A drop of water in the desert

I had a different title for this post in my mind at one time. Maybe I will share it with you later in the post.

There are some days here where living is hard for a Westerner with a Western mindset. Things just don’t work here like you think they should. On any given day, your a/c could go out, or your stove, the toilet might start leaking, or you notice rainwater flowing in to the house due to erosion under the concrete. And when these types of things happen, when something breaks, there usually is not a quick fix. It could be days. It could be weeks. Who can tell?

Or you might be driving along in a predictable pattern on a familiar road when all of a sudden this crazy man comes out of nowhere trying to get past you, speeding up and clipping the bumper guard on your Pajero.

You might discover that your entire dwelling unit has been disconnected from the main power grid for no apparent reason and with no realistic hope for soon repair.

You spend $140 to fix the generator and three weeks later you turn around and spend another $140 to have a different guy fix the same thing because the first guy only appeared to know what he was doing.

I was going to title this post, “Coke, Nescafé, Heinz Ketchup, and Snickers.” The current title, referencing water in the desert, may be a bit extreme. Obviously, in the desert, one drop of water will not go very far. You would need quite a bit more than a drop to make a dent in your thirst. I find here that I need close to twenty or twenty-five ounces when I am feeling parched. But these four items are very high in the “top ten” things that help us to keep our sanity when we need to escape the reality or the oppressive heat.

You crack open a cool bottle of Coke, stick in your straw and start to sip the carbonated bite of acid that only a Coke can provide. Or you unwrap a Snickers bar and you remember what it is like to live the U.S. where such sugary snacks are plentiful and cheap and there is a recollection that “Coke is it” and that “Snickers satisfies.”

Nescafé? Everett is drinking Nescafé? Has the world come to an end? No. It’s just that you can’t easily get a decent cup of coffee here. Nescafé is easy and relatively inexpensive. And it brings a similar sense of comfort to simply have something that some may consider at least a distant, maybe “shirt-tail,” relative of the real bean.

Ketchup? Yes. More need not be said. Except to say that Timothy LOVES ketchup. He even wanted it on his gluten-free banana bread recently (that Sis. McLean so graciously and generously provides for us). We said, “uh, no. We don’t put ketchup on bread.”

Now there may be some of you that would expect more from us. Maybe that “drop of water” in the desert could just as easily be accomplished in prayer. Could be. But all I know is when I’ve had about all I can stand, and that rivulets of sweat have caked into my skin and there is no electricity and I haven’t turned on the generator to run it for three or four or sometimes even five hours into the evening, that ice cold Coca Cola hits the spot better than just about anything I can imagine. Except maybe a Butterfinger Blizzard from Dairy Queen.

A Trip to the Village

 

Last Friday we took a road trip over to Achi, a village, or series of villages actually, that was about an hour's drive west of here. The plan was that Bro. McLean would give a presentation he has given numerous times, usually primarily to a ministerial audience, "That I May Know Him," an in-depth study of God manifest in flesh, Jesus Christ.

The first thing you should know about such trips here is that it is virtually guaranteed you can expect the unexpected. On a previous such trip, we were supposed to be in a large government building and we were notified we would have to delay the start of the meeting because they were bringing a body to the building. Apparently some government-type person had passed away and a portion of the funeral services were going to be held there. Bro. McLean normally schedules the meetings to start at 9 a.m. and he plans to arrive no later than 10 a.m. hoping to start the meeting by 10:30 or so. That particular one did not start until 11 a.m.

So I wasn't terribly surprised this time when we found out that Bro. McLean was expected to preach, instead of presenting his seminar material. We arrived right around 10 a.m., a church service well in progress, and we were eventually ushered in to a “waiting room” in the familial house of the student (Samuel) who had invited Bro. McLean to give a presentation in his village.

After some minutes of waiting (maybe fifteen, maybe thirty or forty, I can’t really say), we went to church. The singing part of the service had mostly concluded. Any hope that it’d be preaching and out were dashed when they proceeded to go through all of the “normal” parts of a Nigerian Pentecostal church service. Prayer, Intercessory Prayer, Prayer for the Anointing, Prayer for the Power, Prayer for the . . . well, you get the point. Their custom is quite a bit more praying, quite a bit more singing, quite a bit more of other things than we are generally accustomed to. And it was mostly in Igbo so I understood very little of what was actually going on. After some long time, we were introduced one by one and some bizarre echo sound effect thing was effected after each introduction. A hearty “Praise the Lord” seemed to be expected from each person as they were introduced, but since Bro. McLean didn’t, I didn’t.

After the "conclusion" of the service, or, I should say, “our involvement” in the service as it had started long before we got there and it was still going on after we departed the village, we were ushered back into the waiting room, and, after a short amount of time, Samuel brought in a coffee table and a plate of garden eggs and pieces of coconut alongside a plateful of spicy peanut sauce. Drinks were provided, maltina, boxes of fruit juice, water. Maltina is this non-alcoholic beer that does not agree with me. I drank a whole once, and regretted having done so for the next few hours. Small bags of peanuts were provided. A sizable bunch of bananas was brought along with boxes of crackers. Last, but not least, three crocks of dishes were brought containing white rice, ofe akwu (a spicy stew containing among other things spinach and fresh palm oil), and chicken. This was just for our immediate consumption. They also sent us home with avocadoes, the unconsumed bananas and crackers, a couple very nice pineapples, and two live chickens, alive and kicking.

One other thing you should know about such trips is the randomness and frequency of police checkpoints. I think there something like eight of them on this particular trip. All told on the last two such trips I have been on, the police have asked for various things including my 1.5 litre bottle of pure water, a dash (or bribe), one of them simply wanted to scold us for something or another, and one wanted to see the proper paperwork to allow the tinted windows on the McLean’s new Pajero (which they do keep with them in the g.c.). Most of the time you simply show a friendly smile, greet the officer with a standard courteous good morning, or good afternoon, how are you, and all is well. I have not experienced one of these encounters going south and I hope never to. Oh yeah. You’re probably wondering about the guy who asked us for a bribe? Bro. McLean simply said (in response to the officer asking for something) “well, I would be happy to pray for you.” A brief discussion ensued, “Oh, you’re a priest?” “Yes, we’re missionaries.” “Ok, have a nice day.” Something like that. Wild.

Thursday at the Market

I finished up at the school a little after 1 p.m. last Thursday and headed straight to the “street market” (in a subdivision of Enugu known as “New Haven” Layout) and saw all of my regular market ladies. I bought five large roma tomatoes and four large red onions from Jennifer ($2.10). I had been wondering about the leafy green vegetable they supposedly use in soup, here, so I asked Jennifer what was the story there. She explained that it’s “spinach.” But it doesn’t look anything like the spinach we know. She said if I wanted some she could get me some for fifty Naira (about thirty cents, U.S.). I passed for the time being and went next door.

I picked up a pineapple, watermelon, two avocadoes, and a small bag of limes from Mrs. Okonkwa ($4.90). There’s a lady next to Mrs. Okonkwa who sells plantain. I decided I needed some. A medium size bunch of medium size plantains (five of them) cost $1.80. Then I made my way to the “green vegetable” stand.

One and a half kilos of carrots (about 3 pounds) and a cucumber from Rose set me back a whopping $3.60. She didn’t have any lettuce that looked nice. The green peppers she had out were pretty sad looking, too. And I didn’t need potatoes from her today.

Before leaving… I decided I did want to give the spinach a try. I went back to see Jennifer and she hollered out the name of someone in a neighboring stand behind her that she needed some spinach, or at least I assume that’s what she said. This other lady came with two huge bunches and said they were a hundred Naira each, roughly double what Jennifer said it’d be. Jennifer and this lady had a few words between them, Jennifer didn’t look too happy, and then the lady gave her one of the bunches and walked away. They bagged it up for me and I asked Jennifer how much I owed her, and she said fifty Naira.

Jennifer explained that I needed to boil some yam diced small, and to either put the cooked spinach on top of the yam, or put the yam on top of the spinach along with some fried onion, hot pepper and fresh palm oil. I haven’t had the courage to buy fresh palm oil nor cook with it. The hot peppers here will knock your socks off so I am passing on them as well this time around. As for the yam . . . I’ve tried it. It’s all right. But it’s a real pain to peel and I’m not up for picking another one of them up any time soon. I’m simply going to try just cooking the spinach just like I would back home, lightly sautéed in olive oil and garlic.

Closer to home, in GRA Layout, I didn’t see the girl named Promise (pictured above), from whom I frequently buy bananas and pineapple. I also didn’t see the apple guys again today. They must’ve gone through all of them and now there are no apples to be found in the city until the next shipment comes in. I think it’s been three or four days now where I haven’t seen any apple guys. That’s not good because Timothy needs his daily apple (or two or three, some days). I think we’re down to seven left, so we may be able to hold out another seven days, if we’re able to keep the ration to one a day.

Last, but not least, I also bought $6 worth of phone cards from a girl named Ogi (that much will last about half a week depending how long we’re online and how many minutes I use to call home). I also bought a loaf of bread ($.90) from . . . that corner shop across from the big church by our house. Did I mention that the bread here is rather sweet? It’s . . . hard to explain. It’s got the character of “Texas Toast” but sweet almost like a brioche but not quite as nice. It takes some getting used to. Although I do like it. Makes a great french toast.

$20 poorer, arrived home around 1:50 p.m.

Driving in Nigeria

Finally, the post you’ve all been waiting for. What is it like to drive in Nigeria? Well I can’t speak for Nigeria as a whole, as I am sure that Lagos is its own unique experience, but driving in Enugu is . . . well . . . every time I get behind the wheel I can be fairly certain that I will experience an adrenaline rush at some point, if not at multiple points during the trip. At least my first few experiences have yielded that result. I assume that this uneasiness will decrease over time.

First, there are the roads. They’ve got some killer potholes here. I mean deadly. You could lose a wheel casing in some of them. Then there are the two foot drops for gutters instead of curbs. You’re driving along at 30 or 40 kph and suddenly you have to slow down to a bare crawl because there is a crack in the pavement two feet long the full width of the road. Same thing on the highways.

Then there are the road rules. There aren’t many. Maybe two. The first rule of the road is the biggest vehicle wins. You just nudge forward when you want to go and if you have the bigger car, they will usually let you in. If you have a smaller car, you wait longer. The second rule of the road is when you see someone directing traffic, you need to do what they say. Especially if they are carrying a weapon. I haven’t tested what happens if you don’t. I don’t think I want to. Bro. McLean said they get really angry if you don’t heed their direction. Their hand signal for “come” is palm down, fingers waving, instead of palm up.

I didn’t include the part about the police. There are a couple places where I see police officers all the time pulling people over. One place, right by the Ebeano Tunnel, they’re usually making sure motorcyclists are wearing helmets. Another place, I don’t know what they’re doing. I think I saw them pull over a junker. Maybe some kind of minimum requirements for vehicles to be roadworthy? And, of course, I have gotten pulled over once already. I am so glad that Eno was with me! All they were checking was to make sure I was in compliance with the “fire extinguisher in the car” law.

I also didn’t include the part about watching for pedestrians, motorcyclists, and oncoming traffic in the lane that would otherwise seem to be a one way. You have to have about three pair of eyes in order to drive here. I almost had my first accident when a taxicab was running in reverse right in front of me. I was planning to turn right, so I was looking left. I started to pull forward and almost run smack into this taxi. Thank God for saving me from that one! There have probably been half a dozen or so such “near misses” in my brief tenure here to date.

Did I mention the motorcyclists? Insanity, pure and simple. They ride so close to your car they can reach out and touch your car. They pass you on the right and on the left. You pass them. Everyone changes lanes with reckless abandon. You “courtesy honk” if you are concerned someone may not see you, to let someone know you are coming up fast on their left or right, to let someone know that you aren’t slowing down to let them in, or even sometimes before you get to a blind corner where you are turning if it’s a low traffic road. Oftentimes, if you aren’t aggressive enough, you will be honked at because you didn’t push your way through that left turn despite the oncoming traffic or if you are sitting at an intersection and let more than three or four vehicles go by without slowly nudging yourself into the oncoming traffic. Sometimes one of the cars in the oncoming traffic will flash their headlights at you, indicating that you are free to push your way through in front of them.

Did I mention U-turns? That’s one of the most nerve-wracking things. You can just U-turn anywhere, anytime. No one seems to mind as long as you don’t take your sweet time doing so. And there often isn’t much room to maneuver. I haven’t quite gotten the hang of it.

Did I mention the hawkers? They are standing on the road side, and they have to move back a little as you are coming down the road at them because they are in the road.

Did I mention that time in the parking lot at Eastern where there were cars within about six inches in front of me and behind me, with the guy in front of me unable to clear the curb?

Did I mention the accidents or road work?

Oh. And did I mention the oncoming car or motorcycle going the opposite direction of the rest of the one way traffic? Yes. This happens more frequently than you might imagine. Randomly, you see a vehicle coming your way in what should otherwise be a “one way” part of a divided roadway.

Driving here really sucks, sometimes. Mainly when there’s a lot of traffic.

Although I have to say, in a certain sense, I will miss it when we are gone. There’s something truly liberating about a “no rules” kind of mentality when it comes to driving. Although it really isn’t “no rules” here. It’s more of a “we have a number of general rules here, and you can only learn most of them by experience.”

In the U.S., the general rule I follow is of the utmost courtesy. That kind of courtesy here will get you in an accident in no time flat. Not to mention the number of drivers you will cause to become very frustrated very quickly by your inability to learn to drive.

The general rule I have been learning to follow here is that of a less genteel courtesy, but a simple courtesy nonetheless. Always keep the vehicle in motion. Go when you can go. Stop when you need to stop. Season liberally with horn. And use your mirrors. A lot. There are cars, motorbikes, people everywhere.

School

I knew I was in trouble when I gave the students in one of my classes an assignment, to summarize in two or three sentences what it says in Col 1:23-2:5 and the vast majority of responses I received were commentaries on the individual verses Col 1:23 and Col 2:5.

Something was missing.

Teaching here has been a steep learning curve for me. I have taken to writing on the board like crazy, trying to emphasize the things that I want them to actually learn. I have no problem creating a lecture and going on for 45-50 minutes, but when only half of the class (when I’m lucky) is able to pick up what I’m puttin’ down…

I have had to adjust my style and methodology.

Then there is the matter of me understanding them. There have been times (yes, that’s plural, multiple times) where I have had to ask a student to repeat their question two, three, four times and I still don’t understand what they are saying until one of their classmates “translates” for me. It’s really embarrassing, but I am just so unaccustomed to their accent or their individual speech patterns that I can’t make out what they are saying.

I gave out exams for both of my classes last week. I wanted to challenge them. I don’t want to give them a simple true-false or matching exam. I want them to really think. However, if they do not understand the question… it’s not going to show me how much they are able to think. If some of them were only able to understand what I wrote on the board, then the majority of what I test them on will have to come from what I wrote on the board, with a couple additional items from the lecture just for giggles.

Half of each class failed the exams. Ouch. I find out that’s about par for the course for the year one students. The exam I gave for the year two students was a little too long. I ended up giving the year two students a “make-up” homework assignment for which I assigned some extra points for their exam. The year one students I had no pity on. I graded the exam such that it should have been relatively easy to pass.

To cap off last week noting minor irritation, prepping for my lectures later in the week, I get into this commentary on the epistle to the Ephesians (the only one on Ephesians I have here with me, mind you) and find out that the author is one of those folks who actually conjecture that Paul wasn’t the one who wrote the letter. Here’s a clue for you. Ephesians 1:1 starts out, “Paul.” Do I really have to spell it out for you as to who wrote the letter? Paul did. Thank you very much. Yes, yes, I know, there are scholars who believe… blah blah blah. I’m not really interested in going there, you know? Sorry. Rant over.

Then there are the rewarding moments. The extra time with a student after class who wants clarification on something that I’ve said, or the one who really liked the way I phrased an answer to the question “what does it mean where Jesus says to his disciples they are the salt of the earth?” and he just wanted to make sure he had captured the essence of my response in his notes. Or the time where a student asks “was Nymphas male or female?” because the KJV version says “his” and the NIV says “her.” (Answer: NIV privileges certain ancient manuscripts). Or the time when a student in class “gets” the exact same question I had in my mind when I was prepping for the lecture, the seeming contradiction between the Matthean (8:5) account of the centurion asking Jesus to heal his servant, and that of Luke’s (7:3, 6) account that states the centurion sent elders of the Jews, and later, friends to ask Jesus to heal his servant. (Answer: Harmonize the two accounts to reflect no contradiction).

Overall, I am enjoying my time here!