Hiking in the Bush and Seeing God

Every other Saturday, expatriates gather in Abuja for what is known as The Hash. Apparently, The Hash House Harriers (HHH) is a worldwide organization that I never heard about in the US. There are hash walks in most major cities throughout the world, and Abuja is no exception.

Expats meet and convoy out to the bush, where they follow a trail marked by paper confetti. A spot of confetti means "you're going in the right direction." A circle shape means "checkpoint," where you have to wander around until you find the trail again. If you find an X of confetti, it means "false trail" and you go back to the checkpoint and set off again in a different direction. There are people who have walked the trail before, and they are called "hares." They wear special t-shirts and walk in front of and behind the rest of the crowd to make sure nobody gets lost.

To be fair, I really had no idea what I was getting myself into. No one stopped to explain the whole concept to me, and I didn't understand where we were going to be walking. I wasn't really dressed properly, and just felt like I was along for the ride.

And what a ride it was.

Corey drove us to the starting point, making good use of his 4-wheel drive. The roads weren't really roads at all, and realization began to set in. This will be no casual walk in the countryside. No it most certainly will not.

We set off walking on a red clay dirt path. It was downhill, but it was easy enough. Did I mention the insane number of children on the hash? They were everywhere - some as young as 3 (although credit is due to their parents who carried hauled their sweaty little bodies all over the bush).

When the path ended, we kept going. Up and down hills, crossing streams and farmer's fields, fighting our way through the undergrowth, sweating all the way. At the tops of the hills, we could see for miles the outskirts of Abuja, which was spectacular (and of course today was the day I decided not to carry my camera). Most of the time I had to concentrate on what was going on at my feet, so I couldn't really appreciate the scenery. It's hard work keeping up with people already adjusted to the heat and terrain.

After walking about 4 km, there was a pit stop where everyone got water, soft drinks and beer (in other parts of the world, HHH is regarded as a social drinking group that happens to go on walks). As we left the rest stop, the clouds moved in. Since arriving here in the rainy season, I've watched the sky turn from pink to black in 45 seconds - these clouds move fast. The winds picked up and things got cold and dark quickly. When the rains began, we were still 2 km away from the end and still had to climb up the face of a hill with a river of red clay mud rushing down at us.

We did make it back without falling or losing anyone, and I managed not to get cut up by the brush or sunburned or bitten by mosquitoes. All the kids made it, too, although most of them were piggybacking it for the last miserable kilometer.

At the end, we piled into cars and chopped (Nigerian for "ate dinner") at the house of one of the hares (hash leaders). All told, it was a pretty miserable end to the day. I hate being cold and wet. Next time, I'll bring a change of clothes!

There was one image from the day that I will carry with me forever. The pastor of my church here brought his wife and 3 daughters to the hash. They are little girls, and the smallest can't be more than 5 or 6.
Honestly, I was impressed she made it without being carried. I thought I had it rough getting smacked in the face with trees, and that poor little thing was getting smacked in the face with all the brush.
When Iona began to complain (I'm not blaming her; I would have, too), her father simply stepped directly in front of her, with one hand behind his back so she could hold on to his finger. For every step he took, Iona took 3, but her father was taking the brunt of all the brush.
After a while of shielding her, we came upon some rough terrain, and my pastor had to step aside to navigate them both. When he moved, however, and little Iona had to forge her own way through the undergrowth, he continuously encouraged her. "You're doing brilliantly, Iona." "Imagine how strong your legs will be when we're finished." He encouraged her all the way.

My heart was touched (read: I teared up) as I imagined how much more our heavenly Father shields us and encourages us as different times in our lives. Sometimes we need shielding, and sometimes his encouragement has to be enough sustain us while we're getting hit in the face with the brush.

It also reminded me of the daddy-daughter dates I had when I was small. (It doesn't help that Iona looks a lot like I did as a little girl.) My memories aren't as clear as the pictures taken, but I remember the puppy dog backpack filled with our sandwiches and picnicking in a forest. I also remember picking my way through a field (or a marsh maybe?) of reeds/grasses that were taller than me.

Hiking in the bush is a little bit different than that, but the idea is the same. Sometimes a little girl needs her Dad to shield her; sometimes his encouragement is enough, even when she's no longer a little girl and living far away in Nigeria.

I love you, Dad.

On Being Miss Thomas

When I consider my girlhood aspirations, which included being a ballerina/singer and owning a pony, becoming a teacher was not among them. Indeed, I spent 5 years of my life ensuring everyone that while I majored in English, I had no intention of teaching. It is laughable how mistaken I have proved myself to be.

Now that I find myself in the throes of lesson planning, classroom management, and grading, I have developed a deep appreciation and respect for my teachers from elementary school to college. It is a hard job. It's hard to stand in front of a classroom of--count them--24 6th-graders and command their attention. It's hard to force a discussion on Navajo Origin Myths with 4 11th-graders. It's hard to know what to do when the Nigerian 7th-graders turn against the American and British 7th-graders.

The toughest part of my job isn't actually interacting with my students. It's grading them. I knew coming into this that some of my students would have a better command of English than others. I just didn't expect there to be such a disparity between the ones that do and the ones that don't. In one class, I have a Nigerian child who can't spell "doesn't," another who began learning English in 2008, and another who daydreams in class because he can't follow along in the textbook when we read aloud.

At ICS, we practice differentiation, which basically means that we grade subjectively based on a child's English proficiency. As the English Literature teacher, I feel this pressure most profoundly. Differentiation doesn't mean playing favorites; it means grading a student based on what they know, and depending on the class, up to half of the students are differentiated in my gradebook. Out of 59 students in my 5 classes, up to 30 of them are graded on an individual basis. That's a lot of extra work, but mostly, just extra thought.

I so badly want to see my students succeed. I want to be Miss Thompson from that story "3 Letters from Teddy" in Chicken Soup for the Soul. I want to believe in my students until they believe in themselves. I want to champion in them a love of literature.

But the grades are in on the first round of tests, and it's not looking good. I won't curve and I won't give pluses or minuses. My grading is straightforward, but apparently my test questions are not. After reviewing a particular question on the 10th grade test, I decided to throw it out. Doing so, I learned afterwards, made the difference between a D and C for one of my students. I cannot express the delirious relief I felt when I changed his grade.

I know I'm a new teacher, but in the reading and research I've done, I've come to see that the responsibility for learning rests 100% on me as a teacher (and 100% on them as students, but that's another topic for another time). Based on that principle, a test is a reflection of me, the teacher, and my ability to make my students learn, so I feel the pinch and pain of every D.

I want to make sure my students see that literature can be fun. I'm contemplating a partial overhaul of some parts of my curriculum to allow for a week of supervised fun reading culminating in a book report. I want my kids to love reading as much as I did when I was a kid. Now that I'm teaching, I realize just how much I really do love literature. After 17 years of education and forced reading and college classes and the English major, I'd forgotten. Literature is my passion. I can't imagine teaching anything else.

More Pictures!

Thanks to Mom and her high-speed internet, I'm able to share a couple more pictures from Nigeria!

This picture was taken on my very first night in Abuja. If I look absolutely out of it, it's because I was. :) The white woman is my Canadian/British flatmate Jan and the Indian woman is Rachel. We're in her flat, which is directly above ours.


















I have adopted Nigerian fashion with open arms, and take great joy in wearing traditional dress to school on Fridays. I get tons of compliments for trying to "fit in." I bought this dress ready-made in the market, and top is a bit constricting, so I might have a tailor let it out. (I'm also having 2 other traditional outfits made - I should have those within the next 2 weeks)

See? Could be worse...

Dear Mom and Dad,

Today I spent the afternoon with K, a sweet lady from the South who moved to Nigeria 14 years ago. Apparently, she met her husband (a Nigerian) in the States, went to visit him in Nigeria, stayed for a month, and then decided to move here. She came home to tell her parents she was moving to Nigeria to be with a man they'd never met.

See, Mom and Dad? It could be worse...at least you had a month to process my leaving!

Just putting it into perspective.

Love,
Maggie


[On a more serious note, it appears that most of the women I've met who relocate from the US to Nigeria do so because they've fallen in love with a Nigerian. I appear to be in the minority, coming to Nigeria for the sake of employment, and because I'm recklessly independent. I think I still like being me.]

Alignment

I'm not trying to be pretentious when I say that the past month in Nigeria has changed me. I'm not claiming to be enlightened by a new world-conscious perspective or to have acquired a burden for the broken parts of this world. My paradigm hasn't shifted. I haven't lost my personality.

But I'm different. I've changed somehow.

And the change isn't that I've learned how to speak Nigerian Pidgin English or how to bargain in the market or how to live my life without electricity. It is all that, but it's not.

It's loneliness rooted in the fear that no one may ever perfectly understand me now that I've attached myself to a country in West Africa. It's the fear that I will never leave Nigeria and the fear that I will leave Nigeria.

It's being bothered by how much my life has changed and by how much it hasn't. It's easy to say I've become more dependent on God in Nigeria, but did you know that moving to Africa doesn't fix what was wrong or missing in your relationship with Jesus Christ before you left?

It's the alarming disparity between my calloused heart ignoring the lame beggar in the market and fighting tears while singing worship songs.

It's seeing change in places I didn't expect and not seeing change in the places I counted on.

The change creeps in and the change floods me. I'm over- and underwhelmed at the exact same time. I'm brave and I'm a coward. I love my life and I hate it because I could be--should be--living it better.

I ran headlong and face-first, with arms outstretched, to this place because I didn't see any open doors, or forks in the road, or lights at ends of tunnels. I saw an opportunity and I ran. I ran away from life, I ran towards life.

I am two-faced. I am conflicted. I am living with one foot in this life and one in the past next. I feel like Velcro, willingly rending myself from the US and sticking to Nigeria. But when I tear myself away from here, won't there be ripping and weeping? Won't I be caught between then and now and what's next? Won't I always be homesick for someplace else?

I don't know how to explain the change, but I know this is only the beginning.

When darkness veils His lovely face,
I rest on His unchanging grace.
Through every high and stormy gale,
my anchor holds within the veil...
All other ground is sinking sand.

Livin' for the Weekend

Question: What do you do with a 4-day weekend in Abuja, Nigeria?

Answer: Spend all day Saturday swimming and relaxing at the Hilton, enjoy a potluck with other neighbors in the compound, watch Annie, go to church, visit friends for lunch and more swimming, and grade papers/plan lessons.

It's nice to know that at the end of a long and largely sleepless work week, I can sleep and relax and enjoy my time off.

Goodbye, rainy season. Hello, eternal summer!

Fridays are the Best Days of the Week

Oh, how I love Fridays. As a young girl I loved Fridays. As a college student I loved Fridays. Now, as a teacher, I love Fridays still.

This Friday I gave 3 tests, played the Hangman game to help my 6th graders learn vocabulary words, and wore another Nigerian dress to school. Mrs. Opara, the music teacher, took one look at me in my dress and said, "Miss Maggie, someone is going to marry you here in Nigeria!" I'll upload pictures eventually!

This Friday is particularly wonderful because it is the beginning of a 4-day weekend for us! It's the end of Ramadan, the Muslim month of fasting, and the Sallah is a public holiday...one of the benefits of living in a half-Muslim nation!

I've discovered that in moving to a brand-new country, I've come to treasure and celebrate small victories. Yesterday I went someplace alone and it was wildly successful! Before my parents die of heart attacks, allow me to explain: Our school is positioned quite close to a popular restaurant franchise called Chicken Republic. We're so close, in fact, that there's a shortcut leading directly from the front gate of the school to the front doors of the restaurant. Jan and I have popped over there for our after-school lunch occasionally, so I know the way quite well.
I did everything the way I was supposed to: I took only the cash I needed to buy food, I told my fellow teachers AND the guard at the front gate where I was going, I walked directly there, ate my food, and walked directly back. My grand adventure lasted all of 20 minutes, and 7 of those were spent waiting for my chicken sandwich to be made!
It's really not a big deal, but it feels monumental to me. I've never before appreciated feeling independent and safe at the same time.

Last anecdote of the day: Right before I left for Nigeria, my mom asked me if I wanted to take some packages of Ramen Noodles with me. If I remember right, I think I looked at her with self-righteous disdain and said, "Mom, I'm out of college now. I don't want to eat Ramen if I can help it."

Oh, oh, oh, how mistaken I would be.

Here in Nigeria, a favorite snack of adults and children alike is Indomie, which looks like, smells like, tastes like, is prepared like and has the same exact packaging as Ramen noodles. Not only do I eat it, but I bought a case of it in the market. The only difference between Indomie and Ramen is that Indomie provides a flavoring packet and a chili pepper packet, and I use them both. Not bad for a girl previously allergic to any kind of spice!

By the numbers...

59 is the number students I have in grades 6, 7, 8, 10, 11.
40 is the number of writing assignments I graded today for Grade 6.
3 is the number of assignments that said "Miss Thomas is my favorite teacher."

11 is the number of hours I was at school today (Parent's Night).
6 is the number of students' parents I met.

5 is the number of tests I've written this week.
3 is the number of times I had to write the Grade 11 test, starting from scratch each time because of power outages to my classroom computer.
8 is the number of times I've drawn the Plot Map Diagram today.
2 is the number of students I've almost sent to the Principal's Office.

14 is the number of days we've been in school.
75 is the number of lesson plans I've written since then.

1 is the number of clarinets owned by the Music Department.
0 is the number of teachers they have to teach clarinet.
8 is the number of years I played clarinet.
10 is the number of reeds I've ordered for when I start teaching. (yikes!)

4 is the number of cups of tea I've had today.
5 is the number of hours of sleep I got last night.
12 is the number of blisters on my feet.


26 is the number of days I've been in Nigeria.
88 is the number of days before I come home.

A Day in the Life

Due to popular request, here's a glimpse into my daily life. (Dad, this one's for you!)

Monday-Friday:
6:00 Alarm goes off. Snooze.
6:04 Crawl out from under the mosquito net and get ready.
6:40 Make breakfast: mix up a cup of milk (powdered is the only option here) using refrigerated, bottled, filtered water. Water straight from the filter = warm milk. Only made that mistake once. :)
7:00 Leave for school in Mrs. O's car.
7:10 Arrive at school, sign in, head to my classroom.
7:30 First class begins.
9:30 First Break: students break out the lunch food (Jollof Rice and Chicken is my students' favorite). There is no noon-hour lunch period in Nigerian schools. Students eat a meal at 9:30, go for recess at 11:50, and eat lunch after school at 3pm.
11:50 Recesssssss
2:40 School's out. Grade papers or do lesson plans. Bring lots of work home.
3:00ish Hail a taxi using the following words: "Good Afternoon. American School. 300." The American school, AISA, is well-known landmark near our compound and 300 works out to less than $2 USD. I'll be darned if that doesn't work 9 times out of 10. Jan used to do all the bargaining, but I've become quite a hardnose if I do say so myself, so I get most of the "public" these days.
3:30 After-school snack: Bottle of water and cup of tea [Lipton Yellow label] and a combination of the following: fresh fruit (custard apple!), cashews, peanuts [called ground nuts here], raisins, Luna bar.
4:00 Jan takes a nap; I get online.
6:30 Jan wakes up; we cook dinner.
8:00 Dinner & dishes finished, settle down to work (this week I'm writing tests).
10:00 Shower and get ready for bed.
11:00 Tuck myself into my mosquito net, asleep before my head hits the pillow.

(Tuesday night is Church Bible Study. Wednesday is expat night at Protea Hotels. Friday evening is Bible Study with Rachel's friends.)

Saturdays:
10:00 Wake up, have breakfast, sweep, mop, do dishes
12:00 Call Abdul, our trustworthy taxi man.
1:00 Go to the Maitama fruit market, Zartech Meats, or Park & Shop to do grocery shopping. Wuse Market, Garki Market, Artisan's Village Market (tourist trap) for everything else.
4:00 Home, rest, relax, make tea, cook, visit our neighbors in the compound.
***procrastinate on work***

Sundays:
10:00 Church across the street at AISA.
12:00 Home for lunch.
12:05 Start laundry (on-site washer and dryer, praise God!)
1:00 WORK, consisting of lesson plans and grading; stopping for snacks, laundry, and dinner.
10:00 Shower and bed.

You know, when I type it all out, it doesn't seem like my days are all that full. Maybe its just that life moves at a different pace here in Nigeria. I always feel like my days are brimming with things to do, and I'm usually exhausted but fulfilled when my days finally end.

I love my life. Have I mentioned that yet?

R-E-S-P-E-C-T

(This is also a postdated blog entry. I'm trying to catch up from the past 2 weeks.)

Respect is the best part about living in Nigeria, hands-down. This culture absolutely thrives on respect. From what I’ve observed, it seems to be the backbone of this society. The primary way respect is shown is through greeting everyone. Absolutely everyone, every time you see them, regardless of the last time you greeted them! In America, it would be enough to say, “hi” and “hi” back, but here, a typical greeting looks like this:
Me: “Good morning, Mrs. Ngozi. How are you?”
Mrs. Ngozi: “Good morning, Maggie. I’m fine, how are you?”
Me: “I’m good [you can take the girl out of America…]. How was your night?”
Mrs. Ngozi: “It was fine. How was yours? Are you settling in okay?”
Me: “It was fine, we had company over for dinner and yes, I am settling in very well. Everyone has been very helpful, thank you.”
[about 5 minutes later]
Me, passing Mrs. Ngozi to get a cup of tea: “Good morning, Mrs. Ngozi.”
Mrs Ngozi: “Thank you, good morning, Maggie.”

Greetings are also an essential part of every verbal exchange. I am expected to greet someone before asking them a question of any kind, especially for a favor. I broke this rule on my second day of teacher orientation, and while I couldn’t identify the nature of the look the acting principal gave me, I soon learned why. I had I waltzed into her office and asked for bulletin board cloth without greeting her first and couldn’t place the incredulous look on her face. It’s twice as bad because I hadn’t actually seen her yet that day, so I failed to even given her the required first greeting! Of course, grace and patience are also an important part of this culture, and everyone seems to give me an extra measure because I am American and because I am young, which I appreciate heartily.

Along with greetings, and with introductions particularly, instead of saying something like “pleased to meet you,” Nigerians use the phrase, “you’re welcome.” This phrase, which, when spoken sounds like “yah-well-comb,” is used to welcome a person to a physical location (like a student into a classroom) or into a group of people (like a new teacher joining a staff), or, in my case, welcoming me to Nigeria in general. It is repeated several times in one conversation to reassure one another that their presence is recognized and appreciated. Wives especially use this phrase when their husbands come home from work in the evening. Failure to leave what she is doing, going over to greet her husband, and welcoming him home is a sign of disrespect.

Respect also carries over into religious beliefs as well. As you may know, Abuja is split between Islam and Christianity. It is strange to me that in the market, I am just as likely to buy rice from a Muslim as I am a Christian—I have never experienced those kind of equal ratios before! It is such an example to me to hear Christians talk about Muslims they know personally with no tinge of prejudice or superiority. Through their example, the Lord has really been stirring my heart in regards to the Muslim community here in Nigeria. At first I interpreted these Christians’ unbiased comments as universalism or pluralism, but I was mistaken. They aren’t pluralists, they realize that Islam is an empty religion, but the way they talk to and about Muslims just drips of respect. It is truly beautiful to live in a city where Muslims and Christians live and walk side-by-side and that while I can internally recognize the eternal fruitlessness of their beliefs, I can give them the basic respect they’re owed as human beings.
Side note: these kinds of experiences I've had are unique to Abuja. In the north, Muslims are hostile to Christians. It appears that I have landed in a city that "isn't the real Nigeria," especially these respectful religious exchanges. All the same, I've been impressed by the respect I've seen thus far.

Last anecdote on respect, or How I Can Already Spot an American a Mile Away:
I walked into my 6th grade Lit class on the first day of school and everyone stood up and said in unison, “Good morning, Miss Thomas.” I was absolutely floored with their respect for me, but pleasantly surprised (I couldn’t imagine a similar scene occurring in the States!).
As I entered my 7th grade Lit class later that day, most of the students greeted me (albeit not standing, but still in their seats with their hands folded on the desks) except for one young man. He looked just like all my other Nigerian students except that he slouched sideways in his chair, one arm draped over the back. He watched me walk in, apparently unimpressed. I walked up to him, stuck out my hand and said, “Good morning; my name is Miss Thomas.” His response? “Uh, hi.” I smiled to myself and asked, “Are you American?” He raised a eyebrow and said, “yeah.” And I secretly congratulated myself for being able to pick the American after only 9 days. :)

Pictures

this is the compound I live in, as seen from across the street. It is beautiful:


This is the gecko that lives in our flat:


This is the national mosque, one of the most beautiful buildings I have ever seen. This picture was taken from a moving taxi, my apologies for the tilt.


This is the door to my classroom! I did all the lettering freehand:


And lastly, this is what I look like when NEPA blows just after I've gotten out of the shower. Jan just shakes her head and calls me a dork:

Taking Things for Granted

(Note: This blog post was written 2 weeks ago)

Per the title, this update will chronicle the major blessings and deprivations that so contrast my life now from my life in the States. This is not a rant of frustration; neither is it a complaint. Rather, this is just an illustration of the way my life has changed—for better or worse—in the past week. And let me preface everything by saying that I LOVE my life here in Nigeria. I love it.

Item One: Power
As I write this, I am enjoying my first taste of electricity in 16 hours. NEPA (Nigerian Electric Power [nep’ uh]) lets the power go without notice, and depending on the time of day, the owners of my compound (Mr. & Mrs. O) will turn on the diesel-run generator. It’s happened a lot in one week, and now Jan and I just rejoice when NEPA comes back after a long break. I’ve got my trusty headlight (even though I look like a dork wearing it, I’ve got a picture for your viewing pleasure) which I hang on my doorknob so I always know how to find it in the dark. Our stove is gas-powered, so we can cook when the power goes off, but generally, we try not to open the fridge or freezer when there’s no power. It never stays off too long (if NEPA doesn’t come back, the generator will), so our food doesn’t spoil and our freezer doesn’t de-thaw. Even today, which was the longest I’ve gone without power, our perishables did not perish, praise God!

Item Two: Water
Today I took a cold shower that dripped. I have never appreciated water pressure more! Thankfully, the water heater that hangs just above my shower works fine as long as we have power. Also, I’ve been so happy with the taste of the water here at the house. I have not had to flavor it at all. The water at the compound is cleaner than city water because we have a separate well system that goes very deep into the ground. It does smell like rust, but I only notice that in my bathroom; I think the Katadyn water filter takes out the rust taste from our drinking water.

Item Three: Bugs
Right before I left for Nigeria, I killed a spider on the wall with my bare hands, and my friend patted my arm and said, “Oh, you’re gonna do great in Nigeria.” I’ve never had many problems with bugs I can see, and it’s a skill that’s benefiting me well here. The first night as I was unpacking the plastic-wrapped pillow provided for my use, I saw tons of tiny, almost-transparent red ants inside the plastic and crawling around the pillow. Not joking, I got that creepy-crawly feeling and threw the pillow across the room. The second pillow did not have ants but got zippered into a hypoallergenic case anyways. Then I discovered them on my mattress, on the walls, on the floor, and in my furniture. And not just ants: black bedbugs and tiniest little flea-like bugs you’ve ever seen. (I’ll admit that I don’t actually know what any of these bugs are, I just imagine what their American equivalent might be.) Oh, and let’s not forget my favorite: what I call the Cinnamon bugs. These hard-shelled beetles give off the distinct smell of cinnamon when touched or crushed. We have these only in our living room, thank God, because I don’t think I could get used to them crawling on me when I sleep.
So I’ve made friends with all the bugs that live in my room and just brush off my sheets before I get under the covers at night. I heard once that you eat about 8 spiders in your sleep in the course of a lifetime; I’ll probably have eaten twice as many bugs by the time this school year is over!
Here’s the principle by which I now live: Life in Nigeria is one eternal picnic. If you put down a pair of jeans (on the floor, bed, or folded in a drawer, it doesn’t matter) there WILL be bugs on it when you pick it back up. If you leave food on the counter, or scraps on a plate, there WILL be fruit flies or ants on it in about 30 seconds. The solution is simple: shake out all clothes before putting them on and seal all food scraps in plastic before throwing them in the garbage bin. Easy-peasy-lemon-squeezy.
Addendum: Cockroaches, geckos, and lizards have now joined the fray. Cockroaches were promptly attended to with insecticide. Lizards and geckos have been left alone, since they eat the other bugs. Our gecko I’ve named Geico, obviously. The female lizard that lives in my room I’ve named Lizzie for two reasons: firstly, it is the name of the lizard in the Magic School Bus books I read as a little girl and secondly, it is the nickname of Elizabeth Bennett of Pride & Prejudice. Now that I’ve named them, I can seem them as pets and not be bothered by them. It’s all a psychological coping mechanism, really.

Item Four: Fruit
And now, the part of the update where I get to revel in the glories of Nigeria. I love fruit. There aren’t many fruits I won’t eat, honestly. Apples with peanut butter was my favorite after-dinner snack in the States, but I’ve discovered that apples here come from South Africa, so they’re very expensive to import.
Enter the Custard Apple. You haven’t tasted fruit until you’ve tasted the Custard Apple. I don’t know what it’s called in the States, although I’m sure I’ve never had it before, and I don’t know the “real” name, but I know that eating one is the closest I’ve been to bliss here in Abuja. It’s like a prickly pear on the outside, all bumpy and green, but when you peel it open and eat the white flesh, it has a thick, custard-like juice that tastes faintly of apple, with big black seeds encased in the flesh. I bought 2 more at the market yesterday and almost made myself sick from eating an unripe one last night.
My new favorite snack is a fruit salad with watermelon (which is pretty much the same as home, only smaller), papaya (which my roommate Jan calls pawpaw—she grew up in Guyana), and pineapple (not as sweet as the ones at home). The fruit is glorious, let me tell you. Jan just rolls her eyes and laughs when I eat custard apples, but honestly, it’s the highlight of my day.
Addendum: We recently bought white guava and coconut. And we’re anticipating the Mango Season.

To reiterate, I love, Love, LOVE my new life. It’s taking some adjustment, certainly, but I love the landscape, the vitality, the rawness of life here. My life is simpler and I love that, too. I’ve given up trying to keep my feet clean, my hair straight, and my face not-shiny. In doing so, I’ve given up feeling self-conscious, and I feel more beautiful now than ever.

Blessed Assurance, Jesus is mine.