The Carrot Guy

I intended to get back to writing regularly but I think this last semester was more taxing than I realized. Motivation and coherent thinking has been hard to come by. I am still highly ambivalent about Lagos, mostly because I have been caught up in a very small world. Maybe it's time for a return to the bullet list.

Things I want to write about but haven't yet the storytelling frame of mind:

• The holiday season started off with a fantastical tale of this ballet party dress, which I found to be a bit expensive and not so well made. Mbalia's costume had a piece of trim from the neckline detaching before she'd even had it on. When I made a remark to the woman who was selling them, she looked at me in that rushed but serious way women get when they're dealing with a line of parents, on the day of the show, selling costumes in the foyer and things aren't going so well. "Yes, I am so sorry. You know why they are so expensive? We had to fly the woman in from China and she just got here Friday night and has been working like crazy to get all of the costumes done in time...." She lost me at "fly her in from China..." As if there weren't enough people here in the country to do a shoddy assembly job. Trevor Noah once again feeling my pain by reporting on Nigerians flying in pizza from Britain. Because it's all real. It's happening.  

The fancy light-up costume

                                       
                                                     It all started with the pizza....

• 3D commercials in the stores- rounding a grocery aisle is likely to land you smack in the face of a real live commercial. Around the holiday season, there seem to be more of these product peddlers on hand. They sell everything from insecticide to wine. I think the ones I have run across most often are for powdered milk or chocolate spread. The most interesting one is the Laughing Cow, whom I might have written about previously. Like an animal version of Santa, he can be found in stores across Africa, wearing his red suit and making children laugh (or run screaming in terror.)

• The mall or grocery store is the place to go for holidays. A walk around the mall or snapping photos in front of public Christmas displays is a popular way to pass the holiday. We spent some time doing this (by necessity rather than true desire) and decided to take advantage of the train running through mall. It's there all year round, along with the dressed up animals loitering in the hallways, waiting to snap photos with the kids and hand out publicity for children themed clothing shops and play centers.

The Palms Plaza Shopping Train

Mbalia was super excited

• The carrot guy- there was a new vegetable guy at the small grocery store I like to go to (not in the mall.) He was so young with a beautiful smile and completely over willing to help. All I had to do was look in the direction of a vegetable and he was there with a plastic bag open and ready. He seemed to glide just above the floor, simply appearing next to me with bag in hand. I asked if I could put the onions and limes together- always searching for ways to avoid the plastic- and his smile got even bigger as he just shook his head. No, ma, you don't want to do that, he seemed to be saying. I couldn't be sure if he even heard me or understood. He was just apparently filled with the joy of the season. Overly nice people have a way of making me overly grateful and slightly uncomfortable so I mentally rearranged my normally high in veggies list. Just a few carrots. I picked up one or two limp orange stalks, shook my head and put them down again. In a flash, he was there, reading my mind. "Let me selection for you ma, so you can have the best." And he did. That young boy picked out all the best carrots from both bins. I felt like I was in a musical- that's how bright his smile was and how weird the whole transaction seemed. If someone broke out dancing and singing, I wouldn't have been any more surprised. As we made our way out of the vegetable section he pointed to the Nuli juice refrigerator. "All natural. Nuli is all natural juice." Like he knew me. I smiled and shook my head, although the Nuli juice boasted celery, cucumber, apple flavor or a watermelon, pineapple, honey combo. The carrot guy folded his hands and wished us a merry Christmas. I think it was the most sincere holiday wish I've ever received.  

• Until we got to the frozen foods, which is near the stairs to go up to the second level. Where I've never been. But Mbalia needed a small screwdriver to change the batteries in a light up unicorn and I suspected if they had tools, they'd be upstairs. I asked one of the clerks if they sold screwdrivers and he shook his head no, but then asked what I needed it for. ? Luckily, Mbalia had brought her unicorn friend along and so I was able to show him. He dashed upstairs and retrieved his own screwdriver, making the battery exchange right there in the store. This whole scene naturally attracted two other employees, making jokes about our hero being a toy doctor. A-plus for SPAR's overly helpful, supremely friendly staff on hand, making every shopping trip a success. 

• The light display put on by Zenith bank were truly spectacular. We snapped our own small picture from the keke. I'm not sure how they got a video that seems so devoid of people but the night we were out was filled with pedestrians, cars, motorcycles and lines of people hoping to get a ride on the magical sleigh.

Zenith Bank Display

The magical ride-on sleigh, viewed from the keke

• Nabih's birthday came along just before the holidays and we took a trip to the Lekki Conservation center. We convinced each other that a walk across the canopy would be a good idea. Tours set out from the main center and we joined a group of about 25 other people. It seemed an odd way to walk through the swampy forest, but once we got to the canopy walk the group spread out. Only six people were allowed to walk across each section, with a maximum of 12 at each resting tower. It was quite an experience, with other group members really making a difference. Two women in front of us asked to keep the space, because the more people on the walk, the more it swayed and buoyed up and down. The three or four guys in front of them were especially exuberant. After the first two stretches, they were waiting with high fives and congratulations- and the ever present photo op. By the time we got to the end, we found ourselves walking off to a suddenly unusual quiet emptiness. Just us and the forest. After all that bonding with strangers, it was a little bit of a creepy ending. We walked cautiously back through the swamp, alternating between delight and suspicion at the monkeys crawling along the handrail- which signs cautioned against actually using or leaning against. 

View before we began. It's hard to look around
while walking. I kept my gaze firmly fixed
on Nabih's shirt. No time to enjoy the view.
Once you begin, you can't turn back.

The swaying, bouncing walkway 22.5meters high

Monkeys everywhere

The path ahead, mostly secure, beautiful green

Walkway in repair

Swampy view- no crocodiles in sight but
that doesn't mean they weren't there

Naira

The semester is over, marking my first year of PhD studies complete. These past 5 months were full of transition, illness, stress and catching up. I think there were a few sweet moments in there as well, but getting used to a new country is a job in itself, one I tend to underestimate even though I have been through it enough times to know better.

I cannot say Nigeria, or even Lagos, but I must insist on VI. Victoria Island is a microcosm of it's own. I have to keep remembering that. Because when I am just plain sick of the weirdness here, it's helpful to think it is probably not all of Nigeria. Just these little island bubbles.

On the island, there are fireworks every weekend. (Don't they know you can't have Christmas every day or it won't be special anymore?) Conversations everywhere seem to revolve around parties and events. One of the reasons I came to Nigeria was because of the reputation for intellectual discourse, and I am sure it is here- just not in these island bubbles. Or maybe everyone is adhering to work hard- play hard. Playing hard is expensive so the money must be coming from somewhere. Me? I am just hiding out in my flat, trying not spend too much. Just walking out the door seems to have a cost attached.

One of the hardest things to manage is the naira. Aside from the academic reputation, there is the other side. Business is a big thing, and for every legitimate affair, there is someone equally creative working for the powers of darkness. Nigeria does have a history of scams and con artists, which has led to some very complex rules around money.

1. The naira and the dollar are completely separate. I cannot speak expertly about the processes regulating change of naira to dollar but I know they exist. I was in the bank, withdrawing dollar (from my dollar account, which is very separate from my naira account) actually trying to send Western Union (coming up in rule number 2). Turns out you can only send naira by Western Union and so I was wondering out loud about how to get naira. The bank teller looks at me apologetically and says, "Maybe if you know someone....?" Meaning he, the banker, could not actually help me.  I needed to call my money changer. Because I actually have one of those now. Some people have accountants; I have a money changer.

I call and ask him to come and meet me. This time we meet inside the bank, which goes against everything I have experienced about money changers in other countries. Usually, "black market" money exchange is done on the street and at a lower rate than the bank. Here, the bank cannot actually perform this service for me. So Usmane comes into the bank and we work out an exchange. He doesn't really speak English and our exchanges are always a little confusing in terms of communication but I am getting better at understanding. He gives me a huge pile of naira and I go to the "large sums" deposit room to have my money counted, verified and deposited. I receive a small ticket to bring back to the teller to verify that my "large deposit" has been counted. Every time I need more naira, I have to go through this process. I wire my dollars to my naira account, call Usmane to change my dollars- sometimes he transfers directly to my account, sometimes I have large piles of naira to count. Usmane is friendly, always smiling- if we could communicate better I would ask how he got into this line of work. Where does he get all the money from? Who is actually funding his whole situation and where do my dollars go? But I am still slightly uncomfortable with the need to invite a third party into my banking transactions. Nairas spend like loose change here and sometimes it is embarrassing to have Usmane witnessing my 'wealth.'

2. There is no way to get money out of the country. Money transfer options like Western Union and Money Gram barely exist here. You can transfer within country, but sending out is a complicated affair. I managed to do it twice in emergency situations, but it takes at least an hour per transaction and there is a limit on the amount you can send per day. Coupled with the many personal questions required to be completed and I am once again feeling my privacy is being invaded. When it comes to money and Nigeria, there is no privacy.

3. There are limits on everything. ATMs do exist, and there are a few you could risk trying to use your international card at, but you are still limited to 20,000 naira per transaction (about $60.) It is extremely frustrating trying to keep cash on hand- which is actually something the government is discouraging.

4. Electronic transfers are all the rage. Some people even know their bank account numbers by heart. Most banks have mobile apps and from your app you can send money from your account to anyone else's account. It is the way to pay. Cashless. There is a small charge for this service but it's possible to pay for all kinds of services this way, person to person, person to business and you can even directly transfer naira for mobile phone credit. As long as the network is working. That small condition can lead to big problems. People have been super gracious so far, allowing that you pay for it later, when the network is up again. Meaning I have consumed services and then just been trusted to pay for them later. "Network" is a word commonly used to describe any kind of technical glitch. And people have adapted with patience. What else can you do,  really?

Network problems also affect Uber and Taxify, getting in the way of providing useful directions or calculating fares. I have been on some longer trips that miscalculated the fare or just shut down altogether. By this point, I generally have a good idea of what the fare should be and try to leave something of a generous tip, but it's not always a sure thing. I still feel bad about a trip I took in from the mainland and ended up shorting the driver 100N when I had hoped to leave him extra. I figure in the big circle of taxi fares and tips, it has to equal out somewhere along the way. It's all I can do.

5. Credit and debit cards are also a valid form of payment, but rely on the "network." It definitely has the possibility of feeling like a futuristic King novel, with evil something or other taking over and shutting it down. Or itself taking over and ruling as it wishes. I have gone grocery shopping, intending to pay with my US card only to have it rejected. In one case,  I then left the store to try the ATM, also down. I went back to the store, unpacked my groceries so I could reclaim my bags when the cashier tried again- and it went through. I had to repack my groceries. Paying and packing-unpacking-repacking took longer than the shopping itself.

Money and money exchange has become something that takes up precious mental energy space. It now involves planning ahead, calculating wire transfer time, money exchange time (Usmane is actually surprisingly super quick- arriving one time within minutes. If we could communicate, I would ask him where he is doing his business....certainly on the island somewhere.)

As I understand it, our salaries go through their own complicated process. My bank app shows two accounts which I can't actually access, but the money passes through there on it's way to my US account. First, the naira is deposited. There is something about bidding on US dollar exchange- my financial literacy is severely limited at this point- and then it gets converted to dollars, which go through that shadow account and are finally wired to my US account.

Something about all the rules, regulations and conditions works to make me feel everything about it is even shadier than if it just existed. I guess the Nigerians know best, how to combat the fraud and corruption. The whole thing gives me a headache.

Applying the PhD

When I was younger, we played a lot of games. We built card houses and played Rummy and Gin and Crazy Eights. I played numerous versions of Solitary, and almost every card game seemed to have a dice version. So we played those too. We played so often that when I closed my eyes, I could still see the outline of the cards, the shapes of the diamonds and clubs in that eerie reverse lighting that happens behind closed lids.

Studying for an advanced degree is a bit like that. It takes up nearly every spare moment, and even when I am not reading or writing something, I am thinking of whatever it is I am supposed to be reading or writing. I see ethics and moral dilemmas everywhere. Even and especially when I am trying to relax or take a break from the intense analyzing of ideas, the topics present themselves.

One of the reasons I'd accepted the job in Lagos was for an opportunity to "just" teach art, an option that would allow me to focus on only one subject and to follow my passion. I'd imagined there wouldn't be much overlap and one would easily allow me to concentrate on the other.

Naturally, real life is interconnected and all things overlap. It's only taken a few short months for the first ethical dilemmas to begin presenting themselves and refusing to go away. I've designed all of the curriculum content to connect to self-identity and culture, social studies themes or aspects of study in other classes. 7th grade is studying West African history, which leads naturally to an examination of the Benin Kingdom and their stunning work in bronze. Which has led to an entire ethical analysis of the conflict over returning the Benin Bronzes, and African artwork in general (I feel a paper coming on...)

In 1897, Britain plundered the kingdom, stealing religious artifacts and ceremonial items. Oba Akenzua II began the quest to have the items returned in 1936 and it is an ongoing affair. On the surface, it seems to be a straightforward problem. The items were stolen and they should be returned.

There are several complicating factors, which I was happy to introduce to my 7th grade classes. Honestly, I was surprised at their responses, though perhaps I should not have been. A Eurocentric mindset is cultivated in communities across the globe since birth. They are no different.

They wanted to know if England had given credit to Nigeria (is that all it takes to make stealing morally acceptable?) When I raised the question about whether there should be monetary compensation included in the return because, after all, people have been paying a lot of money for a lot of years to visit the works, students sympathized with the Brits and suggested it would be difficult for them to give back the stolen loot after so many years and making so much profit. They suggested a 5 or 10% return. I hadn't read anything about restitution for past profit in the articles, but it turns out Trevor Noah and I think alike. There should be something to atone for all of the profits made over the 120+ years.

One of the responses to Europe's argument that there are not places to store or show African art encompasses the idea that perhaps it is not meant to show. These were not decorative art pieces, but sacred objects. Many were not meant to be seen by the general public but rather kept secluded in royal homes or other places. Just because Europeans have treated the art in a certain way throughout the ages does not mean that is the only way to treat them. Perhaps they go back to their sacred status, hidden, revered and an essential part of the spirit of the community.

There have also been some African leaders who suggest that having the work out in the world has been something of a cultural ambassador for African countries. They say they're ok with keeping some of the work in Europe where it will continue to showcase the skill and talent of African artists and present the history.

It's a complicated perspective since these items can be considered primary sources of historical events, many of which are not taught or discussed in African schools. These pieces provide very clear historical evidence of how kingdoms and courts were organized. Complex, stunning and showcasing great technical skill- those words apply not only to the artwork, but to everything surrounding the controversy and the historical significance of the objects.

I share a room with elementary art and the instructional assistant has overheard many of our debates. She took some time to share with me her direct lineage to the Oba and some of her perspective about the controversy. As someone who has inside knowledge about the use of some of the items, and the implications of having them openly accessibly, her perspective is revealing.

There really is no controversy. Stolen items need to be returned to the owner. The owner decides how best to care for them. End of story really.

The students were still not entirely convinced.  I put everything in terms of their personal items- so, if I steal your sneakers, because I notice you don't care for them very well and I decide I know best how to care for them....is that ok? (no, they don't agree.)

If I come into your bedroom and steal all of your belongings, and then decide to give you a few things back- but keep the rest for myself....it's ok? (no, not really.)

And the one they really weren't sure about- if I steal all of your clothes and go out and make your fashion sense famous, I get to keep the money and anything positive that comes from that? I'll just mention that it was all your idea.....and you never had a chance to make it famous, because all your stuff was with me. (they're not really sure about this one....ownership of the idea versus ownership of the items- even if by stealing- versus power to make something seen)

We're talking about privilege here. The power and privilege to access international markets and international locations. The power and privilege to know your own history because the artifacts are housed safely in locations you can visit or presented in ways that accurately depict how they were used in your culture.

The conversations will continue. I can see their minds are still churning over the ideas and the connections and puzzling it through. Some walked out shaking their heads, commenting it was the best art class discussion they'd had, others kept referring to "our art," though clearly not Nigerian, clearly not aware of the history or culture in any way that would obviously merit an "our." Identity is a funny thing that way, a tricky thing for these third culture kids who live everywhere and belong nowhere. They need to develop as many perspectives as countries they've lived in, and they need to be given the opportunity to explore, understand and grapple with the complexities of colonialism, both its historical context and its current manifestations. They need to come to terms with their own role and the roles of their ancestors. The conversations will continue.

Kin-revisited

I spent a quick week in Kinshasa, just to see. It's easy to romanticize the past and to exaggerate an affinity for something until it becomes an ideal. I am pretty happy to report that my obsession with Kinshasa is a reality. I loved every minute of my stay there. Ideally I could have gathered up the sounds and rhythms of life in a bottle, allowing me to breathe in the ambiance of the city whenever loneliness overtakes me.

As it were, I found it hard to even take photos. Capturing one small fraction of the greater picture seemed hardly likely to do justice. Even video, with its ability to move and record sound wouldn't be able to really express the essence that is Kinshasa. It wasn't until my last day, en route for the airport, that I began to snap random images and take pocket videos. I let the recorder run as the taxi moto flashed through the streets, leaving me with a traveling sensation of energy of Kin.

There were many moments I wanted to freeze. One evening, we were sitting and talking with a friend's family. The husband and wife chatting with the us, a few older girls sitting nearby, one playing with her mother's hair. The busyness of evening chores filled the air around us. I imagined trying to capture the moment and knew that the togetherness of family and the fullness of life would  be overshadowed by the dimness of our surroundings. It would become an image of absence, highlighting the lack ofs rather than the fullness I felt.

I did come away with a positive story to tell. I encountered the center, La Vie est Belle, a very cute little house on a sweet little street nestled magically in the middle of Victoire. One right hand turn is all it took to be transported from the bustling energy of the city center to an almost suburban ideal. The street was lined with trees and kids playing soccer, teens hanging on the edges listening to music and gathering in that way teens do.

 Beautiful street

The center is a small house with a yard large enough to host a little cafe in front, a few outbuildings and several rehearsal and making spaces in the back. On my first visit, the place was alive. A band, complete with guitarist and drummer playing a large plastic jerry can, a la mode de Kin,  was rehearsing in the back. Two dance groups were practicing their moves, one on the outside terrace and one inside.  Several guys were gathered under a tarp near a garage, painting butane canisters black in preparation for some street performance. And two other guys were busy washing plastic bracelets in a bucket and working with a homemade silkscreening device. There were preparing t-shirts and a performance for an artist who'd suddenly passed away- car accident on his way to the village.

This place was nearly the exact embodiment of my dream center. Talking with the manager, Peter, revealed we had a lot of vision in common. I told him I saw his mouth moving, but it was all my own words coming out. It didn't take long for us to devise a project together. I proposed presenting their work at an upcoming conference at UI&U and also creating a my own mini-series in response.

Entrance to office on the porch and small cafe to the right

The center has 4-5 rooms which are available for artists who write a project proposal. They can come and do a residency for free, meals provided. I jokingly suggested I'd be sending in my own proposal, and then wondered how much of a joke it had to be. Spending a month surrounded by such creative energy and support sounds like a paradise.

Art lined driveway to garage and making spaces 

Several work areas here in the back

I passed another evening or two engaged in great conversation with the artists. I learned about their work with the neighborhood children and they all seemed to express a sense of responsibility for providing a creative atmosphere for the kids to experience. They talked about wanting the children to have toys and a chance to play. They recognized the importance of being creative and building and inventing. Right now they might be working with cardboard, true, but maybe next it will be circuits and sockets and motors. The tinkerers of today could easily become the engineers of tomorrow.  I was impressed with their action and insistence. "If the government is not able or willing to step in, then we have to do it," they told me.

Artist working with and educating the neighborhood kids- 

Of course, for every story of courage, there is a story of despair.  A friend took me to Maluku to see the village, although officially still a part of Kinshasa. He's trying to put together a small organization to work with the children in area, actually taking care of a few and offering dance workshops for the many.

As we walked around the town, children ran everywhere. It was a Thursday afternoon but school was closed due to heavy rains the night before. Apparently attendance is sporadic at best for most kids anyway. Parents don't always see the value of school or they can't pay for the materials. Even though there is a new initiative for free education, there are always costs for books or uniforms or other things that make it difficult to get a child to school every day.

My mountain climbing gear....I didn't know

                                                    
                                                                     

Cozy little spot for rent- about $30- you'll need to run your 
own electricity lines. Likewise on your own to figure out 
water, cooking, and toilet structure.

View of the city and across the way Brazza

Some girls with nothing to do but pose for photos

The first place we actually stopped was to visit the family. My friend wanted to introduce me to his mom and also to see a little boy he'd decided to take care of. The story isn't really clear- stories are never really clear- but it sounded like he'd come across this baby, who was said to be 2 years old although he couldn't walk and I don't think he talks. The mom was young and didn't really pay much attention to the kid. Apparently there a lot of young moms here in the city-village. Young like 12 or 13. Too young to be moms.

The houses in Maluku are small, wooden- framed with little windows and cement floors. I pushed aside the curtain in the doorway and squinted to see in the dark interior. There were a few plastic chairs, one soft stuffed chair and a table. Flyers from an annual dance festival in Kinshasa lined the walls.

I didn't notice the baby on the floor. I greeted the young girl, my friend's sister or cousin or some member of the family who was around to help. She was eating and it was only later that I saw the baby, sitting in the shadows, impossibly quiet, eating foufou. He looked to be about 6 months old. His eyes were too big, his legs too small and it was apparent he had a serious lack of nutrients and energy.

My friend, earnest in his desire to help, lacks experience. He's young, has no children of his own and has only ventured into the bigger world outside of Kinshasa few times. He said he'd bought a baby walker, trying to encourage the boy to use his legs but he just didn't have the strength. He asked me if I knew of some medicine that could help- as if the answer would be found in a bottle or a few sips of liquid.

"The child needs a doctor," I told him. "There is no medicine that can help him. He needs nutrients, possibly therapy, and I am not sure if there is something else the doctors can do." It is a dire situation, this child, sitting in a small dark room in a quiet village town an hour and a half away from anyone who might have an idea of what was wrong. There was no urgency about it.

I am sure he is not the only child in need of care and food and attention. Too many children in Kinshasa and Congo in general, lack the basic needs. There is a very real danger of a lost generation. It's one of the hard parts of Congo- the potential to be overwhelmed by the need. But in the end, I realized that just getting back and creating a simple life, doing my small part, it's the best I can do.

I left a little cash and strict instructions to take the child to Kinshasa, to a reputable doctor and to call me with a diagnosis. We'll see what the next steps are- maybe there is something that can be done, or maybe the damage is long lasting. In which case, the child is lucky to have fallen into the hands of my friend, who has a big heart and sincere intentions. He's willing to foster him, take care of him and provide the basics.

I don't know how it happens- how he can imagine and then actually proceed to take in children. It's part of my creative response, an idea I have been grappling with for the last few years. It deserves a post of it's own perhaps, but I wonder how the people live with no money. My friend is an artists, a dancer. He's struggling himself and yet, somehow there is room to take in this baby, and a few others, try to keep them fed and clothed. It's the great mystery to me- how it all happens on less than a dollar a day, as they say.

Road back to Kin

Lagos 2.0

Lagos is a bustling, modern, contemporary city- or at least the small slice of it I inhabit, which is likely not representative of what the majority of Nigerians, or Lagoasians. I am in a bubble. A very strange, very uncomfortable, very Hunger-Games like bubble with a nearly impenetrable force field surrounding me.

In this VI bubble, using Bolt (Taxify) or Uber to command a ride is the way things are done. For me, this creates several issues. Ethically, after reading Winners Take All by Anand Giridharadas, I am conflicted about the services. While many turn to these companies in order to feel safer about their transportation options, few seem to consider the hazards involved for the drivers. They grapple with everything from unwanted romantic advances to theft and even physical harm or, in extreme cases, murder.

Not only does driving pose risks, there is the uncertainty and inequality of the pay. As a frequent Taxify- now Bolt- user, I have often been awarded discounts and rewards for trips, reducing a 700N trip to 300N, an equivalent of about $2 being reduced to about $1. For a taxi ride. That is completely unheard of anywhere in the world. And because these companies require the cars to be up to certain standards, we are talking about a trip in a clean working car with air conditioning. Very comfortable. Very smooth. For less than a $1. The driver cannot be making any profit on this. I generally tip all my trips, and the surprise of the drivers suggests this is not a common occurrence.

Aside from the ethical issues, there remains the practical issue of needing to have a charged, internet connected phone on you at all times. For me, this is more of a challenge than perhaps it should be. I have never kept roaming internet on my phone, preferring only to use any wi-fi I might have at home and leaving all that connectivity at the doorway. Not so now.

Apparently being connected uses a lot of battery power. And with my somewhat "ancient" phone, the battery depletes quickly. I travel with charger in case it is ever possible to stop and plug in somewhere but this strategy is not fool proof. Yesterday, I had to make a pit stop at home to charge up for about an hour before continuing my errands. I am working on getting a portable battery pack, but being tethered to all of this technology goes against everything I want to be- unconnected, present in my moments and free.

Of course there are local, off line options. The one trip I took during a phone outage resulted in driving around the city and never actually reaching my destination only to be told my fare was five times the normal rate. I had to talk hard to reduce that ridiculous number and even then I only managed to get it down to slightly half, still double the normal amount.

The driver was an older man who insisted that he knew the school I was trying to go to. Of course, there were warning signs. When I said French school, and he said which one, there are so many? I should have recognized that he clearly didn't know where we were going. I told him there was only one, but he drove us out to the British school and attempted to drive further out to another school with an international sounding name before I got him to turn around. I knew it wasn't that far. But without my phone, I couldn't call, couldn't check a map and had no idea where I was going.

Before all this internet stuff, I would have done my homework well, written down directions in advance, and been prepared. I guess it was just as much my fault as his.

The other transportation option is the small three-wheeled Keke, which seems innocent enough, but in the case of an accident, maiming or death is likely. I am still trying to decide how big the risks are, much like the motos of Bamako, I imagine. I toy with the idea that for small distances, it might be ok. On back roads or just around the corner type of rides, perhaps. In the meantime, I don't mind supporting the Taxify drivers, sometimes even paying even double what the app suggests.

Taxi on command might be the only thing you can still pay cash for in Lagos. Since 2012, the country has pushing to move towards cash-less banking. Everything done here involving money seems complicated, and the cash-less system is no exception. Perhaps I am still in the learning curve. I was able to process my first transfer for a service yesterday, after several failed attempts. Electronic transfers require steady internet service. Maybe that was the cause. No one could really explain why it wasn't working, but luckily everyone had patience to wait for me to figure out a solution (the company in question was actually willing to accept cash, a rarity for certain.)

Everyone from fitness trainers to dance instructors to housekeepers have their account numbers ready for you to transfer money into. Food delivery, shopping and restaurants all prefer card over cash. After our first foray into the world, back during our teacher orientation week when we were ridiculously counting out 50-80 thousand bill nairas, it is easy to see why. Cash is just not practical for big purchases.

Another dilemma involves the whole USD to naira conversion. I have just opened a USD account, since they are not mixable. Naira only into the naira account and USD only into the USD account. So I wire myself some USD from my US account, withdraw it from the bank (now for a fee) and have a reputable money changer meet me at the bank (for a better rate.)

Always the "black market" money changers offer a better rate. I remember my first experience with this in Guinea, we changed our money right outside the bank and I had a sense of trying to be clandestine. Fast forward 11 years and hop a few countries to the east and the school accountant is advising me to meet the money changer inside the bank (for safety) to directly transfer the naira to my naira account (hopefully no fee here, since it would be an electronic transfer.) The other option is to somehow bring all of the USD I will need for the year, in cash, when I come back after summer. Apparently some people can actually do this.

All of the complexities surrounding money and transfers and accounts (I have four or five already and I have only been here for less than a month. I have my savings, which I use for naira, the USD account, a "shadow account" which is only used to transfer my USD salary to my US account. Apparently only the bank can access this account, but it has my name attached to it. And there is one  more mystery account which shows in my mobile banking but never has any money in it- it might be the shadow account, although I am told the money passes through there- first naira, which must then be used to buy USD at a good price. I understand that the school foots the bill for the cost of buying USD. )

Money on top of money. One message that's been reinforced and exemplified in my short time here in Lagos, in this small suffocating bubble of VI and surrounding islands, is that nothing good comes from money. Most of the "good books" caution against usury and other ills associated with money. Aside from being downright complicated, all of the rules and regulations meant to safeguard one against fraud seem to simply make it harder to access your own money and potentially easier for others to do so. It is always the thieves who benefit from all the entanglements.

I am dreaming of the days when I can escape the on-line, interconnected nature of life and business in the simulated city. I tell myself all situations are temporary and eventually I will be untethered. And quickly so, as climate change is bearing down and this collection of islands surely hasn't a very secure future.

African threads

While it is starting to seem like every time I arrive in a new country, something dramatic happens, I am going with the notion that dramatic things are always happening, I'm just not always in the periphery.

There were the elections in Congo, the mutiny in Cote d'Ivoire, the kidnapping alert in Mali and now here, the recent tension, violence and killings in South Africa which have had major effects in Nigeria and Congo (RDC is popping up wherever I go- there always seems to be some kind of connection.)

Attacks in South Africa inspired reprisals, business closures and embassy shutdowns. An overview of events found here outlines some of the major responses, including an offer by Air Peace to fly Nigerians living in South Africa back home, if they wish. Surely this is a much more complicated issue and Nigerians speak about their decisions here. As is becoming typical of our times, social media has done much to inflame the issue, with wide sharing of mis-identified video clips or photos. Protests in Nigeria and Congo have been linked to more damage, injuries and death.

While taking attendance in class the other day, I queried about a student, only to be told he'd flown back to South Africa. His dad worked for MTN and with the embassy shutting down, getting out of country was the safe decision. His classmates took a light hearted tone, suggesting he'd gone off to hiding, and implying he'd return eventually. As if they'd gone through this, or something similar, before- which they likely have. Other classes were also abuzz with news, often citing the viral videos with misinformation. I took some small time to suggest deeper investigation before believing everything you see, all the while wondering why 10-year-olds had access to news about people being burned alive. The conversations among international school students never ceases to surprise and amaze.

In other quiet news, the border between Benin and Nigeria has been closed- with my carefully packed and much missed baggage on the other side. Apparently there are concerns about rice smuggling, which is a term I'd never heard of before arriving here.

And if all of that weren't enough of a convoluted connection, the Nigerian embassy in Congo suffered some bad media play when Congolese officials were videoed throwing out furniture and other belongings. Officials from both countries have reported they've resolved the situation, which occurred over a misunderstanding about paperwork.

My own attempts to get back to Kinshasa are currently being thwarted by an inability to contact the embassy here. None of the numbers for the office in Abuja work, and email is silent. Luckily, if you're Lost in Lagos, there's Nothing to Do.

Choosing Peace

I knew names in Nigeria would be much different than what I'd experienced before. People names are notorious for the length and difficulty. They're often shortened to a nickname of one sort or another, which may or may not retain the beauty and elegance of the full title. The name really does serve as a title, often having some grand meaning- a whole entire sentence, even, like "God has given me someone to care for" (Olufunke) or "I am rejoicing at God's grace" (Moyosoreoluwa.) 

Names of stores that retain sentence structure are often fodder for comedy routines. "God's Good Grace and Ultimate Blessings Hair Salon." There are business name guidelines, however. And this post isn't really about those long names. I've been thinking more about the shorter, more direct names that have crossed my path in the last few weeks.

Searching for a nanny is always a bit traumatic. I remember Nabih went through 4 nannies before finally finding someone who could keep up with him. Our Bamako nanny search led to the ridiculous situation of having a series of nannies quit on me. Luckily, I think we've found someone on only the second go around.

The people I'd been introduced to (for potentially offering a reference) and list of names I was given as potential job candidates included Joy, Blessing, Peace, and Happiness, along with one Juliana Lawson. Just as I wondered if the universe was trying to tell me something, I walked into the restroom at school and noticed the clipboard the attendant signs to indicate regular cleaning. Comfort.

Everywhere I turned I was being inundated with positive cheer. In the end, I went with Peace. She has a wonderful disposition and gets along well with Mbalia. As a business major, she doesn't do much in the way of chopping carrots or whipping up a grilled cheese, but she's willing to try. And the idea of working to save money to go back to school is something I am happy to support. 

Africa in English & other differences

There was never going to be anything easy about moving to a new country and starting a new job while trying to maintain my PhD studies with a kindergartner in tow. I knew that. Throw in the fact that we are staying in temporary housing and our comfort things from Bamako still haven't arrived and the story gets trickier.

There were some major differences in our welcome here, which added to the strangeness. Moving is simply a challenge- some like to call it an adventure but adventures are challenges too. The girl is holding up fabulously, making friends with anyone in sight and embracing the newness (except the food. If it was possible to become pickier or eat even less, she's managed to do it. All her favorites are no longer her favorites, and they haven't been replaced.)

I keep hoping for some magic window of time to appear so I can step inside and get things done. There is reading and writing for class, daily lesson planning, long term curriculum sorting out to be done, thought sharing, and the purely creative stuff. There's no time for it all. I can barely keep my eyes open half the time.

Africa in English always takes a minute for me. My first tendency is to resort to French when I am off campus. And I do miss it. But English has morphed with culture and so the sounds on the street can be just as foreign at times. And the African languages are present in force, always music to my ears.

Lagos is big city, big city. Everywhere I look there are buildings. And apps. I am not crazy about the 2.0 version of getting around. Taxify, Uber- no more just hailing a cab. I need to be connected and charged and have the phone on hand. I feel tethered.

I've also landed in a bubble. It's quite large and I haven't yet found the edges. Ex-pat everything. I knew I would be feeling lost on this island of luxury, wondering how to find my people, the artists. There is a hustle here, there is a strong British influence and some surprising results. I am not ready to write about it yet, still trying to wrap my mind around it, but soon perhaps.

I've taken no pictures, and very little has endeared me.  I don't quite feel as though I have arrived anywhere. Still in transit. Some place that is neither good nor bad, helpful nor harmful, familiar nor strange.


Quick and easy things I could be writing about if I weren't in such a fugue state:

• Money transactions- as expected all things related to money systems are complicated. The potential for fraud and scams have led to development of complex rituals around money. I sent Western Union yesterday, which took an hour and involved putting money in one account, only for it to be taken out and put into another. There were fingerprints and photographs. I moved from counter service to a small booth and back to counter service again. It was comedic fodder for sure.  But everyone was pleasant and welcoming and nice so I laughed my way through the absurdities. 

• Money bundles- one thousand naira is the highest denomination of bill. My on-the-run conversion method is to multiply by three. Three dollars for every 1,000 naira. It adds up quickly until you are walking around with massive piles of bills. I've taken to keeping them wrapped up in a hat. There is no wallet big enough. A trip to the grocery store could be about 30,000 naira, all counted out in 1,000 notes. The bundles are not amusing or convenient.  Every cashier has one of those money counting machines, calculating the total with a crisp whir and efficient spin. Before finally working out a method for keeping track of the cash, I spent time counting money. Lots of time. Counting and recounting, trying to keep the 5 and 6 digit numbers in my head. Only Guinea can be worse, with their millions. It feels so miserly to be adding up such sums. 

• Keke's- these cute little bugs are three wheeled transportation devices- and yellow. They zoom in and out of traffic and don't seem to recognize pedestrians at all. They are everywhere, ready to offer a quick ride to your destination or crush you flat in your spot. The constant beeping to attract customers and alert cars of their presence prompted Mbalia to wish for her own portable horn so she could join in the melee.  Possibly worth a photo, if I get my head on right.

• The seedy side- honestly, I wasn't aware of this for some reason. Kinshasa and Lagos have a lot in common, from snazzy dressers, to popular music, to an infatuation with the big life. I have come to see them as cousins in this way. They also have a seedy side. From the art market to street sellers, I've seen a genre of painting that I haven't yet witnessed in African art. More investigation into the background might be illuminating, or deeply depressing. I have a sense of where the roots stem. Sensual images in bold colors on black backgrounds- velvet? glitter? neon? My search for a massage/spa turned up options for couples massage, erotic massage and sensual massage, among the more traditional office stress reliever and Swedish and deep tissue options. And my search for dance schools has led to everything from the very formal and clearly British influenced to Latin salsa and kizomba to pole dancing. There are quite a number of pole dancing schools in Lagos. I had no idea.

• Excess- being in this bubble has me surrounded by excess and waste to such a degree my head is spinning. I had to take a day or two to try and recenter myself. I'm still working on that. This kind of copious spending is hard to witness. It is cutting and painful. It is not something I can or want to come to terms with, but somehow must manage to live in. I don't want it to touch me and yet, by virtue of being here, I am implicated. While I had anticipated a clash of ethics to assault me, I hadn't been fully prepared for how often or how deeply wounding it would be. My studies are only compounding the matter. Perhaps I am ironically well placed to contemplate ethical and moral leadership from here in the nethers. 

• School population- my surprise was complete and total on the second or third day when I realized what was missing- the African students. I hadn't thought to ask too many questions about the student body make-up, because my own preparations getting here were so traumatic (I never seem to do anything simply, hey? More story material. So much material.) But also because I'd made assumptions based on the other international schools I'd worked at or been to in Africa- a majority of African students. Although I have been told Nigerians are the second highest demographic, I don't see it. Granted, I am only teaching art and so a fraction of students pass through my class, but my attendance list is filled with Middle Eastern names- Saeed, Aditya, Nour, Hadar. There are American names- David, Mathew, Max and Northern European names- Regardt, Aida, Celine. My classes are filled with hues of cream and khaki.  The number of students who tell me they don't speak a second language is shocking. 

We are still settling in, still processing. Since we won't be moving to our regular apartment for another few months, it's bound to a long transition process. Hopefully I will find a sweet spot and get back to doing the things that brought me here in the first place. 

Conversions

As I planned for the summer trip to the US, and the required road tour that involved gathering the kids in New York, attending a soccer tournament in Chicago and returning back to my aunt's house in Michigan, I remarked on the obvious. "Driving in America, where everyone stays in their own lane,  and follows the rules, driving without the cows, motorcycles, taxis, horse drawn carts and Xingda tricycles? No problem," I thought.

It was a friend with long time international experience that pointed out it wouldn't be the rule following I'd have to get used to- it would be the speed. In many African capitals, traffic doesn't move much above 25mph. My days of 70 on the interstate were far in the past. I under-estimated just how far.

The speed, coupled with our first leg which happened at night, spurred a chain reaction of anxiety and nervousness. The journey was filled with the reflective orange cones and barrels signaling construction and roadwork. The highways narrowed and constricted with cement barriers, playing optical illusions. If I'd already broken my vow not to drive at night, I reaffirmed my commitment. This would be the last time. I couldn't keep horrific images of rolling hood over undercarriage across the roadway, or being nicked by an 18-wheeler as it barreled past us. Like any good panic attack, the images intensified my fears. The fact that I couldn't stop imagining it seemed all the more likely to make it happen. It was a harrowing 15 hours that took forever to end.

Once in Chicago, it turned out the hotel we were staying at was a solid 45 minutes away from the tournament field. Forty-five minutes down a major expressway. By that time, I was longing for the stalled traffic jams and cow crossings I'd left behind. I kept a constant eye out for a stray motorcycle sneaking up on the right. But the most unexpected thing to get used to was the toll booths.

Pulling up to pay a fare requires a left handed exchange. I am required to turn in a ticket, some money, possibly receive change. All conducted with the left hand, which evoked a feeling of awkwardness. The first few times it happened, I hesitated and tried to reach across and pass the money with my right hand. I couldn't quite make the connection, and I definitely couldn't grab the change. I was surprised by the impulse to resist and the subtle sense of something not quite right every time I had to acquiesce. I did manage to stop myself from apologizing and just tried to observe my feelings, which had become first nature.

By the time we headed over to Michigan, I was feeling mostly myself again. While not completely at ease with the speed, I managed to quell the kaleidoscope of butterflies and make the drive in a reasonable time. Once we left Illinois, we also left the toll roads behind.

At my aunt's house, we were able to settle into creating some routines. We are a family that loves the gym and it took us only one day to get signed up at a nearby workout spot. They were offering a teen summer challenge program that made the family membership extremely economical. It was a refreshing sight to take a quick tour and see all my favorite machines.

Nabih and I were both tickled at our adjustment from kilograms to pounds. We had to do a bit of trial and error to find the sweet spot. One thing immersion leads to is the ability to live and think in a language, measurement system or currency. That doesn't necessarily mean the ability to translate. We experienced something of a learning curve as we figured out the new weights. It was so much more impressive to be crunching 100 pounds (a nice round figure) as opposed to 45 kilograms.

Overall, the conversions are easy to get used to. Fun little examples of how much living outside the US for ten years really changes the inner habits and thoughts.

A different kind of season

It's packing and moving season- again. For the first time ever, I am ahead of the game. I made a timeline and stuck to it this year. All of our boxes are packed, the paintings are wrapped. Only the suitcases left to go.

A colleague at work who is also moving mentioned she might have a "practice pack" to see how heavy the suitcases actually are. I gave it some thought, but so far I have only managed to throw all the clothes inside an open bag. It's close. A lot closer than this post from 2014.

I still relied on a painter friend to come and help with the artwork. He said it all goes easier in company and he is right. While packing my last two boxes this weekend I had virtual company from 3 friends in the US and my brother in Guinea. It wasn't planned, but it was a nice addition to my packing routine.

Wrapping and taping

Piles again, but so much more organized

the final collection: 9 boxes, 1 bag,
 1 sculpture-in-baskets and 2 steps tools

Baskets and drums, yes we want them

Paintings- on frames! 

I still have many of the same considerations that seem to accompany every move. Despite making a detailed list of all the items in these boxes, I am not really sure what they're filled with. Nostalgia. Books. Some toys. Masks and statues. Kitchenware. Just stuff to make us feel like we are still at home when we arrive to a new shell. The pieces of our environment that feel cozy and have recorded our adventures around Africa.

What I don't have cemented is a shipper. Ironically, now that I am all organized, I am still searching for a way to get it across 4 countries and into Nigeria. The only thing left to do is be positive. There are several leads and a few friends have offered to host my things if necessary until I can find an affordable solution, or afford a findable solution.

I am still intrigued by the notion of cutting down. I had begun to prepare for that, in case a shipping solution didn't come through. I think it is very possible. And it would feel good. The problem with packing is that once you start to bring one thing, you figure why not bring it all? I always need a blender, right? And the spice containers? If I am shipping anyway, I might as well bring those. You can see how it snowballs.

In this new age, there is also the dilemma of electronic cleaning and transfer. My computer is all cleaned out (another miracle, really.) All files have been handed over or downloaded and passed along or saved to USB. We're ready.

Mbalia keeps asking if today is the day we are going to fly away from here. I think the gradual packing and giving away of things has been good for her as well. The adoption ceremony for our best turtle Shallah, was very positive. She's been an awesome pet to have, really like part of the family. Turtles are smart. And friendly.

The signing- a serious affair

Little Mohamed signed after agreeing to all
of the requirements, even singing

Our final dance show and art expo was super sweet with a guest appearance by Djeneba Seck. That beautiful singing again. And I did manage to get up and sway along when they invited me. No smashing solo, but I am slowly making progress.

As often happens in the time of goodbyes, friendships get made and experiences seem all the more tender. I am hoping to hold onto the revelations and upsurges in courage so that in our new home, we don't wait so long to create these bonds.

Tis the season for adventure and we are ready to embrace it.

With all the toys packed, the only thing
left to do is make art

Bye bye Bamako!

Bamako road mysteries

We are wrapping up our final three weeks in Mali. It's been much too short of a stay, hardly time to uncover some of the more interesting mysteries of the country and the culture. But in our own small sphere there are 2 small mysteries worth giving story to.

When we first arrived, we spent a lot of time of walking. Our previous house was near the river and it made for a country walk to school, with farming fields and mango groves all around. Since we've moved, car troubles have resulted in a lot of walking to the main road. We also began a nightly walk through the neighborhood. It means getting to know your neighbors a bit (turns out there are a lot of friendly folks willing to offer a ride- walking is really the best way to get to know a place.) It also means a lot of time inspecting the earth.

Just behind the lettuce fields, a path opens up....
heartbreakingly filled with garbage

Sometimes we get to see this beautiful horse

Almost magical, if it weren't for the
depressingly real trash 

Favorite purple flowers we always stop to smell

Almost serene

While it is impossible not to feel panic and remorse about all of the garbage around, there are small pockets of beauty too. And mystery. I began noticing the "packages" around our neighborhood shortly after we began walking to school every morning. I saw them on the main road near the carrefour just before the turn off for the river. I also saw them occasionally on the intersections of the dirt roads in our immediate neighborhood. 

After a trip to Segou, when we visited the bogolan workshop, I had an idea of what they were. Our instructor had mentioned the small sacrifices made at the crossroads, and the hope that they would bring healing and prayers for those in need. When I asked a friend about the packages I was seeing everywhere, he had a slightly different interpretation. 

Rather than wishing for strong thoughts for the weak, he suspected the contents, wrapped in leaves, were meant to send curses and bad luck out into the world. He said sometimes they were left on doorsteps or in front of houses. 

Perhaps the real answer is a bit of both. Intentions are everything. Maybe a similar leaf wrap contains the ability to do harm or good, depending upon the spirit in which it was discarded. What I haven't really been able to get answers about is what exactly is inside. Or how it is prepared? Or by whom? 

I think I actually saw a table full of them as I drove past a market one day, deep in the middle of a side neighborhood as we searched for a short cut around traffic. These days I am mostly content to sit with my wonder a bit, observing without the constant need to seek answers.

I marvel at the frequency. I saw them every morning on our walk to school- someone was feeling insistent. When we began walking to the road from our current house, those packages could be seen at least once or twice a week. 

Most of the ones I saw were not still
wrapped in plastic

Intentions: for the good or the bad?

Another mystery that is likely to end with more questions than answers concerns a little patch of road, also at an intersection- a coincidence I hadn't considered until just this moment. It's on one of the main paved roads and gets a lot of traffic. There is a square hole there. I don't think it would be too much of an exaggeration to describe it as a living hole. It is a stubborn, resistant hole. It will not be tamed. 

All manner of solutions have been tried- from the obvious- just pave over it, to more creative solutions such as placing a palm leaf in it to alert drivers, to putting a board over it- for those drivers who somehow manage to miss the palm leaf, to this:

Rainy road alert

I suspect this latest addition- the tall board sticking up, was the result of recent rains which flooded many roads and would have left the dangerous, deep hole invisible to drivers. Every solution seems to work for awhile, temporary fixes for a determined hole that won't go away. It's as if each fix becomes absorbed by the hole. After only a day or two, the hole reappears, still square, still empty inside, still disrupting the roadway.

Although I am not pro-concrete, I wonder why someone doesn't just fill it with concrete (although, honestly, I think I do remember something like that happening, and the top of it bowed and curved under the pressure of the cars until one day, the hole reappeared and whatever had been used to fill and pave over it had been absorbed by the hole.) I often imagine Stephen King could wrap a good tale around the energy of this hole and maybe some creepy ill effects spreading out to the people who pass by it daily. 

On the other hand, maybe it could be a spirit of the earth, determined to break free from the confines of concrete and steel and other manmade impositions. Maybe it begins to draw in the rest of the road way, like the pull of a sinking ship, until the surrounding warehouses and big trucks are consumed.....

Just a few little mysteries of Bamako roads.