Not so slow in the go-slow

I just arrived back from a week of adventure –I did a roadtrip up north, visiting Kaduna, Jos and Ilorin before heading back to Lagos. I took a few days off around the holidays and got Roseanne, Tammie and Simon from VSO along to crash another volunteer organization’s, CUSO’s, Easter break in Jos: they were going to hike in Shere Hills and a hike after being stuck in the urban jungle for quite a while sounded like the perfect antidote to me.

So I set out bright and early last Wednesday at 5.30 am. My first task was to get to Yaba, where all the bus companies have their depots – a dubious spot during the day, even more so at the crack of dawn. But I made it successfully and queued up nicely at the ‘Crosscountry’ counter to get my ticket to Kaduna. I have learnt that in most cases it is best not to use logic, but just follow what the crowd is doing in new situations. So even though I put my name down on the passenger list I remained pressed in the line, since everyone else did too. It turns out in Nigeria you first queue up to sign up for your ticket, you then queue again to actually pay for it. Why kill two birds with one stone when you can complicate things?

Nevertheless I was very pleased to get the last seat on the very first bus to Kaduna. That is until I realized the last seat was the middle front seat in the bus, i.e. being squeezed between the driver and another passenger and virtually sitting on top of the gear box. In the general commotion at the motor park – several buses getting washed or emptied of dirty socks displayed behind the windshield and onions on the front seat, as the case may be; and drivers arguing, joking, gesticulating fiercely while conversing in Yoruba or Haussa; all the while loud music booming from an unidentifiable car stereo – my eyes caught a driver in particular: young, toned, carelessly spitting out the cola nuts he’d been chewing on and grooving to the beat. In short, this was a Nigerian hipster… and he was to be our driver! Already an hour late for our scheduled departure, we finally started the engine and drove…to the gas station next door. Drivers only fuel their cars once they have filled them with passengers. This is a cash-only society where the sole proof of getting paid is to actually hold the money in your hands. Landlords require 1 year’s rent in advance from their tenants and our IT supplier will not go out and buy new equipment until we have paid 100% upfront. Needless to say there is no insurance against landlords or suppliers going bankrupt once they have accepted payment.

As we were fuelling, a pastor hopped onboard and started praying for us (later on I decided this was the thing that saved us from many potential near-crashes) with a bombastic voice – he prayed for our home lives, business lives, children’s lives and added that lots of money should come our way – obviously Jesus had not given him the latest on VSO allowances. To follow the theme our driver put on some tune with women chanting Hosianna to African drums and we discovered that our tire was flat and needed exchanging. This triggered a lot of head scratching and wild talking among a group of drivers who had quickly gathered around the bus. A half an hour of Hosianna went by in 40-degree heat in a minibus packed with 12 passengers and no aircon. Finally the tire was exchanged and we joined the crammed road, filled to the brim with Lagos’ yellow buses, honking our way happily into the crowd. That did not last long either – someone bumped the minibus and Mr. Hipster yanked a hunting knife from the glove compartment and jumped out of the car to set the other driver straight. We had by this time done a loop around the car depot, so were back to our original starting point after 2 hours of preparations.

No worries though, our driver was determined to make time so he proceeded to drive at breakneck speed on bad roads with huge potholes. We spent more time in the opposite lane than our own, overtaking oil trucks with signs saying ‘highly inflammable’ on them, transporting Nigeria’s black gold. As this was not challenging enough for the driver, he would decide to change tapes in the middle of curves, releasing the wheel entirely and dancing to the beat. We reached our destination in 8 hours, instead of the projected 12. We drove through numerous biggish, towns, small towns and villages, all looking more or less the same: corrugated iron sheds, people selling spare car parts, tires, fruit, garbage scattered around everywhere. When we reached Niger state, I got a good glimpse of the Niger river – a first – and noticed that our environs started to look even poorer than before. The land was dry and even the sky had a shade of pink from the ubiquitous red dust. I saw settlements of mudhuts or round thatched huts with neat little thatched fences and piles of firewood stacked up outside them. These rudimentary settlements were so much more well-organized than the urbanized cities we’d just passed, where people hurl garbage out of car windows without a care in the world and drop their waste wherever they feel like it.

We stopped at another gas station and I foolishly asked for a bathroom. There was none. What there was, was a cement platform with a waist-high wall built around it on three sides. I felt rather self-conscious when I went for a pee, as 90% of the passengers were men and even if they did not look, it didn’t take much for them to spot the open-air toilet performance. Moving on swiftly… a new stop took us to a chophouse, where everyone got out for some obligatory pounded yam. I had packed lunch so I decided to stay in the bus. Big mistake. First of all, I had not realized that the African sun would dissolve all forms of food into liquid: my tomatoes were juicified, my papaya had fermented and the bananas were brown and mushy and had started to leak. A crowd of beggars instantly gathered around me so I wound up the window to try and ignore them. They were not deterred, but I was completely soaked in sweat as a consequence. They made eating gestures and repeated the same phrase over and over again. My thumb rule is not to give money to beggars who are able bodied and also not to give when there is a whole crowd, because then they would just be more encouraged. So I tried drinking my food and pretended not to have noticed them. When they started pressing their faces against and knocking on the bus window, I felt like an animal at the zoo, but then again I am conscious that what I have is so much more than they ever will, no wonder they would like some crumbs from the rich man’s table.

I arrived in Kaduna and Simon, who works at the demonstration deaf school, came to the motorpark to pick me up. Being white has its advantages – it was very easy to spot him among the crowd, a fellow oyibo. So we went back to his place and he cooked a nice meal and told me the tale of the ‘crisis’ in Kaduna: the violence in 2000 and 2002 when Christians and Muslims clashed and many were killed. Apparently the place used to be much nicer before the crisis, but even so I really enjoyed the days that followed in Kaduna. The streets are leafy and they actually have some buildings, not just sheds. We went to the museum and saw a dance performance. It was nice sitting under a tree watching the not-very co-ordinated, unfocused dancers. The show really wasn’t all that, but the atmosphere was relaxed and we had lovely yellow dates (unripe, with a less sweet, nutty flavour) that an ambulating street vendor was carrying around on his head. Then a play performed in Haussa was up next. I asked Simon for a translation. He does not speak Haussa but as he has been to other shows, he explained that the storyline is usually about someone getting married, preferably to someone unsuitable. As a rule there also has to be a character that is a business man. And true enough, in strolls a man in traditional attire with a battered brief case. During the course of the drama I saw the briefcase being used as a footrest while the marriage negotiations proceeded, otherwise it did not seem to have much relevance. At one point the phrase ‘fuck you’ was uttered, and Simon translated the greetings - the rest of the plot was left open to our interpretation. So we decided to leave the drama to its fate and went to a bushbar instead. Apart from being pestered by a drunk prostitute we had a nice time.

We went to swim at the hotel pool and thanks to previously schmoozing with the pool ‘manager’, who subsequently turned out to be the pool boy, I got everyone a discount on the entrance fee. They were supposed to have a talent show by the pool that day and were therefore going to charge us more. In the end, none of the contestants showed up but instead there was a DJ who played my two favorite choons in Nigeria over and over again: ‘Burn it up’ and ‘Busy Body'. Since my iPod doesn’t work I listen to Rhythm 93.7 FM all the time and all they play is R Kelly and other rap/R&B artists.

Next up was Jos – another cramped ride in a Peugeot 504 on bumpy roads, with everyone sleeping on each other’s arms or shoulders. We went for food and discovered an eatery where they had, yess!, frothy latte, my first in Nigeria! It was a bit watery, but who cares. We loved this place so much, we made 4 visits to it in 2 days. We went to another cultural performance and did some shopping. The real highlight though was our next day in Jos, when the CUSO volunteers took us along on the lovely hike, to Shere Hills, guided by the director of an environmental NGO. He is into solar technology and has some good ideas that unfortunately are unlikely to take off. He took us up the boulders, to the peak, and there we had a picnic and some of the guides started playing the bongo. In our vehicle, on the way back to town, we passed a huge, half-finished structure. This was supposed to be the Jos demonstration hospital, but it was never finished. The funds had been used up and there was no more money, so the skeleton is just standing there, reminding of the sad state of affairs in Nigeria, where money is being chopped on all government levels so that there is never enough to actually fulfill planned projects on the ground. Another VSO, Janita’s experience is a case in point. She works at the Centre for Nomadic Education in Kaduna. The teachers have lots of ideas and are very motivated, but the funding for their center has got ‘lost’ in the general process of being handed out. They cannot ask for any more funding as they apparently have gotten their fair share and no international sponsors want to aid government projects, as they are aware of the corruption that is going on. So it is a catch 22 – no money reaches good aims due to corruption and due to corruption no new money can be secured for good aims.

I decided to head back to Ilorin with Tammie on my way back to split up my journey. The bus I took this morning from Ilorin was the worst I have been on so far, very rickety and I was one of 4 sardines in the back. My fellow passengers were sweet, making it everyone’s business that I had to drop at a certain place in Lagos and they nominated a lady to take me to the correct bus stop. As we were pulling out of the depot the conductor handed me his phone number – in case there would be a vacancy with my organization I should contact him. People are reaching for any small possibility of a better life – and as I am white I symbolize that opportunity. I borrowed an old Cosmo from Tammie and was reading in the bus with a young Muslim man peering over my shoulder. I honestly hope he could not understand much of it – a Cosmo packed with saucy tales seems very inappropriate in pious Nigeria (even though there is a lot of promiscuous behaviour under the surface), and I had almost forgotten about the unfolding celebrity romances... So if anyone cares to update me on what is going on with Brad and Angelina or Kate and Tom, I am looking forward to it!

Metamorphosis - a.k.a responding to the environment

It is a momentous day today: after a month and a half in Lagos my television is finally supposed to be fixed tomorrow and ready to entertain me with Nollywood dramas! I reckon it’s about time, particularly since I am way down on electronic gadgets that actually work as they have chosen to join the ranks of items I in my evil moments call ‘of Nigerian quality’. My iPod has packed up and my flash memory stick has become corrupted (this I think is particularly hilarious – I do hope it is making big buxx out of defrauding Nigeria out of its oil wealth or sending 419 letters to gullible Internet users) and my darling laptop’s wireless slot is no longer responding. I cannot help but wonder – is it so that these electronics are trying to adjust to their new circumstance just like me and sort of don’t want to stick out too much from the general level of quality? Like for example, I bought some light bulbs that exploded the first thing they did as I unpacked them, screwed them into the fixture and tried turning the light on. I have also learnt about fake ink toners you can buy, which look like the real thing, but certainly ain’t, so they mess up good printers (this happened in the office) and lets not even start on the generator that has a new life-threatening condition every day.

Then again, maybe it is just what my darling friend Liz used to say “It’s mercury retrograde”, which I still don’t know what it means… Was it something to do with my aura causing havoc in whatever it gets close to? Liz feel free to comment on this. By the way, I received an email from Liz yesterday and she just returned from her honeymoon! Gosh, it seems like yesterday we practiced our rusty driving skills on the one-way streets of San Francisco (course going the wrong way) and now you are married with kittens – and I am in Nigeria. Dearest Liz, congratulations to you and Martin – I really wish I could have been at your wedding, sporting a frilly, lacey Nigerian creation with headtie and all!

I do like the Nigerian fabrics and dresses. And secretly I giggle at the patriarchal ogas who are all so macho but proudly wear layers of pink gowns, mostly reminiscent of festive curtains or wedding cakes. The loose kaftans are my favourite: they are ideal to potter around the house in. And what of the beautiful ever-imaginative hairdos! Shock and horror, they are oh-so-fake. This to me was complete news. The fact that women and men use hair supplements and extensions, if not wigs, for their elaborate hair creations may have been obvious to others but I completely missed it. And yet another hair-raising fact! Afros are really hard to maintain and super hard work, whereas I in my ignorance thought it was the default hairdo.

Lately there’s been quite a few recreational and culture highlights: I attended a networking event for young professionals where the crème de la crème of Lagos’ well-heeled entrepreneurs caught up with each other, saw a fantastic play on apartheid at the Muson Center and went to a film screening about one of Fela’s album cover designer’s trip to New York. The artist was present at the screening and gave a very vibrant talk on his work life philosophy, and his relationship with the granddaddy of afrobeat. Unfortunately the Q&A part of the event was hijacked by two pretentious art-wannabees who proceeded to have a monologue about their own achievements. On the way to VI I got the lowdown from my colleagues on the meaning of ‘shakara’, the title of one of Fela’s songs and the Yoruba word for a wannabe, con-artist, wise-guy… Well apparently there is no proper translation, shakara is just shakara. Fair enough – I love the word anyway. And I think Yoruba is a very beautiful language. Tongue twisting, very hard to remember, but beautiful. Here’s a sample of Yoruba names: Foyinsola, Abimbola, Ombolaji, Temitope, Olaotan, Olayinka, and Bisola. I have been told I have a good pronunciation, but that could just be the Nigerian friendliness.

Oooh, and the real highlight (or lowlight depending on which way you look at it) was the solar eclipse! I missed it a few years back in London and I would have put it down as an annoying tropical storm with the sky going dark if it was not for the whole office running out into our garden to peer up towards the cloud-enshrouded sun. It was spectacular. A sort of apocalyptical dark light emerged and large, sinister black clouds hovered around the dish of the sun, obstructing but from time to time scattering to reveal the brightest of sun slivers. Pictures will be on Flickr soon.

Tomorrow I am going to a hardcore market on Lagos Island with a new acquaintance, Zyna. It is going to be an adventure. We met at the bank: she complemented my self-made earrings and it turned out she was a striving jewelry designer and now she is taking me to the labyrinth of bead sellers buried in the most chaotic of West African markets. I better get some sleep to be fit for fight in the morning.