Scrap-wood table

I love our back yard. It's sunny. It's shady. It's the best. We have hosted a number of backyard parties, which have been great! But they always seemed to be missing something: a table. We folks, my wish came true this afternoon when I noticed that our neighbors across the ally had tosses a set of wooded picnic table legs. Just my luck! I scurried on over and brought them over. I had picked up a number of pallets which have been waiting patiently to be part of my next project, it was not time!

Materials:
- picnic table legs
- pallet
- screws
- my new cordless drill
- (2) burlap coffee bags
- sheet of plastic

Nigeria Journal: June 28th

The highlight of the trip thus far was visiting Dr. Korieh’s home villabe of Mbaise, which is about a 40 minute drive outside of Owerri. Mbaise stands for the “town of five villages.” Dr. Korieh’s village has about 300 residents. I relished the time outside of the city. The road to Mbaise was quintessentially African: palm trees, cassava plants, and plaintain trees grew thick along the pavement; red, sandy soil blew in wisps across our path, clinging to cars and clothing; women were balancing an array of  goods on their heads; children were playing soccer barefooted; and there were gargantuan pot holes where tropical rains had washed away large chunks of the road. We saw old colonial church cathedrals, houses, and  hospitals that were all built by the British—each one of them showing the wear and tear of 60 years in a tropical environment. The air was cleaner, the people were calmer, and the rains felt a lot cooler on the skin when one is out in the village. This region of west Africa, commonly referred to as Igbobland and “Biafra” is the most densely populated area in West Africa, with over 1,500 people per square km. And aside from the Nile Delta in Egypt, it might be the most densely populated state in all of Africa. Thus giving the entire eastern region of Nigeria an energy and chaos that is (supposedly) unmatched in all of Africa.

Immediately upon our arrival to Mbaise, we were quickly ushered to a funeral of a distant relative of Dr. Korieh’s. Funerals in Nigeria are very public events, where everyone comes out in rememberance of the dead, and as only Nigerians can do, make money. We made our way into the Obi (greeting house) of the widower, which was surrounded by a large court yard, in which, dancing troups and musicians were in full regalia. Many ethnic tribes of Nigeria were represented: the Yorbua, Tiv, Igbo, Hausa, and a few other smaller minorities. From the Obi, I made my way into the court yard and was immediately swarmed by flute players, singers, and dancers were where, unbeknownst to me, singing to me, telling me how great I was, and then immediately praying for money. This was quite overwhelming. It was loud, the flutes were of a high pitch, and the dancers were squeezing my space. After initially thinking that I had forgotten my wallet, I pulled it out of my book bag and paid the musicians and dancers some 2,000 Naira. They were all very pleased and posed for pictures.

After the chaos died down, I went into the middle of the yard to watch a traditional Tiv dance (the Tiv are an ethnic group from the “Middle Belt” of Nigeria, which straddles the line between the Islamic north and the Christian south). None of my Igbo collegues knew what was going on in the dance. Women were arrayed in circles, swaying their hips and crouching low to the ground, in a rather sultry expression of female power and sexuality. In the middle of the three inter-connected circles was one lone dancer dressed in black and white robes, who was carrying a bowl of fire on her head. She was tall and very dark. Her face was completely expressionless, and while her legs and hips were alive with swaying and speed, her upper torso was rigid and still. It was hauntingly beautiful.

Most of the people at the funeral were dressed in their finest traditional robes. You can tell the different tribes from each other (aside from language) by looking at the color and style of hats: the Yorbua wear a cloth, striped hat (usually black and white) that looks as thought it was wrapped from the forehead up into a cone shape. The Hausa wear Islamic caps and long robes, while the Igbo wear a small circular red caps that encompass the entire head. The color, energy, and music of the funeral celebration was enlivening. What a way to mark the passing of community member! Oh, and yes, I was offered numerous beer, wine, and champagne.

In Igbo culture, each village region is ruled by an Eze, or King, who presides over a cabinet of 12 village chiefs. Together, these men make most of the decisions for the village and also mediate conflicts. Dr. Korieh is a very high-status man in his home town, so he has been awarded a chieftaincy. Before we left, he informed both Tara and me that we would have a chance to meet with the Eze, and made it clear that this was an honor and should be treated as such. He taught us both an Igbo phrase to say upon meeting: Eze birikwe, which means “Long-Live the King.” The Eze was at the funeral, so we met him there. I gave him my greeting and he gave me a huge smiled and offered me a seat. He was dressed in a resplendent yellow robe, decorated with gold thread. His red Igbo cap was very large, and he was seated at the front of the room in a large wooden chair. He offered us a drink and then began to ask us about our journey. He immediately began to talk about the rainy season and the current problems with Boko Haram. He was a very gracious and gentle man. The funeral was coming to a close, so the Eze informed us that he had to leave, but before doing so, he apologized for his current inebriated state and then invited us over to his house for Kola nut and conversation. If only all leaders could be so great and up-front!

Kola nut in Igbo culture is a sacred symbol of friendship, unity, and peace. Whenever a visitor enters the house of an Igbo family, it is expected that Kola nut will be broken by the youngest member of the group. The nut can only be broken after a small ceremony, where prayers and greetings are offered. Igbo’s say that the Kola Nut can not “understand” English, so all of the ceremony has to be conducted in Igbo. The Kola is then split with the hands and cut into small pieces. The number of pieces is commesurate with the number of guests. Each guest is expected to take a piece and chew the nut throughout the visit. Kola naturally contains nicotine, so it does give one a small buzz. I however, one who has never smoked or chewed, simply got a headache. It is very bitter and goes down hard for those unaccustomed to eating hit. The Eze went through the ceremony with us. He gave Tara and me a small gift of Champagne, and then we exchanged gifts of wine. We had a nice conversation in the comfort of his home. After about an hour of visiting, he stood up and announced that he wanted to make us honorary members of the village. This is quite a big deal, as only initiated Igbo men and women are able to become full-fledged members of a village. The initiation ceremony is elaborate and takes place only twice (or once) a year. So for him to offer us the chance to write our names in the book of the town, it was seen as an extravagant gesture of friendship. Tara and I naturally took up his offer and proceeded to enter into the Chieftiency hall, where we saw the Eze’s throne and cabinet benches. He pulled out a large notebook and turned to the last page. There, on lines 174 and 175, Tara and I were to sign our names. Beside each name was a number marking the amount of money that was paid to the village in the past year as a tax—most were at 500 Niara (about 4 dollars). I signed my name and then asked the Eze if I would be able to put Jamie’s name on the village scroll as well. He said “of course.” We then took two formal pictures, after which, I immediately paid my village due, giving him 1000 Naira. He looked very happy and told me that he would inform the village that we have paid and are now official members. And  I decided at that moment to continue to send my yearly tax for the remainder of my time here on this earth.

New addition to our garden

This spring/summer has been pretty chilly and you can tell just by looking at our garden. I swear our pepper plants haven't grown an inch since I planted them outside. Sure our peas and carrots are taking off, but that's about it. So I decided it was time to finally use those windows I picked up about two months ago. You got it, it's greenhouse time! But I don't want to name my pepper plants, so I made an a-frame style warmth catcher that will also block the wind that rips through our yard, but will also have air flow. I guess we'll see how things turn out!

Nigeria Journal: June 27th

 Taught three classes today at the school. I had all of the students write a haiku and then a name poem. Within this lesson, they were practicing using adjectives as opposed to nouns. It was a difficult lesson, but one that was enjoyable for both the teachers and myself.

After school, I usually “go to town” with Dr. Korieh, which always turns into a 3 hour escapade of avoiding crazy drivers and ungodly traffic. I had quite a nice time relaxing at a road side café with Grayson, Tara, Dr. Korieh, Izdo, and our driver. We all order a few beers and just enjoyed the company of each other. Grayson insisted on playing games with Dr. Korieh and myself, and we both gladly engaged. I have been steadily drinking Star Beer while I have been here and it is OK. It is rather watery, but after a long day of teaching in this tropical humidity, nothing tastes better! Soon I want to taste Nigeria’s other brewery, HERO, which is Igbo based and supposedly is “internationally recognized for its taste and quality.”

This evening Dr. Korieh and I went into the Hausa section of Owerri on the prowl for some smoked “ram.” The Hausa are very distinct in Igboland. They all wear full-length robes and matching hats, which  mark them of being of the muslim religious faith. They also speak their own language known as Hausa, which is the lingua-franca of the northern regions of Nigeria. In contrast to the Igbo, the Hausa raised livestock and their diet primarily consists of food products derived from their herds. In Owerri, there is a small population of Hausa, who are known mostly for their meat market. I went there with Dr. Korieh. It was an absolute sight to behold. There were racks of ribs, thighs, and bloody steaks sitting on a type of brown wax paper. All of the meat was smoked over a pit fire that was directly underneath the table. I saw the coals and flame strewn about the ground. If one was not careful where they walked, they could trip directly into the  blaze. Each of the vendors had a small dish of very strong spices that they dipped the meat in. It was excellent. I have no idea what the spice was, and when I asked Dr. Kroieh, he told me that it is a blend of “Hausa spice.” That was not helpful. anyways, each of the vendors were yielding a huge knife and were cutting the meet, rather dexterously, into small pieces. There were chickens, beef, goat, and ram. Dr. Korieh and I purchased some of the ram—after loooong negotiations. It was fine meat, a little sinewy, but it had excellent flavor. We enjoyed it along a side of fried plantain (yum) and wine! 

Nigeria Journal: June 26th

My second full day of teaching started out hot and sticky. I was served a fantastic breakfast of plantains, watermelon, and pineapple—along with my obligatory cup of green tea. The pineapple was so sweet and juicy that I nearly ate half of the entire fruit. I realized that this might be a problem, when I began to feel extremely sick from it. The next hour had me fighting off the urge to faint and throw-up. After drinking my green tea, and knowing that it came from the water here at the school, I began to worry that I was infected by some kind of water-borne illness. Luckily, in a few hours, I felt completely fine and therefore chalked up my sudden disease to eating-too-much-pineapple-at-7-in-the-morning disorder. The children are all preparing for the upcoming graduation, which is in exactly four weeks. So for the first two hours of school, nearly up until lunch time, all of the children were outside playing or preparing for the ceremony. All of the older students—grades 2^nd-5^th—are charged with dancing and playing drums during the occasion. And they were practicing in front of the school this morning. All of them were lined up in three neat rows, dressed in their school uniform blue, moving side-to-side, swaying their hips, and shaking their right leg to the primal rhythm of the drums playing in the back ground. Of course they beckoned me to join, which I did. But not for too long. I’m not one to make a complete fool of myself trying to keep up. I never felt like “the white man” more than when they forced me to bend my knees away from each other in some kind of squat position, and then, as if that wasn’t enough, aske me to shake my butt. I thought it was a joke. But no. it’s not. The children do it all the time. Ugh. Naturally, all of the children got a good laugh out of me dancing, but I think the other teachers enjoyed it even more.

 Dr. Korieh informed me that in the past month, the 4^th grade teacher and English instructor left the school to start a new job working for the Nigerian federal government. So guess who is going to be teaching this class until the end of July?! You guessed it! Me! I’m pretty excited about it, as the students in 4^th grade are really endearing and very intelligent. I’m hoping that I’ll be able to challenge them throughout the month and be there for their graduation. My teaching style here is very different than what they are used to. Most of the time, many of the teacher simply make the children repeat the information that is being told to them. Almost as if they are ramming the information into their memories. The way I teach, however, is much more interactive and at times, maybe more chaotic? I use a lot of props in my class and I’m moving the students throughout the room. Today, I heard two of the teachers talking to each other, observing my method. At first they were incredulous that my idea would work. And then, when it did, they both said, “wow! That was good. Can you do this tomorrow?” I knew I had them won over. I think this is the exact thing that Dr. Korieh wants to have happen by inviting American teachers over. He wants to introduce more creative ways of education to Nigerian teachers, who, for the most part, are not as educated as their American counterparts. Not to say that they are bad at their jobs. In fact, many of them are excellent. It’s just American teachers are usually more in tune with pedagogical style and learning behaviors. 

One of the more unusual things about education here is that students are still regularly “flogged.” Many of the boys were asking me if we “flog” in America. After an initial burst of confusion at the question, I quickly answered, “no we do not flog in the United States.” They subsequently looked at me with sad eyes and said, “Well, I wish that was the case here.’ Sure enough, after this conversation, I saw two boys get really smacked in the arm from a teacher wielding a switch. It got them to pay attention, but it was completely shocking to me.

Each day is shaping up to run the same way: I get up  later than the kids. I play with them and stand with them as they sing their songs. I then eat my breakfast, go into my room, and plan for some lessons. I teach after lunch until 3:30 and then I head to town with Dr. Korieh, where we proceed to get stuck in the most godforsaken traffic you could every imagine. Just today I witnessed a crash. Both of the drivers got out, in the middle of the road, and began arguing with each other about who was to blame. This, of course, attracted an even greater crowd. I asked. Dr. Korieh what happens in the event of an accident. And he just smiled and said, “Nothing. You argue until you fight or one quits.” Wow, oh Nigeria…

This evening I had the pleasure of visiting Imo State University, the local university of the Southeast Igbo region. It is a school of about 40,000 thousand students and sits on the outskirts of downtown Owerri. The campus itself is very run down and shabby. There are huge mounds of trash strewn about the campus and all of the roads and sidewalks look as if two-ton bombs hit every few feet. The buildings are sagging under the weight of years of humid heat and water. All of the concrete is darkened by mold, and the inside of each building is full of lizards, dirt, and crumbling plaster. I have to admit that I was very shocked to see a university in such condition. Even though the school has a pretty good reputation, one would be excused for thinking it was closed and had become the den of homeless vagabonds and prostitutes. We were at Imo State to visit two of Dr. Korieh’s friends, fine arts professors and experts in Igbo folk art and history. We meander around the campus and asked about 50 students where the fine arts department was at. None of them knew. We were totally lost. Finally, we turned a corner and saw Dr. Francis Chukwu smiling at us and beckoning us to turn into the parking lot. We gave our greetings and then immediately went into his office and perused some Igbo art. What is most fascinating about the art made at Imo State University is that it is very traditional in style and technique. Students there learn how to make the holy sculptures of Igbos polytheistic past, and they excel at the art of door carving—a beautiful, time consuming tradition. I saw students working over archaic looms, producing fine cloths and weaves. There were sculptures, masks, and recycled-trash art (in the fame of Jamie!). It was really magnificent. To the Igbo people, god is called Chukwu, and beside him are groups of gods—the god of thunder, of success, of fertility, etc—and many holy animals, like the python, the spider, and the goat. It’s fascinating to learn about this early Igbo culture, because colonialism did such an excellent job of Christianizing the area. Nevertheless, in pockets, one can still see the old, communal mbaris, where Igbo villages would worship their ancestors and tell their own history through a series of sculptures arranged on a prominent mound. I was lucky enough to see two of them, which is rare nowadays, due to the fact that Christians have done an excellent job of burning many of them, claiming they are ‘false gods and idols.” Anyways, there is much more to write on this, and I’ll do so at a later time.

Igbo words learned: Isi – Head, Imi- nose, enyje – eye, ono-mouth

Nigeria Journal: June 25th

 My first full complete day in Nigeria has come to a close. I woke up this morning to the sound of children singing praise to god. They were all clapping in unison and singing to the soulful rhythms of an African beat, accenting syllables with a tonal meter that is distinct to Bantu Africans. It sounded so peaceful and sincere. I am struggling to sleep at night. I think much of it has to do with my continuing jet lag. Last night I went to bed around 8:00pm and was awake by 11:00pm. I couldn’t go back to sleep until maybe 5:00 am and then was awoken at 7:00am by the school kids. They are all decked out in the nicest blue uniforms: royal blue trousers, skirts, and neck ties, with a baby blue polo or button down. They wear black or brown leather shoes, with baby blue socks.

Today, I had the privilege of teaching 5^th grade English and public speaking. The facilities here at the school are lacking in many ways. There are a limited number of resources, so most of the children work out of their own notebooks or aged work books. Dr. Korieh has done an excellent job of stocking the library with magazines and books, however, most of the books are well above the reading level of the students—this makes a lot of sense, considering Dr. Korieh’s taste in reading materials is decidedly professorial. Most of these children, however, are in elementary school, so reading a tome on Post-WWII Nigeria is NOT exactly something they want or could do.

The school itself is built in the location of New Owerri, which is literally a new development on the outskirts of Owerri. Many of the houses around us are very large and new—built most likely by business men and retired academics. Many of the houses and buildings in Nigeria are gated off from the road, giving each building a “compound” closed-off feel to it. I don’t necessarily find it inviting, but when you get inside the structure, the walls and huge steel doors do a great job of calming the chaotic environment outside. The class rooms in the school are small, but painted a bright green. There is a dirt mark that runs the entire length of the building, giving the inside a drab, dilapidated feel to it. But this isn’t necessarily the case. The building is quite new and with a deep cleaning, it would sparkle. In preparation for my trip here, they repainted my room and I must admit that when the morning sun comes bursting through the windows, reflecting against these bright walls, I feel energized.  I have yet to experience some really disgusting creatures, although today I ran into two cockroaches the size of my thumb, and just before I sat down to write this, SOMETHING ( I know not what) scurried across the floor into the eating room. I thought about pursuing it, but then decided otherwise, for I had nothing in my hand (or on my body) to smack it with. I’m sure it would have needed killing. Mosquitoes have not been too bad. Hopefully this keeps up throughout my stay here, but I highly doubt it. Electricity is run on generators for most buildings, which means that we do experience power outages about once every 2-3 hours. This has not been too much of a problem for me, as I did bring my own headlamp and get around just fine.

My class today was fantastic. The children are attentive and ask excellent questions. They are very respectful and want to learn as much as possible. It has been fun watching the reaction of some of the younger kids. Most of them come right up to me and sit in my lap or want to hold my hand, but for a few, the sight of a “white guy” is terrifying. And when that’s the case, they just stand and cry. Now, I know I’m not the best looking guy around, but geez, I never though my physical features would make another human shed tears of horror and disgustJ. Wait until they see me sunburned. I taught the children about speech making and we played a round of pop-up public speaking, where each child is told to grab a topic from a bag, compose a short speech, and then present in front of the class. They had a lot of fun with it. I then asked them to take a book from the library and sit and read for 30 minutes, writing vocabulary terms while doing so. Initially this idea was met with great resistance. But after 30 minutes, when I asked them to stop, none of them wanted to. They found the process of reading to be very relaxing and enjoyable. I then took them outside to play a version of American football/rugby. They loved it. And I sweated about 1000 pounds of water out my already desiccated body.

The temperature here hovers around 85 – 90 degrees with about 80 – 100% humidity. When I leave a car with air conditioning, my glasses fog up. And upon waking from a night’s sleep, I feel as if my skin is covered in a layer of caramelized, sticky sugar. I have yet to bath and I’m pretty sure I won’t. I’ve been advised by my American colleague here to avoid washing my entire body in their water, for malaria and other creepy diseases can be spread that way. I’m not so sure about malaria being spread in water, but I know bacteria can! I’m sure that in about a week I will have gotten so tired of being the “smelly guy” around that I am going to bath anyway.

Igbo-Nigerians themselves are a study in contrast. They are extremely religious and are often quoting from the Bible. Yet, during the day, they can be condescending to each other and very aggressive. In one 5 second conversation, they can go from throwing punches, to smiling and calling each other “brother.” They love their country, and yet, in the same breath, admit that they don’t trust each other and wish that the nation was split into three countries: a Yoruba west, an Igbo east, and a Hausa/Fulani north. To visitors, they can be overly gracious, kind, and welcoming. And in the same breath, tell to you avoid “this, that, and the other place,” because white people will get robbed. I don’t know. I guess in some sense, it gives this country a razor-sharp energy. The balance between peace and violence seems ever so slight that in one instance it could explode. It’s felt in the streets, in market interactions, and when dealing with the police (who, by the way, nonchalantly carry AK-47s wherever they venture).

The city of Owerri has grown nearly 2-fold since the 1980s. This gives it a completely chaotic feel. The old town center—a scramble of narrow roads and wooden-plank markets---is filled with trucks, cars, and small 2-cycle rickshaws commonly known as “K-Ks/.” They buzz in and out of traffic, terrifying drivers, pedestrians, and polluting the air with unbearable noxious fumes that waft all around. It is impossible to escape coughing when riding in a vehicle with the windows down. There are hundreds of thousands of these little K-Ks. And they are all painted a bright yellow, giving them the persona of worker bees in a hive. While kind of romantic and extremely exotic, I can safety say that in two days of being here, I’ve grown to despise them. And apparently I’m not alone. In nearly every major Nigerian city they are banned. Consequently, many of them have moved to Owerri.

Driving in this country is seriously the craziest thing I have EVER experienced in my life. It is terrifying. Just today, we nearly hit about 7 pedestrians; took a mini-van over a 2 foot hole in the road, bottoming out and scraping the under carriage; actually hit a person (survived); ran into (or in the words of my brother “kissed”) a parked car; and almost drove directly into a 5 foot drainage ditch that was filled with trash and sewage. When exiting a car, one has to leap from the road to the “sidewalk” over that said ditch. It is big and daunting. In places there are wooden planks that serve as bridges that assist in traversing the festering water. Sometimes, however, there are no bridges. In that case, just pray to god you don’t fall in. If you do, man, I don’t even want to think about the consequences. Anyways, back to driving: THERE ARE NO TRAFFIC RULES OR DRIVING REGULATIONS IN THIS COUNTRY. ANYONE CAN DRIVE ANYTHING WHEREVER THEY PLEASE. Oh, I’ve seen a few stop signs; we passed them without a second though. Oh, I’ve seen a few stop lights; none of them worked. Oh, I’ve seen a roundabout; but no one follows it. In fact, many go the opposite direction around it. That means they are coming at you head-on and have made no plans to slow down or move. The only thing that is a “rule” per say is to honk. Honk all the time, and at anything, for any purpose. They honk to warn pedestrians that they are about to approach within centimeters of taking off their arms or rendering them paralyzed. They honk to signify to another driver that they are coming around a bed. They honk at intersections. They don’t stop at intersections. They honk at them. They honk in anger, in jubilation, and to make a left or right hand turn. They honk to pull over. They honk to stop for gas, to park, and to make the traffic jam (or “glow-slow” in local parlance) move quicker. You can imagine the cacophony of honking. It means nothing but everything all at once.

I say all of this to give you a quick picture of my first few days. I am enjoying my time thus far.  For all the stress and craziness, it is a really beautiful country full of life and exuberance. Just tonight, I sat back at a small café, drank a Star beer, and ate my meal of grilled chicken and spicy jolof rice. On the radio was Afro-beat and in the garden reclined in plastic chairs were soccer fans watching their national team, the Super Eagles, nearly beat Argentina in the world cup. When the Super Eagles scored, everyone cheered and laughed, at least for a few minutes. And then it was back to business as usual: Dr. Korieh and I exited into the night to tackle the Owerri roads in pitch black. It was terrifying, a razorblade of contrast.

Still in the USA. For now.

It's been nearly a week since I said my heartfelt good-byes to Jamie at the Milwaukee Airport. We embraced and then I ambled down the slopped walkway towards the security check point. A rush of emotions came over me as I made one last turn over my shoulder to blow Jamie a kiss. I had an immediate dose of sadness and longing. I felt as if I was unprepared at that exact moment to leave. It was a rather unexpected emotional state for me. Normally, when planning an international trip, the anticipation and excitement of seeing an exotic country and experiencing a new rhythm of life are so strong that I hardly second-guess the decision to leave. But this time it was very different. Maybe it comes with aging? I don't know. Surely, it was a consequence of knowing that I will be spending the next 6 weeks without my life partner and friend. Nevertheless, in that immediate moment,  I realized that I was no longer that twenty-year old idealist with a bag full of Wendell Berry and a head full of blonde curls. Back then, I didn't know what I was leaving behind. It was rare that I reflected on the friends I wouldn't see, on the family who would worry, and on the wife I wouldn't be able to embrace. In a sense, I've come to see both the beauty in both travelling and finding a healthy stable existence rooted in community. And the definition of my being is no longer defined as "Jeremy: the one who has seen and experienced the world." My definition now lies within my relationships to family and friends and in the way I treat others around me. How I struggle as a man and husband. And how I triumph, sometimes.  Yet travelling still gives me an appreciation for home. For a traveler, in the words of Yeats, is the only one who can see their home and know it anew for the first time. And that is an exciting proposition.

Spending time back in Pittsburgh was amazing. I took in a Pirates game with old friends, visited with my new niece AND nephew (held them, which was a rather nerve-racking experience), drank cheap beers in a bar along the Ohio River, and strained my legs to walk up the unbelievably steep hills--after living the past few years in the Mid-west, this was a rather frustrating task. I then took the train from Pittsburgh to Philly, went around horseshoe curve, and proceed to exit the Allegheny Mountains and enter "The East Coast." I spent time lounging around Jenkintown, PA, with my friend Josh and took a stroll around the square and admired the 18th century architecture of colonial Pennsylvania.

Upon arriving in New York, I was immediately accosted by a woman asking me for change. Seeing that I was clearly a tourist (with my wiffleball bats attached to a suitcase and a generally confused countenance, it was obvious), she proceed to "assist" me in finding the correct subway train to Queens. It didn't matter that I was already making my way down the CORRECT corridor, or that I had just spent the previous 5 minutes deciphering the subway transit map. She still insisted on grabbing me by the wrist, calling me "honey" and taking me back to the aforementioned map to point out that I was to proceed down the exact hallway from whence I had came and from whence she had intercepted me. Thinking that she had clearly kept me from walking blindly into the death maws of crazy New York, where I surely would have been robbed, beaten, and left for dead, she asked if I could spare her some money for her help. I told her no. Then I relented and gave her a dollar. Was it a mistake? I don't care. Already enthralled with New York, I then made my way to the subway, rode it, and then stepped off into Queens. I had no idea where I was. I stood for a few minutes in front of an old fruit stand. I asked for some advice about how to get to Leffert and Rockaway blvds. No one knew. I was informed that no one around me was 1) either from New York or 2) spoke English. So I took the problem into my own hands and did what all good tourists do: wander. I went around a pub, looked inside. Found nothing of interest. Proceeded down the block, turned around, and tried to wear a face of confidence. It was clear, however, to the taxi drivers on the curb, that I was clueless. The kept insisting that I needed a ride. I was stubborn and refused. FINALLY, I found the correct bus stop and ran to the back of the line. Thinking that this was like Prague and that I could pay my fair with the driver, I entered and asked "How much?" Perplexed, the driver sighed and asked me, "Do you have a metro ticket?" I informed him that I bought one for the subway. He then looked at me with sad eyes and said, "Well, I'll just take you anyways. Go to the back of the bus." And I was on! No money. I got a free ride! So New York took a dollar, then it gave me about $4 back. Not bad at all. I did make it to my destination with light to spare and went on a small stroll around the neighborhood. It's a very ethnically diverse neighborhood with numerous Sikhs, Hispanics, and Africans living in close proximity to each other. Just in a few hours, I've heard Russian, Ukrainian, CZECH (!), Spanish, Hindi, Arabic, and some African languages I could not recognize.I'm definitely not in Pittsburgh or Milwaukee anymore...

Tomorrow morning I fly away from my home country and head to Lagos, Nigeria, where I'll meet my professor and proceed to New Owerri. I'm nervous and very anxious. I have no idea what it will be like. I have decided to only take a  pack and a very small suitcase filled with sports equipment donations. Who knows if I'll have enough clothing to last me the five weeks. After my cross-country trip last summer, I'm pretty sure I could survive with 2 pairs of underwear and one pair pants. I'm not too concerned. I have had no ill affects to my malaria medication, which is great news! I'll keep everyone updated. Until then, I'll see you on the other side of an African sunset.

June garden update

It's mid June and after a long, cold winter/spring our garden is in full swing! Here's what we will expect to harvest later in the summer and into the fall:

Peas
Carrots
Green beans
Bell peppers
Tomatoes
Onions
Zucchini
Potatoes
Kale
Basil
Cilantro
Parsley
Dill
Chives
Lettuce

Potatoes in a bucket

So back in February I was rooting through our pantry for some potatoes only to find that there was only one very lonely forgotten stud that had decided it was time to make something of it's life. I have seen on many occasions potatoes sprouting in our pantry. Generally I cut the growth off and eat the rest. This time was different. I wanted to know how long it would grow for out of soil. So I let Jeremy know that the potato was my experiment and put it next to the sink.

Not much happened with my potato for about a month. Then out of the blue these itty-bitty leaves formed and things really took off.  There where two main clumps of growth, so it was at this point that I cut them a part and stuck them in soil. Small pots at first, and then finally into 5gal buckets when I loved them outside.

Today makes 4.5 months since I found my sprouting red potato, and I got to celebrate by harvesting a few new ones.

Nigeria Part 2

In less than five days I will fly to Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania to visit with my family and my new-born niece and nephew! It has been exactly one year since I've spent any time back in my home city and my trip is long overdue. I hope to reorient myself and relax before my excursion to Nigeria. To say that I feel "unprepared" for my upcoming experience is a major understatement. I have yet to pack, say my "good-byes", or reflect on anything. This entire year has been awash in anxiety, stress, and transition. For those of you who haven't been in strong contact with me, I'll run down the year for you in about 30-seconds flat:

1. Came home from cross-country bike trip and absolutely hit an emotional low.
2. Wallowed in my own self-induced stress and anxiety throughout the fall and winter.
3. Got rejected from about 5 job interviews.
4. Started working for Diaconia. Sat at home in our apartment staring at computer screen.
5. The Delphines (my major joy in Milwaukee) breaks up due to some interpersonal problems.
6. Have about 100,000 sinus infections.
7. Start tutoring at the YMCA (yay!).
8. Get an awesome job at the Wisconsin Bike Federation (yay!).
9. Struggle to manage  my time with 3 part-time jobs.
10. Get hardly any sleep.
11. Prepare to leave for Nigeria.
12. Busy, Busy, Busy.

The spring saw a great improvement in my personal and emotional fortunes; however, I still feel as if my concentration is constantly being pulled from one responsibility to the next. I am, to say it succinctly, over-extended. As I prepare for Nigeria, I am continually reminded of all the other "things" I have to accomplish prior to my leaving: spend quality time with Jamie, sure up my work with Diaconia, manage to ship three guitars and an entire drum set to Nigeria (donations I'm sending to the school I'm working for), and see off my friends.

It's been rather overwhelming.

Anyways, sorry for that, I wanted to post a quick message about what exactly I'm going to be doing in Nigeria. I will not be doing missionary work or going on vacation. Even though my trip will indeed have ample time for sight-seeing and wandering through local markets, I will be teaching at a private elementary school called Pater Noster Academy. In spring of last year, my African history professor Dr. Chima Korieh invited me to come teach at his school. I took the invitation as an honor and quickly said yes. I didn't second-guess my decision at all. Yet, now that it is approaching, I realize that the burden I will be putting on Jamie is heavy. She will have to pay the bills and watch over our apartment (and cat) while I'm gone. I don't take her responsibility lightly and I thank her very much for giving me her blessing. While at the school, I'll be teaching children in 1st through 6th grades a myriad of subjects. I have planned about 15 lessons, spanning over 5 topics. There will be science experiments, public speaking practice, sports, and history. I'm sure that the students will find the topics interesting and the outdoor activities fun and engaging. Dr. Korieh wants me to give a few teaching pointers to some of the staff as well, which I find rather curious, as I myself have never actually taught in a traditional school setting. Nevertheless, I think I have some advice to offer, as I do have experience teaching adults, English-language learners, and students of of all ages. We shall see.

My goal in going to Nigeria is to be enriched and challenged. The fact that I will be travelling by myself will definitely push my boundaries, stressing my comfort level and self-reliance. Flying into one of the world's largest and most chaotic cities, Lagos, will surely test my mettle and confidence as I navigate through its serpentine streets and chaotic traffic jams. My intention is to travel as lightly as possible, only having one pack on my back. I refuse to take more than is absolutely necessary. There are a few reasons for this decision: 1) Being burdened with suitcases will make my trip miserable and possibly make me a prime target for a robbery and 2) I don't feel that it is appropriate for me to come to a village in the Niger Delta with a lot of material items. Maybe I'm tricking myself into thinking that I can live as simply as some Nigerians? Either way, I'd rather not have the conversation about all my gadgets and do-dads while most of the students I will be teaching have decidedly much less.

Packing for this trip has been very difficult for me because I'm totally ignorant to the climate and topography of the region. All I've been told is that it will be very hot and humid. I'm going to be there during the rainy season, which  means there will be periodic deluges. I don't know if it is acceptable for men to wear shorts and t-shirts. I assume that I'll have to adhere to a business-casual dress code at the school, meaning I'll be wearing a lot of khakis and button-down shirts (this does not seem that appropriate of attire for tropical Africa). I'm not going to bring sandals, which might be a big mistake. And I'm going to try to cover up as much skin as possible to protect myself from the ubiquitous mosquitoes. I surely don't want to contract malaria, let alone 1,000,000 itchy welts on my skin. I have no idea what the water is like. I don't know if I'll have running water in my apartment. I think there will be a few grocery stores and markets near by, so I assume I'll be doing most of my shopping there. And I'm unsure as to how much money I should be taking--I'm estimating $500. There will be periods of acclimating that will put my body through a  rigorous mental and physical test. I hope to make it out of the first week full of energy and excitement about what is to come.

Most importantly, however, I want to live in the moment while I'm there. Too often we get caught up in  looking towards the future. Opportunities await in New Owerri and I want to indulge in them as much as possible. I want to travel to Bonny and see the old slaving fort. I want to dip my toes in the Gulf of Guinea. I plan on taking in a soccer match in a Nigerian bar. I will travel to the regional capital Enugu to see the universities and peruse a record store. Why not? Life is too short and Nigeria too beautiful to let it pass me by in a haze of stress and anxiety. This year, as previously stated, has been a blur. I'm hoping that with a little African sun and rhythm I'll be able to regain my own personal balance and come back to Wisconsin refreshed and energized.

Nigeria Part I

Contrary to what the news would have you believe, Nigeria is NOT burning. While there is violence from the Islamic radical group Boko Haram and mass distrust of and frustration towards the national government in Abuja, the vast majority of Nigerians (I am fairly certain) are living normally. But we shall see. The expressed worry and concern that I've received in the past month from both family and friends is understandable and respected. After all, the day that I officially told my father of my trip just so happened to coincide with the organized mass bombing of a bus terminal in downtown Abuja that claimed the lives of 73 people and maimed hundreds more. A bad omen? I don't think so. In attempting to calm the nerves of loved ones and those close to me, I will regularly write about Nigeria both while I am there and before my trip. Consider this post to be the first of many.

Nigeria is a country as diverse as it is big. There are over 300 ethnic groups that make up the whole, many of them speaking vastly different languages and adhering to divergent traditional histories and practices. With this, of course, comes conflict, usually at the borderlands where ethnic, linguistic, and religious differences rub shoulder-to-shoulder. The physical border of modern-day Nigeria was drawn up by the colonial British. Disregarding the vast cultural and historical differences of the many African nations that made up "Nigeria", the English bunched Muslim Fulani and Hausa with Christian and animist Igbo and Yoruba into one "nation state" (only to name the largest 4 of Nigeria's aforementioned 300 ETHNIC GROUPS!). Consequently, there are multiple cleavages that run the length of the Nigerian state, none stronger than the North-South axis, which splits the predominately Muslim north from the Christian south. While many of you watching the news might find the recent Boko Haram violence as another manifestation of the 21st Century "War on Terror," the reality is much different.

Prior to English "Indirect Rule" in Africa, there were powerful African kingdoms that engaged in their own continental and international trade. Often, these groups developed complicated internal trading networks, where they exchanged a diverse array of goods from gold and salt to kola nuts and slaves. In so doing, cross-cultural exchanges were common. Languages mixed, religions spread, and people (inevitably) slept with each other. The Muslim traders from the north of Africa influenced this region greatly. Because of their emphasis on literacy, education, and an adeptness in trading, many Africans began to follow and practice Islam. They established some of the worlds greatest learning centers, libraries, and cities (Timbuktu being one). One such political empire was known as the Sokoto Calphiate, which came to dominate the region of modern-day northern Nigeria at the beginning of the nineteenth century. There, the Hausa and Fulani people were united under a religious and civil authority that imbued the people with pride and power. This was destroyed with the coming of European colonialism. And in some sense, the fight to regain this independence has never left the northern ethnic groups. Boko Haram, contrary to being just another "crazy radical group" (which they are for sure) is not just a cheap manifestation of Al Qaida; they believe they are a people attempting to  reclaim a past heritage and history that for the past 200 years has been ignored. There is no "Nigeria" to them. It is a made up concept imposed upon them by a foreign power. Destroying the nation state of Nigeria isn't their goal. They answer to their own worldview and their own version of their history. In some sense, it makes the problem of Boko Haram much more difficult to solve. Instead of chalking the conflict up as simply crazy Islamists (they are crazy) or another "African stick war," we westerners should see that the problems of Nigeria (and much of Africa for that matter) are not a consequence of African backwardness, but of a history of economic and cultural oppression....ahem...good job white guys...ahem.

Sorry for the long history lesson, but it's part of understanding why I am still willing to go. In this story fit the people I will be living among for six weeks, The Igbo. The Igbo are one of the largest of Nigeria's ethnic groups. The language they speak is called Igbo. Many of you who are old enough probably remember the Igbo as being the ones who fought a brutal civil war in Nigeria from 1968-1970. In an attempt to right what they saw as abuse and oppression from the northern-controlled Nigerian government, they founded their own state known as the The Republic of Biafra. Throughout the course of the fighting, over 2 million Igbos died in a brutal campaign of starvation and warfare. The Yorbua-northern-controlled federal government of Nigeria resented the Igbo's attempt to form their own state and implemented a planned action of mass starvation. A vast majority of those killed were children and women. It was because of this planned government action of starvation that led the United States, under President Nixon, to declare genocide. The limited resources of the Republic of Biafra and rampant malnutrition and suffering brought the war to an end. But the memories of the fighting and death are still very much alive in the Igbo homeland of southeastern Nigeria. The famed writer Chinua Achebe is Igbo and many of his works and poetry deal with his observations throughout the war. In all honesty, I am really looking forward to exploring the ways in which a people survive and move on (or don't) from such a terrible tragedy. The town I will be staying in is called New Owerri, which was one of the last strongholds of the Republic of Biafran Army. Over the course of my trip preparations, I have spoken with my professor Dr. Chima Korieh from Marquette who has mentioned many times that every person he knows has had someone close die from the war.

While many of you might worry for my safety with the whole Boko Haram craziness, I want to attempt an assurance: I will be more than 2,000 miles away from the Fulani/Hausa homeland where Boko Haram is most powerful. Not only is Nigeria the 7th most-populous nation on earth, but it is literally the size of two Californias. I will be in the tropical belt of the country closest to the ocean and the famed Niger Delta. Those of you who don't know anything about the Niger Delta should learn quickly. Aside from being a cultural and historical powerhouse on the African continent, Nigeria also serves as the 4th largest exporter of oil to the United States, with BP and Shell being the two main international companies working (I mean, exploiting) the oil fields in the delta. Notoriously greedy and corrupt, these two energy giants have siphoned away oil from underneath Nigeria's mangroves for over 50 years without any money going back into the local economy. Now, of course, some of this can be attributed to local and national political corruption, but nevertheless, the region with the 4th largest oil reserve on the planet doesn't have regular power or a functioning network of gas stations. Seems a little fishy to me. The people in the Niger Delta are desperate for better living conditions, schools, and want their environment to be cleaned. Yet, the small people of this earth can't match the billions that go behind keeping Shell oil "cheap" for American and European consumers. All of us should think critically about the external "costs" of our cheap, comfortable lifestyles in America. I'm going to be seeing it for myself in about a month and I'm honestly terrified of what my personal reaction will be. Will I feel ashamed? Angry? Embarrassed? I know one thing for sure, however, I won't feel good.

Not all of this story is one of doom and gloom. I've given you "the bad" because that seems to be what most African stories consist of. That is a complete lie pushed by cheap media and garbage news programming. There is plenty of good and I will be writing about the natural and cultural splendor of Nigeria while I am there. I am enthralled with the idea of watching the sunset slowly slink under the horizon, casting its magenta hues across the Bight of Biafra. I anxiously look forward to a night in a bar, listening to the pulsing primal beats of African drumming. I want to hear the lively poetry and spoken song of the bewildering, tonally-inflected Igbo language. And I want to feel the energy of an African metropolis, like Lagos, crackle through my skin and bones.