Tap tap

A tap tap is called a tap tap because the worker at the back tap-taps the side or roof to communicate with the driver when someone wants to get off or when its okay to go. I had been reading about tap-taps as a cheap form of motorized transportation for the past year (they're an important factor to access to health care for poor, rural populations). Tap taps are something too see! Each one painted in bold, bright colors. The small flatbed trucks with a rounded cover on top and a long bench on either side for passengers to sit, facing one another.

When I first saw them in Cap - 20 people piled into one small tap tap with more hanging off the back - I was quite sure that I wouldn't be riding in one of those! But like with so many things in this type of work, such early anxieties quickly fade to the wayside in the face of necessity.

We were heading to the mountains of Leogane! Something I had been looking forward to since I started this work over a year ago. And we were going by tap tap and then moto to the town of Trouin, south of the city. We walked from CNP headquarters to the middle of town where the tap taps line up along the side of the road, pointed in the direction they're going. Eunid seemed irritated to find just an empty one. While a tap tap reasonable holds about 9, they don't leave until carrying about 20. And so you sit and wait. And wait. As more and more and more people climb in.

What wigged me out when I first saw the tap tap in Leogane was all of the people crammed into this hot, dusty space - hunched over in a truck with seemingly no air to breath and bodies all over. But its actually not that bad. The roof is lifted off a bit so there is air and daylight all along the edge. There are, however, bodies sprawled all over.

After about an hour we finally had enough passengers to go. Through the small crack in the roof there was a nice, cool breeze and I could look out in relative anonymity on all of the action - the markets, the landscape, the precipitous views - on the way up.

"Tap tap" and periodically someone would jump off the back and everyone would readjust just a little. "Tap tap" and we would slowly accelerate again up the mountain.

White people fighting with each other

As I've spent the past 19 hours in the Miami airport trying to get home to St Louis, I feel that I'm still enough within my window of reflection period to write some more.

There were 3 "blans" on the flight into Cap-Haitien - me, a missionary-like guy also going to Haiti for the first time, and some rough-looking dude who didn't say a word to anyone until we got to Cap without immigration forms, whereupon he chased down the pilot on the tarmac for the forms and chastised the airport workers for their impudence. We were all three seated in the one and only exit row.

After my brief stint in Haiti I think that I understand this curmudgeon-y old guy. Haiti purportedly has the highest number of NGO's per capita. On this trip, I learned a lot about a lot of things but I learned the most, I think, about this world of NGOs that I now find myself. NGOs do really important work in Haiti and other places. And in the big picture, they do a lot of good. But on the ground level, it ain't all pretty.

At its worst, it can seem like a lot of white people fighting with each other and no organization - NO ORGANIZATION - is immune. Its only once you get into this field where you begin to hear the name UNICEF as a pejorative, not to mention Partners in Health. But then again, Haiti is a country where U.N. workers are accused of starting cholera and other, more ruthless crimes. Where a democratically elected president has been twice removed... by the U.S.. Things get topsy-turvey. And no doubt it doesn't take long for reasonable people to become curmudgeons.

A bit more democratically than the time before

The difficult thing about working in "protracted crisis" countries, is that you can never predict what's going to happen. The good thing about working in "protracted crisis" countries, is that you can never predict what's going to happen. After making plans to come to Haiti this week after several delays, I was relieved to find that I had skirted the follow-up election. But when I arrived I learned that the election results weren't going to be announced until Thursday, March 31st, the day we were due to be in Port-au-Prince returning to Cap-Haitien.

I don't pretend to understand the Haitian electoral system, but I do know that the initial election resulted in a follow-up run-off between musician Sweet Mickey and a politician who's been around for a while, Mirlande Manigat. During our few days in Leogane we were trying to glean people's expectations for the results. Although French and Kreyol have many words in common, knowing French does very little to help you understand Kreyol radio. It seemed that people expect Sweet Mickey to win by vote count. But it also seems that people expect Manigat to be declared the winner.

We had a 12:00pm flight out. The election results were supposed to be announced on Thursday afternoon. CNP wanted to drop us off early to get their drivers back safe and sound. We were excited to be able to move our flight to 7:45am. And then the results got pushed back until Monday.

It seems like everyone, including Jamie and I, took a big sigh of relief. Friday election results meant that people would have all weekend to riot. And riots seem likely.

So I get to watch the fall-out from the safety of St Louis, and with a more personal connection than I had 9 days ago. Coincidentally, Nigerians also head to the polls this week in hopes of achieving just their second democratic hand-over of power, hopefully this time a bit more democratically than the time before.

Poor in money, not in spirit

It takes a few days in a new country to be able to reflect on what you're seeing. Well that's my excuse anyway for taking so long to post. That, and that I've actually been really busy trying to take advantage of every opportunity I have to talk to people and see and understand more about Haiti.

So lets start at the beginning. When I first realized that I was coming to Haiti for real for real (the trip had been postponed a few times in the past several months) I of course was excited, but also thought that it would be no big deal. Its only one week. I already survived Nigeria. So I was surprised to find myself getting really, really nervous the week before I left. I think this anxiety will ease for me as I get more used to coming and going to developing countries. All I can say about that is that it really is like walking through a passage and arriving on another world on the other side of the world. The rules are different, life is different. Its nerve-wracking anticipating that transition, but once you're there you're golden.

And I've been golden since I arrived in Haiti. It really is a beautiful country and the people are so friendly and so hard-working. Haitians endure through perpetual crisis and they're anything but defeated. Sure there are USAID tents everywhere, long past the time when they should be used - but things here still function ...in surprising and inspiring ways. But I get ahead of myself.

I arrived in Cap-Haitien in northern Haiti on Friday morning. Cap is gorgeous and cool. The flight was flawless and right off the bat I got to use my French to explain that I hadn't received the immigration card I would need. Jamie and Colleen were there to meet me - I was very happy to see their beaming faces. We drove through Fort St Michel - the quote/unquote urban slum - before arriving at Breda, the compound that Jamie, Colleen and the rest of the MFK gang live at. The urban areas and markets around Haiti look much like urban areas and markets in any developing country. Well, at least like Nigeria which is all that I have to compare it to.

But Haiti feels very safe and friendly. I wasn't expecting that. There's a crazy mish-mosh of language - english, french, kreyol. I can communicate out, I have a harder time understanding in return. Jamie and Colleen have come a long way in their kreyol and communicate quite well.

Breda. Breda is just paradise. Its run by Harold and Harold is an amazing person - one of those people that always has something new up his sleeve. Lots of ideas. Lots of programs to try to improve knowledge and skill in his community. He runs a technical school and he just created a small farm at the Breda compound where he plans to start an ag school. In the morning at Breda you wake up to roosters ("cocks") and guinea fowl, and the songs and prayers of villagers on the hillside. You would think that a rural area is quiet but you'd be wrong. It gets raucous loud in the morning and in the evening.

I'll skip over a lot of the details, but I'm writing this evening from CNP headquarters in Léogâne. Léogâne being the epicenter of the 2010 earthquake. I've been doing research on this area - the household factors to child undernutrition - for the past year and a half so it has been so awesome to finally be here. CNP is located in the city of Léogâne, but today we had the chance to drive up to the mountains to meet with moms there who have participated in Ti Foye (CNP's PD/Hearth program, a food-based nutrition program to increase consumption of micronutrients). Just beautiful. The ride up was fun in and of itself. We took a tap tap most of the way. A tap tap is a group taxi. It doesn't go until its full. It seats about 8, but won't leave until it has about 12 occupants - ha! Anyway, its less miserable than I imagined it would be and it was great to travel the way that Haitians travel. Its one of the cheapest forms of transportation - only 50 gourdes, though more expensive than it used to be since the recent spike in fuel prices.

We drove the rest of the way by moto. The drivers were reprimanded by Eunid - she's really good at reprimanding - to drive slow and they did. Basically the trip was a drive up the hill whereupon the drivers then cut the engine and just coasted the rest of the way down. It was a short hike to the first household. The second household we wound up meeting with about 7 moms and their kiddos all at the same time. A relaxed and enjoyable conversation despite real dire, dire need. Its hard to walk away after just giving them a bar of soap, but even that they appreciate so much.

Wow, okay. I could go on and on. But I won't. Suffice it to say that I'm learning so much - even beyond what I anticipated. I'm so inspired by the people that I meet here - Haitians and expats alike. Just one last little story before I go. Over and over again what I hear from mom's is that their greatest need - before food and before shelter and before health care (though they desperately need this too) - is a job.

Haiti is poor in money, but not in spirit.

Finalement, Haiti!

Bonsoir tout le monde! C'est moi, Andrea, et c'est le temps à recommencer ma blog... parce que vendredi je voyagerai à Haïti! Finalement! Et, vous voyez? Maintenant j’écris seulement en Français. J'ai besoin de pratiquer et... c'est amusant! J'ai passé le dernier semestre d'améliorant mes compétences en françaises. Comment est-que je suis fait?

De toute façon, je passerai quelques jours en Cap Haitien et quelques jours en Léogâne. En Léogâne je presenterai les résultats de recherche et aiderai avec nouvelle recherche de mon amie Jamie. En Cap Haitien, je commencerai nouvelle recherche sur l’utilisation des mobiles par les mères des enfant. Je suis très excite de mesurer les bébés et voir les programmes de Le Programme de Nutrition Des Enfants (CNP). Plus bientôt!

Data, Data, Data

This last week has been spent slogging through data. A mostly solitary affair marked by periods of great productivity (mostly at night) and great procrastination (mostly during the day). Thank goodness for deadlines. The biggest driver is my exit date: August 12, one week from today. As much as I try not to, I find myself thinking ‘This is the last time I’ll buy pepe from this market… This is the last time I will buy an Etisalat charge card… This is the last time I’ll work from the gazebo… ”. All of these life skills that it took me so long to learn. I find myself thinking of what stuff I’m going to give away to whom. And trying to record their speech patterns in my head. You begin to detach – just a little – from the people you’ve grown to rely on for, well, just about everything.

Perhaps you can see why concentration has been hard fought. Of course there are also positive thoughts like ‘MTN sucks and seems to be getting worse but, hey, in one week I won’t have to worry about it anymore’ and ‘Oh my, if I have to scream “WHAT?!?” one more time in this phone call I’m going to off myself’ and ‘I wonder if he didn’t get my text message or if he’s just run out of credit and can’t text back’ and, finally, 'Oh hey there's another pebble in my rice - that was a terrible sound, I wonder if I chipped a tooth'.

Yeah, procrastination has afforded me ample opportunity to reflect on my time in Nigeria. And I’m beginning to believe that this three-month stint is a bit cruel. I’m finally beginning to feel at home in Jos. I met my downstairs neighbors yesterday. My next-door neighbors now wave at me. People in the neighborhood have begun to offer me rides (be it after blaring their horn from one foot behind me). I have a friend who is unrelated to my work at HKI. I’ve finally ventured into the residential part of Rayfield and discovered a whole new world, right in my backyard. I’ve learned how “to do” Terminus market, bought fabric, found a tailor and have had a few things made. I’ve found people to take me hiking into the gorgeous hills that surround Jos. I’ve found the Alliance Francaise, even. And I finally found a little shack right up the road that serves rice, beans, garri and soup every day for lunch! How did I not know about this until now?

Yeah, three months is just enough time to form a solid foundation, to begin to understand the culture, to start building solid friendships and working relationships, to start somewhat knowing what you’re doing. All of this in time to leave again.

The hardest part is the crummy heartache I feel. When I first arrived, there was the heartache for my friends and family and life back home. I won’t say that I ever totally got over that. I still cry – at least once - most weeks. But now I’m finally going home and here I am beset with heartache once again for my new friends and life. Because the truth is that I love everything about this work. Everything but the heartache, that is.

My friends with several years experience on me seem to feel that it’s just the downside of the gig… but that, over time, you get used to it. Or at least you learn to manage it. Or rather, either you manage it or it burns you out. The ones who stay learn to appreciate the time they have with the people they meet, which, I suppose is a good life skill no matter where you are.

But enough procrastination, back to the data…

Nongo

I've worked my entire life for this one day.

So much happened in my two weeks in the field. Too much to write in retrospect. ... so for those in STL, I will relate stories in exchange for wine, cheese, chocolate and coffee in two weeks and one day. Suffice it to say that my time in the field made all of the frustrations and difficulties and emotional ups and downs - all of the wahala - over these past few months well worth it.

Training wrapped up on Saturday. On Sunday I went to church (a story for another post) in the morning, and then we met with the other two team leads at Oshimage's house to make final arrangements and hand-off the study materials. We had divided into three teams - each team to take on two communities, with the exception of my team which would visit three. We would next meet a week later after everyone returned from the three corners of Benue State, study complete. Driving away from Oshimage's that evening I had a strange feeling of... relief? The study was no longer in my control, not that it ever really was. But still. The people had been trained. They had been given everything they needed to complete the job. What happened from that point on would be the stuff of the "limitations" section of the final report.

After my little adventure collecting data sans HKI chaperone a few days prior, I had insisted on teaming up with James for the research portion of the project. This turned out to be a good decision for many reasons, not the least of which was the visit by the Nigerian SSS our last night in the field. But this too is a story for another post. On Monday morning we managed to leave the hotel in Makurdi by 7:01, Saleh, James, Abigail (a representative from our funding agency) and I. It was an hour and half drive to Katsina Ala where we would meet our team for our first community study.

I always start the morning out sick to my stomach thanks to the anti-malarial pill I'm on. The pattern is that I take it, a half-hour later I'm ill ill ill, and a half-hour after that I'm perfectly fine. But on this day of all days - the day I had been working towards for 2 months - I just never got better. Ugh! You know that feeling when you know you're in trouble? Yeah. That's the way it was.

Happily, everything goes slowly in Nigeria so I popped some Advil and had lots of time to see what would happen before I actually had to decide if I could make it out to the field or not. We started off at the Katsina Ala Ministry of Health where we reconvened with the team we had trained in Makurdi. There was lots of sitting and greeting and chatting ...and eating of groundnuts (unroasted peanuts)... while the team went off to procure a second vehicle. When they returned we went off in search of a hotel for the next two nights. It's "the field" so I was expecting something pretty rustic, but the hotel in Katsina Ala was one of the best I've stayed in Nigeria. I popped a few more Advil - I had decided that I was well enough to push through - and it was back to the Ministry of Health where we picked up the team and headed out to our destination: the hard-to-reach community of Nongo.

After a 45 minute drive, we arrived in the closest town to Nongo where we would pick up our motorbikes. But first, it turned out, we had to greet all of the chiefs in the area. We were invited into a circular hut filled with men wearing traditional robes and the black-and-white beads around their neck and wrist that identify them as zakis (chiefs) and elders. The hut is a mud wall enclosure with a steep grass roof. You have to bend very low to step inside. I was offered a seat and long introductions in Tiv were made, followed by a round of soft-drinks. I felt a little bad about wearing trousers, but had learned from my previous experience in New Nigeria to come prepared for rough conditions. James and our host left the hut to arrange for the motorbikes and I was left in awkwardness - sitting with a roomful of very important people with whom you do not share a language. There's nothing to do but smile and drink your coke. Though, actually, I was trying not to drink my coke because the more you drink, the more you pee and who knew where the next latrine would be?

The last time I was on a motorbike - the only other time in Nigeria - was when we went to pre-test our questionnaires in the village of New Nigeria. At that time there were only two bikes available and four of us so I had doubled up with James and the driver. This was probably hugely uncomfortable for James but felt comfortably safe to me. This time, however, there were plenty of bikes and it was clear that I was going to be on my own. I climbed on the back of my motorbike, grabbed on tight to the bar in the back and off we went. Seven motorbikes in a row into the bush... for about 40 kilometers, a.k.a. a really, really long way through bush and farmland and village after village. The beauty of the place is just indescribable. There are tall mountains of funny shapes in the distance, the red sand of the ever narrowing path, green green grass taller than your head, big humps of yam fields and dots of men, women and children toiling away. I noticed that my colleagues seemed quite comfortable to sit on their motorbike with their hands in their lap. For me, every bump we went over I felt air between my butt and the seat so I continued to hang on tight.

Into the bush we drove, all along the way the path getting more and more narrow. More and more closed in by tall grass that slashed your legs and arms and face. And then suddenly the way ahead opened up big. A river! The great river Yooyo lay before us, with the community of Nongo beyond. Now what?

There was a boat. A big canoe. It was across the river on the other bank. One of the men who was awaiting us disrobed, jumped into the river and began to swim. The current was strong and he wound up far down the bank on the other side. But he made it and he clamored over to the boat, climbed in and using a big pole he pushed himself to our side. The men then began to haul the motorbikes into the canoe, for Nongo was still a ways away once you got to the other side. Yes, we were truly at the end of the earth.

Five motorbikes went over. The boat came back. Two motorbikes and some people went over. The boat came back. Finally myself and the rest of the team climbed in the canoe and crossed the Yooyo river. There's a log that pokes its head through the surface in the middle of the river, a little up-shore of the bank on the other side. The boatmen seem to point the canoe to that direction and then upon reaching it let the canoe swing so as to be facing the other shore. The canoe is made of wood and so water seeps in along the way. In trying to dress for ruggedness, I had worn my running shoes. Clearly the "slippers" (flip-flops) that everyone else was wearing was a much better choice.

On reaching the other side we hopped out and waded through ankle-deep water. By this time I had removed my running shoes and I couldn't help but think about those travel books and hand-outs from the immunization clinics I went to warning me against open water in Nigeria. Oh well! We climbed up the muddy bank, slogging through thick black mud. Our motorbikes were waiting for us. I did the best I could to scrape off the mud and put my shoes back on.

After another 5 kilometer bike further into the bush we arrive - in Nongo - at the household of Zaki David Togo. Zaki Togo turns out to be a kind, kind man and an impressive leader (also a story for another post). We were at Nongo because the village is a "positive deviant". Clearly "hard to reach", the leaders of Nongo and the health workers responsible for it have managed to overcome extreme geographic obstacles in order to provide adequate basic health services to the community. Our job was to find out what they were doing right.

So after working with some village leaders to draw a map of the community, we split again into three groups, traveling by motorbike from household to household conducting questionnaires with caretakers about their access to health services, knowledge and perception of vitamin A. Four households took about four hours. My role was supposed to be to monitor the questioning, but the interviews were conducted in Tiv so my effectiveness was somewhat limited. But there's a lot that can be communicated outside of language. Every household we went to was welcoming. We sat under their grass hut. The interview was intended for an individual mother, but usually by the end all of the wives of the household and all of the children had gathered around. Word spreads amazingly quick for an area lacking any form of modern communication.

We met back at Zaki Togo's household. We were the last team to arrive and there were many people splayed out in chairs in a circle. As soon as we came, the food came out. Pounded yam, the soup who's name I forget and Star beer. There was also a strange fruit that looked something like a cross between a pinecone and a mango. It was tough to get into, the flesh was orange, the taste was bitter. Everyone was surprised to see that I knew how to eat pounded yam. As usual, I traded my meat for James' beer. A beautiful end to an amazing day.

...And then, a little woozy from my Star and all of the adventure, we crossed back over. Allllllll the way back from where we started.

The Endgame

I like Sundays. From nine to noon to air fills with the sound of voices singing and hands clapping from the various surrounding churches. You don't need to be religious to feel uplifted. I open my windows wide.

We're back in Benue State to wrap up the Hard-to-Reach Communities study we began in June. The trip down from Jos was mildly adventurous. We got a (typically) late start, so it was my first time traveling at night. Things get a little hairier at night. We saw three trucks jack-knifed on the road and there was one eye-opening encounter at a police checkpoint when a van proceeded through the checkpoint after being told to stop. To demonstrate his displeasure, the police officer slid a large log in front of the back wheels of the van as it drove by.

We spent the first few days in Benue at the Pastoral Center - no a/c and somewhat rustic conditions but all-in-all pretty delightful. And the first place I've come across with a real shower. But there's a seminar going on there for the week so the past few days we've shacked up at a more modern hotel. Benue gets muggy and hot and I've spent the past three days in a constant sweat, so I'm happy for the a/c ...even if it is just at night when the generator provides power.

So this is it.
This is the crux of what I'm doing in Nigeria.
The Benue State Hard-to-Reach Communities study started for me on week 2 with very little information and an impossible timeline. It was deeply intertwined with the organizational upheaval that occurred midway through my time here, with the result being that after the Country Director moved on, so to speak, primary responsibility for the project was left firmly in my lap.

The purpose of the study is to understand the factors contributing to vastly fluctuating vitamin A supplementation (VAS) coverage rates in the state by talking to members at all levels in the hard-to-reach communities about the geographic, economic, social, cultural, structural, etc obstacles that impede their participation in these campaigns. There has been so much to learn and I'm more appreciative than ever of the opportunity to here, to really understand the challenges and constraints of doing research in the developing world where data is at best lacking and at worst so corrupted as to be useless, basic communication and transportation are unreliable, and resources of all sorts are extremely limited. You just don’t learn these types of research skills in the classroom.

We rolled into town on Wednesday night. On Thursday we broke into two teams to travel to six Local Government Areas (like counties in the U.S.) in order to gather VAS coverage data for 3 communities within that LGA. If this were in the U.S., you could've handled this via email. Actually, you probably could have found the data you need in publicly available online databases. But this isn't the U.S., so here you get in a truck and drive around for 8 hours from one LGA to the next telling them the information you need and waiting - if you're lucky - for them to gather it and give it to you. And by 'drive around' I mean on roads that are more pothole than road and sometimes just a dirt path.

We were, in fact, about 45 minutes out of Makurdi traveling at a pretty good clip when a really loud banging noise erupted from the front left of the truck. Something definitely went horribly wrong. So Saleh pulled over and we all hopped out for a look. There was fluid draining very quickly from the car. The event occurred right in front of a village and so villagers were beginning to gather for a look. As always, I looked to my colleagues' reactions to determine if we were in big BIG trouble, or just kinda big trouble. Saleh, our big sturdy driver, was looking pretty shaken and was feverishly trying to call James who was in the other truck heading in the opposite direction. 'Saleh - is that fuel coming out of the truck?' Happily it wasn't. He thought it was oil from the gearbox... or something. We finally got a hold of James. Everyone has a different phone network and strangely mine – which is typically quick to lose service – was the only one to have it. 'Sah James, we have a problem. We're not going to be able to move. You're going to have to come with a rope and tow us.' Oh boy, let me count the ways in which this was not good! By that time our trucks were two hours apart, we had built in this one single day to gather this data then which formed the crux of the study. It was one of those moments where you take a look at the situation before you and start narrowing down to absolute priorities. Quick.

But then something changed. Saleh took another look and decided that it was possible that the problem was the wheel propeller (???), not the gearbox at all. And apparently you don't need all propellers in order to go. So we gave it a try, there was no obnoxious noise or obvious problem. We canceled our towing order with James and continued on our way. Mary - my chaperon from the Ministry of Health for the day - uttered a 'thanks be to god' and I agreed.

There was other excitement that day too. This was the first time I had been out in the communities without an HKI chaperon. Saleh was there and Ahmed the Corper was there, but as soon became evident I was the HKI person "in charge". It was the end of the day, we had made it to four LGAs to get data. We were walking away with no data in hand, just the commitment from all of the LGAs to send it via text message that night or bring it in hard copy to training the following day. There were some close calls in terms of even getting the data. It was a Thursday and - despite having called them to tell them we were coming - by 2pm many of the LGAs seemed to be closing up. We had to steal away one of our contacts from the outdoor eatery where we happened up him when we pulled into town. And I had overruled both Saleh and Ahmed in insisting that we go to the fourth LGA - about an hour and a half away on a really, really terrible road - despite the possibility that like the others, they would have closed up shop by the time we arrived.

They hadn't, thankfully. But by the time we did what we came to do, I was anxious to get back on the road and off of before dark. So when our two hosts – state and LGA health officers - wanted to take us for "lunch" (mind you it was 5pm), I was a little torn. It’s true that in our haste to get to all of the LGAs, we hadn't really eaten all day. But we had a long drive on a terrible road with a truck missing one propeller (whatever that is) back to Makurdi and it was getting late. The ladies were half out of the truck, looking at me for approval. Neither Saleh nor Ahmed had budged. And that’s when it dawned on me that I was “in charge”.

‘Do you guys want to stop for lunch?’ They said no. After overruling them on the decision to even come here, I felt it was my job to get the back to Makurdi. So I said no to “lunch”. The LGA lady insisted. I declined. We had already planned, afterall, for dinner at the Pastoral Center. The State lady upped the ante with, ‘She wants to buy us lunch’. Unswayed and becoming both slightly irritated and culturally out to sea, I declined again. The LGA lady responded by taking a 500 Naira bill out of her purse and showing it to me. This wasn’t going to go well. Do I cut my losses and stay for lunch? Lunch in Nigeria can be a 5 minute stop on the side of the road for something wrapped in newspaper and a plastic bag… or it can be a multi-hour affair. I declined again. The LGA lady cried out ‘Don’t do this to me!’ as if I were performing some type of bodily injury. And at this point I was also beside myself, asking for assistance from Ahmed who offered none. The State lady finally caved, giving a final declination to the LGA lady and we were on our way back to Makurdi.

Ahmed later explained that in Nigeria when someone offers you something, you take it. They like you to take it. And you risk offending them if you don’t. I’ve found this to be true in other contexts… like when a seat is offered. I’m usually really excited to be standing I’ve found that it makes everyone else around me visibly uncomfortable. I tried declining the offered seat in the beginning – and sometimes I still do – but usually just sit down when invited because I know its just easier that way. Ahmed also said that it wasn’t a big deal. That she was really dramatic but, really, no one cares. I’ve also found the drama to be true in other contexts. People here speak with a lot more animation and emotion than I’m used to. I often find myself telling myself ‘Its not anger, its just emotional engagement’.

Friday was our first day of training. We had scheduled to start at 8am. I have since learned that there is the official time… and then there is the time that people actually plan for. And that this latter one is different for everyone. So me? I was ready to leave the Pastoral Center by 7:30 in order to be at the Ministry of Health by 8. Ha ha! Foolish girl. Nary a person was astir by 7:30am. I’m not sure what time we left, but we had some errands to do along the way and I think we arrived at the Ministry of Health at about 11am. Yep, that’s 3 hours after our own start time. Happily there just two (somewhat defeated-looking) people already there waiting. It seems like mostly everyone knows how this goes too. It’s kind of like “Ultimate time”. Everyone knows the meeting is not going to start on time, and so they intentionally don’t arrive on time. It’s this vicious cycle where the biggest losers are the ones who come on time.

In addition to starting WAY late, it also became clear that our objective was to get through the material as quickly as possible. Which meant that most of the information for day 2 – my day to train – would be rolled onto day 1. As usual, my anxiety about the training was overblown. I was worried that they wouldn’t understand me, worried that they would be offended at this young white American student coming to tell them – high level health workers at the LGA level – how to do their job, worried that the study wouldn’t pass muster. But it went well. Once again I think I was assisted by the color of my skin and my foreign accent, which seems to add gravitas (or “rigor” as someone said) to the situation.

Cooking Adventures cont'd

Jollof Rice
I used a recipe that I found online for most of this, but let James take over towards the end when he started to get visibly distressed at my technique. Jollof Rice was high on my to-do list because, well, basically I've lived on it for two months. It starts with chopping an onion, green beans, tomatoes, sweet pepper and green pepper. I wanted to add carrot and peas but James wouldn't let me - it would be too much like Fried Rice, he said. Actually, it starts with cleaning and de-pebbling the rice. The second part is important. I assumed James was on it. He assumed that the rice didn't need de-pebbling. The result was some nasty sound effects and some nearly destroyed teeth.

So you saute the veggies in some oil. Then you add a few dollops of tomato paste. When James complains, you add some more oil. Once its all mixed together you add the uncooked rice, two Maggi bouillon cubes and some water. Then James comes over and adds a hell of a lot more oil. Then you just wait, stir and add more water as needed until the rice is the desired consistency.

Plantains ...revisited
The second time making the plantains - this time under supervision - James added a hell of a lot more oil. They were markedly better.