I just wrote about integrating the Nigerian greeting custom back into my life in America.
You can read the full post at my other blog here.
1 year ago
Showing posts with label culture. Show all posts
Showing posts with label culture. Show all posts
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
el cinco de mayo, skype, and coomy automobiles
Due to the public holiday on Monday, I totally spaced out that today was a Wednesday, in which we have clubs after school. I run Spanish Club, which started out really cool, but has gradually gotten lame. (Which is completely 100% my fault, I realize that.)
Right. So I totally spaced that today was club day and forgot to plan a "lesson."
Then I remembered: Today is CINCO DE MAYO.
Excellent. Thank you, Internet, for your vast teaching resources related to Cinco de Mayo. Thank you for your word finds and your word games. Thank you for saving my butt. And thank you, Wikipedia, for reminding me that Cinco de Mayo is not actually Mexican Independence Day (or even celebrated throughout Mexico [hello, Americanized holiday!]).
Two word finds and a game of Guacamole later, I survived Wednesday.
After clubs, I joined my flatmate Jan in her classroom as we waited for the kids' parents to come collect them from class. I called my mom and promised her a million dollars if she would sign on to Skype (I may or not be paying that). She's a great sport--I just wanted her to "meet" the kids of Jan's class (who are my favorite kids EVER).
Thus ensued the most epic Skype session ever attempted from Nigeria. Mom met Muka and Anisa, the girls who are enthralled with my long hair. She met David and Ibrahim, who stopped their wrestling match long enough to say hello. She met Mercy and Naomi, my two closest Nigerian friends. I wanted her to see me, to see us, as we move, as we talk, as we interact, as we are.
It goes deeper than that, of course. I want you all to see me as I am in Nigeria, as I live and breathe this culture, as I become someone I've always wanted to be. Not that Skype can communicate that, of course, but the pictures just will not do it justice. I know that.
On the ride home this afternoon, I saw the familiar sign for Coomy Automobiles. I don't know why but this name has always cracked me up. I think of cars in cocoons. Yeah, I know...weird. Anyways, I saw that sign and got a twinge of sadness.
You will never know what Coomy Automobiles looks like. You'll never see the luxury cars that Mercy and I promised to buy each other for our birthdays. You'll never know what that intersection sounds like or looks like at 3pm on a weekday (actually, I'll tell you: it's absolute CHAOS).
It's such a tiny minuscule part of this whole experience, but it's so sad to me that the people who matter most to me won't be able to share it with me.
Hopefully you can put up with me telling you stupid stories about places like Coomy Automobiles as I try to help you share in the greatest experience of my life. Yes, the greatest. It passed up Parent Trap a long time ago. :)
Right. So I totally spaced that today was club day and forgot to plan a "lesson."
Then I remembered: Today is CINCO DE MAYO.
Excellent. Thank you, Internet, for your vast teaching resources related to Cinco de Mayo. Thank you for your word finds and your word games. Thank you for saving my butt. And thank you, Wikipedia, for reminding me that Cinco de Mayo is not actually Mexican Independence Day (or even celebrated throughout Mexico [hello, Americanized holiday!]).
Two word finds and a game of Guacamole later, I survived Wednesday.
After clubs, I joined my flatmate Jan in her classroom as we waited for the kids' parents to come collect them from class. I called my mom and promised her a million dollars if she would sign on to Skype (I may or not be paying that). She's a great sport--I just wanted her to "meet" the kids of Jan's class (who are my favorite kids EVER).
Thus ensued the most epic Skype session ever attempted from Nigeria. Mom met Muka and Anisa, the girls who are enthralled with my long hair. She met David and Ibrahim, who stopped their wrestling match long enough to say hello. She met Mercy and Naomi, my two closest Nigerian friends. I wanted her to see me, to see us, as we move, as we talk, as we interact, as we are.
It goes deeper than that, of course. I want you all to see me as I am in Nigeria, as I live and breathe this culture, as I become someone I've always wanted to be. Not that Skype can communicate that, of course, but the pictures just will not do it justice. I know that.
On the ride home this afternoon, I saw the familiar sign for Coomy Automobiles. I don't know why but this name has always cracked me up. I think of cars in cocoons. Yeah, I know...weird. Anyways, I saw that sign and got a twinge of sadness.
You will never know what Coomy Automobiles looks like. You'll never see the luxury cars that Mercy and I promised to buy each other for our birthdays. You'll never know what that intersection sounds like or looks like at 3pm on a weekday (actually, I'll tell you: it's absolute CHAOS).
It's such a tiny minuscule part of this whole experience, but it's so sad to me that the people who matter most to me won't be able to share it with me.
Hopefully you can put up with me telling you stupid stories about places like Coomy Automobiles as I try to help you share in the greatest experience of my life. Yes, the greatest. It passed up Parent Trap a long time ago. :)
Friday, April 30, 2010
Hopes and Fears of Coming Home
I've been thinking a lot about what I will take away from Nigeria--figuratively and literally--and what I am prepared to leave behind. It's sobering, but I'm sharing it here so that you, my friends, family, and cheerleaders (HI MOM) can anticipate the changes in me when I step off the plane on June 18th.
I'm going to need closure. Lots of it. This place has endeared me to her people, her traditions, her fashion. Yes, there will be things I won't miss, but they will be grossly outweighed by the things I will carry with me forever.
Some of the things I hope to leave behind include my assumptions about Nigerians, my fear of international travel, my ignorance of the teaching profession, and my innate American-centrism.
I plan to bring back an appreciation for the generosity I have been shown here and a desire to pay itback forward, the self esteem that comes from cutting it in a third-world country, a closet full of Nigerian clothes, and at least 2 bags of pounded yam flour.
By the time I return, I hope to have found the words to describe how blessed I feel to have shared in this life for the past 8 months. I hope to demonstrate my ability to tie a hair tie (no, for real). I hope to testify to the warmth of a people who have been unfairly represented by a greedy administration and foolish religious radicals.
I hope I leave behind my need to schedule everything, my impatience with the speed of life (and the desire to move at break-neck speed in the first place), & my taking clean water for granted.
I hope I will always be willing to drop everything for a friend in need and to express sympathy as genuinely and persistently as the Nigerians do.
I hope I come home a stronger woman with direction and purpose, with compassion and generosity, without rose-colored glasses about life outside the U.S., but with hope and optimism for life in general.
Ultimately, I hope I come back to Nigeria someday.
All these hopes come hand in hand with fears, naturally. I fear that I will forget what it feels like to be loved unconditionally by a classroom of 2nd-graders. I fear that my pictures and blog posts have been wholly ineffectual in communicating the beauty of this place and its people. I fear the strange glances when I use the exclamation, "Kai" in public. (Because, I promise you, that is permanently cemented in my vocabulary. No two ways about it.)
Full Disclosure: I fear that my family and friends will not understand the heart and passion and longing I feel towards Nigeria. I fear that I will be tempted to write off this year as a "gap year" between college and the rest of my life. This is my life. It will never not be part of my life. I'm honestly not trying to be melodramatic here, but there's no going back. I can't undo the impact this year has had on me (though I suspect time will lessen it).
I positively THREW myself into this life and this culture and the fact that when I raise my voice in my classroom, it comes out in a perfect native Nigerian accent is not because I'm an actress and faking it but because that is the genuine Miss Maggie Angry Voice. I perfected it here and so that's what it sounds like.
Frankly, I checked my Americanness at the door and have tried to learn this culture by living it. Maybe that's going to make me one mixed-up mess of a returning expatriate, but I wouldn't trade it. I don't want to change it. I'm just afraid that a) people back home won't understand that/have little patience for it and b) I will eventually forget it, too.
I'm pretty sure that the first time someone says to me, "Yeah, but you were only there a year," I'm going to burst into tears (I'm steeling myself for this comment to occur frequently). Because in the grand scheme of my young life, a year is a big deal. Especially one that has changed a lot about me and helped me see who I really am and who I want to be.
So please, I beg you, have patience with me. Cut me a little slack when I cry watching the news, or complain about the availability of papaya, or give into the desire to wear Nigerian clothes for no reason except that a part of me will always feel at home here and I want to preserve that part for as long as I can.
I'm going to need closure. Lots of it. This place has endeared me to her people, her traditions, her fashion. Yes, there will be things I won't miss, but they will be grossly outweighed by the things I will carry with me forever.
Some of the things I hope to leave behind include my assumptions about Nigerians, my fear of international travel, my ignorance of the teaching profession, and my innate American-centrism.
I plan to bring back an appreciation for the generosity I have been shown here and a desire to pay it
By the time I return, I hope to have found the words to describe how blessed I feel to have shared in this life for the past 8 months. I hope to demonstrate my ability to tie a hair tie (no, for real). I hope to testify to the warmth of a people who have been unfairly represented by a greedy administration and foolish religious radicals.
I hope I leave behind my need to schedule everything, my impatience with the speed of life (and the desire to move at break-neck speed in the first place), & my taking clean water for granted.
I hope I will always be willing to drop everything for a friend in need and to express sympathy as genuinely and persistently as the Nigerians do.
I hope I come home a stronger woman with direction and purpose, with compassion and generosity, without rose-colored glasses about life outside the U.S., but with hope and optimism for life in general.
Ultimately, I hope I come back to Nigeria someday.
All these hopes come hand in hand with fears, naturally. I fear that I will forget what it feels like to be loved unconditionally by a classroom of 2nd-graders. I fear that my pictures and blog posts have been wholly ineffectual in communicating the beauty of this place and its people. I fear the strange glances when I use the exclamation, "Kai" in public. (Because, I promise you, that is permanently cemented in my vocabulary. No two ways about it.)
Full Disclosure: I fear that my family and friends will not understand the heart and passion and longing I feel towards Nigeria. I fear that I will be tempted to write off this year as a "gap year" between college and the rest of my life. This is my life. It will never not be part of my life. I'm honestly not trying to be melodramatic here, but there's no going back. I can't undo the impact this year has had on me (though I suspect time will lessen it).
I positively THREW myself into this life and this culture and the fact that when I raise my voice in my classroom, it comes out in a perfect native Nigerian accent is not because I'm an actress and faking it but because that is the genuine Miss Maggie Angry Voice. I perfected it here and so that's what it sounds like.
Frankly, I checked my Americanness at the door and have tried to learn this culture by living it. Maybe that's going to make me one mixed-up mess of a returning expatriate, but I wouldn't trade it. I don't want to change it. I'm just afraid that a) people back home won't understand that/have little patience for it and b) I will eventually forget it, too.
I'm pretty sure that the first time someone says to me, "Yeah, but you were only there a year," I'm going to burst into tears (I'm steeling myself for this comment to occur frequently). Because in the grand scheme of my young life, a year is a big deal. Especially one that has changed a lot about me and helped me see who I really am and who I want to be.
So please, I beg you, have patience with me. Cut me a little slack when I cry watching the news, or complain about the availability of papaya, or give into the desire to wear Nigerian clothes for no reason except that a part of me will always feel at home here and I want to preserve that part for as long as I can.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Whatcha Say?
Far and away, my favorite part about moving to Nigeria has been learning a new culture. This aspect was what I most anticipated as I counted down the hours to takeoff on August 21, 2009. The thrill of hands-on learning made my first 4 months here some of the best of my life.
Fellow expatriates and even some Nigerians have commented on how well I adapted, and how quickly. (But for the grace of God. Thanks, but that's all Him.) I believe God gave me the desire to learn new cultures long before Nigeria was even an option, resulting in my relatively smooth transition.
One of the most obvious ways culture has influenced my daily life is in my vocabulary. Over the Christmas holiday, I laughed with family and friends at my own imitation of a Nigerian accent, and caught myself on more than one occasion responding with Nigerian phrases. The local dialect is known as Nigerian Pidgin English, a slang language.
Top 10 Favorite Pidgin Words and Phrases:
1. Ah-ah: Think of the noise a mother makes when her baby has picked a piece of whatisthat off the floor is about to put it in his mouth. We use it here as a general exclamation. I use it when students disrupt my class, when a salesman charges me too much in the market, or when someone tells me something unfortunate or unbelievable.
2. Haba: This is a similar exclamation, but expresses negative feelings. Something akin to "oh, come on" or "yeah, right."
3. Abeg: Literally means "please" but I usually use it in the sarcastic sense, i.e. "Grade 8, sit in your seats and be quiet, abeg!" Hear how it sounds like "I beg"?
4. Wetin dey happon (pronounced "waitin' day hah-pone"): "What happened?" I said this once to a child crying on the playground. He stopped crying, looked up at me incredulously and asked, "What did you just say?!"
5. Ba: "No." Used similarly to abi. "The fruit is ripe, ba?"
6. Anyhow: Description of disordered behavior. "The taxis drive any-anyhow on the roads."
7. Somehow: Can mean "kind of/sort of" or "weird," depending on context. Actual examples from the classroom: "Do you like that singer?" "Somehow." And also: "Her face was somehow."
8. Bush man/Bush woman: Hehe. My favorite term for name calling. It literally refers to an unsophisticated person, or someone who does unsophisticated things.
9. I'm coming (pronounced "combing"): "I'll be there...either right now, tomorrow, or in 10 years." Also means "I'll be right back." You can say I'm coming regardless of whether you're coming or going; it doesn't matter.
10. Kai: My favorite exclamation, like "Oh my gosh!" I use this one alllllll the time.
We have boots and queues (trunks and lines), biros and biscuits (ballpoint pens and crackers), and occasionally, we have light (electricity). When the electricity is turned off, we say "NEPA took the light."
There are plenty others I can't recall just now, but speaking the language lets others know I'm not as out of place as I may seem.
more on culture later...
Fellow expatriates and even some Nigerians have commented on how well I adapted, and how quickly. (But for the grace of God. Thanks, but that's all Him.) I believe God gave me the desire to learn new cultures long before Nigeria was even an option, resulting in my relatively smooth transition.
One of the most obvious ways culture has influenced my daily life is in my vocabulary. Over the Christmas holiday, I laughed with family and friends at my own imitation of a Nigerian accent, and caught myself on more than one occasion responding with Nigerian phrases. The local dialect is known as Nigerian Pidgin English, a slang language.
Top 10 Favorite Pidgin Words and Phrases:
1. Ah-ah: Think of the noise a mother makes when her baby has picked a piece of whatisthat off the floor is about to put it in his mouth. We use it here as a general exclamation. I use it when students disrupt my class, when a salesman charges me too much in the market, or when someone tells me something unfortunate or unbelievable.
2. Haba: This is a similar exclamation, but expresses negative feelings. Something akin to "oh, come on" or "yeah, right."
3. Abeg: Literally means "please" but I usually use it in the sarcastic sense, i.e. "Grade 8, sit in your seats and be quiet, abeg!" Hear how it sounds like "I beg"?
4. Wetin dey happon (pronounced "waitin' day hah-pone"): "What happened?" I said this once to a child crying on the playground. He stopped crying, looked up at me incredulously and asked, "What did you just say?!"
5. Ba: "No." Used similarly to abi. "The fruit is ripe, ba?"
6. Anyhow: Description of disordered behavior. "The taxis drive any-anyhow on the roads."
7. Somehow: Can mean "kind of/sort of" or "weird," depending on context. Actual examples from the classroom: "Do you like that singer?" "Somehow." And also: "Her face was somehow."
8. Bush man/Bush woman: Hehe. My favorite term for name calling. It literally refers to an unsophisticated person, or someone who does unsophisticated things.
9. I'm coming (pronounced "combing"): "I'll be there...either right now, tomorrow, or in 10 years." Also means "I'll be right back." You can say I'm coming regardless of whether you're coming or going; it doesn't matter.
10. Kai: My favorite exclamation, like "Oh my gosh!" I use this one alllllll the time.
We have boots and queues (trunks and lines), biros and biscuits (ballpoint pens and crackers), and occasionally, we have light (electricity). When the electricity is turned off, we say "NEPA took the light."
There are plenty others I can't recall just now, but speaking the language lets others know I'm not as out of place as I may seem.
more on culture later...
Friday, February 19, 2010
Now Taking Requests and Making Decisions
It never occurred to me that at some point in this Nigerian Adventure, I would run out of things to say. My last few posts have only loosely connected with my experience in this amazing (and amazingly humid) nation, but nonetheless, I am currently at a loss.
This is good, on one hand, because it means that my life has normalized--so completely gelled that few day-to-day things stand out in that "Oh, the folks at home might like to hear about this!" kind of way.
This is bad, on the other hand, because it means MaggieinNigeria just became BoringMaggieInNigeria. To delay this terrible transformation, please let me know--via blog comment or direct email--if there is an aspect of culture or my life here that I have failed to mention. That's right: this blog now open to suggestions.
The only thing new these days is that I am under an inconceivable amount of stress to sort out my plans for next year. It is impossible to contemplate either outcome (at this point, everything boils down to stay/go) and I can feel myself grasping at life, trying to make it slow down.
A million moments in my day make me stop and consider the life I lead now: how much I love it, how much I will miss it, but also how torn apart I feel being so far from home. When these moments come, I give myself permission to actually feel my feelings (what a novel concept) about staying and leaving.
For example, when Ezugo buries his face in my shoulder when he sees me in the Library, I allow myself to feel love for this precious little boy and appreciation that he & his little tae kwon do uniform are a part of my life. I also allow myself to feel the sense of loss that will be mine when I no longer see Ez each morning.
The same goes for memories of home. I was in an upscale grocery store today and spied a box of SmartStart cereal, which is my Dad's breakfast of choice. I had this flash of Mom instructing me which type to buy - the one with the blueberries on the front, even though the actual cereal doesn't have blueberries in it - before heading out to buy groceries at Cub Foods. That memory washed over me and was quickly followed by helplessness. I can't do that anymore. I'm too far away. I let myself feel the sadness of separation.
Though this coping mechanism can be painful, I would rather acknowledge that making this decision feels like pinching either way and that emotions are an intrinsic part of that process. Giving myself permission to count the emotional cost of either outcome is how I'm trying to make the most informed decision. Maybe that's too analytical for you, but the whole "God will tell you what to do" isn't literal enough for me. I'm trying to find equilibrium here.
In the meantime, sleep eludes me (as does my appetite) and my face looks like a zitty teenager's.
Oh, hey there stress. Good to see ya. Again.
This is good, on one hand, because it means that my life has normalized--so completely gelled that few day-to-day things stand out in that "Oh, the folks at home might like to hear about this!" kind of way.
This is bad, on the other hand, because it means MaggieinNigeria just became BoringMaggieInNigeria. To delay this terrible transformation, please let me know--via blog comment or direct email--if there is an aspect of culture or my life here that I have failed to mention. That's right: this blog now open to suggestions.
The only thing new these days is that I am under an inconceivable amount of stress to sort out my plans for next year. It is impossible to contemplate either outcome (at this point, everything boils down to stay/go) and I can feel myself grasping at life, trying to make it slow down.
A million moments in my day make me stop and consider the life I lead now: how much I love it, how much I will miss it, but also how torn apart I feel being so far from home. When these moments come, I give myself permission to actually feel my feelings (what a novel concept) about staying and leaving.
For example, when Ezugo buries his face in my shoulder when he sees me in the Library, I allow myself to feel love for this precious little boy and appreciation that he & his little tae kwon do uniform are a part of my life. I also allow myself to feel the sense of loss that will be mine when I no longer see Ez each morning.
The same goes for memories of home. I was in an upscale grocery store today and spied a box of SmartStart cereal, which is my Dad's breakfast of choice. I had this flash of Mom instructing me which type to buy - the one with the blueberries on the front, even though the actual cereal doesn't have blueberries in it - before heading out to buy groceries at Cub Foods. That memory washed over me and was quickly followed by helplessness. I can't do that anymore. I'm too far away. I let myself feel the sadness of separation.
Though this coping mechanism can be painful, I would rather acknowledge that making this decision feels like pinching either way and that emotions are an intrinsic part of that process. Giving myself permission to count the emotional cost of either outcome is how I'm trying to make the most informed decision. Maybe that's too analytical for you, but the whole "God will tell you what to do" isn't literal enough for me. I'm trying to find equilibrium here.
In the meantime, sleep eludes me (as does my appetite) and my face looks like a zitty teenager's.
Oh, hey there stress. Good to see ya. Again.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
What's in a Name?
Forgive the Shakespeare reference in the title, please. I AM a Literature teacher, after all.
There have been 5 babies born at ICS this fall, and I think we're expecting 4 more before the end of the January. It was a group effort, but seriously...I wonder what's in the water?!
Mrs. N, one of the teachers who leads Drama Club with me, had a baby girl last week. This is girl #3, and when I saw the big sister, E, I congratulated her and asked her sister's name. E frowned up at me, arms encircled around my waist, and said, "I don't know yet. Duh."
Okay, so actually, she didn't say "duh," but she might as well have by the tone of her voice.
Sensing a need for some culture-divining and quick, I stopped by the Science Lab to talk with Mr. D, Mr. J, and Mr. L. They were happy to inform me that in Nigerian culture, modeled after the biblical tradition, babies are not named until the 8th day. On the 8th day, a naming ceremony takes place and the child is given names by their parents, grandparents and other important family members. I suddenly understood why my students distinguish between their 1st, 2nd, 3rd, 4th, and sometimes 5th names.
Yesterday was the 8th day and I was so privileged to attend the naming ceremony. The parents and grandmother were decked out in lavish Nigerian dress, big head-ties and all. I felt like they were sharing a secret with me: a piece of culture so foreign to me yet so significant to them.
After an hour of praise & worship African-style, the family distributed small slips of paper with the baby's name printed on it. E (the big sister) was sitting on my lap when the slips reached us. She was so excited to finally read her sister's names. I got really excited, too!
Mrs. N's baby girl is named Ogochukwu Chioma Keren-Happuch Precious Emenike.
The names all mean different things, but the theme is God's goodness and preciousness. Obviously, 2 are Nigerian but Keren-Happuch is Hebrew (it's the name of Job's youngest daughter born after his trial).
After we heard the explanations of the names, E smiled up at me and told me she plans to call her baby sister Keren. I think she'll be outvoted - everyone kept referring to the baby as Chioma after the initial announcement.
Then the most marvelous thing happened. They prayed each name of the child as a blessing over her. It was like the West's baby dedication, but it was all tied up in the significance of the names. I've never seen anything like it and I can't really do it justice but it totally choked me up.
That same evening, a Nigerian friend of ours stopped by. He's been instrumental in furthering my understanding of culture, so I was telling him about the naming ceremony and he taught me how to properly pronounce the Igbo names (i.e. the w in Ogochukwu is silent). I asked him for Nigerian names of my own and he was happy to oblige:
Enemi and Agifa.
These names, pronounced ey-ney-MEE and ah-gee-FAH, each have special significance. Enemi is a true friend or companion. Agifa refers to that which is precious, like a pearl. (I had previously told him that my name is Greek for pearl.)
I'm not going to change my name while I'm home Christmas or anything, but these names are really special to me now. It really helps with the whole cultural-adaptation thing.
For those of you keeping track, we're at T-52 hours and 10 minutes until takeoff. Just sayin'.
There have been 5 babies born at ICS this fall, and I think we're expecting 4 more before the end of the January. It was a group effort, but seriously...I wonder what's in the water?!
Mrs. N, one of the teachers who leads Drama Club with me, had a baby girl last week. This is girl #3, and when I saw the big sister, E, I congratulated her and asked her sister's name. E frowned up at me, arms encircled around my waist, and said, "I don't know yet. Duh."
Okay, so actually, she didn't say "duh," but she might as well have by the tone of her voice.
Sensing a need for some culture-divining and quick, I stopped by the Science Lab to talk with Mr. D, Mr. J, and Mr. L. They were happy to inform me that in Nigerian culture, modeled after the biblical tradition, babies are not named until the 8th day. On the 8th day, a naming ceremony takes place and the child is given names by their parents, grandparents and other important family members. I suddenly understood why my students distinguish between their 1st, 2nd, 3rd, 4th, and sometimes 5th names.
Yesterday was the 8th day and I was so privileged to attend the naming ceremony. The parents and grandmother were decked out in lavish Nigerian dress, big head-ties and all. I felt like they were sharing a secret with me: a piece of culture so foreign to me yet so significant to them.
After an hour of praise & worship African-style, the family distributed small slips of paper with the baby's name printed on it. E (the big sister) was sitting on my lap when the slips reached us. She was so excited to finally read her sister's names. I got really excited, too!
Mrs. N's baby girl is named Ogochukwu Chioma Keren-Happuch Precious Emenike.
The names all mean different things, but the theme is God's goodness and preciousness. Obviously, 2 are Nigerian but Keren-Happuch is Hebrew (it's the name of Job's youngest daughter born after his trial).
After we heard the explanations of the names, E smiled up at me and told me she plans to call her baby sister Keren. I think she'll be outvoted - everyone kept referring to the baby as Chioma after the initial announcement.
Then the most marvelous thing happened. They prayed each name of the child as a blessing over her. It was like the West's baby dedication, but it was all tied up in the significance of the names. I've never seen anything like it and I can't really do it justice but it totally choked me up.
That same evening, a Nigerian friend of ours stopped by. He's been instrumental in furthering my understanding of culture, so I was telling him about the naming ceremony and he taught me how to properly pronounce the Igbo names (i.e. the w in Ogochukwu is silent). I asked him for Nigerian names of my own and he was happy to oblige:
Enemi and Agifa.
These names, pronounced ey-ney-MEE and ah-gee-FAH, each have special significance. Enemi is a true friend or companion. Agifa refers to that which is precious, like a pearl. (I had previously told him that my name is Greek for pearl.)
I'm not going to change my name while I'm home Christmas or anything, but these names are really special to me now. It really helps with the whole cultural-adaptation thing.
For those of you keeping track, we're at T-52 hours and 10 minutes until takeoff. Just sayin'.
Saturday, November 28, 2009
Thanksgiving in Nigeria
Thanks to a moon that appeared at just the right time, the Muslim community declared Thursday a public holiday here in Nigeria. Translation: I got to celebrate Thanksgiving ON Thanksgiving.
Jan (my technically Canadian-married-a-British-man-but-lived-in-Nigeria-for-30-years flatmate) and I decided to really go all out. Some friends at the American embassy arranged for us to buy an imported turkey ($58 USD for a 12lb bird)! We hunted for/splurged on apple pie filling, Betty Crocker pie crust mix, corn, real butter, dinner rolls, wine and sparkling grape juice. We invited Mrs. O and her daughter M, Rachel (from upstairs), Jan's son T and his fiance for a quiet dinner at 6pm.
But then my clash with Nigeria/Nigerian culture started. It was epic.
It started with the pie. I mean, let's get real: it was my first pie, and it was out of a box and a can. It shouldn't have bested me the way it did. But we kept the box in the freezer to keep it free of bugs and when I finally took it out, it solidified into a frozen brick. I had to microwave it to break it down, knowing full well the recipe calls for COLD water to create dough that is easy to roll out.
Betty Crocker: 1, Maggie: 0.
So then I had two portions of warm pie crust dough, flour used for making Indian flatbread, and a "rolling pin" (actually an old gin bottle filled with peanuts). My "floured surface" was our granite countertop sprinkled with grainy whole wheat flour and let me tell you, I REALLY struggled to get the darn thing rolled out. It kept sticking to the bottle (even though I floured it!) and much to my baking chagrin, I had to roll it back into a ball and try again, fearing the flour-y, gritty crust I knew would result.
Betty Crocker: 2, Maggie: 0.
Jan walked into the kitchen at this point and asked how me how I was getting on. I was covered in flour, caked in sticky dough, seething with rage at Betty Crocker, and generally feeling sorry for myself that I struggled with a stinking boxed mix. I looked at Jan and told her I was really pissed off. She quietly excused herself and went to visit our neighbors for a while. Smart choice.
Betty Crocker: 3, Maggie: 0.
I finally got both crusts mostly rolled out (after freezing them for a few minutes to get them to cooperate), even though neither circle was big enough for the pie tin and looked really pathetic. I covered some of the "bald spots" on the top of the pie with pieces of dough that fell off when I lifted it off the counter. I sprinkled the top with sugar and hoped for the best.
Betty Crocker: 3, Maggie: 1.
Next it was the turkey. It came packaged in plastic and included one of those handy red pop-up timers, but there was no indication of its weight at all whatsoever. I had to stand on our scale with a bird in my arms to get even an estimation of poundage (kilo-age?). That lack of information paired nicely with our oven's convenient lack of listed temperatures. The dial is printed only with a continuum: the word OVEN at one end and a tiny flame symbol at the other. I guessed.
My clash with Nigerian culture came to a head because of the guests. Jan's son and his fiance were driving in from Kaduna and had trouble getting transport arranged. So we pushed dinner back until 7pm. Then Mrs. O wanted her husband to come, so we borrowed an extra chair & place setting. Then T called again and said they wouldn't make it until 8 and would be really hurt if we started without them. So dinner was pushed back again til 8. Actually, Jan and I got in an argument about that last one. She thought it was funny. I thought it was rude.
Meanwhile, my turkey finished at 5:30...right on time for the 6pm meal I had planned. I called Mom all the way from Africa to ask how to keep a turkey warm for 2.5 hours until guests could arrive. Jan was standing in the kitchen when I was talking to Mom and I had to try really really hard to veil my extreme frustration.
The kicker is that they actually arrived at 7. Which means that I was still cooking the potatoes when they showed up. Awesome. Mr. O never came at all.
In America, when someone invites you to an event that is not an open house, you show up. On time. In Nigeria, people run on their own schedules, coming and going as they please. I know I'm in Nigeria, and I know I should be used to this by now, but I'm an American. This was American Thanksgiving. Show up when you're invited.
Dinner was strange. The food was good except the turkey had dried out in some places (go figure). Our conversation was really spastic and besides the prayer, we didn't once mention what we were thankful for. Also it was 10:30pm by the time we finished the meal. (In case you were wondering, the pie turned out all right - everyone liked it. Maggie: 10, Betty Crocker: 3. I win.)
I don't want to hear about how I'm a biblical Martha or how I failed at accepting the host culture. I just want to acknowledge that the food was the only thing to make this Thanksgiving feel like a Thanksgiving and that makes me really sad. Especially because I have so very much to be thankful for this year.
I think I've hit the wall. I just want to come home now, please. 14 more days.
Jan (my technically Canadian-married-a-British-man-but-lived-in-Nigeria-for-30-years flatmate) and I decided to really go all out. Some friends at the American embassy arranged for us to buy an imported turkey ($58 USD for a 12lb bird)! We hunted for/splurged on apple pie filling, Betty Crocker pie crust mix, corn, real butter, dinner rolls, wine and sparkling grape juice. We invited Mrs. O and her daughter M, Rachel (from upstairs), Jan's son T and his fiance for a quiet dinner at 6pm.
But then my clash with Nigeria/Nigerian culture started. It was epic.
It started with the pie. I mean, let's get real: it was my first pie, and it was out of a box and a can. It shouldn't have bested me the way it did. But we kept the box in the freezer to keep it free of bugs and when I finally took it out, it solidified into a frozen brick. I had to microwave it to break it down, knowing full well the recipe calls for COLD water to create dough that is easy to roll out.
Betty Crocker: 1, Maggie: 0.
So then I had two portions of warm pie crust dough, flour used for making Indian flatbread, and a "rolling pin" (actually an old gin bottle filled with peanuts). My "floured surface" was our granite countertop sprinkled with grainy whole wheat flour and let me tell you, I REALLY struggled to get the darn thing rolled out. It kept sticking to the bottle (even though I floured it!) and much to my baking chagrin, I had to roll it back into a ball and try again, fearing the flour-y, gritty crust I knew would result.
Betty Crocker: 2, Maggie: 0.
Jan walked into the kitchen at this point and asked how me how I was getting on. I was covered in flour, caked in sticky dough, seething with rage at Betty Crocker, and generally feeling sorry for myself that I struggled with a stinking boxed mix. I looked at Jan and told her I was really pissed off. She quietly excused herself and went to visit our neighbors for a while. Smart choice.
Betty Crocker: 3, Maggie: 0.
I finally got both crusts mostly rolled out (after freezing them for a few minutes to get them to cooperate), even though neither circle was big enough for the pie tin and looked really pathetic. I covered some of the "bald spots" on the top of the pie with pieces of dough that fell off when I lifted it off the counter. I sprinkled the top with sugar and hoped for the best.
Betty Crocker: 3, Maggie: 1.
Next it was the turkey. It came packaged in plastic and included one of those handy red pop-up timers, but there was no indication of its weight at all whatsoever. I had to stand on our scale with a bird in my arms to get even an estimation of poundage (kilo-age?). That lack of information paired nicely with our oven's convenient lack of listed temperatures. The dial is printed only with a continuum: the word OVEN at one end and a tiny flame symbol at the other. I guessed.
My clash with Nigerian culture came to a head because of the guests. Jan's son and his fiance were driving in from Kaduna and had trouble getting transport arranged. So we pushed dinner back until 7pm. Then Mrs. O wanted her husband to come, so we borrowed an extra chair & place setting. Then T called again and said they wouldn't make it until 8 and would be really hurt if we started without them. So dinner was pushed back again til 8. Actually, Jan and I got in an argument about that last one. She thought it was funny. I thought it was rude.
Meanwhile, my turkey finished at 5:30...right on time for the 6pm meal I had planned. I called Mom all the way from Africa to ask how to keep a turkey warm for 2.5 hours until guests could arrive. Jan was standing in the kitchen when I was talking to Mom and I had to try really really hard to veil my extreme frustration.
The kicker is that they actually arrived at 7. Which means that I was still cooking the potatoes when they showed up. Awesome. Mr. O never came at all.
In America, when someone invites you to an event that is not an open house, you show up. On time. In Nigeria, people run on their own schedules, coming and going as they please. I know I'm in Nigeria, and I know I should be used to this by now, but I'm an American. This was American Thanksgiving. Show up when you're invited.
Dinner was strange. The food was good except the turkey had dried out in some places (go figure). Our conversation was really spastic and besides the prayer, we didn't once mention what we were thankful for. Also it was 10:30pm by the time we finished the meal. (In case you were wondering, the pie turned out all right - everyone liked it. Maggie: 10, Betty Crocker: 3. I win.)
I don't want to hear about how I'm a biblical Martha or how I failed at accepting the host culture. I just want to acknowledge that the food was the only thing to make this Thanksgiving feel like a Thanksgiving and that makes me really sad. Especially because I have so very much to be thankful for this year.
I think I've hit the wall. I just want to come home now, please. 14 more days.
Monday, November 23, 2009
Shock and Awe minus the Awe
If last week's post on Nigerian attitudes towards sex was "adults-only," this one is even moreso. Parents, moderate your children's internet usage....starting now.
Obviously I wasn't in the States last night to enjoy the AMAs (American Music Awards), but I checked out pictures and news reports today...and I am pretty shocked, to say the least.
For those of you who missed it, Adam Lambert (American Idol Season 9 runnerup) gave ABC a run for it's edit-this-quick-before-it-goes-live-on-the-West-Coast money.
I didn't watch the video, but the pictures and news reports suggest that Lambert channeled some S&M in his black leather costume, simulated oral sex with a dancer wearing a harness, grabbed his own crotch several times, flipped off the audience, and, in a burst of what can only be interpreted as rating-mongering, forcefully kissed the male keyboardist in the middle of the song.
And it happened on prime time television.
His response? "It's all for a laugh...it's really not that big of a deal."
Um, I'll respectfully disagree. It is most certainly a big deal.
I am pretty disgusted with the on-screen behavior, and, news flash: it's not because he's gay. All homosexual overtones aside, what Adam Lambert does in the privacy of Adam Lambert's home is none of my business because I'm not Adam Lambert.
But, Adam, my dear, you just MADE it my business because you did it on prime time television for millions (hundreds of thousands?) of people to see, including children. It's the not-having-a-choice-in-the-matter that disturbs me.
My second point of contention with Mr. Lambert is his claim of a double standard in the industry:
"Female pop artists have been doing things provocative like that for years, and the fact that I'm a male, and I'll be edited and discriminated against could be a problem."
Um, I'll disagree again.
Which came first: Janet Jackson's wardrobe malfunction, or Britney Spears' and Madonna's kiss? (Oh how far we've come from the chicken and the egg...) Chronology doesn't matter; I was just as repulsed by these provocative actions from women in the industry. Again, it was the unedited, shock value, let's-boost-the-ratings attitude behind each event that unnerved me.
In a moment of confession, I really like Lambert as a musical entity. I find him a very captivating entertainer. I liked watching him on American Idol, and I was proud of his Broadway roots in the Wicked cast. I'm even fascinated by the guyliner and faux-hawk.
But really...thrusting into some guy's face? Nobody wants to see that at the AMAs. Stick to music, please.
I apologize that this update has absolutely nothing to do with Nigeria. Sometimes news from the States is more interesting than my life in West Africa.
Obviously I wasn't in the States last night to enjoy the AMAs (American Music Awards), but I checked out pictures and news reports today...and I am pretty shocked, to say the least.
For those of you who missed it, Adam Lambert (American Idol Season 9 runnerup) gave ABC a run for it's edit-this-quick-before-it-goes-live-on-the-West-Coast money.
I didn't watch the video, but the pictures and news reports suggest that Lambert channeled some S&M in his black leather costume, simulated oral sex with a dancer wearing a harness, grabbed his own crotch several times, flipped off the audience, and, in a burst of what can only be interpreted as rating-mongering, forcefully kissed the male keyboardist in the middle of the song.
And it happened on prime time television.
His response? "It's all for a laugh...it's really not that big of a deal."
Um, I'll respectfully disagree. It is most certainly a big deal.
I am pretty disgusted with the on-screen behavior, and, news flash: it's not because he's gay. All homosexual overtones aside, what Adam Lambert does in the privacy of Adam Lambert's home is none of my business because I'm not Adam Lambert.
But, Adam, my dear, you just MADE it my business because you did it on prime time television for millions (hundreds of thousands?) of people to see, including children. It's the not-having-a-choice-in-the-matter that disturbs me.
My second point of contention with Mr. Lambert is his claim of a double standard in the industry:
"Female pop artists have been doing things provocative like that for years, and the fact that I'm a male, and I'll be edited and discriminated against could be a problem."
Um, I'll disagree again.
Which came first: Janet Jackson's wardrobe malfunction, or Britney Spears' and Madonna's kiss? (Oh how far we've come from the chicken and the egg...) Chronology doesn't matter; I was just as repulsed by these provocative actions from women in the industry. Again, it was the unedited, shock value, let's-boost-the-ratings attitude behind each event that unnerved me.
In a moment of confession, I really like Lambert as a musical entity. I find him a very captivating entertainer. I liked watching him on American Idol, and I was proud of his Broadway roots in the Wicked cast. I'm even fascinated by the guyliner and faux-hawk.
But really...thrusting into some guy's face? Nobody wants to see that at the AMAs. Stick to music, please.
I apologize that this update has absolutely nothing to do with Nigeria. Sometimes news from the States is more interesting than my life in West Africa.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
My life be like...
Not every day is adventure-filled. Not every day is boring.
Here are some highlights from recent days.
1. Remembering that my monthly internet subscription runs out at midnight tonight. If I switch ISPs now, I just might be able to use Skype Video. Hmm...to switch or not to switch?
2. Science experiments in 8th grade. They've been reading a short story by Jack London, in which the main character dies of frostbite. Since most of my kids have never seen snow, they had a really difficult time imagining what bitter cold is. Converting Fahrenheit temperatures to Celsius wasn't enough for them; they still didn't understand how fingers can burn from being so cold.
Being a good Minnesotan, however, I decided to give them a taste of winter. I spent my weekend stockpiling ice in my freezer, and then transported it to the freezer in the science lab at school. When class time came around, I appeared with bowl full of ice and nearly-frozen water, and the kids couldn't wait to play my game.
"Stick your hands in," I told the first brave student, "Just take them out when they feel cold." After only a few seconds, he looked up at me with wide eyes. "I can't feel my hands!" When he finally pulled them out, I told him to tie up his shoelaces--he couldn't. One by one, they took turns freezing their fingers and trying to write their names or tie their shoes, or having competitions to see who could last longest in the subzero water.
Point made.
3. Discussing the Civil War with a Nigerian chemistry teacher. He asked me who fought in the war. "Americans," I replied.
"But they weren't originally from America," he countered. "Where did they come from?"
"Europe, mostly. The first ones came from England," I told him.
"Ah-ah, so the soldiers were British!" he concluded.
"No, they were all Americans, just from the North or the South."
"But who was more American, the British in the North or the British in the South?"
"No, Mr. Joseph, no British. All Americans. From America, both the North and the South."
"But I thought they came from England!"
I'm telling you, I was fighting a losing battle.
It's actually not the first time that's happened. Nigerians I've talked to don't seem to get the "melting pot" concept, like they have trouble differentiating between ethnicity and nationality.
Earlier this week, one of the ladies in Accounts saw my ring (a traditional Irish symbol I purchased in Ireland 4 years ago), recognized the origin, and exclaimed, "Oh! You're Irish!" When I responded in the affirmative (it was easier than answering "1/4 Scot-Irish, actually"), she said, "Okay, so which one of your parents is American?" She had trouble understanding how I was Irish in ancestry, but American in nationality.
Sometimes, a smile and a nod is easier than trying to explain.
4. Going to a Nigerian club. The boys upstairs took me to a local hangout for a drink last weekend. (She drinks alcohol? Yes, I do.) I had to explain to the bartender to how to make a rum and Coke (the finished product was definitely more Coke than rum) and nobody was carded. Not once. Toto, we are for sure not in Kansas anymore.
5. Meeting new people. Today at school, a parent I had never met before asked me if I was "the new one Mrs. O brought over from America." Why, yes, I am the nation's newest import. Good to know I already have a rep at this school. Just wait until the Christmas program comes around and I'm the Master (Mistress?) of Ceremonies. Putting the white girl on stage, indeed.
I love my life. It's crazy and full and sometimes a bit illogical, but I love living it. It makes me feel so alive.
Here are some highlights from recent days.
1. Remembering that my monthly internet subscription runs out at midnight tonight. If I switch ISPs now, I just might be able to use Skype Video. Hmm...to switch or not to switch?
2. Science experiments in 8th grade. They've been reading a short story by Jack London, in which the main character dies of frostbite. Since most of my kids have never seen snow, they had a really difficult time imagining what bitter cold is. Converting Fahrenheit temperatures to Celsius wasn't enough for them; they still didn't understand how fingers can burn from being so cold.
Being a good Minnesotan, however, I decided to give them a taste of winter. I spent my weekend stockpiling ice in my freezer, and then transported it to the freezer in the science lab at school. When class time came around, I appeared with bowl full of ice and nearly-frozen water, and the kids couldn't wait to play my game.
"Stick your hands in," I told the first brave student, "Just take them out when they feel cold." After only a few seconds, he looked up at me with wide eyes. "I can't feel my hands!" When he finally pulled them out, I told him to tie up his shoelaces--he couldn't. One by one, they took turns freezing their fingers and trying to write their names or tie their shoes, or having competitions to see who could last longest in the subzero water.
Point made.
3. Discussing the Civil War with a Nigerian chemistry teacher. He asked me who fought in the war. "Americans," I replied.
"But they weren't originally from America," he countered. "Where did they come from?"
"Europe, mostly. The first ones came from England," I told him.
"Ah-ah, so the soldiers were British!" he concluded.
"No, they were all Americans, just from the North or the South."
"But who was more American, the British in the North or the British in the South?"
"No, Mr. Joseph, no British. All Americans. From America, both the North and the South."
"But I thought they came from England!"
I'm telling you, I was fighting a losing battle.
It's actually not the first time that's happened. Nigerians I've talked to don't seem to get the "melting pot" concept, like they have trouble differentiating between ethnicity and nationality.
Earlier this week, one of the ladies in Accounts saw my ring (a traditional Irish symbol I purchased in Ireland 4 years ago), recognized the origin, and exclaimed, "Oh! You're Irish!" When I responded in the affirmative (it was easier than answering "1/4 Scot-Irish, actually"), she said, "Okay, so which one of your parents is American?" She had trouble understanding how I was Irish in ancestry, but American in nationality.
Sometimes, a smile and a nod is easier than trying to explain.
4. Going to a Nigerian club. The boys upstairs took me to a local hangout for a drink last weekend. (She drinks alcohol? Yes, I do.) I had to explain to the bartender to how to make a rum and Coke (the finished product was definitely more Coke than rum) and nobody was carded. Not once. Toto, we are for sure not in Kansas anymore.
5. Meeting new people. Today at school, a parent I had never met before asked me if I was "the new one Mrs. O brought over from America." Why, yes, I am the nation's newest import. Good to know I already have a rep at this school. Just wait until the Christmas program comes around and I'm the Master (Mistress?) of Ceremonies. Putting the white girl on stage, indeed.
I love my life. It's crazy and full and sometimes a bit illogical, but I love living it. It makes me feel so alive.
Friday, October 9, 2009
Fill-in-the-blank
In an effort to avoid talking about Obama and the Peace Prize (I thought the "A for effort" philosophy ended in 2nd grade? [Guess I can't avoid the topic entirely]), let's do a vocabulary exercise!
Fill in the blank with the appropriate word or phrase:
Nigeria is __________. Ready? Go!
One-word responses:
Heartbreaking. Vibrant. Breathtaking. Beautiful. Alive.
Broad. Sprawling. Claustrophobic.
Scorched. (And I'm not speaking geographically.)
Two-word responses:
Public Urination. ('nough said.)
Africa hot.
"Ah-ah" and "Sss, Sss." (Both colloquialisms, "ah-ah" encompasses a range of exclamations, from "No way" to "Be careful." The "sss" or hissing sound replaces the American attention-getter "Hey, you.")
3 words responses:
Phone calls home.
A great disparity.
"She's my aunty." (In reference to any older woman.)
New construction. Everywhere.
Phrasal responses:
Having people think I'm related to any other white person simply because I'm also white.
Sticky hot shadows on burning pavement.
Washing dishes and just hoping you don't get salmonella.
Suffering jokes about marrying a Nigerian.
Bad roads and worse traffic.
A row of buildings: bank, restaurant, bank, cardboard house with a corrugated tin roof and open fire, supermarket. (See "A great disparity.")
I could go on and on--and I probably will, when I learn new ways to complete that sentence.
Fill in the blank with the appropriate word or phrase:
Nigeria is __________. Ready? Go!
One-word responses:
Heartbreaking. Vibrant. Breathtaking. Beautiful. Alive.
Broad. Sprawling. Claustrophobic.
Scorched. (And I'm not speaking geographically.)
Two-word responses:
Public Urination. ('nough said.)
Africa hot.
"Ah-ah" and "Sss, Sss." (Both colloquialisms, "ah-ah" encompasses a range of exclamations, from "No way" to "Be careful." The "sss" or hissing sound replaces the American attention-getter "Hey, you.")
3 words responses:
Phone calls home.
A great disparity.
"She's my aunty." (In reference to any older woman.)
New construction. Everywhere.
Phrasal responses:
Having people think I'm related to any other white person simply because I'm also white.
Sticky hot shadows on burning pavement.
Washing dishes and just hoping you don't get salmonella.
Suffering jokes about marrying a Nigerian.
Bad roads and worse traffic.
A row of buildings: bank, restaurant, bank, cardboard house with a corrugated tin roof and open fire, supermarket. (See "A great disparity.")
I could go on and on--and I probably will, when I learn new ways to complete that sentence.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
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?
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?
Sunday, September 13, 2009
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.
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.
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