Omnibus

Today has been a day of goodbyes; it was my last day at the eye clinic, and some of my friends and two of my roommates left school today. So, as always, upon saying goodbye to the people and places I’ve gotten to know so well, I’ve been looking back on my time here, and I realized there are some things I haven’t shared with you. So this post will be an amalgamation of all those things I’ve forgotten to tell you before.

I think particularly that the eye clinic has been such a huge part of my experience here, and I haven’t shared anything about it with you since those first couple of days. The eye clinic has proven to be one of the very best experiences of my entire life. I have come a long way since that first post about the clinic. I’ve made really good friends there, most especially Hadiza, Sam, Simon, Linus, Funmi, Blessing, Salisu, and Emannuel. The staff there really took me under their collective wing and welcomed me into their fold, and a few other clichés. It was amazing to me how much they just accepted the American girl who showed up one day. They taught me Hausa, and we joked, laughed, teased, and explained our different worlds to each other during the six weeks I was at the clinic. I appreciate all their help, kindness, and generosity, and I have been so impressed by the overall warmth and friendliness of the Nigerian people I have met here.

The staff at the eye hospital who I spent most of my time with.
Left to Right: Emmanuel, Salisu, Linus (bottom), Simon (top), Blessing, Hadiza, Lydia.

At the eye clinic I have done pretty much everything there is to do. I’ve worked on patient flow, bringing them into the exam rooms, and making sure they were in the right place. This was a bit of a challenge, given my very limited Hausa, but I know enough to tell the patients to come (“zo”), go (“tafi”), sit (“zona”), stand (“tashi”), and move down (“massa”). The patients were generally fairly delighted to hear the Bature speaking Hausa, and I was often told “Yau wa!” which means “well done” in Hausa. It’s also my absolute most favorite Hausa word, and I love to say it all the time.

A couple of the patients enjoying my Hausa skills

I have also worked on registration, and giving appointments. I’ve seen the screening for patient fitness before they are operated on. I have also spent a fair amount of time in the stores, taking inventory, receiving shipments, and more. I also spent two days managing the housekeeping department, which was a real challenge as they spoke almost no English. They were also brand new, and I don’t think that anyone had effectively explained their job description to them, so they weren’t happy when I came into the picture and told them to stop napping during their shifts. However, I eventually won them over by buying them doughnuts and letting them teach me Hausa.

I also had three major projects during my time there. The first was a study on the absentees. Every patient who has surgery is supposed to come back for a 15 day review and a 30 day review of the operated eye. However, unsurprisingly, not everyone shows up. So Senthil, the Program Manager, wanted to do a study on who isn’t coming, and how many people have been absent. So I went through their computer records of their absentees and cross-checked them with the actual paper files to make sure everything was right. After doing that, I compiled the data and sorted it by Local Government Area (sort of like American municipalities or counties) to see if there are people from certain LGAs, other states (people come from all over the north to the hospital) aren’t coming in higher proportion than their overall numbers.

Me reviewing the patient files for the absentee study

My second project was doing a survey of the review patients to see how the surgery affected their life. To be honest, this project didn’t work out as well as we had hoped. I think the translation was the major problem. The answers I got from the patients just didn’t make any sense to me, because they would respond to the question “what impact did the surgery have on you and your life-style” by saying “No impact,” which, frankly, I just don’t believe. Anyway, I complied that data into a spreadsheet, too, but I’m not as pleased with this project as I was with the other one.

Me visiting with patients in the men's post-op ward

My last project was the most fun to do. They have these cards with post-operative instructions—Do’s and Don’ts—for the patients. They are written in English, but do to the large number of illiterate people (and people who don’t even speak English, let along read and write), there are illustrations. However, these illustrations are cartoon-like, and they are of white people. They don’t necessarily look like what they are supposed to be depicting, and the people in them are not really something that the Fulani and Hausa men and women of Adamawa can relate to. So they had me take photos of real people, Nigerians who the patients will be able to identify with, doing the things the patients are supposed to do or not do. We arranged them all into the template, and hopefully they’ll print a copy or two to put up in the hospital. I’m hoping to be able to show it to you all in the US, but I was made with CorelDraw software, which I don’t have, and my computer can’t read the file, so I’ll try again on a computer somewhere else.

One of the pictures I took for the post-op photoboard instructions. This was for "get an examination if you feel ill"

I am really sad to be done with the eye clinic. I am going to miss the doctors, staff, and patients a lot. I think I will especially miss the people I worked with. However, the patients, inadvertently, taught me a lot about life and about rural living in the developing world. At the beginning of the summer session, KJ assigned me to define, among other terms, the words “victim,” and “agency.” We talked a lot about whether there really are victims or not, and about how, no matter how little a person has in terms of resources, wealth, food, shelter, and more, they still have agency. They still make choices for themselves, their children, and their families. They can use what little they have in many different ways, and each and every day they make conscious choices about how to do so. I think this assignment and conversation really influenced the way I approached my time at the Eye Hospital, because it was due during the first week, so before I really started there and got into the swing of things. Never once while I was working at the Eye Hospital did I feel sorry for the patients or think of them as victims. I was incredibly impressed by the way that the patients just carried on with their lives and made do with the resources they had after they lost the vision. I don’t think I would have approached the patients and their circumstances in this way had I not been required to think more deeply about the subject through the assignment and the conversations we had about it.

Most of the patients are completely blind (or pretty close to it), but they just keep on going. Not one of them just gives up. Before they came to the Eye Hospital, they were all still out in their villages, just living their lives in a new world of darkness. They still cooked, cleaned, participated in village activities, and generally went about their business. I was so impressed and inspired by the way they approach their lives. I know that it is because no alternative exists for them, but they all just accept the new challenges that come their way and keep on keeping on.

I think that one of the most valuable lessons I learned through this experience was not to view anyone as a victim. Looking at the patients and thinking that they have no agency does them all a real disservice. They may not have many resources, but they all make choices. They all got themselves to the Eye Clinic, and many mothers and fathers took days off from farming, working, earning, cleaning, and cooking to bring their blind children in to see Dr. Tulika. I think that in the West we often fall into the trap of sympathy and paternalism when looking at the lives of Africa’s rural poor. We think things like “oh those poor people” and “they are such victims.” But I think attitudes like that don’t reflect the reality of the lives of these people. The only people sitting around feeling sorry for them are Westerners. I have to admit that I used to see the world this way, but those little old Fulani women, tottering around the hospital, giggling from their toothless mouths, taught me a lot about the reality of life in the developing world. And for that, I will be eternally grateful to them.

Also, while I was at the clinic, I was lucky enough to get to meet Mr. Chanrai. I think I mentioned this in my first post about the eye hospital, but its funded by the Tulsi Chanrai Foundation, which is essentially the charitable organization set up by the Chanrai family, who are Indian businessmen and women. Apparently, they’ve done a lot of business here in Nigeria, and they wanted to give back, so they set up their Mission for Health (which is the Primary Health Project I talked about in my last post), Mission for Vision (which is their eye hospitals), and their clean water project in many different sites here in Nigeria. There are eye hospitals in Yola, Owerri, Calabar, Zaria, and another site that I can’t remember right now, and there are PHP in other states, as well as water projects, too. TCF already has many, many sites in India, and their Nigeria projects are doing a lot of good. Anyway, my time at the eye clinic coincided with Mr. Chanrai’s visit to Yola. He was here to attend graduation at AUN and go to the AUN Board of Trustees meeting (he’s a member). I got to meet him when he came to inspect the hospital, and he is really a remarkable man. You can just see how passionate he is about the work TCF does, and he loves the patients. It warms my heart to see successful capitalists giving back to the communities they work in.

Mr. Chanrai visiting with post-op patients during his visit to Yola

As I mentioned, he was here for graduation, which was on May 31. It was AUN’s first ever graduation, and it was a HUGE deal. The former Vice-President, Atiku Abubakar, who is immensely popular in Adamawa, and who is the founder of the university was in attendance. He founded the university so that there could be a world-class American-style university in Nigeria, and he provided pretty much all the money for it, too. He received an honorary degree. As did the Emir of the Adamawa Emirate. He’s about 90 years old, and I will add a picture when I get back to the US, because traditional Emir attire is, to be honest, kind of funny looking. If you can, try to google him. I don’t know if they have photos, but if they do, its worth looking at. The last person to get an honorary degree was none other than Desmond Tutu. Whom I love all the way into the depths of my heart. He also gave a speech, and I really liked it. He called on Africans to help each other, and he reminded westerners of our not-so-awesome history. He is all about peace, love, acceptance, and moving on. Plus, he is probably the cutest little old man I have ever seen in my life. His voice is incredible. If you haven’t ever heard it, you should YouTube a video of him speaking. There may even be a video of his AUN commencement speech; I wouldn’t know because YouTube, as well as pretty much any website besides Basic HTML Gmail, doesn’t work here. It was really fun to see everyone decked out in the finest outfits, especially because fine Nigerian outfits are so colorful, bright, shiny, and beautiful.

Peace and Me ready to head off to the graduation ceremony

Some of the excited graduates

Let me see, what else have I neglected to tell you thus far? Ah, yes, my class. In addition to working at the eye clinic, which was also part of a class, I took Intro to African Literature. To be perfectly honest, it was fairly disappointing. We read some good books, but there was no discussion in the class, and the professor required no critical thought from us. In fact, the only quiz in which I disagreed with the professor’s assessment of the book, he gave me a B on. On the other ones, I experimented by simply regurgitating exactly what he said in class, and he loved those ones. To me, that’s not a real lit class. Literature is supposed to make you think, challenge ideas, and have heated discussions with your classmates in which you discover more about each other and yourself. However, none of that happened in my class. He didn’t want to know what we thought. He wanted to tell us what to think. On the bright side, though, I did enjoy the books, though I thought the coursework was quite light. We read Things Fall Apart, Mission to Kala, Weep Not Child, The Beggars’ Strike, The Trials of Brother Jero, and Behind the Clouds. I think one of the things that most surprised me about the class, though, was reading the other students’ writing. I am honestly shocked at the poor quality of their writing. No one proof reads, no one spell checks, and no one knows how to form a sentence. I know that sounds really harsh, but the thing is that it isn’t their fault. Being the children of the wealthy and the elite, they had access to the best private schools in the country. However, even there, the quality of the education leaves a lot to be desired. Someone told me that there is no history class in secondary school. These students don’t even know their own past, and they are often more obsessed with getting good grades than with actually learning the material and being prepared upon graduation. It really makes me worry about what those kids who go to the public schools learn.

Being here in Yola has been a truly amazing experience. I’ve been lucky enough to see both sides of Nigeria. The elite, wealthy students who parents are almost all politicians and businessmen (many are in oil) who live completely differently from their counterparts here in Yola. The people of Yola, though kind, warm, and generous, have to watch their money, they work as farmers, laborers, salesman, and housewives. The difference in lifestyles, social strata, and resources at their disposal has been really remarkable to witness. I think that this exemplifies Nigeria well. It’s a place of contrasts, extremes, and stratification. But its also a place where some of the kindest people I have ever been fortunate enough to meet live, and I am so glad that I had the opportunity to come here. I don’t know if anyone who isn’t related to me reads this blog, but if there are any American students out there reading this, I would highly recommend studying abroad here. It’s an experience that I really could not have gotten elsewhere, and there is no way to learn from a book or a class or another person the things that you’ll discover about the world, Nigeria, and yourself here in Yola.

As I mentioned earlier, I am leaving Yola to go to Abuja on Monday morning. I’ll be working at the pediatric eye camp while I am there, and I am so excited to see the kids I met at the clinic get their sight back. I don’t know what my internet access will be like while I am in Abuja, but if I get a chance, I will update my blog about the eye camp while I am there. If not, I will do it when I get back to the US. I fly from Abuja to London to DC on Friday, and then I will be in DC Friday night because my flight gets in too late for me to catch one to Minnesota. I’ll stay at an airport hotel for the night and leave first thing in the morning for Minneapolis. I should be back in the Land of Lakes by midday on Saturday. Where will you be, and when will I be seeing you?!

The Bush

I’m sorry for the long gap between my last post and this one. It’s been fairly nutty around here lately. Tomorrow is the last day of classes, so as you can imagine I have had a lot of work to do for both my African Lit class and at the Eye Clinic. For African Lit, I gave my last presentation today on the Somali writer Nuruddin Farah’s “My Father, The Englishman, and I,” and I just finished typing my take-home final exam, and I’ll hand it in tomorrow. If you’re looking for a good read, I would suggest looking up some Nuruddin Farah. He’s a good writer, and his books are shockingly progressive and sensitive to the trials of African women; his portrayal of Somali women is surprisingly touching and accurate for a male writer.

Anyway, moving on from complaining about my workload, I wanted to write this post about the time I have spent out in the bush in the last week. On Wednesday and Friday, I was lucky enough to be able to go out with Dr. Sumit Kar, who is Dr. Tulika’s husband, and who runs the Primary Healthcare Project (PHP). It, like the Eye Hospital, is funded and supported by the Tulsi Chanrai Foundation (TCF) along with some cooperation from the Adamawa state government (they seem to mostly provide the vaccines and some other small items). Anyway, PHP is a really interesting operation. They have created 24 “Health Posts” in the Yola area. These Health Posts are basically small mini-clinics staffed by one or two Health Attendants (the number depends on how large the community they serve is). These Health Attendants (HA) have been trained by PHP and TCF for about 5 months in primary healthcare. They keep tabs on everyone in their villages, and they check in on “Priority Families,” which are those with a child under 5 and/or a woman of childbearing age (15-45). As you may imagine, this is almost every household in their area. They also conduct ante-natal workshops with expectant mothers, administer Tetanus Toxoid I and II, test hemoglobin, take blood pressure, and screen for blood sugar and excess protein in the urine (which is a sign of pre-eclampsia), When the time comes to have the baby, the Health Attendants deliver the child either at the Health Post or at the woman’s home, depending on whether the woman comes to her or sends someone to fetch her to her home. If the delivery is too hard, there are complications, or the woman is in labor for more than 12 hours, they call for the PHP’s ambulance to take the woman to the Primary Health Center, which serves as a low-grade hospital for the PHP. It’s staffed by women and men with more medical training than the HA’s, so they are better able to handle difficult deliveries. If the woman needs a C-Section or the PHC can’t handle it, they will send the woman to the hospital. Unfortunately, she will have to pay if she goes to the hospital, but everything that PHP directly provides is free.

Dr. Sumit took me out to some of their more remote Health Posts out in the bush to check in the Health Attendants (which he does weekly), and to see how their operation works. It was amazing to meet these Health Attendants, and I was so happy to see all the women who had showed up for their antenatal visits on Wednesday (they do antenatal counseling, etc. every Wednesday). Adamawa state has the highest maternal mortality rate in the world. I believe Dr. Sumit said the rates is around 1,500, and Nigeria as a whole is roughly 1,000. If you look up other rates, you’ll see how high that really is. I am no expert, but it seems to me that this is largely because women (and everyone else) have no access to healthcare of any kind. These Health Posts and Attendants are the first and only facilities for these women. So, further out in the bush and outside of the project area, if a woman has complications or if she hemorrhages after giving birth, there are absolutely no resources to help her, and she will often die as a result. 1 in 5 Nigerian children don’t live past the age of 5, and I would suspect that the rate is much higher in Adamawa. If you look at the case sheets of the women at the health posts, you’ll see that many of then have had 5 or 6 pregnancies, but only have 1 or 2 living children still. The PHP also works on children under 5, providing treatment if the child is sick, and supplemental feeding if the he is malnourished.

Health Attendant Aisha with some of the people at her health post in Philinjirgi.

On Friday, I went out with him again, and I got to see an immunization day at one of the health posts. They do them once a month, and they provide all the immunizations on the routine schedule from WHO. These include DPT, measles, polio, Hep B, yellow fever, etc. It had rained all night and all morning, which means that there weren’t as many mothers as usual. There were still about 90-100 women with infants and toddlers there, and it warmed my heart to see all them taking such good steps to safeguard their children against the many preventable diseases that cause the deaths of babies and children. I wanted to take a photo, so I asked a couple mothers if it would be okay, and they said yes. Little did I know what I had started. After I showed the women their photo on my camera, everyone in the room wanted me to snap them (that’s what people call it here “snapping” someone). That took some time, especially since you have to show them all the photo.

A C.H.E.W. doing an immunization day at one of the health posts

If I thought I got stared at and followed when I was in Yola and Jimeta, it was nothing compared to the stir I made out in the bush. There were people on the side of the road as we drove by (though “road” is really a generous term—dirt path is a more accurate term), and their eyes would absolutely bug out and their mouths literally dropped open as they say the Bature drive past. The little kids followed me everywhere, and, at one point, we went to visit a woman who had delivered the night before, about 20 kids and a goat followed me into their compound.

This was about half of the group following us around the village/health post. I am even more of a novelty in the bush

These are some of the traditional huts/homes that people live in out in the bush and away from the cities

Anyway, I really learned a lot on my two days with Dr. Sumit, and I enjoyed it out in the bush. I would love to share the photos with you, but, alas, the internet is still too slow. When I get back the US, I will go through and add the appropriate the photos to the right blog posts.

On Sunday, I found myself back out in the bush, again. We drove about 2 hours out of Yola on a dirt road to an area called Yadim, which is inside Fufore Local Government Area (LGA--states are divided into smaller administrative districts called LGA’s). We went out there because in the mountains near Yadim there is a waterfall. The drive to Yadim was fairly life threatening in a of itself, because after about 30-40 kilometers down a bumpy dirt road, we turned off the road, and drove through the grass, and over one terrifying rock passage that, if the car was off by 2 inches, would plummet you into a hole that would leave the car stick there for all eternity. Anyway, we miraculously made it through the drive, and then we parked under a couple of trees and started walking up. I think I should, at this point, explain that it was not made clear to me of exactly what "going to the waterfall" entails. I was told to wear long pants and tennis shoes and bring my swimsuit, and that was it. I was not told that we would be hiking straight uphill through what I would, generously, term a boulder-laden minefield completely covered by long grass that grabs your ankles and makes you fall. This was all, of course, happening between 10:30am and 2:30pm, which means that it was blazing sun and 95 degrees. I am usually a fairly good hiker, but I hadn't eaten breakfast (the caf doesn’t open until 7:30, by which time I had already been picked up), and I think I had heat stroke, making it a tad more difficult. However, since there is pretty much no option besides going up or walking back down alone, I made it to the waterfall. Upon arriving at the waterfall, it was clear that the hike was actually worth it (something I was questioning whilst stumbling up the mountainside). The waterfall was absolutely beautiful. We were down at the bottom of the fall (which is still at least more than halfway up the mountain), and apparently at the top, there’s a lake with a village next to it where the people live very traditionally, because they are so hard for the outside world to reach. I think some of the other people in the group who live in Yola permanently-ish might try to get to the top sometime in the future). The waterfall cascaded down into a pool at the bottom. Because the rainy season is really just beginning, there wasn’t too much water, so we could actually sit directly under the falls and get a nice shoulder massage from mother nature. We went swimming in the pool, which was about waist-deep at the most, and the water was actually quite cold, and, after the hellacious hike it felt really nice. After an hour or so of swimming and eating and laying out in the sun to dry off, we headed back down. Fortunately, the walk back down was much shorter, but I think the sand that was coating the pants and socks of everyone made it slightly less comfortable. If I thought the walk up was dangerous, the walk back down was absolutely treacherous, and as Rachel and I noted, it was an absolute miracle that we all made it down alive and no one went catapulting down the boulder-y mountain. We had some guys from a local village volunteer to bring us up and back down, which was incredibly nice, and they kept laughing at us a little because they can scamper up and down so easily and the Bature were huffing and puffing and slipping and asking them to hold our hands over tricky bits. I am fairly certain that they could have made it up and down three times in the amount of time it took us to get halfway up. An interesting example of how people adapt to their environments. They didn’t ask for it, but we paid them some money and gave them all out extra food and water and soda when we got back down to the cars. Also, we gave a small tribute to the Oga of the area, which is basically, the “big man” of the village. We actually passed through two Ogas’ land, and we refused to pay all of them on principle, but gave them a small tribute upon leaving as a thank you.

Our first view of the waterfall

Sumit, Rachel, and Me standing under the waterfall. Nature's answer to the neck massage.

The view from underneath the falls

We finally (and somewhat miraculously) made it back to the bottom on one piece. Please note my sunburn.

Unfortunately, I also sustained my first Nigerian sunburn on this trip. I had made it more than 5 weeks without burning, and I was hoping for a real victory in the form of a sunburn-free time in Africa, but, alas, it is not to be. It would appear that SPF-50 sunscreen, no matter how sweat-proof, is no match for the Yola sun, which was so intense. I applied it 3 or 4 separate times, but still got a little burned on my shoulders and arms. My face, however, isn't really burned. My back is scorched, though, because I completely forgot that I hadn't put sunscreen on it after I had changed into my swimsuit. It was only exposed for about 30 minutes, but there you are. It's not as bad as some of the ones I got when I was younger, and I don’t think it will blister or peel (which is a good sign skin-cancer-wise), but it was quite red for 2 or 3 days. When I went to get my shots and meds before I came to Nigeria, the nurse said that a side effect of the anti-malarial, doxycycline, that I am taking is an increased sensitivity to the sun, so she said I might sunburn more easily, but that a strange side effect is that it wouldn’t hurt. I don't know what the nurse was talking about, because it did hurt quite a bit, and my anti-malarials seem not to be removing the pain.

This post, in particular, is really making me wish I could post photos, because I don’t think my descriptions can do the waterfall justice. I will post good photos when I get back (in only 1 week!) so you can really appreciate the place.

It’s strange to think that I will be leaving for the US in only one week. It feels like its gone so fast, but I simultaneously feel like I have been here forever. I’m really going to miss my Nigerian friends at the Eye Clinic, and also at AUN. People here have been so great to me, and I am continuously struck by the generosity, kindness, and warmth of the Nigerians I have interacted with. As I keep saying to people when they ask me if I’ll come back, I don’t know when I will be able to come back, but I will most definitely back in Nigeria again!

I’ll be leaving Yola on Monday morning to go to Abuja. While I am there, I will be able to see and help out at the Pediatric Eye Camp, which I am so excited to see. I’ve seen most the children that the Yola Hospital is bringing because they’ve come in to be examined by the Doctor and then they have been at the hospital for a few days getting tests to determine if they are physically fit enough to undergo general anesthesia.

I am not sure if I’ll be able to get on the internet to post about the Eye Camp while I am in Abuja, but I will post one more time before I leave Yola to tell you all about my African Lit class, the Fulani Market, my work at the Eye Clinic, and the other things I have been up to these last few weeks.

On a side note, the phone network, Glo, which is what my cell phone uses, has been out for more than a week, so I am unable to make or receive calls. About 75% of the time I can get and send texts, but, when the internet here goes out too (which is does a lot), I feel completely cut off from the world, and I find it really frustrating not to be able to let people know if I am coming or if I will be late or anything. Also, the internet has stopped allowing me onto facebook, so those of you who are accustomed to communicating with me that way, I would recommend sending an e mail if you want me to respond to you.

I’m looking forward to seeing those of you in Minnesota in just a week and those of you in DC in only two months. I hope you’re all well, and, as always, shoot me an e mail or leave me a comment to let me know how you’re doing!

Bature Thoughts

Hello my people! This post, as you can tell from its title, is going to be about my take, as a Bature, on the things that I have seen and experienced here.

Being white in Nigeria is an interesting experience. Having never been a minority before in my life, I find it very strange, and to be honest, a little unsettling, to stand out in every room I am in. For example, my professor for African Lit calls role every morning. He doesn’t know anyone’s name, and he always has to look up after each name he calls to see if the person is raising his or her hand. However, he doesn’t do that for me. He checks my name off as he is calling it, because my presence is more than a little conspicuous. It also means that my absence from class is very noticeable. Which is something that I will have to deal with since I am planning on ditching class on Wednesday and on Friday so that I can spend the day out in the bush with Dr. Tulika’s husband, Sumit, who does children’s and maternal health out there.

Anyway, being a minority is really an interesting experience. Here, at least, it means that I get treated differently everywhere I go. Sometimes, this is a good thing; people will go out of their way to help me out because I am clearly new and foreign. But sometimes, it’s not so great. Vendors in the market always try to charge me far more than my Nigerians counterparts, requiring me to always ask my roommates how much something should cost me before I leave for the market and then to say to the vendor that “my Nigerians friends pay ____ naira. Why are you charging me more?” Don’t get me wrong, I really do appreciate all the help people give me, and I know that people just stare and ask me bizarre questions because they are interested, but sometimes I just wish I could blend in. I think that’s the thing I am most looking forward to about my return to the US. I can be completely anonymous, and I don’t have to constantly say “No” to various vendors, marriage proposals, and beggars. As much as I love the market and going out here, it’s exhausting to always be constantly noticed.

Overall, though, I think its good for privileged, white, Americans to be minorities for a while. I’ve never in my entire life been so aware of my skin color. I can’t help but wonder if American minorities always feel so conscious of it too, or if being raised as a minority and growing up in a more diverse society tempers it a little. If you have thoughts or experiences related to this questions, please let me know by commenting or e mailing, because I’d like to hear what you have to say. I, for one, have never thought so much about my “whiteness” in all my life as I have in the last 4 weeks.

Along the race lines, one of the things that has surprised and shocked me the most here, is that people commonly refer to their bosses as their ‘master.” Every time I hear someone say something about their “master,” I am amazed and slightly uncomfortable. I’m pretty positive this is because of America’s history of slavery, and what calling someone your “master” in that context means, but I’m still shocked at how frequently it happens, because I just don’t think it ever would in the US.

Something else that surprises me is the sheer religiosity of the place (for those of you who read the Georgia Nicholson books, you may be surprised to know that this is actually a real word). Everyone here is either Christian or Muslim. There are, I think, a very small number of people who still practice the traditional pre-colonial religions, but I haven’t met anyone who does. People don’t seem to mind if you are a different religious sect, but you need to be religious. I get a fair number of long stares when people find out that I am not Christian. I never tell them outright, because apparently my biblical name, Elizabeth, implies that I am a Christian, and I find it easier to let then labor under this delusion. However, if they ask me point blank, I tell the truth. I soften it by telling them that being Unitarian is sort of similar to being Christian. All the Muslims just assume that I am Christian already, and I have never once that one of them ask me what my religion is or what sect I am. There’s a maintenance guy here who is trying to convince me to be a Pentecostal, which I find amusing, and I resist quite firmly always.

I seem to shock people left and right when I tell them that my parents are divorced. I don’t bring it up, but when they ask me how many are in my family, I explain the whole situation. Most of them sort of look at me sadly, but some of then will launch into a tirade about how terrible divorce is, and then proceed to bring in the Bible and tell me that God said that divorce is a sin, etc. I respond by telling them that I agree that Americans divorce to easily and too quickly, but that I do not oppose divorce. Sometimes, if they still push the issue, I proceed to shock them again. Most commonly, they emphasize the wives should forgive their husbands and they can change. I always say that I think forgiveness is great, but that women should be able to leave an abusive husband, which is sadly, not uncommon in some of the more traditional elements of society. I say this firmly, and I defend the point, refuse to budge, and this makes me a “feminist,” which I find intriguing for a number of reasons. I also think its funny the different reaction I get here, when explaining my family situation, than I get in the US, where no one even blinks an eye when I tell them about my blended family.

My co-workers and I were, one day, discussing Bill and Hilary Clinton, and I mentioned that I really like Hilary, but that I would have divorced Bill for all his infidelity if I were she. I was, once again, told all about how wives should forgive their husbands, to which I responded that I would forgive him, but I would not be married to him any longer if my husband did to me what Bill did to her. The whole conversation was light-hearted, and we laughed a lot, both at my “American-ness” and at one of the boy’s reactions (the one who told me I should forgive), when I asked him if he would be okay with his girlfriend having lots of boyfriends, or if his wife had an affair. I think I proved my point fairly well, and know that no one changed anyone’s mind, but because it was all in good fun, we had a great time, and now we all tease the boy (Linus), about his millions of girlfriends, which makes him super embarrassed, and we all enjoy. For those of you who are West Jr. High alums, think Mrs. Barnes, here.

Another interesting Bature experience has been pidgin English, which is basically a completely different language constructed with English words. Some of my friends and co-workers have told me that it came from Africans not wanting to have to use the colonial language in the same way as their colonizers. They are also quick to point out how their creation of a new language using English words shows how smart the colonized were and really stuck it to the colonizers. I, however, find pidgin frustrating. This is because I can, obviously, understand the words that are being said, but I don’t know what the sentence means, if that makes sense. The grammar, structure, and meanings are completely different, but the words and pronunciations are the same. For the most part, people don’t use pidgin when there are talking to me, which I appreciate, but sometimes they do, or some phrases are such a normal part of their life and their speech patterns that it sneaks in. For example, “how are you” in pidgin is “how far?” This absolutely baffled me at first, because, understandably, I had no idea what they were asking, but now I just respond “fine” and keep going. That’s something else here. You aren’t “good” or “well.” You are fine. If you feel sick, you are not feeling fine. This also surprised me at first, because in the US, if someone says “I’m fine” it’s often a sign that they are not okay, or that they are just being short with you. Here though, it means they’re well.

So, I am sure you have all been anxious to know how the years-long vegetarian is enjoying her time in this very meat-intensive country. Answer? I like Nigerian meat. I still plan, however, to be an American vegetarian, though. I thought that it would bother me here, to see the live chicken shortly before I eat it, but actually, I like this way better. I like that any chicken I am eating today was definitely alive yesterday. The chickens, cattle, goats, occasional pigs, turkeys, and ducks, here just rove about the countryside, eating the grass (and, in the case of the goats, pretty much everything else). They don’t live their lives smashed in cages inside factories, and they aren’t stuffed full of antibiotics, vitamins, chemicals, and other crap that I don’t want in my body. They run around outside, are cared for well by their owners (because their livelihood is so closely tied to the health and girth of their animals), and then they are eventually sold and quickly slaughtered. I enjoy knowing that chicken I eat in Yola, was raised in Yola. I have no idea where the frozen chicken breasts you can buy in American grocery stores come from. Is the chicken you eat in Minnesota from Minnesota, or is it from California? When was is slaughtered, and how was is cared for? Personally, after a few months of meat-eating in preparation for this trip, I can say that I vastly prefer Nigerian meat to their American (frozen) counterparts. I’ll continue to eat meat here, and I particularly like these meat pie things they sell in to-go cafes and a kind of beef called suya, and I like the chicken a lot too, but I am going back to my vegetarian ways upon my arrival in the US. If nothing else, this trip to Nigeria has reinforced my American vegetarianism.

This is how they transport cows to and from the cattle market in Yola. They are usually slaughtered and eaten shortly after.

This is suya, a sort of beef kebab cooked over an open fire and chopped up. It's very tasty.


This is the cow my suya came from. The suya guys plopped this down while I was taking a photo of the fire.

Now, what is to come next doesn’t really fit into the “Bature Thoughts” theme of this post, but as it happened yesterday, I think it should be reported in this blog post. I suppose, actually, that upon further reflection, this fits into more of a “Bature Embarrassment” theme. So, I go to the Eye Clinic Monday-Saturday. The clinic is basically shaped like a giant rectangle with a courtyard-type space in the middle that isn’t really used (though sometimes relatives will sit in there while they wait). The walkways are outside, but covered overhead to protect from the brutal Yola sunshine, and they have cement floors. There are railings and wooden benches along the edges of the walkways where the patients sit to wait until they are called into the Doctors examination room. So, anyway, I was standing outside interviewing patients that were sitting on the benches waiting. I had been outside for about 20 minutes, moving down the line asking them (through a translator) how the surgery had affected their lifestyle (ex: being able to go back to work, being able to things for themselves, etc.). I felt a little lightheaded, so I told the translator that I was going to go back to the air conditioned office and sit down for a second and drink some water. I don’t actually remember what happened next, but, based on my current bruise pattern, I fainted, and I fell into my left knee first and then collapsed flat on my face on the cement. It would appear that I passed out before I hit the ground, because, considering the fact that my hands have no scratches, bruises, or dirt on them, it would seem that I made no effort to break my fall. So I fell straight onto my face on the concrete. I have a couple scratches (very minor) on my nose and mouth, and the inside of my mouth is a bit of a bloody mess since my teeth smashed right into my lips when I fell. My bottom lip was swollen about twice its usual size yesterday, but it has since deflated. I also chipped one of my front teeth a little (it’s very small and hasn’t done any damage to the actual health of the tooth). Mostly, though, my pride is severely bruised. As I said, the patients were all waiting outside, and I think about 50 people in all may have seen the Bature fall flat on her face. Actually, when I try to picture what I think it must have looked like, it was probably quite an amusing thing to witness.

Across from this courtyard are the cement walkways I passed out onto. They were not particularly forgiving on my face.

Everyone was outrageously nice to me post-pass out, which I think actually increased my embarrassment. The translator was there immediately after I fell, and he helped me walk back to the office, where I sat down, and then Dr. Tanko came in and took my blood pressure, and Dr. Tulika came in right away, too. Long story short, it seems like I was just standing in one place for too long, and I probably locked my knees, too, for a while, which, in combination with the heat, meant my blood was pooling in my legs and not going to my brain. Apparently, this is quite common, and it actually happens to the patients a lot, so no one was really fazed by it. In the US, I would have been made to go home right away, but, fortunately, they let me stay, but kept me sitting down. I liked how much everyone was fairly nonplussed about it. It helped to alleviate some of my embarrassment, and I was able to just go back to interviewing rather than having to go home and dwell on it. I mean, they all made sure I was okay, but then it was back to business as usual. Dr. Tulika took me back to her house afterwards, though, and made me a delicious lunch of gooooood north Indian food, and then took me to the University Club to swim with her and her son. I had a good time, and I felt much better. Actually, I felt much better about 15 minutes after fainting, but there’s nothing like a good meal and relaxation to restore the spirits completely. I spent today sleeping and resting, and I feel much better.

This is Tulika, she's really awesome always, but was especially nice to me yesterday!

Anyway, you shouldn’t worry, I am feeling perfectly fine, I have decided to view the new chip in my tooth as a nice permanent reminder of my time in Yola. As I mentioned, I will be going out into the bush with Dr. Tulika’s husband, Sumit, to see his work on primary care, which I understand to mean mainly maternal and child health. I’ll be sure to update after that, and I’ll let you know what I’ve been up to recently at the Eye Clinic (apart from providing the entertainment for the waiting patients—both with my accented Hausa and with my fainting performances!). Let me know how you’re doing. I’m excited to see many of you soon; I get back in less than 3 weeks. I’m not sure I am ready to go, but it’ll be nice to clap eyes on you all again!

Hausa Update

I have added considerably to my Hausa vocabulary since my last post. Here's what I know:

Numbers:
1. Daya
2. Biyu
3. Uku
4. Hudu
5. Biyar
6. Shidda
7. Bakwai
8. Takwas
9. Tara
10. Goma
11. Goma sha daya
12. Goma sha biyu
13. Goma sha uku
14. Goma sha hudu
15. Goma sha biyar
16. Goma sha shidda
17. Goma sha bakwai
18. Goma sha takwas
19. Goma sha tara
20. Ashirin
21. Ashirin da daya
22. Ashirin da biyu
23. Ashirin da uku
24. Ashirin da hudu
25. Ashirin da biyar
26. Ashirin da shidda
27. Ashirin da bakwai
28. Ashirin da takwas
29. Ashirin da tara
30. Talatin

It continues on in this manner until you reach 100. Then it takes a different form, but follows a similar pattern. I wowed my co-workers with my counting abilities yesterday, and I think it helped me to win over the housekeeping staff, whom I was supposed to be managing for the day, but who did not want to do what I was asking them.

Useful phrases:
Sannu--Hello
Ina Kwana?--Good morning (Response: Lafi ya)
Ina Gaji Ya?--Good afternoon (Response: Ba Gaji Ya)
Na wa ne wannan?--How much is this (for use in the market. You will then procede to bargain.)
Kyao--Good
Na Gode--Thank you
I--Yes
A'a--No
Babu--Nothing (used to respond to "what are you doing?")
Oga--Boss
Bature--White or foreigner (the Indian doctor is considered a Bature, as well)

I really like learning Hausa, and my co-workers seem to generally enjoy teaching it to me. They also enjoy my accent. The patients all greet me as I walk past them (they line the various walkways while they wait--and so do the relatives who accompanied them to the Eye Hospital), and they always laugh and smile when I am able to reply in Hausa. Sometimes they try to keep talking, and then I am in over my head, but they seem to be pleasantly surprised that I know anything.

It just really reinforced my previously held belief (acquired through my various travels), that it is usually greatly appreciated if you make the effort to learn a few words in the native tongue where ever you happen to be. Just knowing how to say "hello" "how are you" and "thank you" goes a long way, even if you switch to English afterwards.

I've been very surprised by some of the AUN students' complete lack of interest in learning any Hausa, which is the main language used in the area, and is spoken widely throughout Northern Nigeria and is a sort of lingua franca in Muslim West Africa. I've been told a number of times that my very limited Hausa (what's written above is the extent of it), is still more than many AUN students know. Which I just find strange, but, also, being a foreigner, I do not have any sort of stake in the ethnic, geographic, or religious cleavages that exist here. I just like learning more languages, and I like being able to (sort of) communicate with the patients and my co-workers in their own languages. I'll keep you posted on my Hausa progress, and I'll let you know if I learn any Fulani, which I probably will, as many of the Hospital's patients are Fulani.

I hope you're all well, and you'll be amazed to know that (a) I am slowly but surely getting acclimated to the heat here and (b) I have not gotten sunburned yet!

The Crackpots and These Women

Happy June! I can’t believe that my time here is almost half over. I’m surprised by how much I have really gotten used to my life and routine here. I’m loving my work at the Eye Clinic, and I have bonded with my co-workers there, which makes being there both interesting and a lot of fun. A couple of them have taken it upon themselves to teach me Hausa, which I am very pleased with.

But, I digress. As those of you who are as obsessed with The West Wing as I am will know, the title of this blog post is also the title of one of my favorite episodes of the show. The basic premise is that Leo McGary, the chief of staff for President Bartlet, once a year invites people who might otherwise have trouble getting the attention of White House senior staff to come to the West Wing and meet with them. It’s known among the staff as Total Crackpot Day. The episode also serves as a sort of ode to the women of the West Wing. And, while the topic of this post is not about unusual lobbyists, it is about total crackpots and these women.

Who are the crackpots, then? Nigerian drivers. To be perfectly honest, I am half convinced that I am going to either (a) die in a horrific car crash or (b) witness a horrific car crash. Dad, you, of course, remember the driving in Georgia, and I have told some of you about it in the past. Well, Nigerian drivers make Georgian ones look like little old ladies puttering down the road. I think there might officially be lanes, but they are universally ignored, and the rules of the road are that there are no rules of the road. People zoom around one another, with barely a centimeter to spare, swerve into the other lane when the road gets too bad in their path, and just drive on the wrong side of the road for a while rather than being forced to do a U-turn, which would take, you know, a whole 2 more minutes.

Adding to this insanity are the achabas, which are basically just motorcycles, which zoom around everyone, on both sides of the road, going in all directions. There is, technically, a helmet law, but it is generally ignored by everyone, except on days when the police randomly decide to enforce it. I don’t actually know how achaba drivers know when the police are out checking, but they all seem to find helmets and wear then on the days when the police are checking, but they promptly disappear again the next day. I’ve never seen it, but apparently, right after the law was enacted, the police were fining people all the time for not wearing helmets, so some people started wearing calabashes on their heads so that they had something that looked helmet-ish on their heads and wouldn’t get pulled over. Anyway, besides the simple danger of weaving in and out of traffic every which way without a helmet, its absolutely incredible the number of people and objects they will pack onto one achaba. Passengers will carry wood, iron bars, huge gas cans, and even mattresses, which stick out a few feet on each side and in front and behind. Of course, because they are holding onto their belongings, they are not holding onto the driver or the motorcycle with anything but their legs. To really add to my anxiety about the roads, they will also pack on far more people than should ever be on one achaba. Imagine a regular sized motorcycle. It should be able to safely and comfortably seat 2 people, a driver and a passenger. However, that is not exactly how Nigerians see it. They pack on as many people as they possibly can. The most alarming thing I have ever seen here was FOUR school children, ranging in ages probably from 5-12 (ish), in addition to the driver. I hold my breath, cross my fingers, and pray that they all stay on the achaba as I drive past.

Basically, as best I can tell, there’s a bit of a code for the drivers. You honk when you’re passing someone. You honk when you want to pass someone. You honk if you’re close to an achaba, you honk if someone looks like they might crash into you, you honk if you’re passing a friend, you honk at the Bature girl whose walking on the side of the road (in and of itself a bit of a life-threatening activity), you honk if you want to be noticed, and you honk if you are feeling like you haven’t made enough noise recently.

Interestingly, Nigerians will stop for goats and cows because if you kill one, you have to pay its owner for it. And, if you kill a female, sometimes the owner will try to charge you for all the kids or calves she would have had. They especially like to do this if you’re a Bature of if there’s one in the car.

Aside from the crackpots, this post is also dedicated to the women of Nigeria. This sounds corny, but I am just going to barge on regardless; Nigerians women are some of the most amazing, confident, beautiful, well-dressed women I have ever seen. I love that most, if not all, still wear the traditional dress at least half of time. The bright colors, head wraps, and beautiful tailoring are amazing, and I love the mixture of colors, patterns, and styles you’ll see on the streets.


Rachel is wearing traditional clothing. Rachel, and most other educated women, really wear the Nigerian clothes as much or more than they wear western clothing. I love the colors, patterns, and cuts.


Also, traditionally, many of the communities and societies within Nigeria are very patriarchical, and you’ll still find this rigid male-dominance in many places, especially out in the bush. You can see it in the way the men and women from the bush act and interact at the Eye Clinic, and it’s also still true (though to a lesser degree) in the towns and cities. But that doesn’t stop these Nigerian women from being confident, outspoken, and strong. You can see it in the way they walk and the way they talk to each other and others in the market.


These women work in and shop in the big Fulani market in Ngorore.

They have also proved to be some of the warmest, kindest, most helpful people I have ever met in my life. They go out of their way to help me out, and they often shoo the various people and kids who stare or follow me around in the market away. They are also the ones who try to talk to me at the Eye Clinic, and the little old Fulani women have proven to be the most adorable people I have every encountered in my whole life.

They cook, clean, farm, give birth (which is no easy feat in Adamawa state, which has the highest maternal mortality rate in the world), raise children, take care of their husbands, and do it all with dignity, grace, and pride. They are just incredible, and I am fairly well in awe of them all the time.


Nigerian mothers waiting to get their children immunized.

Today’s Hausa Lesson:
-One—Daya
-Two—Biyu
-Three—Uku
-Four—Hudu

Ali, the man who drives me to the Eye Clinic every day (and who speaks 4 languages—English, Hausa, Fulani, and Yungur Song) has promised me that I will be able to count to ten by the end of the day tomorrow. I would also like to learn to say “yes” and “no.” I’ll keep you posted on my Hausa progress, and you should keep me posted on how you are all doing, what’s going in your lives, etc!