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Saturday, December 10th, 2005. Pearson International-----calendar
I complete the taping and labeling of my box in the departures area. The Air Canada check in officer frowns at my ticket, and does some looking back and forth between her terminal and my paper ticket. Is there something wrong with it? Or is there something wrong about me going to Nigeria? Why aren't you excited, lady? It's probably the Emirates airline portion that is out of the ordinary. But it is a strange way to start a trip- somehow, it feels like my good luck fairies are not surrounding me as usual. Was I really meant to do this? Luggage is processed, my backpack goes last after a delay- I have it wrapped in plastic, so that it's secure and hard for an idle airport worker to get into. There is a lot of valuable stuff in this sucker.

Wearing my carry-on, my big backpack no longer possessing handles to speak of, I carry this new object in my arms like a baby, like a body:

transition
chrysalis borne in my arms
foreboding what end?

All the packages pass x-ray with no issues. Why didn't this person ask about the switches and coiled wires in my back-pack?

In the departures lounge, I speak with my old room-mate Sean Ward on the phone until I become panicked about departure time, confusing it with the boarding time on my pass, and hastily sign off. How terrible would it be to miss the very first connection?

In our conversation, Sean reminds me that life itself is a risk. He is absolutely excited and floored by the trip. I tell him about Google Earth, and he downloads it. Upon running it, he proclaims it to be 'ill': that is to say, its coolness nearly debilitates one. With Google as our starting point, we pontificate about the state of things, linked by the internet, Sean's new telephone medium.

talking through the strands
wide world, wound round, found in web
imagining earths


Unexpectedly, Sean reveals something about Lagos to me I never knew- Paul McCartney was there once, recording. He and Linda were out at night, and they were accosted by a group of people who riffled through their equipment, escalating the situation, threatening their lives, until Linda started to call out “This is Beatle Paul! It's Beatle Paul!” and this fame apparently saved their lives..

Air Canada shows me the lights of Montreal, the quiet, impotent bastion of St. Pierre et Miquelon, and a flicker of the east before the view fades and I take some sleep.

The dawn eventually finds the edge of Ireland, a beautiful greenness. Upon crossing over to Wales, I see a farm of wind turbines, spinning away, lining the squirming contour of a ridge. Must be a 100 MW range site, judging by the numbers, though they may be old. There are heights before London. I am confused by their look, until I realize that fog rolls in the valleys, making the landscape strange to my eyes. There is a haze of smoke around London; we pass an old factory, spewing smoke over this dense, this land-enveloping, this one-and-only metropolis.

Sunday, December 11th 2005. -----calendar
Heathrow

By mistake, I pass through security for connecting flights and enter the gaudy, commerce-ridden passenger area. I experience low-grade panic about not being able to meet my friend Dan and his girlfriend, recent arrivals to the UK who will hand off a battery lantern and solar panel that I shipped to them. I speak to officials, and after a series of inquiries I am allowed to go back 'land-side'; I am directed through a special hallway. I emerge through one of those doors one sees in airports that look unguarded, but are marked “restricted area, do not enter” from the other side. Minor disaster averted. But London Heathrow is old, bustling- no quiet places to sit in evidence. I feel bothered, and push until I land in the sitting area of a Burger King to collect my thoughts. I manage to kill several hours getting some pounds from an ABM, buying a tuna sandwich and fruit cake, reading travel advisories about Nigeria and Dubai, and memorizing the picture of Obi, the man who will meet me at Murtala International Airport in Lagos.

While taking down the tuna sandwich, I chat with a British woman who works for a large clothing and accessories company. She is traveling to China to one of their factories. She is planning to go back to uni soon. She no longer wants to work in a job where they are “creating an artificial demand for things people don't need”. I find this really interesting.

I go to the public concourse area, taking a moment to stand outside where the buses arrive. London has a certain moist smell that I remember now. I try to orient myself, if only momentarily, to its stance as a city. As the appointed meeting time approaches, I stand by the “Meeting Point” that I e-mailed to Dan as a rendez-vous spot. For fun, I make a sign like all the other people here waiting for people, even though we will recognize each other. They arrive, bringing excellent organic food and company. We sit in a quiet area I have found, eating out of Tupperware and witnessing the tantrum of a young black child- it is quite impressive. No match for his mom, though, even though his theatrics make us want to applaud, especially the lying down and swooning part. Dan and Alena tell me about their ultimate frisbee game, and the place where they got the food. Alena tells me a little about what it's like to do a graduate degree in economics here. I mention my fears about Lagos, and my quandary over whether I would accept an invitation to drive around it to kill time or not. Solar panel and lantern fit readily in carry-on, but begin to worry me- will the bag be weighed? If so, and they're rigid and exact about the weight limit, I'm screwed- what on earth could I leave behind? Can I convince them by trotting out the NGO story, and then crying? It's soon time for me to go; Dan and Alena understand my paranoia, and my desire not to inform my girlfriend over the phone that I've missed my flight. They depart, a seriously good-looking couple.

The lantern produces questions upon security check. Politely: “What is the device, sir? Does it have a battery?” while thinking inwardly “Sir's got some s'plainin' to do about this high-periodic-table element that is blocking our x-rays”. Once I start to explain, they're cool with it. I begin the posh portion of my trip on EK—4. A mix of wealthy people seem to be on the flight. I check out the luggage. Hell, I should have nothing to worry about! Some of this stuff doesn't look like it meets economy spec to me, and they can't all be traveling first class! One sees women wearing hejabs, Indians, traditional sheik-style people, plain but wealthy-looking white people.

The Boeing 777 has a forward and downward looking camera. Also, it has a flight map with altitude, external temperature and ground speed readouts. One can send e-mails, plan video games, watch TV, or listen to music.

Posh or not, I'm not impressed. The flight leaves 1 hour late- what is this going to do to my 45 minute connection in Dubai? Trouble ahead. The gentleman next to me assures that Emirates is “very good” and will take care of everything if it's a connection to one of their flights. Foolishly and lazily, I accept this, and settle into the posh. We pass over Germany, curve over the west end of the Black Sea, and approach Dubai along the border of Iraq and Iran.

The moonlit, snow mountains of northern Iraq remind me of nearby Afghanistan. They are beautiful- there is a sense that they are normally occult, seen only due to my current magical circumstances. I shroud my head with the sleeping blanket, blocking out the cabin lights so that I can make out the stars. Occasional remote isolated patches of light in the mountains are evident. It is impossible to discern any detail of places like Tikrit; only lights appear. The somewhat neutral landscape becomes a backdrop for a mental struggle: should I decline an opportunity to drive around Lagos, to be safe? Does it matter that much? Is there really a choice- how much should I fight for control over this aspect of my trip. Does one ever know when one decision or outcome is threatening one's continued existence? How have I come to this time and place, where these issues have taken up residence in my mind?

Monday, December 12th 2005.-----calendar
Before dawn, we are passing the last dry mountains of Iran before the Persian Gulf. A gradient from black to orange through blue is now evident on the monitor and in the sky. By the clock my connection to Lagos should now be boarding; we are in the air, descending but still 20 minutes out. An island just off the coast o the UAE shows the broad circle of an oil holding tank, and the fiery flicker of a gas flare. I am beginning to question my assumption of Emirates perfection and competence, since my 7:30 AM flight to Lagos is not listed on the screen of the 777 as a possible connection- the list starts at 8:00AM. The final moments of our landing reveal the unfamiliar outlines of mosques, stone buildings, palm trees, a lack of grasses.

I follow in the wake of a traveler, a younger girl who looks like I feel. Trailed by a flight attendant, she sounds panicked as she makes her way to the front of the aircraft, trying to be first off, apologizing. I fall in between her and the flight attendant- sounds like about the state I should be in. A male travel attendant hails me: “Wear it! Wear it!” as I carry my bag, dangling its back straps, over my head with great effort not to bump people in the head. He perceives that I would cause less grief to fellow passengers by wearing it on my back. As I reach his position, he stops me to ask “Are you American or Canadian?” recognizing I have no British accent. Based on my answer, he speaks in French (testing me?) I reply in ugly French. I then say “Tu parles beaucoup des langes. Tu viens de Morroco?”

Fool! Just because the only person I've known from an African country that was a former French colony came from there, I open an interesting can of worms that I only learn about later.
“Ah! Please..” he says. Smiling, he takes my hand, holding it for longer, as is the tendency on this continent. It is as if I have overstepped some bound in my response to a tease- he seems to be reaching out to be gracious in a social situation that I have created without knowing it. Someone else says something equivalent to “Let's not go there!”- I can't remember the exact phrase. I want to be polite, but can't really linger, smiling at him briefly and saying goodbye before continuing to beat my way to the front of the plane.

Later, my companions Elizabeth and Kwamme answer my question about the episode by informing me that Moroccans have a reputation for causing trouble and being extremists, undeservedly. Whenever something happens in. Thinking of my friend Omar, I realize how a few bad apples can spoil the fun for everyone else- he is a gentle and reasonable guy. Wow, was I accidentally giving a clever, lagging comeback to the steward's assertion that I might be American? Oh yeah, well you look kinda Morrocan to me! In the end, the guy was most likely trying to reach out to calm a stressed traveler.

Dubai

Like the girl in front of me, who will turn out to be Elizabeth Moubarak, I spill my connection woes and demands to the most authoritative person I can see around me. A bus arrives, and the ground personnel inform us this is our best shot. Kwamme, Elizabeth and I first form a bond on the bus as we realize we are in the same predicament. We are being taken to the terminal. Emirates has not produced a special bus to take us directly to our plane. Though I don't know it now, this most probably dooms us. The Dubai airport is huge; no gate corridor for us, though, just a staircase to the tarmac. We waste time getting in and out the bus, and would have wasted more attempting to run back out along one of the airport's massive radial arms. Inside the terminal, we break up into slightly different paths, but all gather again with an official who tells us that ouru flight is gone that we will please come with him.

None of us are amused by the fancy Dubai airport or the fake torches of gauze lining the shopping mall-like interior. We gradually discover that we will be given a hotel room with vouchers for food, and given the next possible flight. Because I was not to continue to Accra, like Kwamme and Elizabeth, I will have a different flight from them. The three of us all have the feeling that we are a stronger force to reckon with Emirates Airlines as a group, though Kwamme is older and more experienced, and would probably be fine as an independent. We are all indignant at our allotment of a 3-minute free International call- what is this, the police station?

Both of my new companions are Ghanaian. Kwamme has been living in the UK for 15 years, though, and Elizabeth has a dad with mixed roots and a Lebanese mom, so neither of them are black enough to be granted a Ghanaian passport, as I find out later. She has been studying in Montreal, and is returning home for the holidays. Together, we pass through the Dubai airport that is fantastically modern, shiny, and empty. The passport control area is the size of a convention centre display floor, with a low forest of red plush crowd separators.

The passport control officers are all regal-looking UAE women dressed in simple black veils. They are perfect for this intimidating position- they radiate a sense of superiority and independence. One feels dispensable in their presence. According to what I had heard, women that are UAE nationals generally do not hold jobs if they have any station, and job they are permitted is more of a whim.

The officer I encounter inspects my passport, looks at me, inspects it again. She says to me:
“Sir?”
I collect that she finds my picture incongruous- 5 years ago, I had long hair and no beard. Is she also inferring that I appear effeminate in the picture, making the question a simple literal one? Knowing the attitudes toward things like cross-dressing and homosexuality in this and neighbouring countries, I feel somehow ridiculed, and at the same time informed that I am tolerated as another Western amusement that is not a serious threat. Perhaps being on the move for 24 hours, shifting multiple time-zones, naiveté, and ignorance are making me paranoid.

Whatever the case, Dubai inspires caution and awe in a first time Western visitor. Everyone is professional, attentive, and respectful as appropriate. Most everyone I interact with, however, is also not really from around here. They are Muslims from Malaysia, India, Sri Lanka, and other places, performing service jobs and providing the workforce necessary to run this city. They make more than at home, and the UAE gets a decent price for labour, everyone happy. But this is completely different from the atmosphere I will find in Africa, where everyone welcomes you personally to their country. Perhaps this is what creates my slight sense of unease and caution- I really do not meet my hosts, I only know that they are quietly living out a culture that I poorly understand, and have the sense that they do not feel the need to tell me about it. I am aware of them- I guess that they are the ones walking in robes and turbans, showing me their gold, their museum, shopping alongside me in their lanes of jeweled commerce. I'll bet if I asked someone, they might be friendly. But I don't know who to ask.

The ruling family of Dubai can bankroll the amazing developments here- the 7-star hotel Burj Al Arab, the incredible main waterfront street 8 lanes wide with massively tall buildings, the international Dubai film festival, the golf course. 3-story tall billboards advertise the upcoming Palm Island, a man-made complex of new land that foreigners can purchase and own. Impressively, waste water is used to drip-irrigate succulents that help hold the soil and other plants against the heat and dryness. Dubai aims to be a world class tourism city, not just the financial capital of the Middle East. I know that Elizabeth Moubarak, even outside the context of her distress, would say that this wealthy nation thinks it can buy what does not exist on its own. Is growing a garden in the desert the same as fostering a culture of free speech that will produce provocative films and art? What can I possibly know of the potential and culture of the people of the UAE? They will build the tallest building in the world (British contractors will probably help build it), but will they build a relationship with the rest of the world that will make them come here?

Kwamme thinks Emirates has purposefully made connections in Duabi short so that people will miss their connection and spend time there in a bid to increase tourism. Ah well, if they want to pay for the hotel, I'll pay for a tour! It is Kwamme and I that decide to spend $30 USD on a bus tour of town. Elizabeth will sleep in her room, catching up with us at our next voucher-sponsored meal.

The tour focuses on buildings: large hotels, new office buildings. Many beautiful towers have been constructed along the river that runs through Dubai, reflecting the light artfully. We visit a museum that shows what the original settlement of Dubai was like, when it was still a commerce centre, but home to pearl divers and their palm thatch, wind cooled houses. A brief river-boat ride is part of the tour, as is a visit to the gold shops- an avenue where every store is a jewelry or gold store. Finally, our path takes us to the Burj Al Arab, the famous seven star tower-hotel that stands out in the bay. Rather than taking pictures of something that surely has excellent postcards already, Kwamme and I walk down to the surf. There, I get to wade into the Persian Gulf- slightly warm. The way home takes us past huge office towers and the partially developed site of the tallest building in the world.

Tuesday, December 13th 2005.-----calendar
My stupid flight to Addis Ababa requires that I check in at 2:00 AM. After sending some e-mails, and packing some sand for my friend Gord, I get about an hours sleep before waking at 1 AM. I drop in on Elizabeth and Kwamme before leaving, as we arranged, and exchange contact info. Then it's off to the airport via shuttle. I take advantage of a free ticket change to improve my return ticket, getting a flight directly to Heathrow instead of Gatwick, and then clear security with the ever-interesting solar lantern. I try to emanate a respect and deference to all the folks I see wearing robes; they seem really dignified, traditional, powerful. The Arabic voice over the public address system gives everything an exotic feeling, even though the words have the familiar cadence of flight announcements.

The lineup for ET603 is huge, boisterous, stressed. Except for an Asian guy with “Team Manilla” on his jacket, I am the only non-African in the line. I experience a momentary surge of panic that I've not arrived early enough, but things work out, and I head off to make the 40 minute trek to my gate. That's right, Dubai airport is huge. I have work to do when I get to the check in; I must tell the desk that a transfer request for my baggage has been put into the system, and that they should be receiving it. I have the interesting experience of being the last person to board the flight; they have me hang on until the last moment to see if my bags have been placed on the plane. The last indication they have is that they have not.

The plane is older. Upon arrival at my seat, I have trouble finding a spot for my bag. I move someone's duty-free bag. Should I have found out whose bag this was first? The person next to me is a nurse from Lagos. Like many other Nigerians, she has gone on holiday to Dubai to shop. But she has a different temperament- I think only Mommy Orok reminds me of her in retrospect, and there is only a partial relation.

She is sadly amused by the ruckus over baggage caused by the women behind us over where a bag will be allowed to be placed. Already, I have the sense that I am among a more aggressive group of people. But not my seat mate. She states
“It's not worth it. Life is too short” and smiles wistfully.
I tell her I have come to see Nigeria. I try to explain why, and share my anxiety about Lagos, wondering if she will provide me with some answer. She says
“It's good for you to come and see how it is here. Just like it would be good for me to go to North America, and see what it's like there.”
Out of nowhere, she states
“We don't listen, and we don't learn. And the men don't respect the women.”
That's a tough line to follow. I'm unable to formulate the right question, except for something that makes her say
“Oh, there are people. But there aren't many like them.”
I ask her what she did in Dubai. She says
“I looked at a lot of nice clothes. I took some pictures of myself.”
I ask if she has a digital camera, wondering how common that is. She says “Take a look, in here.”
I look in her purse- it is a regular camera.
“Are you in the fashion industry?” I ask her. A second passes, and then she says
“I am a nurse by profession.”
I somehow ask her what the challenges of that are. She tells me that some people take a salary, but they don't really work. She trained in Lagos, and was working in Ghana, where she made a good salary. But, she had to return to Lagos, because that's where her parents are. “But you keep doing it anyway, because it what you're made to do.” I assert. She smiles, nods. The nurse is actually not well. She doesn't want to eat the tomato and scrambled egg we're given. Perhaps she has some professional objection? She is cold, and tries to wrap the small Ethiopian airlines blanket around herself. I think about it for a second, and then tell her she can have mine too if she likes. “I like the cold- I'm from a cold place, remember? I won't use it anyway.”
“That's ok.” she declines.
I offer it again a bit later, and she accepts it. I know that the worst part about being cold on an airplane is your feet, and state so. She smiles, lifting her feet, and I wrap my blanket around her feet and lower legs, because she has pinned her arms at her sides with her own blanket. She says “People from around here are more sensitive to the cold.”

Part way through the flight, I look around at my fellow passengers, some of whom I recognize from check-in. One of them is looking back- a man is staring at me. When I meet his eyes, he continues to stare. Is it his duty free bag that I have moved? Is he staring at me with a scowl because I am white? Has he been observing my conversation and interaction with the nurse, and disapproves?

I fuss about this for awhile, as I just look in my own space. Eventually, I decide to explore it. I get the attention of the man immediately across the aisle from me, who is sitting next to the staring dude (who isn't currently staring, thank goodness). I point at the overhead bin in a questioning manner, saying “duty free?” He seems to understand after a moment, and shakes his head, pointing at the compartment above his head. When I try to act out the same thing with the staring man, he holds my gaze for just a second and then looks away, completely disinterested and ignoringme. This denial of a common interaction makes me nervous as hell and starting to believe something really is going on, and makes me think his is deliberately expressing some kind of disrespect.

Addis Ababa, Ethiopia

Addis Ababa is in a mountain valley, as we see from the 757 travel map on our approach. We pass over scraggly trees, earth, simple houses, and arrive at the white steel and glass airport. Very pretty and modern- but my paranoia over the staring man won't let me enjoy it. I feel I am finally experiencing racism and fear of the other, but now in the extreme minority position. Is this what it feels like? Upon our deplaning, we are among the remaining passengers, and the offending duty free bag is still up there. I have already made sure I was the first one up, and that I restored the bag to its original position immediately. Staring guy is also still here. I point at the bag, trying to convey that I will pass it across to him if he desires. He hold my gaze and then looks away again, the same response as last time. My passage through Addis airport is a preoccupied, paranoid and questioning one. I also have to fuss about the transfer of my luggage- did it make it on the flight, or is it coming later? Meh, that doesn't really matter too much. I wonder about security here, and how people will react if this guy does something. How do they view me, a white traveler? I try to stay around my friend the nurse, the one person I know.

Security is a bit different here, in its placement and procedure. We pass through a check before getting into the connecting flight lounge. A uniformed officer holds us back, and then lets us through a few at a time into a glass room with a detector and another uniformed officer. After we both pass through, the nurse asks me to guard her things while she goes back into the airport to buy some coffee. I wonder if this would be even worse other, bin the eyes of the staring man. I thought I saw him join our security line, but don't see him here. What if he tries to take advantage of me when we get to Lagos.

But this is just a paranoid fantasy, or at most a limited interaction. I never see him again.

Everyone on the Lagos flight is pretty noisy. When I arrive at my seat, there's a woman in it. She is immediately defensive- I have the wrong seat, according to her. I actually believe I've made a mistake (those seat labels can be weird sometimes), assuming the best instead of using my eyes, and shift my bag to the other side of the plane. When I need to pass her, she behaves like it's some great trial. It turns out, she just wants to sit next to her delicate baggage, so she wants an aisle seat. When the stewardess talks to her, at first, she just ignores her, staring straight ahead, but you can tell from her sigh that she knows the jig is up. Eventually I do exchange some words with this lady on landing, but rest of the time she is standoffish and curt with me.

Near the end of the flight, I meet a Nigerian called David, who is sitting at the back of the plane where I'm filling out a customs form with a borrowed pen. He's just come from China. He is my first exposure to a young Nigerian that wants to be your friend. Of course, I have to give him my e-mail address; being forewarned, I have a separate account that I'll used for this purpose just in case. He is really friendly, as he tries to think of question after question for me.

Upon arrival in Lagos, things pass through an uncertain phase for me again. I join a flow of people headed for customs. David fades in and out of the line, at one point mumbles to me “any goods to declare?” I shake my head no. Now, the context of fellow passengers, a definite schedule, and an assurance of peanuts and plastic cups has slipped away. My anticipated interaction with the customs officials is approaching.

People helpfully direct me out of their line to the passport control line for non-Nigerians (which is a lot shorter) There is no problem, though the Dutch guy man in front of me is going through some hassle over his passport. Baggage is slow to move onto the belts. I wait just in case, and guess what- eventually both bags appear! I approach the “nothing to declare” door, which is flanked by uniformed officers. To me, they say- absolutely nothing. Hey, right on! No need to give the long description and validation I've prepared in my mind of everything in my bags.

But waiting for the baggage has made me late. And I have failed to tell Obi that I am flying Ethiopian Airlines now, which arrives in a different area. The only thing I managed to tell Obi over the phone from Dubai was the new day, and the new time. On my way out of the airport, I'm welcomed by an airport greeter of some kind, young, who has friends that have trained in Canada for telecom stuff. I give her the e-mail address too. Her brother (maybe?) who is also greeting, says
“I give you my sister”.
“Ha ha, no..” I reply “you can not give away something so valuable to a stranger.”
“Is she not beautiful?” he asks
“Yes, anyone can see that.” I conclude. Huh, what the hell is this for?

It's my fate to spend some time alone with the cellphone swindlers and the eager taxi-cab drivers. It is confusing on the driveway outside the airport. There are taxis, and the roadway is controlled by a gate at the end. Parallel to this road is what looks like a public road. I turn down a few taxi offers, and then there is a man who wants to let me use his cell phone. I don't see Obi on the sidewalk. How far into this place can I expect him to have penetrated? From the cell-phone man, I gather that the roadblock at the end of the road is where people wait to meet travelers. I walk there, and along the way fall into the questionable wing of two traditionally dressed Nigerians. They are aggressive: “Do you need a taxi? Do you need to make a call?” After I explain that I am meeting someone, they say “You call him. Give me the number.” I say “No, first I check to see if he's already here.” I walk up to the boundary, where 6-7 men are waiting. None of them shows a sign of recognition, or of checking me out, and none looks like Obi. I return to the guy in the red suit, and give him Obi's number. He has answered, thank God, and is already here. Of course, first the red-suit guy is having the conversation. I demand the phone from him. It will turn out that he was waiting for me in the area where Emirates flights arrive, a different one from this. There are actually floors with exits.

I wasn't aggressive enough to ask up front how much the cell-phone call would cost. $10 USD. Not seasoned enough here to say no, too nervous and intimidated.

Both Tawo and Obi stride up to greet me. I'm not sure if it's them at first, but it seems pretty likely, and Tawo introduces himself and I recognize Obi. I already know a lot about Tawo; he is Monica's co-worker at One Sky's Calabar office. Now everything gets easier. Obi phones his friend whose taxi we've chartered. Tawo is hilarious, and Obi is friendly and capable- though a bit annoyed and worried that I wasn't showing up. I find out later that Monica has charged him adamantly with the task of “getting me to her in one piece”. He already knew something was strange, because there's never an Emirates arrival in Lagos at noon. It turns out Obi knows an awful lot about this and other airports- his ambition is to become a commercial pilot, and in a month he will leave for training in South Africa.

We begin to drive to the domestic airport to get tickets for Tawo and I on the next flight to Calabar. I am glad I am in the care of this friendly pair, and not needing to look after myself logistically, because my first exposure to a large African city requires all of my attention.

Lagos

To an inexperienced North American, Lagos is necessarily alarming. Every familiar background signal- traffic flow, sidewalks, vegetation, the way people move- is interrupted and replaced with unfamiliar ones. Motorcycles buzz around cars, weaving in and out of each other. Uniformed men with machine guns stare at us, pointing to the ground at their feet like they want us to stop, but we carry on. Everyone is honking all the time. Weathered, half-finished buildings loom- are they crumbling, or being constructed. It is later that I learn that some of this look is simply the toll of the tropics, but this and all the other things I see build an apprehension in me. This is not a place I feel I want to be. It is human for the unfamiliar to become threatening- but the truth is that I have no ability to discern real danger here. All of this is normal- motorists arguing with armed police at road blocks, chickens in the street, stone gutters, gated compounds next to palm huts, two dozen tattered power lines sagging from pole height to two feet off the ground. But without my companions, who are willing to interpret it all for me, I would take much longer to feel comfortable with this. It will take the full 3 weeks of my stay for these scenes to be common and anticipated.

We are in a beat-up Peugot, with only one seat belt. “Welcome to Nigeria!” says Tawo, laughing. He is learning about Lagos, too, so he has been asking questions too. I have an easier time understanding Tawo's accent so to my embarrassment sometimes he translates Obi's questions to me. When they lapse into pidgin English, I can't understand either of them. Dat take de looong time for me to understand-o.

I ask if having a white person in the car changes the reaction of the police to us. We have been stopped once, and Tawo and Obi both had to get out to speak to the officers. “Why are you making this trouble for yourself?” Tawo starts. After some bickering, our situation is cleared up, and we proceed. Later, Tawo tells us how he brandished his convention badge for the UN conference on climate change that he just attended in Montreal. He complained that all we were doing was returning from this youth UN summit to get to a hotel.

“Our police are very silly here” Tawo explains to me. “They will stop you for anything, just to check your car, and sometimes if they find something wrong, they will fine you (thus getting something for their troubles.)” “But if there is a Western person in the car, police will stop to made sure we are not taking you to a shady business deal, or trying to trick you somehow. They are ensuring your safety.”

This is kind of reassuring, actually. It is true that I have received respectful treatment from every police officer I have met here, despite how they may behave towards the other people in the car. I have heard, though, that having a white person in your car won't keep police from stopping you on an evening out, and screaming at you to pullover. In these situations, if you give twenty Naira (about twenty cents) you can go. Otherwise, you can sit there for 4 hours.

We head into one of the compounds to hit a popular eating spot. It is my first taste of several things: the stone gutters with cement bridges leading to each establishments, the common shop offerings of digestive biscuits, bananas, and boiled eggs, and random chickens in the street. We go to Big Mama's eatery. Inside a TV displays a strange children's musical. Picnic tables sit in a blue light, the colour of the walls under the fluorescents. When we come in, the lights and fans are on. At some point, they go out, until the establishment switches to their generator. I learn later that many businesses and households have such back-up power.

Obi helps me order. I say that maybe I'll try the Nigerian favourite, garri, but Obi gets rice with plantain and fish for me instead, saying that visitors have trouble with the food at first. I order a Star beer with the meal. Shit, they are big! No matter, I am being shepherded here. Over the food, I learn more about Tawo and Obi. Obi is from Lagos State, Tawo from Cross River. Obi came to Cross River State for school, and he and Tawo became inseparable friends in the University of Calabar, so much that their classmates jokingly referred to them as husbands.

The fish is definitely spicy, but good. I finish a lot of the rice and plantain, but fill up quickly. Tawo and Obi wait for me to give up, then we call our chartered taxi and return to the domestic airport. Obi leaves us there, after frowning as I attempt to stuff my ticket into my money belt. “What the hell's that? Don't worry, you don't need that here- you can keep your ticket in your pocket.”

Tawo and I get to converse a bit in the waiting area. A man sits with us for a moment, wordlessly holding out some DVDs for sale. Both of us are quite tired from traveling- he returned from the Montreal conference only yesterday. He tells me of the recent Bellview crash- some domestic airlines have maintenance problems. In the words of many Nigerians I meet here, this is partly due to the lack of a 'maintenance culture'. Tawo is a bit worried about the flight, actually. Shit- it appears that of all my fears, this one is quite valid. We have chosen the airline with the best reputation.

Well, time to board! We walk out onto the tarmac, where a loose contingent of airport workers wait to scan us with metal detectors and take our tickets. We ascend the staircase. Tawo and I start off sitting side by side, but we are told to seat ourselves on opposite sides of the plane. There are only 20 people on this Airbus 320. Perhaps they are evenly distributing weight? Good to know they're thinking about that. The plane's windows are dirty. The interior is worn and tattered in places. It is a blast doing the flight with Tawo. We continually exchange ironic glances as we move through pre-flight announcements.

When a crash occurs, I think it's usually in the first 15 minutes, or the last. As the the plane accelerates to lift-off speed, I am reminded of my father and the flying lessons he gave me when I was at home, and how critical and sensitive these two phases of flight can be. The checkpoints through this little risk distribution I face, over time: 5 minutes to live, 50 minutes to live, 3 weeks more to live. Then, the same risk landscape when I return to Canada.

Everything is fine. Now 50 low risk minutes? It is getting cold in the plane, and I can see Tawo is feeling it. Remembering the nurse, I offer him my grey sweater, and like her he accepts on the second offer. Hey, that sweater looks good on everyone, particularly Tawo..

Eventually, I start to see orange, flickering lights below- a constellation of fire. Sometimes there are the faint outlines of a sort of lit complex. We must be passing the Niger Delta, and these must be the gas flares. To think they are so visible from this height is disturbing. I will not get any closer than this to one of these raging infernos- I promised my mom.

The plane starts to sink, in the usual way. It is a short flight. The pilot comes on:
“Good evening, distinguished ladies and gentlemen. We are now descending into Calabar, and God-willing we will arrive safely”. Click.

Ha, I bet they talk like that all the time. Tawo and I still exchange a muffled laugh. God apparently wills it and we touch down safely. Three more weeks of different risks now!

Monica has arranged a fan club at the airport with signs. I skip out on the wait for baggage and step outside for a wheeling, spinning hug. Our baggage arrives, and we head to the Tawo family car. Tawo's brother Ene drives us to the Orok family's house.

Calabar

The streets still have an unfamiliar feel. Concrete bridges, sharp palm fronds, a chaos of motorcycles. Whatever vague images I may have formed are cleared away as we travel the streets. It is so busy, even after dark. I learn later that this is not the case in many Nigerian cities (especially Lagos); in such places everyone goes in their house and locks the door beyond a certain hour. We pull up to the gate of the Orok household and drive in. The rest of the family and Alysha, the NGOCE intern working on HIV/gender issues, walk into the yard to greet us. Then, I enter the Orok living room for the first time, welcomed by a spicy plate of spaghetti and tomatoes. Though it is breaking all my spice boundaries, I am determined to finish it to prove my mettle.

The TV blares in this room (the grid is currently functioning) but it is still visually dominated by a large portrait of the Mommy and Daddy of the house. Daddy passed away about a year ago. He built this house, was a pharmacist, and then most recently a lawyer, as one can see from the other photos around the perimeter of the room. From the portrait, it looks like he was a bit of a joker, too.

I unpack my magic box of goodies, because Ekanem is itching to see her sewing machine. Besides the excitement of a foreign visitor (one strongly hyped by my beloved), the contents of my baggage have also built some anticipation, and given me the theme song “Barry Rawn is coming to town”. A laptop, a tiny hand-held sewing machine, books, a PV demonstration system, and a solar lantern all make their debut, in addition to a number of other small goodies packed into every available crevase.

The mosquito net in Monica's room was down, so we set up her tent- safe from mosquitoes, but really hot inside! I wonder if this is really how hot it's going to be- pretty extreme! I am so tired that this doesn't present a barrier to me sleeping like a log.

Wednesday, December 14th 2005.-----calendar
First working day in Calabar. I enter the washroom, and have my first bucket shower- there is lots of water here, but shower heads are less common. It's really refreshing to dump cool water over your head, rinsing off the sweat of sleep. A small ladle bucket is used to draw from a big 15 L bucket. First breakfast of fried plantain and eggs, with a bit of spicy tomato sauce. Hey, pretty good! Today will be the final meeting of CREN, the Council for Renewable Energy in Nigeria, before the holidays. It takes place in the backyard of the One Sky office, in a compound called Sacramento Estates at the north end of Calabar. Monica has been living with the Oroks for almost two months now in the south of Calabar. So, I get to have my first ride on a motorbike, the standard method of transportation here. There are plenty of bike-men cruising the streets. They are individuals who have acquired a motor bike, and choose to make money driving people around Calabar.

Monica hails a bike-man. She asks him
“You know Sacramento Estates?”
He nods.
“How much for two?”
He looks at us, then says
“Two hundred.”
“Ogah, you know dis is not de price.” says my girlfriend, with a smile and a reproaching tone. The bike man smiles shyly. He knows that we know. It should really only be 120 for the two of us. He agrees to this, and we hop on the bike, me in the middle because it's my first time. I adjust the chin-strap of my helmet as we start off, trying not to bump the head of our driver with my headgear.

Is it weird for three people to ride on a motorbike? No, on this ride I see my first family of 5 out on their Frajend. Is it weird to wear a helmet? Hell yes! I think I saw 3 other people with helmets my whole trip. The bikes weave in and out of each other, flowing around cars and wheeling at roundabouts to find their way. I see later from a Lonely Planet map that Calabar has a hybrid grid/radial layout, but I know from the first that I won't be able to find my own way around in this place. Street sign sometimes exist, but are difficult to spot. One recognizes the street by checking the signs of businesses, which seem always to state their full address. Maps may exist of Calabar, but the only way to learn these streets is through practice. One most depend on the knowledge of the bike men and of the people in one's immediate vicinity. The major thoroughfare of Marian road is dusty, with a white and black striped median; it possesses two-way traffic on both sides, due to some construction. Putting centre lines on this road would be pointless, because potholes continually necessitate deviations to the other side of the road.

Sacramento Estates is a gated compound with a guard station, and a tennis court in the centre. Several of the neighbours are well-off expatriates; each house has a luxurious back and front yard. Speed bumps regulate speeds on the road inside the compound to a crawl. House 6 has its own gate, and bars across its large windows.

The back yard is where the CREN meeting is held, under the shade of a large tree. I help set out cookies and water, and Monica shows me a pineapple growing- a single fruit projects from a star of monocot, sharp edged leaves. Lizards skitter and pause in the grass and own the walls with equal ease, stopping to raise and lower their multi-coloured heads.

The meeting is scheduled to begin at 10 AM. In Nigerian time, this actually means an our or so later. Coming 45 minutes late is arriving a bit early. For the Type A personality who wants 10 things to happen a day in a linear fashion, this can be frustrating. But the in-exactness of start times can also be a bit of a relief; there's a bit of give in the schedule.

The meeting is attended by students, professors, business owners, community representatives, and local development workers. We read through a proposed constitution together, taking turns. There is a discussion of proposed action items, and a sign-up for committees. Then, we are packing up chairs. During the break, I have already chatted with Engineers Jackson and Ene, two lecturers at the Cross River University of Technology (CRUTECH). I learn a bit about their interests and their school. Now, at the end of the meeting, I speak with two students Dave and Nelson. Dave studies electrical engineering, at CRUTECH, and Nelson studies environmental protection, at the University of Calabar (UniCal). The latter was the same degree that Tawo took. We talk about renewable energy. They are excited to talk to me and know me, partly because renewable energy is such a specialized field, but also because I come from a North American city and institution. For no other reason, everything I say has an instant credibility, as I have been warned. I try to ask to hear more about what they think, and what they want. David is excited about making the world a better place. I tell him this is the attitude I think all engineers should have. It crosses my mind that maybe engineers in the developed world don't experience the same excitement because of their privileged lifestyle. That said, there are plenty o f people here just trying to get something for themselves, or just trying to stick to what makes money so they that they can survive.

After speaking with Dave and Nelson, another student who volunteers with One Sky called Toulou helps us pack up chairs. He is a serious guy. We get into a conversation before we finish- rather, I sit down and listen to his earnest description of what is wrong with his country. He speaks factually and densely, projecting none of the cheerful enthusiasm of Dave and Nelson. Instead he is grimly ambitious, to be taken seriously. He wants to leave, to do a MASc in renewable energy, and then return. I try to tell him about the barriers to implementing a renewable energy infrastructure as I perceive them, and admit that I don't know how the barriers would be different in Nigeria.

My first working day ends in a nap and some TV/living room time, where I am taught how to say good morning and good night in Effik, the dialect of the tribe the Orok family belongs to.

Thursday, December 15th 2005.-----calendar
The Orok's neighbourhood has a lot of similar gated compounds, each one shared by several houses. The Orok's compound is right next to a church. It can be active at all times of the day and night. We wake to the sound of carols, backed by the usual church back-up band. This morning, we visit another NGO, called NGOCE. It is Alysha's home NGO. Walking in, one sees a set of tables. A university student volunteer, who hails us, is sitting to the side. She is almost finished exams, but has 3 tomorrow, starting at 7am. At the tables are girls between the ages of 8-15, reading books from the resource library. Some are about reproductive health, some are about Jesus (I think there's a whole lot of other topics too). Further inside are the offices of staff. We meet some of them, taking a break. One man shakes my hand, telling me that people outside of Africa never hear the whole story about Nigeria. I meet Innocent, the man that has been making CREN's website on the Go-Daddy hosting server that I arranged from Canada. He wants to start making a living from programming, and that is why he took on the volunteer project of CREN's website.

We are here to sit in on a meeting between Tawo and Odigha Odigha, the head of NGOCE and and the national coordinator for CREN. He is a famous environmental activist, based in Cross River state. His previous efforts were directed toward the preservation of the rainforest. He radiates an authoritative presence, but part of that presence is a calm kindness. The purpose of the meeting is for him to hear Tawo's report on what happened at the youth portion of the UN convention on climate change in Montreal.

The next stop is Sacramento Estates, for the final office meeting of the year. Everyone sits in a circle and runs through their impression of the year's events, and of their interactions with co-workers. Monica's performance is assessed by everyone. I sit in an adjoining office, updating my journal and taking naps in what still functions as a bedroom in this compound-house turned office.

When the meeting's over, it's time for a celebratory office lunch out. I am invited too. We pile into the One Sky cars, and head out to a popular lunch spot, where I will soon get to try the local staple, garri. It is made from the nuts inside the cassava. They actually have to be pressed to get rid of the cyanide, and then ground to produce a flour. From this flour, a heavy paste called garri is made. One takes it in the hand from a bowl, mashes and kneads it a bit, and then uses it as a vehicle for goat or chicken meat.

The restaurant is slightly down a dirt alley, with a narrow patio in between two parts of the building. Monica and I are sitting at an umbrella table with Blessing, the One Sky maid and cook, and the three yard and guards men: Solomon, Uket and Immanuel. At first, it was just Blessing and us, while the others sat against the wall in chairs, under its shadow. We have moved our table off the concrete of the patio into the dirt area to the side, and adjusted the umbrella so that so that they sit with us and still be in the shade.

They are amused by my garri-eating attempts. Though I make a valiant effort, I can at most get two thirds of the way through my allotment of garri and goat. The goat has a strong taste, with a slight spice to it. It is good, but the garri is so thick that it fills m eup quickly.

After the late lunch, Monica and I head to Mary Omaji's house. A civil servant, women's group leader and development worker, she is planning an energy needs assessment in a village she works with. Her expertise is in gender and HIV issues, but is a CREN member who has attended many meetings. She is curious about what potential renewable energy -based solutions may have in alleviating the village's energy poverty. Though neither of us have any direct experience with such an assessment (with me lacking even indirect experience) we have come to tell her what we know about technologies suitable for rural lifestyle, and discuss possible information it might be useful to gather. We also plan to help her with some internet research.

Mary's house is down a paved street with a number of larger houses, with stone fences. On the way there, some little children appear and gain on us from behind, one of them wearing some kind of grass headdress and no shirt. Monica smiles and slips me some crumpled 20 and 50 Naira bills. She explained quickly and cryptically (since they are almost upon us) that they are pretending to be a masquerade. As I find out later, real masquerades involve elaborate costumes and a band of merry-makers that perform antics, and harass people to give them money.

The grassy kid overtakes me and jumps in my path, in an imposing stance. He waves his arms, shaking the grass, and making some emphatic noises. I enjoy the show, trying to project awe and intimidated respect, and then hand over the $0.75 CDN. Best return I've giving money to someone on the street.

We arrive at Mary Omagi's, and she gives us each a Coke. We sit down in her garage, which has a big table in it. Mary Omaji tells us about the average day of a village woman. She'll usually have a small plot of land she must take care of, to raise yam and other vegetables to eat. If she's lucky, there may also be a chicken or goat to be managed. This is how she spends her morning, from before sunrise. The afternoon must be completely dedicated to the collection of firewood, to do the evening's cooking. This wood may have to be collected as far as 10 km away. Probably there will be no lunch, because it is a busy day. The fire is a basic one, on stones.

We talk a little bit about solar cookers, efficient cookstoves that use less wood and release less particulate matter, and recording time/activity budgets from observations of people's daily and seasonal behaviour. We tell Mary Omaji we don't think we're qualified to come with her to do the assessment, but that we will try and provide her with info about previously done work. Mary re-iterates her interest in the subject, and mentions that she thinks her son, who wants to study engineering, should get into renewable energy. She tells us how he was interested in marine engineering, but that she advised him that this was not a line of work for a Christian man.

Why? Because as Monica reminds me later, there is an old African belief that the sea is the domain of the devil, of evil spirits. Mary tells us the story of a man who made a compact with agents of the marine world, and as a result ran a successful shipping business. As a token of their relationship, apparently the marine people gave the man a cross with candles on it that he was meant to keep burning all the time. As the story goes, the man one decides to join a church. There is an immediate reaction from the marine world-somehow, a letter appears placed on his desk, in a locked office, with no windows. It asks why he has attempted to start a relationship with God, and reminds him that he belongs to them. The man takes the letter to his pastor, who tells him that he must give up his business, but that he can always belong to God. Mary finishes the tale a little self-consciously by saying “that is some African magic”. There is an feeling, that this makes it acceptable for me to not understand or believe, without offense. At the same time, it leaves its validity and truth unchanged for her. The price? Accepting the notion that we are from different cultures, different worlds.

We head to the NGOCE office, not done for the night. Alysha has offered to take us to th AIDS hospice where she is working part of the time. It is not yet sunset, so there is time to get there in the light. We head out, the 3 of us taking 2 bikes.

Because Cross River State has at 12.5% HIV infection rate, it is one of the only places in Nigeria where retrovirals are available. The hospice is placed in the capital, Calabar, where these drugs are distributed. Some people must travel in from the villages to receive their drugs, so the hospice is a safe place where they can stay overnight, and even get a meal. It was started several years ago on a small emergency allotment of funding and the hard work of some people with faith its necessity. The original funding was enough for 8 months, and it has since found other sources.

The hospice used to be some kind of hospital. Yellow and brown buildings house beds, a small kitchen, and an office for the young man in charge, Moses. There are about 8-10 people here tonight, over half of them women. Some are sitting or standing outside on the gravel driveway. We enter the room where they sleep with Moses and Alysha. Some are sitting up in bed, some laying down. The barred windows give a view of an old barbed wire fence, and admit the dying light of evening. We come in to visit and make small talk, and at first it is kind of awkward. I attempt to speak with the woman next to me, but she doesn't really offer much. It is hard to make casual conversation when the only thing you know about a person is such a daunting fact. The dominant thought in your mind is “I'm sorry you have HIV. What is it really like?”. Instead- small talk. I also feel like being male, in addition to being a foreigner is making her less likely to talk to me.

It turns out one of the women in the room is named Monica, so my girlfriend has gotten some free conversation material. Soon there is a general conversation going on, facilitated by Moses. Somehow the question of being white or black comes up, and Alysha elaborates on how it doesn't make a difference. Now that a white person has said it, does it make it true? We didn't really come up with that thought as a group, and there are probably many reasons for that. I wonder if the starting point of the conversation was the fact, which is undeniable, that any person can contract HIV.

Some of the men come back, and I joke that now I have someone to stay with in my half of the bunk room, which is separated into men and women's quarters. I I now get someone I can talk to. He is a driver at Obudu Cattle Ranch, a tourist destination about 5 hours away that Monica and I will visit next week. I talk to him about fixing cars, about fishing, and fish and animals. There is a mutual difficulty due to our accents.

Sometime during our conversations, the glow from the windows has abruptly fallen to nothing. Sunset here is never a lingering affair. We continue to talk, in the dark. Eventually, it is time to go. Moses gives us a final farewell chat in his office, answering our questions, and he waits with us while we find a bike man who knows the street we live on.

At home, Monica and I discuss how awkward it felt to talk to people at first. She tells me that our presence was meaningful, no matter what it felt like. The hospice doesn't get many outside visitors, and its clients are very moved when someone, especially white people, come to see them. Why especially white people? Because there is a sense among some people, especially those who are HIV positive with AIDS, that black is dirty, that their disease is dirty, and that no one has a reason to care about them. Alysha's insistence that AIDS has no colour barriers is something hard for them to believe.

As I will find out later, there is also a belief among many here that the emergence of a cure from the West is suspicious, that the disease too must also have come from the West. To be exact, the Americans. I see this theory brought out at least once, with a finger pointed at me literally. But fortunately, there are many Nigerian HIV/AIDS workers that strike this theory down.

Friday, December 16th 2005.-----calendar


Even though the One Sky office is officially closed, we have an interesting meeting to go to today. CRUTECH, the Cross River University of Technology, is planning to start a renewable energy research centre, and has arranged a meeting between Monica, Tawo, and myself with the principal of the institution, Dr. Ekwere, and 4 professors, one of them visiting on sabbatical.

CRUTECH itself is arrayed down a long, grassy hill, a series of long, yellow, narrow buildings marked “Physics”, “Civil Engineering” and other departmental names. Grass and trees fill the space between the buildings. Solar panels at the top of tall poles dot the campus, powering streetlights. But besides this, everything else has an older feel, like someone is occupying these buildings after some intervening absence.

We meet in Dr. Ekwere's office. She is business-like but welcoming. The physics prof, who currently teaches a solar energy course, is already here. He has brought a copy of the government's master plan for renewable energy in Nigeria with him. Once, during the meeting, we find out what it is, Monica eyes it hungrily.
“Could we borrow that to make a copy, please?” she politely asks, barely containing herself.

The university has a clear understanding of why a renewable energy research centre makes sense- they're just not sure how to go about setting it up. They want to start with a research centre, because it's entirely within their power to declare right now, and requires no accreditation. Later, they can begin to develop graduate and undergraduate programs. We mention that such centres and programs are still uncommon in Europe and America, and that their effort is timely and commendable.

Engineers Jackson and Ene have interests in solar, battery technology, and biogas digesters. They raise concerns about where funding can actually come from. Dr. Ekwere wants to focus on the high-level aspects of structure, and not descend into engineering details. She cuts short a few engineering rants during the meeting. It is kind of neat to see that engineering academics are the same everywhere. She also refuses to entertain Engineer Jackson's assertions about funding; I get this sense that our help in the form of mere advice is somehow inadequate.

At some point, Monica starts to move the meeting towards actions, identifying constructive tasks that each faculty member can take on, pledging on our side to provide examples of existing centres and obtain contact info. She is supported by Dr. Ekwere, who takes on the task of researching the structure of these research centres. It is amusing to watch her handing out tasks to professors, but, then, that is my beloved at work. Tawo shoots me an amused look.

As we leave, I get an invite to come back sometime and talk engineering, which I follow up on the next week. We stop by Unical, the University of Calabar, to arrange for a photocopy of the precious governmental report on renewable energy. Then it's off to the Internet café to try and pull out some sample energy needs assessments, and print out some facts on renewable energy for Mary Omaji. Unfortunately, we only find one partially relevant study, and forget our printouts as we leave- we didn't leave enough time, and feel half-ass.

Nevertheless we make a second visit to Mary Omaji's house, where we get to meet her husband. He is almost finished his PhD in philosophy. He has been studying Ghandi's methods of passive resistance, and wants to argue as his thesis that it is what Nigeria needs. Somehow- and this is the wild part- his thesis also links this to the approaching thousand years of peace when Jesus Christ comes back to rule all mankind. Passive resistance is the way there. Somehow this is all set up in the thesis, but it would probably take reading it to get this, and doctor theses can be pretty thick. Mary Omaji gently ends the rant of her thesis embroiled husband with an amusing observation, and with self-deprecating good humour, he leaves us to our meeting.

Mary Omaji comments that she was glad to hear Monica start last week's CREN meeting with a prayer and by crossing herself. What I forgot to mention is that most meetings in southern Nigeria, even minor ones, have an opening prayer and an agenda (kind of funny for people who don't seem so time conscious). The first CREN meeting didn't have an opening prayer, but someone pointed out the omission and it's had one ever since.

Mary Omaji asks Monica if she's Christian. She replies that she tries to learn from all religion. Mary starts to explain how important it is to be Christian, because you can't get into heaven if you don't know Jesus.
“What about a person like Ghandi, then?” asks Monica, genuinely wanting to know. “He did a lot of good things, and probably was a lot more like Jesus than many of us. But he wasn't Christian. Is there a chance he might get into heaven?” Hmm. Good question, dear. Mary frowns a bit.
“He may have done a lot of things, but there's only one way to enter the Kingdom of God.” she finally says. In this, I feel like there still is, therefore, a chance, but I'm not sure if that's what Mary means.

I didn't know this- Ghandi was a late starter. He was actually trying to become a lawyer in South Africa in his 30s because he couldn't make it back home when he got involved with a local labour dispute of some kind. Then, all the rest is history.

Saturday, December 17th 2005.-----calendar


We drive to the CRBC TV station, where a massive hand sculpture marks the gates, and check in at the guard house for Monica and Tawo's TV interview with Gloria Odigha. Gloria is Odigha Odigha's sister, and wanted to do an interview when she heard about Tawo's trip to Montreal. She has also interviewed development interns like Alysha. This time, Monica gets her turn and is there to push awareness of CREN in Cross River State, and Tawo's future involvement in it. After a brief wait in a lounge with leather couches, Gloria comes in to talk about what the interview will hold. Then, we head to the studio. I get to sit in the back on yet another leather couch in the cavernous studio, and gawk at the Christmas tree set in the corner that I have already seen on TV several times. Wild.

A bit of a Muppets show is what will precede the interview. As they wait, Monica comments that this is one tough act to follow, and that she is a tad intimidated. At some moment, Gloria interrupts the Muppets sequence with an apology.
“Sorry, children. I know that you have been very interested in this program. We will be getting back to it shortly. But we have brought for you today two very special guests..” She starts with Tawo, who describes how the Montreal conference was confusing and hectic, but about the very important topic of climate change. He mentions his celebrity experience of getting to shake Bill Clinton's hand:

Bill: “You know, ah've been to your country.”
Tawo: Yes, I saw you on TV but I'm happy to be able to shake your hand.”

Gloria shrieks, thrilled, and also shakes Tawo's hand. Monica then gets to outline for TV what is going on with CREN, how the government has a plan, and how we'll be having a lecture with Tawo talking about climate change and visiting PhD candidate Barry Rawn talking about renewabe energy. That's my shameless publicist. As it turns out, several of our attendees actually come as a result of seeing this interview. Gloria is quite taken by the concept of renewable energy, and is particularly impressed with the possibility of extracting energy from the wind (too bad wind prospects are poor here in southern Nigeria). She comes up with a brilliant close:
“This renewable energy is for the traditional ruler, the village person, the common man- it is for all of us. If you are interested in more, go to the One Sky office at House 6, Sacramento Estates”. Cool.

We are now technically late (but on time practically speaking) for a round table on trade and justice that has been organized by a friend of Tawo's called Excellence. Excellence has been asking a lot of people to come, mostly young people who are active in the community, so we show up. Even though we don't feel knowledgeable on the alleged subject, it seems like meeting other young leaders would be a worthwhile experience. The meeting takes place in another nice compound house. At lot of young people are here- maybe twenty. Many of them, as it turns out, are indeed involved and articulate.

Odigha Odigha is also there, and is scheduled (according to the agenda) to speak. So are Monica and Tawo, and Excellence decides to add me in. Why? Because I'm a foreign visitor? We wind up talking in the first half, and sort of hijack the talk into a renewable energy plug. The questions that are asked are interesting and revealing. One young woman has a well-written tirade of questions she goes through for every single speaker, after Odigha, Tawo, Monica, and I have spoken. How is the common man going to benefit from renewable energy technology? How will the lower classes access it? How can this be worked into the curriculum of universities, if it's worth it? Isn't this another case of white people coming to take exploit resources or sell us something that will benefit themselves? Is this something that will require the opening of borders to the West?/ How much of the changes require alteration of behaviour, as compared with more an alteration of policy? It needs to be understood, she says, that there is a lack of a maintenance culture here in Nigeria. How can we avoid a dumping of useless technology on the country.

This young woman also points out that a lot of havoc is being done by youth; the youth need to be educated, or all is lost. Thankfully, some questions are leading back to gender and trade, which is more what the round table was meant to be about. Some of the questions are not so much questions for us as questions that her generation will be responsible to answer.

Odigha is a good speaker. He points out that change is a process and not an overnight one. He notes that a Ministry of Environment never existed before, and now it does. He states that mentality and behaviour are changing as a result of collaboration between private interests, NGOs, and government regarding forest conservation, so why not other issues? He gives suggestions for effective actions: having the facts, having the attitude.

We hear from some people representing HIV campaigns in Calabar and the surrounding regions. Some of them are studying policy in university. They describe some of their programs, and what types of funding they are looking for.

A young man goes on a bit of a rant regarding HIV/AID in response to the workers who have described their awareness building work. He asks if it's strange that at the same time as America starts providing info about the disease, HIV appears. The problem and solution both came from America, he concludes. He points a finger at me as he elaborates this possible explanation for the beginning of the AIDs situation in the state. Zack DeLaRocha would agree, I guess. As I wonder about how to address this, he opens onto a long monologue. I am trying to respectfully pay attention and formulate some kind of answer at the same time, and I am not really getting anywhere. Fortunately for me, it is the HIV/AIDS volunteers who have just spoken that answer his points. They thank him for his concern and passion. They point out that AIDs is everywhere, not just in Africa, and that the important thing is making people understand that it is real. Unfortunately, they say, the spread in Africa has been fast because they haven't had information, but they say it is now their work to change this, and they are working hard. Phew!

We leave early, missing the second half, which should be more about trade justice. Monica and I visit Ekanem's shop. I get to meet Princess, the tiny kitten that has been Monica's sometime companion. Princess has a tiny, ragged little body, with ears that must be about half the size of her head, and relatively massive eyes. What an under-cat! Her ribs are clearly visible, but I'm told she's looking fatter than ever lately.

We peek into the room where Ekanem's 3 tailors are busily foot-pedaling away on old sewing machines. I have seen a few of these in other houses during our motor bike trips. This is where the magic happens, the place that will eventually produce my vivid traditonal Effik outfit, and that has already turned out the Ekanem Orok originals that Monica has been sporting. With the electric sewing machine, laptop and digital camera that I have imported for Ekanem, she will launch her business on the Internet, and hopefully start selling her designer works. She is one ambitious person, working 12 hours a day almost every day, and I look forward to seeing what she can achieve with those modern tools.

Such modern tools are difficult to obtain in Nigeria. The taxes on electronics ensure that the price of a digital camera, if you can find one, is 2-3 times more expensive than normal. Most people in Nigeria make 5-20 times less than in places like Canada, so Ekanem jumped at the opportunity my trip presented to import some things. From my perspective, I am giving an individual a chance to better pursue her ambitions; yet I am also defeating the tax system of a foreign country, in a grey sort of way. As our last task for the day, I get to call my parents using voice over IP. The internet café is well set up for it; what look like regular phones sitting in their own room are used to make both local and international calls for calling-card prices. It is good to hear the voices of the parental units. I have trouble conveying my experience over the phone, though.

Sunday, December 18th 2005.-----calendar


Sunday is washing day. We take our clothes outside and scrub them in a big bucket. The next door neighbour gives me a lesson. She says
“Do you have something for me?”
I say yes, and fetch her a Canada pin from inside the house. I'm not so sure this is up to snuff, but that's what I can give her. I get to meet young Master Kenneth, the 5 year old that is also a neighbour and rules the driveway. He wants to help with the washing and hanging today- or does he? He is quite mischevious, and also has a keen interest in grabbing Monica's camera, or threatening to drop some her cell phone down a hole into a well.

Once the washing is hung to dry on hangers welded from scrap steel, Monica and I wander around a bit, taking some pictures of the neighborhood. Then we head into town to buy a battery, and stop at the office to inspect the electrical system and appliances a bit, and test out the white LED lighting system I've brought from the Light Up the World foundation in Calgary.

It is fun to use PV here. Tracking is pretty much along one axis; the sun basically passes in an arc directly overhead. We set the system up to charge in the backyard. Then, we peer at the house breaker box for awhile. One can see where cables come in from the generator shed, where NEPA lines enter, where other breakered lines head out to feed the house. We take notes, and have a bit of a nap. We get to meet a cadre of British folks who are overseas volunteers on holiday, staying in the One Sky office for the night on their way to a vacation in nearby Cameroon.

There is a party tonight at the Orok house. Before it starts, there's just enough time for us to head to a market with Ekanem to pick out some fabrics for some clothes that she has agreed to make for us. We need to be quick, because the sun will be down soon. We take two bikes there. Ekanem is an efficient shopper, and takes us straight one of the fabric men she deals with. First, I try and pick out fabrics for a pair of trousers and shirts. The fabric stall is part of a complex of wooden stalls. Fabrics cover a waist high shelf, and line the walls, and three men stand up on the shelf, ready to retrieve various bolts of cloth. I react to colours as Ekanem drives the selection process- none of these, how about that one? That one? With this for a shirt. Some haggling is necessary to get the price reasonable- is it normal, or is the price higher because of my sheepish and smiling white face?

We take a quick trot down one of the lanes of gift stalls. The market is massive and teeming with people. I have elected to bring one of the cameras that we'll be giving away, to take some pictures, but I feel extremely self conscious- the damn thing is actually hanging around my neck, full tourist style. Pulling out this object, which is ridiculously valuable here, and taking pictures of people and things that I know very little about, just feels wrong. It is also a worry to guard.

After briefly discussing the price of a spooky doll with a stall man, we return to the street side of the market. Monica wants to discuss some other fabrics for alterations to some of her outfits with Ekanem, so I just sit down next to the stalls against a steel fence. There are fewer people here, and there's a space around me, so I take advantage of the moment to snap a picture of the market in the fading light. Then I put the cursed luxury item away and just watch the market move.

A man walks up to me, and says hello. He is friendly, just like so many people here, and we learn about where each other come from. At some point, I feel like we've interacted long and meaningfully enough that I should give him a little maple leaf flag pin. A woman, standing nearby us, approaches and asks if she can have one too. Sure, I think to myself, why not? I brought a lot of these pins..

It turns out giving out a second pin was my mistake. Somehow, out of nowhere (they probably had been approaching but I didn't notice), there are a dozen people standing around me, chattering. This seems to happen in about three seconds. I have my back to the fence and one hand on the camera. Their ages must range from 8 to 15, and they all want the same thing: whatever it is I have in my hand. Many of them don't even know what it is, but because I'm giving it out, they want it. Even my original conversation partner is now asking me for a second one for his son, and my field of vision is filled with hands and shouting faces in what has become a din:
“White man, white man, white man..”
“Please white man one for me?”
“Me too, me too..”
I actually try to accommodate this crowd at first, reaching into my pocket to get a fourth pin, a fifth pin, but many hands grab for mine. There is no relating to this mob, no speaking to it, no controlling it. I am trying in futility to address individuals in the crowd, holding my hand closed and palm down, when Monica reaches into the throng, grabs my arm, and pulls me out.
“Well, there's your first culture shock experience, dear.” she says. Then it's time to hop bikes home for the party.

Ekanem and Okon have invited their friends, and Monica has informed some of the many students that have demanded her cell-phone numbers, even though most won't come, busy as they are with exams. We have various types of soft drinks and Star Beer. We watch Ekanem's P-square V-CD. P-square is a pair of Nigerian rap artists. They and their crew have pretty wicked choreography, actually. And catchy refrains: “Make you lose con-trol-ol .... (3, 4, 1 ,2 ) uh-oh, uh-oh-uh-oh.” The living room low table has been removed to allow dancing. Ekanem and her friend do most of the dancing, until Tawo and Eveyln show up. I take a turn on the floor with Tawo. Everyone is wildly amused and appreciative of my booty-shaking acumen. They did not expect this white guy to dance, perhaps. Well, got to represent..

Monday, December 19th 2005.-----calendar


A working day at the office. I try to catch up on my journal a bit, and then start preparing for tomorrow's talk. After it's planned, I'll need to make some flip-charts with markers. I take a break to sit in on an interview Monica does with Linus, the leader of a community project elsewhere in the state. He was a graduate of the same program as Tawo and Obi (Environmental Protection) but came into his current work because of his involvement with the community. He has come to talk to us about a hydropower project developing in another community. But his first successful work has been planning and facilitating the widespread use of solar cookers in a community. After a year, 80% of the cookers were still being used. Sounds like someone we definitely should tell Mary Omaji about. Linus seems really happy and grateful to be doing the work he is. It would be great if the CREN network could spread the success of such a project to other appropriate locations(remembering, of course, that solutions can never be translated verbatim from one place to another).

Racing against the sunset, I make decisions, cross things off in my notes, forging 9 simple flip charts for my talk. The British OV return from their trip preparations, idly inspect those charts at the top of my pile on the couch. They grasp the meaning of my central graphic without explanation: “Mean to depict different types of energy, is it?”, and I am somewhat heartened.

Tuesday, December 20th 2005.-----calendar


Lecture day! Strolling in to Sacramento Estates, Monica and I meet the British OVs coming out. Monica comments on their travel hardened, intimidating appearance as a group; they comment on my increased credibility due to my shirt and tie, but question the choice of sandals. Later, I think of the explanation “Well, I'm am on vacation, you know.”

We prepare for our visitors, finding extra chairs and putting out water and bananas. Even though they're supposed to be off-duty, Solomon and Uket help. Tawo runs through his presentation for me. People start to arrive. All told, we net about 30 people, many of them new faces.

Tawo and I deliver our talks. He tries to convey the danger and current attitudes toward climate change, while I try to outline the strengths of different renewable energy sources, linking motivation for the transition to Tawo's talk and the eventual scarcity of fossil fuels. The questions after are challenging. The young woman from the round table is back: How can recommend solar when our rainy season is so long? What about energy from waste? Besides students and “the common man”, we also have a local renewable energy expert, a prof from CRUTECH, and local NGO workers. There are insightful comments about what government or organizational structure is required to implement renewable energy changes. There are questions about cost.

There are a lot of specific one-on-one questions after. No chance of getting a glass of grape juice! Dave and some others want to talk about the basics of photovoltaics. Others are very serious about investigating the possibility of solving two problems by extracting energy from the processing of garbage. I exchange e-mail addresses, promising to forward information about what I don't know. Then, I have to run off to make my date with Engineer Ene at CRUTECH.

I make my way on my own hired bike. As I walk up to the school, I happen to see Engineer Jackson on the way in, so at least I know he's there. But when I ask at the Library where I might find building B1, I get a blank, partly annoyed look. A check in with the librarian (who is the visiting prof on sabbatical that I met last Friday) things get clearer about the name and location of the person I'm coming to visit. I had misread Ene's handwriting, and been saying “Ee way” instead of “Enn-ay”. By my watch, I'm now about 30 minutes late. The librarian gets a rough sense of where to send me and then sends me out with the receptionist I first met, to find B1.

It turns out to be quite a chore. I get the tour of the place, anyway. Truth is, she's never been where we're going, and many of the people we meet aren't sure of it either. All the students are finished class for the year and home studying for exams. By luck we stumble into Engineer Jackson's office (also the chair of the department), and he directs us further down the hill with a laugh. Finally, someone who knows the room points us to the right place. 2 students my age or younger are inside. One sits taking notes by a TV from a videotaped lecture. The other is studying. The room is for teaching transmission and electric machines; one sees a little model of a transmission line, wound cores, a table with many switches on it. The room is filled with lab benches, and old chalkboards fill the walls at opposite ends of the room. I am told that Engineer Ene has just headed up to the main building to look for someone.

“That's probably me” I explain.

A student passing by goes up to inform Engineer Ene that I'm here. I sit and talk with the students until Engineer Ene arrives. One wants to work in electronics. That's one of the main specialties here at CRUTECH, and potentially profitable. Engineer Ene walks up in the middle of the conversation. I rise and offer my hand, apologizing for being late (it is now 3 o'clock), commenting that must be why I missed him. He tells me

“Don't worry too much about that. Here in Nigeria, when we set a time, it is always plus or minus one hour”. Then he lets out a roaring laugh.

He sits down and tells me about his reading on batteries. He has been studying the performance differences between regular automotive and deep-cycle, which a made for charging applications but considerably more expensive. He has found that the efficiency of the deep-cycle batteries in two key aspects still recommend them above the regular automotive time. However, he knows of a chemical treatment of regular batteries that can improve their performance, and has been looking into this.

I ask him about his inverter project. He had mentioned it to me at an earlier meeting, a system meant supply back-up power in hospitals from batteries. He tells me the current version is intended as back-up for Internet cafés. It consists of a large stereo cabinet on wheels (which he's done some carpentry on for aesthetics), four large batteries, an inverter, a battery charger, and some meters. It is pretty unique looking, 2 m away from us as we speak. He tells me that he won an award for the project at a recent expo of university work in the capital, Abuja. It is an integration project, one aimed at being profitable. I ask him if they always use off-the-shelf components for projects. He answers that it isn't always done, but points out that to do a proof of concept meant to be price competitive, building from scratch is a losing battle. He tells me about a friend of his that designed his own automatic voltage regulator (of which every house in Calabar with electronics has about four). It worked great but he never would have been able to reliably or quickly produce any serious volume of them to meet demand. So now, Ene's friend uses his understanding to improve the performance of AVRs, extending their speed and operable range.

I ask him about the availability of parts. He tells me that one cannot always find a specified part. So, they often make several contingency designs around other parts.

I ask him next about the power system- what kinds of problems is it having? He tells me that NEPA does not really know what kinds of loads are on their lines, because sometimes someone will pay an electrician friend some cash to just hook them up. The transmission lines are loaded past their capacity, in an unknown way, and this causes a lot of tripping. Also, maintenance is an issue. Too often, the people responsible for maintenance will pocket some of the money and let the system get by on less. He tells me the story of a village that realized they needed a new transformer and raised the money to get one. “normally, it is the job of the utility to detect this maintenance need, and fix it on their own budget. But instead, these village people have to get together, and hand over a brown envelope with money under the table.” Engineer Ene lets out another roaring laugh, mightily amused. It is quite infections. Ene tells me that right now, regulation of frequency and voltage is just wishful thinking.

We turn back to photovoltaics. He tells me that he wants to get the photovoltaics integrated into the project over the next 3 months or so. I ask him if he's heard of maximum power tracking, and he doesn't think so. I draw him IV curves of the photovoltaic, and then the topology of a step-down dc-dc converter as an example. I describe roughly how this device manages to make one voltage from another, and try ito indicate how, by monitoring current, one could use it to load the PV in different ways. He is considering carefully, and seems to follow everything I say. He smiles, saying

“When you draw pictures like this, one can tell you are an electrical engineer”.

He tels me about how he has been wondering about how to solve a particular problem- that of producing a steady output voltage from a varying input voltage. He has been considering all kinds of signal-style solutions, using active devices- solutions from regular electronics. I realize, thinking of their curriculum, that this engineer has not gotten to study the somewhat recent topic of power electronics. It is crucial for him to know about it, given what he already knows and what he wants to do! It is incredible to me.

I tell him
“What you want to do can be achieved using a circuit like the one I have shown you! I would like to give you a book on power electronics. What kind of textbooks do you have now?

He takes me into his office. It has a small window, old looking décor, papers on the shelf and the desk. No computer. There he plops down a parts catalogue that they use , and then starts collecting the material they draw on for courses and projects. I flip through to see if they have access to MOSFETs, then examine the books he puts in front of me. It is highly affecting- there is a 20 year old book on machines and drives, which just begins to introduce thyristors. A photocopy of the famous Forest Mims III op-amp circuit cook-book from Radio Shack. A photocopy of the manual for the 100-in-1 Radio Shack Electronic Projects kit that I was given at the age of 10. Not that I ever fully understood it at that age, or exploited it to the depth that this has been, adapted for lessons and projects. But to think of forging a whole curriculum on these resources is moving. I find myself wishing I could have attended some classes here, to see how they teach their theory.

Engineer Ene tells me about their projects. I ask if the students are fairly independent. He answers in the affirmative, saying that they do most of the work themselves, and that when they're asked to come with a proposal, he sends them back if the idea is “too junior” until they have a substantial project. He wishes they could have a project museum; too often, last year's projects are cannibalized for parts by this year's students. He tells me that last year, they actually built a cycloconverter, successfully making a different frequency out of NEPA's offering.

It seems like they have the potential to carry out significant projects. I talk to him about building inverters. I tell him tha the control circuitry can be involved and he says that they've found building too much from scratch can de-rail a project. Most students are trying to make something that will work, and possibly be marketable now. Thinking aloud, I tell him that now they often have controllers on a chip, so that the parts count and complexity of the assembly are significantly reduced. This will be one of the pieces of information I pledge to send back when I return to Canada.

Engineer Ene tells me that even the profs are trying to come up with practical money-making projects, and that many take on contract work.

“It's funny,” he says “I work everyday, for most of the day. Meanwhile, somewhere there is a corrupt official who gets paid three times my salary to do nothing!” Another characteristic roar of Immanuel Ene laughter. I laugh too. “But you must love what you're doing, or you would do something else instead.” “Yes” he says, and smiles.

It's getting to be about half past five, and I am anxious to get on with the task of finding myself a bike-man and getting the hell back to the Orok house before dark. Immanuel Ene and I exchange e-mail addresses, and he walks me partway to the road. Some little boys try to help us wave down a far-off bike, but to no avail. I start walking out on the road, headed for the entrance to CRUTECH, where things are busier. The dusty evening light is golden; the afternoon heat and haze seem to encase the gnarled branches of the campus trees and the photovoltaic light standards. I find my bike man at the gates of CRUTECH, and we are off.

At home I catch up with my beloved and get through about half of my spicy rice-chicken dinner. Soon, a different Immanuel arrives at the house- Uncle Immanuel. Ekanem is his niece. He has had an interesting life, this man- before going through his education and rising to a high administrative position in a rubber plantation, he was a child soldier. He has a friend, Paul, who works in a power holding company and who is willing to tell me abit about the power system here. So Uncle Immanuel has offered to take me out to meet him for a beer at the Anchor Point, a local gentleman's club.

The Anchor Point's parking lot is where it's at. Actually maybe just for tonight, since I'm not a member. But there are several plastic table and chair sets out here, in the night-hum of bikes and grasshoppers. Muted conversations take place at the other tables. A respectful waiter takes our orders, as we have our introductions and I begin to probe Paul, hoping to induce a power systems rant. Uncle Immanuel patiently shuts his eyes and has a little relax as we talk.

Paul tells me that currently Nigeria has 7 main generating stations- 3 hydro in the north, and 4 thermal (gas and oil) in the south. He himself has managed an old diesel generator that kicks in occasionally as fast responding reserve that is other wise too expensive to be dispatched that often. He also informs me that NEPA (the Nigerian Electric Power Authority) doesn't really exist any more. The system has been deregulated, and now consists of six generation entities, and about 18 transmission and distribution companies, maybe more. I ask him about the plans to double the grid's capacity, and he tell me that there are plans to build 304 natural gas plants in the next 2 years. Current capacity is about 7000 MW. The oil and gas companies are taking an interest in acquiring and operating these stations. There is already a Siemens barge generator floating off Lagos Island that uses natural gas. But transmission capacity is the big bottleneck. Paul mentions that intention to vastly expand rural electrification. I wonder aloud about how the cost of expanding traditional centralized generation compares to that of smaller and possibly renewable decentralized generation systems, when considering rural electrification. He says such a study hasn't been done, but agrees it would be interesting to see.

In his view, the deregulation of the industry has been a bad thing, and things it maeks the system less effective. That said, he admits that when he saw a World Bank proposal for open markets and complete deregulation back in the early 80s, he really approved. He thinks that if the government had really followed the whole plan instead of trying to maintain partial control, they could have been in a much better situation today.

I ask him what the challenges are right now to stable operation. Why all the fluctuations? He says that first of all, they have a shortage of generation. I say that I've been told there are also overloading problems, and he says
“Definitely. Let me give you an example. Suppose you want to build a factory. You want to do it in a cheap, residential area. Now technically, you have to go through the utility, have your proposed load assessed, see if it's even allowed in such an area, have upgrades done to the line if necessary. But maybe you have a friend in the government, and he just approves your application and grants a building permit because there's something in it for him, and you pay someone to hook you up. Now you're drawing power from a system that may never have been designed for your load, and the utility doesn't even know about it. It's too bad, but some people just don't know better, I guess.”

This stirs Uncle Immanuel. “They do know better- it's insincerity!” This behaviour clearly bugs him. Paul expresses a more forgiving attitude, seeming willing to give the benefit of the doubt. He starts to answer my question about control and stabilization in the power system. He tells me that at the thousands of substations, the operators act our a load control. Each substation has an allotted power flow, and when an area exceeds its allotment by a large enough margin for a long enough time, tyeh simply get cut off.

Partway through this explanation, however, we all have to leap up, Paul grabbing my arm. A car, backing up, has almost run over our table. This is momentarily quite confusing, but doesn't last long enough to be threatening. It becomes clear this was a mistake and not deliberate. Within 20 seconds or so, the owner comes out and apologizes to us, and a minute late, all the occupants of the car also come by to apologize. This is,after all, a club where everyone is a member or a member's guest. Young men have to meet certain standards to become a member.

I have basically finished my Nigerian Guiness- different, not a thick dark beer but a pale sour one. I attempt to pay for all the beers, but am not allowed by Paul and Immanuel. I don't want to keep Uncle Immanuel out too late, though I'm still not clear on what kind of frequency control is practiced here (sounds like they have plants with different speeds of response, and maybe some of the units are on AGC).

Uncle Immanuel tells me on the way home that, in the private sector, you don't really take many holidays. On a previous visit to the house, he has already told me about how his rubber plant employs quite a few people, since the task of cutting the trees to release the sap is quite labour intensive. I had also learned that they could carry out the process sustainably with a big enough plantation, since the trees regenerate relatively quickly. So, perhaps provoked by Paul's description of management failures in the power system, he tells me a bit about corruption in the country. He says that there was certainly a bit after independence, but it is his feeling that it was the military rule that really deepened and spread corruption. “These were the people that couldn't make it doing other things- their only choice was the military. These were not the best people that we had.”

“Here, you will find educated Nigerians in almost any field you want to choose” he continues. “But even if they get to a high level, they will always be frustrated, because they'll have a boss who does not know his file. They will see how to change something for the better, or how their superior's plan is flawed, has to fail. But the power isn't awarded according to merit. Their boss will simply say: Do it my way. Because I am the boss. And it is hard for people to keep this up.”

“Is that why some of them leave for other countries?” I ask.
“Yes.” answers Immanuel.

He comes into the house to say goodnight to Ekanem and to Mommy Orok. Monica and I discuss some of our final plans for tomorrow morning- we have to prepare for our trip to Obudu Plateau, and work out how to catch the bus. We run the plans past the family, and then go to bed.

Wednesday, December 21th 2005.-----calendar


It takes a little while to get prepared and arrive at the place where Rainbow Tours departs on its trips to Obudu and other locations. Basically, the bus is a VW van that leaves once there are enough passengers signed up.

Ekanem's brother Okon takes us to the departure place and makes sure we get tickets, and don't get cheated on the price of our overweight bag. We receive two cardboard tokens marked 6 and 7- these will be our seats on the bus- and sit down to wait for departure on some wooden benches under the bus tent. At a wooden table, a man in traditional dress continues to take money and hand out cardboard tokens, taking down passenger names and destinations.

A little boy on a bench nearby starts to howl and cry- he has dropped his treat into the dust. The batter-coated egg really isn't salvageable. His father takes his shoulder forcefully, shushes him- the boy should stop this public display right now, and get over it. The young man next to us says
“Boy!”
without getting the child's attention. He says it again, getting up and reaching over to give the boy his own battered egg snack. This, it turns out, is Joseph.

We strike up a conversation. Joseph is a teacher of religion. He and his wife, who is sitting next to him, have been married for a year. He actually taught about Christianity in mostly Muslim north of the country. But, his parent's concern about him made him return to the south. He is going to Obudu too, visiting his family for the holiday.

One of the things that concerns him these days is the decline of values, as religious observance becomes less widespread. We ask him if he feels like foreign people tend to lack certain values. He smiles and says
“Well, we tend to pardon Western people, or people from the United States, because the know they are not aware of some of our customs.” He mentions that having respect for elders, in terms of speech style and action, is one of the main issues. We ask him how we should greet a chief, because we know we'll be in this situation next week, when we visit the local village on the way to the CERCOPAN monkey rehabilitation camp. Joseph tells us a young person needs to find an elder first who can approach the chief on their behalf. Then, having been taken into the presence of the chief, one should not stare at him, speak only when spoken to, and remain standing until asked to sit.

Joseph and his wife are holding the #1 and #2 seats. We congratulate them. We tell them about Canada, and how wide it is- almost as wide as Africa. They ask if we are married. Heh- d'oh, are we supposed to say we're married around here or not? Though we've previously discussed this strategy and decide no, I look towards Monica anyway, which makes her laugh.
“Why are you looking at me first?” she says.
I tell him we are not married. He smiles, and says “Being married is interesting. You should try it.” Interesting?

It's time to board the bus, and we line up to put in our baggage. There's a big sign, written in pidgin English. Joseph and his wife watch as we try and read it for awhile, and then ask if we understand. The gist of it is that it's the holidays, and we should all try to get along. It's just not right, the sign goes on, that certain people try to steal the front seat at the last minute. Everyone is supposed to be even, and the bus company has numbers so that everyone has an assigned seat, and that's the way it has to work to be fair, thank you very much and Merry Christmas. We convey our rough translation to Joseph, and he confirms tha twe have it mostly right. He says that there are sometimes problems, because it's perceived that the front seat is somehow better.

We wait a bit longer. Joseph and his wife go to talk to the bus driver. When they come back, they tell us that we should take their seats at the front. I protest, saying that it's kind of them, but not necessary. They insist, and I tell them that we will be very uncomfortable if it seems like we're being treated differently because we're white visitors. Joseph says that it's actually been suggested by the bus operator, because I'm tall. I really don't think I'm a lot taller than anyone else here. But it's starting to seem like digging in our feet is going to cause more trouble than going along. I wind up taking the (much coveted?) passenger seat as Monica sits in the middle.

The rest of the bus is more cramped than the front. Should we invite the little kid to sit up in the front with us, with the good view? Wouldn't he feel uncomfortable with strange white people? The only spot with a seat belt is that of the driver. Monica kids him about this, but then comments that it's probably fairest for him to have one, since he's driving all the time. Something's tail hangs from the mirror, a good luck charm of some kind.

The van crosses over to the other side of the highway frequently once we leave Calabar, steering around potholes and other cars. Every time he overtakes or passes someone, or makes an adjustment away from the right hand side of the road, the driver honks the horn. Seems like it's on more often than not.

We take a break after about ½ hour. Everyone gets out as the driver delivers a package. About 4 children bearing trays and buckets on their heads offer bananas, nuts, cookies, and bags of water for us cheap. Most places along the highway are peppered with palm roof houses, yards with goats, the occasional crackling brush fire. A number of man-high termite mounds, eerie castles, flash by on the side of the road. On wonders how frequently they occur over the land, and what this says about the termite population. We pass by many police check points- that takes the form of one uniformed man with a big stick and a gun standing in the middle of the road pointing for us to slow down, and another standing by the side of the road. We drive past in most cases. I am not sure that ll these police checks are real; the uniforms are sometimes different. We drive through the town of Ikom: a sudden dense cluster of tin-roofed buildings, swarming the highway.

Obudu-Town

Hills begin to emerge out of mist. We have entered the higher, more severe territory of northern Cross River State. It is quite beautiful. Cooler, a bit more humid, the land is arid yet verdant. The plantain, palm and other exotic tress unknown to me sprawl up the slopes, which are increasingly steep. We stop by the road to Obudu ranch, our intended destination for tomorrow. As we drop off people at that junction. Monica snags another photo for her collection of HIV/AIDS signs.

Minutes later we arrive in Obudu town. As unloading of the bus proceeds, we make sure Joseph and his wife don't leave before we can give them a gift- a Canada pin, and an inflatable travel pillow. It's what we have with us, not necessarily the best gifts. “We hope it makes your next journey as comfortable as you made ours” says Monica. Good one, honey..

We walk a bit in Obudu town- it has taken about 5 hours to get here, and it's now 5:30 PM. A large herd of cattle ambles towards us. We snap a picture before crossing to the other side, where a large rainforest root sits, an inviting seat. We also take a picture the wildly decorated and brimming banana trucks. Some children shyly wander around us a safe distance away; their mother encourages them to run past a nd take a closer look at us. I am nervous about the time, wanting to press on and find Laurie's house. Laurie is running an NGO in Obudu town, and will be hosting us tonight. We have been told simply to mention the Oyinbo or “white person” house, and it should be easy to get directions.

First, though, we discuss the seating situation, and decide that given the same situation, we would insist on our originally assigned seats. I talk a little bit about my changing comfort levels at the moment, the difference between the big city of Calabar and this smaller village. Somehow it feels more safe here, even though some risks may be greater here. Eventually, we hail two bike men, who basically ask their way to the Oyinbo house. We drive down the road until we see four women selling some vegetables; they point down a steep road, its soil badly eroded and vividly red. We pause next to a house partway down, where a woman is carrying laundry; she points. After a final point, we pull up on the dirt slope by a gated house: this is where Laurie and Zoe live. Zoe and her parents are expected in an hour or so. Laurie greets us warmly, even though she's busy preparing for the guests, and serves us up some of the vegan (! must take planning) meal she's prepared. Very tasty! The house is well furnished with knick-knacks, comfortable feeling. And NEPA is up, powering some very dim, torch-like lights.

But there's something wrong with me. It starts with a headache, and a sense of fatigue. I decide that I'm probably getting a little sick from all this activity, and sense that I need to pay back my body with some rest. It will turn out to be more than this- this night marks the onset of a trial of sickness, of a forced pause for several days.

I don't want to get up, and it's difficult to manage carrying on a conversation. I am attempting to ask Laurie about what she does, but finding it takes a massive effort. She perceives this (because I am holding my head in my hands every now and then) and asks if I am ok. I admit that I'm not feeling well. In truth, moving around speaking are becoming taxing. Zoe and her parents arrive. It seems like her parents are lovely people, very well traveled and knowledgeable- it's a pity I can't really interact with them. I make a valiant attempt with Zoe's dad. It's clear that I'm sick, though. He asks how long I've been in the country and I reply that it's been just over a week.
“Awfully soon for malaria, I should think. Is it your first time in Africa?” Mm hm, it is.

Laurie offers me her room to lie down in and Monica follows me. Lying still is about all I can manage. My beloved is pretty concerned, and starts getting advice. Pretty soon I start feeling cold, and ask for my sweater. She gets it for me, neither of us knowing better. The more experienced folks in the living room countermand the idea, and recommend taking my temperature and keeping me cooled down if I have a fever. I sure do, 38.3 deg C. It isn't what feels good, but Monica starts bathing my core and face with wet towels. I start to have some shivers and shaking from my body's war tactics. Fortunately, I'm staying at the house of development workers who are friends with the local doctor, so they call him and ask if he can be at the clinic tomorrow, because they're brining a friend in. The consensus is that the chances of me having malaria after just 7 days is pretty low, but that we'll have a test first thing tomorrow morning to rule it out.

The first night is pretty trying for both of us. I'm pretty occupied just dealing with the shakes and chills, but I can't imagine what it's like watching and worrying about my condition for Monica. But actually, it is nice just to have some down time. Monica reads to me a bit about micro hydro, and I deliriously make comments and ramble about high school. I also do a bit of vomiting and loose bowel moving, and generally experience “malaise” along with some pass-out sleep. Every time I use the toilet, Monica has to dump water into the toilet to flush for me; lifting the 10 gallon pail to do this myself is too much.

Thursday, December 22nd 2005.-----calendar
Morning begins and moves quickly without me noticing it. I'm told that the clinic is open now, and asked can I get up and go to the car, which is all ready for me? Having a somewhat reduced temperature and given that Obudu is actually quite cool compared to Calabar (maybe 14 degrees C) , I put on my gray sweater and slow-poke my sorry ass to Zoe's Peugot. We actually go right to the doctor's house first; it is dark inside, with books and art on the walls. He is sombre, but cordial, greeting us all and correctly identifying me as the sick white guy. He takes my pulse and asks a few questions, then says he'll meet us at the clinic.

Mayfair Clinic

Mayfair Clinic is a simple wood building with an inner dirt quadrangle and well. The quadrangle is surrounded on three sides by cinder block walls and a narrow hall of bathroom stalls. I am about to experience an African clinic and it is very different from what I know. Black torn leather couches define the waiting room. A tired, quiet little girl sits opposite us on the couches. In an office, marked Nurses Station, I can see someone with gloves preparing injections.

We get our chance and walk into the examining room. Microscopes sit along a naturally lit desk under the window. A large desk with a massive scratch pad that is covered in a thousand scribbles from other consultations sits on our right as Zoe, Monica and I wait to see what happens. First, my thumb is pricked, the drop of blood dripped onto a slide, smeared (I observe the opening of a fresh package for the pricking instrument, ready to refuse contact if necessary, as trained by my sister. I have even asked Monica the previous night to watch this and intervene on my behalf, should I be unable or too wussy to insist). Before the technician begins to analyze the slide I embark on a task whose logistics we have just worked out between ourselves and a nurse- the provision of a stool sample.

The technician accompanies me through the quad to the back where the washrooms are. For a Western person used to shiny ceramics and doors on bathroom stalls, it is humbling- this is a narrow, low corridor of cinder block stalls, each one cramped. The technician provides me with a clean bedpan, toilet paper, and a sample bottle. Then, he steps into an adjacent stall and provides me with a piece of stiff straw from a broom in a nearby dirt-floored stall to add to my equipment

The sample procurement is also a challenge. Wanting to avoid the use of my cotton balled, recently-pricked left thumb, I clumsily undertake the task with my right hand mostly, trying to protect the left from contact with either the ground or my excrement. Half missing the bedpan complicates matters, as does spilling my first two samples. I make a good attempt at wiping up the floor in a way that's sanitary for me, and then wearily (but not without a sense of accomplishment) return with my full sample bottle of diarrhea.

The technician isn't so thrilled- I get the impression that half would have been enough. He begins processing of the stool sample a bit, and then returns to the blood test. The rest of us discuss whether or not there is malaria in Dubai, since that is the first place I might have been exposed. What is strange is that my prophylaxis (my use of anti-malarial drugs) should have outright prevented this, or at least delayed it

“Three plus.” says the technician, still looking at the slide.
“You mean Dubai is malarious?” asks Monica.
“No, I think he's saying my blood test comes out positive for malaria.” I say. I have a sinking, disappointed feeling. Am I going to be stuck with a recurring fever my whole life? Am I going to make it? Zoe says “Oh. Hmm. I knew someone who had six plus once..”

(Now, in the final analysis, I have to mention this: It's likely that I never had malaria. An experienced tropical medicine doctor that I visited upon my return to Canada is pretty positive that the facts of the case don't fit. I was on anti-malarials, and the onset (which should have been slowed) would have been the shortest possible incubation time for malaria. Also, studies suggest that false positives for malaria can occur in 25%-75% of cases in Africa. Many things could have caused the symptoms I had. It's true that two blood smears performed in Nigeria indicated parasites in my blood. The blood tests I had in Canada came out negative. This could be consistent with a successful treatment for malaria. Or, it could be consistent with me having something completely different.)

Apparently, there is also some blood in my stool. Could be typhoid, dysentery, or some minor infection. But it's the malaria that needs the quickest treatment.

“You're going to be fine. Don't worry. Some day, you'll look back at this and laugh” says Zoe, compassion in her eyes. It is true that because I've been with my companion and been in a house with experienced people, I haven't been fearful of death, though I have been taking things seriously enough to give Monica certain types of worst case instructions.

We go out to the sitting room to await the doctor. He comes out after awhile, having spent some time in the office.
“I have examined the results. There is significant malaria in the blood sample. Also, red blood cells in the stool indicate infection and typhoid. I have arranged for a nurse to go to your home. She will administer treatment. You will have IV, to re-balance your electrolytes.” he finishes, then says “Sorry. Not a good welcome for you.”

“That's ok” I reply. “Thank you very much for your work.”

Well, holy kadoodle! Later, from a conversation with Nicki from the monkey rehab centre, we realize that the typhoid comment could have been from a false positive caused by antibodies present from my pre-departure anti-typhoid shot. In her opinion, though, a 3 plus case deserved something stronger than the medicine a receive.

Anyway, I get a hold of myself and am over the diagnosis. We return home, to my sickie room. Soon the nurse arrives. She is calm-looking. Even though I know that the health care may not be as good as in Canada, I can't help but be comforted by her presence. As it turns out, this is probably a good place to come down with malaria- people know how to treat it and identify it, and it's a nice cool climate. I feel somehow as though nurses everywhere have a certain code, a certain core competency, such that you can trust them. She tells me that she will give me a shot in my buttocks. I don't get this at first. Oh well, that sounds like it must surely do something. Again, fresh package. I turn away, and lower my pants. Holy cow, that's a wincer! It hurts, and not just momentarily.
“Sorry. “ she says.

Then, she starts to describe my pill regimen. Two white pills sit in the palm of her hand. Balance white light neutrally lights the room, and a cool breeze drifts through.

“Take two of these: in the morning, and in the evening”. Her eyes are calm. I nod. A red little pill.
”Take one of these, each evening”. I nod. Now a big fat capsule.
“One of these, every 6 hours. An anti-bacterial.” Okay.. 2 small flat pills.
“Take one, three times only. To help you relax.”
“Monica?” I say. “Can you write all this down?” Shit. Six pills to orchestrate? We need a chart. I am really not up to this. But I feel like surely all this medication is going to have some good effect. Assuming I have the ailments they are intended for. But that doesn't really cross my mind. We pay the nurse for the drugs and her services- about twenty bucks Canadian.

Time to poke me again with an IV hook-up. Another paranoid fear makes its entrance: can't I die if there's a bubble in the IV feed? I've heard that an air bubble, once in the bloodstream, can reach the brain and cause an aneurysm. The nurse tells us that she will be back to check on the IV, and replace it. She offers to show Monica how to change it.
“No. “ I say. I don't want her to have to be in the position of having to do this task, and having all that pressure. It's not the kind of thing I would want to do unless I absolutely had to. Monica wants to watch, just so that she knows how in case, but I ask that the nurse come back to do all the changes. This seems ok.

My fear has come down, but I'm still weak as a kitten. The periodic downing of so many pills eventually becomes a real trial; one of them is pretty big. 3 hours later, on the change to the second IV, I spot a bubble. The nurse checks the bag. Does she know what's she's doing? Am I paranoid? I ask
“Is that a bubble? Is that bad?” There really is a bubble moving down the tube with the flow. The nurse frowns, pinches off the flow downstream, reduces the flow, and taps out the bubble. Then, that fixed, she leaves, ready to come back later for the final IV bag.

Only problem is, I see another bubble. It doesn't really look like it's moving. But can I bear not to do something about this, which I perceive as vital, when it is within my control? I stare at the bubble, about a foot from my arm. Isn't it just a bubble in the plastic? Or is it just staying there by luck so far, potentially to be dislodged by the flow or a motion from me at any second? I ask Monica if she can get the nurse again. She runs off. I know that the nurse can't possibly still be in the house at this point, and that Monica will have to run up the road to catch her. I thank my lucky stars for my tolerant stalwart girlfriend. I stare at the bubble, prepared to pinch off the IV flow if it moves at all.

Monica and the nurse return.
“Sorry.” I say. “I'm just worried that this is another bubble.” She looks at it.
“No- it is part of the tube. Do you see?” She turns the tube from side to side. “It's ok.” I can see she is right.
“Sorry-o.”
“It's ok.” she replies.
“Thank you for your work.” I say. Yeesh.

The cool Obudu breeze continues to happen in on me on this room, and blue skies show through the lattice of the window. The wooden star above me, which gathers together the mosquito netting to the single point of its suspension, sets up order in my field of view. I am somewhat unaware of the passage of time. Somehow, Monica must be spending her time, worrying, experiencing more minutes per minute than me.

She is devastated that I have gotten this sick, had such bad luck. She knows getting malaria and having to enter a clinic here was on my greatest fears list, the list of things that wasn't supposed to happen. She feels somehow responsible, yet helpless, and frustrated and upset that I may partly blame her for it. Initially, in my weakness, this is indeed my sentiment. I wonder if we could have taken better precautions; I wonder if she herself is diligent enough. The truth is, it was my choice to come, and the risks and precautions were mine to assume. Did I fully realize this, though? Was my decision to come fully on my own, unalloyed by wanting to please her? How much was I relying on her, and what parts and extent of this reliance is really fair? How to deal with this other dimension? During the second evening we talk this through, following my wise grandmother's advice to never go to bed mad.

The routine of drinking water for hydration ( I am still passing a lot of water) and for swallowing so many pills certainly beats having malaria (my symptoms of extreme weakness are departing), but it is trying in its own way. Nausea, vomiting and diarrhea all seem to be symptoms, or side effects of the multi-drug treatment- what does it matter which? I will myself not to throw-up after each pill installment, hating and fearing the idea of wasting both the pill swallowing effort and the medication itself. It seems crucial to my recovery not to bring up unabsorbed drugs. The tyranny of diarrhea is both frustrating and unpleasant. I can't imagine flushing is much fun either.

There is a possibility on Friday morning to catch a ride into Calabar with Zoe and her parents, on their way to Rhoko camp. Public transit isn't a good choice in my condition, since the driver won't be willing to stop for breaks as often as I'd like. Laurie has kindly offered to let us stay as long as we need to, though she needs to have us switch rooms. I decide to take one more day of rest; Monica and I are both actually enjoying the relative peace and coolness of Obudu anyway.

Friday, December 23rd 2005.-----calendar


With its fortunate clinical facilities, Obudu-town was actually a decent place to get sick. I am yet again only dimly conscious of the passing of Friday, but I recover enough to watch “Life as a House” on Laurie's laptop, with only one battery-capacity forced intermission. Monica and I also get a chance just to hang out and discuss things in general.

Our original plan had been to ascend the Obudu plateau by car on Thursday, spend the night in the NCF filed office, and do some hiking along the many trails rumoured to leave from Obudu Ranch. The special tourist site that has been gloriously established here, with a visit from the president in its inaugeration, and its virtues are sung by many people we've met. It turns out this is because of its “European” flavour. Monica proposes to arrange for a driver and car fro tomorrow who will agree to either take us up to the ranch and back down for a day trip, or just go straight back to Calabar. Alternative to be selected based on my condition. Sounds good! Monica makes all the arrangements in town.

Saturday, December 24th 2005.-----calendar


Feeling better but thinking it best to be conservative about country traveling, I initially decide we should just go straight to Calabar. Both options had been bargained for by Monica, and the terms agreed on. Once the driver returns from filling the vehicle, I slowly walk out through the gate of the “Oyinbo” house to our new ride. We say goodbye to Laurie, thanking her, and tell the driver our plan. He takes a few minutes to pray to Jesus for a safe trip before starting the engine, and then we head off through the red streets of Obudu-town.

About 4 minutes before the fork to the ranch, I complete some internal wrangling and ask if we go to the ranch after all, according to the other bargained option. The driver at first seems not to understand, then pulls over. He doesn't seem happy, putting up resistance to the idea. A typical Nigerian negotiation now begins, one I'm still not comfortable with. He starts shouting that he's already told his boss that he would go to Calabar, and that we can't change it. It doesn't help that his English is kind of broken. Monica reminds him that the terms were already decided before she gave him money for gas and an advance- when did he ever talk to his boss? She and he knew that the final route wouldn't be decided until the I left the house, right before our trip began. So it really shouldn't matter. None of his complaints are valid, he is just trying to leverage some more money. I start to give in, thinking it's not worth the trouble, even though I try to get him to agree by reminding him that I'm a sick man and shouldn't have this trouble. Perhaps my shifting opinion that we should just forget it and go back to Calabar actually helped, as a “walk away from the counter” bluff forces a merchants hand; he's going to get more money if we go to the range. Kinda doubt it, though- it is predominantly Monica's insistence and an extra $10 Canadian that finalizes the deal; I am proud of her brave, strong bargaining skills.

Obudu Ranch

On the road to the ranch, we see lots of local women on the road, carrying firewood logs on their heads. There is also occasionally a man strapping logs to his motor bike. The road is poor, necessitating frequent excursions to the other side of the road and to the shoulders to avoid unpaved patches and outright holes in the road. The hills rise up on all sides.

Eventually, we approach just one great hill, and start to enter a valley on its side. We are brought eventually to a brightly painted, neat, trim checkpoint with a gate across the road, beyond which a groomed switchback road begins. This is also the lower terminal of an impressively high and long cable car line. Strong breezes occasionally buffet us here; the air feels alive, the steep hills painted by fast moving clouds, its vegetation alert and response to the wind's ticklings. The sun feels bright and strong.

It costs $2.00 CDN to enter this national park. It's clear the police are proud of it. It will take about an hour to ascend to the plateau. It is strange now to see groomed lawns next to the road. We make headway for about 15 minutes until the car slows, seems to lose power, and stops. The driver allows the car to roll back to the last flat piece of ground. Actually, he lets the back wheel get dangerously close to falling into the foot-deep concrete gutter at the edge of the road until I shout him a warning. I don't intend to preside in my weakened state over the rescue of a car self-incapacitated in such a pathetic way! We hop out and hold the car from moving as he starts the engine, and watch the car ascend more easily this time.

Monica and I stroll up as the driver attempts to make some headway without us. This is actually quite pleasant- the Obudu hills carry lovely cool breezes, and the view is spectacular. We catch up to the driver, who has opened the hood of the car.

“Gas filter- bad. Hamatan make go bad- the Hamatan.”

“So the dust in the wind is blocking the filter?” we say. He nods. Then he pulls the gas filter out, blowing it on one end with his breath. Aiee. I'm not sure whether to be impressed with his hands-on attitude, or dubious. We all get in and ride a little further. On the steeper slopes the car seems to have trouble. The drier makes me understand that his id because th intake for the gas tank is at the front, and the slope causes a partial exposure, starving the engine. We get out as he backs to the last flat space, and do some walking again.

By now we can see the top of the hill; the road skirts a wide, grassy slope, and eventually runs parallel to what look like the top crest of the hill before passing out of site over it. We are pretty high.

“I don't trust this guy.” says Monica. She explains that she gave him money to fill the tank, but he only seems to have half filled it, probably hoping to keep as much as possible in his pocket. I am too am not so impressed; I get the feeling that our car's hardship, even if valid, is being dramatized a bit. It's not that we suspect him of being evil. He just seems likely to make gains for his self interest, and to be a little hard to communicate with at some times. It's the sort of lack of trust you have for an unreliable communications link- you're just more careful about what you commit to it. Don't worry, reader- tis' a mistrust that grows more comical, and probably had much to do with a language barrier. In the end, he needs us and we need him.

Obudu Ranch is a fancy spot. Beautiful main building, manicured lawns. The sign said “Europe in Nigeria” Hmm. We tell the driver we'll be walking around for a bit. We visit the posh main building and try out the snazzy washroom. I am heavily drained, and so we just sit on the lawn and eat digestive cookies and raisins for awhile. It is a bit confounding here- no clear map of what there is to do, but lots of guides you can pay to take you around. With more energy, I would have loved to roam around the plateau. Unfortunately, what feels like a low RBC makes me feel like just getting back into the car. Also, things feel quite manicured- how far to the real plateau.

The beauty of these heights is unabashed, though. After a rest, I am able to walk a short distance with Monica to a field. A nearby hill rises perhaps a kilometre away, it's grassy back inviting. It looks like a lion's back; a mane of dark green trees completing the illusion. Around a corner, we discover a dusty PV panel, as well as a road, another amazing view and a wonderfully cool stream of air, steady and strong. It actually makes us feel chilly, which is delightful. We return to the sloping field that looks onto the gangle of trees and the far off lion hill, and lay contented against a tree for 20 minutes.

Then it's time to head back. Darn it, at least we made it up here! But I feel like we need to be moving on. Back at the ranch, we find our driver. On impulse, Monica asks us to come have a (non-alcoholic) drink with us in the rahnch lounge. It is completely empty, and completely fancy, with dark wood, plush seats, and lots of chromage and fancy paintings. The well-dressed attendants serve us up some juices and a non-alcoholic beer. We revel in the luxury of it all- a place designed for jet-setting tourists and famous folks. Monica asks our driver if he has a family. It runs out he has a few kids, and two wives. Monica teases him ”Why did you ask Laurie and then me, if we were married?” (official cover story for my beloved and I in this particular transaction: we are married) Tnrs out our driver thinks it would be nice to have a white wife. Hey, except for those of us already in a cool interracial relationship, I'm sure we've all wondered about it, don't you know.

We return to our red chariot and begin the descent. The tense descent. First, driver-man turns on the radio. “Buh-buh! Ba bum-buh. Buh-buh! Ba bum-buh.” He nods his head, looks to me for agreement. I give a wan smile. I am already worried that this switch back roads will inspire my skittish digestive tract and tummy to some unpleasant activity. I don't need aural discomfort as well.

Fortunately, the station is weak and full of static, so he switches it off. And begins to drive in a highly annoying fashion. For some reason, he finds it necessary to accelerate beyond what we need, and then brake before a hairpin turn, instead of smoothly unwinding our gravitational potential. Does he think he's getting us down that much faster? On straight sections, he wiggles the wheel back and forth, as if testing the steering response of the car for some future maneuver, or demonstrating its excellent control. Maybe that's it.

“You see now, now run smooth. Run good.” he says, patting the dash of the car. I begin to realize that from the beginning, he has demonstrated a regard toward the vehicle as an animate object, an entity responsive to exhortation, to praise, to touch. At first, all of this pisses me off. One tight hairpin and jerking straight run after another, I steel myself against the whole thing, wishing I could drive the damn car. Then, I get tired of being the tight-ass white guy and decide to join him, patting the dash of the car right after he does, sometimes even before. Together, we make exultant and encouraging noises to reward the car. At some point, we exchange glances and I turn back to Monica, to send and inquisitive thumbs up- we're doing good, eh? Ain't we? She returns it.

We finally retrace the whole route back to the Obudu turn off, re-mounting the road to Calabar. I notice that the driver crosses himself every time he successfully avoids a pot-hole, or bad pieces of road. It's all about finding a way to generates your hope, confidence and positive outlook, isn't it?

I begin to pass through a low period when I wonder if these sentiments are ever warranted. The dusty red landscape, with its rampant, green life, and its toiling inhabitants is starting to sink in. What is the viewpoint of these women we pass, collecting firewood and bringing it home at the end of the day- do they feel assured in something, safe? The dip in mood almost certainly has to do with my recent illness, playing itself out in unfamiliar territory. My vulnerable mind/body seems to be trying to comfort itself by evoking a memory-background, shouting familiar sounds in the hopes of getting a familiar echo. What do I mean by this? I experience a longing for Kraft-dinner with cheese, for the simple escapist abandon of attending a movie in a dark, comfortable, enveloping modern theatre. I wistfully imagine the prospect of being back in Toronto with nothing to focus on but my research, well-fed and well rested.

It is as if my need for normalcy is escalating a juxtaposition of ever greater extremes- reality vs imagination. Such a tendency does not stabilize my mood- quite the opposite. The undeniable reality surrounding me becomes starker- what recourse is there in this landscape? Whence from, the next disease, danger? How is response to crisis organized and faced? I find myself marveling at the products of Western civilization (because this is the one of the world that I happen to be familiar with and am a product of). Ambulances. Train systems. A layered justice system that we trust without reservation as a safety net. The complex tapestry of Classical and Romantic period musics. The elegant, experimentally supported edifices of science, built by the secure, the privileged, and eventually, the middle class. Newton, Euler, Faraday, Laplace, Fourier, Cauchy, Gauss, Maxwell- this interlocking story of mathematical support that has birthed the tools of my discipline. It all seems so poignant here, where the veneer of modernity lies in thin spots, disappears.

How does any edge of this chaotic sweep make any sense? How can one hold it in one's head at any given moment? Neither the perspective from the developed or developing world can work. Later, listening to classical music on the airplane, I realize one can not divorce the situation in former colonies from the colonizers. This story of Western civilization- it is not self-supporting, not independent of the story of other countries. This same patchwork of societies that I credit with great works has enabled disasters, ill-planned episodes, irrevocable damage. Where do any of us belong, and what business so we have in this whole story?

Past the halfway point of Ikom, we stop for a bush-bathroom break, wandering off into the tall grass. This random place on the highway, in the waving grasses, feels susceptible to being reclaimed by the plain. The ants, already busy with a previous deposit of feces, enact their intricate machinery, spinning out of reckoning with man's in the background of the harsh sun and waving stalks of plant achievement. Nothing here is so long a cycle to be confounded by the slow change surrounding us. Everything here belongs, mysteriously, inevitably.

The purging of green stool give some some sense of completion, of moving on, of validation that I am sick but getting better, climbing out of the worst. Also, progress is ours, clearly- we leave the grass to find a road, step from the road to mount our red animal. Scuttle on, red thing, in your smooth good way! Buh-buh! Ba bum-buh. You make your noises, we'll make ours.

We are drawing into Calabar. The driver is low on gas, in fact he has passed into the reserve section on the dial beyond empty. He doesn't really know this town, much less where our street is. Monica clarifies her own knowledge over the cell phone and helps guide him. We arrive finally at the gate of the Orok household. It is great to be home, though it is definitely warmer here. We drop off our stuff and beat it to the HiTec Pro internet café so that I can call my parents and tell them about our experience of cool breezes up on the plateau. Even though the worst has past, I elect to save the news of my bout of sickness for when I get back. It's not going to sound satisfying over the phone to hear that “It's ok, malaria is kind of like the flu here.”- why worry them?

Sunday, December 25th 2005.-----calendar


Many people have expressed curiosity as to what Christmas in Calabar was like. We had a Christmas tree (two, in fact) outfitted with carol singing lights; such gizmos were everywhere in town, in some places so numerous that their melodies clashed in a cacophonous, reedy holiday exultation. Christmas was a time of special loaves of bread, sweet treats, a huge pasta salad, visits from family. Presents and their opening are not a big deal- the pile of presents that Monica and I generated were opened by different people at different parts of the day.

The big attraction of the day, besides the special food, was attending church. Since Christmas fell on a Sunday, this was a given for most people, some of whom go every day. As I found, church in Calabar involves a considerable amount of rocking out, and Christmas day only intensifies it.

The Orok household usually attends a Catholic church, but Mommy's brother is the pastor of a local Pentecostal community, and so we attended his service. Mommy, Monica and I, and the two young workers in the house, Iljoma and little Ekanem, all go, the Orok ladies looking very shiny and fine in their best getups. Its evangelical, joyous style was probably more representative of an average service, if the church next door to the Orok house was any indication. It seemed to have services 4 or more hours in duration, sometimes leading into the early morning hours. There are many different churches in Cross River State; examples include The Deeper Life Church, The Church of Jesus Christ, and Assemblies of God.

The first thing to tell about this Calabar church service is that there is musical backup for everything. You know how, in a James Brown live concert, in between tunes, the band keeps playing while the Godfather of Soul talks, adding emphasis to his words? It's like that. The church had open walls, a tin roof, a dais, and seating for about 300 people. The band was headlined with a synthesizer, and supported by bongo drums and a standard drum kit.

Upon our arrival, a game show-style competition was underway up front. The band was doing gentle background chords, with the occasional snare hit when something happened. Two community members sat up on the stage, seated in chairs facing each other, as a man in traditional garb paced back and forth between them and the audience.
“The meek shall...” he prompts.
Hey, I know this one! Why isn't this guy getting it? He misses an easy ten points. The others are harder. It seems these two are playing to represent their families. The question portion of the game ends, and they move onto a quick-draw bible game. The contestants must sit with the bible beginning closed under their arm. The host gives a chapter and verse, and then whoever finds it, stands up, and starts to read it first wins the points! Pretty exciting to watch.

Next up are several musical acts- gospel choirs. Some people really get into it, especially some of the church elders and organizers. They dance up at the front, in between the stage and the audience. What's weird and distinctly Nigerian is this- some of the people who get up dance with the church elders, and then throw money into the air! Or, they tuck it in to the collars of the people they dance with. At some point later in the service, everyone takes turn getting up and dancing through the aisles. We are all shaking it! People seem to get a kick out a white guy in a tie shaking his booty. There is a glass box in the front, and on their way past, everyone drop s a little money in. It is quite relaxing busting out the dancing moves in church, but the whole money thing feels a little odd. The elder Orok daughter Ekanem and One Sky worker Evelyn discuss it later- basically, the community pays the salary of their pastor, and also pays to buy him a house, as well as support the church. In some communities the donations get quite competitive and showy, part of a status statement. Some people find this kind of objectionable.

We actually settle down a bit for the pastor's message. So does the band- back to very light percussion and quiet background chords. It's not everyday Mommy makes it to Pentecostal church, so he makes a special tribute to his sister- the one who taught him how to drive, bought him his first beer. He also acknowledges us funny white visitors. Then he starts talking about how there is a place for all of us, and how we just have to figure it out what it is and accept it. After the main talk, we leave, following Mommy's lead- we have been there for about 2.5 hours.

Upon our return, it's time to head to the Hi Tec Pro internet café with Ekanem, to pick out an alternate camera model that I will send back with the next intern traveling to Nigeria. It is one of the items that failed to arrive in time. Okon, her brother, drives us all there. The family is being more careful with us after my sickness, and because of the Christmas crowds. After some drawn out agonizing and searching, we finally settle on a bid on E-Bay that I can pick up locally in Toronto if we win. Even though she is saving a huge amount on this purchase, Ekanem has maxed out her financial resources in these deals, and is pretty stressed out, not really being able to afford it all.

In Nigeria, there are massive import taxes on electronics and technology of every kind. The price of electronics is typically 3-5 times what it is here, and salaries are 5-20 times less. Selection is obviously limited as well. Yet, people are exposed through mass media to the potential of these devices, and to the fact that in developed countries these things are common place. There is a frustration about lack of access to technology. Ekanem is a hard-working, ambitious fashion designer. She has three tailors working in her shop on foot-pedal machines. Though I think it's great that they're using human power, an electric sewing machine can double a person's productivity, and allow more complex stitches. Ekanem wants to start selling her clothes over the Internet, and do professional advertising. She needs both the camera and the laptop that I have imported for her to achieve this. My participation in such a transaction is not illegal, but it must go against the spirit of the government's attempts to leverage tax dollars from what must be seen as luxury items. It's not really fair or equitable. But it's hard to resist helping an ambitious person with so much potential.

Evening has fallen. Monica is determined to stick it out a few more hours, forging her Christmas gift to her family: an update to the Samec website. She will head home later (not too late) on a bike. She and everyone in the Orok family compound has a 10 PM curfew. Okon will drive Ekanem and I home. On the way back, Ekanem asks me if I have seen the Christmas village yet. It is an important part of Christmas in Calabar that I have heard much talk about, yet had time to see. Ekanem and Okon decide to take me.

The Christmas Village hosts special events over the season. It is a garden, with several paths and important monuments in it. Its opening to the public is a special event in itself- it is only accessible for these few weeks at Christmas, and is off limits for the rest of the entire year. As we approach, we hear the sounds of pops and bangs- firecrackers being set off. A whirl of people and motorcycles surrounds the Christmas village (it is at the centre of a roundabout), and people wander through the grounds. Its lights are not fully turned on, but we can see other visitors and the paths.

We lock the car and walk in, Ekanem and Okon flanking me. I feel safe with this brother and sister, their instinctive awareness of each other familiar from my own sibling relations. They are wary and watchful of the situation, but happy to show me this piece of their town. The monuments, obelisks erected in honour of the fallen and their conquests, are impressively smooth. People are relaxing on the grounds, some talking, some walking through on their way somewhere else. At the innermost part of the Christmas village is a round building, with vertical slats. Ekanem explains that this used to be a prison, and that it has an underground system of walkways and cells that unfolds beneath us. We walk back through the warm night.

Back at home, we watch more of the festivities occurring at the stadium. P-Square made an appearance last night, packing the venue well beyond capacity, with crowds pressing outside its walls. Tonight, the more seasoned artist Two Face is performing. Ekanem plays me MP3 songs on her cell phone, trying to find one of Two Face's hits. She also plays me a recording of her late father's voice, from just a year ago. He is teasing Ekanem, describing her as the good daughter, the number one daughter. At the time, she had no idea what special value the stored voice would hold later.

Monday, December 26th 2005.-----calendar


After a strategy talk, I work on my journal while Monica does our washing (lucky visitor me!) We manage to get ourselves ready in time to rush off with Mommy, Iljoma and little Ekanem to the first ever Calabar Carnival, a street parade of competitive floats. Mommy is concerned we'll miss the beginning of the parade. We pull up to where a truck blocks the street, and some police officers lounge, controlling the road. As we walk by, one says “Hey, Oyinbo! What's your name?” We glance back, smile, and say “Oyinbo!”

We have not missed the beginning, and are just on time. First up is the King of the Masquerade: all other masquerades must bow to him, and so this traditional figure begins the procession.

I have perhaps not yet explained what the masquerades are. Basically, back in the good old days of the tribal community, the masquerades were made of men that had been specially initiated. They wore amazing, complicated and festive costumes that covered their faces. In the evening, they would sally forth, equipped with stories and facts about people in the community who had wronged others, or shamed themselves. They would appear outside these people's homes, and loudly tell stories about them. As such, they were a kind of traditional justice, a check and balance.

Today, the masquerades come out during festive occasions, especially around the cultural and fiscal richness of Christmas. They patrol the streets, entertaining everyone with their fantastic costumes and strange movement, and demanding money for their work from passer's by. They are entered in the parade as well.

A large bushy masquerade creature wheels around, taking large, exaggerated steps. He is lively and unpredictable. Monica manages to capture a great video of him. He draws nearer and nearer to our side of the street, where we already form part of a decent crowd. The creature gets within less than a car-length of us. Then, suddenly, he charges at me, gesticulating and vibrating. I am at first spooked a bit, but have no choice but to prance and gesticulate back. We dance like this for many seconds, much to the amusement of the crowd around us. Unfortunately, the camera runs out of memory at this point.

A rich array of traditional costumes and dance techniques now begins. Some dancers, with shakers on their feet, stomp out an elaborate rhythm. In the day's heat, it looks like a strenuous activity. I see a younger boy in the group lean down, breathing hard as they take a break. Later, Mommy is able to name most of the different groups according to their dress- there are many different tribes represented here.

There are also bandstand style floats, where a truck pumping music approaches, and members of the band work out a choreographed routine. Freedom Band, Passion 4, and others all have an impressive show. The local party DJ supplier Master Blaster also has a float which consists almost entirely of people walking in a long column wearing Master Blaster T-shirts. They seem to have been aiming for quantity. It goes on for miles; Monica and I take a break in the shade to have some oranges and bananas from a boy street vendor.

What is crazy is that we see several people that we know, or know us. Some of Mommy's students and relatives see her, and some even break out of the parade briefly to chat. Some dancers yell hello to Monica; she has little hope of recognizing them in their special dress, and she merely returns the greeting. One yells “Hi Barry” to me- I'm not sure which one of the students I've met they are! Dave maybe? Remember- there are a million people living in this town.

I'd like to point that out again. A population of 133 million or so; Lagos itself has 30 million.

Finally, after several hours, we pack it in, feeling a little heat-stroked. On the way back past the police officers, our friend from before calls out “Oyinbo! You have a good time?”. We answer that we've had a great time.

On the way home in Mommy's Mercedes Benz, as we near the beginning of our street, we drive into some trouble. The masquerades are out on the street, in full fantastical garb, and demanding money.

“This is bad.”says Mommy.

The first masquerader is a bushy creature that appears to be a hump of leaves. It stands directly in front of the car. Its felt and sequin eyes stare at us. Suddenly, a flute starts to play, a simple tumble of tones. It is this thing's voice. Mommy honks impatiently. After the second honk, it waves and shambles away. We drive a little further, most of the crowd parting before us. Only to reveal a great, stockinged red bushy creature. The horn flute is visible in its mouth. It makes, though, an unexpected reedy, thrumming noise, quite alien. Eventually it, too, respects Mommy's horn.

As we are stopped, a beggar approaches the passenger side of the car where I sit. The window is closed. He holds out his hand to me, smiling at first. I shake my head, and ignore him on the instructions of Mommy. His grin disappears, and he continues to stand there, clearly thinking that a white man riding in a car can surely afford more than nothing. It is a bit uncomfortable. Suddenly, there is a massive smack on the windshield that I at first perceive as an acute and shocking threat. There is a man on the driver's side of the hood, dressed in a uniform with bright colours, and a carrying a whip that he has just driven the beggar away with by smacking the Benz. He proceeds to lead a path for us out of the wild menagerie of costumed giants, minor hangers own, and thin crowd. Before we manage to pull free of the throng, one last challenger appears- a man with a vibrant orange outfit, and a scimitar-like sword. He screams at us, pissed off, pointing his sword. But our marshal ushers him aside too, and we finally freely proceed the last block our house on Palm Street Extension, being sure to quickly close and lock the gate just in case.

Although I'm a little nervous heading out when there are so many raucous people about, we head to the internet café yet again to make a bid on Ekanem's camera. I also want to try and call my parents, to let them know that things are fine, and that we're about to head out to Rhoko Camp, the monkey rehab centre in the jungle. Finally, we also need to try and get in touch with Ernest Edom, a manager of a village school about an hour outside of Calabar. He has contacted One Sky wanting some information on solar power, and how he might adapt it to his school's electricity needs. We have been trying for some time to arrange a meeting, but my sickness and his sporadic access to e-mail (he doesn't have a phone line either) have confounded us. Monica sends a clear message regarding when we can come, and requests a response by a certain time, leaving a reasonable gap for him to respond.

Tuesday, December 27th 2005.-----calendar


Before catching a taxi to Ibogo, where we will find riders that will take us to Rhoko Camp, we have two things to achieve. First, we bid on Ekanem's camera at the internet café. Second, we search Watt market for the fabled stall 25 that sells cheese.

Shortly before I left for Nigeria, my beloved sent me a list of things to try and bring. Because space was tight, I tried to prioritize the list, and put “Kensington Cheese” as a desirable but non-essential item. When I ran the priorities past her (up to her how her volume/mass gets allotted), she quickly promoted the cheese. After spending two weeks without a nibble, I had begun to understand her fixation with tasting cheese again.

Not everyone knew where cheese could be found, but gradually we converged on the appropriate market stall, after a few 'not-in-stocks' and misunderstandings on our part. Upon our arrival, the door was closed, 's wounds! But we were cheered to know that we were merely early. As Monica attended to the other but remotely located task of picking up some of our stash of Nigerian cash, I set out to find myself a hat. With the help of a young man, I was led to a place where I had a number of choices for head-gear! After getting the price halved, I'm pretty sure I was still paying double, but I was proud of my hats: a brightly coloured foldable one, and a woven straw explorer one. I can tell some of you out there are laughing.

Monica and I made our rendezvous at Stall 25, and were awed to be admitted into the presence of their gen-backed-up fridge, and a large block of cheese. We purchased a cube of cheddar about 3 inches to a side for... twenty Canadian dollars. It was worth every penny.

After some trouble with a bike man who didn't really know where he was going, we arrive at the taxi stop. Basically, people hang around this cluster of trees by the stadium, on the main road out of town. Cars pull up, partly filled with people. If one is going your way and the price is right (one negotiates it up front), you hop in! So do more other people than could legally travel in North America (not that there are seat belts, anyway..)

There isn't supposed to be a special price for Xmas, but we wind up paying $350 Naira (a little less than $3.50 CDN) instead of $300 for an hour long trip. There are about 7 people in our car, which is an old European make with bench-like seats back and front. The number of people goes up and down as we pass different places. We are on the road to Ikom, but watching for the archway of a particular district, immediately after which Ibogo is found. We manage to spot Ernest's school on the way there.

Ibogo and Eko-Eksai

At Ibogo, we are set-upon by eager bike men. “Cercopan?” “White man?” Some know we're probably going to monkey camp, others not. We locate two guys, Sam and David, who are willing to take us for the right price (700 Naira). With our packs, it's necessary for us to ride on separate bikes. We set off through Ibogo, and soon join a bush road that heads out into the land. The total ride time should be only 40 minutes.

The ruts of the bush road are sometimes deep, the soil red. We encounter a few other bikes; only once on any of our journeys do we see a car, though it should be passable to the right kind of vehicle. We pass more termite houses, and look out across a low field of plantain and other smaller trees. Three wooden bridges carry us across rivers that are several feet deep. We pass through the first village, and eventually enter Eko Eksai, the village that is in partnership with Rhoko Camp. Here, we must greet the chief before entering the conservation area.

The village used to hunt and farm in what is now the conservation area. Their community forest still surrounds it. Before the government and CERCOPAN started visiting the village, there was a lot of irreversible deforestation going on, and the hunters were drastically reducing the number of some species. Now the villagers and their chief are more conservation minded, due to the education of CERCOPAN. Former hunters are paid to patrol the conservation area, helping to count and monitor wildlife. They also guide visitors to the camp like us. The tourism operation of Rhoko camp, which allows visitors to experience guided walks on the trails, and see the monkeys, is only a year old. Part of the revenue goes to help maintain the conservation area, and the rest goes to the village. An advisory board of villagers comes to consensus on how to use the money; sometimes it is used to repair roads, or purchase useful infrastructure.

The riders know that it's customary for us to greet the chief. They wheel right into the yard of the chief's compound, and wait for us. They are members of this community. What's funny is that instead of locating an elder who can properly inform the chief we're there, I wind up meeting him directly. There are two people sitting against the wall. Instead of waiting to see what happens with the one Monica approaches, I offer my hand to the one on my side. He shakes his head, and says “No, we don't greet each other this way.” I try to adopt a different stance in response to the way he is raising his hands, but am a little taken aback and not getting it. Stupid white man! He saves some time by saying
“Here, give me your hands”
He holds them together, palms up, and blows across them. I say
“Hi, we're looking for the chief.”
“I am the person you are looking for” he replies. Doh. So much for the respectful appropriate approach.

But it's all cool. He adjusts, and tells us to follow him into his office. He has a couch, and a coffee table with a pile of reading material- books on Christianity, conservation, some magazines. He sits on a chair next to us. He asks us where we're from, why we've come. We ask him about the forest. He talks about the difference conservation has made, how his village likes the arrangement with CERCOPAN. Monica asks him “What's the most important or significant part of the rainforest to you?” He thinks, and then replies that everything in the forest is connected, and equally important. Doh- we're so, like, reductionist, eh?

He has some soft drinks brought to us. He also busts out a clear liquid “from our local distillery”. Heh heh, the traditional drinky-drink offer. He passes Monica the first glass. My beloved doesn't drink alcohol- ever. 'Cause serious hockey players don't drink alcohol. “I'm sorry, my mother doesn't allow me to drink!” she says, as she accepts the glass, and then passes it to me. This combination of taking the glass, but giving an excuse, still seems okay with the chief; no awkward refusal, no wasted booze. I knock back the shot. Pretty warm going down.. I wonder what this stuff is.

We have had a half hour meeting with the chief! Our bike men are kind of annoyed; we said 'quick-quick' and 'five minutes', since that's what we'd been told. But I figure they should accept that you don't rush your elders. We head back onto the bush road, riding through the shallow spot of a few streams before reaching the education centre of Rhoko Camp, where a guard has been forewarned of us. We make arrangements with Sam and David for them to come back tomorrow at noon, so that we can make our appointment with Ernest. We greet the guard, and he tells us that someone is on their way from the guide station. In the meantime, one of the volunteers that has been helping build and maintain the camp takes us to the enclosure, where we can see the monkeys.

His name is Ian, and he comes from the UK. He used to work for Monkey World, but was finding it kind of boring. He has had some other interesting experiences working with monkeys in their habitats. He was taken on by CERCOPAN to help build extensions to some of their enclosures. As we walk up to the electric fence that contains the monkeys in their piece of rain forest, he tells us about the two species here. There are red-capped mangabeys (with a red head, about 3 feet tall, max) and monas (with gentle, furry faces, about 2 feet tall). We ask him if he goes in the enclosure with the monkeys.

Yes, it's definitely part of his work. He tells us the two essential rules for the first encounter are: don't look them in the eye, and don't show your teeth by smiling. The first time he entered the enclosure, he just came in and sat down. Three beta males came to check him out quickly, but he just looked up at the trees, and let them sniff him and touch him. I think he rolled over once. Once they determined that he was non-confrontational and pretty passive, they left. As long as he kept up a practice of looking up and around a lot when he was inside, and not just staring, they grew accustomed to him over time.

I take a few videos and stills of the monkeys. We meet Clyde, the dominant male. He has a frightening smile right now, because part of his gums have been exposed due to a scratch from a younger male during a fight. He comes right up to the fence to challenge us, staring at us the whole time. As he nears the fence, he makes a little hop, landing stiff-legged, all feet at the same time. This makes him seem intense, focused, and full of energy. We look away. Eventually, he sits back and yawns, showing his long teeth. With a final look back, he saunters off, satisfied that he's put us in our place. If I were in the cage with him, I'm sure my reactions would have been even more clearly passive- no need to sustain monkey scratches and bites.

As the light shifts towards sunset, Ian takes us back to the education centre right around the time Obio arrives. He is in charge of the camp and all the guides. He takes us down the road to where our lodgings are. Three cabins, raised on wooden legs, comprise the visitor shelters. Each one is screened, with a little porch, and has beds, with mosquito nets. There are also padded wicker chairs for sitting outside! Our own cabin, “Mangabey Lodge” looks cozy. Once we've been informed of all the amenities, Obio leaves us with good wishes.

The three cabins look on the food shelter, an open walled, slant roofed space with a raised deck and picnic tables for dining. A dirt floor kitchen exhibits plates, cutlery, jugs of boiled water for drinking, and a fire grill. We also see some familiar faces- Zoe, who drove us to the clinic in Obudu-town, and her well-travelled parents. It is nice to have another go at a conversation with these interesting people without contending with an unknown fever. They inquire about my health, and I regale them with my test results and treatment regimen. It is pointed out again that it was a really quick onset for malaria. Zoe's dad tells us a bit about some of the strange sounds we'll hear tonight. Then he excuses himself to go dragonfly nettings, hoping to identify some species. We take advantage of the break to unpack our stuff and figure out what we'll cook.

When we return, Zoe and her family are sitting down to dinner. It's their last night; we're lucky to overlap with them. We're also lucky to receive some pasta and tomato sauce they won't need. We now have access to the kitchen, and prepare a thrilling meal of pasta with sundried tomatos, carrots ( all from Eko Eksai), veggie chilli and TVP, and vegetable soup mix (the latter hauled thousands of kilometers from Kensington market). Zoe's parents, who make a habit of walking absolutely everywhere (they didn't take bikes here), have a more impressive array of goodies. We sit at the tables and listen to stories from Zoe and her family about work they've done in Africa.

Zoe did a masters on the topic of animal-human interactions; she studied how cattle farmers and wild dogs lived together in Kenya. Farmers were shooting the dogs, thinking they were responsible for all their cattle losses, even though they weren't. She had also done other field work, observing animal populations. Zoe's dad is a professor who taught for a long time in Zaria, a northern Muslim state of Nigeria. He found that people generally left you alone, keeping to themselves regarding their religion if unprovoked. He found doing research in Nigeria great, because of the amazing field work opportunities, and had some good students working for him. Also, he taught whatever he felt like, possibly because of his experience and, sadly, race. He found time to do his work, but admitted that his administrative duties ( he was a director of sorts, with lots of committees to sit on) took up a lot of time.

Sandra, the camp manager, stops by partway through the meal. Zoe offers her a beer, and after some cajoling, she accepts. Zoe's parents check to make sure we don't need a gin and tonic or anything else. They discuss the event of a few day's ago- the falling of a huge tree in the forest. Everyone talks about how huge and long lasting the sound was, and the panic they felt as they tried to determine if they were in the path. Ian had also told us about this tree- it slammed down a few metres away from where he sleeps. Fortunately, he wasn't in the area at the time. It was his job to clean up after it. We learn that there's a shortage of botanists these days, due to the stronger demand for cell biologists and geneticists from the biotech industry. There's so much to learn, apparently, about the many species that are uncatalogued in Africa, but few people to do the work. We hear some more about the tree hirex, a small mammal that makes an amazingly loud and complicated noise at night. Then, tuckered out, we beg off to test our mosquito netted beds. The sound of the jungle is reedy, thrumming, enveloping. It does not prevent us from sleeping like logs.

Wednesday, December 28th 2005.-----calendar


We wake leisurely (at about 8am) and eventually saunter up to the guide station to ask advice on walks. We look at a map of the core conservation area with Obio, and look at some animal books too. He shows us the daika, a mammal much like a deer, but smaller, with shorter legs.
“What eats the daika, Obio?” I ask. “The python is an excellent predator for the daika.” he responds. He tells us about how the python will make a snare or a loop with its body, and wait for a daika to happen by. They can move very fast, pythons. The daika is crushed in loops of the python's body. Once it is dead, the python releases it and then undertakes the task of swallowing and digesting it. Pythons are large- many meters long and about two feet thick. Okay, then.

We go on a walk with Gabriel; he is going to take us to a pool in the river where everyone goes to swim. One need to know it's safe- in general, one can't assume this. It's not a good idea to go swimming just anywhere around these parts. We tell him that we'll probably go really slow, taking pictures and asking questions. We stop to look at trees, bugs, and Gabriel patiently answers our questions. He tells us where we are on the map, pointing out the transects, which are loosely cleared lateral lines that divide up the core area, as we pass. We ask him if he's seen a python. Yes, he has. One just waits for it to go by.

“If you do not attack it, then it cannot attack you.” he reassures us. Yeah, eh? Oh, good. “Very dangerous. Biiiiiig!” he says without looking back, as we continue on.

The pool he leads us to is beautiful- it is a 40 foot widening of the narrow river, with a rocky transition at the bottom, and a one foot step at the top. It is amazing to strip down and be able to float in cool water. One can swim right up to the fall along the eddy, and ride the flow swiftly away, or try to swim against the current, which strengthens irresistibly where the river pours into the pool. The great, green trees of the forest rise up , extra high to my eyes, seeming thin even though they are all substantial organisms. A towering canopy, with many more layers of canopies, and hanging vines. One can close one's eyes, float on one's back through a shaft of light piercing the pool, and then open them to reveal the forest again. It strikes me, repeatedly during our hikes- this is the primeval forest. Are there not monkeys here? Is there not food, and danger, in plenty?

We return easily to the camp before our bike men return, taking the time to fill Sandra in on our plans. Once we meet Sam and Dave, they take us up to the village, where we can climb to a second-story balcony to attempt to get cell-phone reception. We need to find out if Ernest has confirmed that we can visit the school, by leaving a cell phone message, and we also need to tell the Orok family and our friends that we decided to stay two more days.

The balcony affords a good view of the village, with its tin roofs and roaming goats. Friends of our bike men sit below, playing a game on a board with checkers. I hold the camera in their direction, and they happily nod their permission for me to take a picture. No reception, though. We also don't get reception in the next village on a hill, or even at the highway in Ibogo. We decide to pay Sam and Dave to drive us to the school, which is about 30 minutes down the highway. It is a little unnerving riding this road on a bike at highway speeds. However, we eventually pull up to the gate of the school, which is quickly opened by a student. We pull up to the managers office.

Ernest is here all right, and happy to see us. Sam and David want a sure estimate of how long we want to be here. We work out an arrangement where we finish by 5PM so that we can drive back to the camp mostly in the light. We sit down with Ernest in the room where he receives people and takes his meals. He has consulted a number of people about the possibility of supplying his school with solar energy, but none have interacted with him too much. He has received an application form to get an Engineers Without Borders Australia intern, but hasn't filled it out, because he's unsure of what to say. He first got the idea from a catalogue.

Monica explains that electricity from solar panels is relatively expensive, but that in some circumstances it can be a better long-term investment than a generator. She makes sure he understands that for a steady supply of energy, a battery bank is required. We show him the LED lighting system we have brought as an example, and tell him what it can do (provide several hours of light) and how much it costs (about 20, 000 Naira). We discuss solar water pumping systems, and Monica points out that it is better to buy a motor intended for DC power, and so the best time to consider a switch might be when the existing pump needs to be replaced. Monica has already been careful to make it clear that this meeting is just informational, and is not a promise to fund projects, or provide systems, or provide solutions. There is sometimes an expectation that a visitor from an NGO is going to change everything or bring money, and she has been careful to avoid disappointing anyone in this respect.

With the limited time we have, we ask if we can see the generator they currently use, the water pumping equipment, and the buildings that use electricity. They have a 7.5 kW generator. Pretty expensive to do an outright replacement with solar, that's for sure.. Their pump delivers water to a big holding tank near the top of the hill. Every day, the children come with buckets to haul their own 10L share for the day. From the older students, we learn that they run the pump for about 30-40 minutes a day. A quick check of the pump's capacity by timing how long it takes to fill a bucket indicates it's got a flow rate of about 70-80 LPM. A replacement system would have to have similar ability.

There are about 6 buildings on the site, two of them the main dormitories for the girls and boys. About three hundred students are here during the main part of the year- they travel in from surrounding communities once they're old enough. Right now, most of them are at home for the holidays. There are about 30 children here, and that's probably, in many cases, because they've lost their parents to AIDS. They have come out to say hello. Some are shy but all are curious. They all say “Welcome”.

Some of the older students accompany us around the grounds. They are excited and eager to be of help. We want to determine the number and type of lights used on the buildings. We learn about what each building is for. Some have outlets, and we are told that they would likely be used for radios, or sometimes irons for clothes (don't want to leave that off the electrical load list..). They are building a new structure that will be the new dining hall, a visitor room, and a church. Wires have already been laid, and Monica mentions that if they really did have plans for implementing solar powered lighting, it would be better to start with the right wiring. Perhaps the current would still be low enough with LED lamps? Not sure. The problem is that it's usually the rule that the optimal combination of renewable energy sources and efficient systems is most economically achieved when it's all considered from the beginning.

We are about twenty minutes late for our departure time with Sam and David. It's true that we're paying them well, but there is night riding involved here. We go into Ernest's room to pack up our solar panels. A pair of female students walk in with a platter, and place settings, and eagerly set them up on the table. Oh dear. We weren't told that we'd be offered a meal. We can't stay; it would be rude to Sam and David, and increase our driving risks, but it will also be rude to decline the meal. But, that's what we have to do.
“Sorry-o! We must leave now. We did not know you would prepare a meal.” They certainly look disappointed, but understanding, as if it's not surprising that these white folks are too good for their best. We step out the door, and put our boots back on.
“Wait, wait!”
It's Ernest. Man, is this going to be really uncomfortable? But no, he just wants to offer us the bottle of sparkling grape juice that was part of the meal. At least, we can take this, he suggests. We can.

We reach Ibogo with about 50 minutes of light still remaining. We do still need some food for tomorrow, and to contact the Orok family. So, Monica and I split the jobs- I go prospecting for cookies, nuts and bananas, and she heads off with David down the highway to get to a place that has MTN reception. Cookies, nuts and buns are had pretty quickly for about 200 Naira, but no one seems to have bananas left, and definitely not oranges- only in Eko Esai right now, they say.. I get a clue that a few houses down the highway I might find some bananas. A man in a brilliant traditional dress is standing by the highway. I ask him if he knows where I can find some bananas and oranges.
“No oranges anywhere here, sir. But my wife will bring you some bananas.” She does, and he recommends the big bunch for the same price. The wife heads back to the house to get change as I chat with the man. I wind up giving him a Canada pin; I figure I might as well make a friend in Ibogo, just in case.

Once I have my change, I wait by the highway. Hey, where did Sam go, anyway? We stopped here, and he drove away, in my thinking to re-tune his bike back at his house or something. I watch the setting sun for awhile. How many more minutes till it goes down? After about 5 minutes, I start to feel uneasy. How far away was this place with MTN reception anyway? What if something happens to them? Can we really trust David? Can Monica in particular trust this guy? The fact that I'm not sure where Sam has gone deepens my paranoia that some trick may have been played. Do I have our money with me? What should I do if Monica doesn't show up- try to get a taxi back to Calabar, or try to get a ride to Rhoko camp? Are people going to be hostile? Will prices go up after sundown? Should I go to that municipal headquarters across the highway, since it's a place of civic authority? Somehow, it's never clear who you can trust here. That might be a bad idea. Shit, there goes that guy I just met and gave a pin riding away down the highway on the back of a bike.

It occurs to me that I'm worth more alive to most people, because I can continue to be a tourist. Also, as Monica tells me later, it's true that in Nigeria you can do almost anything as long as you have cash. I'm starting to feel conspicuous just watching the sun. From the house behind me, a little child pokes out his head.

“Oyinbo?”

I smile, nod my head, and wave. Sure enough, there ain't no hiding it, I'm a white guy. A second child comes out to investigate a second later, making the same query. I answer in the same way. Man, am I going to have to run through all the kids in this joint? I respond to my label at least once more, and then decide to head over halfway to where the cluster of bike men is, having spent about 10 minutes fretting. As I turn, I recognize Sam in his hat, waving to me. He had just pulled up next to all the other bike dudes, because that's where they always hang out, but I didn't notice this. Relieved, I walk up to him and start to chat.

“They've been gone awhile, eh?” I say.

“It's far. Best that we wait for them here.” he replies. Maybe he was nervous about losing track of me too. I start talking to him about his bike, and his age. Turns out I'm three years older than him. He smiles, looking down. “You are three years ahead of me.” he remarks. “Yup, I've made three more years of mistakes.” I say. “Three years closer to the end..” He laughs at this. We talk a little more about his bike. It's a Yamaha, actually, and he's welded his own carrier on the back. I compliment the work. Looks like he's made an alteration to the gas tank. He tells me that they are able to get almost all new parts, but that sometimes they have to fix things themselves.

Monica and David pull up, having successfully found reception. The place was pretty far away. Now that we've texted 4 people, we know they won't worry, and that our message will get through. We wind up having to travel the last 20 minutes of the jungle road in the dark. Though Sam and David don't like to travel in the dark, I realize that since they live in Eko Esai, they must have made this journey thousands of times, and know the road very well. Still, paranoid thoughts slip by me. This doesn't look like the same way. Is the other bike a long way back? What could happen to us, out here in the night? Again- worth more alive than dead, since we're coming out again in two days. In the end, such thinking probably isn't fair to our bike men. We wind up picking up a friend of Sam's along the way, bringing him from the first village to the second village. The friend, carrying a radio, rides side saddle between him and the handlebars. At first, I'm a bit annoyed, but we are asking them to drive in the dark, after all. They hold a long conversation in their own dialect, which is interesting to listen to. Finally, we arrive at the Rhoko Camp education centre. We greet the guard, pay Sam and David, making arrangements for them to return for us on Friday, and walk back to Mangabey Lodge.

Thursday, December 29th 2005.-----calendar


I try to get up at 7am, but am really not up to it. Even though she'd like to push and have a long hike today, Monica suggests that we sleep in and take it easy. It's probably a good idea. We manage to leave with a new guide, Asiriel, by 11 AM. This isn't the picture round- we hike steadily behind him. He can clearly go for much longer than we can- we are usually the ones to stop: for water, or to tie a shoelace, or to take a picture we can't resist. Except once- he stops ahead of us, listening. We watch everywhere.

“Blue daika.”

We didn't see it; besides our not being in the front, Asiriel's eyes is much better trained than ours, since he's been a full time hunter or guide his whole life. We push along the trail, winding past fallen nuts, more termite mounds, and scene after scene of rainforest mystery. Shafts of light illuminate a trunk, or a collection of vines. Creeper vines and branches entangle a great tree, taking on its shape but lending the host a bushy appearance. A massive root bristles at the end of a fallen tree, its full length stretched out along the forest floor. Tiny tendrils sprout from the bark of one tree; another's displays bulging spikes, possibly the tree's natural bark, but perhaps the mark of some other organism. A gourd-like object, looking like pumice, full of holes, has fallen from a tree. It is an ant house. A fantastic, mushroom shaped termite mound seems less improbable here in the dim half-light beneath the canopy leaves.

Along a grassy part of the road, we observe clouds of insects. We move through quickly; they seem uninterested in biting. A smaller path forks off the main road- this is the way to the village of New Accuri, an overnight trip we had contemplated making until my sickness. Apparently there is also a three day trek where visitors can summit a volcanic structure; one day in, one day going up and down the mountain, and one day back out. Too bad - maybe another time. We arrive at the bank of a river. Asiriel is unlacing his boots. Cool, that means we get to ford it- my zip-off pants will be well-employed. Here, the river is about 1.5 feet deep, and flowing slowly. Upstream, there are rapids. We ask if we can go dip our heads, and Asiriel nods yes. So refreshing! And it's nice to watch the river go by for awhile.

We reach a hunter's shed for lunch. It has a palm thatch roof held up by poles, and a wood deck raised off the ground. A shelf and a space for a fire sit at either end. We set to work making ourselves tortillas, adding water to vegetable chili and TVP mix, and cutting up our precious cheese. Asiriel simply pulls out a glass jar with some yam in it, soaked in a special cooking sauce. We give him some cheese to try- he doesn't really like it, we think. We ask him if it tastes strange, and he nods. We ask him if he likes being a guide here, and he answers that he likes it a lot. He tells us that there are some animals his elders hunted that don't exist anymore, because they eliminated them entirely. He know now that due to the new way his people are doing things, his children will still be able to see all the animals that he has.

Pushing on, we come to another river. It too is broad, with more rocks in the bottom. We stop for a brief rest to re-bandage Monica's foot, which has been harbouring a slowly healing scrape for awhile. Then we start climbing the considerable slope that the trail follows away from the water. Once he hit flat ground, Asiriel points out certain trees. Some have a pain killer in their bark, like the birch does. Another type is used by his people to treat malaria. He walks up to the root, and hacks off a bit with his machete. He licks it a bit, and gives it to me to try. I give it a smell and a lick.

“Very bitter” says Asiriel. I concur. He tells us how they take this root, and put it in water. After awhile the water takes on a reddish tinge, and they drink it. After I return to Canada, my sister confirms that the Cinchona tree was indeed the first source of quinine, a drug that remains core to the treatment of malaria today. Quinine has to be dealt with carefully, since it can be toxic.

There are other toxic substances in the rainforest- Asiriel points out some large nuts that have fallen to the ground around us. They contain a poison, strong enough to kill a person. In the past, his people used to concentrate it, and use it to kill large amounts of fish at once in a stream. They have since stopped this process, because the effect of the poison was long lasting, and indiscriminate in its lethal effects. While they could still eat the fish thus caught, the substance killed many other supporting organisms, and so lead to decreased fish populations.

The sun is beginning to slant; but we can tell that we are nearing the end of our last day's hike. Asiriel has been careful to point out transects and the direction to things, so we have had a sense of the day's progress along the route we saw on the map. We approach a huge log, through which a section has been cut out for the trail to pass through, and know we are home. This is the famous fallen tree; we can see Ian's work has preserved all of the tree (and minimized the work) while providing what is essentially a door. I take a quick peek along the length of the giant- its treeless trunk stretches a long way. I wonder how much this great volume of wood must weigh.

We have the cheese, pasta and dried vegetables to produce one last fine meal, finishing off the grape juice of Ernest. Then, we retire to our lodging to relax, talk, and soak up the sounds of our last jungle evening.

Friday, December 30th 2005.-----calendar


The day begins with a relaxing shower and walk by the creek that runs behind the guest houses. I have not yet commented on the majesty of this shower. Monica, having lived with bucket showers much longer than me, was first to be struck by the beauty of its lever-action head, the abundance of continuous flow available from the barrel above, the elegance of its floor of water shedding stones and well placed log sections for one's feet. The shower was accompanied by a bench, and sheltered by a palm thatch walls. So civilized!

We stop by the research cabin to conduct an interview with Sandra about the PV system. She has manuals and knows to clean the battery terminals and add distilled water to batteries every few months. The staff rotates the panels three times a day to track the sun's angle. But, there was no handover between her and the previous camp manager because there was no overlap. We check out the PV shed, which houses the charge controllers and the batteries. We discover that a recent battery replacement has caused a mixing of battery types and levels of charge that was avoidable, but understandable. We study the confusing collection of coloured wires and terminals, discerning and labelling the various load connections. We produce a diagram that hopefully catalogues this patiently-won knowledge for future use. It's not wise to monkey with it now, since we're not staying long enough to fix any mistakes we might make. But Monica will return in a few weeks, armed with some more knowledge about battery matching and equalization.

We pack up camp and head to the education centre to do some more reading about monkeys. There are hand-made and news article posters about the bush meat trade, the link between human and simian immunodeficiency viri. There are also flip up cards asking us if we know the most dangerous animals in the rain forest. Turns out it's snakes and ants. Sam and David show up with the bikes, a bit late, but well within Nigerian time standards. Sam is happy, David is a bit reserved and bit dissatisfied-looking, emanating the will to get something better. So, everything is normal! I hadn't yet described these two.

The ride out of camp is more familiar now, since we've done it a few times. We pull up in the chief's compound. Someone gives us a seat and goes to get him. He emerges from around a back corner of the house. His farewell is brief this time; he gets our cell phone and e-mail addresses. We bust it out of Eko Esai, arriving at the road by 2pm or so. A taxi-van arrives in short order, spilling out about 5 passengers. We take our seats for the ride back to Calabar, having done a weak haggle to paying 250 Naira instead of 300. We take on a mother and children, and then a young man who turns out to have a penchant for preaching at us.
“A new character for the New Year! You know that you have been committing sins against God, and not living as well as you could. God is asking you to make a living sacrifice, to give yourself to him. A new character for the New Year!” He busts out some bible verses that he finds relevant as well. At the same time, bargaining and aggressive haggling goes on as passengers reach their hopping-off points. As Monica points out later, this is a classic Nigerian cacophony.

I am starting to actually see the forests we pass, instead of seeing a blur of novelty. Child and man-plus-half high plantains, four to 6 man-high palms. The huts we pass seem normal now, no longer making me apprehensive. At the same time, I know that I have not really absorbed their meaning, nor can I appreciate their pattern, their age, or what they say about the communities we are driving by.

We stop to drop off a woman, taking a slight detour and passing by a police road block. On our way back, the officer speaks to some of the people in the van, a bit roughly. At first I think that he will ignore me, but just before we roll past he smiles at me, puts his hand on top of mine as it sits on the open window.

Upon arrival in Calabar, we head straight to the clinic described to us by Niki from Cercopan. Their technician has gone home, but I can still have some blood taken for a malaria test, and Monica can pick up the results later. I watch carefully to make ensure I get a fresh thumb-poker. After, we hunt for Coratem and other recommended antimalarials for me to take back with me just in case, visit an Internet café to send returned-from-jungle bulletins, and drop into a bookstore. It possesses an automatic sliding door and frame, but the proprietor opens it for us manually. There are some happenin' tunes playing inside. The walls and shelves are covered with titles, cover facing out. They are diverse: Grey's Anatomy, Biochemistry, and Child Psychology sit on a shelf next to Tom Clancy thrillers and bodice-ripper novels. Most books have a plastic jacket around them, indicating and preserving their mint condition. I find myself wondering how the owner sources the volumes, and if he takes requests.

We hit Hi-Quality bakery for dinner, which we eat on a plastic picnic table outside the last drugstore we raid. A dog watches us, in the 5 o'clock orange light. His button eyes and doggy grin are familiar. He is a bit scraggly, and has some flies on him. He seems to have little energy in the heat.

We return home on bikes. I am unimpressed with my bike-man- he nearly crunches into another bike twice. Monica's bike man is driving fast, and it is clear that my guy is following him to know the way. A few streets after we lose them and things don't look familiar, I make him stop. We start using the local knowledge:
“You know Palm Street? This way?” After two overshoots, we regain the right road. We pass over a concrete bridge that I recognize, and the two story concrete building that landmarks home comes into view. We weren't so far away. The bike man starts saying in a low voice to me that I should pay extra, that he has had to drive further, and have a lot of trouble. But now I am more used to the way here, and I reply
“No, Ogah! You do not even know where you are going! I have to help you find de way, and you causing me the wahala! I should pay you less-o. You should pay me for teaching you how to find Palm Street. There, it's right there.” I point to the other side of the road, but he pulls up across from the gate, recognizing Monica, where she waits, having retained her bike man. She smiles, relieved.
“Starting to get a little worried-o..”

Once we enter the Orok household, it's time to meet up with Ekanem and Ekitei and settle their final bills. For all of my various imports, minus the money she has loaned me and Monica, plus the final camera transaction, she owes me $717 USD, which she has all ready. We settle all our spreadsheets, recording the final transaction, and are finally almost finished with these crazy arrangements, which we have taken on because of the rareness of the chance for these people to access technology at a reasonable price.

Mommy talks to us about our airline ticket plans. She is concerned that the flight might be very full, given that people will be returning to other parts of Nigeria for New Year's. She phones ADC and reserves a seat for me. We also figure out how we are going to make sure I have enough for the ticket, and my taxi from the domestic to the international airport. We decide that Okon and I will stop by a money changing part of town, and he will visit a friend of his to do the transaction for us. We also reconfirm with Obi that his friend will be able to meet me at the airport.

We get to do some family sitting around the TV, and then Monica and I adjourn to the room. I am super tired, but we need to do some final talking. We realize that our schedule has been so tight, we have barely had time to visit, and it doesn't feel right to either of us. But, we manage to spend some time reliving some of the things we've done, and remind ourselves of all the neat things we have accomplished- the public lecture, the visits to CRUTECH. We wonder whether or not there is any appropriate interaction we can have with Ernest and his school- it is so complicated. We discuss again the tension and feelings surrounding my bout of what may have been malaria. Finally, we go to bed.

Saturday, December 31th 2005.-----calendar


At 7:30AM, Okon and I go to Bogoburi street to change a bit of USD into Naira. A muslim part of town, this is where one finds trade in meat, textiles, and black-market currency. Okon's high-school friend is someone he feels more comfortable trading with, because he know the money isn't going to some nefarious cause. We take a first pass through Bogoburi street. We straddle a road-killed chicken with our car, and I glimpse some guys carrying cloth. Ok, looks like the place is on the up and up, as far as I know, everything according to description so far.. Heh heh. I don't confirm more than this, as I stay in the car with the doors locked just in case and Okon goes into the market to negotiate the deal. It's 8AM. I really don't see police stopping or a problem developing, but I think about my reactions briefly. Okon comes back, telling me that there's a different exchange rate for the hundred dollar and twenty dollar bills I have given him. Though this seems silly, the total amount in Naira is still what I was aiming to get, so I tell him to go ahead with it. As soon as we have the cash, we head to the airport and score a plane ticket.

We head to CRBC, where I will squeeze in a TV interview with Gloria Odigha on “Breakfast with the Mirage”. Okon and I wait in the black-couch room until Gloria comes to collect us. I make sure Okon gets to watch, as I had the chance before, from the studio. Gloria and I talk about the carnival, my changing perceptions of Calabar, and about renewable energy up until the point the power fails. The studio goes completely black. Gloria tells me that they will have to start their generator. We discuss whether or not this is hard on their equipment, and what problems it causes them, until the station comes back up. After explaining what happened, Gloria asks me, now that I'm going back to Canada, if I'm just going to forget about Nigeria? Of course not. I talk about the work I have to do , how I have to get back to certain people about questions they had, and how I expect to hear back from them in return about what they plan to do next. I fail to realize it in time to say it, but there's one realization that I'll take back with me. For all humans, the unfamiliar is threatening, and during sound and video bites on the news, the unfamiliar is all we have time to receive over that narrow channel. I have been fortunate enough to stay just long enough for some of the irrational tones of these feelings to fade. Instead, I manage to say that just when I have gotten accustomed to Calabar, I have to go. I say that I will be able to tell Canadians that those in Calabar are friendly, and a generous people.

Okon and I fill up the Benz on the way back to Palm Street. We have a little time, so we're able to go back for a last goodbye. At home, we meet Ekanem's cousin, who works in the gas industry making liquified natural gas (LNG). He and his wife would be happy to drive me and my farewell contingent in their big SUV, but they are first going to visit Ekanem's tailor shop. That gives my beloved and I an hour to walk past the end of Palm Street extension into the field. A dozen wheeling vultures outline an axis about a pile of garbage- nature's flourish of heat and food. We walk out to a pad of concrete steps that slope off shallowly away from the goal creases in the grass- a set of bleachers, the notable place in the field. There we contemplate what futures we may have together, trying to imagine how things would work outside of long separations and extreme visits. As the appointed time arrives, we walk hand in hand out of the field. I suppress the urge to chase some goats. Where the reach of our street begins, we meet a man on a motorbike.

“You are welcome!” he says
“Thank you!” I reply.
“Do you have anything for me for Xmas?” he asks, as we draw parallel with him.
“Nothing but my smile, Ogah! Happy New Year!” I say.
“Happy New Year and I hope you like your wife very much!” he says, his head turning to follow us. Well, okay.. “Definitely! Thank you and Happy New Year!” I offer.
“I love you!” he cries out. This may seem strange to you. But it is a combination of culture, and an unfortunate racism that makes a white person automatically a person of influence, of righteousness, and having special powers and wealth. Or, maybe I have absolutely no clue what was going on.

Upon our return to the Orok household, I say my final goodbyes to Mommy, Iljoma, and little Ekanem. They have been excellent hosts, and I express my gratitude to them, passing on the best wishes and thanks of my parents to Mommy. Then we all pile into the air conditioned SUV, and head out to the airport. The officers at security are ok with my bags, and we go together out to the lounge to wait for the 12:30 ADC flight.

We take a few final pictures, and Monica and I manage to find some VCDs of Two Face. No P-square (http://www.psquareworld.com/), though, bummer! I wanted that music video collection of theirs.. Shortly before my flight arrives, there is a last minute surprise- Iljoma has rushed to the market, and come to the airport with a masquerade doll for me! It is about a foot and a half tall, and is much like the one that rushed me at the parade. Now I will have a model for my dream Hallowe'en costume.. I thank everyone in the family for this special gift.

True to form, the plane is late. I was getting a little worried, but I should have expected it. Monica is the last one I say goodbye to, before I have to pass out onto the tarmac. It's difficult. But, we've done this before, maybe we're getting the hang of it. Then I'm heading out to the still powered DC9. A scattering of cheerful security people with metal detection paddles intercept all travelers, after a first front of attendants have checked our tickets. I try a last wave and then climb up the steps into what I hope will be another normal ADC flight.

I finally get a chance to see Calabar in the daylight as it relates to the river, as we lift into the sky. But only briefly- quickly, shreds of cloud stream by, thinning and then blocking the view entirely. The first critical 15 minutes passes, and then we are underway. Occasionally, I can see shimmers of the serpentine branchings of the Niger as we pass over the delta. More roads and buildings appear, and then we are flying over Lagos. This time, I don't glimpse Lagos Island. But I am aware of the great brown sprawl of Lagos- so wide! I can't imagine navigating it from a random starting place on my own.

The plane is late, and the baggage comes in spurts. But eventually, I walk out the door of the airport. A young, stylish man comes up to meet me, and asks if I'm with One Sky. I answer in the affirmative, and he identifies himself as Obi's friend. He takes me back to his car, where we'll call Obi- my plane is late enough that he'll be able to drive to the airport with us, having made it back to Lagos from a wedding out of town. On the way to the car, I ask Obi's friend, whose name is Vorr, how he knows Obi. It doesn't take long before I'm definitely sure this is the right guy.

As we walk up to the car, a man with no hand asks me for some Xmas money. I say no, and we wish each other a Happy New Year. Vorr and I get into the car, but the man lingers outside the car, staring at me with his good hand out. He expects more from a white man, but I ignore him, and eventually he walks off. We contact Obi, and give him some time to arrive. We toss in a CD. It's Two Face, with African Queen, the song Ekanem was trying to find for me on her cell phone. I am pleased to be able to coolly say, guessing based on the lyrics “Hey, Two Face, right? That's a great song.”


Vorr concurs. We talk for a bit. He is interested in staying in Lagos, not leaving like Obi. He wants to get a decent job, but have time to do other things- he wants to work, in order to live, not the other way around. Obi calls, and tell us to meet him at a nearby gas station. I get another taste of the streets of Lagos- different ads, policemen holding the hands of people they have stopped or are taking somewhere, bustle. We pull up to the spot, and only have to argue with the proprietor once before Obi pulls up behind us in another car. It's good so see Obi- solid, and happy, and relieved to see me. I have been late twice for him now, but he is always dependable. We head off to Murtala International Airport with Vorr. A toll and refusal to buy phone credits later, we arrive,and I pay Vorr a little extra for his waiting. Obi walks me to the right spot in the airport, and I say goodbye. I tell him that we've put something extra into the bag that Tawo asked me to bring for him- it's a camera that Monica and I got for him, for being such a dependable and invaluable guy. It's meant a lot knowing that we'll have someone local and reliable on the Lagos side of connections. It's not really expensive, but it's his to keep, or to sell if he wants to. I'm glad to see that he's really pleased. I remind him that if he's ever going to Canada as part of his pilot work, to tell me and I'll tell him how he can visit my parents for a float plane ride. He is happy to have delivered me- according to him, Monica was adamant that I arrive everywhere in one piece. He gets her on the phone, and I say my final check-out and I-love-you from the continent.

Then he leaves, and it's just the normal airport logistics of checking in to worry about. Almost. I am directed to a man who offers me a yellow custom claims card, and shows me a spot where I can fill it out. I've seen the card before, and this is normal. But when I finish, he tells me “Here, I help you now with the security, you give me some money.” Confusion. I just need to know where the walk-through is, there isn't any further transaction here that I'm aware of.
“Well, the gate is right over there. I think I'll be fine.” I tell him.
“Please sir, I can help you if you give me 50 dollars or Euro. For Xmas, for the family.” He elaborates. Darn, ok. There's not even a pretence here anymore. I'm lucky I didn't encounter an aggressive person, or this would have been more unpleasant, and more drawn out. But I've got enough experience now not to just go along with things.
“No, that is fine, Ogah. We just do things the normal way, ok? I go through the gates by myself, over there. Happy New Year.” I finish, as I go.
“Happy New Year.” he says.

Security is straight forward- no solar lantern or sewing machine gift this time. I blow some of my remaining Naira on a Fanta, and find the right departure gate. Safe within the Emirates boarding area, seats marked off with a red-strap, I 'm able to write in my journal for the first time in a while. My last African sunset of the trip is beginning. I sit with the gathering crowd of fellow passengers- lots of people going to Asia- I keep hearing “Nee how”. There is a contingent of traditionally dressed African men, some Indian families, and me, the white guy.

I hope not to lose the story I have lived through, especially that period before the feeling of adjustment I came to in the last days of the trip. It is true that in my low point at the end of my sickness, I craved this moment that is coming, where I am delivered into the luxury of Emirates. But I need to invoke the old feelings, taste them again, summoning my fears and perceptions of threat. Those raw perceptions still carry a lot of truth and meaning, even though they were in some cases exaggerations and fearful filters of what I was seeing.

What Lagos is like at night I will not see, by design and by luck. From the eyes of the locals, I know how my intense concern over getting met at the airport and coming and leaving in the day seems conservative. Maybe I could have learned much by staying a day in Lagos, and letting Obi show me around. How much was I preventing the broadening of my horizons, and how much was I reducing the risk of death or injury? It's almost impossible to answer these questions of chance, without having spent more time in this country, this continent. But I leave now this city, this country, this continent. Hopefully writing some of this down will help me understand my brief time here.

Hey, are we starting to board? I stop writing to monitor the situation fully. This is a critical step that I don't want to mess up. Even though I have Obi as a fallback, missing the first connection is a terrible option, and not one the airline will look kindly on. After this, it's all connections and they have to take care of me.

Sunset is a brief red disk that is quietly absorbed into the dust and haze of the Hammatan season. The west is now grey, the east a dusty light green and brown. I try to absorb the shape of a great tree on the edge of the runway, its characteristic branching so different from the trees I know. Rows 23-39 boarding; I wait for 17.

The moment comes, and I begin a long, odd period- for thirty hours I will not really be in a particular country, just in Transit. My feet, walking on this airport floor, no longer so directly connected to those of my beloved. And now, the slanting connection pathway! Time for a haiku

Losing touch with ground
limbo of umbilical
now on rubber feet


as I enter the Airbus 330, and my perceived risk drops back below all regular thresholds. How accurate is this risk perception? What about my personal, perfectly deterministic fate? How am I meant to relate to either of these constructions?

Emirates has a menu for their meal; it describes its fancy haute-couteur courses, and then tells you can choose chicken or beef, and have a complimentary alky drink if you want. Begin the reverse culture shock- I laugh my ass off. But when I start listening to the classical music station, I am sobered right back across to the opposite emotion. The take-off has my undivided attention, as always- I want to try and fathom what is happening to me. Once we are airborne, I continue this task by describing in my journal the most recent days in memory, and making a skeleton of the rest. I consolidate all my essential travel stuff into my travel belt, stow everything else in my carry-on, and change into my colourful traditional Nigerian clothes. They are loose and comfortable. Then I sleep. Happy New Year, Sudan.

Sunday, January 1st 2006.-----calendar


A new character for a new year! I begin the long task of moving from one gate to another in Dubai's airport. Having a travel belt full of paper and clothes with no pockets, passing through security is a breeze for all parties concerned. The opulent surroundings form a backdrop for a variety of Middle Eastern figures- different dress, different levels of activity. I find a free Samsung internet display booth, and send some messages. The call to prayer begins. Occasionally, travel messages are heard overtop, in Arabic first. I am kind of tired, but determined not to fall asleep, and do some more writing.

On the Dubai-London flight takeoff, I have a last look at Dubai's minarets and skyscrapers. Then we are above the clouds, with only the flight map to assure us of our location as we sweep over a predestined path of cities. There are many place names marked on this map. Yanbu. Ha il. Unayzah. Wafrah. Riyadh. Ofrah. Jaf. 'Neutral Zone'. Bahrain. Kuwait. The camera feed below the plane is not showing anything interesting. I flip through the TV channels, dwelling briefly on a sci-fi movie. I actually get caught up for awhile in this underground team's terrors at the hands of some insect-crabby things before I wake up and turn it off. This movie entertainment- a manufactured, controllable fear. Manufactured, paranoid enemies. What if there were aliens? Some characters will die, but everything resolved in two hours. What if there were malaria? You'll likely die because even if you could afford the drugs, you can't access them- everything is resolved in a week..

But the distractions offered by the superior Emirates entertainment system onboard this pleasure-sky-bus are tempting when it's such a long flight. I don't get to watch Wallace and Grommit, the new stop-action photography movie, but I do play a number of video games, listen to music, and watch some TV. I also force myself to make serious headway on my travel journal, which really doesn't yet cover more than a few days.

It is an astonishing thing that I can travel from the Middle East to the United Kingdom in just 8 hours. Passing over Turkey, the downward monitor shows some tantalizing but obscure indications of the desert below. A city slips by in a matter of seconds. From the information posted on the travel screen about our velocity, and my timing of features as they enter and leave the screen, I am able to determine that the camera is zoomed to cover about a square kilometer (at this height). From this altitude, it takes a large geographical feature to get one's attention. There are some gorges and snowy heights that appear, and then, a sudden entrance into the screen by the Black Sea. I focus again on filling my journal.

Heathrow

It is hard to stay awake in Heathrow, and lingering tummy troubles do not help ease the passing of time. I manage to beat out some more journal. The lobby is filled with a multicultural throng, but a well-spaced and laptop-equipped throng. I wander through some of the duty-free and luxury stores that blare their wares into this passenger concourse. Then it is time to wait in the departure lounge for my final flight to Canada. It is now three o'clock in the afternoon, but due to the direction that we are flying, this whole day is a drawn out experience. I have often wished there could be thirty hours in a day, but air travel mixes this blessing with the constraints of its seats and schedules.

This final section of my voyage will be an extended twilight, which is kind of nice. I watch Canadians board their mother airline to return home. How can I tell? Well, maybe I can't, but it's a good bet. In my recently stretched perception, my countrymen look so mild, so satisfied. They seem to come to their seats quietly, happily. I make more headway in the journal and talk a bit with my late-twenties seatmate from Waterloo, acclimatizing. Our election. The weather. Getting a job out of school. Weird random things that occur to people our age.

I catch most of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, but occasionally tear off my headset to work more on the journal. I am trying to preserve my moods and memories, and don't want my mind to be lulled and saturated by television. Music, instead of doing this, has the effect of heightening my emotions. I am actually quite moved when Mendelsohn's Overture to A Midsummer Night's Dream comes on. Is it the order and beauty that has lasted for so many years? Is it because it has a mood of escapism? I'm not sure.

Though we are chasing the sunlit portion of the earth, the light has been steadily fading. But not before I see something below that is sharper, more intricate than clouds. It is beautiful and stark, and covered with ice and snow- it is my land. That must be Newfoundland! Its rivers and rocky hills are really striking, and also quite moving. We are starting to see lights along the river and roads. As usual, I have a strong sense of value for this place, a sense of belonging and being owned, and some feelings of responsibility. As usual, I wonder why I have not visited more of my own country.

Pearson International

Now on the ground on a chilled runway, I am starting to appreciate my ticket stubs, my page of contact numbers, my bags, their partly strange contents, and my bright green and yellow clothing as remnants of a disjoint time on another continent. Their meaning in this context is altering. My raincoat is no longer superfluous.

The first customs officer I meet glances at my African outfit as he accepts my passport. Looking down to read it, he is already asking
“Purpose of your visit to Can-”
before correcting himself.
“Oh, coming home. Ok!”.
The customs person wants to hear a bit about what my foot and a half tall masquerade puppet is made of before she waves me through; she never gets to see it. The baggage hall seems very calm and large. My seat mate kindly grabs my pack off the conveyor belt for me, and I change into my raincoat and boots, stowing my sandals away. Just as I leave, a policeman with a dog stops me.
“Sorry, just want to let her have a smell of this.”
He then focuses entirely on the dog, talking to her. While he was quite nonchalant to me, his interaction with the dog is certainly leaving open the possibility of there being something worth opening it for.
“What is it, girl?”
Hell, there's so much that bag been through, I'm not surprised the dog is digging it. Red dust from the road to Rhoko camp, the smell of cheese, sweat, mu-mu made from beans, nuts.. but isn't an airport dog used to all kinds of crazy smells? Apparently there is nothing.

My sister Trish is right there at the departure lounge, and we head off to her car. I wait as she visits the bathroom. Then we exit: so wonderfully cold! So much glass and steel, so few people. Our drive to their place exposes me to actual snow on the roads. Streetlights illuminate an orderly procession of private cars, so many of them, and no motorbikes. At Trish and Jaba's house, I do some ranting and exhibit my masquerade doll. I also consume a repatriating bowl of cereal, and finally get a ride home.



Monday, January 2nd 2006.-----calendar
Getting an e-mail from Monica that "scanty tiophozoites of p. falcipanim seen" is the observation made on the blood sample I provided the day before I left Nigeria, I decide to visit a travel clinic, which forwards me to Toronto General Hospital for a checkup. After several hours of waiting in the “fast-track” room, during which I talk to a Venezualean guy about nuclear waste storage (he happens to work for Atomic Energy Canada), I find out that my blood tests are clear, which could mean a) my immune system has cleaned up the dormant stage of parasites, as is often the case b) they didn't see them c) I have never really ever had malaria. I manage to arrive an hour late to a previously arranged dinner with some old friends of mine.



Tuesday, January 3rd 2006.-----calendar
A lot of wahalla trying to arrange some further Nigerian imports: a laptop for Mommy, Ekanem's ill-fated camera, a battery charger for the office PV system from Canadian Tire, a Margaret Attwood book for Laurie, who took such good care of us, a few other items.

The streets of Toronto are so wonderfully cold, with snow! I find myself really noticing white people everywhere. Holy cow, I keep seeing them! They look kind of reddish, larval, like they don't get enough sun or something. Seriously, it takes a few days for this to wear out. It is different to be in multicultural Toronto, where I can see Indian, Asian, Middle-Eastern and people. Even though there are many different tribes and facial features in Nigeria, everyone still had black hair and brown eyes. It's really the white people that get me, though.

A super hectic day of dealing with a shipping screw-up, making purchase decisions, and madly packing stuff.

Wednesday, January 4st 2006.-----calendar
More wahalla delivering the package to another One Sky intern and her family, who are gracious in their reception of our imposition of another box. She is busy with last minute details. I have researched her airline, and discovered that they prefer several days notice of excess baggage, and shockingly may refuse this box that I have laboured over for the last 36 hours, and wrestled up to North York on the bus. I make things as easy as possible at the house, and then bust it on public transit to meet them at the airport so that I can deal with the damn thing if there are problems.

There aren't, magically. I finally get to go home, and buy the last book in Stephen King's Dark Tower series for some escapism binge reading.

Thursday, January 5th 2006.-----calendar
Spend the whole day at home sleeping, eating and reading. I make a sumptous meal with cheese and chocolate chips, stare out the window, and watch tiny amber ants,my unintended abductees, crawl out of my masquerade doll.picture