Nigeria Journal: July 6th - Calabar

This past weekend was an adventure to say the least. Just when I thought my trip to Nsukka University (last week) was going to be the pinnacle of Nigerian driving experiences—cavernous pot holes, high-speed hair-pin turns, and corrupt police check points—my trip to Calabar happened. What was supposed to have been a 4 hour journey, turned into an 8 hour marathon on the road to complete “oblivion”—commonly referred to as Abia State, Nigeria. Our trip started out well enough. Dr. Korieh was driving at a fine clip, passing small villages on our way to the neighboring state, where it was planned we would meet up with the major thoroughfare that would take us down to Calabar—a city whose geographic location and history has necessitated that it have only one access road in and one way out. Luckily for us, the only road into Calabar has to pass through the state (Abia), the kingdom of Nigeria’s most corrupt governor. Immediately upon entering Abia, one is bombarded with the most absurd political posters imaginable. All of them, of course, depict the said governor as a just and God-fearing man (Nigeria, I’m quickly learning, might be the most religious country I’ve ever been to). The only catch, is that he is not. He is a thief by all accounts. Yet, that doesn’t deter his propaganda machine from plastering his chubby, saggy face everywhere. Aside from the fact that he looks like a St. Bernard dog, with dangly joules and baggy eyes, he is a totally inept and ineffective ruler, sucking the state coffers dry. Nevertheless his posters would have you believe he is doing everything for everyone: he provides school buses for children; plays football with the national soccer team; builds roads (HA!), schools, stadiums, banks, business parks, and road gutters; puts women to work. One would think that this man is divinely appointed, after all, his main campaign slogan is, “To Touch the Divine.” (Whatever that means). And if that wasn’t enough, here are a few more slogans he seems to live by: “The Pride of Abia,” “The Lion Tamer,” “The Prophet of Justice.” Too bad his highly-divine, appointed highness was too busy commiserating with the Holy of Holies to have time to fix his state’s road system.

We approached a hill. Up in the distance we could see that a large line of trucks was parked along the shoulder. We knew it was bad. Hoping that maybe, just maybe, these men were taking a break; we rolled down our window to ask. And what we received in reply was our worst fears: “Road is very bad. No one can go through. We have to wait.” So we decided to do just that. After about 40 minutes, we decided as a group to take our chances and snaked our way down the road. It began to rain very hard. We were hemmed in on all sides by idling trucks on the right and mud slick that dropped off into a ravine on the left. Dr. Korieh was nervous. The width of the road, with the trucks parked along the opposing shoulder, was no wider than 10ft. Cars were coming at us. From time-to-time we were forced to turn off into the ditch to let another one pass. The mud was a slick concoction of clay and red sand.  The tires were sliding and it was nearly impossible to keep the van from fishtailing around. We drove for 2 miles. Trucks were parked bumper-to-bumper the entire way. It was quite a site. We pulled off the road to ask a few men how much further we would have to go. They told us to turn around, because up ahead it was completely washed out. They reassured us that there was a cut-off that would bring us around the problem area. The cut-off was another 5 miles back from where we came. We were furious, but didn’t seem to have a choice. There was a moment where all appeared normal. All we had to do was follow the road back up, turn off, and cut off about 5 miles of our trip by taking a “side” road. This would turn out to be the biggest mistake of the day…

The cut-off was paved for about two miles. Then, all of a sudden, it turned into dirt. When it rains here in Nigeria, the soil immediately turns into a sticky red sludge that sucks boots and shoes right off (quick sand more or less). From the moment we went from pavement to dirt, we were thrown into a hell storm of mud slicks and carter-sized holes. The undercarriage of the van was continually bottoming-out on hidden rocks. Axels were flexed in nearly unimaginable positions and the body of the van was creaking and cracking as it slowly contorted its way across the Nigerian countryside. At points we were literally driving through farm fields, along what looked like cow paths. Semi-trucks were ahead of us, as they got diverted to the “cut-off” as well. One hour turned into two hours. Two hours turned into three. And three hours went into four. We were lost in a labyrinth of palm forest, cassava rows, and small homesteads. At one juncture, up ahead, we saw that a van had flipped over on its side. The vehicle was blocking the way. Villagers came out to erect a make shift toll booth. They took a tree branch and laid it down in front of all oncoming cars and only agreed to move it with some payment. We argued with them for a few minutes and got very heated. Eventually they relented and let us pass. A short distance later, a truck had completely tipped over right in the middle of a steep hill. We thought better of it, and veered off to another path, went around a few more farmsteads, and then some how, by god, somehow, ended up on the main road to Calabar. After nearly 4 hours of driving in circles, we had gone exactly two miles away from the spot in the road where it was completely washed out.

The trip through the country side, although frustrating, gave me ample opportunity to view the rural stretches of the country. The further south we went, the hillier the terrain got. It was beautiful. Farming is still the main form of employment and export in this part of Africa and their stable crops are cassava, yams, and palm trees (for oil and wine). Yams are gargantuan tubers. They are easy to spot in the growing plots, because farmers must place stakes in their growing mounds, for the yam leaves to grow upward, much like hops. Consequently, all along the furrowed rows, one sees very tall sticks adorned in green leaves. There is also an abundance of corn, peanuts, pine apples, melons, and, surprisingly, pumpkins. Igbos (the predominate ethnic groups of the south) do not usually care for large live stock, but in some instances, horned cattle can be seen grazing in fields. Hausa boys are usually walking alongside them, ensuring the group stays together. One of the craziest things I have seen thus far has been the way in which Hausa men transport their cattle from the Northern regions of the country to the south. They place the cows in the bed of large semi-trucks. The animals are essentially free-standing in a square trailer, getting jostled around with each passing bump. Sometimes, one can even see that they stack cows on top of cows. On one particular truck, when the main trailer was full, the men just laid tree branches across the top and had the cows lay down. It was double-stacked cows. And if this site wasn’t insane enough, the young men in charge of the herd were perched right next to the cows on the top of the trailer, feet dangling inches over the edge, about 12 feet in the air. The truck was traveling at about 40 miles per hour. Oh, yes, I also saw a man carry four goats on a motorcycle!

Calabar is a beautiful city full of tradition and history. During the Atlantic slave trade, Calabar served as one of the main ports of departure for the Americas. In the city, there were slave markets, wharves, and trading houses. It has a dark and violent past. But traveling there today, one would be shocked at the serene calm and tranquility that encompasses the metropolis now. It is completely different in pace and energy than Owerri.

Calabar is the major city of Cross River state, and is located close to the Atlantic coast. Cross River State is named after the Cross River, which is a wide estuary that spills into the Atlantic Ocean. There are mangroves, jungles replete with Raffia Palms, orange trees, and colorful lilies. Cross River State is one of the few locations in southeastern Nigeria where one will see vast stretches of wilderness and forest. It is gorgeous. Women sell massive cat fish along the side of road, laying them out on wooden racks, while men make their famous distilled liquor known as Kai-Kai. All along the road, there are small wooden huts that billow smoke. Within each one of these huts, is an ancient looking distiller, made from old barrels, pipes, and the hull of a tree trunk. Kai-Kai, as I mentioned, is a drink that is distilled from Palm Wine. Palm wine, of course, is a wine derived from the sap of a palm tree. All over Cross River state, men ply this trade, by climbing these palm trees with a plastic jug attached to their back. They climb the tree through sheer strength, dexterity, and the aid of a tough, circular hand-made hoop that the wine-tappers lean out on to put opposing pressure on the trunk and their body. Once they get to a fair height, they bore into the trunk and catch the sap as it pours out of the palm. In a few hours, the sap has fermented enough that it is sold as an alcoholic beverage. It’s quite good, as I’ve tried it (more on that later). The fresh palm wine is brought to the distillery and dumped into a steel barrel that is being heated over a fire. Attached to the steel barrel is one pipe running through the length of a hollowed-out tree trunk. The man working the distiller, dumps cool river water over the pipe and down into the tree trunk to begin the condensation process. At the very end of the trunk, is a small wooden trough that directs the newly-distilled Kai-Kai into a plastic jug. It’s amazing to see it. Naturally, I had to try it. And to my great surprise, the liquor was sweet, smooth, and a little smoky from the fire. All in all, it was fantastic. I will surely be bringing some if it home.

Back to Calabar: it is estimated that Calabar shipped over 30% of all slaves to the Americas. And if that isn’t crazy enough, nearly 60% of all slaves taken to the Americas,  were taken directly from the southeastern region of Nigeria. Over 70% of all Haitians are of Igbo descent along with the Gulla-Gulla of South Carolina. The slave market is still there. You can visit it, but it has since been turned into a commercial market, where all kinds of goods are sold (except humans of course)! There are museums throughout the city. The downtown area of what they call “Old Calabar” is smashed in between the Cross River and the Atlantic Ocean. The streets are narrow and clogged, but once you get above the old settlement and enter into the surrounding suburbs and hills, the city spreads out nicely and is very, very green.

One could come to Calabar to experience the history, but we discovered a site even more enthralling: The Drill Monkey Conservation Camp. Drill monkeys are an endangered species of tropical primate that live in Nigeria and Cameroon. There are only about 3,000 of them left in the wild. In 1991, a young American couple was on a backpacking trip across west Africa. At some point, they made their way into Cross River state and learned about the plight of the Drill monkey. Enthralled by the beauty and touched by the story of the animal’s struggle, they founded a nonprofit organization with the purpose of captively breeding them and then releasing them into the wild. The program has been a success. From 5 first orphans, they have grown to 500. The organization has two major sites in Nigeria, with the educational center located in the middle of Calabar. We stopped by for a visit and I was blown away by what I encountered! Not only does the organization take in Drill monkeys, but they also confiscate all sorts of tropical animals sold on the black market. There were pygmy antelope, African Gray Parrots, a monitor lizard, and an assortment of small primates! Each one of the animals had a sad story to tell. Many of them were captured, poisoned or maimed to be sold into captivity. Believing that the conservation organization will purchase their “wares,” animal black market traders take them to the site. Immediately, the organization confiscates the animal and follows the trader’s connections. The passion with which the staff spoke of their mission was motivating and powerful!

Drill monkeys are interesting. Males are twice the size of females and within each extended family group, there is a dominate male. Females choose who is the dominate male, and supposedly, each dominate male reigns over his kingdom completely differently. Not surprisingly, the male that lets other“lesser” males mate with females is generally the most well-liked within the group. Sometimes, these more benevolent leaders can be the dominant male for up to a decade or more. Their communal and social behavior was very human-like. I guess the current dominant male of the group is very unpopular. He is fat, lazy, and refuses to let any other males in on some of the sexual play. For this reason, there are challengers waiting to take him down, and he’s only in his third year. In a strange twist, the animal keeper informed us that the only reason he is the dominant male is because his grandmother is the most senior female, so she chose him. Talk about family interest and political corruption! When male Drill monkeys are sexually mature, their hind quarters and thighs turn a very beautiful menagerie of pastel purple, pink, and blue. Their buts and legs look like cotton candy! The rest of their body was gray, with very dark faces. They’re aggressive, powerful animals and will viciously attack humans, especially if a person were to stare directly into their eyes. Watching them hop and careen from the tree-tops was breathtaking. Their power and speed was very evident. I would not want to meet one in an aggressive charge.

The saddest story from the site was that of their monitor lizard. He was captured by an illegal animal trader and repeatedly beaten on the head with a pencil or some hard object, rendering the poor animal mentally retarded. When the lizard arrived at the site, he was unable to walk or eat. Through rehabilitation and an intensive learning regiment, they’ve taught him how to walk and eat again—although they are unsure whether he will ever go back to the wild. Nevertheless, it was still a gorgeous reptile!

The food thus far has been really great. All of it is very fresh and none of it has been processed. Most people have been warning me to stay wary of what I put into my mouth and body, but I can’t help but feel that I’m on a cleansing diet while I’m here. I eat a lot of rice, grilled chicken, fresh fruits and spices. Nevertheless, I have had some bad experience with some food-borne discomfort (as was mentioned in a previous post). Even when I’m unsure about putting food in my mouth, I normally assume that the seasoning and spice will be strong enough to mask any “weirdness.” And almost 100% of the time, my theory has worked, none more so than on Saturday night in Calabar.

We had a hard time as a group deciding on where we wanted to go for dinner. There was a consensus (unbeknownst to me) that we would stake our chances at a small “bush meat” restaurant down the road. Not knowing anything, I said “sure.” We drove around a windy road into a river bottom and pulled up alongside about 15 shoddy, wooden structures. Within each building, were long tables and wooden benches. The women running the “restaurants” beckoned us to come in and take a seat. This was rather confusing, because I thought we were going to a proper sit-down affair. But that was not the case. As we entered into the dim environment, I took notice of the dirt floor, the lack of lights, and the “kitchen” ( a wood-burning stove and pot) in the back. There was no bathroom, except for the jungle just beyond the threshold. Palm wine was placed in a jug on the table. We all drank of it. Then the owner approached and asked, “Antelope or grass cutter?” A consensus decided on “Grass Cutter.” I was personally hoping for antelope, as I had NO IDEA what grass cutter was. I was imagining some kind of disgusting bug. We were served fresh plantains and then in a few minutes, placed in front of us, was very dark smoked meat. It was wrapped with twist-ties and highly seasoned. They served me two bundles and smiled. I slowly opened them up to find roasted meat. It had the consistency of chuck roast and was very stringy with minimal fat. I put a little more of the pepper seasoning on my plate and dug in. I had decided that I would eat what was put on my plate no matter what. And I did! Dr. Korieh was surprised that I began so quickly. The meat itself was actually quite good. It did not have a strong taste, so the spices and peppers were the dominant flavors, and along with the fresh plantains, the dish was really quite enjoyable. I just had to forget that I was: 1. eating some kind of African game animal, 2. eating in a restaurant that was very dirty, 3. was eating on plates that were (most likely) washed with parasite-infested water, and 4. did not heed the advice of my American partner who abstained. But, I feel it was her loss. I could tell that they respected me for giving their cultural traditions a try and appreciating some of their more interesting “culinary” habits. After I was done with the meal, I later learned that this exact meat was eaten by one of those TV show hosts that go around the world and eat EVERYTHING unusual and disgusting. I never thought of myself as an adventurous eater, but maybe I am! J As of this writing I am still alive. I have not contracted any kind of known parasite (yet) and I REALLY hope I don’t have Hepatitis A. Something, however, tells me I’m going to be alright. Oh, and by the way, Grass Cutter is essentially a ground hog. I saw one squished on the road the next day!