Where there is haze, smog and fog in the US to reduce visibility. Here there is dust in the air and it reduces the visibility drastically.
I’m in Jos tonight, in a guest hospitality house of a Catholic center. We traveled up from Abuja this afternoon. I spent the whole day with Mary, her driver Ojo and Father Vincent’s next older brother Thaddeus.
All of my checked luggage was lost. It matters not though. Thaddeus will be following up on that, while Mary and I will continue to do our things in Jos and the village. I came prepared with enough in my carry on to survive. They just had me check my contact solution at the airport. I also have no pajamas until the sister gave me a housecoat tonight. Mostly, the items were gifts and fabric to give away. I was looking through the handcrafted items my mother sells. Among them were these wildly colorful baby quilts and braided rugs. Nobody in America finds them very appealing. But here in Africa, it is a different story. I think the items would go very well with people here.
I can see the likeness between Vincent and Mary. They are almost like twins in their opinionated commentary they carry with them everywhere. It is not uncommon to hear Mary give a frank commentary on what should be the case and what must be done and end in “...and you will do it!” The conversation is punctuated with a bit of name calling in a manner of speaking. A girl served me a donut on a napkin and she sent her to the kitchen “to do better than that, bush girl.” And when we stopped for Mary to “take lunch” at a roadside restaurant or a “Mamma Putt” as they call it, she asked for a table knife to eat her meat and they said they didn’t have one, she called over the waiter and gave him a hard time and then she called over the manager and told him that when he goes to the market on Saturday that he should look into some table knives. He agreed to do it of course, after she began the conversation by asking if they had no table knives because they were mamma putt.
Thaddeus is much more calm. He lives on the outskirts of Abuja with his wife and one child. Mary is a wonderful traveling companion. We’ve covered politics, religion, sports, the economy, trade, climate changes and so on.
The roads are full of people walking along side them. The women wear the beautiful colorful dresses all the time. They all wear them. There are very few who wear jeans. The men also wear beautiful traditional clothing and they should as it is likely the coolest clothing for the weather.
The weather is hot during the day. But it is not at all unbearable. It is cool at night. But it is dusty also. Where there is haze, smog and fog in the US to reduce visibility. Here there is dust in the air and it reduces the visibility drastically.
Saturday, January 5, 2008
checking in
Currently I am in the director's office of Our Lady of the Apostles Hospital in Jos Sister Mary would be that director. I only have time for a short note to contact the rest of the world back home, as it seems this lady is a very busy lady. Well, she is the director here of a 200 bed hospital and she runs it with an iron fist and with much laughter and joking and opinions. A very interesting lady she is.
Today I will be going to the village, Kaduna. I have also heard it refered to as Zankwana. They weren't going to take me there but for a short visit but I insisted. I want to take most of my time there I told them. So, I will stay there till Wednesday supposedly--Nigerian expectation of course. There is no power or running water there. But I am ready for it. If I have any complaints thus far is that I am treated too well. I want to take my dinner with Mamma Putt. I want to take my rest under a tree. I want to wash in cold water. And I nearly lost this post due to power outage. I wonder what the sergeons are doing?
Today I will be going to the village, Kaduna. I have also heard it refered to as Zankwana. They weren't going to take me there but for a short visit but I insisted. I want to take most of my time there I told them. So, I will stay there till Wednesday supposedly--Nigerian expectation of course. There is no power or running water there. But I am ready for it. If I have any complaints thus far is that I am treated too well. I want to take my dinner with Mamma Putt. I want to take my rest under a tree. I want to wash in cold water. And I nearly lost this post due to power outage. I wonder what the sergeons are doing?
Wednesday, January 2, 2008
Georgia
Georgia was beautiful. My sister came to rescue me on sunday night. I did not have to spend the night at the airport, as I had planned. It was great spending time with her again and all the ladies at Wilderness Camp where she is head cook. The next day, of course, was spent finagling things at the consulate.
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