Parties and Porkies

Yesterday morning I was invited to join one of my colleagues at a Muslim pre-wedding ceremony for her friend. The woman has already agreed to marry the man, although no date has yet been set. The tradition is that the groom’s family send suitcases or boxes full of gifts for the bride-to-be and her family.

When we arrived, we wandered round the house and the grounds and I was shown how to make sanasil and masa (don’t know if that’s the spelling, but they are both kinds of pancakes made from rice – delicious). We were then given a huge plate of food each (jollof rice, spring roll, samosa, chicken and sanasil) and went and sat in the bride’s bedroom, eating and chatting with her. Halfway through our meals, we heard that the groom’s family was arriving so we went into the living room where all the female members of the bride’s family were gathered (but not the bride).  The female members of the groom’s family had travelled from Zaria (about an hour away) with the suitcases, and they brought them into the middle of the gathering, explaining what was what.

After a quick prayer, the bride’s family began to take a look inside the suitcases, and the groom’s mother took out the money and solid gold jewellery and took them straight to the bride’s mother so that no-one could take them. The groom’s family also took this opportunity to propose a date in October for the wedding. After the suitcases had been opened, the groom’s family seemed to disperse and the bride could come out. Then the suitcases were fully unpacked and there were hundreds of gifts! Two suitcases full of clothes and fabric, a case full of cosmetics (including Veet!? Is that a romantic courting gift?), a case full of jewellery and a bag full of handbags and shoes. And that was just for the bride! Then there was a suitcase each for the mother and father of the bride, a large bag full of 26 types of fabric – one for each of the female members of the bride’s family – and three small bags for each of, what my collages called, “The bride’s mother’s rivals”; in other words, the bride’s father’s other wives.

And that was it really. We finished our food, wrapped up some sanasil for Simon and were on our way.

Then in the afternoon, Simon and I had been invited to the birthday party of a ten year old boy who lives in the next compound – Joseph. We’d asked around about what 10-year-old Nigerians like (in case you need to know, it’s a cartoon called Ben 10 – any of said merchandise will apparently be a winner), bought a Ben 10 Bubble Gun toy and wrapped it in a carrier bag along with some World Cup stickers we’d brought from home. At 4pm, it was raining pretty heavily, but we put up our umbrella and went next door. Not knowing exactly which house was his, we knocked on someone’s door to ask. It was the wrong door; not just in the sense that it wasn’t Joseph’s, but also wrong in the sense that it was the one person who had given us an evangelical booklet (“Rhapsody of Realities”) the week before and asked us to go to her church this week, and of course she now wanted to know why we hadn’t been. Fumbled excuses over with, she pointed out Joseph’s house and we went across to knock. A puzzled young woman said that yes they did have a Joseph living there (“Small? Black?” Sounds like all boys in Nigeria, yes), although he was 8 years old; she agreed to take the present for him. Since there was clearly no party, we left and went back home, confused.

A minute later, the woman was at our door with the present, saying that it wasn’t Joseph’s birthday, that he just likes to say it is, and that there was no party. Ten minutes after that, Joseph was at our door, saying he should have made it clear that his birthday isn’t until Tuesday. Five minutes after that he was back again, saying ‘Please, come round whenever you want’. And then he was gone. Upshot: we were duped by a boy who likes to say it’s his birthday to foreigners and ended up buying him a toy gun. 

Malaria and Maladjustment

So, in somewhat record timing, I have managed to contract malaria within 5 weeks of being in the country. (I’ll do anything to bring myself one step closer to Cheryl Cole.) It’s not as devastating as you might think – kind of like mild flu, and the kind of thing I would never have gone to the doctor about at home – but it sticks around as a general exhaustion and drained feeling for longer than mild flu might. Apparently the anti-malarials I’m on (why?!) also serve to reduce the symptoms when you contract malaria, so I guess if I wasn’t taking these I might feel a whole lot worse.

So this meant a couple of trips to a clinic – a fear of life in the developing world overcome. Clutching my first aid kit and sterile needles in my bag, I entered the laboratory at the hospital (which looked like a kitchen, or maybe a 1950’s school lab but on a smaller scale), and asked the technician whether I could see him open the needle from the packet before he used it. He just laughed at me and showed me the sealed packed, saying “I’m not allowed to just open it, you know – I have to wait til you’re here to see it!”. So now at least we know a safe clinic to go to.

Helpfully, this bout of illness coincided with the move to our new house, which left me even more exhausted and really quite fed up of the whole damn thing. I’m actually a little ashamed by how spoilt and precious I was about the state of our home when we moved in. With hindsight, what we were presented with was probably better than many UK council tenants find when they move into a property; and certainly people were trying very hard to make us comfortable. But arriving on Friday to find that the builders hadn’t cleaned up after themselves, there was no water even if I had the energy to clean up and there was no NEPA (electricity) until we managed to sort out our meter did not make me happy. We trekked to the NEPA office to get our meter credit, only to be told we needed a number that was written somewhere on the meter (why didn’t anyone tell us that?!); we went to the market and bought a whole load of stuff (buckets, broom, mop, bedsheets, saucepans etc) and then carried it precariously home on okadas, only to find that the compound was locked (of course no-one had given us a key to the outside gate) and no-one home, so we stood outside and waited (whilst neighbouring children laughed at our predicament – not sweet, not funny, just annoying at that point). When someone arrived to let us in, we tried to get the meter number, which involved standing on a plastic chair borrowed from a neighbour and trying to take photos of the meter with arms outstretched because the thing is SO BLOODY HIGH UP (why would you do that??).

It was while Simon was on the second trip to the NEPA office that I discovered there was no water, and, I have to admit, called someone from the Funder in tears to say I didn’t think we could stay there that night (if I were being kind to myself, I’d blame the tears on the malaria). Needless to say, immediately people sprung into action to come to our aid, and three men drove down to our house in a pick-up truck with two large barrels of water. So lovely. And once we’d finally set up our mosquito net and got into bed, obviously I had to get up to go to the loo three times during the night, and every time there were two giant cockroaches waiting to dance around the hall floor with me. This was not a happy 24 hours.

Of course, now that the water is flowing again, we can’t turn off the one tap that works, so we have constantly flowing water in the bathroom sink, until the plumber comes to fix it. The NEPA meter seems to work, and apart from the first day – on which everything was conspiring to make our lives hell and we had no NEPA from 10pm to 2pm the next day – we have had a pretty decent supply of power.

Now that I’ve climbed down from my mountain of negativity, I can see that we are incredibly lucky where we are.

It’s by far the nicest volunteer accommodation we have seen. The whole place has been recently refurbished and tiled throughout (a lot of houses have concrete floors, so this is much nicer). We have ceiling fans in three rooms (which, when there’s NEPA, are brilliant), a brand new fridge and gas cooker, a work surface in the kitchen, a new 7-seater suite (actually WAY too big to fit comfortably in the room!), a new mattress and pillows, a chest of drawers, a large mirror and a bathroom with a bath, flushing toilet (when there’s water) and water heater (which currently works but there is no working tap attached to it – we hope the plumber will fix it). So far I haven’t seen a rat, and since the first night I haven’t seen any cockroaches, although we have some huge ants living in the bathroom.

The house is in a compound with three other houses – all of which house friendly neighbours, one of whom is the landlord and one of whom is the caretaker – which is almost always locked (we now have a key!). Our windows have two sets of anti-burglar bars and are all fairly securely fitted with gauze to keep insects out, so we’re pretty well safe from intruders of any kind! And a little boy from the next compound (Joseph) came round last night and invited us to his 10^th birthday party on Sunday – how sweet!

So all in all, life is getting a little better each day. Maybe by the time I leave here, I’ll have internalized some of this wonderful Nigerian optimism. There you go – that’s optimistic in itself.

Gender - a postscript

Today was the first time I spent a day at work without my husband. And it felt AMAZING!

Not that I don't like him, not that we're not getting on well over here (remarkably, given that we've never put our relationship to the test of 24/7 contact for nearly a whole month before!). But I suddenly feel like an entity in my own right again! There are things that I alone have observed, things that I alone have contributed, a role that I have fulfilled on my own. Ahhhh.

Again, a pretty small thing, but it gives me - the blissfully ignorant product of a liberated society, who never had to fight for women's rights - the tiniest insight into what it must feel like to be a 'woman' rather than an individual or a person.

Water

On the one hand, it's everywhere. It's the rainy season after all.

On Tuesday night, I had my worst experience so far in Nigeria. Heading out to watch the semi-final match at the home of a colleague of some Dutch volunteers, we felt a few drops of rain. We had looked at the map and decided it was close enough to walk to his house (where we had never been before). Maybe 20-30 minutes walk, so we left around 6.30pm: it gets dark around 7pm. Around halfway there, the storm clouds were such that it was pretty much already dark; and then the heavens opened. Proper, full-on thunder and lightning, torrential rain - the stuff of horror movies. This did not go down well with my phobia of the wind.

So we're walking along a road (no pavements) in almost pitch black, not knowing where we're going, and in a torrential thunder storm. We got to what was probably only around 50m from our destination when we decided to turn back - we were drenched to the skin, I was in tears and we still had no idea what the house looked like even if we could see it with our headtorch. So we then had to do the whole journey in reverse but by this time the dusty areas at the side of the road were fast-flowing rivers so we actually had to walk on the road, dodging cars and okadas as they zoomed past. We hadn't taken our helmets, because we thought we'd be walking, but even so I might have considered taking a bike if they hadn't looked so scary driving along in the dark and the rain.

I think I have decided pretty much not to travel at night. Which is a bummer, because that means I have to be home so that rules out a pretty hefty chunk of any potential social life. BUT we found out this week that the house our employer has secured for us is right next door to two other volunteers, so we can at least socialise with them!! (I think I can face the few steps back to our house afterwards!)

On another hand, it's nowhere (water, that is). 

I'm really finding the lack of running, drinkable water really suffocating. Suddenly realising that you only have half a bottle of water left, it's too later to buy any and you don't have the means to purify what may or may not come out of the tap, can be quite panicking actually.

It brings me new appreciation of Maslow's hierarchy of needs. I totally notice the difference in my ability to focus, to work and to communicate with others depending on my environment. When I'm in a conference hall of a hotel (like today) with air conditioning, free bottled water, a regular supply of food and pretty reliable electricity (most of the hotels have generators), I feel so much more alive and alert!

First day at work

So, after a weekend where we were both ill, we started the week in our real office. Our employer has clearly taken great care to ensure that not only do we have a desk each, but the desks are functional and clear and set up in a comfortable office. We are certainly afforded less cramped conditions than some of our colleagues (whose fortune, I fear, may be due to attempts to create a better space for us). Nonetheless, it will take some getting used to.

Until now, we've been pretty cushioned to the realities of living in Nigeria. This morning, still feeling ill, we sat down at our desks and tried to get some work done (that is, whatever work we think we should be doing). Simon's boss is out of town and my boss had a 3 hour meeting for most of the morning, so we got on with ploughing through the mountain of background reading we've been given.

The noise from the multiple generators outside is deafening, and gave me a headache within the hour. The main generator is broken and hasn't yielded to attempts to fix it, so the whole site works from small generators which look (and sound) just like lawnmowers (could they actually be lawn mower motors? I don't understand how it works). The noise wasn't even for our benefit - our office had no electricity all morning and I'm not sure it ever will. We also had no water (one wouldn't expect there to be running water, but the barrel of water which my boss said would be brought didn't arrive, so we couldn't flush the toilet or wash our hands) and no internet (there is supposed to be wireless, but we couldn't get it to work and couldn't find the IT guy on site). Everyone is very friendly and are doing everything they can to make us feel welcome and comfortable. But that doesn't stop it being quite a culture shock!

With waning laptop batteries and pounding heads, we took a mildly terrifying journey and retreated to the funder's quiet, air-conditioned offices with running water, drinking water in a cooler and tea and coffee making facilities. Bliss!

Back online

After a week with no internet, I am now sat in the lovely office of the funder back in Kaduna with a wonderful wireless connection, so time for an update.

We've spent the last few days in ancient Zaria, sitting in on a training course and visiting some rural schools, which was brilliant. The children are all beautiful. They stand up when you enter a room and say "Gooooood Moooooooorning....SAH!" - all very military! Those in school get very excited at the arrival of Bature (white people) and run to the window to stare. Those who are not in school (and there are lots), peer quizzically at the car as we drive past and when we arrive at the villages stare at us until we turn round to look or wave at them and then they run away in fear. In one village, we were the first foreigners EVER to have been there. Incredible. And the people were so warm and welcoming.

We still have no permanent accommodation (we're told that our employer has found a house for us, but that it still needs furnishing) and I'm still not entirely sure what I'm here to do. I was alarmed this morning to be introduced to someone as a Community Mobilisation Specialist. I don't even know if that's a thing?! It's a slightly confusing set up, in that we have to report to VSO, our employer and the funder, and I'm not sure we're all clear who's calling the shots yet. Still, I'm sure it will all become clear. Ish. (I'm not in Kansas any more - I'm starting to realise my colour-coded charts, diagrams and spreadsheets probably won't wash.)

Having made lots of plans about how we could go about establishing ourselves as separate entities in separate departments when we arrived, since getting here we have been told several times, by several people, that they would like us to work very closely together. So far, we have basically spent every second of every day with each other. Expect only one of us to return in 18 months.

On a more sombre note, I wanted to share with you something which brought me crashing down to earth the other day and reminded me what it means to be living in a developing country. Travelling to one of the schools in Zaria in an air-conditioned 4x4, and chatting in fluent English with a Nigerian colleague about Nigerian culture and customs, we started talking about young girls being married off at the age of 12 or 13 in the Muslim north of the country, usually to men of around 25. A consultant from Germany in the car asked whether that age gap meant that there were lots of widows in Nigeria. My colleague looked totally confused for a second and then said, "Well, death doesn't really have anything to do with age, does it?". That people generally die when they are old - an absolute assumption in Western culture - is totally baffling in a place where health and welfare are not givens but gifts.