When I was a child, one of the magical and increasingly rare highlights of any day was to land a victory punch on an unsuspecting companion in the classic game of Punch Bug Spotting.
Never would I have believed, until five months ago, that there existed Americans who did not know of this game; cautious in my recent experience of punch-bug ignorance, however, I will explain the rules. They are but two: that (1) Whosoever espies a true, original, Volkswagon bug in any recognizable state of repair has license to [gently] punch their companion, while informing the victim of the color of applicable punch-buggy for their verification. Naturally, rule (2) follows that since any spotter can punch, after revealing the presence of the bug in question the punch initiator had better protect him or herself from an eye-for-eye reprisal by calling "No back-tacks". These are the only two rules, rendering the entire planet a free-for-all for whoever has the quickest eye, fist, and claim-calling combination (which I usually didn't), and explaining why the game was so enormously attractive to the five, seven, or ten-year-old versions of myself.
I say five, seven, or ten, but in truth I have never really stopped playing the Punch Bug Game. It is more the sad disappearance of true VW bugs around the time of their modern replacement than any onset of maturity that caused bug-punching to peter out of my life in middle and high school. My assumption at the time was that true punch bugs were nearing extinction, and that I had better get used to their sleek, shiny, more highly evolved strain and relegate the days of the true Punch-Buggy and bug-punching glory to the fond memory archives of my childhood.
But not so.. punch-bugs, I have been delighted to discover, live on in their own unassuming afterlife.. for Africa is where punch-bugs come to die.
I first noticed this on a side street in Khartoum, probably not more than a week into the trip. Out of the corner of my eye I spotted a sight I hadn't seen in years, one that made my heart leap so suddenly with unexpected joy I almost forgot myself before leaping into action - had David already seen it?? - I flew to punch him first, hollering the triumphal cry of the puncher: "BLUE-PUNCH-BUGGY-NO-BACK-TACKS!!"
David stopped short, staring, bewildered at his lightning defeat. Well, of course I could sympathize with that - he had just missed the only punch-bug opportunity either one of us might see for the entire trip, and even in my impromptu victory dance I well understood that anyone would be upset.
David, however, was remarkably obtuse to the causes behind the swift and unexpected blow he had received. How foolish, to forget such a classic game - even in a ten-year lapse of punch-bug activity - or fail to apreciate the implicitly global nature of the playing field! I began to chide him mericlessly for it.
Difficult and slow was it for me to grasp that David - hold onto your hats here - had never played the punch-buggy game and - WORSE - did not even know of its existence. !!! The mind boggles. What about popular culture?? I demanded. Books, television, movies?? "Heck," I demanded in frightened defense of such a time-honored institution, "what'd you think we called them 'punch-buggies' for anyway??"
He denied ever even having heard such a term.
Well, I wasn't about to let his incomprehensible ignorance rain on my punch-bug parade; it was just too bad he was the only plausible victim within arm's reach for the next eight months and when we (incredibly!) saw another VW bug two weeks later, he was pummelled a second time. "Green-punch-buggy-no-back-tacks!"
The confusion of the first attack was now replaced with an annoyance that threatened to grow dangerous if my hit-and-runs were repeated. A small voice of reason piped that I should let it go; it wasn't worth it, it wasn't adult, and it wasn't fair in any case to play against an uninitiated. But punch-bugs were too deeply absorbed into my character - years of being punched by my quicker, smarter sisters and much quicker, smarter dad meant that a punch-bug victory was like a golden trophy, the pennant of glory for the youngest and slowest member of the family to wave in triumph for the few hours (or minutes) before it would inevitably be snatched back: the Holy Grail of my childhood. Despite losing almost every time, I had revered the Punch Bug Game with an ardency explicable only by my youth (but which the onset of adulthood has done little to erode). To let a VW-Bug pass quietly by with no comment, as if nothing had happened, was unthinkable.
And besides, I had fully explained to him both rules. He was just as eligible as I to be the puncher instead of the punchee. As far as I was concerned, the playing field was level, and let the punching begin.
Not even I expected the massacre that awaited in the capital of Ethiopia, however. The streets of Addis Adeba were lined with '60s Volkswagons in all shapes and sizes, and classic punch-bugs proliferated in every color of the rainbow. (No, really - favorites were burnished gold, turquoise with white racing stripes, and iridescent purple.) After perhaps his 20th time getting punch-bug-punched, David announced in a voice that brooked no discusion that he was through, and declared a moratorium on the Punch Bug Game.
I was nettled. This was the punch-bug paradise I'd been waiting for since age 10, when true punch bugs began to melt out of the West like roaches at a Raid party. No Punch Bug Game? On what grounds?? "You know, you can play too," I charged. "I don't wanna play!" he snapped. I was pretty sure the maneuver was illegal but could think of no, and mutinously began to count up all the punches I was missing out on. I made it to 77 before we left the capital a day later.
It was well into March before I ventured another punch. I had let about a dozen beautiful opportunities slip by, quietly tacking them on to my embittered total of Denied Punch Bugs, but as the memory of the Addis VW Spree faded I began to hope for a gradual and perhaps unnoticeable punch-bug recussitation. My first tentative efforts, quiet and delicate, won looks of contempt but no damning decrees, and soon we were back to the normal pre-Addis level of a few punches a week. I'm not actually a terribly observant person, but after a decade of scouring streets for a punch bug even the chancest glimpse of one of those pastel rounded roofs has the effect of a mild electric shock. Before long, it had a similar effect on David, who began to associate old VWs with vague yet impending danger. He never attempted a counter-attack, though, preferring to retaliate with snide comments relating to his being engaged in some other task, such as finding a taxi or changing money, which might have trumped vintage-car spotting. Such remarks always carried the unmistakeable whiff of superiority; the implication, of course, was that perhaps I ought to restructure my priorities.
I knew better.
But as always happens when one's competition is sub-par, I too got slower, and lazy. No need to race to the punch, really. It would still be there, and let's face it - so would David.
And so it happened one watershed morning about four months into the trip that, as I drifted in and out of cognizance in a share-taxi station wagon, David caught sight of a punch bug and thought : Red-punch-bug. With a stroke of brilliance he identified the ready opportunity and a negligent victim, and spluttering "RED PUNCH BUG! RED PUNCH BUG!" he began to wail on my shoulder with the zeal of a beaten-down underdog suddenly clawing its way to the top. He was so excited that he punched me six or seven times. Irked at the unexpected reversal, I archly informed him that You're only allowed one punch per bug, before punching him back because he had neglected to preclude that possibility by calling no back-tacks. He was oblivious to anything but his triumph. The impossible had come; he had beat me at my own game; anything could happen. I was similarly affected and began to keep greater vigilance, getting him back with another one a few hours later.
At five months, I have now probably punched David close to five hundred times (not counting, of course, the Lost Bugs of Ethiopia). For his part, David claims 24 victories, a modest total until I add that 22 were in the last fortnight, and 21 of those this afternoon in a memorable drive through what could only have been the Final Resting-Place of Punchbugs while the other passengers leaned away from us with looks of alarm and disapproval. Then the moment came - a white bug loomed up suddenly by the side of the road. Instantaneously, we both whirled in our cramped seats, fists almost colliding on their way to target, blurting "WHITE PUN--" Recognition dawned of mutual victory and mutual defeat, and I realized: He is worthy of the Punch Bug Game.
I suppose every master worth her talent must one day come to see herself challenged by her prodigy... but I pity the next person he takes to Africa.
Thursday, May 28
Wednesday, May 27
Searching for that four-letter word
I have an embarrassing susceptibility to distraction, and when David and I were seated in front of a television in a restaurant on our first day in Nigeria it wasn't long before I began to watch. Allow me to emphasize that the blame should center squarely on me, for the programme in question was hardly worth a second glance by the average remote-clicker - it was some sort of public quiz show hosted by a hopeful young lady whose cheerfulness bordered on hysteria, and as her appeals to the at-home audience grew more energetic I began to pay attention. The game seemed impossibly complex by its deceptive simplicity; she wanted to make a vertical list of four-letter words that began with B. For 100 naira (about 70 cents), anyone could call in with an entry to win the 4,000 naira prize - if their word was accepted. The catch was that no letter could be repeated in a column (other than B, populating the first column). The word BALL was already inscribed in dry-erase marker on her white board, and as she explained how the next word couldn't have A as its second letter or L as its third I realized the game was not impossibly complex, but impossible simple. BOOK, BEAN, BUSY, the world was full of possibilities and I waited for the board to fill up, making the trick more complex and hopefully more interesting. David, realizing lunch conversation was futile, gave up his attempts at meaningful conversation and began to follow the quiz as well (though with less interest).
Given the ridiculously easy nature of the game at this early stage, a caller soon phoned in, and proudly told the host: BOOM.
I stared. That was barely a word.
The hostess recovered quickly from an almost imperceptible gagging motion to get our her marker and write BOOM below BALL, praising her caller with schoolteacherly encouragement (and I would know), "BOOM.. that's a great word."
"I can think of a four-letter word," David cracked snarkily. "Barf."
"That wouldn't work," I informed him archly. Hadn't he been watching?? "You can't have A as the second letter."
Unable to deny the truth of that, he chose to retort instead: "You're too legalistic."
Legalistic nothing, I was paying attention. And really in earnest now, because although it wasn't the "best" or "beer" that I'd been expecting onomatopoeiaic BOOM still worked - and still progressed the game. I now could really only use Bi, Be, Bu or a couple consonal combinations to produce a winning word - BOOK was out - and I anticipated the next entry with more excitement than I would care to admit outside a blog.
I would have a while to wait, however.. as would the energetic hostess. Apparently the tightened restrictions were giving those viewers with access to a phone and the N100 it cost to call some trouble, and the hostess had to beg for a while before she got another caller. Finally there was another ring of someone calling to propose the improbable BANN - which she duly wrote down before sadly demonstrating that it wouldn't work with the catch (BALL). She also pointed out that BANN is not really a word, though she seemed to recognize that talking about this was moot and likely not to sink in anyway. She focused instead on the illegally duplicate A, possibly in hopes of eliminating this problem for future callers.
Of which there seemed to be none. The game show dragged endlessly and pointlessly on, its pitiful hostess wilting before the camera as she alternated between challenging, coaxing, cheerleading, and matronly scolding her audience for not calling to win the 4,000 naira associated with picking any winning word. "I can think of a word that would win.." she teased the camera flirtatiously. So could I. Bear, brat, blue, bend, the possibilities spanned the range of a four-year-old's vocabulary, and I suddenly wondered if the show was geared (and limited) to the participation of children. I began to feel a bit foolish for becoming so involved. The next caller, however, who may well have had the word we were all waiting for, was eliminated on-air without ceremony once it was discovered she was only 16. Shoot, I thought, Beggars can't be choosy.
Her only hope in ten minutes at graduating from BOOM thus shot down, the hostess began to devise ways to help her apparently struggling audience. "You can use the Internet!" she exclaimed. "Or get one from a book. Even," she added cleverly, "a dictionary!" Surely now, I thought, we're gonna see 'em rolling in. As she had explained and re-explained in a chipper monologue tinged increasingly with desperation, producing any B-word that fit the one restriction would win several times the cost of the call. I saw no reason why the thickest adult with a dictionary and an interest in money would have any difficulty in walking away pleased.
It wasn't quite as fast as either she or I had expected, but sure enough the internet hint reaped results on the form of another caller. I looked up from that first of many disappointing Nigerian meals to watch as the hostess, thrilled, got out her marker. "BIRD??" she coaxed the participant, beginning a B - I - R - on the board. "Did you say BIRD?"
Oooh, I thought, good one.
"No," the caller corrected, mightily annoyed. "No, not I. That's an A."
I choked on my rice. The hostess looked as if someone had just shot her from behind. "Bar.."
"Yes, B-A-R," the woman replied.
"Ohhhh.." the hostess's moan of disappointment was like air escaping a punctured rubber sack, before she recollected herself to show why BAR or BARD or whatever it was meant to be would follow the rejected BANN. "Okay, I don't think I'm getting through, let me explain again slowly..." She made the bold move to circle all the A's on the board, and decided to requisition more markers to assist the visual learners. "Can we get another color here??"
Lady, I thought, I don't know if another color's gonna do it.
She seemed to have similar doubts and, in a flourish that must have been initiated by the bored television director, raised the prize money abruptly to N-5000 for any word not using A as the second letter. BOOM was now looking pretty good on the board. It has to be a scam, I thought to myself. There is no way that this is that hard for the Nigerian public, it's got to be that the only people calling are gullible enough to fall for it (like me), which explains why we're getting words like BANN.
Working with this theory, I later researched the show and discovered to Nigeria's benefit that while the prize money is real, in exchange for it you have to relinquish your number to marketers (and more scammers) as well as pay the N100 - a risky deal indeed unless you're guaranteed a win, and we've seen how that typically went down.
On the other hand, I also later watched the much more popular Nigerian version of Who Wants to be a Millionaire, with a not unsimilar impression. While the extremely local questions would have gotten me (What does a Bini woman say for Hello? at the first level), there were not very many others that should cause a high school graduate much distress. Yet they did, and I watched in disbelief as players floundered on lifelines to confront such riddles as Pneumonia is infection of the _____.
Back on Quiz Show, where the prize money had skyrocketed to N8000 in a failed effort to stimulate a flagging audience, the hostess ran out of time. Gesturing lamely to BALL and BOOM on the half-empty, red-circled board behind her, she concluded lamely, "I don't know what happened here..."
Wordless myself, I looked at David, who intoned- "Welcome to Nigeria..."
Given the ridiculously easy nature of the game at this early stage, a caller soon phoned in, and proudly told the host: BOOM.
I stared. That was barely a word.
The hostess recovered quickly from an almost imperceptible gagging motion to get our her marker and write BOOM below BALL, praising her caller with schoolteacherly encouragement (and I would know), "BOOM.. that's a great word.""I can think of a four-letter word," David cracked snarkily. "Barf."
"That wouldn't work," I informed him archly. Hadn't he been watching?? "You can't have A as the second letter."
Unable to deny the truth of that, he chose to retort instead: "You're too legalistic."
Legalistic nothing, I was paying attention. And really in earnest now, because although it wasn't the "best" or "beer" that I'd been expecting onomatopoeiaic BOOM still worked - and still progressed the game. I now could really only use Bi, Be, Bu or a couple consonal combinations to produce a winning word - BOOK was out - and I anticipated the next entry with more excitement than I would care to admit outside a blog.
I would have a while to wait, however.. as would the energetic hostess. Apparently the tightened restrictions were giving those viewers with access to a phone and the N100 it cost to call some trouble, and the hostess had to beg for a while before she got another caller. Finally there was another ring of someone calling to propose the improbable BANN - which she duly wrote down before sadly demonstrating that it wouldn't work with the catch (BALL). She also pointed out that BANN is not really a word, though she seemed to recognize that talking about this was moot and likely not to sink in anyway. She focused instead on the illegally duplicate A, possibly in hopes of eliminating this problem for future callers.
Of which there seemed to be none. The game show dragged endlessly and pointlessly on, its pitiful hostess wilting before the camera as she alternated between challenging, coaxing, cheerleading, and matronly scolding her audience for not calling to win the 4,000 naira associated with picking any winning word. "I can think of a word that would win.." she teased the camera flirtatiously. So could I. Bear, brat, blue, bend, the possibilities spanned the range of a four-year-old's vocabulary, and I suddenly wondered if the show was geared (and limited) to the participation of children. I began to feel a bit foolish for becoming so involved. The next caller, however, who may well have had the word we were all waiting for, was eliminated on-air without ceremony once it was discovered she was only 16. Shoot, I thought, Beggars can't be choosy.
Her only hope in ten minutes at graduating from BOOM thus shot down, the hostess began to devise ways to help her apparently struggling audience. "You can use the Internet!" she exclaimed. "Or get one from a book. Even," she added cleverly, "a dictionary!" Surely now, I thought, we're gonna see 'em rolling in. As she had explained and re-explained in a chipper monologue tinged increasingly with desperation, producing any B-word that fit the one restriction would win several times the cost of the call. I saw no reason why the thickest adult with a dictionary and an interest in money would have any difficulty in walking away pleased.
It wasn't quite as fast as either she or I had expected, but sure enough the internet hint reaped results on the form of another caller. I looked up from that first of many disappointing Nigerian meals to watch as the hostess, thrilled, got out her marker. "BIRD??" she coaxed the participant, beginning a B - I - R - on the board. "Did you say BIRD?"
Oooh, I thought, good one.
"No," the caller corrected, mightily annoyed. "No, not I. That's an A."
I choked on my rice. The hostess looked as if someone had just shot her from behind. "Bar.."
"Yes, B-A-R," the woman replied.
"Ohhhh.." the hostess's moan of disappointment was like air escaping a punctured rubber sack, before she recollected herself to show why BAR or BARD or whatever it was meant to be would follow the rejected BANN. "Okay, I don't think I'm getting through, let me explain again slowly..." She made the bold move to circle all the A's on the board, and decided to requisition more markers to assist the visual learners. "Can we get another color here??"
Lady, I thought, I don't know if another color's gonna do it.She seemed to have similar doubts and, in a flourish that must have been initiated by the bored television director, raised the prize money abruptly to N-5000 for any word not using A as the second letter. BOOM was now looking pretty good on the board. It has to be a scam, I thought to myself. There is no way that this is that hard for the Nigerian public, it's got to be that the only people calling are gullible enough to fall for it (like me), which explains why we're getting words like BANN.
Working with this theory, I later researched the show and discovered to Nigeria's benefit that while the prize money is real, in exchange for it you have to relinquish your number to marketers (and more scammers) as well as pay the N100 - a risky deal indeed unless you're guaranteed a win, and we've seen how that typically went down.
On the other hand, I also later watched the much more popular Nigerian version of Who Wants to be a Millionaire, with a not unsimilar impression. While the extremely local questions would have gotten me (What does a Bini woman say for Hello? at the first level), there were not very many others that should cause a high school graduate much distress. Yet they did, and I watched in disbelief as players floundered on lifelines to confront such riddles as Pneumonia is infection of the _____.
Back on Quiz Show, where the prize money had skyrocketed to N8000 in a failed effort to stimulate a flagging audience, the hostess ran out of time. Gesturing lamely to BALL and BOOM on the half-empty, red-circled board behind her, she concluded lamely, "I don't know what happened here..."
Wordless myself, I looked at David, who intoned- "Welcome to Nigeria..."
Monday, May 25
One More Thing..
Forgot to add this into the Nigerien summary, but it's odd enough to merit a mention..
Most Unlooked-for Fact Learned: The men of Niger squat to pee.
I feel a need to justify how, as a non-pervert, I have come by this unexpected piece of information. Allow me to remind readers that I spend a considerable portion of my time on buses, of which stops to pee and stretch cramped limbs are the occasional perk. Normally I make a point not to look at anyone once they leave the bus, but the sight of several fully-clothed men squatting down, as though to peer at something on the ground, is not one I immediately associated with urination and I began to watch with curiosity. What were they all looking at? and what were they holding?
Eventually figured it out. Gross.
Most Unlooked-for Fact Learned: The men of Niger squat to pee.
I feel a need to justify how, as a non-pervert, I have come by this unexpected piece of information. Allow me to remind readers that I spend a considerable portion of my time on buses, of which stops to pee and stretch cramped limbs are the occasional perk. Normally I make a point not to look at anyone once they leave the bus, but the sight of several fully-clothed men squatting down, as though to peer at something on the ground, is not one I immediately associated with urination and I began to watch with curiosity. What were they all looking at? and what were they holding?
Eventually figured it out. Gross.
Sunday, May 24
Thanks, Nigeria.
Few are ye among my audience, I divine, who have never been chosen to help a fallen autocrat smuggle $7.8 billion out of a war-torn African country you've never heard of; fewer still, ye who have yet to impress a dying, pious and email-savvy benefactress such that she desires to bequeath to you all her worldly belongings. Such offers are obviously testament to your virtue and cunning, traits so powerful they have transcended the impersonal digits of your email address to move strangers with money to distribute to write you.
The more cynical among you will delete without a second thought such magnanimous offers, perhaps even automatically directing all emails from Nigeria into a Special Pleas About Magnanimity folder set aside for the purpose. Now that I am in Nigeria, I struggle daily with the monumental task of finding (a) a computer equipped with (b) a functional keyboard that can (c) connect to the internet on (d) a reliable power source with (e) a backup generator when the power fails. Finding all these things existent in one place simultaneously is truly, in this most religious country, an act of god, and I wish all you click-happy high-speed-dsl-ers out there would not so callously *click!* delete your Nigeria-based offers of money. You cannot appreciate the incredible amount of effort that has gone into each of those S.P.A.M.s.
I abruptly found myself having more than just no-connection frustration in common with email-scammers the other day, however. While the story truthfully is not really about Africa or traveling, perhaps it's still worth recounting as it is probably among the most genuinely 'African' experiences I'll ever have - being accused of spam-scamming.
I've mentioned my ongoing struggle to find and set up housing for the academic year entirely by email, a task that I don't doubt has been made more difficult by the fact that all my requests are coming from a Nigerian IP. Some people do respond, however, like the brisk landlady (who will remain nameless) who wrote me promptly that she'd had several inquiries, and whoever sent her one month's rent as deposit first would have the room. I decided that it was appropriate at this point to drop what I've come to think of as the Africa Bomb, that little piece of information that I'm writing from abroad and won't be able to interview (or probably even phone) much before arriving in Atlanta. I sent the following email, straining to sound as polite, professional, and mature as possible:
I'm not sure what sort of reply I was expecting, but the one I got barely a minute later will go down in history as one of the most shockingly hilarious emails I have ever received (her emphasis):
I just had to respond to such accusations. David suggested that I embrace the false identity and pretend to be a scammer, writing with profuse apologies and confessions of shame, perhaps an offer of religious conversion; the friend wickedly suggested that I act "ALL KINDS of insulted" and guilt-trip the woman - "tell her you have a learning disability or something and had spell-cheque cheque your email and you're in Africa so it corrected it" - but I couldn't shake a self-righteous impulse of my own to clear my besmirched name. Though the slander didn't matter, and I'd probably never meet the woman - the tone of her email with its emphasis on American Right and Wrong made it abundantly clear we wouldn't work out as roommates - I couldn't let it go because it was just so patently untrue. Of course I was who I said I was!! Besides, I could amass all the proof in the world of my existence - my vindication would be easy.
I began a long reply to Madame, no longer professional this time but as colloquial as possible, expressing my surprise and even slight amusement at being so labeled, agreeing that due to the deposit issue we might not work out but asking her to at least believe that I was a real person. Casting about for a legitimizing US-based source, I gave my mom's work and home numbers, adding the times when she would likely be available. I then launched into my own American history, offering to provide for her my college cheer, names of all the favorite late-night student hangouts in Houston, and the finer points of Beer Bike traditions, before adding a joke I hoped her Southern side would appreciate - that I'd never claim to be a yank from PA anyway, as I was born in Texas.
I sent it off after some considerable double-checking (chequing) for any un-American activities or oddities - no favourites here - but with the new and uncomfortable realization that nothing definitively proved it to be legit. The details I offered, oddly enough, were easily available online - Lovett's cheer is posted right on their homepage - and with only a little bit of effort a foreigner could have reconstructed the history I claimed as my own. But worse, I couldn't think of what else I could possibly say that would prove I really existed!
The reply back, unsurprisingly, was cautiously more polite, if unconvinced:
Not three minutes after sending this off, I got a chipper, happy email in a much different tone saying that what do you know, she had actually called my department and asked them if she was being scammed from Africa. Awesome. It's not everyone who can have that flickering seed of doubt sown on their legitimacy in their workplace before they even arrive. "Hi! My name is Jana, yeah I'm the Nigerian scam artist you've been fielding calls about for a couple months now. Looking forward to spending the next five years with you!" Luckily, though, it seems the department reacted calmly to Ms. American-English, who then wrote me to report their assurances that I had indeed been "excepted" into their program (you know it's 'cause I'm so "exceptional"), that I was currently in Africa, and that as far as they could tell I had a pulse. Reassured now, the woman was thrilled to talk to me, declaring that if she "didn't really like" the girl coming that afternoon to visit, she would be "honored" to have me as her renter. She was also so kind as to helpfully teach this English dummy her mistake - that I had said "yank" instead of "yankee", obviously marking me as corrupted by the British. "How long have you been out of the country anyway?!" she demanded. But so as not to embarrass me with my poor linguistic skills, she explained, "By the way, I am a grant writer. I work with scientists mainly. Those that English is not their first language. I am very attuned to syntax and word choices."
Yeah, lady. I can definitely see that.
Of course the only problem now was that her satisfaction with me was, unbeknownst to her, not reciprocated. So, after another email in which she (thank the internet powers that be) confessed that her location would be a pretty difficult commute for me, I seized the out and said what a pity! but I would keep looking. But just think: what if she hadn't pegged me as a scammer?? What if her emails to me remained terse but mostly normal, and mine to her sufficiently "American" so as to not arouse suspicion? What if - oh my - I had agreed to formally set up housing with this potentially psychotic and dangerously paranoid landlord/roommate, never knowing until the fateful day I arrived in Atlanta what level of melodramatic fun I had contracted as my home for the following year?? Shudders of fear run down my spine at the mere thought. Wow, Nigerian scam-artists.. you really saved my butt this time. Unappreciated and undermined, it's time I gave them the credit they deserve... Thanks, Nigeria!
The more cynical among you will delete without a second thought such magnanimous offers, perhaps even automatically directing all emails from Nigeria into a Special Pleas About Magnanimity folder set aside for the purpose. Now that I am in Nigeria, I struggle daily with the monumental task of finding (a) a computer equipped with (b) a functional keyboard that can (c) connect to the internet on (d) a reliable power source with (e) a backup generator when the power fails. Finding all these things existent in one place simultaneously is truly, in this most religious country, an act of god, and I wish all you click-happy high-speed-dsl-ers out there would not so callously *click!* delete your Nigeria-based offers of money. You cannot appreciate the incredible amount of effort that has gone into each of those S.P.A.M.s.
I abruptly found myself having more than just no-connection frustration in common with email-scammers the other day, however. While the story truthfully is not really about Africa or traveling, perhaps it's still worth recounting as it is probably among the most genuinely 'African' experiences I'll ever have - being accused of spam-scamming.
I've mentioned my ongoing struggle to find and set up housing for the academic year entirely by email, a task that I don't doubt has been made more difficult by the fact that all my requests are coming from a Nigerian IP. Some people do respond, however, like the brisk landlady (who will remain nameless) who wrote me promptly that she'd had several inquiries, and whoever sent her one month's rent as deposit first would have the room. I decided that it was appropriate at this point to drop what I've come to think of as the Africa Bomb, that little piece of information that I'm writing from abroad and won't be able to interview (or probably even phone) much before arriving in Atlanta. I sent the following email, straining to sound as polite, professional, and mature as possible:
I debated for a moment on the spelling of "cheque" (check?) before deciding that for the banking term, it really is most proper to use the French spelling, and sent it off with a satisfied sense of accomplishment.Hi [----], thank you for the pictures! They're lovely. I am interested in the room, but as I am currently abroad, I'm not sure how I would go about sending the first month's rent to secure it. As I'm in Nigeria, I don't think any sort of online transfer would be safe for either of us, ha. My mother is managing my affairs while I'm gone; would you feel comfortable with her mailing you a post-dated cheque from Pennsylvania for that amount?Other than that, do you know if there are any Emory shuttles or public bus stops nearby? I see from Google maps that it is indeed close to campus.Cheers,Jana Marie
I'm not sure what sort of reply I was expecting, but the one I got barely a minute later will go down in history as one of the most shockingly hilarious emails I have ever received (her emphasis):
I am sorry, but post dated cheques are not acceptable. There are many scammers on line lately, something that didn’t exist in the past. I would only accept a US Money order as a deposit. You see, cheques is not the American choice for this words. We use the word *checks*. If you were really from Pennsylvania, I doubt you would have chosen the English usage of the word. Therefore, your post has a giant red flag swinging from it. Sorry. I must be vigilant and protect myself. I fear that Emory will eliminate this service as it has become a magnet for fraud, mostly coming from abroad.I actually gasped at my computer, before roaring into laughter. David was dragged away from his own internet business to read and appreciate. A friend on Gchat heard all about it in real-time, who only increased the hilarity by asking with some confusion, "So you're a British person with nothing to do but send fake emails of fake interest to people trying to get renters?" I wasn't so much laughing at the poor self-righteous 'victim' as at the wholly novel experience of not being American enough. (Well, perhaps not wholly novel... I occasionally got the impression of disappointing the Japanese if I demonstrated my ability to use chopsticks.)
I just had to respond to such accusations. David suggested that I embrace the false identity and pretend to be a scammer, writing with profuse apologies and confessions of shame, perhaps an offer of religious conversion; the friend wickedly suggested that I act "ALL KINDS of insulted" and guilt-trip the woman - "tell her you have a learning disability or something and had spell-cheque cheque your email and you're in Africa so it corrected it" - but I couldn't shake a self-righteous impulse of my own to clear my besmirched name. Though the slander didn't matter, and I'd probably never meet the woman - the tone of her email with its emphasis on American Right and Wrong made it abundantly clear we wouldn't work out as roommates - I couldn't let it go because it was just so patently untrue. Of course I was who I said I was!! Besides, I could amass all the proof in the world of my existence - my vindication would be easy.
I began a long reply to Madame, no longer professional this time but as colloquial as possible, expressing my surprise and even slight amusement at being so labeled, agreeing that due to the deposit issue we might not work out but asking her to at least believe that I was a real person. Casting about for a legitimizing US-based source, I gave my mom's work and home numbers, adding the times when she would likely be available. I then launched into my own American history, offering to provide for her my college cheer, names of all the favorite late-night student hangouts in Houston, and the finer points of Beer Bike traditions, before adding a joke I hoped her Southern side would appreciate - that I'd never claim to be a yank from PA anyway, as I was born in Texas.
I sent it off after some considerable double-checking (chequing) for any un-American activities or oddities - no favourites here - but with the new and uncomfortable realization that nothing definitively proved it to be legit. The details I offered, oddly enough, were easily available online - Lovett's cheer is posted right on their homepage - and with only a little bit of effort a foreigner could have reconstructed the history I claimed as my own. But worse, I couldn't think of what else I could possibly say that would prove I really existed!
The reply back, unsurprisingly, was cautiously more polite, if unconvinced:
Jana, glad you responded. I told my friend about my return email to you and she read me the riot act for teaching the scammers. You can’t win. By the way, you made one new mistake in this post. Won’t tell you what that was as once shame on you, and twice shame on me. You will have to figure it out. Of course don’t know how long you have been out of the country. So I will give you the benefit of the doubt."Teaching the scammers"?? Glad the woman had called for backup now - and her friend sounded like an even better anti-spam soldier than she was. I didn't even try to conceal my shock this time, and typed back:
I do have someone coming this afternoon. She has been corresponding with me for awhile. If she does not take the space for the fall, I will get back with you. I am sorry that I need to be so defensive with you. You would not believe how many scammers are responding to these posts. I fear that Emory will soon discontinue the list as they are surely getting reports of this activity.
Gah! made a mistake?? I was an English major!! I hope it was some sort of typo because I seriously can't afford for my writing to have gone far downhill if I hope to start a graduate program in three months.This gave me an idea.. if a really ridiculous idea that only the truly paranoid would have actually pursued. What the hell, I thought, and typed off the name of my department and its administrator, inviting her to call them to verify my existence (though I warned her that we'd never met, and that I'd never even been to campus). I thought about looking up the phone number for her convenience - that would have been the professional thing to do - before realizing she wouldn't have trusted any number I gave anyway (it could have been one of my nefarious confederates!), and invited her to look the number up herself.
Not three minutes after sending this off, I got a chipper, happy email in a much different tone saying that what do you know, she had actually called my department and asked them if she was being scammed from Africa. Awesome. It's not everyone who can have that flickering seed of doubt sown on their legitimacy in their workplace before they even arrive. "Hi! My name is Jana, yeah I'm the Nigerian scam artist you've been fielding calls about for a couple months now. Looking forward to spending the next five years with you!" Luckily, though, it seems the department reacted calmly to Ms. American-English, who then wrote me to report their assurances that I had indeed been "excepted" into their program (you know it's 'cause I'm so "exceptional"), that I was currently in Africa, and that as far as they could tell I had a pulse. Reassured now, the woman was thrilled to talk to me, declaring that if she "didn't really like" the girl coming that afternoon to visit, she would be "honored" to have me as her renter. She was also so kind as to helpfully teach this English dummy her mistake - that I had said "yank" instead of "yankee", obviously marking me as corrupted by the British. "How long have you been out of the country anyway?!" she demanded. But so as not to embarrass me with my poor linguistic skills, she explained, "By the way, I am a grant writer. I work with scientists mainly. Those that English is not their first language. I am very attuned to syntax and word choices."
Yeah, lady. I can definitely see that.
Of course the only problem now was that her satisfaction with me was, unbeknownst to her, not reciprocated. So, after another email in which she (thank the internet powers that be) confessed that her location would be a pretty difficult commute for me, I seized the out and said what a pity! but I would keep looking. But just think: what if she hadn't pegged me as a scammer?? What if her emails to me remained terse but mostly normal, and mine to her sufficiently "American" so as to not arouse suspicion? What if - oh my - I had agreed to formally set up housing with this potentially psychotic and dangerously paranoid landlord/roommate, never knowing until the fateful day I arrived in Atlanta what level of melodramatic fun I had contracted as my home for the following year?? Shudders of fear run down my spine at the mere thought. Wow, Nigerian scam-artists.. you really saved my butt this time. Unappreciated and undermined, it's time I gave them the credit they deserve... Thanks, Nigeria!
Thursday, May 21
Dancin' to God
I love to dance - cumbia, rap, reggaeton, 80s, folk, polka, ska or swing - I can't claim talent but I've got the spirit, and if it's got a beat I'm ready to go. Africa has definitely got that, and I can't buy enough pirated cds to take back to the States... but given how African cities typically become at night, all-out clubbing has been kind of, er, difficult.
But there are other types of fun, I've learned... and the closest I've ever come to a nightclub in Africa is a Nigerian evangelical mass.
It started quietly; there was some congregational Bible study under the direction of a be-hatted woman who had a lot more to say about mutually satisfying marital relations than you might have suspected of a pious church lady. After we closed in prayer, during which I silently but fervently prayed no one would assume David and I were 'together' and ask about our relations, the choir started up an emotional praise song. Everyone else seemed to know the words, and as the skirted and suited men and women my age crooned and swayed at the front, the audience crooned and swayed along with them. As the room began to fill with the regular (and Bible-study truant) church-goers, the choir got more and more into the song. The energy swelled to a pitch, the congregation threw up their arms, the drummers kicked up the tempo, and dancing broke out like a fever among us. Feet stamping up and down, arms waving about, children jumping up and down: it was an impromptu party. The usher danced a two-step up the aisle as he passed out hymnals no one seemed to need. The woman across the row kicked off her high heels to better get into what looked like the Charleston. I saw versions of the jitterbug, bachata, merengue, and tap, all executed with admirable spirit and infectious energy. All around me women were bent double, bobbing their heads and pumping their arms, shaking their booties to the music of the Lord. It was absolutely fantastic - the true dance club I've been missing - and only my consciousness of the need to lie low as a secret non-believer kept me from joining in with the best of them.
Sadly, all good things come to an end.. but not always a disappointing one. As we reclaimed our seats, Madame No-High-Heels became sufficiently possessed of the holy spirit to begin proclaiming something or other to the world at large. Her eyes were squeezed shut and words flowed from her mouth in a continual stream no amount of smacking could have stopped, and the direction wasted no time in getting her a mike. Soon her prophetic words - none of which I could make out, sadly - were amplified for the benefit of the respectfully listening congregation. It is my impression, though, that she was actually speaking English, despite the evangelical pamphlet I found in my hotel room that morning advocating the neccessity (yes, necessity) of praying in tongues. (Did you know, your words are actually much more meaningful to God if you don't understand them yourself.)
After an hour of singing, dancing, and the odd holy possession, the choir sat down and a middle-aged man in a suit stepped up, and I knew we were bringing out the big guns. He delivered some announcements, and a bit of public scolding to all the married men who had neglected to attend Bible study that morning. Immediately after there began an interesting form of public prayer in which the congregation was exhorted to offer up their personal requests to God right now, for Ask and Ye Shall Receive. Everyone obediently began to talk, yell, or cry their various requests at once, our leader all the while bellowing "ASK! ASK!!" into his microphone. Once exhausted, we were informed that all our requests that day would immediately be answered, and we cheered Hallelujah! Then we were exhorted to offer up some money into a plastic basket, and after another moving song we all settled down to hear the sermon. Which I forget.
Admittedly the message was lost on my spiritual soul, but the experience was definitely edifying on another level. Namely, that religion is a heck of a lot more fun here in Africa, even if it is more likely to get you killed. (Want something to pray for, how about no more religious riots in Nigeria..)
Edification aside, we enjoyed amazing luck in the service length, for church abruptly broke up a mere three hours after starting. (There's something to give praise about.) I was expecting communion with the usual wafer and juice, but instead we first-time-visitors were offered Fanta and a Welcome! card to fill out. Usually, a Nigerian church service goes for five, seven, even ten hours, and I had been plotting under what circumstances I might sneak out if it was still going strong at 1 p.m. Which, normally, it would be.. but when there's no power, water, or restaurants, and everything else is closed for the day, what else is there to do? Heck, gettin' down for Jesus ain't a bad way to spend the day...
But there are other types of fun, I've learned... and the closest I've ever come to a nightclub in Africa is a Nigerian evangelical mass.
It started quietly; there was some congregational Bible study under the direction of a be-hatted woman who had a lot more to say about mutually satisfying marital relations than you might have suspected of a pious church lady. After we closed in prayer, during which I silently but fervently prayed no one would assume David and I were 'together' and ask about our relations, the choir started up an emotional praise song. Everyone else seemed to know the words, and as the skirted and suited men and women my age crooned and swayed at the front, the audience crooned and swayed along with them. As the room began to fill with the regular (and Bible-study truant) church-goers, the choir got more and more into the song. The energy swelled to a pitch, the congregation threw up their arms, the drummers kicked up the tempo, and dancing broke out like a fever among us. Feet stamping up and down, arms waving about, children jumping up and down: it was an impromptu party. The usher danced a two-step up the aisle as he passed out hymnals no one seemed to need. The woman across the row kicked off her high heels to better get into what looked like the Charleston. I saw versions of the jitterbug, bachata, merengue, and tap, all executed with admirable spirit and infectious energy. All around me women were bent double, bobbing their heads and pumping their arms, shaking their booties to the music of the Lord. It was absolutely fantastic - the true dance club I've been missing - and only my consciousness of the need to lie low as a secret non-believer kept me from joining in with the best of them.
Sadly, all good things come to an end.. but not always a disappointing one. As we reclaimed our seats, Madame No-High-Heels became sufficiently possessed of the holy spirit to begin proclaiming something or other to the world at large. Her eyes were squeezed shut and words flowed from her mouth in a continual stream no amount of smacking could have stopped, and the direction wasted no time in getting her a mike. Soon her prophetic words - none of which I could make out, sadly - were amplified for the benefit of the respectfully listening congregation. It is my impression, though, that she was actually speaking English, despite the evangelical pamphlet I found in my hotel room that morning advocating the neccessity (yes, necessity) of praying in tongues. (Did you know, your words are actually much more meaningful to God if you don't understand them yourself.)
After an hour of singing, dancing, and the odd holy possession, the choir sat down and a middle-aged man in a suit stepped up, and I knew we were bringing out the big guns. He delivered some announcements, and a bit of public scolding to all the married men who had neglected to attend Bible study that morning. Immediately after there began an interesting form of public prayer in which the congregation was exhorted to offer up their personal requests to God right now, for Ask and Ye Shall Receive. Everyone obediently began to talk, yell, or cry their various requests at once, our leader all the while bellowing "ASK! ASK!!" into his microphone. Once exhausted, we were informed that all our requests that day would immediately be answered, and we cheered Hallelujah! Then we were exhorted to offer up some money into a plastic basket, and after another moving song we all settled down to hear the sermon. Which I forget.
Admittedly the message was lost on my spiritual soul, but the experience was definitely edifying on another level. Namely, that religion is a heck of a lot more fun here in Africa, even if it is more likely to get you killed. (Want something to pray for, how about no more religious riots in Nigeria..)
Edification aside, we enjoyed amazing luck in the service length, for church abruptly broke up a mere three hours after starting. (There's something to give praise about.) I was expecting communion with the usual wafer and juice, but instead we first-time-visitors were offered Fanta and a Welcome! card to fill out. Usually, a Nigerian church service goes for five, seven, even ten hours, and I had been plotting under what circumstances I might sneak out if it was still going strong at 1 p.m. Which, normally, it would be.. but when there's no power, water, or restaurants, and everything else is closed for the day, what else is there to do? Heck, gettin' down for Jesus ain't a bad way to spend the day...
Tuesday, May 19
Safe in Nigeria
UP-TO-THE-MINUTE NEWS FLASH: Well, it looks like this cowardly toad won't be squatting in Benin City by herself anymore. Friends of David will be thrilled to hear that due to an exceptional rise in militancy in Port Harcourt, as of right this moment, he's decided not to go after all. The rebel action in the Delta is intensifying even beyond even reasonable hopes of foreigner safety, and our only contact there has just begged us not to come.
So, definitely a disappointment - he was so looking forward to it - but I know not to expect much sympathy from those of his friends and family reading this. Truth be told, I have few regrets about it either. I had been fully supporting him in this venture until a few days ago, when we formally discussed how I should deal with his disappearance, when to contact the embassy, and whether or not a huge media fuss would help recover him, and the gory details forced me to imagine what that would really be like to know I had encouraged him to waltz into danger. What I would say to his family, what I would tell his friends; he has openly granted me veto-power over any aspect of the trip I'm not okay with - how would I ever explain not using it for Port Harcourt? I always like to support my friends in their adventures, no matter how off-the-wall, but I had been on the point of rescinding my support for the venture. So, we will be continuing Thursday from Benin City on to the area north of Lagos, puttering around a bit before finishing in Lagos mid-next week for our flight to Europe. Thank you again to all those who continue to keep us in their thoughts!
So, definitely a disappointment - he was so looking forward to it - but I know not to expect much sympathy from those of his friends and family reading this. Truth be told, I have few regrets about it either. I had been fully supporting him in this venture until a few days ago, when we formally discussed how I should deal with his disappearance, when to contact the embassy, and whether or not a huge media fuss would help recover him, and the gory details forced me to imagine what that would really be like to know I had encouraged him to waltz into danger. What I would say to his family, what I would tell his friends; he has openly granted me veto-power over any aspect of the trip I'm not okay with - how would I ever explain not using it for Port Harcourt? I always like to support my friends in their adventures, no matter how off-the-wall, but I had been on the point of rescinding my support for the venture. So, we will be continuing Thursday from Benin City on to the area north of Lagos, puttering around a bit before finishing in Lagos mid-next week for our flight to Europe. Thank you again to all those who continue to keep us in their thoughts!
A Peaceful Country of Peace Corpsers
Niger was such a peaceful respite from Nigeria, abundantly supplied with things like running water, electricity, restaurants, and the largest contingent of the Peace Corps that I have ever seen, that I confess I got lazy here and didn't write a word. At the end of a week in the place, though, I suppose I should have something to say for myself...
Scenery: Niger is defined in the south by the Sahel, the cultural and geographical barrier between the fertile coastal region and the vast expanse of the Sahara to the north. I was amazed at how dry the climate suddenly became; I'm nowhere near the 'prophet of water' that David and my sister are, but at 10 a.m. my full 1.5L water bottle was suddenly empty and the last swig left me desperate to find more. I forget what we were looking for at the time - a mosque, a bank, a bus station - which doesn't surprise me - but all I could think about was where to find more water. Eventually we began to buy our water by the 1.5L-six-pack, and easily went through a set in hours.
People: Nigeriens would be thrilled to hear that I found them very distinct in personality from Nigerians (I was rigorously trained in the difference of prononciation and articulation of one letter), but privately the distinction was not wholly in their favor. While more classy, professional, and reliable than their southern neighbors, Nigeriens were also a touch more aloof and prickly, and definitely less quick to laugh. While getting scammed or screwed was less likely, when we did, it was not with the classic Nigerian laughs-all-around attitude. Nigerians are a tough act to follow, however, and I still very much enjoyed the company of the laidback and helpful Nigeriens I came to know.
Food: Given all the expats, we ate fairly well in Niger.. though you do have to pay expat prices for it. Still not sure what "Nigérien" food is, but they have definitely mastered the art of international cuisine and we ate like kings. (But grimly aware as we were that we'd be heading back to Nigeria and the land of no-restautants all too soon, perhaps 'pigs' is a better metaphor.)
Best eaten: a difficult toss-up between a delicious sautéed pasta in Zinder, and an equally delicious goat cheese-and-emmental pizza in Niamey.
Worst eaten: Not since Somaliland have I noticed abundant sand in my food... I had somehow forgotten the sensation without ever missing it.
Most Shocking Expense: A brilliant hack in our adept State Department, for motivations of his/her own I can't begin to guess, wrangled a reciprocal agreement with Niger in which citizens of either country automatically get year-long single-entry visas upon application. Aside the interesting brainstorm to discover what anyone would do with a year in Niger (during which they could never leave), the price of friendship has definitely been passed on to American tourists. While citizens from most other countries can pay the usual $30-100 for a regular, short-term tourist visa, lucky American buddies are charged a staggering $180 a pop for the privilege of entering the country once.
Best Eye Candy: Who knew Touareg men were so beautiful?? Striking, chiselled features with inexpressible grace... I had to remind myself not to ogle.
New Words: I should hang my head for this, but despite it being a huge regional language of both Niger and northern Nigeria, I didn't learn a single word of Hausa except "egg". (And this only because I wanted one while trapped on a bus at a check-point, and bellowing the French equivalent out the window at the egg-sellers outside got me nowhere.)
Quote: Most memorable among the things Nigeriens said to me are probably the repeated efforts to highlight that Niger and Nigeria have little outside a border (and almost a name) in common. It must drive them up the wall to find such dangerous blurring between Nigerians and Nigeriens... "yes, just one letter," they concede to me, "but a world of difference."
New Hygienic Lows: To travel is to live a losing battle with one's nail-dirt, that benign phenomenon that so effectively destroys the impression of having clean, just-washed hands. My only strategy since the Sudan has been to cut my nails down to the nubbin in hopes of minimizing the area vulnerable to a problem I can't eliminate. Short nails, however, render much poorer service in opening plastic-sealed water bottles (a frequent task), or scratching mosquito bites (even more so). Worse, they still manage to collect almost as much dirt anyway. So in Niger, I finally made the liberating decision to live with nail-dirt.
Besides, the task of cleaning my nails - a relatively futile pursuit - gives me a virtually endless occupation while waiting for the flickering Internet/ network/electricity/ sputtering generator to resume here in Nigeria.
Worst Experience: Any of my coughing fits, from which I suffered through most of Nigér, could take this prize.
Other than that, I think five months of constant travel is beginning to take its toll on me, though in subtle ways. I notice that I walk more slowly than I used to; I am less eager to see absolutely everything in a city upon arrival; I linger in air-conditioned establishments. I'm still excited about seeing new things and am not quite ready to go back to America yet, but perhaps the best way to describe it is that I approach our trip now more with the enthusiasm of a St. Bernard than that of a labrador retriever puppy. Still along for the ride, and happily so, but no longer slamming against the car door in impatience to board. I can wait unperterbed for it to be opened.. and might also lie down while doing so.
Best Experience: In a desert environment, hot and dry is hard to get away from... unless your hotel has a POOL ! Lil' miss stinky got bumped up a level in Niamey due to the lack of readily available budget accomodation, with the result that a considerable portion of my time was spent floating like the loafer I aspire to be.
The pool was also probably a factor in my avoiding the Internet.. as cybercafe-ing is our chief way of spending extra time in a city, going to find one in the capital meant having to leave the pool. I am still flattered and touched by the community of people who became alarmed when I suddenly stopped posting. I should confess, I'm much more selfish than I let on, and keeping this blog is largely a selfish project to preserve the memory for myself. Distracted by a stressful task and feeling physically blah, I didn't think twice about abandoning my writing for a week, or consider the impression that would leave. But I hope that laziness won't be equated with a lack of fondness for my friends.. who always manage to make the oft-frustrating task of getting online in Africa worthwhile!
Scenery: Niger is defined in the south by the Sahel, the cultural and geographical barrier between the fertile coastal region and the vast expanse of the Sahara to the north. I was amazed at how dry the climate suddenly became; I'm nowhere near the 'prophet of water' that David and my sister are, but at 10 a.m. my full 1.5L water bottle was suddenly empty and the last swig left me desperate to find more. I forget what we were looking for at the time - a mosque, a bank, a bus station - which doesn't surprise me - but all I could think about was where to find more water. Eventually we began to buy our water by the 1.5L-six-pack, and easily went through a set in hours.
People: Nigeriens would be thrilled to hear that I found them very distinct in personality from Nigerians (I was rigorously trained in the difference of prononciation and articulation of one letter), but privately the distinction was not wholly in their favor. While more classy, professional, and reliable than their southern neighbors, Nigeriens were also a touch more aloof and prickly, and definitely less quick to laugh. While getting scammed or screwed was less likely, when we did, it was not with the classic Nigerian laughs-all-around attitude. Nigerians are a tough act to follow, however, and I still very much enjoyed the company of the laidback and helpful Nigeriens I came to know.
Food: Given all the expats, we ate fairly well in Niger.. though you do have to pay expat prices for it. Still not sure what "Nigérien" food is, but they have definitely mastered the art of international cuisine and we ate like kings. (But grimly aware as we were that we'd be heading back to Nigeria and the land of no-restautants all too soon, perhaps 'pigs' is a better metaphor.)
Best eaten: a difficult toss-up between a delicious sautéed pasta in Zinder, and an equally delicious goat cheese-and-emmental pizza in Niamey.
Worst eaten: Not since Somaliland have I noticed abundant sand in my food... I had somehow forgotten the sensation without ever missing it.
Most Shocking Expense: A brilliant hack in our adept State Department, for motivations of his/her own I can't begin to guess, wrangled a reciprocal agreement with Niger in which citizens of either country automatically get year-long single-entry visas upon application. Aside the interesting brainstorm to discover what anyone would do with a year in Niger (during which they could never leave), the price of friendship has definitely been passed on to American tourists. While citizens from most other countries can pay the usual $30-100 for a regular, short-term tourist visa, lucky American buddies are charged a staggering $180 a pop for the privilege of entering the country once.
Best Eye Candy: Who knew Touareg men were so beautiful?? Striking, chiselled features with inexpressible grace... I had to remind myself not to ogle.
New Words: I should hang my head for this, but despite it being a huge regional language of both Niger and northern Nigeria, I didn't learn a single word of Hausa except "egg". (And this only because I wanted one while trapped on a bus at a check-point, and bellowing the French equivalent out the window at the egg-sellers outside got me nowhere.)
Quote: Most memorable among the things Nigeriens said to me are probably the repeated efforts to highlight that Niger and Nigeria have little outside a border (and almost a name) in common. It must drive them up the wall to find such dangerous blurring between Nigerians and Nigeriens... "yes, just one letter," they concede to me, "but a world of difference."
New Hygienic Lows: To travel is to live a losing battle with one's nail-dirt, that benign phenomenon that so effectively destroys the impression of having clean, just-washed hands. My only strategy since the Sudan has been to cut my nails down to the nubbin in hopes of minimizing the area vulnerable to a problem I can't eliminate. Short nails, however, render much poorer service in opening plastic-sealed water bottles (a frequent task), or scratching mosquito bites (even more so). Worse, they still manage to collect almost as much dirt anyway. So in Niger, I finally made the liberating decision to live with nail-dirt.
Besides, the task of cleaning my nails - a relatively futile pursuit - gives me a virtually endless occupation while waiting for the flickering Internet/ network/electricity/ sputtering generator to resume here in Nigeria.
Worst Experience: Any of my coughing fits, from which I suffered through most of Nigér, could take this prize.
Other than that, I think five months of constant travel is beginning to take its toll on me, though in subtle ways. I notice that I walk more slowly than I used to; I am less eager to see absolutely everything in a city upon arrival; I linger in air-conditioned establishments. I'm still excited about seeing new things and am not quite ready to go back to America yet, but perhaps the best way to describe it is that I approach our trip now more with the enthusiasm of a St. Bernard than that of a labrador retriever puppy. Still along for the ride, and happily so, but no longer slamming against the car door in impatience to board. I can wait unperterbed for it to be opened.. and might also lie down while doing so.
Best Experience: In a desert environment, hot and dry is hard to get away from... unless your hotel has a POOL ! Lil' miss stinky got bumped up a level in Niamey due to the lack of readily available budget accomodation, with the result that a considerable portion of my time was spent floating like the loafer I aspire to be.
The pool was also probably a factor in my avoiding the Internet.. as cybercafe-ing is our chief way of spending extra time in a city, going to find one in the capital meant having to leave the pool. I am still flattered and touched by the community of people who became alarmed when I suddenly stopped posting. I should confess, I'm much more selfish than I let on, and keeping this blog is largely a selfish project to preserve the memory for myself. Distracted by a stressful task and feeling physically blah, I didn't think twice about abandoning my writing for a week, or consider the impression that would leave. But I hope that laziness won't be equated with a lack of fondness for my friends.. who always manage to make the oft-frustrating task of getting online in Africa worthwhile!
Saturday, May 16
"Sorry!!"
Apologies for the unexplained silence.. for which I hope to now offer a belated explanation. Despite the confusion it elicits from the occasional visa-seeking creep who asks for it, I actually don't have an address, a problem I've been trying to remedy through emails for several weeks now. Technically I suppose I live in Atlanta, which is sort of fun for me to tell people because I've never actually been there. My attempts to solve the homeless problem have met with an increasing lack of success, generating a correspondingly accelerating level of panic, and the task has admittedly eaten the lion's share of my internet time in the past week. Again, apologies.
Coupled with this is the fact that I haven't felt much up to writing lately. Maybe I'm just suffering patriotic sympathy pains for my country, but it happens that despite my having been out of North America for nigh on five months, the influenza crisis there has coincided with one of the most tenacious bouts of the flu I have ever had. A full week after the feverish worst of it passed I still had a sore throat, difficulty breathing, fatigue, dizziness, a stomachache - more or less the textbook symptoms of H1N1 - and a horrible racking cough that attracted a natural amount of attention from anyone who tried to interact with me. Embarrassingly, the bouts were frequently so racking as to drive me to lean on the nearest wall while my lungs choked away on an invisible assailant. Of course I felt awful about it - why is it that spewing phlegm into the breathing atmosphere is the body's preferred method of disease management? - but each time I tried to apologise, Nigerians beat me to the punch. "Oh, sorry!!" they would exclaim at my coughing, eyebrows furrowed in concerned sympathy. "Sorry, ma'am!" I was relieved to find they didn't want to roast me on a spit and purge their country of my germs, but the eager apologies - which continued invariably from city to city - took me by surprise. "Oops- Sorry!" blurted the clerk ringing up my water. "Ohhh, sorry ma'am!" soothed the hotel receptionist with feeling. "Sorry, sorry," mumbled the policeman perfunctorily as he checked my papers. Coughing in a crowded bus elicited a chorus of appeals for forgiveness - in which my own were inevitably lost. My hoarse "Excuse me, I'm sorry" just couldn't compete. I hacked my way across Northern Nigeria and right up to the border with Niger, where the cheerful border officials added their own "Oh, sorry!"s to those of their countrymen, before one joked, "Do you have swine flu?"
The ensuing chuckles all around at this well-timed joke ended awkwardly as the sergeant flipped back to check the front of my passport again. American. Nigerian security officers have gained some little notoriety for finding a heretofore unheard-of problem with your papers, your bags, your stuff, or even just you, and then demanding massive bribes for the privilege of evading arrest.
Amid an increasing global anxiety about the potential swine-flu pandemic, African countries are beginning to clamp down on their borders (see news). Huge regions of West and Central Africa have banned pork imports, and Ghana, Cape Verde, Gabon, and Senegal now have thermal health checks at all borders. Locals are being warned against travel to "infected countries", and increased health personnel have been deployed in all international airports. In an interesting reverse of the typical paradigm, North Americans, especially from the United States, are subject to increased health inspections at African borders, or even banned altogether.
With my hacking and rasping, there's no way I could have passed a single such check. Luckily, neither Niger nor Nigeria has their health act together, and despite the shiny posters warning against H1N1 already pasted to the walls of the both border post offices and detailing my symptoms to a tee, I coughed my way through their land border.. twice. After a lovely week in Niger in which I rested, recuperated, and pointedly avoided my inbox with its inevitable "I would want to meet in person before selecting my roommate" replies, I am back in Nigeria, and finally feeling like a human again. Homeless, but healthy!
But thank you very much! to all those who wrote asking whether I was alive and where, whether I'd been kidnapped, and offering to contact the embassy. Am very much alive in Kaduna, Nigeria, and despite the fuss about the Canadian lady a week ago, I foresee no kidnappings on the horizon! (Knock on wood for no copycat crimes. And besides, she was released basically unharmed..)
And on that note: despite the latest hostage deaths in the Delta, David still entertains hopes of travel to Port Harcourt... but this democratic cow is a wuss. While I don't actually think either of us would be killed if kidnapped, I ain't down with the prospect of losing my personal freedom to cranky rebels, and instead of Port Harcourt I'll be squatting like the cowardly toad I am in Benin City. Cheers!
Coupled with this is the fact that I haven't felt much up to writing lately. Maybe I'm just suffering patriotic sympathy pains for my country, but it happens that despite my having been out of North America for nigh on five months, the influenza crisis there has coincided with one of the most tenacious bouts of the flu I have ever had. A full week after the feverish worst of it passed I still had a sore throat, difficulty breathing, fatigue, dizziness, a stomachache - more or less the textbook symptoms of H1N1 - and a horrible racking cough that attracted a natural amount of attention from anyone who tried to interact with me. Embarrassingly, the bouts were frequently so racking as to drive me to lean on the nearest wall while my lungs choked away on an invisible assailant. Of course I felt awful about it - why is it that spewing phlegm into the breathing atmosphere is the body's preferred method of disease management? - but each time I tried to apologise, Nigerians beat me to the punch. "Oh, sorry!!" they would exclaim at my coughing, eyebrows furrowed in concerned sympathy. "Sorry, ma'am!" I was relieved to find they didn't want to roast me on a spit and purge their country of my germs, but the eager apologies - which continued invariably from city to city - took me by surprise. "Oops- Sorry!" blurted the clerk ringing up my water. "Ohhh, sorry ma'am!" soothed the hotel receptionist with feeling. "Sorry, sorry," mumbled the policeman perfunctorily as he checked my papers. Coughing in a crowded bus elicited a chorus of appeals for forgiveness - in which my own were inevitably lost. My hoarse "Excuse me, I'm sorry" just couldn't compete. I hacked my way across Northern Nigeria and right up to the border with Niger, where the cheerful border officials added their own "Oh, sorry!"s to those of their countrymen, before one joked, "Do you have swine flu?"
The ensuing chuckles all around at this well-timed joke ended awkwardly as the sergeant flipped back to check the front of my passport again. American. Nigerian security officers have gained some little notoriety for finding a heretofore unheard-of problem with your papers, your bags, your stuff, or even just you, and then demanding massive bribes for the privilege of evading arrest.
Amid an increasing global anxiety about the potential swine-flu pandemic, African countries are beginning to clamp down on their borders (see news). Huge regions of West and Central Africa have banned pork imports, and Ghana, Cape Verde, Gabon, and Senegal now have thermal health checks at all borders. Locals are being warned against travel to "infected countries", and increased health personnel have been deployed in all international airports. In an interesting reverse of the typical paradigm, North Americans, especially from the United States, are subject to increased health inspections at African borders, or even banned altogether.
With my hacking and rasping, there's no way I could have passed a single such check. Luckily, neither Niger nor Nigeria has their health act together, and despite the shiny posters warning against H1N1 already pasted to the walls of the both border post offices and detailing my symptoms to a tee, I coughed my way through their land border.. twice. After a lovely week in Niger in which I rested, recuperated, and pointedly avoided my inbox with its inevitable "I would want to meet in person before selecting my roommate" replies, I am back in Nigeria, and finally feeling like a human again. Homeless, but healthy!
But thank you very much! to all those who wrote asking whether I was alive and where, whether I'd been kidnapped, and offering to contact the embassy. Am very much alive in Kaduna, Nigeria, and despite the fuss about the Canadian lady a week ago, I foresee no kidnappings on the horizon! (Knock on wood for no copycat crimes. And besides, she was released basically unharmed..)
And on that note: despite the latest hostage deaths in the Delta, David still entertains hopes of travel to Port Harcourt... but this democratic cow is a wuss. While I don't actually think either of us would be killed if kidnapped, I ain't down with the prospect of losing my personal freedom to cranky rebels, and instead of Port Harcourt I'll be squatting like the cowardly toad I am in Benin City. Cheers!
Thursday, May 7
The Mantis that Should Have Been
Last night, there was the sudden thump of something alive falling from above onto my bed a few inches from my pillow. In the darkness I couldn't tell what it was, but by its weight it seemed to be considerably smaller than a bird. Also, moving around it didn't make the fluttery bird noises with which I became familiar in Zanzibar. My guess was some sort of heavy beetle. With a bit of excitement I remembered the vivid green praying mantis the size of my hand that had landed on Abdul the Lebanese Merchant's shoulder in his mud-defeating 4x4 in Congo. It was delicate, awkward, and beautiful all at the same time, and I had loved seeing it pick its way around my arm before we set it back on its way out the window.
Thinking about the mantis in the dark, I listened to the whatever-it-was scrabbling around on the sheet, and wondered what it was. Hope, curiosity and a bizarre fear that it would go into my hair (and then never come free) made me sit up for my flashlight, and a moment later I had in the beam the most massive cockroach I have ever seen.
While it wasn't as big as the six-inch ones I saw in the Houston Museum of Natural History, it was still quite sizable - easily longer than one of my fingers - and big enough that I couldn't actually tell what it was at first. I had no term in my head to describe the shiny brown apparition that huddled by my pillow, petrified in the sudden spotlight. Not until it began to move, which it did almost instantly, fleeing in blind terror from my following flashlight, did I recognize that wild scuttle and identify it as: a roach. That understandably made the encounter much less exciting, and after it scrambled off the side of my bed to find a more peaceful corner of the room, I lost interest and lay back down. No mantis, nothing bizarre, just a roach.. adventure over.
Thinking about the mantis in the dark, I listened to the whatever-it-was scrabbling around on the sheet, and wondered what it was. Hope, curiosity and a bizarre fear that it would go into my hair (and then never come free) made me sit up for my flashlight, and a moment later I had in the beam the most massive cockroach I have ever seen.
While it wasn't as big as the six-inch ones I saw in the Houston Museum of Natural History, it was still quite sizable - easily longer than one of my fingers - and big enough that I couldn't actually tell what it was at first. I had no term in my head to describe the shiny brown apparition that huddled by my pillow, petrified in the sudden spotlight. Not until it began to move, which it did almost instantly, fleeing in blind terror from my following flashlight, did I recognize that wild scuttle and identify it as: a roach. That understandably made the encounter much less exciting, and after it scrambled off the side of my bed to find a more peaceful corner of the room, I lost interest and lay back down. No mantis, nothing bizarre, just a roach.. adventure over.
Wednesday, May 6
How to Eat a Street Mango
(A Step-by-Step Instruction for the Mango-naive)1.) Acquire tasty mango for a few dimes from a street vendor - either a man pushing a large wooden cart stacked with them, or perhaps a passing lady with a platter on her head supporting a mango pyramid. Note: It is important in this endeavor not to actually be looking for a mango, as mangoes only appear when one is not looking for them.
2.) Back in your Sudanese hotel room, take penknife and stab ambitiously into the center of the mango, discovering a large hard pit you never knew existed. Hack away at fruit, chopping off the skin, and attempt to cut some flesh off from the center. Meet remarkable slippery resistance. Try again with more force, smashing the fruit to a pulp without actually managing to remove any, and narrowly miss slicing your fingers.
3.) Eschew all decency and go at the fruit with your teeth in an inspired effort to actually get a bite. Get instead a sticky syrupy juice all over your face and both hands, and some pernicious mango threads tangled in your teeth which are impossible to remove. Notice with some dismay that the naked fruit seems, at this point, to be all pit. Regret removing peel so carelessly, and try to bite off some of the flesh clinging to it. Succeed in getting more threads stuck hopelessly in teeth. Swear never to eat a mango again.
4.) The most delicious mango lassi of your life in southern Kenya leads you back to temptation only a month later. Repeat steps 1-3 with new pit awareness and lowered expectations, but little variation. Renew anti-mango vow.
5.) An enterprising mango merchant brandishing a machete in central Tanzania convinces you to backslide once again into mango mania - by offering to do the cutting himself. A few swift and simple slices later, and the demonic pit-and-peel number masquerading as edibility is transformed into a series of easily plucked cubes inside a neat peel shell, detached from said pit. Eat, and rejoice.
6.) First-hand witness of the Mango Merchant's Machete Miracle inspires you to cautiously attempt replication of his feat at home with your penknife. Purchase another mango at the first opportunity, your discerning eye and fingers carefully selecting one with smooth, unblemished green skin, gently firm to the touch. You know the secret now - to separate the fruit as soon as possible from the fiendishly powerful pull of the pit.
7.) Upon first slice learn that “firm to the touch” is not actually ideal for mango-eating. Neither is green. The fruit inside is pale yellow, and hard. Be a good sport and try to eat it anyway. (When you do give up, the remainder may be pitched out your train window.)
8.) Weigh carefully your next mango purchase, taking care now to select one that is quite soft indeed and a rich peachy color. In a Nigerian car park, take your penknife and, holding the mango flat-side-up in your other hand, slice horizontally from the top down either edge to – but not quite through – the little stem-butt at the bottom. You should now have two shallow hemispheres of mango with an equatorial cut. Leave the 
bottom one be; the top is your first task. Shimmy the knife in as thinly as possible around the edges of the top, and peel away the skin – almost as you would a banana- to give you access to that crabby pit.
9.) The next part is the most important step of the whole mango ordeal. Using your equatorial cut as a guide, wiggle the knife in along the hard surface of the pit underneath. Your goal is to slice the entire top hemisphere of mango away from that pit. Cu
t through the tenacious pit fibers by breaking the first law of pen-knifery and cut towards yourself, from the pointed end of the fruit down to its stem. If you need to, you can dissect the mango-hemisphere to help you get the knife in along the face of the pit, but leaving the hemisphere as whole as possible will avoid that smashing problem you had earlier.
10.) Once the top half is liberated, you are almost in the mango-clear. Cut the lung-shaped flap of fruit into hunks with ease and stuff into face happily, or just bite them off like a pig. Resist the temptation to simply bite off those little clumps at the edges that yet cling to the pit, however; you will get naught but aforesaid sticky syrup and teeth-threads. The trickiest part in this step is actually to fend off those vultures that will now materialize out of thin air and clamor at your shoulder for a bite.
11.) After finishing the top hemisphere, you can begin on the bottom with more or less a repeat of steps 9-10. Unfortunately having to hold the naked pit for this will cause your left hand to become more or less covered with mango goo, but as you're actually getting to eat some, who cares? Consume mango with enthusiasm after tithing the vulture-beggars, and congratulate yourself on a Mango Well Enjoyed.
Tuesday, May 5
At Least It's Not Swine Flu.. Thank God?
So after a few sparse but confusingly frantic reports of some odd pig-flu pandemic devastating the United States, the issue finally won a mention in international news. Not that I didn’t immediately trust the manic-depressive organ of American news media to report the story with calm, scientific accuracy, but… yeah.
Checking the CDC website tells me there have been something like 400 cases in the past week and one fatality, so it’s not quite yet in the league of the average motorcar for causing imminent death to the average healthy person. Still, the spread of the virus in a few days is almost exponential, frightening even to me, and I think to myself with a sadistic chuckle, “Well, aren’t I glad I’m safe over here in Africa.”
Of course the next day I get sick. It wasn’t so bad at first, just a chest cold, but after a nasty hot bit that took me ages in this weather to identify as a fever, it developed an unpleasant gastrointestinal aspect that felt horribly like.. the flu. Just a normal flu, though – no pigs involved. (It’s good to be in Africa.)
My first impression of Nigerians, therefore, has unexpectedly been extremely positive, as they are amazingly solicitous people. Instead of glowering at me for disturbing the peace with my hacking every few moments, the other passengers of our Maidugeri -> Jos bush-taxi bemoaned that my cold would leave me with a bad souvenir of their country. "Oh, don’t worry!" I reassured them, "It’s a Cameroonian cold."
(There has been some little rivalry between the two nations in the past, and my remark was greeted with a considerable amount of delight from my Nigerian seatmates.)
One of these, an evangelical pastor traveling home from a conference, unfortunately took a shine to me. After tolerating his repeated efforts to get my number in America and his impressive, rock-like inability to understand that I don’t have one, I used my cold and aching throat as a [legitimate] excuse not to have to talk to him anymore. I soon learned it is foolish to complain of any ailment to a Nigerian evangelist, and before we could part ways in Jos he seized my hand and began rubbing my forearm with a bit more friendly zeal than I could handle, but more energy that I could fend off. I thought we were shaking goodbye, but no. The booming voice with which he began to pontificate as I stood there with my arm trapped in his grip belatedly alerted me that he was attempting to perform a spiritual miracle on me. Oh be HEALED in the name of JESUS! he roared into the night sky. Lord Jesus, I CALL upon you to CAST out this sickness, this demon, and LET this young woman’s body be HEALED in God’s light. He didn’t forget to add a heavenly plea that I would soon be adding my miraculous testimony to the glorious ranks of those already collected for his church. It went on for some time, and I bowed my head and made a spiritual appeal of my own for liberation of a different sort, though to whom I couldn’t say.
It was a kind effort, but unfortunately I don’t think my flu-demon was a Christian ‘cause the next day I was ten times worse. Unwilling to get out of bed but unable to sleep for pain, I ended up reading the only book to be had in the hostel room, a Gideon’s Bible. It makes for interesting reading and I ended up nosing through some random juicy bits, including the entire Book of Revelations. I was fascinated to discover that, thanks to Johnny Cash, I already know whole chunks of this by heart. One of the four beasts..
Oh well, at least it ain’t swine flu, right?? If I gotta get sick, thank God I’m in Africa.. though I could have done without the exorcism.
Checking the CDC website tells me there have been something like 400 cases in the past week and one fatality, so it’s not quite yet in the league of the average motorcar for causing imminent death to the average healthy person. Still, the spread of the virus in a few days is almost exponential, frightening even to me, and I think to myself with a sadistic chuckle, “Well, aren’t I glad I’m safe over here in Africa.”
Of course the next day I get sick. It wasn’t so bad at first, just a chest cold, but after a nasty hot bit that took me ages in this weather to identify as a fever, it developed an unpleasant gastrointestinal aspect that felt horribly like.. the flu. Just a normal flu, though – no pigs involved. (It’s good to be in Africa.)
My first impression of Nigerians, therefore, has unexpectedly been extremely positive, as they are amazingly solicitous people. Instead of glowering at me for disturbing the peace with my hacking every few moments, the other passengers of our Maidugeri -> Jos bush-taxi bemoaned that my cold would leave me with a bad souvenir of their country. "Oh, don’t worry!" I reassured them, "It’s a Cameroonian cold."
(There has been some little rivalry between the two nations in the past, and my remark was greeted with a considerable amount of delight from my Nigerian seatmates.)
One of these, an evangelical pastor traveling home from a conference, unfortunately took a shine to me. After tolerating his repeated efforts to get my number in America and his impressive, rock-like inability to understand that I don’t have one, I used my cold and aching throat as a [legitimate] excuse not to have to talk to him anymore. I soon learned it is foolish to complain of any ailment to a Nigerian evangelist, and before we could part ways in Jos he seized my hand and began rubbing my forearm with a bit more friendly zeal than I could handle, but more energy that I could fend off. I thought we were shaking goodbye, but no. The booming voice with which he began to pontificate as I stood there with my arm trapped in his grip belatedly alerted me that he was attempting to perform a spiritual miracle on me. Oh be HEALED in the name of JESUS! he roared into the night sky. Lord Jesus, I CALL upon you to CAST out this sickness, this demon, and LET this young woman’s body be HEALED in God’s light. He didn’t forget to add a heavenly plea that I would soon be adding my miraculous testimony to the glorious ranks of those already collected for his church. It went on for some time, and I bowed my head and made a spiritual appeal of my own for liberation of a different sort, though to whom I couldn’t say.
It was a kind effort, but unfortunately I don’t think my flu-demon was a Christian ‘cause the next day I was ten times worse. Unwilling to get out of bed but unable to sleep for pain, I ended up reading the only book to be had in the hostel room, a Gideon’s Bible. It makes for interesting reading and I ended up nosing through some random juicy bits, including the entire Book of Revelations. I was fascinated to discover that, thanks to Johnny Cash, I already know whole chunks of this by heart. One of the four beasts..
Oh well, at least it ain’t swine flu, right?? If I gotta get sick, thank God I’m in Africa.. though I could have done without the exorcism.
Monday, May 4
Leaving Order for Chaos
And so we prepare to cross into Nigeria, leaving behind this peaceful duck-shaped corner of Africa.. but not without considerable regret.
Music: Though I never managed to pick up any cds of it, I did manage to hear a fantastic new kind of music - pachanga. Best way I can describe it is to say that it's like African salsa in French. It's saucy, quick and fun, and just begs for a dance.
Saddest Bumper Sticker: A two-part affair on a bus door: I fear my friends.. even you followed with its accompanying and possibly explanatory Time of Suffering - NO FRIENDS.
Whatever happened to Lean on Me.. When you're not strong?
Most Embarrassing Moment: I've always been a bit of a klutz, and it goes without saying there will be that occasional inevitable slip or trip here and there in my life. However, sometimes I outright court disaster - like the time in Douala when for some extremely silly reason I was running on uneven concrete in my floor-length Shari'a skirt. Mix foolishness and klutziness and BLAM! I fell flat on my face tripwire-style in front of a group of shocked merchants.
Thankfully, I hadn't the wits to be embarrassed about it at the time, popping right back up with a quick "I'm okay!" to the crowd before running on my way. It was only after, when I imagined how it must have looked and laughed out loud that I was extremely happy I'd never see them again. It's at least as valuable as any other elementary-level lesson about scissors: Don't Run in Shari'a Clothing.
New (Realizations of) Hygienic Lows: I'm long beyond expecting toilet paper or soap in any bathroom, but in restaurants I do at least hope for water to wash my hands before (or after) eating.
I have no explanation for why it has taken me this long to put together that if there is no t.p., soap, or water for clients to use in the bathroom, there is none for the employees (and cooks) to use, either.
And now that I have bequeathed this new awareness, I will do my best to efface it entirely from my consciousness.
Most Unexpected Billboard: In very serious large white caps on a plain black background:
PUBLIC SMOG WILL SAVE THE WORLD.
Do you think they meant... yeah, I don't even know where to go with that.
New Words: Random French words I've either forgotten or never knew continue to filter into my consciousness, but instead of solidifying my impression of fluency they rather remind me of all the gaps I yet have. But unfortunately my linguistic horizons have still not budged very far from where they were - unless you count learning five new local words for hiccup. So perhaps it is David whose new words I should be recording - David who scorns most European languages and disdains French with particular disgust, but who, after weeks in French territory, asked me one morning in all seriousness, "So what time do we have to liberate the chamber?"
His French would have been perfect - too bad the English would normally rather be, When's check-out?
Quote: Many people here have explained patiently to me in French how Cameroon is a perfectly bilingual country. In theory, David should have been able to get around just fine with his English - as Cameroon is a bilingual country. In reality, things seemed to happen a little differently.
A clever chap named Jeff who spoke no English finally cleared this up for me one afternoon by chortling, "It's Cameroon that's bilingual, you know.. not the Cameroonians."
Ahh, so that's how it works.
(Truth be told, though, Cameroonians really are bilingual - almost everyone here speaks at least one local language, and often can get by in a few.)
Worst Experience: Sometimes you find a weird dynamic with the African women of interracial couples - some kind of weird bitterness or aggressive rivalry - when you travel here as a white woman with a white man. The mistaken impression is that David and I are together, and that I am therefore in direct competition with them for the scarce resource of wandering white men of Africa. (Little do they know, of course, that I have frequently invited David to enjoy their company if he so wishes, and that I fully support him in it if he so chooses. Which he has not.)
I notice these ladies chiefly by the stark difference in their treatment of David and me; after a simpering sweetness to el esteemed professor they will whirl on me with a savage condescension that always takes me by surprise. The wholly inexplicable (and definitely me-focused) nastiness of one lady in Yaounde stayed with me for two full days, and depresses me every time I remember her. I don't know why, but this always affects me more than when men treat me with disrespect (which of course they sometimes do). I can ignore the men, they don't have anything to do with me anyway, but as a woman, aren't all other women I meet compatriots? Sisters? Fellow fighters in the never-ending battle against male silliness?
Best Experience: The train is seriously up there, but since I've already devoted quite a bit of time boasting about how lovely it is I suppose I should mention any of the other delightful experiences I had in Cameroon.
I love to swim, but unless you hotel-hop from the Sheraton to the Ritz, it's kind of hard to fit it into a traveling lifestyle. At least when near a beach, not having a swimsuit has never stopped me; I just splash on in with street clothes. That's not quite the same as really swimming, though, and more than once I've been unable to go out very far for fear of riptides or hungry sea animals. At a Catholic version of the YMCA in Douala, though, I got a special surprise - a pool glistening under the lights in the grassy courtyard behind the building.
Even better were the two extremely friendly German Shepherd pet dogs hanging about the pool, though I wasn't sure whether to be entertained or grossed out when they began to lick the sweat off my legs.
And the best part of all? the unexpected deep end, and for the first time in ages I got to do back-flips.
Could I live here? Cameroon is a pretty comfortable country, and I would hazard the opinion that most people could live here pretty happily. It's mostly got its act together, the people are happy to speak to you, if only in one European language, and the climate around the capital is absolutely fantastic. Plus, a couple hundred kilometers in any direction puts you smack in the center of fun! Yeah.. I think I could live here.
Music: Though I never managed to pick up any cds of it, I did manage to hear a fantastic new kind of music - pachanga. Best way I can describe it is to say that it's like African salsa in French. It's saucy, quick and fun, and just begs for a dance.
Saddest Bumper Sticker: A two-part affair on a bus door: I fear my friends.. even you followed with its accompanying and possibly explanatory Time of Suffering - NO FRIENDS.
Whatever happened to Lean on Me.. When you're not strong?
Most Embarrassing Moment: I've always been a bit of a klutz, and it goes without saying there will be that occasional inevitable slip or trip here and there in my life. However, sometimes I outright court disaster - like the time in Douala when for some extremely silly reason I was running on uneven concrete in my floor-length Shari'a skirt. Mix foolishness and klutziness and BLAM! I fell flat on my face tripwire-style in front of a group of shocked merchants.
Thankfully, I hadn't the wits to be embarrassed about it at the time, popping right back up with a quick "I'm okay!" to the crowd before running on my way. It was only after, when I imagined how it must have looked and laughed out loud that I was extremely happy I'd never see them again. It's at least as valuable as any other elementary-level lesson about scissors: Don't Run in Shari'a Clothing.
New (Realizations of) Hygienic Lows: I'm long beyond expecting toilet paper or soap in any bathroom, but in restaurants I do at least hope for water to wash my hands before (or after) eating.
I have no explanation for why it has taken me this long to put together that if there is no t.p., soap, or water for clients to use in the bathroom, there is none for the employees (and cooks) to use, either.
And now that I have bequeathed this new awareness, I will do my best to efface it entirely from my consciousness.
Most Unexpected Billboard: In very serious large white caps on a plain black background:
PUBLIC SMOG WILL SAVE THE WORLD.
Do you think they meant... yeah, I don't even know where to go with that.
New Words: Random French words I've either forgotten or never knew continue to filter into my consciousness, but instead of solidifying my impression of fluency they rather remind me of all the gaps I yet have. But unfortunately my linguistic horizons have still not budged very far from where they were - unless you count learning five new local words for hiccup. So perhaps it is David whose new words I should be recording - David who scorns most European languages and disdains French with particular disgust, but who, after weeks in French territory, asked me one morning in all seriousness, "So what time do we have to liberate the chamber?"
His French would have been perfect - too bad the English would normally rather be, When's check-out?
Quote: Many people here have explained patiently to me in French how Cameroon is a perfectly bilingual country. In theory, David should have been able to get around just fine with his English - as Cameroon is a bilingual country. In reality, things seemed to happen a little differently.
A clever chap named Jeff who spoke no English finally cleared this up for me one afternoon by chortling, "It's Cameroon that's bilingual, you know.. not the Cameroonians."
Ahh, so that's how it works.
(Truth be told, though, Cameroonians really are bilingual - almost everyone here speaks at least one local language, and often can get by in a few.)
Worst Experience: Sometimes you find a weird dynamic with the African women of interracial couples - some kind of weird bitterness or aggressive rivalry - when you travel here as a white woman with a white man. The mistaken impression is that David and I are together, and that I am therefore in direct competition with them for the scarce resource of wandering white men of Africa. (Little do they know, of course, that I have frequently invited David to enjoy their company if he so wishes, and that I fully support him in it if he so chooses. Which he has not.)
I notice these ladies chiefly by the stark difference in their treatment of David and me; after a simpering sweetness to el esteemed professor they will whirl on me with a savage condescension that always takes me by surprise. The wholly inexplicable (and definitely me-focused) nastiness of one lady in Yaounde stayed with me for two full days, and depresses me every time I remember her. I don't know why, but this always affects me more than when men treat me with disrespect (which of course they sometimes do). I can ignore the men, they don't have anything to do with me anyway, but as a woman, aren't all other women I meet compatriots? Sisters? Fellow fighters in the never-ending battle against male silliness?
Best Experience: The train is seriously up there, but since I've already devoted quite a bit of time boasting about how lovely it is I suppose I should mention any of the other delightful experiences I had in Cameroon.
I love to swim, but unless you hotel-hop from the Sheraton to the Ritz, it's kind of hard to fit it into a traveling lifestyle. At least when near a beach, not having a swimsuit has never stopped me; I just splash on in with street clothes. That's not quite the same as really swimming, though, and more than once I've been unable to go out very far for fear of riptides or hungry sea animals. At a Catholic version of the YMCA in Douala, though, I got a special surprise - a pool glistening under the lights in the grassy courtyard behind the building.
Even better were the two extremely friendly German Shepherd pet dogs hanging about the pool, though I wasn't sure whether to be entertained or grossed out when they began to lick the sweat off my legs.
And the best part of all? the unexpected deep end, and for the first time in ages I got to do back-flips.
Could I live here? Cameroon is a pretty comfortable country, and I would hazard the opinion that most people could live here pretty happily. It's mostly got its act together, the people are happy to speak to you, if only in one European language, and the climate around the capital is absolutely fantastic. Plus, a couple hundred kilometers in any direction puts you smack in the center of fun! Yeah.. I think I could live here.
Sunday, May 3
Waiting for the Rains
5 a.m. is an ungodly time to be awake.. but if you have to be, and you can do it outside, it can also be a very uniquely peaceful time.
To board our early-early bus to Marua, David and I woke at just before five and began walking the quiet streets of sleepy Garua under a deep indigo sky. A passing taxi-moto agreed to take us to the bus station, one at a time, so I perched behind him with my suitcase and we took off with a quiet rumble that echoed down the dark streets. At this early hour there were few lights on save a scattering of fluorescent business signs, and few pedestrians save those walking, presumably, to prayer. Not a single car. Coming up to the central town mosque, we glimpsed in the front yard a few rows of kneeling Muslims; just as we passed and rounded the corner, they all simultaneously bowed to the ground. It was fantastic to be on the moto-scooter, the fresh air flowing into my face, and though we weren't going fast I had the incredible impression of gliding through the night.
Then we arrived at the station and the spell was broken; the driver zoomed away to fetch David and I went to track down our tickets from the reservation office. They weren't yet available, so after David arrived I left my bag with him and went to loiter malignantly like a tumor in front of the window, so as to be near the front of the ticket-getting crush once it happened.
(Of course, I was forgetting that in Cameroon, things happen differently, and despite standing right there I missed the start of the ticket distribution because there was no sudden crush.)
Women with armloads of baguettes and pyramids of tan hard-boiled eggs for sale began to set themselves up on little stools on the curb, while enterprising children already ambled about balancing plates of fried dough on their heads. We were among the first to arrive, but soon dozens of passengers were wandering about the open area amid carcasses of luggage as the sky lightened to the pale colorless hue that belied a very hot day to come. It was just the end of the dry season, during those last few days when the heat is intense, and everyone prays for rain.
After arriving at Marua, we wandered the town, me with my already-broken-but-much-appreciated umbrella, as it still sheltered me from the blinding sun. Temperatures were at their hottest, and the extreme-north Sahel town was parched. Everyone was talking about the imminent rains, and I was struck once again, as in Japan, with the reality of weather as a huge part of daily life, even survival. In America, we have succeeded in shutting weather so fully out of our business - save as a convenience or inconvenience - that we enjoy the artificial impression that weather does not really hold the power of life or death over every single creature. Perhaps it once did, but surely we have triumphed over it just as we have triumphed over smallpox and ambulatory transport. Hot? Air conditioning! Cold? Central heating! Wet or windy? Retreat indoors! Still and muggy? Electric fan! The quirks of the weather are relegated to those side facts of existence, the most inane and most dependable of all awkward small-talk fall-backs. How's the weather?
Of course, we are periodically reminded in the most disastrous ways of how weather does still shape the course of every single day. It is at these points that we remember: Weather is a fiend, indeed.
That night was hot, a heat made more intense by the lack of power that deprived us of our electric fan. We tossed fitfully in our beds, sweltering in the dark airless room, batting away the frequent whine of mosquitos. (As a soldier in the Great Mosquito Jihad, I was made powerless by the lack of light.) And so we hoped for sleep, lying in pools of sweat made sticky like glue by copious applications of mosquito repellent, pining after the cool night air just outside the door, but unable to rationalize leaving our door open while we slept.
That rationalization came in the form of David's Fantastic Door-Opening Idea at 3:30 a.m., which was to open the door wide and move our beds in front of it to impede the stealthy progress of any uninvited guests. (And maximize that fresh air.) The plan was no sooner hatched than implemented. A few minutes later brought the most blissful breezes wafting over us, and it was such pleasant relief I ended up leaning on my bed against the doorframe, sleep forgotten, looking out at the quiet night and the distant flickers of lightning in the distance. We had had a teaser of the first sprinkle in the late afternoon, a sudden showering that made all the street sellers and men in the market scramble to batten down their wares even as they told me, This isn't it - the rains haven't really come yet. But you feel that heat? they asked me. Soon.
At four a.m., as thunder rolled about softly at the far western edge of the sky, I sat on my bed and breathed in the rain-scented zephyrs; I sat and thought, and listened to the wind rustle in the trees overhead, and to the distant barking of dogs.
And then it was 5:00 a.m. again.. and time to go to sleep.
To board our early-early bus to Marua, David and I woke at just before five and began walking the quiet streets of sleepy Garua under a deep indigo sky. A passing taxi-moto agreed to take us to the bus station, one at a time, so I perched behind him with my suitcase and we took off with a quiet rumble that echoed down the dark streets. At this early hour there were few lights on save a scattering of fluorescent business signs, and few pedestrians save those walking, presumably, to prayer. Not a single car. Coming up to the central town mosque, we glimpsed in the front yard a few rows of kneeling Muslims; just as we passed and rounded the corner, they all simultaneously bowed to the ground. It was fantastic to be on the moto-scooter, the fresh air flowing into my face, and though we weren't going fast I had the incredible impression of gliding through the night.
Then we arrived at the station and the spell was broken; the driver zoomed away to fetch David and I went to track down our tickets from the reservation office. They weren't yet available, so after David arrived I left my bag with him and went to loiter malignantly like a tumor in front of the window, so as to be near the front of the ticket-getting crush once it happened.
(Of course, I was forgetting that in Cameroon, things happen differently, and despite standing right there I missed the start of the ticket distribution because there was no sudden crush.)
Women with armloads of baguettes and pyramids of tan hard-boiled eggs for sale began to set themselves up on little stools on the curb, while enterprising children already ambled about balancing plates of fried dough on their heads. We were among the first to arrive, but soon dozens of passengers were wandering about the open area amid carcasses of luggage as the sky lightened to the pale colorless hue that belied a very hot day to come. It was just the end of the dry season, during those last few days when the heat is intense, and everyone prays for rain.
After arriving at Marua, we wandered the town, me with my already-broken-but-much-appreciated umbrella, as it still sheltered me from the blinding sun. Temperatures were at their hottest, and the extreme-north Sahel town was parched. Everyone was talking about the imminent rains, and I was struck once again, as in Japan, with the reality of weather as a huge part of daily life, even survival. In America, we have succeeded in shutting weather so fully out of our business - save as a convenience or inconvenience - that we enjoy the artificial impression that weather does not really hold the power of life or death over every single creature. Perhaps it once did, but surely we have triumphed over it just as we have triumphed over smallpox and ambulatory transport. Hot? Air conditioning! Cold? Central heating! Wet or windy? Retreat indoors! Still and muggy? Electric fan! The quirks of the weather are relegated to those side facts of existence, the most inane and most dependable of all awkward small-talk fall-backs. How's the weather?
Of course, we are periodically reminded in the most disastrous ways of how weather does still shape the course of every single day. It is at these points that we remember: Weather is a fiend, indeed.
That night was hot, a heat made more intense by the lack of power that deprived us of our electric fan. We tossed fitfully in our beds, sweltering in the dark airless room, batting away the frequent whine of mosquitos. (As a soldier in the Great Mosquito Jihad, I was made powerless by the lack of light.) And so we hoped for sleep, lying in pools of sweat made sticky like glue by copious applications of mosquito repellent, pining after the cool night air just outside the door, but unable to rationalize leaving our door open while we slept.
That rationalization came in the form of David's Fantastic Door-Opening Idea at 3:30 a.m., which was to open the door wide and move our beds in front of it to impede the stealthy progress of any uninvited guests. (And maximize that fresh air.) The plan was no sooner hatched than implemented. A few minutes later brought the most blissful breezes wafting over us, and it was such pleasant relief I ended up leaning on my bed against the doorframe, sleep forgotten, looking out at the quiet night and the distant flickers of lightning in the distance. We had had a teaser of the first sprinkle in the late afternoon, a sudden showering that made all the street sellers and men in the market scramble to batten down their wares even as they told me, This isn't it - the rains haven't really come yet. But you feel that heat? they asked me. Soon.
At four a.m., as thunder rolled about softly at the far western edge of the sky, I sat on my bed and breathed in the rain-scented zephyrs; I sat and thought, and listened to the wind rustle in the trees overhead, and to the distant barking of dogs.
And then it was 5:00 a.m. again.. and time to go to sleep.
Friday, May 1
Cameroonian Trains versus Congolese Trains..
What follows is a blow-by-blow of my thoughts, written at the time, on our successful bid to ride another night train on this delightful continent.
Sunday, 11:00 a.m.: We have spent the last three hours waiting for the train station to open. It is still closed with no hope in sight. Much talk of 'la derailment'. We have given up, and will try again later.
Sunday, 5:00 p.m.: We have spent the last hour waiting in line at the ticket counter. Five seats away from ticket-buying freedom, we were informed that due to la derailment, only tickets for this night's train will be sold.
Monday, 10:30 a.m.: Waiting for just over an hour and we finally make it to the ticket counter for the first time yet... to learn that we do not have everything we need to make a reservation, and will have to come back. Would pull out hair if had any to spare.
Monday, 12:00 p.m.: Second time completing the musical-chair-queue-bop, this time better equipped for the task, we are told we have 'reservations'.
Tuesday, 10:00 a.m.: We successfully have train tickets!! It is, incidentally, our fifth trip to the train station. (Enough visits for me to learn how to queue.)
Tuesday, 4:00 p.m.: Getting ready to go to the station to board our train. We technically have two 'beds' in a 'cabine'. Having learned well from our Congolese train, I am hoping (hoping) for two wooden slats bunk-style with thin but clean plastic pads on each in some sort of table-sized compartment with a lockable door. Window a plus.
(David reminds me we are paying well over fifty bucks apiece for these spots.)
I am willing to settle for two structurally sound wooden planks with ripped or less clean padding in some sort of compartment with under five beds and a lockable door.
With fleas, I will be displeased.
With fleas and efforts by strange men to share my bed and comartment space, I will raise a fuss to whomever I can find in a conductorish cap.
(David asks, "To whom would you have raised a fuss in the Congo train??")
I remember with a bit of nausea that we paid only a bit less for the pleasure of sharing chairs with our roach friends and flea residents on that train.
Well.. that was 40 USD in Congo, I suppose we will see what 57 USD will bring in Cameroon.
Tuesday, 6:00 p.m.: We have indeed boarded, and our compartment is far beyond anything I could have anticipated... and not in the direction I feared, either! See for yourselves:
Look!! Real beds!! A window that opens!!! A SINK!! running water, right in the room! (still in shock)
<--- Check out the *lockable* door in our *private* compartment... (and a nice wedding ring that is too, only cost me 75 cents from a sympathetic trader) I for one am rather hoping for a derailment, as this would give me more time on this fabulous train. (David points out I could even spend the rest of my life here!)
Wednesday, 7:00 a.m.: With daylight comes frequent evidence of other, ill-fated trains before us:
(I'm still hoping.)
Wednesday, 10:00 a.m.: Sadly, our trip has been wholly uneventful, other than some interesting jolts and banging in the middle of the night accompanied by a cacophony of sound that made me wonder excitedly if I was experiencing a derailment. But no. Oh well, I guess I'll just have to come back to Cameroon.. even without the added excitement of an accident, this was well worth fifty bucks.
Sunday, 11:00 a.m.: We have spent the last three hours waiting for the train station to open. It is still closed with no hope in sight. Much talk of 'la derailment'. We have given up, and will try again later.
Sunday, 5:00 p.m.: We have spent the last hour waiting in line at the ticket counter. Five seats away from ticket-buying freedom, we were informed that due to la derailment, only tickets for this night's train will be sold.
Monday, 10:30 a.m.: Waiting for just over an hour and we finally make it to the ticket counter for the first time yet... to learn that we do not have everything we need to make a reservation, and will have to come back. Would pull out hair if had any to spare.
Monday, 12:00 p.m.: Second time completing the musical-chair-queue-bop, this time better equipped for the task, we are told we have 'reservations'.
Tuesday, 10:00 a.m.: We successfully have train tickets!! It is, incidentally, our fifth trip to the train station. (Enough visits for me to learn how to queue.)
Tuesday, 4:00 p.m.: Getting ready to go to the station to board our train. We technically have two 'beds' in a 'cabine'. Having learned well from our Congolese train, I am hoping (hoping) for two wooden slats bunk-style with thin but clean plastic pads on each in some sort of table-sized compartment with a lockable door. Window a plus.
(David reminds me we are paying well over fifty bucks apiece for these spots.)
I am willing to settle for two structurally sound wooden planks with ripped or less clean padding in some sort of compartment with under five beds and a lockable door.
With fleas, I will be displeased.
With fleas and efforts by strange men to share my bed and comartment space, I will raise a fuss to whomever I can find in a conductorish cap.
(David asks, "To whom would you have raised a fuss in the Congo train??")
I remember with a bit of nausea that we paid only a bit less for the pleasure of sharing chairs with our roach friends and flea residents on that train.
Well.. that was 40 USD in Congo, I suppose we will see what 57 USD will bring in Cameroon.
Tuesday, 6:00 p.m.: We have indeed boarded, and our compartment is far beyond anything I could have anticipated... and not in the direction I feared, either! See for yourselves:
Look!! Real beds!! A window that opens!!! A SINK!! running water, right in the room! (still in shock)<--- Check out the *lockable* door in our *private* compartment... (and a nice wedding ring that is too, only cost me 75 cents from a sympathetic trader) I for one am rather hoping for a derailment, as this would give me more time on this fabulous train. (David points out I could even spend the rest of my life here!)
Wednesday, 7:00 a.m.: With daylight comes frequent evidence of other, ill-fated trains before us:
(I'm still hoping.)Wednesday, 10:00 a.m.: Sadly, our trip has been wholly uneventful, other than some interesting jolts and banging in the middle of the night accompanied by a cacophony of sound that made me wonder excitedly if I was experiencing a derailment. But no. Oh well, I guess I'll just have to come back to Cameroon.. even without the added excitement of an accident, this was well worth fifty bucks.
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