Riverwest 24

Since moving to Milwaukee in August 2011, we kept hearing about Riverwest 24 (RW24). Our friend Ivan was the first one to tell us about it. It is a bike race the goes for 24 hours through the neighborhood of Riverwest. The point is to raise awareness, build community and to have a hell of a good time. Instantly it was something we wanted to be a part of even though we lived four miles outside of the neighborhood.

2012 - we went to the Czech Republic during the RW24.

2013 - we were riding our bikes across the country. We were somewhere in Eastern Montana during the RW24.

2014 - Jeremy is in Nigeria, plus we completely missed the sign-up day.

But I was going to go anyway considering we now lived in Riverwest! It's a huge community event with around 1,000 riders and  a few thousand spectators. Block parties, costumes, cheering, music, and bikes. All for 24 hours straight. Oh RW24, how grand you are!

Nigeria Journal: Church and Spirituality

Igbos are extremely religious. A VAST majority of them are Christians, with a few practicing traditional religious customs. Spirituality is something that has been a part of their culture since its inception. As I’ve written a few times before, this area of southeast Nigeria is one of the most populated regions in all of Africa. There are few opportunities for one to see unspoiled nature, where jaguars and chimpanzees roam free. In their place, humans have erected homesteads and clear-cut the land for growing plots. Ramshackle shops are crammed within an inch of each other. Brick and concrete buildings stand further back into the bush. When in Nigeria, one hardly ever gets the impression that they’ve “escaped” the city. Humans are all around you. So it’s a small wonder that stands of pristine, beautiful jungle on occasion co-mingle with the human environment. Yet, that is exactly what happens.

Nigeria Journal: Market Day

Dr. Korieh dropped us off at the market’s threshold and drove off. Immediately upon exiting the car, my senses were pummeled by a cacophony of smells and colors. The streets were literally pulsing with life. Much like when they’re driving, Nigerians seem to thrive in a chaotic existence. There was literally no rhyme or reason as to where a vendor set up his/her shop. While walking, you’re bombarded by shoulders, sweaty arms, and the ubiquitous “wheelbarrow boys” who walk behind carrying loads of goods to be sold. They could care less whether they chaff the back of your ankles by jamming their wheelbarrow into your legs. They would just as soon as run you over than ask you to move aside. One must always have their head on a swivel. ANYTHING (and I mean it) can be purchased at this vast open-aired mall. Pastel –colored blouses and dingy bottles of kerosene? You got it. Dried shrimp and fish heads next to pounds of bitter greens? You got it. Vibrant cloth alongside vendors hawking cow heads and livers!? You got it. The floor of the market

Mid-July garden update

It's mid-July and things finally look like they are growing and we, or shall I say I since Jeremy is in Nigeria, are having our first yield. Just this week it stopped raining everyday and I started picking peas, kale, beans and a tomato. Thankfully our friend Sam was willing to take the tomato off my hands so I didn't have to deal with not wanting to eat it, ew. Hopefully none of the other tomatoes will ripen until Jeremy returns.

Gardening in raised beds and containers is fun, and I'm thankful to have fresh produce. However, I can't help but want more. We have ten bean plants, three feet of pea plants, we will be lucky to get 20 onions, four potato plants, a row of carrots, a small lettuce box and a handful of pepper plants that may

Nigeria Journal: 2nd Funeral

This trip has been a sober one for Dr. Korieh. Unexpectedly, he’s had to deal with numerous deaths in his immediate and extended family. For all the sadness that surrounds the passing of a loved one, it nevertheless opens up opportunities for me to experience Igbo culture at some of its most resplendent. In one month, I’ve been to two funerals. The first one I attended was very traditional. There, as you might remember from my writing, I witnessed the gyrating rhythm of some Tiv traditional dances. All the men were adorned in their customary robes and hats and drummers were brought into play the solemn music for the death of a woman (men and women have different burial beats that are played by trained musicians). This most recent funeral was vastly different in character and tradition.

Nigeria Journal: Living in a tropical climate

Living in a tropical climate is not easy. The weather patterns here are binary: there is the humid and (according to deranged-Nigerians) “cool” rainy season and the dry and blistering hot dry season. The rainy season corresponds to our spring and summer, while the dry season runs through the fall and winter. The pattern of pounding rain, changing to otherworldly heat does a number on buildings and roads. When a road is paved (and I’d say about 45% are), within about 6 months, inevitably, huge sections of it get washed out. The ground upon which they lay the asphalt is very sandy and porous. Water is able to get beneath the road, erode the soil out from under tar and gravel, and just rip HUGE sections of the pavement away. For those roads that are not paved, the pulverizing drops of water create massive potholes and craters. Unfortunately, the quality of materials and the expense of construction equipment lessen the durability of nearly all structures: houses, bridges, high ways, and stores. There are buildings in Owerri that look as if they’ve been through a

Nigeria Journal: Egg Drop and Flash Flood

 Realizing that I only had about four more days of actually seeing the children on a day-to-basis until their graduation day on July 25^th, I decided to bring out the “secret-weapon” lesson plan: The EGG DROP. As I’ve written about before on this blog, part of my role in teaching here at Pater Noster Academy is to provide the educators with ideas for project-based, creative lessons. And none can be as creative or fun as the Egg Drop. Essentially, the education aspect of the lesson is tied up in explaining speed, impact, distance, and the forces of gravity. But to be honest, it’s essentially an excuse to throw eggs off of a two-story balcony. And what kid doesn’t want to do that!?

Nigeria Journal: People and Students

As my trip winds down into its final two weeks, I’ve been reflecting a lot on the people I’ve met and the children I’ve seen on a day-to-day basis. There have been many, and for the most part, I haven’t been able to get too close to really any adults. The kids, however, have been a different story. I know most of their names and their passions and tendencies:

*I know that Emmanuel in third grade reads only at a first grade level. He’s never read a book in his life. Last week, I sat with him in the library and together we read a children’s book about Clifford the big red dog. It took quite a while, and whenever I would slightly rush him, he would look at me and say, “I want to read all of the words. Uncle Jeremy, you must wait for me.” He was motivated to do it. I relished the time with him. He wore a sense of accomplishment across his face as we walked back to class.

Nigeria Journal: July 10th - Point and Kill restaurant

When Dr. Korieh suggested that we have dinner at the local “Point-and-Kill” restaurant my mind went to a dark, dark place. I imagined a shabby wooden structure jam-packed with Hausa men in flowing robes tending to vast pools of brown, sludgy water. Within the water there would be fish piled upon fish, flapping their tails and bellies against one other, each in a death battle for the last molecule of oxygen. Igbo men would be standing along the edges of the aforementioned pool, barking out orders to the Hausa, jamming their fingers in the direction of some unlucky fish. A finger point meant blood would soon be in the water.  The Hausa man would rear up from his chair high above the pond, grab a circular net and somehow catch the chosen one. Then in one quick instant, he would dump the fish out onto the sandy, muddy ground and then take a board and SLAM its head, rending it paralyzed. Then he would slam the board again, sending brain matter and blood flying. The limp fish would be gathered up, thrown on a grill and

Nigeria Journal: July 9th - Thoughts

 I’m more than half-way through with my time here in Nigeria. In less than two days, I’ll be entering my fourth week of teaching. It goes without saying that time sure does fly. However, it hasn’t been a complete whirlwind of joy and unabashed exuberance. There have been some challenges for me in the three weeks since I’ve landed in Enugu. For one, my body is really struggling to adjust to the humid nights here in Nigeria. I toss and turn all night and am essentially unable to get a full rest. I’m covered in sweat and my sheets are constantly sticking to every inch of my body. The only thing that’s good about waking up sweaty and gross is jumping in the ice cold shower in the morning. It wakes me up and gets me prepared to face the day. I’ve also grown rather timid when going out. I never thought that this would happen to me, but I’m finding the constant barrage of attention and stares I receive to be really soul-crushing. I know that a vast majority of the people are simply curious (especially the children), but I’m really exhausted from all the “white man” comments. It’s difficult walking into a restaurant or large store and having literally every single person turn and stare. I feel as if I have something horrifically wrong with my face, like my eyes have fallen out of their sockets and are rolling around on the floor with small radio control antennas attached to them. Although, I must admit that I do get a chuckle every time I go to relieve myself in the bush and EVERYONE watches to see where I go. I don’t know if they’re trying to ‘catch a glimpse’ or what, but of course, they want to see the color wheel of the human race, right!?

Each morning I wake up and am usually delivered breakfast (if there is enough food), which normally consists of some fried plantains, eggs, and fruit. Isador, Dr. Korieh’s brother, makes me a nice boiling mug of tea. It’s the perfect beginning. Nigerians get up before 6:00am. Often, when I ask the children when they get up for school, most of them say “4 or 5.” I can hear our neighbors busy washing clothes, tending their garden, and sweeping the porch before my alarm goes off at 6:30. Nigeria has an unreliable power system, so the human cycle of rising at dawn and preparing for sleep at dusk seems to be the norm. It’s amazing how quickly my circadian clock has caught on to the Nigerian rhythm of life. Yet, I do miss late nights in the pub. Many of the houses around the school are huge complexes that are currently in different stages of completion. Many of the houses are owned by Nigerians living abroad. For those who are living in the area, it’s a rather lonely community, although I’m sure all of this will change in about 5 years when families begin to move in.

Nigeria, as I’ve said many times, is a country of extremes. And much like the United Staets, there are certainly “haves” and “have-nots.” Right next to large mansions, are dilapidated wooden shacks with sheet metal roofing. The children in these family compounds run around in shabby clothes (or completely naked). The life of the family is all out doors: they bath outside, wash their clothes in the shadow of corn stalks, and eat dinner in the comfort of their orange trees. Children, in some homes, never go to school—most likely a consequence of parents not having enough money to pay the tuition. Millions of Nigerians have left the country to find their riches abroad, sending billions of dollars of remittances back to the country. Most Nigerians are educated up to the high school level and I would say a majority have some college/university education. Children here aspire to be doctors, lawyers, professors, and artists—very different than American kids, whose eyes have been fixated on sports figures and pop stars. The major difference here is that the Nigerian middle class is not as powerful or nearly as large as the one in the United States. But although the Nigerian family might lack some of the physical amenities of their American counterparts, I have sensed no lack of ambition of hope for the future. This, of course, changes, when one asks them about the fate of their country, which, for many, brings up questions of unity, purpose, and inevitably Boko Haram and the “NORTHERNERS.”

For an American used to comfort, air-conditioning, and large supermarkets in which to shop, Nigeria would be a shocking experience. It has been for me. The chaos of life here is very difficult to understand and grasp. Time is not “of the essence” in this country, nor are laws. I’ve written about the driving habits of many of my Nigerian friends, and while the stories make for some good adventures, they nevertheless serve as a microcosm of their thought process: highly individualized with a distrust/disregard for authorities. The disregard for authorities is understandable, considering many Nigerian political leaders and police officers are exalted by name but scoundrels by character. And in regards to the individualism to the extreme: I’d say it runs in Igbo’s blood (at least in the Southeast). Their culture is one that has famously been hard to manage. They are an ethnic group that has never had a king or a leader. The Igbo traditional structure was village-based with both men and women taking part in deciding upon important matters. The nation of Igbo then is a fractured one, with localized loyalties coming before Igbo loyalties, even though, when faced with the question “Are you Nigerian or Igbo?” almost all of them would answer Igbo before Nigerian. Igbo language is the perfect avenue through which to see this famous fracturedness and chaos: every village has its own dialect, with some being nearly unintelligible to others. It’s as if they are speaking a different language, even though they all call it Igbo. It would be like if in Pennsylvania, those who lived in Pittsburgh spoke “American English” so vastly different than those in Ambridge that they would struggle to understand each other. It’s the case here. I find it fascinating.

Anyways, back to my morning of fried plantains and tea: After I finish eating, I take my malaria pill and plan a few lessons. I have been working mostly with grades three, four, and five. Each class has between 4 -8 students. I have been told that I’m here to show the Nigerian teachers different methods of teaching. Through my own observations, I’ve come to the conclusion that Nigerian pupils are rarely taught/encouraged to think creatively on their own. Almost all of the in-class teaching takes place at the chalk board, with the teachers having the students repeat information, so it is easily regurgitated on a test. This is not exactly the best style. Rarely are students allowed to go outside and they are never encouraged to explore their own interests. In that vein, I have decided to teach project-based lessons. The teachers at the school have found my methods to be very strange, and quite frankly, many of them don’t take them seriously, but I know the kids are learning a lot and having a lot of fun with me. I’m having them make a travel magazine, write a play, draw maps, play sports, and read books. I’ve instilled daily reading times and have encouraged the teachers to use the schools library resources to their advantage. We’ll see if they do….

The school is called Pater Noster Academy and was founding in 2011 by my Marquette University professor, Dr. Chima Korieh. His goal was to open an elementary school that was based on American-style curriculum. At the beginning, everything was working extremely well, but within the past year, there has been turn-over and some of the current teachers are struggling to understand the pedagogical differences between the United States and Nigeria—which is why I’m here. The school provides me with a small room in the back of the building. I have a bed, a plastic desk, and a plastic chair. Most of my things are strewn about the floor. There is sand EVERYWHERE. I bath with ice cold well water pumped into the building from a water tank just outside my window. I have a view of the school’s yard, which is essentially one gigantic sand box with a few swings and an old basketball hoop. The school here needs art supplies and basketballs badly. If you want to donate, please get in contact with me or comment on this blog.

Every morning I wake up to children singing and clapping in the court yard. They then run into the building and come busting through the screen door to my room. All of them yell “UNCLE! UNCLE! Good morning!” When I walk into a class room, all the students stand and sing, “Good morning Uncle. We are happy to see you. God Bless you.” (female teachers are called Aunty, while male teachers are known as Uncle).  Staff have been attempting to teach me some Igbo words, but I’ve been a miserable student, choosing to focus more on lesson planning than studying. But, I’ve picked up a few: Ibo lachi – good morning; Ndewo – how are you; Adama – I’m fine. Unfortunately, I haven’t gotten very close with the staff here, as most of my time is caught up with the children. I’d love to spend more time with the little kids, but it seems as though I won’t be able to. After three classes and then a recess time I lead, I’m pretty exhausted and want a nice long break.

Many of the students at this school do not have the money to pay for it. Dr. Korieh fits the bill for many families, who are in major debt to him. He doesn’t ask for repayment. He just gives. It’s quite amazing. Yet, this also explains why he can be very demanding and gets upset when materials are disrespected.

I’ve tried to give a few of my new Nigerian friends some American food. And here is the tally: they love peanut butter; HATE sunflower seeds; DISLIKE almonds (for the most part); And don’t understand why we like tomato soup J.

 Today after school, I walked down to the local store and purchased some Nigerian beer (I’ve quickly found that Star is the best Nigerian brand). Most of my colleagues didn’t believe me when I told them I was going to the store to pick up “bread and beer.” They just laughed. But when they saw me coming back with a bag of beer and bag of bread, they all asked quite astonishedly, “Jeremy, you take alcohol!?” I said, “Of course! Sometimes I take a little too much.” And at that they all smiled and drove home. Nigerians are extremely religious so many of them do not drink and smoke. In fact, what I’m about to say might seem unbelievable to some of my MKE friends, but I’ve yet to even SEE a cigarette. No one smokes. NO ONE. And I’ve never seen anyone drunk yet. This most definitely is not Riverwest… 

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!

Jackie gets a bath

Bath time was bound to happen, so with it being 94 degrees in our apartment I figured why not. Both of us would dry in no time and maybe it would cool her down.
I've said it before and I'll say it again, Jackie is the best. Bath time went way better than expected. She let me put her in the bathtub with the only protest being more of a whimper than a meow. I poured water all over. Again some meowing and a little squirming, but no claws, no climbing up me or out of the tub. I think the worst part was the soap and mostly because she wasn't just wet but now all bubbly. A good rinse and out of the tub and wrapped into a towel. She did scute away more quickly than usual, and with a funny little hop.
I have never bathed a cat before and I had only heard horror stories about claws, water everywhere, and angry kittys. There was none of that. As Jackie licked herself dry,  I assisted in detangling her fur by giving her a good brush down. She loved it, plus all her fur stuck to the brush rather than going airborne.
The best part is as I type this Jackie is laying on my like nothing ever happened. I gave my cat a bath and she still loves me. Success.

Nigeria Journal: Sickness

Finally, it came. For the ten days that I have been here in Nigeria, I was waiting for the moment when this horrifying pestilence would come creeping into my quarters. I had played with fire. I knew that much. I had eaten warm chicken, over-ripe fruit, and stale rice. I didn’t want to be rude, so I willingly sacrificed myself to the god of hospitality and got hit with the dreaded illness: diarrhea. It came on all of a sudden. I felt fine upon waking. I even drank some tea and chatted with a few early-arriving teachers. And then, unexpectedly, while standing in the library, I felt a cramp. A knife-like pain in my gut warned me that I had to immediately vacate the premise to the nearest toilet, hole, bush, anything. I found the girls bathroom. I ran in. And the deluge flowed like a fierce tropical storm. My body was angry at me. The bug came at me with a vengeance, as if it was mad that it had taken nearly two weeks for me to succumb to its evilness. And it lasted ALL DAY. I have three very strong anti-diarrhea pills at my disposal. I opened the package gingerly and stared at them for a long time. “Do I want to use these precious gifts right now?” “What will happen in two weeks when I need them again?” I set the bottle down. I was trying to conserve them. They're worth their weight in gold. They are theVictoria Diamond in 500 mg form. And then it came again. This time even worse and I wasn’t so concerned with future preservation, but with immediate relief. I took one, swallowed the pill and made supplications to the Igbo god Chukwu to heal my sickness. I literally then crapped out all of my insides, from my intestines to my esophagus. And if my luck wasn’t good enough, the toilet didn’t flush. I poured a bucket of water in the basin to dilute the highly-concentrated horror that came out of me. Thankfully, it worked. I opened windows, washed my hands, and prayed to the lord almighty that no one, and I mean no one, took the wrong step and entered the bathroom for another hour. I didn’t stick around to find out. The powerful elixir that I took did its job well-enough, but I know I’m going to use the precious resource tomorrow morning. And then maybe even Friday morning. What did I eat? My theory is that I had some stank, old  rice and drank some bacteria infused water. I just pray that it doesn’t rear its angry head at night. And I hope that my body’s defenses are up to the challenge. I’m trying to maintain my hydration level, but when it’s 85 degrees and 95% humidity, it’s a losing battle.

I taught three classes today, even while I was sick. They all went extremely well. In the fifth grade class, I’m having them work on a class project. I am having them write, produce, and design a travel magazine for the city of Owerri. Today we took a field trip to the city and drove to various interesting sites. At each stop, I had the students jump out, pose, and then I snapped their picture. We went to the University, the hotel, the zoo, the Igbo cultural center, a restaurant, and cyber school, and an art studio. The kids had a fantastic time. My goal is that the students will produce an excellent magazine, which they can present to the state governor. The trip was great publicity for the school I am teaching (Pater Noster  Academy). While we were riding around, Dr. Korieh was passing out brochures and informational pieces about the school. Many people were interested, mainly because a “white man” was teaching and working with kids. My white skin is an immediate stamp of approval for parents wanting to send their kids to a quality school. Hopefully the students won’t disappoint with the project!

Today I saw and heard (mainly heard, wow!) a weaver bird. They have black caps, faces and beaks, and are adorned with white wing bars and very yellow breast and tail feathers. They are extremely loud and rather cute—the look almost like yellow orioles. I would love to see on of them build a nest. I have not seen as many birds as I would like, but so is the case with living in an urban environment. However, I have nevertheless seen my fair share of African magpies, vultures, and sparrows (?). The flora, however, has been spectacular. There are towering cassava plants, plaintain trees with their gargantuan leaves, spindly (and stout) palms, and abundant tropical lilies and grasses. The soil is extremely loose and looks rather bare of minerals. Most yards are complete sand. 

Nigeria Journal: July 1st

So after an emotional high of Saturday and Sunday, I’ve crashed down to earth. Times have been getting frustrating for me. I am two weeks into my trip (over one week in Nigeria) and I have yet to use my bank card to get money. I can’t explain to you how frustrating this situation is. It inhibits me from doing anything and I’m getting really tired of feeling like an absolute leech, sucking off of Dr. Korieh’s generosity. A lack of money means that I’m unable to purchase a beer when I want, buy some water when I need it, purchase my own food, buy souvenirs for my family and friends, or (and most importantly) get a small internet modem for my computer. The fact that I’m unable to connect onto the internet has literally been driving me insane. I simply unable to stay in regular contact with Jamie or my parents. And with the recent bout of Boko Haram craziness, they must be worried about me. I want to assure them that I’m fine and show them some pictures, but I can’t at this point. Ah, yes, pictures, the other terribly frustrating aspect of my trip. I’m afraid to inform most of you that the camera I brought to Nigeria is a total piece of garbage. It is unable to focus. Every time I turn it on, the shutter makes a grinding sound and the display screen looks terribly fuzzy. NOT COOL. There have been so many instances where I’ve been awed by the mist over forest-covered hills, adorned with powerful palm trees and Cassava plants, but have been unable to capture it in color! I do journal a lot and writing this blog helps, but I know for those of  you who are more “visual”  in habit, reading my rambling posts isn’t exactly the most effective way of following in this adventure.

           
And on a side note, I’m totally sick and tired of the driving. Initially I found it to be exotic and quite adrenaline-inducing, but now, after only a week, I’ve grown to despise getting in the car to go to town. Because inevitably, a 10 km trip takes at least 10000 more minutes longer than it should and is about 2,000000000000x more frustrating than it ought to be. The constant stopping, starting, honking, smelling noxious fumes, and yelling has given me more than I’m able to handle. OH how I long for my bike. I’ll never complain about Milwaukee drivers again…

In lieu of my recent aside about my growing impatient with Nigerian drivers, I have a story. On Sunday evening it was decided that I, along with Tara and Grayson, would travel with Dr. Korieh up to Nsukka University, which was supposed to be a rather pleasant 3-hour drive. Still being naïve to African ways, I agreed to go on the excursion, because I thought that we would be back in Owerri by the evening. We left at 7:00am. After hours of driving around (and through) craters, speeding too fast around curbs, slamming on the breaks at inopportune times, running through at least 15 police check points, and getting lost about 4 times, we made it Nsukka in just under 5 hours. I was exhausted. The scenery along the road was a smattering of beauty and horror. I’m really beginning to believe that nothing in this country is tepid. Just as I would settle into my seat and gaze out the window, reflecting on the majestic beauty of the Enugu hills, or admire the chiseled bodies of Nigerian farmers tending rows of corn and cassava, I would be knocked out of my euphoria and aura by a site not so bucolic. Usually, I would see the remnants of tractor-trailer accident, the burned-out hull of a personal automobile, or grinding poverty. In one instance, we came upon the scene of  a very-recent tour bus accident. All of the passengers (those that weren't severely injured) were sitting on the side of the road looking dazed and asking for help. I couldn't believe it. Luckily, there was a hospital close by. We rode along dirt roads, small village by-ways, and along Nigeria’s express way. The express way is interesting in that the Nigeria driving rules still apply even there: chaos. People were driving 100 Km (80mph), passing each other on the right and the left. Women were carrying goods to market, walking in the opposite direction of traffic flow. Small mopeds were waddling down the lane, and old men were clumsily riding taco-rimed bikes in the lane. It was absolutely insane. I was worried about the safety and lives of hundreds of people. Then I thought of my own, realized that I didn’t have a seat belt on, and panicked. I threw myself to the back of the van and clamped it down as hard as I could. Meanwhile, life on the high-way continued: twice we came upon illegal “express-way” villages, where Hausa cattle traders grazed their flocks in the median and built shabby structures along the berms. Trading towns were literally popping up right in the middle of the high-way. I couldn’t believe it. One glance out of the window gave me the view of a herd of cattle chewing cud, the slaughtering of a ram, and men reclined on chairs making sales under the shade. Some rest stop, huh!?

Anyways, Nsukka is a town that lies in the northern fringes of the southeastern region and is only about an hours drive from the Middle Belt—the border land between the Islamic North and the Christian South. Nsukka is the site of the University of Nigeria and was sponsored by and designed after Michigan State University in the 1950s. During the Biafran-Nigerian War, the school garnered the reputation as the intellectual heart of the Biafran secessionists, and therefore, was repeatedly bombed and targeted by Nigerian Federal Forces. Many of the great Igbo leaders, artists, and authors got their start at Nsukka, including the most famous, Chinua Achebe. Nsuakka is a university that carries an international reputation for academic excellence. And yet, much like Imo State, the current affairs of campus did not seem ideal. While in much better condition than Imo State, I was still surprised to see a lot of trash and run-down academic buildings dotting the grounds. While the school has been improving certain facilities, one got the impression that something was amiss at the leadership level. Was it a lack of trust, funds, or vision?  The answer to  my question, I believe, came to me while waiting for my hotel room later that night (yes, that’s right, our initial plan of returning to Owerri that evening didn’t work out as planned). Suddenly, in the lobby of the hotel, five men burst through the doors. Two of them were dressed in cheesy, tight-fighting suits (one was pleather), wearing ray-ban sunglasses. After them, came a sloppily-dressed gargantuan, whose billowy suit pants were caught in his argyle socks. He had gold, wire-rimmed glasses and a serious countenance. He looked like he was a dirty crook out of a 1980s Schwarzenegger film. I assumed that this guy was very important due to the tone of his voice while he was barking orders into a cell phone. My assumption proved correct when I looked over my shoulder only to see the final two men of his entourage carrying AK-47s, looking about the room with shifty,  nervous eyes. The two ray-ban wearing security attachés made EVERY SINGLE PERSON walk to a completely different wing of the hotel to exit, because apparently, when a “big guy” walks in, the hallway shuts down to the “thru traffic.” I was taking this whole scene in, a little on edge. Just when I thought I had come to the conclusion that the frumpy-80s-looking man was probably some kind of drug lord or oil magnate, I overheard a student on the bench whisper to his friend, “That’s the new Vice Chancellor.” My jaw dropped. VICE CHANCELLOR!? So, um, wait. The VICE CHANCELLOR of  Nsukka University has to walk around campus with a security guard team of five intimidating men, carrying semi-automatic MILITARY weapons!? Who wants to kill him!? Why does he feel that threatened?! Maybe that is why regular trash pick-up or working toilets don’t seem to be too high of a priority for university leadership. Oh man….Nigeria….oh man….

Shortly thereafter the national soccer team, the Super Eagles, got knocked out of the World Cup. I drank a few beers. Got buzzed. And went to bed dehydrated, wishing I was back in Owerri.

The way home from Nsukka was like the Odyssey. It was an arduous journey, full of hardship and folly. Through numerous deluges, more than a few corrupt cops, and high-speed swerving (of course), we picked our way back to Owerri. Due to Boko Haram, the Nigerian Government has deployed police and military units throughout the nation. The Nigerian police and army are notoriously corrupt. They strike fear into the general populace and act as if they are above the law. And quite frankly, in a nation where corruption and chaos are rampant, the police and army do function above the law. At some point in their lives, every single Nigerian citizen has been the victim of police thievery. And soon it would be our turn. After about three hours on the road, we were stopped by our 10^th police/army check point. Usually, the check points consists of three lines of barrels strewn across the road, angled just enough to force you to slow down and make a series of slight turns. This allows the police/army official to walk up to your car and look in. Naturally, they are decked out in full garb: helmets, boots, and the ubiquitous AK-47 slung over the shoulder. Some of them are quite pleasant, and upon seeing me, welcome me to the country and wave us through. And others, well, they are power-hungry psychopaths looking to intimidate and scare people into submission. And, dare I say, a vast majority are just plain crooks. We got pulled over. I could tell right away that the police officer who was about to search our car was amping to strut his power like a cock in front of hens. He was all blunder, and unfortunately for us, full of AK-47 bust. He held the power and the cards. He knew it. After seeing me, he became even more “suspicious” (in reality, he had this exact thought: white man = money). He opened the doors. Gruffly asked our driver (Chinoso) to get out and demanded that  Dr. Korieh show him our car’s  “papers.” He glanced at me and didn’t say anything. He rifled through our lap top bags, our luggage (not mine), and then wanted to know why we had tinted windows on the car. (Supposedly in Nigeria it is illegal to have tinted windows on a car. Realizing that many stock-factory cars are built with tinted windows, the Nigerian govt. amended this law a few years ago, essentially making it legal for cars to run with factory-tinting, which, of course, our car had). Dr. Korieh told the police officer that it  was a factory-tint and that the car does not have the legal document for tinted windows. The police officer did not care. He kept banging his fist on the window. Naturally, he was putting pressure right where I was sitting, trying to intimidate me as well. He asked us to wait, took our documents and left. We sat, and sat, and sat. Finally, I got too hot and had to use the restroom. In the 30 minutes we had been parked along the side of the road, Dr. Korieh and our driver had left the vehicle to relieve themselves in the bushes along the way. I thought I would do the same. IMMEDIATELY upon me exiting the car, the black-clad officer SCREAMS at me to get back in the car. He kept on repeating “inside, inside, inside!” I gave him the meanest look I could give anyone, then slowly, and I mean slowly, crawled back into the car. I left my foot dangling outside of the car door and leaned my body out in a form of defiance. I knew that he was telling me to get back in the car for two reasons: 1) I was white and 2) because I was an American citizen, who, if I wanted to, could get his name and registration badge and complain to the American embassy about my treatment, which apparently, never ends well for the offending officer. Anyways, I didn’t want to push our raging bull too much, so I quietly sat there and watched as car after car of darkly-tinted SUVs, trucks, and passenger vans passed by without a problem. Thirty minutes turned into an hour. And then finally, Dr. Korieh came storming back to retrieve money. The cop would not let us go without some form of payment. I hid most of Dr. Korieh’s money in my wallet, knowing that the cop would not search me, so we only gave the cop 250 Niara for our trouble. He laughed and told us, “Do you think I would go back to the office and tell my boss that no one paid today? Give me all the change and money you have.” We lied. He took what he could get. Then we were finally off on the road. We had been robbed by Nigeria’s finest, the same men who were to be garnering the trust and respect of the populace, the same men who were supposed to be protecting us from Boko Haram. We were all livid. What an absolute joke. At one point during the entire ordeal, another officer came past the van door and looked at me and said, “White man! Welcome.” I just gave him a dirty look.” He asked, “What’s the matter?”

Later on I told Dr. Korieh that I was emotionally and physically exhausted. He looked at me and said, “Jeremy, today was a good day. That was nothing.”