Or the VSO Internally Displaced Person would be more accurate. So I have a new placement. I started on Monday. And I am very excited. Anyone who knows me well knows how bad I am at not being gainfully employed. I need to be continually occupied or I am beyond irritating. The past few weeks have therefore been somewhat of a challenge. Thankfully I had the joy of moving into a flat that needed a clean. I clean when I am stressed. Actually that’s an understatement, I clean all the time. But I clean even more when I am stressed. I don’t think I have ever spent so many hours cleaning. VSO also took pity on me and gave me ‘tasks’ to do. I’m fairly certain these were just attempts at keeping me occupied so that I didn’t try to flee the country. Not that I could have done, I don’t even have my passport. But I was grateful nonetheless. I also spent a great deal of time at the VSO office making use of their internet and drinking endless cups of tea. Although having discovered the British Village this weekend, I am kicking myself for not having taken more advantage of it during the past three weeks. There is a pool that VSO’s can use for free. And not just that, there’s a bar that serves cocktails, and food that contains CHEESE. I might move in there and see if anyone notices.
Another volunteer came into the VSO office the other day and asked me where I was living now I’m in Abuja. I told her, and she looked less than impressed. I was very confused, given it is one hundred times better than where I was living before. Apparently whenever any volunteers come to stay in Abuja they ask to not be put in what is now my new home. And yet for me, it’s heaven. It seems that my standards are even lower than I had previously thought. I think the trick is to ensure that my expectations are at such a low level that there is never room for me to be disappointed. This coping mechanism has definitely helped to go some way towards stopping me jumping on the first flight home in the past few weeks. Quite a few people have asked me why I’ve stayed. And if I’m honest the thought of going home was definitely tempting at one stage. And at times it seemed like it might be the best thing for me to do. But I do not want the past 6 months to be the outcome of my VSO placement. And more importantly, I do not want the past 6 months to be the way I remember Nigeria. So, I decided to stick with it. And after now starting a new placement, I’m very glad I made that decision.
Despite having just said how much I like my new home, there is one thing about it that makes me very sad. There’s a monkey tied up outside on a piece of rope the length of my arm. Quite often I watch him trying desperately to get food that has been thrown to him and is just outside his grasp. It breaks my heart and I cannot understand how anybody could be so cruel. He spends most of his days just sat on the ground drawing in the dirt. I’m trying to think of something I can do to make it better but as yet I haven’t been able to come up with anything. If I go down to him then his owners would definitely see me. And I’m not entirely sure about what I’d do when I got to him. Whilst it would make me feel better to cuddle him, or smuggle him into my room, I’m not convinced that is something that would fix his life right now.
I got asked if I was a vegetarian the other day. Apparently I ‘look like one’. What does a vegetarian look like? ‘No meat’, ‘pale’ and ‘a sunken stomach’ were the responses I received. Great. I am definitely in the wrong country - that same night I was in a bar with a live band, and one of the women singing was what people here describe as ‘well endowed’. At home she would be described as curvy! And the song she was singing was about just how ‘endowed’ she was. And everyone loved it. The men were clearly enjoying the song (and more likely her dancing) and women who were equally as well ‘endowed’ all came and joined her. It was a refreshing change from being at home, where there is the constantly unhealthy obsession with people wanting to be thinner. The only slight downside was I left feeling like even more of a ‘vegetarian’ - I definitely do not have what would be described as an African figure. I need to start eating more groundnuts and avocadoes I think.
And finally, to continue with my constant attempts to be positive about my new placement, here are some more good things about being in Abuja:
1. My internet connection is much much faster here. I can upload photos and do video Skype without wanting to throw my laptop out the window. I can also listen to Radio 1 live. People who know how much I love Chris Moyles will appreciate how happy this makes me.
2. Being able to run around the area where I live. This would have just caused me endless hassle in Calabar.
3. The British Village. This is so good it deserves a second mention.
4. Access to coffee. I had my first latte in 6 months the other day. It was worth waiting for and it was even worth spending almost a day’s allowance on.
5. Having somewhere we can go for beer directly outside where we live.
6. Living in a compound that isn’t full of weird horrible men who flog people outside my window, constantly bug me for money, and turn off my water and electricity supply.
7. Having housemates. Having lived on my own for almost 5 years I didn’t think this would be something that I would find so comforting, but right now I am definitely happier that there are other people living in the same place as me.
8. Being able to have a cold glass of wine. Well, wine might be a stretch of the imagination. Vinegar would probably be a better description. But it beats not having wine at all.
9. Finding a café that sells macaroni cheese. It costs 2 days allowance, so will have to be saved for a special treat. But I at least know it’s there!
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
Monday, August 15, 2011
Want to lose your sanity?
Then come to Nigeria.
I knew I had spoken too soon when I said I was enjoying my placement. Six months in, and things went very wrong. I can’t go into details on my blog, but unfortunately my placement didn’t work out and I had to leave Calabar. People keep telling me that there will be a lesson to be learnt from all of this, and that everything happens for a reason. I am struggling to work out what that lesson is. Other than the fact that I’ll probably never trust anyone again. Another lesson I have learnt is how isolating it feels to be in a foreign country and to not be able to trust the people who are supposed to be looking out for you (just to be clear, I am not talking about VSO, they have been very supportive). I’ve also learnt that I’m considerably stronger than I was when I first came out here. Yes, I’ve fallen apart and cried, but my first thought hasn’t been to give up and to go home (well, that’s a slight lie, but I soon moved passed that!)
So it looks like I’ll be starting a new placement in Abuja. I have moved into where I’ll be living here, and I am starting to feel more settled. There are definitely some positives with being here:
1. Food – it is one hundred times easier for me to get a lot of fruit and vegetables here. In Calabar unless I went to one of the markets I was limited to just being able to buy tomatoes, onions, avocados, oranges, pineapple and mango. This sounds like a lot of choice, but for a vegetarian, my diet got a little monotonous. Here I am able to easily buy potatoes, carrots, peas, yam, aubergine, peppers, tomatoes, onions, mango, pineapple, oranges, papaya, bananas… the list goes on. So I’m a happy bunny.
2. Electricity. I won’t go on about this as I am terrified in case I jinx it, but suffice to say electricity is almost constant here. I don’t yet trust it enough to stop obsessively charging everything though (almost as soon as I typed this, the electricity went out. It turns out we have an electricity meter. But no one told us we have an electricity meter. So we didn’t know it needs topping up. Not a mistake we’ll make again).
3. With electricity comes a fridge. Yes, a real working fridge.
4. Living somewhere that has more than one room. This is beyond exciting for me. There’s a lounge and a kitchen and places for me to sit other than my bed. And the kitchen not only has a fridge in it, but an oven too. And the oven works. Does it get any better?!
5. Having somewhere outside where I can dry my washing. Granted, it’s over a very dusty car park, but I still think that dusty clothes are better than clothes that smell of wet dog.
And the things I miss about Calabar:
1. The people who I’ve shared the ups and downs of the past 6 months with. It still hasn’t sunk in that I won’t actually be living there anymore and seeing them all the time.
2. The public transport. From paying 50 N for any taxi journey, I am now paying a minimum of 250 N. There are no shared taxis in Abuja, and so it’s a case of paying for a private taxi to get anywhere. On an allowance of 1,000 N a day, this is a challenge.
3. Feeling like I’m actually living in Africa. Abuja is a big city like any other. I could be anywhere in the world.
4. The street side stalls. The furthest you could walk in Calabar without seeing somewhere you could buy bread, phone credit, tomatoes, onions, water (and the list goes on) was about 5 metres. Not so here. There are no roadside stalls (apart from the few who seem to risk it and set up shop down some of the smaller side roads). So you have to walk to the nearest supermarket.
5. Feeling settled. Calabar had really started to feel like home. Yes, it had its challenges (especially in my last week there), but I was used to it. I wasn’t expecting to have to start all over again after 6 months.
But I’m not going to end on a negative. On the plus side, I get to experience living in two different places, get to meet new people and make new friends. So I’m telling myself that instead of just having the one VSO experience, I get two. Like I said before, onwards and upwards.
And a nice thought to end on… I was speaking to my housemate the other day, and for some reason the topic of de worming came up. Turns out that after 6 months I really should have done this by now. So that’s going to be a highlight of the next few days. Oh the glamorous lifestyle of a VSO volunteer.
I knew I had spoken too soon when I said I was enjoying my placement. Six months in, and things went very wrong. I can’t go into details on my blog, but unfortunately my placement didn’t work out and I had to leave Calabar. People keep telling me that there will be a lesson to be learnt from all of this, and that everything happens for a reason. I am struggling to work out what that lesson is. Other than the fact that I’ll probably never trust anyone again. Another lesson I have learnt is how isolating it feels to be in a foreign country and to not be able to trust the people who are supposed to be looking out for you (just to be clear, I am not talking about VSO, they have been very supportive). I’ve also learnt that I’m considerably stronger than I was when I first came out here. Yes, I’ve fallen apart and cried, but my first thought hasn’t been to give up and to go home (well, that’s a slight lie, but I soon moved passed that!)
So it looks like I’ll be starting a new placement in Abuja. I have moved into where I’ll be living here, and I am starting to feel more settled. There are definitely some positives with being here:
1. Food – it is one hundred times easier for me to get a lot of fruit and vegetables here. In Calabar unless I went to one of the markets I was limited to just being able to buy tomatoes, onions, avocados, oranges, pineapple and mango. This sounds like a lot of choice, but for a vegetarian, my diet got a little monotonous. Here I am able to easily buy potatoes, carrots, peas, yam, aubergine, peppers, tomatoes, onions, mango, pineapple, oranges, papaya, bananas… the list goes on. So I’m a happy bunny.
2. Electricity. I won’t go on about this as I am terrified in case I jinx it, but suffice to say electricity is almost constant here. I don’t yet trust it enough to stop obsessively charging everything though (almost as soon as I typed this, the electricity went out. It turns out we have an electricity meter. But no one told us we have an electricity meter. So we didn’t know it needs topping up. Not a mistake we’ll make again).
3. With electricity comes a fridge. Yes, a real working fridge.
4. Living somewhere that has more than one room. This is beyond exciting for me. There’s a lounge and a kitchen and places for me to sit other than my bed. And the kitchen not only has a fridge in it, but an oven too. And the oven works. Does it get any better?!
5. Having somewhere outside where I can dry my washing. Granted, it’s over a very dusty car park, but I still think that dusty clothes are better than clothes that smell of wet dog.
And the things I miss about Calabar:
1. The people who I’ve shared the ups and downs of the past 6 months with. It still hasn’t sunk in that I won’t actually be living there anymore and seeing them all the time.
2. The public transport. From paying 50 N for any taxi journey, I am now paying a minimum of 250 N. There are no shared taxis in Abuja, and so it’s a case of paying for a private taxi to get anywhere. On an allowance of 1,000 N a day, this is a challenge.
3. Feeling like I’m actually living in Africa. Abuja is a big city like any other. I could be anywhere in the world.
4. The street side stalls. The furthest you could walk in Calabar without seeing somewhere you could buy bread, phone credit, tomatoes, onions, water (and the list goes on) was about 5 metres. Not so here. There are no roadside stalls (apart from the few who seem to risk it and set up shop down some of the smaller side roads). So you have to walk to the nearest supermarket.
5. Feeling settled. Calabar had really started to feel like home. Yes, it had its challenges (especially in my last week there), but I was used to it. I wasn’t expecting to have to start all over again after 6 months.
But I’m not going to end on a negative. On the plus side, I get to experience living in two different places, get to meet new people and make new friends. So I’m telling myself that instead of just having the one VSO experience, I get two. Like I said before, onwards and upwards.
And a nice thought to end on… I was speaking to my housemate the other day, and for some reason the topic of de worming came up. Turns out that after 6 months I really should have done this by now. So that’s going to be a highlight of the next few days. Oh the glamorous lifestyle of a VSO volunteer.
Monday, July 25, 2011
A vegetarian's worst nightmare?
I’ve had some pretty grim experiences with food since getting here. Having to eat the bean cake which turned out to be full of fish. Sharing my noodles with Ratty. Biting into roasted corn and a maggot falling out of it (I had already eaten 90% of the corn by that time so I told myself that was definitely the ONLY maggot that would have been in there. There was absolutely NO chance there were others and I’d just ingested them). They were nothing compared to Saturday night’s adventures. We went to a friend’s restaurant/bar, which is very well known locally for its signature dish. In fact it boasts that it serves the best version of this dish in town. And what is this delicious meal? Goat Head. Yes, that’s right, the Head of a Goat. The ENTIRE head of a goat. One of the people we were out with expressed an interest (or perhaps more a morbid curiosity) in what this dish was like. I learnt very early on not to show any interest in food here unless you are very very sure that you want to eat it. And not just eat it, but have your facial expression scrutinised by everyone you are with whilst you eat whatever delicacy you have been given, just to make sure you really are enjoying it and you’re not just pretending. And sure enough, no more than ten minutes after he uttered the words “I wonder what it tastes like” two big pots of steaming Goat Head had been placed on the table in front of us. Now, I knew being a vegetarian here would cause some challenges. The concept is just not understood. I can’t count how many times I’ve said I can’t eat something and the response has been, “I know you’re vegetarian, but it’s okay, this is just chicken.” I don’t usually ever have a problem with other people eating meat. I am also realistic and have to accept that quite often (here and at home) I am probably eating things that have been cooked next to, or come into contact with meat and fish. And I’d never be fussy enough to refuse to eat anything on that basis (I’d probably starve here if I started being that obsessive about it!) But the two pots of Goat Head really did push my vegetarianism to the extreme. It was like being in a horror movie. When my friend started chewing the meat off a lump of something and I realised when he put down the remains that it was the goats teeth, dirt, decay and all, I really did have to take a few deep breaths. The highlight was at the end of the evening when they were closing the restaurant and pushed a wheelbarrow of rejected Goat Head Bones past our table. I kept being told by one of our local friends that I was ‘missing out’. I’m not certain I agree with him. As appealing as chewing on a goats jawbone and eyeballs might seem, I might just push on through and stick to being a vegetarian.
Some other new ‘experiences’ this week.
1. Goosebumps. Yes, that’s right. I was cold. In Nigeria. I had to sleep with my jumper on.
2. Losing my temper. This doesn’t happen often. I’m frequently grumpy and I moan all the time, but actually losing my temper? Very rare. I had no water for most of last week. And when I say ‘no water’ I literally mean nothing. For the first part of the week it was fine because I just used the stored water I keep in my room (and tried to ignore the smell of stagnant pond). But by the time that ran out on Thursday I was feeling pretty fed up. The closest tap to collect water from is a 20 minute walk up my hill. I’m reasonably strong, but even I can’t carry my filled jerry can that far. On Friday morning I’d had enough and I asked my neighbour whether he could help me fetch water in his car, or if he knew when they’d be using the generator to pump us water (which is what usually happens when the water is off for a long-time). He just looked really confused and said he’d had water all week. I asked a couple more of my neighbours and they all said the same thing. Then my neighbour took me to the outside area behind my room and showed me the tap which controls my water supply. Which had been turned off. The security guard saw me and shouted to ask if there was a problem. He’d been bugging me all week for money for another fictitious electricity bill. The last time he did that and I refused to pay he turned the electricity supply off to my room. I have little doubt that he was responsible for turning the water off to my room. The tap is directly outside my bathroom window. It is impossible that it was turned off by mistake. Its only function is to control the water supply to my room. He then had the nerve to ask me for money again. He still owes me 2,000 Naira for the kitchen sink he never fixed. Something tells me that the two of us will never see eye to eye. At least I now know how to turn my water on myself.
3. The taxi I was in on the way to work being wheel clamped. In the middle of the road. There’s an area where taxi drivers aren’t allowed to stop and pick up passengers unless they dash (pay/bribe) the random men who stand on the side of the road. I’m not really sure what purpose these men serve. All they seem to do is to direct you to which cab to get into, which the taxi drivers are more than able to do themselves. Anyway, the driver of the taxi I was in didn’t want to dash anyone so seemed to think that if he just crawled along the road very slowly and made passengers jump into a moving car then he wouldn’t have to pay because technically he never stopped. Not so. The random men on the side of the road reached into the car, turned off the ignition, and pulled out the car keys. The taxi driver then started fighting with them (not very intelligent given there was one of him and about 10 of them). And then the traffic police (or just some more random men, I’m not really sure) came and clamped the car. Right in the middle of the road. In rush hour traffic. The door handle on the inside of the passenger door where I was sitting was broken and so I couldn’t actually get out. It took them a few minutes to realise I was still stuck inside, and to open the door so I could get another cab to work. This time I made sure I got in one that had paid the taxi attendants and so was actually allowed to stop to pick me up.
So all in all, another quiet few days in Calabar!
Thursday, July 21, 2011
Green sludge and a bruised ego
As I’ve already mentioned, walking around here isn’t the most relaxing pastime. If you’re not being greeted or shouted at by everyone that you walk past, you’re being offered lifts by passing cars, or constantly being asked why you’re trekking again. If I’m having a tired day it’s almost a relief when it’s raining and I can use my umbrella to cover my face and have a relatively peaceful walk up my road. Not so the other day. I was walking back down the hill after work, and it had been raining pretty much all day. The sides of the roads were flooded, and so I was sticking to the pavements. Only the pavements were covered in green sludge. Green sludge that was every bit as slippery and as slimy as it looked. And I fell. Hard. Flat on my a*s and my back. My immediate thought was that I’d probably broken my laptop, which was in my rucksack, but thankfully I hadn’t. I was on the busiest part of my road, and within seconds I was surrounded by people saying sorry that I had fallen and trying to help me up and wipe all of the green sludge off me. They were shouting down the road to other people,’ “The Bakara has fallen, the Bakara has fallen.” It took about 5 minutes for me to convince them I was fine. Then I had to walk the rest of the way home covered in green sludge all down my back, with blood coming out of my elbow, leg and foot, and with a very bruised ego. It’s a measure of my lowered standards that when I was telling Jenny what had happened I said, “Oh well, at least it was only green sludge that I got covered in.” We had to laugh about the fact that I found that comforting. But I really did, considering all of the other things I frequently walk past/through on the roads that it could have been. So no more walking down the green sludgy pavements on rainy days in flipflops.
Some cultural learnings this week:
1. What do you do when you have a baby with a very blocked nose and you can’t get them to blow their nose? (WARNING: DO NOT KEEP READING THIS IF YOU ARE EATING) You suck the gunk out and then spit it out. I almost feel bad for putting this on my blog because it is so disgusting, but I couldn’t resist sharing this horrific piece of information. Witnessing this was not a highlight of my week.
2. When someone strokes your arm and says “Your skin is so soft, do you put sperm in your moisturiser?” the correct response is not to laugh. This is a very serious question. I then listened to a 10-minute explanation on the benefits of adding sperm to your moisturiser.
3. Rainy season here is not a good time to be unmarried. You get bombarded with constant questions regarding how you can possibly sleep at night in this cold weather without a “natural blanket”. A “natural blanket” being a man.
4. Working for an organisation that is supposed to promote women’s empowerment and hearing a stream of comments about the inferiority of women and then being told, “Gender equality? This is Africa. The man is still the man, and the woman is still the woman. You won't find gender equality here" by one of the managers in the organisation doesn’t do wonders for your enthusiasm as a volunteer.
5. Sitting and watching an attachment upload to an email for four hours is not the most calming of hobbies. Especially when it’s 9pm on a Thursday evening and you’ve been working on the same thing since 7am that morning. I very nearly threw my modem under a passing car.
6. When someone asks if you are married say yes, irrespective of who they are. Otherwise you get dragged down the road to be introduced to a crazy lady’s brother, who must have been about 70 years old. She ran up to him dragging me behind her shouting “Brother, I’ve found you a wife, I’ve found you a wife”. I made a hasty exit. The poor man looked very confused. This was the same lady who had spent the entire tricycle ride up my hill telling me I was lucky she was letting me sit next to her because in my country (being the UK) that would never happen as (and I quote): ‘your people would never be sat next to my people’.
7. Doing something as simple as standing on the side of the road minding your own business can cause a full-blown row between two men. I was just stood hailing down a taxi when a man stood on the pavement behind me told me that he didn’t want me to get a public taxi because ‘he loved me’ and wanted to ‘buy me a drop’ (a drop is a private taxi where you are the only passenger, and so it is about 8 times the cost of a public taxi which you share with however many other people). He then started shouting at every taxi that passed that he wanted a drop. A taxi full of people stopped, and the driver chucked all the passengers out so that he could take me in a drop. I explained to the taxi driver that I didn’t know the man, I didn’t want him paying for my taxi, and I just wanted a 50 Naira shared public taxi journey. The annoying man on the side of the road wouldn’t stop arguing with me about this, and by that time the poor taxi driver’s passengers had all gone and got in other taxis, so he’d lost all his fares from that journey. He was therefore pretty fed up with the annoying man on the side of the road, and quite rightly so. I wasn’t getting anywhere, as every time I tried to flag down a new taxi the annoying man on the side of the road interrupted me to tell the driver I wanted a drop, so I gave up and walked further up the road away from him so I could get a taxi in peace. Him and the taxi driver were still having a full-blown row by the time I last looked back.
And some good things this week:
1. Finding a place that sells REALLY good ice cream. It’s expensive, but definitely worth it.
2. A lovely lady who has a shop on my road refusing to let me pay my taxi fare and paying for me herself.
3. A new volunteer arriving in Calabar – someone else to drink beer with.
4. Packet macaroni cheese that I brought back from home. It was worth paying excess luggage for.
5. Finding a relatively decent bottle of red wine. Although I had to have a very long discussion with the lady in the shop about why I didn’t want a chilled bottle. Yes, that’s right, they all put red wine in the fridges here. The colder the better is the general motto.
6. Cooking fajitas for Jenny’s birthday. Despite me being the one who cooked them, they were actually edible. Especially when combined with fried yam. I’m starting to come to the conclusion that there’s nothing fried yam doesn’t go with.
7. Finding my way around a whole new part of Calabar all by myself. This doesn’t sound like much of an achievement, but for anyone who knows me well enough to know how bad my sense of direction is, and how much I hate doing things on my own, this was a pretty big breakthrough for me. I might just be becoming an adult.
So there goes another week. We’re praying for sunshine on Saturday so we can go and collapse by the swimming pool for the day. But if the past few days weather have been anything to go by, I shouldn’t get my hopes up!
Some cultural learnings this week:
1. What do you do when you have a baby with a very blocked nose and you can’t get them to blow their nose? (WARNING: DO NOT KEEP READING THIS IF YOU ARE EATING) You suck the gunk out and then spit it out. I almost feel bad for putting this on my blog because it is so disgusting, but I couldn’t resist sharing this horrific piece of information. Witnessing this was not a highlight of my week.
2. When someone strokes your arm and says “Your skin is so soft, do you put sperm in your moisturiser?” the correct response is not to laugh. This is a very serious question. I then listened to a 10-minute explanation on the benefits of adding sperm to your moisturiser.
3. Rainy season here is not a good time to be unmarried. You get bombarded with constant questions regarding how you can possibly sleep at night in this cold weather without a “natural blanket”. A “natural blanket” being a man.
4. Working for an organisation that is supposed to promote women’s empowerment and hearing a stream of comments about the inferiority of women and then being told, “Gender equality? This is Africa. The man is still the man, and the woman is still the woman. You won't find gender equality here" by one of the managers in the organisation doesn’t do wonders for your enthusiasm as a volunteer.
5. Sitting and watching an attachment upload to an email for four hours is not the most calming of hobbies. Especially when it’s 9pm on a Thursday evening and you’ve been working on the same thing since 7am that morning. I very nearly threw my modem under a passing car.
6. When someone asks if you are married say yes, irrespective of who they are. Otherwise you get dragged down the road to be introduced to a crazy lady’s brother, who must have been about 70 years old. She ran up to him dragging me behind her shouting “Brother, I’ve found you a wife, I’ve found you a wife”. I made a hasty exit. The poor man looked very confused. This was the same lady who had spent the entire tricycle ride up my hill telling me I was lucky she was letting me sit next to her because in my country (being the UK) that would never happen as (and I quote): ‘your people would never be sat next to my people’.
7. Doing something as simple as standing on the side of the road minding your own business can cause a full-blown row between two men. I was just stood hailing down a taxi when a man stood on the pavement behind me told me that he didn’t want me to get a public taxi because ‘he loved me’ and wanted to ‘buy me a drop’ (a drop is a private taxi where you are the only passenger, and so it is about 8 times the cost of a public taxi which you share with however many other people). He then started shouting at every taxi that passed that he wanted a drop. A taxi full of people stopped, and the driver chucked all the passengers out so that he could take me in a drop. I explained to the taxi driver that I didn’t know the man, I didn’t want him paying for my taxi, and I just wanted a 50 Naira shared public taxi journey. The annoying man on the side of the road wouldn’t stop arguing with me about this, and by that time the poor taxi driver’s passengers had all gone and got in other taxis, so he’d lost all his fares from that journey. He was therefore pretty fed up with the annoying man on the side of the road, and quite rightly so. I wasn’t getting anywhere, as every time I tried to flag down a new taxi the annoying man on the side of the road interrupted me to tell the driver I wanted a drop, so I gave up and walked further up the road away from him so I could get a taxi in peace. Him and the taxi driver were still having a full-blown row by the time I last looked back.
And some good things this week:
1. Finding a place that sells REALLY good ice cream. It’s expensive, but definitely worth it.
2. A lovely lady who has a shop on my road refusing to let me pay my taxi fare and paying for me herself.
3. A new volunteer arriving in Calabar – someone else to drink beer with.
4. Packet macaroni cheese that I brought back from home. It was worth paying excess luggage for.
5. Finding a relatively decent bottle of red wine. Although I had to have a very long discussion with the lady in the shop about why I didn’t want a chilled bottle. Yes, that’s right, they all put red wine in the fridges here. The colder the better is the general motto.
6. Cooking fajitas for Jenny’s birthday. Despite me being the one who cooked them, they were actually edible. Especially when combined with fried yam. I’m starting to come to the conclusion that there’s nothing fried yam doesn’t go with.
7. Finding my way around a whole new part of Calabar all by myself. This doesn’t sound like much of an achievement, but for anyone who knows me well enough to know how bad my sense of direction is, and how much I hate doing things on my own, this was a pretty big breakthrough for me. I might just be becoming an adult.
So there goes another week. We’re praying for sunshine on Saturday so we can go and collapse by the swimming pool for the day. But if the past few days weather have been anything to go by, I shouldn’t get my hopes up!
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
I really need to learn to Man Up
I have just returned to Calabar after a lovely two weeks at home. I have the worlds best parents, who bought me a ticket to go home for my birthday so that I could indulge in hot showers and electricity and wine. And it was the best birthday present in the world. Nothing beats Jersey in the summer, and it was great to be able to catch up with so many people, although as predicted the time flew by and I didn’t get to see nearly as many people as I had hoped. And the down side? Me learning that no matter how settled I might think I feel in Calabar, I will never be happy about going back or saying goodbye to everyone at home. Given how much of a total mess I was back in February when I first left, I had really hoped that I might manage to be a bit more controlled this time round at the airport. But no such luck. There was nothing dignified or reserved about my departure. So much for the British not showing emotions. I once again shuffled through security snuffling and snorting, with tears pouring down my face. On the plus side, my lack of dignity and inability to control my emotions works wonders in terms of the way I am treated by airport staff – the man that needed to go through my bag couldn’t have been more apologetic as he asked me to unpack the 20 packets of ‘pasta in a mug’ and packet macaroni cheese, 6 copies of trashy magazines, and 5 packets of Boots cucumber face wipes. However I think I was slightly less hysterical than I was in February, as the people at security didn’t offer me a glass of water and a seat before asking me to go through the scanner this time, so maybe there was a small improvement. Either way, someone really needs to teach me to Man the Hell Up.
I took full advantage of my luggage allowance, and came back with my bags full of every type of dried food on offer in Waitrose. Including couscous, dried mushrooms, a bottle of Pimms, Pringles, chocolate and magazines. As well as the entire contents of Boots, and Warehouse’s summer collection. It might be a bit late to be mentioning this now, but if anyone bought shares in Warehouse or Accessorise during the last two weeks, they will be smiling.
Whilst I was at home I also attempted to have something done with The Hair. My hairdresser took one look at it and had to walk away for a few minutes. But after cutting it all off, it seems to be falling out a little bit less. In a bid to avoid me going in with a comb over the next time I see her, she also gave me what seemed like an entire year’s supply of free samples. So I’m sorted for intensive conditioning treatments for the rest of my placement.
On the not so good side, after feeling pretty healthy for the past four months, I got home and got some nasty bug. So spent the last few days at home feeling very sorry for myself because I couldn’t do any of the things I wanted to do. My mood didn’t improve during my journey back to Calabar, which went something like this: Jersey – Gatwick – Heathrow – Abuja - Lagos (yes, that’s right, Lagos) – Abuja – Uyo – Calabar – MY SQUAT. I left home at 12pm on Saturday and arrived at My Squat at 8pm on Sunday. I was already feeling quite tired by 4.20am on Sunday when we went to land at Abuja (I’ve never been good at sleeping at planes), and so I was slightly confused when after starting to descend, the plane began to go back up again. And up. And up. And then the Captain announced that unfortunately we couldn’t land at Abuja. Well, not yet anyway. The landing lights on the runway weren’t working. But not to worry, he assured us; the plane had enough fuel for another three hours. Excellent. So for the next hour we circled Abuja. Over and over and over again. Until finally it was accepted that the men working on the lights would not be able to fix them, and we didn’t have enough fuel left to keep circling until daylight. And so off we went to Lagos instead. We sat at Lagos for an hour or so, refuelled the plane, and finally landed in Abuja at 9am. This didn’t actually bother me too much as it helped to take some time away from the 11 hour wait I knew I had at Abuja airport before my flight to Uyo. It also didn’t seem to bother anyone else on the plane. We were sat there for over 4 and a half hours longer than we were expecting, and yet no one seemed to complain. People just sat there quietly and waited until we heard the next update. I’ve been on planes that have attempted to land in Jersey, failed for some reason (usually fog) and everyone has complained endlessly. Not so here.
I did discover one slight downside with long waits at Nigerian airports. They are not designed for people travelling on their own with a lot of luggage. Just trying to get a trolley was a mission in itself, and then I discovered that the trolleys don’t fit through the door to the bathrooms. The airport was really busy, I couldn’t risk leaving all my luggage out in the corridor. And I couldn’t check my luggage in until 2 hours before my flight. But after having just sat on the flight from Heathrow for 11 hours I was desperate for a change of clothes, a wash, and to brush my teeth. So I had to improvise. I found a deserted corridor and crouched down behind my trolley to change my top, and then brushed my teeth over a plant pot. I hope they don’t have security cameras. I was also very very thirsty, but the only place I could buy water was upstairs in the airport. And guess what, there wasn’t a lift. Well actually, there was a lift. But it had a sign on it saying it only went to the 3rd floor offices, it didn’t go to the 1st floor where there was the cafeteria and the bar. Of course not, because people waiting at an international airport aren’t likely to have a lot of luggage. It would make no sense at all to have a lift going to the cafe. So by the time I could check my luggage in at 1.40pm I was just about ready to abandon my luggage and go and buy a drink anyway. Although I’d gone from wanting water to wanting a neat vodka. My journey back to Calabar continued to not go quite as planned, as in the taxi on the drive from Uyo (it’s at least a 2 hour journey to Calabar) our taxi ran out of petrol. In the torrential rain. By that stage I was starting to feel like someone was really trying to see how long I could stay awake without passing out.
When the plane couldn’t land in Abuja, the lady sat next to me turned to me and asked if it was my first time in Nigeria. I explained that it wasn’t, and she said thank goodness, because she didn’t want me to get a bad impression from the very start. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that nothing about what had just happened had surprised me in the slightest. When she asked how I was liking Nigeria, and I said I was really happy, and liked living in Calabar, all she could say was, “Why?” She couldn’t have looked more surprised. She said that whenever she hears anyone say anything positive about her country she wonders whether they’re living in the same place as she is. Like many people I have spoken to here, she is fed up. Fed up with the fact that Nigeria has resources. And Nigeria has money. A lot of it. And yet these resources and this money are not getting to the people who need it. She was fed up with the leadership. And she was fed up with the fact that in some ways the country has gone backwards in recent years rather than forwards. So when she asked why I liked living here, I didn’t know what to say. Because I know that part of the reason I’m happy here is because I know that it’s just for now. If this was where I knew I would be living for the next 20 years, my response might have been very different. Unlike most people here, I have the luxury of knowing I can go home for two weeks to escape the craziness, to soak up the easiness of life there, to enjoy the hot showers, the running water, and the constant electricity. So why do I like living here? Probably because it’s a novelty. ‘An experience’. But for most people here it’s neither of those things. It’s every day life, and it’s frustrating.
Unfortunately this has turned into another negative blog post. But no matter what the reason is, it is nice to be back. My Squat was exactly as I had left it, and hadn’t been taken over by Ratty as I had feared. In fact the only signs of life were a half dead cockroach and a big fat slimy millipede. I also had my reunion with Harp and fried yam last night. And Jenny got me the best birthday present anyone living here could ask for, a “Stop Nigeria I want to get out of here” voucher, entitling me to a day’s swimming at the lovely hotel up the road, including dinner there. They serve pizza. And cold beer. And have a huge flat screen TV in the outside bar area. So as soon as we find a Saturday when it isn’t raining, I plan on taking up residence on the sun lounger at 8am and not moving until someone actually has to ask me to leave.
I took full advantage of my luggage allowance, and came back with my bags full of every type of dried food on offer in Waitrose. Including couscous, dried mushrooms, a bottle of Pimms, Pringles, chocolate and magazines. As well as the entire contents of Boots, and Warehouse’s summer collection. It might be a bit late to be mentioning this now, but if anyone bought shares in Warehouse or Accessorise during the last two weeks, they will be smiling.
Whilst I was at home I also attempted to have something done with The Hair. My hairdresser took one look at it and had to walk away for a few minutes. But after cutting it all off, it seems to be falling out a little bit less. In a bid to avoid me going in with a comb over the next time I see her, she also gave me what seemed like an entire year’s supply of free samples. So I’m sorted for intensive conditioning treatments for the rest of my placement.
On the not so good side, after feeling pretty healthy for the past four months, I got home and got some nasty bug. So spent the last few days at home feeling very sorry for myself because I couldn’t do any of the things I wanted to do. My mood didn’t improve during my journey back to Calabar, which went something like this: Jersey – Gatwick – Heathrow – Abuja - Lagos (yes, that’s right, Lagos) – Abuja – Uyo – Calabar – MY SQUAT. I left home at 12pm on Saturday and arrived at My Squat at 8pm on Sunday. I was already feeling quite tired by 4.20am on Sunday when we went to land at Abuja (I’ve never been good at sleeping at planes), and so I was slightly confused when after starting to descend, the plane began to go back up again. And up. And up. And then the Captain announced that unfortunately we couldn’t land at Abuja. Well, not yet anyway. The landing lights on the runway weren’t working. But not to worry, he assured us; the plane had enough fuel for another three hours. Excellent. So for the next hour we circled Abuja. Over and over and over again. Until finally it was accepted that the men working on the lights would not be able to fix them, and we didn’t have enough fuel left to keep circling until daylight. And so off we went to Lagos instead. We sat at Lagos for an hour or so, refuelled the plane, and finally landed in Abuja at 9am. This didn’t actually bother me too much as it helped to take some time away from the 11 hour wait I knew I had at Abuja airport before my flight to Uyo. It also didn’t seem to bother anyone else on the plane. We were sat there for over 4 and a half hours longer than we were expecting, and yet no one seemed to complain. People just sat there quietly and waited until we heard the next update. I’ve been on planes that have attempted to land in Jersey, failed for some reason (usually fog) and everyone has complained endlessly. Not so here.
I did discover one slight downside with long waits at Nigerian airports. They are not designed for people travelling on their own with a lot of luggage. Just trying to get a trolley was a mission in itself, and then I discovered that the trolleys don’t fit through the door to the bathrooms. The airport was really busy, I couldn’t risk leaving all my luggage out in the corridor. And I couldn’t check my luggage in until 2 hours before my flight. But after having just sat on the flight from Heathrow for 11 hours I was desperate for a change of clothes, a wash, and to brush my teeth. So I had to improvise. I found a deserted corridor and crouched down behind my trolley to change my top, and then brushed my teeth over a plant pot. I hope they don’t have security cameras. I was also very very thirsty, but the only place I could buy water was upstairs in the airport. And guess what, there wasn’t a lift. Well actually, there was a lift. But it had a sign on it saying it only went to the 3rd floor offices, it didn’t go to the 1st floor where there was the cafeteria and the bar. Of course not, because people waiting at an international airport aren’t likely to have a lot of luggage. It would make no sense at all to have a lift going to the cafe. So by the time I could check my luggage in at 1.40pm I was just about ready to abandon my luggage and go and buy a drink anyway. Although I’d gone from wanting water to wanting a neat vodka. My journey back to Calabar continued to not go quite as planned, as in the taxi on the drive from Uyo (it’s at least a 2 hour journey to Calabar) our taxi ran out of petrol. In the torrential rain. By that stage I was starting to feel like someone was really trying to see how long I could stay awake without passing out.
When the plane couldn’t land in Abuja, the lady sat next to me turned to me and asked if it was my first time in Nigeria. I explained that it wasn’t, and she said thank goodness, because she didn’t want me to get a bad impression from the very start. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that nothing about what had just happened had surprised me in the slightest. When she asked how I was liking Nigeria, and I said I was really happy, and liked living in Calabar, all she could say was, “Why?” She couldn’t have looked more surprised. She said that whenever she hears anyone say anything positive about her country she wonders whether they’re living in the same place as she is. Like many people I have spoken to here, she is fed up. Fed up with the fact that Nigeria has resources. And Nigeria has money. A lot of it. And yet these resources and this money are not getting to the people who need it. She was fed up with the leadership. And she was fed up with the fact that in some ways the country has gone backwards in recent years rather than forwards. So when she asked why I liked living here, I didn’t know what to say. Because I know that part of the reason I’m happy here is because I know that it’s just for now. If this was where I knew I would be living for the next 20 years, my response might have been very different. Unlike most people here, I have the luxury of knowing I can go home for two weeks to escape the craziness, to soak up the easiness of life there, to enjoy the hot showers, the running water, and the constant electricity. So why do I like living here? Probably because it’s a novelty. ‘An experience’. But for most people here it’s neither of those things. It’s every day life, and it’s frustrating.
Unfortunately this has turned into another negative blog post. But no matter what the reason is, it is nice to be back. My Squat was exactly as I had left it, and hadn’t been taken over by Ratty as I had feared. In fact the only signs of life were a half dead cockroach and a big fat slimy millipede. I also had my reunion with Harp and fried yam last night. And Jenny got me the best birthday present anyone living here could ask for, a “Stop Nigeria I want to get out of here” voucher, entitling me to a day’s swimming at the lovely hotel up the road, including dinner there. They serve pizza. And cold beer. And have a huge flat screen TV in the outside bar area. So as soon as we find a Saturday when it isn’t raining, I plan on taking up residence on the sun lounger at 8am and not moving until someone actually has to ask me to leave.
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Tricycles, elephant feet and mouldy beds
You’d think that I’d have learnt my lesson the first time it rained heavily and my mattress got soaked. But no. Given how difficult it is to get a good night’s sleep in My Squat my only coping strategy is to just bury my head under my pillows and pretend that none of the noise exists and force myself to sleep anyway. After a few weeks of sleep deprivation this is easier than I had anticipated as I think I just pass out. So the other night when I woke up and felt damp I obviously didn’t wake up enough to work out that it was because it was raining in on me. Until I got up in the morning and put my feet in a puddle. A puddle that was covering the entire floor of My Squat. My mattress was once again soaked. As was my curtain, and anything else that was on the floor at the time. This will presumably only help to enhance the mould that already grows on everything that lives in My Squat. I got a pair of shoes out of my wardrobe that I hadn’t moved since I arrived here and they were covered in mould. It wouldn’t surprise me if my skin started to turn green soon as well.
I put closed toe shoes on the other day for the first time since I got here, and despite them being big on me when I left home, they are now too tight. It seems that four months of flipflop wearing isn’t particularly good for you, as my feet seem to have expanded to the size of elephant’s feet. Just another addition to the attractiveness list.
I have a new obsession. Because it’s been raining more and more in the mornings recently I’ve been getting tricycles to the main road to catch a taxi to work. The tricycles are all bright yellow, and they are called Keke. They conveniently leave from the hill at the top of the road where I live, and go all the way down to My Squat. And I think they are the best things ever. I want one. It would solve all my problems. I would never be brave enough to drive a car here, but I would happily just trundle along at 10 mph in one of these. I could go up and down the hill to My Squat as late as I wanted without having to worry. And people would stop thinking I was the strangest person in the world for walking everywhere. But I would definitely paint my tricycle pink.
When I imagined living and working in Nigeria I imagined that I might develop a tan. Or at least be a little more tanned than I normally am at home. As with most things here, I should never make assumptions. I am probably the whitest I have ever been. There are two new volunteers coming to Calabar in July and I went to meet the head of the charity they’ll be working for to check the accommodation that had been found for them. I walked into her office and she looked at me in horror and said, “You’re so so white. I knew you would be white, but you’re so white. Have you ever seen our sun?” I told my friend what she’d said and he laughed and said, “she’s right, you look like a chicken that’s had its feathers plucked out.” So there you go, four months in Nigeria and I’m almost translucent.
I’ve mentioned before that church is a big deal here. Everyone goes to church several times a week and you would struggle to find a road that doesn’t have about five churches on it. The question I have been asked the most frequently is which church I go to, followed by an insistence that I accompany them to church after I explain that I don’t go. But last week for the first time since I arrived, I actually went to church. Twice. The first time was slightly more terrifying than the second as I went with a friend from work who was in the choir and so he had to spend most of the time on stage. This meant I was left stood on my own pretending that I felt perfectly comfortable trying to sing and dance to songs I had never heard before, and simultaneously trying to ignore the fact that every single person in the church seemed to be staring at me. The second time was a slight improvement as I dragged Jenny along with me. The only downside was that the Pastor in the second service seemed unhealthily obsessed with the sound of his own voice and gave a two-hour sermon on ‘help’. I initially thought he was saying ‘hell’ so I was very confused when I thought he was making everyone chant ‘send me to hell, send me to hell, send me to hell’. Turns out I was just missing the pronunciation of the ‘p’. The sermon wouldn’t have been so bad if it hadn’t been an evening service, and if we hadn’t been out very late the night before. There were several awkward moments during the four hour service (yes, it lasted for four hours in total) when I really had to force myself to fidget so that I stayed awake. Thankfully Jenny had brought a packet of Percy Pigs with her, and so the occasional sugar boost helped to sustain us until we were allowed to leave. So at least when I am next asked if I have been to church I can say yes, twice in one week.
I put closed toe shoes on the other day for the first time since I got here, and despite them being big on me when I left home, they are now too tight. It seems that four months of flipflop wearing isn’t particularly good for you, as my feet seem to have expanded to the size of elephant’s feet. Just another addition to the attractiveness list.
I have a new obsession. Because it’s been raining more and more in the mornings recently I’ve been getting tricycles to the main road to catch a taxi to work. The tricycles are all bright yellow, and they are called Keke. They conveniently leave from the hill at the top of the road where I live, and go all the way down to My Squat. And I think they are the best things ever. I want one. It would solve all my problems. I would never be brave enough to drive a car here, but I would happily just trundle along at 10 mph in one of these. I could go up and down the hill to My Squat as late as I wanted without having to worry. And people would stop thinking I was the strangest person in the world for walking everywhere. But I would definitely paint my tricycle pink.
When I imagined living and working in Nigeria I imagined that I might develop a tan. Or at least be a little more tanned than I normally am at home. As with most things here, I should never make assumptions. I am probably the whitest I have ever been. There are two new volunteers coming to Calabar in July and I went to meet the head of the charity they’ll be working for to check the accommodation that had been found for them. I walked into her office and she looked at me in horror and said, “You’re so so white. I knew you would be white, but you’re so white. Have you ever seen our sun?” I told my friend what she’d said and he laughed and said, “she’s right, you look like a chicken that’s had its feathers plucked out.” So there you go, four months in Nigeria and I’m almost translucent.
I’ve mentioned before that church is a big deal here. Everyone goes to church several times a week and you would struggle to find a road that doesn’t have about five churches on it. The question I have been asked the most frequently is which church I go to, followed by an insistence that I accompany them to church after I explain that I don’t go. But last week for the first time since I arrived, I actually went to church. Twice. The first time was slightly more terrifying than the second as I went with a friend from work who was in the choir and so he had to spend most of the time on stage. This meant I was left stood on my own pretending that I felt perfectly comfortable trying to sing and dance to songs I had never heard before, and simultaneously trying to ignore the fact that every single person in the church seemed to be staring at me. The second time was a slight improvement as I dragged Jenny along with me. The only downside was that the Pastor in the second service seemed unhealthily obsessed with the sound of his own voice and gave a two-hour sermon on ‘help’. I initially thought he was saying ‘hell’ so I was very confused when I thought he was making everyone chant ‘send me to hell, send me to hell, send me to hell’. Turns out I was just missing the pronunciation of the ‘p’. The sermon wouldn’t have been so bad if it hadn’t been an evening service, and if we hadn’t been out very late the night before. There were several awkward moments during the four hour service (yes, it lasted for four hours in total) when I really had to force myself to fidget so that I stayed awake. Thankfully Jenny had brought a packet of Percy Pigs with her, and so the occasional sugar boost helped to sustain us until we were allowed to leave. So at least when I am next asked if I have been to church I can say yes, twice in one week.
Monday, June 13, 2011
Can someone press the pause button
I’ve now been here for four months. I’m a third of the way through my placement, and it’s almost a year to the day that I went to the VSO assessment day in London. And I want someone to press the pause button, as despite the hair loss, constant sweating, daily irritations and living in an almost permanent state of confusion, I’m loving life here, and if the next 8 months go by as quickly as the last 4 then I’m going to be home before I know it.
But my current state of happiness (or euphoria, according to the VSO emotional map) may not last. Because apparently the next stage is likely to be shock and denial. Or guilt, depending on whether you follow the map clockwise or anti-clockwise. And so it seems I should enjoy the euphoria whilst I have the chance.
But I’m keeping my fingers crossed that I can beat the VSO emotional map and keep the depression, shock and denial at bay. I’ve found myself enjoying being here more and more as time has gone on. Whilst I know I was meant to find the start of my placement exciting, part of me just found it overwhelming. It was frustrating not being able to understand anyone, no one being able to understand me, not knowing how to get anywhere, not knowing how much to pay for things, and basically not being able to do anything on my own. I think part of the reason I am now enjoying being here so much is because I feel settled and it has started to feel like home (or home for now, anyway!). I like the fact that I can find my way around, I can understand a lot more pidgin than my colleagues realise (I am keeping this very quiet as I have a feeling it may work to my advantage!), I no longer get charged crazy prices for everything I buy, and I’ve got into a routine. Well, a routine of sorts anyway. It goes something like this:
6.30am: wake up to the sound of whatever strange thing my weird neighbours are doing. Or at least, get up. Chances are I’ve been awake since the crack of dawn, as everyone that lives in my compound seems to be nocturnal.
7.15am - 7.30am: hover by my window like a crazy person waiting to see if I can pounce on one of my three neighbours who have cars and frequently find themselves with the joy of driving me to work.
7.30am: Give up on the stalking and accept that if I don’t start walking up the hill I’ll be late. Walk up the hill from the End of the Earth sweating endlessly, and trying to say hello to everyone who walks past whilst also concentrating on not getting run over or falling into the open sewers that line both sides of the road.
8.00am/8.15am: Get to work and make sure I sign the staff register before the Red Line of Doom is drawn at 8.30am (once this line has been drawn there is no going back. You are officially late).
8.15am - 8.30am: Sit very still in the hope of stopping the sweating that has taken over following the walk up my hill/sharing of a seat in the taxi with 3 people more than you would think possible.
11.30am – 12.00pm: Admit defeat and accept that given I’ve already drunk my body weight in water I cannot put off going to the toilet any longer. I avoid this for as long as possible for several reasons. Firstly, the toilet never has any toilet paper in it, meaning I have to take the one that I keep in my bag with me, which means walking through the entire office carrying a toilet roll, which amuses my colleagues endlessly. Secondly, the floor of the toilet at work is always covered in about 2 inches of water. I have blocked the possible reasons for this from my mind, but I still find it difficult to ignore the sensation of water squishing between my toes whenever I walk in there. Thirdly, there is no running water in the bathroom, and so to flush the toilet I need to fill the bucket from the barrel of water we keep in there, which inevitably leads to water splashing back up from the toilet and onto my feet, exacerbating the problem referred to in my second reason for avoiding the toilet above.
12.30pm: Go outside and blink crazily like a newborn hamster for about 20 seconds whilst my eyes adjust to the light (my office is very, very dark). Go and see the lady who sits behind our office and try and decide what to have for my ‘lunch’ (I like to use the word ‘decide’ as it implies I have a choice. Whereas really, this just involves a combination of ground nuts, crackers, water, and maybe a sprite if I really want to push the boat out).
Work has been crazy busy the past few weeks, as there have been a lot of funding proposals to work on recently with very short deadlines. I went to one of the local orphanages the other day. And as I knew it would, it broke my heart. There was a two-day-old baby that had been abandoned, and I just wanted to pick her up and take her home (don’t worry Mother, I didn’t. But I’m not making any promises that I won’t go back).
4.30pm – 5.00pm: Finish work and start the journey back to the End of the Earth. Buy some combination of the only ingredients I can get from my road: bread, tomatoes, onions, avocadoes, oranges and pineapple.
Then there are two options depending on what day of the week it is:
A: 6.00pm: If it’s a Wednesday or Thursday I usually meet Jenny at a bar we go to on the main road at the top of my hill. Or my favourite yam bar where not only do I get beer, but fried yam as well.
B: 6.00pm: If I’m not meeting Jenny, get home and have a shower to try and address the fact that I am once again sweating endlessly after walking back down my hill.
6.30pm: Try and motivate myself to make something edible for dinner before it gets completely dark and I can no longer see what I am doing, but fail miserably and end up either doing some washing, checking emails, or reading.
7.00pm: ‘Cook’ some sort of meal involving the ingredients I bought on the way home, which generally involves just chopping up tomatoes and avocadoes and eating them with bread, unless I can motivate myself to make something more adventurous like an omelette or pasta. However the chances of that are slim, given the fact that using my gas stove in my already over heated kitchen when I cannot see what I am doing does nothing but irritate me and means I then have to have my third shower of the day.
7.30pm: Mop my kitchen floor, as any use of my sink involves the floor flooding within seconds as there is no U-bend in the sink (or so I’m told, all I know is that when I turn the tap on I get very wet feet).
7.45pm: Do some washing and then leave it to dry in my room and then have to mop again because I am absolutely unable to wring it out enough to stop the water from dripping onto my floor.
8.30pm: Spray Raid obsessively until I find it difficult to breathe, but this is definitely preferable to waking up in the middle of the night, putting my foot down on the floor, and stepping on a cockroach (this has happened more times than I care to remember. I have no idea how they always end up in just the place I want to put my feet when I get out of bed).
8.35pm: Once I’ve stopped coughing I start watching something on my laptop. Generally House, given I have all 6 series (Miss Bell, you’re my hero).
9.00pm: Try to ignore the fact that I can’t actually hear a thing from my laptop, as a result of the 20 industrial size generators that are running outside my bedroom.
9.15pm: Decide that lip reading really isn’t one of my strengths, and so give up and read instead. Generally by torchlight.
10.30pm: Start to think about going to bed. Or, going to sleep, given I’ve been ‘in bed’ since getting home as it’s the only surface to sit on in My Squat.
10.45pm: Cocoon myself in my mosquito net. Since Ratty came into my life this now involves using every book I own to weigh the net down from the inside (my bed is just one big lump of foam and so there’s nothing to tuck the mosquito net into, and leaving it hanging down the sides of the bed is not an option as I just lie there imagining all the cockroaches and rats that could climb up inside the net and crawl over me whilst I’m asleep. Yes, I’m just that paranoid and delusional).
11.00pm: Bury my head underneath my pillows and try to think about something apart from the sound of the generators/car alarm/howling puppies/shouting neighbours.
11.30pm: Pass out.
2.00am: Wake up and try to pretend I don’t need the toilet, as the effort involved in moving the books from my mosquito net, locating my torch, and praying there aren’t any half dead cockroaches for me to stand on just doesn’t seem worth it.
4.00am: Wake up again and admit defeat and get up to go to the toilet. 6 nights out of 7 the water will be off and so I’ll need to fill a bucket to flush the toilet whilst also trying to keep my eyes half closed in the hope that I won’t wake up entirely and be unable to go back to sleep.
And that’s my routine. The only real difference with weekends is I’m out later at night, sleep a bit more (well, actually that’s not always the case as the noise levels don’t decrease at the weekend, but I’m just more stubborn and lie there refusing to get up), clean more, and do more washing.
So, here’s to hoping I can maintain the ‘euphoria’ for the next 8 months.
But my current state of happiness (or euphoria, according to the VSO emotional map) may not last. Because apparently the next stage is likely to be shock and denial. Or guilt, depending on whether you follow the map clockwise or anti-clockwise. And so it seems I should enjoy the euphoria whilst I have the chance.
But I’m keeping my fingers crossed that I can beat the VSO emotional map and keep the depression, shock and denial at bay. I’ve found myself enjoying being here more and more as time has gone on. Whilst I know I was meant to find the start of my placement exciting, part of me just found it overwhelming. It was frustrating not being able to understand anyone, no one being able to understand me, not knowing how to get anywhere, not knowing how much to pay for things, and basically not being able to do anything on my own. I think part of the reason I am now enjoying being here so much is because I feel settled and it has started to feel like home (or home for now, anyway!). I like the fact that I can find my way around, I can understand a lot more pidgin than my colleagues realise (I am keeping this very quiet as I have a feeling it may work to my advantage!), I no longer get charged crazy prices for everything I buy, and I’ve got into a routine. Well, a routine of sorts anyway. It goes something like this:
6.30am: wake up to the sound of whatever strange thing my weird neighbours are doing. Or at least, get up. Chances are I’ve been awake since the crack of dawn, as everyone that lives in my compound seems to be nocturnal.
7.15am - 7.30am: hover by my window like a crazy person waiting to see if I can pounce on one of my three neighbours who have cars and frequently find themselves with the joy of driving me to work.
7.30am: Give up on the stalking and accept that if I don’t start walking up the hill I’ll be late. Walk up the hill from the End of the Earth sweating endlessly, and trying to say hello to everyone who walks past whilst also concentrating on not getting run over or falling into the open sewers that line both sides of the road.
8.00am/8.15am: Get to work and make sure I sign the staff register before the Red Line of Doom is drawn at 8.30am (once this line has been drawn there is no going back. You are officially late).
8.15am - 8.30am: Sit very still in the hope of stopping the sweating that has taken over following the walk up my hill/sharing of a seat in the taxi with 3 people more than you would think possible.
11.30am – 12.00pm: Admit defeat and accept that given I’ve already drunk my body weight in water I cannot put off going to the toilet any longer. I avoid this for as long as possible for several reasons. Firstly, the toilet never has any toilet paper in it, meaning I have to take the one that I keep in my bag with me, which means walking through the entire office carrying a toilet roll, which amuses my colleagues endlessly. Secondly, the floor of the toilet at work is always covered in about 2 inches of water. I have blocked the possible reasons for this from my mind, but I still find it difficult to ignore the sensation of water squishing between my toes whenever I walk in there. Thirdly, there is no running water in the bathroom, and so to flush the toilet I need to fill the bucket from the barrel of water we keep in there, which inevitably leads to water splashing back up from the toilet and onto my feet, exacerbating the problem referred to in my second reason for avoiding the toilet above.
12.30pm: Go outside and blink crazily like a newborn hamster for about 20 seconds whilst my eyes adjust to the light (my office is very, very dark). Go and see the lady who sits behind our office and try and decide what to have for my ‘lunch’ (I like to use the word ‘decide’ as it implies I have a choice. Whereas really, this just involves a combination of ground nuts, crackers, water, and maybe a sprite if I really want to push the boat out).
Work has been crazy busy the past few weeks, as there have been a lot of funding proposals to work on recently with very short deadlines. I went to one of the local orphanages the other day. And as I knew it would, it broke my heart. There was a two-day-old baby that had been abandoned, and I just wanted to pick her up and take her home (don’t worry Mother, I didn’t. But I’m not making any promises that I won’t go back).
4.30pm – 5.00pm: Finish work and start the journey back to the End of the Earth. Buy some combination of the only ingredients I can get from my road: bread, tomatoes, onions, avocadoes, oranges and pineapple.
Then there are two options depending on what day of the week it is:
A: 6.00pm: If it’s a Wednesday or Thursday I usually meet Jenny at a bar we go to on the main road at the top of my hill. Or my favourite yam bar where not only do I get beer, but fried yam as well.
B: 6.00pm: If I’m not meeting Jenny, get home and have a shower to try and address the fact that I am once again sweating endlessly after walking back down my hill.
6.30pm: Try and motivate myself to make something edible for dinner before it gets completely dark and I can no longer see what I am doing, but fail miserably and end up either doing some washing, checking emails, or reading.
7.00pm: ‘Cook’ some sort of meal involving the ingredients I bought on the way home, which generally involves just chopping up tomatoes and avocadoes and eating them with bread, unless I can motivate myself to make something more adventurous like an omelette or pasta. However the chances of that are slim, given the fact that using my gas stove in my already over heated kitchen when I cannot see what I am doing does nothing but irritate me and means I then have to have my third shower of the day.
7.30pm: Mop my kitchen floor, as any use of my sink involves the floor flooding within seconds as there is no U-bend in the sink (or so I’m told, all I know is that when I turn the tap on I get very wet feet).
7.45pm: Do some washing and then leave it to dry in my room and then have to mop again because I am absolutely unable to wring it out enough to stop the water from dripping onto my floor.
8.30pm: Spray Raid obsessively until I find it difficult to breathe, but this is definitely preferable to waking up in the middle of the night, putting my foot down on the floor, and stepping on a cockroach (this has happened more times than I care to remember. I have no idea how they always end up in just the place I want to put my feet when I get out of bed).
8.35pm: Once I’ve stopped coughing I start watching something on my laptop. Generally House, given I have all 6 series (Miss Bell, you’re my hero).
9.00pm: Try to ignore the fact that I can’t actually hear a thing from my laptop, as a result of the 20 industrial size generators that are running outside my bedroom.
9.15pm: Decide that lip reading really isn’t one of my strengths, and so give up and read instead. Generally by torchlight.
10.30pm: Start to think about going to bed. Or, going to sleep, given I’ve been ‘in bed’ since getting home as it’s the only surface to sit on in My Squat.
10.45pm: Cocoon myself in my mosquito net. Since Ratty came into my life this now involves using every book I own to weigh the net down from the inside (my bed is just one big lump of foam and so there’s nothing to tuck the mosquito net into, and leaving it hanging down the sides of the bed is not an option as I just lie there imagining all the cockroaches and rats that could climb up inside the net and crawl over me whilst I’m asleep. Yes, I’m just that paranoid and delusional).
11.00pm: Bury my head underneath my pillows and try to think about something apart from the sound of the generators/car alarm/howling puppies/shouting neighbours.
11.30pm: Pass out.
2.00am: Wake up and try to pretend I don’t need the toilet, as the effort involved in moving the books from my mosquito net, locating my torch, and praying there aren’t any half dead cockroaches for me to stand on just doesn’t seem worth it.
4.00am: Wake up again and admit defeat and get up to go to the toilet. 6 nights out of 7 the water will be off and so I’ll need to fill a bucket to flush the toilet whilst also trying to keep my eyes half closed in the hope that I won’t wake up entirely and be unable to go back to sleep.
And that’s my routine. The only real difference with weekends is I’m out later at night, sleep a bit more (well, actually that’s not always the case as the noise levels don’t decrease at the weekend, but I’m just more stubborn and lie there refusing to get up), clean more, and do more washing.
So, here’s to hoping I can maintain the ‘euphoria’ for the next 8 months.
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