Show Us What's Inside Church #3!

It's sort of funny how something that wouldn't feel comfortable or wouldn't be ok at home is suddenly great when it's the most familiar option.

Three Sundays in Abuja, three different churches.  First it was Winner's Church with one of the girls; then it was a Catholic church with the other girl.  Today was with my new family, and had the preacher not been constantly thanking the Lord for "our country Nigeria," I wouldn't have known I was in Africa.  It was just like any praise church I've been to in the United States.

The Church
Outside the building, ushers in orange vests directed traffic into marked parking spaces in a real parking lot, with asphalt, medians and trees.  When that lot was full, the cars went to the dirt over-flow lot behind the church, and when that lot was full, they parked on the soccer field.

Inside, the building looked nothing like other African buildings.  The walls were wood paneled, not cement.  The floor was carpeted, not cement.  The chairs were those cushioned metal chairs that can be hooked together on the sides or stacked easily out of the way.  The sanctuary had a balcony with a railing.  The pulpit and band were on a raised stage.

The Service
The choir consisted of about 9 people, 8 of whom lined up at microphones behind the lead singer.  The words to the hymns shown on the big screen overhead.  Electric guitars, a keyboard and a drum set accompanied the choir.  The preacher told people what scriptures he was going to read, and everyone pulled out their Bibles to follow along.

Normally, I don't really like praises churches.  I prefer old fashioned hymns to the new-fangled repeat-two-lines-for-three-minutes songs.  I like organs, not electric guitars and drums in church.  But today, today I really liked the praise church.  It was familiar; it felt like home.  Nobody encouraged me to give to money to God so I could have a baby, nobody tried to sell me candles or brochures or anything else before the end of the service (like they did at the Catholic church).  I didn't have to put oil on my head; I didn't feel extremely awkward for not having a scarf on my head (Catholic church again).  It was nice.

The Sermon
The sermon today was about the coming of the end of the world.  And what did the preacher point to?  The hurricanes, floods, famines, other natural disasters?  No.  California.  California and the same sex marriage law.  "I remember," he says, "I remember when California passed their same sex marriage law.  I remember reading about it on the internet."  You remember?!  Reading it on the internet!?  I was there!  I had to chuckle just a little bit.  But then the preacher started explaining how he read a comment from someone who said they were Christian and thought the new couples should be left alone to do what they feel is right.  This was a prime example of the failing morality prophesied for the end of time, a perfect example of people who will call themselves Christian but go to Hell anyway.  He urged everyone to do their duty as Christians and post their own comments on the internet.

Now can someone please explain this to me:  The Old Testament says men should not lie with other men.  But it also says not to eat pigs.  So why is one ok and the other not?  People say, 'well Jesus came and just changed the rules so that you just don't do what is bad for you.  Eating pig is not bad, but homosexuality is.'  Why?  And what happened to not judging others?  (Incidentally, there are other rules in the same section of the Bible that most Christians (and churches) would consider archaic health concerns.)

Same Same, but Different
As different as the three churches I've attended were, they all had some things in common.  Every one of them had three services.  Every one of them was in a large, and nearly full building.  And everyone of them involved some sort of pushing and shoving through crowds either to enter, leave or both.  People here go to church, it's a given.  (And I'm including mosque in that term.)  No one asks "do you go to church?"  They just ask, "which church do you go?"  Any answer is ok, as long as you're going somewhere.

To Market, To Market, To Buy a Fat Hen

When you see a woman in nice business clothes holding live chickens upside-down, one in each hand, then you know you're in Africa.

Yesterday, Dr. Y, the lady of the house, and I went to Wuse market.  And we headed straight to the chickens.  Underneath a tin roofed shelter, rows and rows of chicken wire crates were stacked on top of each other, filled with, what else, chickens!  Several men jumped forward when we approached, each offering a different type of chicken.  The lady of the house picked the white fluffy chickens and proceeded to select the ones she wanted by holding them upside-down by their feet.  She would raise her arms a bit, lift each one up and down and then hand it back to switch chickens and repeat.  After a few combinations of chickens, and a lot of Pidgin that I couldn't understand, she handed all the chickens back to the men and we left.

Our next stop was the goats.  They were already dead.  Rows and rows of meat, lying out in the open.  The buzzing flies reminded me of a story I had heard once about how West African meat sellers in tourist heavy areas will spray their meat with bug spray because tourists won't buy the meat if there are flies on it.  Obviously, the bug spray is much more dangerous than the flies.  Apparently this market doesn't get many tourists, flies were plenty.  On one table, a whole goat lay on it's back, throat slit with the head thrown back, tongue hanging out, rigamortis legs bent up in the air.  At another table, a very buff butcher in a muscle shirt slammed his meat cleaver down repeatedly, skillfully trimming away bone, fat and a kidney.  "That's why they're called kidney beans!"  It looked just the same.

As we continued to wander around the market, I noticed that every time the lady of the house bought something, she gave it to some boys and they carried it away.  "Ah, maybe that's what happened to the chickens," I thought.  In and out of aisles, around piles of dried crayfish, over puddles, between bags of rice, we gathered everything on the lady of the house's shopping list.  I thought I heard her tell one of the boys following us 'go and collect my chickens," but I wasn't sure.  Guards walked up and down blowing loud whistles, singling the close of the market.

We headed back to the SUV.  A wheelbarrow sat behind it, overflowing with all the purchases.  Into the car they went, bags of potatoes, sacks of tomatoes, peppers, carrots, ground pumpkin seeds, giant tubers, plastic packs of every color bulging with hidden goodies.  As we drove away I noticed, "no squawking; guess she didn't get the chickens."

Back home, the gate men, the maid, the sister-law and the other guy that lives here helped carry everything into the kitchen.  Fruits were unpacked from the plastic and wrapped in newspaper.  Potatoes were sorted into wire racks.  Bad tomatoes were pulled from the good and thrown away.  I went over near the sink to rinse a plate, and that's when I saw it.  A tiny little chicken toe, with a tiny little chicken claw, resting on the edge of the sink.  I looked up; the lady of the house was holding chicken feet again, but this time, they weren't attached to any squawking birds.  Guess she got the chickens after all.

From Netherfield to Pemberley

No, there's no Mr. Darcy. But at least I'm away from the condescension and cattiness of the Bingley sisters.

I moved today from Flat 007. I'd only been there two weeks, but it seemed far too long. The girls there were very nice in taking me in and helping me out until I could get settled in Abuja, but it was time for them to have their space back.

This new place is unlike anywhere I've ever lived before. It's got to be a mansion. There are three floors and seven bedrooms! Three of the rooms are self-contained, enter from the outside style. The maid has one, I'm in another, and I think there's a driver or something in the third. The rooms inside belong to the master of the house and his wife, their two daughters, the wife's sister-in-law, and another guy that I think is somehow related.

There's also a study, a play room, a parlor, a sitting room and a large kitchen with a walk-in pantry. Plus, the foyer is so big it houses a piano and the children's bicycles, rollerblades and doll strollers. I'm very excited about the piano. Both the daughters and the father play. I love hearing people play the piano; it reminds me of home and listening to Wendy.

My room is quite large with a nice bed and air conditioning (if I decide to use it.) The bathroom is really big and the shower stall is larger than the one at Flat 007. I got these lovely bubblegum colored sheets because they were the cheapest - and they were still more than I usually pay for nice sheets at home! Still need to find a pillow.

Outside, there is a large yard with a brick patio/driveway, a covered car park and a grassy lawn. Tall Doric columns support the car park and several other overhangs as well as the second floor above the front porch. A Doberman stays tied up near the back during the day while Skippy, a fluffly little dog, chases butterflies around the yard. Large trees stand on both sides of the high cement wall. At the entrance stands a foreboding metal gate. It's not quite as fancy as the driveway next door. That one is raised up like a draw-bridge and has to be let down when the right car approaches. But that house should have more security, the US ambassador to Nigeria lives there.

The family is Yoruba. I'm really excited about that, because that's the language I've been trying to learn. Dr. Y and most of the people at the office are also Yoruba, despite the fact that this area of the country is generally Hausa. So far I can only greet, say thank you, and introduce myself (and Dr. Y), but I'm working on more. I'll have to get the adorable little girls to practice with me. The father would like me to take them bowling and swimming sometimes. Oh, how awful. ;)

Hungry Hungry Veggie

Nearly two weeks here in Nigeria now; I've finally gotten to try some local food. It's been tough finding anything I can eat. Nigerian's put fish or ground-up crayfish in nearly everything. It's like their version of Southern pork.

The first attempt at eating out wound up being not really Nigerian. We had asked around at several eba places only to find that all the veggies had crayfish. Strike-out number 1. So we settled on shawarmas. I really liked shawarmas in Zambia and was excited to be eating them again. Except in Zambia, we could get cheese ones. And here, they mixed ours up and gave me chicken. Yuck.

The next day, Dr. Y took me to a place called Chicken King for moin moin (moy moy). It's a jiggly sort of bean cake. We were very careful to ask if it had crayfish in it. It did not, so we ordered some. No crayfish, but it did have corned-beef in it. Strike-out number 2.

After our sadness with the moin moin, we went to the house of Dr. Y's friend. They discussed possible dishes they could make for me to try, while I tried the local 'health' drink, Maltina. I cannot understand how this is possibly healthy. It looks like a stout ale; it's carbonated; and it tastes like a mix of rootbear, real beer and dirt. I think it's an acquired taste.

Still hunting for Nigerian food, we headed towards my house and found a lady on the corner selling akara, fried bean cakes. No crayfish, no corned-beef. We have a winner! Greasy but yummy and small, I had five. When I got home, one of the girls here made me eba (finally!) with groundnut soup. It was oilier than the groundnut sauces we had in Zambia, and spicier, but it was still good. It had pumpkin leaves and egg in it, too. After all that, is it any wonder I was sick that night and most of the next day?

Now I only get two akara at a time, not five, and I'll pick up an orange or slice of watermelon from the men next to the akara woman to balance out my snack.

I also tried cola nut last week at the conference. Yuck! Dr. Y showed me how to break off a small piece. So I took the little piece and chewed it. It wasn't too bad. Then I wanted to take a little more, but I couldn't get the piece to break as small as Dr. Y did. I just put the whole thing in my mouth. It was so bitter! How do people chew this all the time? I had to move away and get rid of it; I couldn't stand having it in my mouth.

Since the cola nut, things have improved. This weekend Dr. Y, one of her friends, and I found a guy selling roasted maize by the roadside. It was very very yummy. I love roasted maize. Luckily, it's one thing I can easily get and make myself at home. (See camping.) But today, today was the real treat. Not only did I get to try plantain chips, we found one of my favorite African, can't-get-it-at-home, treats. Sugar cane!! Cool, sweet, refreshing. Slurp, slurp, chomp. Sticky juice running down our chins and arms. It was soooo good!

Well, It's Still Africa

My experiences here in Nigeria have so far been very different than my experiences in Zambia..... mostly.

I'm working with a department in the Federal government, living in the capital, taking taxis or riding with friends anywhere I go.  There's internet and air conditioning at work, parking garages near all the big buildings.  No mud hut, no bicycles, no hour walks just to see a car, no fire for cooking.  But it's still Africa.

There's some things I really like.  I can walk to the corner and find people selling phone cards, oranges or watermelon.  There's a lady that sits at the junction frying akara (bean cakes) all day long.  In town, boys walk around pushing carts of sugar cane or with jars of peanuts on their heads.  Sometimes we find a group of people roasting maize by the side of the road.  We start work at 9 and knock off at 4.  (Though we don't take a lunch so it works out the same as my summer's 9-5.)  Colorful clothing is everywhere.  People are friendly, and the sun is warm.

Then there are the things I notice that make me just shrug.  This is where I realize that if I had not learned how to deal with some things in Zambia, I'd be having a really hard time adjusting now.

The power goes out at least once a day at home.  It never fazes me; I just unplug my laptop so it doesn't surge when the power comes back.  What surprised me was that we can still cook when the power's out; it's a gas stove!  When I go into the kitchen to cook on this stove, I always first rinse the dishes I want to use.  Have to make sure to get all the termites out of them.  Rice gets washed twice to remove weevils.  The shower stall is quite small; the bucket takes up half the room!

I work in the Federal Secretariat Complex, a group of large buildings with between 4 and 10 floors.  The elevators have lists of emergency numbers posted inside in case the power goes out.  There's also a man that sits on a chair in the elevators, takes up a good portion of the space.  I think his job isn't so much to push the buttons as it is to make people feel safer about riding in the elevator.  

Most of the Ministries, as well as several high ranking government officials, have their offices in this complex.  Areas are roped off with guards stationed at the ends of the red-carpet-lined hallways.  Guards man each entrance and ask for everyone's work id when entering the building.  In the office, we sit and work  on our computers, with newer versions of software than I had in San Francisco.  Yet, there's no toilets.  The bathrooms have ablution pans.  No soap;  no tissue,  the sinks don't work.  There's a reason I carry tissue and hand sanitizer anywhere I go.  And today, we started paging through some files on a desk in our office and a cockroach ran out of the folder.

 

I actually like the ablution pans.   If I ever build my own house, I think I'll put one of those in.  No fighting about leaving the seat up, and they're much easier to clean.  The bugs however, I could do without.