SmargaretsEyes is now The Constant Foreigner. Please visit at http://theconstantforeigner.wordpress.com.
SmargaretsEyes is now The Constant Foreigner. Please visit at http://theconstantforeigner.wordpress.com.
The Brooklyn Bridge is convenient. It’s rather majestic. It’s got more history per brick than any other structure I’ve seen, save the pyramids at Giza. Horrible, but fascinating, history. It even has a tradition, which I totally missed for two years of walking across it, of couples sticking padlocks on the railings with phrases like “__ + __ forever” scratched on them.
The Manhattan Bridge is not convenient (for me). The walkway is low and tight, so you have to constantly be on the lookout for oncoming cyclists. The view consists of parking lots, graffitied roofs and apartment balconies, and faded awnings labelled in Chinese. It was designed for functionality. So why do I keep taking the extra 45 minutes to walk home over it?
It sounds stereotypical even in my head, but I have to say that the business part of Chinatown smells amazing. It’s a great place to amble, lost in your thoughts, and the steam that carries the smell of freshly cooked rice through hopeful restaurant doors. Nowhere else can passing an open basement make your stomach tighten in anticipation.
I was starving but lacked my secret weapon — Alena. If you like Chinese food and have a friend who’s fluent in Mandarin, DO NOT let her move to D.C. Not wanting to be the token tourist stumbling all over the Americanized menu, and being kind of broke anyway, I picked up the pace toward the George and my cheap pasta. I’m glad I feel like an outsider in Chinatown, though — I like knowing ours is an actual Chinese enclave, not just a block of restuarants and a herb shop. Of course, ethnic enclaves tend to come with their own special problems (encouraging stereotypes and generalizations among outsiders, as with “Little Italy,” which never really existed the way most Americans thought it did). But who can help loving a place like this?
It beats me why anyone would get excited about getting their photo taken in front of a Mahayana (Buddhist) temple, but there are always one or two tourists with cameras around when I pass by the big one on Canal Street. I guess it sounds somehow exotic to them?
What makes the view from the Manhattan Bridge cool is the rooftops. Covered on the Chinatown side with washing lines, deck chairs, and the aforementioned youth street art, and on the Brooklyn side with playgrounds (best idea EVER), pools (second best idea EVER), and squash courts. Oh, to have an apartment in DUMBO (Down Under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass) . . .
I wonder if the city purposefully does not advertise the Manhattan Bridge walkway so that it can funnel tourists to its more iconic neighbor? No need to wonder. The Manhattan and Brooklyn bridges, although so close together, represent two very different New York Cities.
Below is an excerpt from my Urban Ethnography class final project. The assignment was to do a short ethnographic study, for which I chose to focus on a housing project in the Two Bridges area, specifically the disused playgrounds.
Playgrounds in Two Bridges
The Two Bridges part of Manhattan consists of the area between the Brooklyn and Manhattan bridges, from the waterfront as far back as the bridge overpasses. The bridges reach the island at an angle, and so Two Bridges is almost conical in shape, getting smaller as it nears the water so that one can see both bridges at once from one street, whereas from another street it may be quite a walk from one bridge to another. This gives the area nearer the waterfront a somewhat cramped and enclosed feeling, which is encouraged by the fact that the most direct way to enter/exit it from the Wall Street side is through small tunnels created by the Brooklyn Bridge overpass. What initially drew me to conduct my study in my particular part of Two Bridges was the lost-world feeling that struck me on emerging from said tunnels. The Woolworth building looks laughable next to the rest of this skyline of peeling red brick and fading neon Chinese characters. No tourist would ever come here, a place they appear to miss completely as they walked the bridge right above it. I chose my area because of the playgrounds, and what I nicknamed “the elderly woman phenomenon”. First, however, let us define “my area”.
The area was six-or-seven blocks long and two blocks wide and consisted mostly of a public housing project that we will simply call S. Houses. The project held a number of apartment blocks connected by concrete pathways dotted with six playgrounds. A community center, which we will just call The Center, occupied two floors of one of the easternmost blocks. The neighborhoods of Two Bridges are varied but are usually strongly bounded minority areas. Here, somewhere near the waterfront, they had been pulled together, encroaching upon each other but in a seemingly amicable way. This had been a black and Hispanic area until new Chinese immigrants began settling here in the early 1970s. Now S. Houses clings to edge of Chinatown, but as one of my subjects, Jack, said (speaking for friends who had lived here since before then) “no one leave, they just move in together”. His friends were correct, in one place literally – the busiest culinary establishment in the area was a combination Chinese restaurant and diner. S. Houses was a federally designated poverty area with an average annual income of $17,000 and, according to my source Thea, a naturally occurring retirement community (NORC).
Two things caught my eye as I walked through S. Houses. The first was the abundance of elderly women walking around the project, some pulling groceries, others just pulling their feet, but almost all on their own. (The elderly women I had seen were traveling on the other side of the Brooklyn bridge or over in the heart of Chinatown usually had least one younger person affixed to their side.) Occasionally a bench would hold a small group of chatting elderly men and women. These groups were always racially segregated. What caught my eye second was they way the S. Houses tenants practically lived on the concrete pathways between the apartment blocks. The “Tenants Association plots” were empty except for an abandoned chair, but the pathways were filled with people waving/nodding to each other, saying hello and smoking together. On my second visit an impromptu leaving-party had sprung up around a moving van – someone unpacked their CD player, someone else ordered a pizza, and the crowd grew to thirty or forty (mostly of the project’s elusive younger adult crowd) over the course of an hour.
The children also lived on the street. Boys and girls running, playing ball games, or whizzing past on their razor scooters were a common feature of the pathways – but over the course of the two week period of my observations I never saw a single child in any of the six specially-built S. Houses playgrounds. I returned at mornings, afternoons, and evenings, in warm and freezing weathers, but the only occupants I saw were a middle-aged couple sharing a sandwich and a cigarette on one of the little tables one morning. The playgrounds
were brightly painted, the most colorful places in the area, and their emptiness stuck out. They were not locked. I wondered if perhaps they just so boring that children as young as five or six would prefer to play basketball without a hoop than play on them. I scouted three nearby public schools and two Catholic schools, each with its own, fenced-off playground that was full of children.
My overall impression from these observations was one of safety and community. What kind of place is this, I wondered, where elderly women will walk alone without a care, where children can play in the street without a chaperon, and want to play in the street because the street is their playground? I was reminded of Jane Jacobs’s Eyes on the Street. Jacobs argues that many people are afraid of heavily populated areas because they are afraid of being in proximity to people they do not know. However, she also argues that this does not make sense – that in fact, the best way to be safe is to be surrounded by people. They become eyes on the street, creating what could be called a social forcefield, watching out for each other whether they realize it or not. Therefore, the safest places are those with multiple functionalities that keep them occupied by as many groups of people through as many hours a possible. Under this theory, S. Houses fit the bill as extremely safe. Considering the unsafe reputation of much of Chinatown, this was pleasantly surprising.
When you do not have a place to live amongst your chosen people, or a year to do so, the ethnographic process is very difficult. You are a complete stranger with no reason to be there except to study people who never considered the idea that they might be studied. It did not help my situation that, as a young, Caucasian woman, I belonged to both (very minor and very obvious) ethnic and age-related minorities. (The only other Caucasian people I saw in my first week at S. Houses were the posters of Robert Downey Jr. and Jude Law advertising the new Sherlock Holmes movie. This gave me a strange feeling, if only because it is the only time I am ever likely to be put in the same category as either of those people.) The tenants I approached on the street were kind but reserved, and they all seemed to shut down, giving one-or-two-word answers once I told them my purpose. Leading up to this with extensive chit-chat never helped. I’m sure some of this was the result of a language barrier, but
Due to my unlucky streak in trying to speak with those outside I decided to try The Center, where I had volunteered once the previous year. The Center was formed by the joining of two previous community partners in the 1950s, when neither had enough funding to function on its own. Now it hosts a gym, an after school program for over three hundred children, parenting classes, and language programs for native speakers of Spanish, Cantonese, Mandarin, and other languages. Its staff have fifteen languages under their collective belt – they need to. I dug up the number for their Assistant Director, Thea, who was only too happy to help. A Caucasian Two Bridges native in her early forties, Thea had started working at the Center “over twenty-five years” ago teaching English to native Spanish speakers.
During her time in the area she described the neighborhood as having changed from a safer, more community-oriented place with a “less transient population” to a more dangerous one.
“This was the kind of neighborhood where people stuck around,” she said, claiming that now the old tenants were still around but that members of the newer population changed “all the time”. The old generation could be seen in the elderly women who walked the streets alone, having moved into rent-controlled apartments in their younger days (many immediately upon arrival in the United States) and to not be able to to afford to move away. She pointed out something I had missed – that most of the eyes on the street belonged to the project’s seniors, who were focused on each other, getting home, or (in the case of one man I saw) talking to themselves. This forced me to question their validity as a force for safety, since it could be argued that most of them were, in fact, neither watching the children nor fit to stand up to any dangerous situations. And dangerous situations, Thea said, were common in S. Houses. It may as well have been the children alone on the streets.
The strong community atmosphere lasted until the the mid 1980s, when gang activity spread farther into the area. “The first ones I remember were the Chinese gangs” Thea said. “I can’t remember names, but we had the Bloods and Crips in here too, later.” She also remembered the No Fair Ones (NFO), which began with children “around twelve and thirteen,” who went on to recruit younger members when they were older.
When asked about why the playgrounds were so disused, Thea’s answer shocked me: Drugs. A group of three drug dealers frequently used at least two of the playgrounds as extremely successful selling points. I might have been skeptical about this had I not seen three men standing casually and silently against the playground fence on my way out after ever interview. They were being given a wide berth by pedestrians. I watched them for a few minutes from afar one afternoon, which suffice it to say was all the convincing I needed. According to Thea, parents had started noticing this activity a couple of years ago and moved their children to other playgrounds. One of the playgrounds was attached to the Center and used for its after school program. Thea, newly appointed to Assistant Director, was put at the forefront of this when parents complained to her. The Board of Trustees moved to keep the children in the gym rather than go to the police, believing nothing would be done. To this day the nearest police presence was a collection of traffic cops under the Brooklyn Bridge. In fact, the only time Thea had seen police in S. Houses was the year before when two officers chased an unknown suspect from an unknown location up a stairwell, right through the Center, and out the other side. The gang activity continued, “but [Thea tried] not to think about it these days,” preferring to focus on making The Center a safe and productive haven for the community.
Two of the other playgrounds were disused because they were frequented by a different sort of group – people from a nearby church preaching Christianity. The group had started showing up three or four afternoons and continued every week for nearly a year. She refused to name the group’s denomination, but parents had grown tired of them (or sometimes their children) being preached to during play time and neither the Center nor the Tenants Association had been unable to get them to to move.
Thea shot down my assumptions that the children of S. Houses were being communally watched over and that they had chosen to play in the street. Instead, it was now apparent that they had been Now with a considerably less safe feeling, I attempted to continue my interviews outside to no avail. Thea offered to ask some parents from the after school program if I could speak to them, but none were interested. Finally, coming from my last check-in with Thea, I found Jack and Jill (so named because any fake Chinese name I could have created for them would have sounded silly to the point of being borderline offensive). They were in the gym, both quite elderly, Jill talking to Jack in what sounded like Cantonese while he shot some (rather arthritic – he was at least in his seventies, after all) hoops. They were helpful and much more interested in my project than the rest of the neighborhood, although they nodded knowingly when I told them this.
Jack and Jill claimed to be part of a large and fluid group of seniors who often spent evenings in the gym to feel safer, especially in the Summer when they said gang activity is common in the area at night. Thea had said the project “takes on a whole different feel at night,” and Jill agreed, saying she would never go outside after dark without her husband. I asked her about the women I saw walking by themselves.
“They have no one,” she replied. “Their family, everyone they know, have moved away.” Jack and Jill moved to the United States in 1991 and lived in S. Houses since 1992. They described hearing gunshots more than once in recent years, during which they felt the project had become increasingly dangerous.
“Those kids [on the street] are from the shelter,” Jill said, referring to the family shelter a few blocks away. “Parents don’t care, so they play anywhere.” She also thought this true of many children living in the apartments.
Last weekend, thousands of LGBTQ people and their straight allies marched in Washington, D.C. Or was it hundreds of thousands? I can’t find a reliable estimate, but I can tell you that at the following rally the National Mall was PACKED from the Capitol to the Washington Monument. Our journey was long, our socio-political fuses short, but our spirits untouchably high. Lore and I thought we had made a long trip, but there were people from as far as the great state of Alaska. We made a friend from Montana. A group from Chicago got a special mention at the rally because their all-night bus broke down on the way. They were with us in spirit, and we were thinking about them. About everyone out there. As a British speaker at the rally said, “I am here because today my sexuality trumps my nationality.”
Despite Representative Barney Frank’s dismissal of the march as pointless and insignificant, what I saw and felt was nothing short of life-changing. I had never been to a pride parade. I had never waved a flag and held up a sign declaring with every step that YES, in no uncertain terms, I am a LESBIAN and I LOVE IT and I AM EQUAL. It was beautiful. We were beautiful. (It’s true — Lady Gaga told us so!) These people around me know, I thought. They understand. I will remember them the next time I’m hesitatant about speaking up.
Perhaps Congressman Frank should have thought about the new generation of activists waiting to be inspired, about those in the queer community who need all the support and encouragement they can get. Perhaps he needs to be reminded of the importance of community, especially for minorities, and even more so for a minority as misunderstood, widespread, and disconnected as ours. Perhaps he’s forgotten that DOMA, “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell,” and Proposition 8 are still in effect with no federal action against them in sight. He may be willing to wait another eight years for his rights, but I’m not.
Speaking of people who need reminding, I — like many — was not that impressed with the President’s speech at Saturday’s Human Rights Campaign dinner. Only days after calling his Nobel Peace Prize a “call to action,” Obama followed months of unfulfilled promises with this letdown. It managed to be funny, and sometimes sympathetic, yet lacked anything approaching motivation. No apology, no plans, no deadlines, just smiles and sweet words. It was almost like being handed an IOU from Boss Tweed. I know the President and Congress have a lot to do. I know I know it’s only been a few months. But how long am I supposed to wait? When did we decide that civil rights were less important than economics? How good is better health care if my partner can’t use it, or a parent can’t visit his/her child in the hospital?
[Written for my Urban Ethnography class journal.]
Union Square is probably my favorite place in the city. At the intersection of Broadway, Park Ave South, and Fourth Ave, it borders a business center in Midtown and a cultural center in the Village. It’s aesthetically appealing and functional, loved by residents and tourists alike. (I wish the Brooklyn Bridge was the same. I feel lucky to have it as my fastest route home and love it to death. I just wish I could walk it without constantly having to dodge out of tourists’ obnoxiously-staged pictures or being asked to take them myself. It really puts a damper on the atmosphere.) It’s also, I think, one of the best uses of public space I’ve ever come across. Nowhere have I seen so many New Yorkers just sitting around, not rushing, enjoying their environment. They have collectively claimed it as their own. Its designers were geniuses and I doubt any city planner would dare mess with the square’s vibe now. There are fountains, benches, guys playing chess, saxaphonists, guitarists, acrobats, and a market — and that’s on a slow day. You can browse works by a multitude of street artists camped out on the sidewalk, many of whom are legitimate rather than tourist scams. Companies use it as a mass distribution site for free samples — I’ve received entire meals by just walking through! Or, if you’re in a different sort of mood, you can sit shaded from all that on the grass and watch the dogs play.
For those on a mission there are stores, restaurants, clubs, places of worship, and movie theaters packed into the surrounding city blocks.
Even some non-profits have got in on the action. Today I was there to help photograph an event for issuportthepublicoption.org, where you could make a video petition to Congress for a government-sponsored health care option.
Afterwards, having collected a free six-pack of yogurt, I sat on a fountain and watched a chess match. None of the men knew each other, they were just relaxing and enjoying the afternoon. Who knew something so mellow could happen in such a bustling place?
All photos taken with permission.
Lagos, Nigeria — July 6th
I was stunned by the heat and humidity on the tarmac in Lagos. I had been barely awake on the 08:00 flight from Abuja (which left unapologetically at 9:15), bearly registering the sunrise over the hills or the outlying slums and satellite towns we passed on the road out of the city. Those are where many of the people who work in Abuja live — the farther inside the city you go, the richer people get. I should know, living in Maitama, which has been colonized by diplomats.
I was quite out of it, although upon arriving at the airport my gutter-mind was awake enough to make me laugh at Virgin Nigeria’s two, somewhat contradictory, slogans: “Very Nigeria. Very Virgin” and “Touching the right spots.” We stood long at the empty check-in counter until Victor — the James Bond of expeditors — sauntered into some back office and flirted a female attendant into action.
This was only a one-night trip, tagging along while my dad Had Meetings, but after everything I’d heard about Lagos it wasn’t one I was going to miss. A cultural center and former capital, Lagos trails Bamako as Africa’s second most populous city. If Nigeria is truly Africa’s “heart“, you’ll find Lagos at the edge of its armpit. The city clings low to the mainland as far as the eye can see, then spills out, with clusters of skyscrapers, onto numerous islands along a lagoon and in the South Atlantic. Shanty towns blanketed in smog, houses on stilts, and wooden fishing boats line the shores.
Lagos is the L.A., New York, Houston, and Chicagos of Nigeria all rolled into one — and feels like it has as many people. It has the water culture of Venice (minus the grandeur and tourist bent), Miami’s tropical-coast atmosphere, London’s night life, Mumbai’s art scene, and Johannesburg’s soaring crime rate. Above all, it is a place Nigerians both long for and can’t get out of fast enough.
Like many Abuja residents, Ngozi and Abimbola (friends from work) were raised in Lagos, moving North from a city that was overflowing. They both laughed when I asked what it was like. The whole place floods when it rains, they said. The traffic is so bad it can take hours to drive a couple of miles. Ike recalled visiting Lagosian friends who taught him to jump into moving Danfos (share taxis) because the ones there never pull over. They all gestured emphatically and used words like “crazy”. It reminded me of how movie characters talk about the pace of NYC. The verdict seemed to be that I would definitely find it, if not enjoyable, then at least “interesting.”
“Lagos, it’s great to visit but not a very nice place to stay,” Ngozi said. But she was smiling and staring whistfully out the window when she said it.
So yes, walking into what felt like a sauna woke me right up. The traffic really was as bad as everyone had said, but that just gave me more time to stare at the throngs of people. Dad had been to Lagos many times and had gotten into the habit of playing “Go-Slow Bingo” — listing what people were selling in between the stopped cars (rat poison, TV aerials, puppies . . .).
We stayed with D., an old Nairobi colleague of Dad’s now stationed at the U.S. Consulate. Her nephew, Jeff, was friends with my sister but they had mostly lost touch and I had no idea what had become of him.
D.’s house was like some converted colonial B&B. Not even “like” — it probably was. It had once housed ambassadors. Luxurious decor and enthusiastic air conditioning made it an island within the island. Palm trees sheltered the lawn, which backed onto the lagoon. (Fact: Most Americans skip the bridge traffic by commuting on speedboats!)
I got a Jeff update at lunch, where D. served sandwiches that a visiting friend had hand-delivered direct from New Orleans the day before. Oh, the things expats do for comfort food! (There’s nothing we won’t stuff in our hand-luggage, buy in tins, or ship in quantities that will make even the people at CostCo suspicious. My mom once brought my dad a frozen steak in her suitcase.)
D. was in Lagos in the 80s when, she said, “the public power used to work. Now everyone runs off of generators.” There are more people and cars these days, but less stability. I asked if the government had andoned the public works in Lagos for those in Abuja. She shrugged.
“No,” she replied, “they abandoned them all over so they could sell generators. As always in Nigeria, somebody’s making a profit.”
“DO NOT URINATE HERE
Offender will be prosecuted
Post no bills”
— Lagosian sign
Some of the Consulate staff hired a boat to show Dad and me around. They lamented their lack of freedom — they have heavy restrictions on walking outside the compounds and driving after dark. Surprisingly, though, the Americans here seem to be more upbeat than the ones in Abuja. I put it down to the salt air and a constant need to cure their sea legs with margaritas from the community bar. (They drive to work in speedboats! I’m never letting that go.)
My favorite part of the ride was when we passed a huge Chinese ship. The crew, huddled around a fire eating lunch, grinned and waved their chopsticks at us.
Woke to a thunderstorm. I hadn’t quite believed the “when it rains, it floods” stories so it was exciting to see every insane detail proven before my eyes. However, although no street was spared, everything just shifted into Flood Mode and ambled along as usual. The Lagosians didn’t bat an eye. One by one I watched those in the street roll their trousers up above their knees, pick up their shoes, and walk on. Apparently some people make money by “guiding” you through deeply flooded areas — and then making you pay for assistance when you get stuck.
Atim’s job is to maintain cultural ties and foster a friendly atmosphere between the U.S. and Nigeria. While most of her colleagues deal with corruption, Atim is out exploring the spectrum of the African spirit and bringing it home. In her six years in this country she’s connected with intellectuals, artists, writers, singers, teachers, religious figures, and tribal leaders. Her deep love and respect for Nigerian heritage is infectious. As if her grace didn’t command respect already, the Oni of Ife made her a chief — a responsibility she takes very seriously. If you want to understand Nigeria’s true beauty you talk to Atim.
Today, she told me, we would be visiting the home of an acquaintance — Prince Yemisi Adedoyin Shyllon, an engineering tycoon, founder of an art foundation, and owner of the largest private collection of West African art. She said this very matter-of-factly, as if we were going on a hike.
What would a real Nigerian prince be like? Was he one of those arrogant oga-types, obsessed with spectacle and looking down on others? “Oga” culture is a huge factor in Nigerian society. In rural areas the title may just a symbol of respect, but the common perspective is that anyone wealthy enough to command the title in the city probably didn’t get that way honestly. It’s ogas who hire police to move people out of their way. Oga mansions on Abuja’s “Minister’s Hill” lord their wealth over those below (metaphorically and geographically) in what a senior diplomat once called “an exercise in Vegas-style barbarism.” The wealthiest Nigerian I had met was the landlord of one of our compounds, who’s condescending attitude had contrasted sharply with the sweet people I worked with. I didn’t want to stereotype, but I can’t deny I was wary.
The driveway seemed to confirm my fears. It was lined with sculptures of all kinds, encircling a lawn on which yet more sculptures were arranged — stone, iron, brass, wood; animals, people, spiritual entities; traditional and modern, realistic and surreal. Peacocks and Crown Cranes wandered freely among them. We passed a catfish pond, a cage of huge snails, and pens for geese, doves, water birds, and tortoises.
We were ushered into the Prince’s office, where he was shouting at someone.
He was tall and well-fed, wearing sneaker-sandals that clashed with his tailored white pants and shirt. He wore a gold watch and beamed over gold-rimmed spectacles as he rushed over to shake our hands. This room, too, was packed with art, which he talked about while Benny — a woman from our group — and I used the bathroom.
It was a workin’ man’s bathroom. The tiny space housed a filing cabinet, a shelf of Nigerian Law books, a stack of small paintings, and several award placards from the Society of Nigerian Artists. I began to suspect I had judged Prince Shyllon unfairly, something he proved over the next few hours.
Bouncing around with a mix of regal pride and friendliness (at one point joking with Benny, who kept calling him “chief” by accident, “I am a prince. If I wanted I could have you prostrated before me, eh?”), I felt him a bit odd but increasingly nice. He and his wife, Funmilayo (the art foundation’s VP, also dressed with a subtle gold theme), shared their mission to “reflect the dignity and creativity of our people throughout the world” and make African art a tool for preserving the indiginous heritage that is being lost in the face of globalization and modernization. Something for Africans to take pride in — not just for foreigners to look at in museums.
“They are tired of the Van Goghs of this world,” he said. “I’m sure the world is waiting for Africa to show its own pieces!”
You can check out his foundation at http://www.oyasaf.org
There is SO much razor wire in Abuja! It’s so much a part of daily life that people dry their clothes on it. Nigerians, foreigners, rich, middle class, compounds, markets, everyone hangs it everywhere. Like mistletoe at a Christmas party (dangerous, metallic mistletoe).
“There’s a lot of noise outside the gate.
“Must be some big Oga arriving,” Dad says. “If you’re really a big deal here you’ve got a motorcade and policemen to go in before you and clear all the ‘rif-raf’ out of the way.” I shrug off my uneasiness at the class-system for a moment to smile at the portraits of Barack and Hillary in the embassy lobby — right where the ones of Bush and Condy used to be. :)
Driving around with Housing supervisors Lance and Ngozi is a welcome chance to get out of the office. They and I spent many afternoons like this last summer, and they still have a photo of us at the entrance to their cubicle. On my return, they claimed me as their intern (back off, Travel section!) and I gave them more duty-free chocolate than everyone else.
I’m sweating, having dressed for the over-air-conditioned office not the mid-day sun, and relieved when we pull over at a kiosk not far from my house. It’s almost unnoticeable, stuffed into a hole in the wall and overhung by trees. A customer sips Mirinda — the local Fanta equivalent — on a bench out front. Our driver, Emmanuel, rolls down the window and he and Lance call back and forth with the proprietress. It’s a little like being at a drive-thru except you have to find out what’s in stock today before you order.
“Whatever’s cold,” Lance says. She has nothing cold in cans or plastic but eventually hands us glass bottles of coke, which we promise to return on our way back. She will turn them in to the bottling factory for a reimbursement. I chug mine gladly, despite having given soda up years ago. West Africa, East Africa, southern Africa — it makes no difference. No matter where or how far from everything else you go, there’s always someone sitting hopefully with a crate of coca-colas and a bottle opener. And the cost of these refreshing treasures? 40 cents.
While waiting for the others to finish an inspection, Emmanuel and I turn on the AC and talk. I ask him about the violence in Delta state. He nods knowingly and embarks on a long explanation of all things Nigerian. Touching on everything from the benefits of undocumented Ghanaian workers to government mistakes (with George Bush analogies), he concludes that “anyone who says to you that they know how this Delta thing began . . . they are not telling you the truth. Truly? No one knows.”
Traffic delays us on our way to an appointment. Nigerian roads are a major hazard, thanks to potholes and a combination of self-righteous laziness and anger, resulting in the absence of any kind of driving etiquette. (My dad has stopped signaling when he changes lanes, otherwise he’d get Carpel Tunnel or crash.) As our friend Bob said the other day,
“Sometimes the light works, sometimes not. Sometimes you have a policeman, sometimes you don’t. You constantly have to be on red alert.”
The windshield of a trundling Danfo (share-taxi) proclaims “God is My Safety,” which is good because those things don’t have seat-belts. Stretched out on one of the van’s bench-seats, camera off, I listen to the insistent honking and Ngozi’s funny stories about her nephew. On the way home I see a man bust a headlight on the car in front — the traffic moves forward and no one seems surprised.
In all this I find a strange, and persistent, peace.