Abuja, Nigeria. People warned me before going to Abuja, that this was not a “fun” destination. That it doesn’t feel like Africa. Thankfully, since this was my 6th trip over to Africa and 13th African country to visit, I didn’t feel a real need to see the “real" Africa. I felt ok having low expectations. I immediately recognized why others are not excited about assignments in Abuja. It is unlike any other African city I have been in. To me, however, it is fascinating and the amount of fascination and curiosity I have felt since arriving here has far exceeded those original expectations of what my experience would be like.
Abuja became the capitol of Nigeria in the early 90s and was meticulously designed to be the government and business center of the country. The former capitol – Lagos – to me represents an authentic capitol city. It became the capitol because it was the natural location for the centralization of power. Most capitols naturally become what they are. Few cities are created from scratch in order to become the capitol. This newness and specific purpose of Abuja, I feel, is what makes it feel so unnatural and unauthentic.
Also unlike other African cities, the government seems to intentionally prohibit all things Africa from existing so that it can more adequately replicate a developed and modern capitol. Abuja has by far the best infrastructure I have seen in Africa with smoothly paved highways, traffic lights that actually work, well maintained parks, little garbage, an operating sewage system (as far as I can tell), and very modern and relatively well maintained buildings. Buildings are very spread out giving the city fresh air, green space, and making it extremely vehicle dependent. There are limited numbers of people walking on the streets because, logistically, it just isn’t feasible to get where you need to go by walking. The scarcity of people on foot is another characteristic that distinguishes the city from others on the continent (or anywhere else for that matter).
Abuja seems to do a good job replicating a developed/modern city. Of course, the only people who can afford to live in the city itself are expatriates and wealthy businessmen and politicians (which usually implies corruption). The Nigerian people who flood the city during the workday commute at least 45 minutes to get to their “villages” outside of the ring road that encircles Abuja proper.
Lack of the average Nigerian person, both living and working in Abuja city, adds to the oddity and often eerie and quiet feeling of the capitol. To me Abuja seems in absolutely no way to be a city representative of its people. Enormous mansions are going up on the hillside of Maitama (where my project office is located). These mansions are being built by politicians who have multiple multi million dollar homes throughout the country. There is a reason why Nigeria rates scores 2.2 out of 10 on the Corruption Perception Index (Transparency International), only .4 points different than Iraq. I have seen the material evidence of corruption elsewhere, but nowhere is it made more obvious than in Abuja where the poor majority are literally pushed out of the city limits so that the wealthy can live in their comfortable façade of a peaceful and stable country.
I was baffled my first day in Abuja when I went mountain biking and within less than ¼ of a mile I went from government “lodges” to a Fulani village. After that, a friend commented that anywhere you are in Abuja, you are “15 minutes from Africa”. It is true. 15 minutes in any direction you go, the façade that is Abuja lifts and you see where the average Nigerian lives.
A driver of one of our projects in Abuja, Segun, took me to his “village” last weekend. I put village in quotation marks, because to me that brings a picture of a community in a rural area. However, here people refer to their settlements right outside of Abuja proper as villages. It took less than 15 minutes to feel a bit more like I was in the “real” Africa, and 30 minutes after that I was in Segun’s home. There children ran to greet me and he and his family cooked a traditional meal of pounded yam and egusi soup. Segun sat me down in small living area with a couch and two chairs and immediately pulled out his photo album for me to look at. I could have been in Kibera, Khayelitsa, or Gulu. A quick drive later I was back in the Protea Asokoro hotel with 8 people waiting on me at all times.
Yesterday Musa drove me to the airport so that I could fly down to Lagos. I was again amazed at the abrupt transition from Abuja to…outside Abuja. There is a huge gate and a fancy roundabout that signifies the entrance/exit to the city. Immediately after passing through it there were huts on the side of the road. The transition is immediate…it’s amazing.
Because it is new, unnatural, and consciously strives not to be African, Abuja is not a desired destination for anyone wanting to feel the liveliness and culture of the continent. However, in my opinion, it is one of the most interesting places I have ever been and I would love to stay longer if only to understand how and why it exists and for whom. Intentionally un-African, Abuja is supposed to be the city which represents 140 million Nigerians. Few of the Nigerians can afford to live in the city, let alone commute all the way in for the few jobs available. Anything African that sprouts up on the empty land that fills Abuja, i.e. a typical vegetable stand or “hoteli” (small restaurant as people call it in Kenya), is almost immediately bulldozed. I went to a Bush Bar in Abuja with a few friends. It is literally an entrepreneur who has a portable grill and plastic tables and chairs that can easily be moved arranged into an outdoor restaurant. It is done like this so that when the government comes to get rid of it, as it is too African, the owner simply packs up the materials and moves to another uninhabited patch of land in the city.
A Capitol city that tries to be anything but reflective of the people and country it represents…the eeriness of the emptiness…the deserted streets at night after the vast majority have returned to their villages…the unnatural origin and growth…the blatantly obvious embezzlement of all of the country’s wealth…leaves me with an intrigued sense that there is…there must be…more boiling just beneath the surface than what many care to realize. I don’t think I’d be the only one to say that it feels quite possible that this place could be one of the next to erupt. No matter how the government tries, I do not see how it will be able to maintain its façade with the “real” Africa, with 140 million citizens full of culture and passion for change, a mere 15 minutes away.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Saturday, January 26, 2008
Coffee from Kenya to Nigeria
Anyone who knows me well knows that one of the things I enjoy most in life is a good cup of coffee. The comfort in holding a warm mug with both hands, the soothing sense as it warms me up from the outside in and inside out. I look forward to my coffee everyday no matter where I am, but I don’t think I really learned the depth of my love until I began traveling in Africa, where a good cup of coffee has been, more often than not, a luxury and... a refuge.
In Kenya, despite the fact that the country produces some of the world’s best coffee, a typical cup of coffee for me was whole milk (often directly from the cow outside my door) and Nescafe. Nescafe is a coffee powder you mix into your milk and, to me, is like swallowing dirt. In Kenya I learned to despise Nescafe.
To this day my 5 months in Kenya remain the most life changing. I don’t know if I will ever have it in me again to live in such impoverished conditions or so deeply experience the disparities that exist in this world. Sometimes it would be so challenging I would cry, while other times I would shut down completely. Occassionaly I needed to escape, if only for a moment, and find refuge in something familiar. A nearby restaurant/coffee shop was my only external place of refuge during those months. My girlfriends and I would gather around a table with our fresh, high quality, cups of Kenyan coffee and process. I had to walk 45 minutes through the slum to get there, but I am pretty sure I would have climbed a mountain to get to that warm mug. With my girlfriends or with my journal, that cup of coffee would either bring me back down to earth if I felt a total loss of control, or it would lift my spirits up away from the realities that were sometimes too much to bear.
After a whirlwind of change in my life, a good cup of coffee in South Africa would remind me that no matter how much transforms into the unknown, some things will always be a constant. Without a coffee maker in the house, Nescafe was again the only type of coffee readily available. Thankfully, I can smell good coffee from a mile away and it did not take long for me to find the nearby coffee shops.
In South Africa I learned how to accept living in a more comfortable environment again and recognized that I could do so and still be of service. It was, perhaps, in South Africa that I learned that if I really wanted to make a difference I need to also take care of myself, and I probably need to live with certain comforts in order to do so. Kenya was an experience of digging up truths, unknowns, fears, realities, disparities, etc. South Africa was an experience of learning how to live with what had come to the surface constructively. The battles I fought in my mind while trying to find this balance were sometimes so difficult I did not want to get out of bed. A strong cup of coffee frequently pulled at my senses and motivated me to grab my journal and walk down the street to the restaurant that served my favorite cup. Coffee in hand, I filled pages with my thoughts and had some of the most meaningful conversations. In not much time at all many of the memories from those months faded away, but moments in the coffee shop remain vivid. Those memories remind me that no matter how much change or how difficult it is to balance change, if I take it upon myself to search for it – I can find a good cup of coffee and my notebook and pen will be there to help me get through the hard times.
In Kenya and South Africa I learned the issues, the theory, the needs, and the language of development. I also learned that I would go to extreme measures to find a sense of peace in a cup of coffee.
In Uganda I learned how to work in international development at a grassroots organizational level. I had volunteered before, taught, planted, built etc., but I had never learned how to lead, manage, and address the structural challenges of an organization. In Gulu I would drink the oh so delicious Nescafe on the balcony of the hotel and think about my next step whether it was how to engage the students I was leading, how to appropriately express my frustrations with the organization I was working for, or how to restart a community based program with very little support and even less experience to draw from. More than once, my first stop when I returned to Kampala from the north was... the coffee shop. There I would sit and write for hours and go through multiple cups and kinds of coffee. I would write emails home, blog entries, work plans, reports, and recommendations on what needed to be done within the organization. In Uganda I learned how to sit in coffee shops for days on end and well into the night in order to really flesh out the situation, articulate problems and try to identify solutions. In Uganda, I relied on coffee to keep me going. I didn’t have to work quite as hard to get it, but without it I am not sure what I would have done.
Nearly 5 years since my first trip to Africa, I write now from my hotel room in Nigeria with an empty pot of coffee next to my computer. In Kenya I had to push through garbage and begging children to get to my cup of coffee. Here, in Abuja, I can have it delivered to my room. An observer of my past 5 years may look at me sitting in this fancy hotel room with a queen size bed and wireless internet and think "success". I worked my way from the bottom up. I do feel I have made significant progress in my career in international development and I am privileged to have this job. I have a cup of coffee when I wake up in the morning, I have freshly brewed cups of coffee all day at the office and, if I wanted, I could drink it up until I go to bed.
Here I sit, with my coffee, looking out my window into the darkness of Abuja – the city where I have experienced what it might be like to live abroad as an expatriate. Beautiful apartments in gated compounds with swimming pools, live-in cooks and cleaners, drivers to take you from here to there, and (as far as I have seen) limited interaction with Nigerians who do not have money or connections (that is a very limited judgment, but a judgment nonetheless). Of course, you have to be safe and there aren’t too many ways to do that. Of course, if I were to live abroad long term I would want to be comfortable too. Of course, if I lived here I would meet and hang out with fellow expatriates.
However, as I look out the window I can feel something pulling me from beyond the city limits. I close my eyes and imagine that I am sitting under the stars in Takaungu...helping my homestay mother pick coffee beans on the hillside...talking about HIV/AIDS with children in a rural school... I am grateful for this experience and I love that I can drink cup upon cup of coffee – which is especially comforting on a Saturday night all alone in my hotel. But I know what I already knew…as much as I love my coffee…I enjoy it more when it is my refuge...I want to have to work harder and walk farther to get to that luxury.
In Kenya, despite the fact that the country produces some of the world’s best coffee, a typical cup of coffee for me was whole milk (often directly from the cow outside my door) and Nescafe. Nescafe is a coffee powder you mix into your milk and, to me, is like swallowing dirt. In Kenya I learned to despise Nescafe.
To this day my 5 months in Kenya remain the most life changing. I don’t know if I will ever have it in me again to live in such impoverished conditions or so deeply experience the disparities that exist in this world. Sometimes it would be so challenging I would cry, while other times I would shut down completely. Occassionaly I needed to escape, if only for a moment, and find refuge in something familiar. A nearby restaurant/coffee shop was my only external place of refuge during those months. My girlfriends and I would gather around a table with our fresh, high quality, cups of Kenyan coffee and process. I had to walk 45 minutes through the slum to get there, but I am pretty sure I would have climbed a mountain to get to that warm mug. With my girlfriends or with my journal, that cup of coffee would either bring me back down to earth if I felt a total loss of control, or it would lift my spirits up away from the realities that were sometimes too much to bear.
After a whirlwind of change in my life, a good cup of coffee in South Africa would remind me that no matter how much transforms into the unknown, some things will always be a constant. Without a coffee maker in the house, Nescafe was again the only type of coffee readily available. Thankfully, I can smell good coffee from a mile away and it did not take long for me to find the nearby coffee shops.
In South Africa I learned how to accept living in a more comfortable environment again and recognized that I could do so and still be of service. It was, perhaps, in South Africa that I learned that if I really wanted to make a difference I need to also take care of myself, and I probably need to live with certain comforts in order to do so. Kenya was an experience of digging up truths, unknowns, fears, realities, disparities, etc. South Africa was an experience of learning how to live with what had come to the surface constructively. The battles I fought in my mind while trying to find this balance were sometimes so difficult I did not want to get out of bed. A strong cup of coffee frequently pulled at my senses and motivated me to grab my journal and walk down the street to the restaurant that served my favorite cup. Coffee in hand, I filled pages with my thoughts and had some of the most meaningful conversations. In not much time at all many of the memories from those months faded away, but moments in the coffee shop remain vivid. Those memories remind me that no matter how much change or how difficult it is to balance change, if I take it upon myself to search for it – I can find a good cup of coffee and my notebook and pen will be there to help me get through the hard times.
In Kenya and South Africa I learned the issues, the theory, the needs, and the language of development. I also learned that I would go to extreme measures to find a sense of peace in a cup of coffee.
In Uganda I learned how to work in international development at a grassroots organizational level. I had volunteered before, taught, planted, built etc., but I had never learned how to lead, manage, and address the structural challenges of an organization. In Gulu I would drink the oh so delicious Nescafe on the balcony of the hotel and think about my next step whether it was how to engage the students I was leading, how to appropriately express my frustrations with the organization I was working for, or how to restart a community based program with very little support and even less experience to draw from. More than once, my first stop when I returned to Kampala from the north was... the coffee shop. There I would sit and write for hours and go through multiple cups and kinds of coffee. I would write emails home, blog entries, work plans, reports, and recommendations on what needed to be done within the organization. In Uganda I learned how to sit in coffee shops for days on end and well into the night in order to really flesh out the situation, articulate problems and try to identify solutions. In Uganda, I relied on coffee to keep me going. I didn’t have to work quite as hard to get it, but without it I am not sure what I would have done.
Nearly 5 years since my first trip to Africa, I write now from my hotel room in Nigeria with an empty pot of coffee next to my computer. In Kenya I had to push through garbage and begging children to get to my cup of coffee. Here, in Abuja, I can have it delivered to my room. An observer of my past 5 years may look at me sitting in this fancy hotel room with a queen size bed and wireless internet and think "success". I worked my way from the bottom up. I do feel I have made significant progress in my career in international development and I am privileged to have this job. I have a cup of coffee when I wake up in the morning, I have freshly brewed cups of coffee all day at the office and, if I wanted, I could drink it up until I go to bed.
Here I sit, with my coffee, looking out my window into the darkness of Abuja – the city where I have experienced what it might be like to live abroad as an expatriate. Beautiful apartments in gated compounds with swimming pools, live-in cooks and cleaners, drivers to take you from here to there, and (as far as I have seen) limited interaction with Nigerians who do not have money or connections (that is a very limited judgment, but a judgment nonetheless). Of course, you have to be safe and there aren’t too many ways to do that. Of course, if I were to live abroad long term I would want to be comfortable too. Of course, if I lived here I would meet and hang out with fellow expatriates.
However, as I look out the window I can feel something pulling me from beyond the city limits. I close my eyes and imagine that I am sitting under the stars in Takaungu...helping my homestay mother pick coffee beans on the hillside...talking about HIV/AIDS with children in a rural school... I am grateful for this experience and I love that I can drink cup upon cup of coffee – which is especially comforting on a Saturday night all alone in my hotel. But I know what I already knew…as much as I love my coffee…I enjoy it more when it is my refuge...I want to have to work harder and walk farther to get to that luxury.
Prayer in the Parking Lot
In today’s reading from "Mediations from the Mat", they talk about Abhyasa, or practice, and how it "is really about making something a priority".
I haven’t been able to focus on my yoga practice as much as I would like to recently. The 3 weeks leading up to my trip in Nigeria were busy and I rarely found the time, or made the time, to get on my mat and practice, not even to just sit and meditate for 5 minutes.
Yesterday on my drive back to the hotel from the office I quietly observed the city. Huge, modern buildings spread out with large highways cutting through. Abuja- plenty of wide open space, relatively clean, but feeling very much like a dust covered illusion. Like someone pulled a screen down over Africa and painted a picture of an attempted replication of an American city in the desert.
Driving by Millenium park, I noticed that in the large, mostly empty, awkward looking parking lot, a man had taken out his prayer mat and was bowed down towards Mecca. I guess it made sense to pull over there, but I can’t begin to explain how unique and uncharacteristic of the environment it seemed.
Dedication.
Whatever the circumstance, no matter how out of place or how surrounded by illusions, I hope that I will someday be able to prioritize Abhyasa like that. The dedication that I saw in that man is something I have found to be quite common during my past 5 years of traveling in Africa. I remember looking out at the shore as I rode down the Nile in Egypt and watching as people stopped what they were doing to pray.
It's simple, beautiful and a profound statement of faith. I think it stands out so dramatically to me here because I do not see it very often back at home.
It's a pretty drastic thing to say, but I think that our culture in America has instilled some kind of fear in outwardly prioritizing and demonstrating faith. It is obvious that faith has been taken to negative extremes in today's world, but perhaps hiding faith and the inhibition of Abhyasa has also been taken to the extreme...
It doesn’t matter the place, time, or God…we should all be able to take out our mat and remember what it is all really about. I have a lot to learn from that man in the parking lot.
I haven’t been able to focus on my yoga practice as much as I would like to recently. The 3 weeks leading up to my trip in Nigeria were busy and I rarely found the time, or made the time, to get on my mat and practice, not even to just sit and meditate for 5 minutes.
Yesterday on my drive back to the hotel from the office I quietly observed the city. Huge, modern buildings spread out with large highways cutting through. Abuja- plenty of wide open space, relatively clean, but feeling very much like a dust covered illusion. Like someone pulled a screen down over Africa and painted a picture of an attempted replication of an American city in the desert.
Driving by Millenium park, I noticed that in the large, mostly empty, awkward looking parking lot, a man had taken out his prayer mat and was bowed down towards Mecca. I guess it made sense to pull over there, but I can’t begin to explain how unique and uncharacteristic of the environment it seemed.
Dedication.
Whatever the circumstance, no matter how out of place or how surrounded by illusions, I hope that I will someday be able to prioritize Abhyasa like that. The dedication that I saw in that man is something I have found to be quite common during my past 5 years of traveling in Africa. I remember looking out at the shore as I rode down the Nile in Egypt and watching as people stopped what they were doing to pray.
It's simple, beautiful and a profound statement of faith. I think it stands out so dramatically to me here because I do not see it very often back at home.
It's a pretty drastic thing to say, but I think that our culture in America has instilled some kind of fear in outwardly prioritizing and demonstrating faith. It is obvious that faith has been taken to negative extremes in today's world, but perhaps hiding faith and the inhibition of Abhyasa has also been taken to the extreme...
It doesn’t matter the place, time, or God…we should all be able to take out our mat and remember what it is all really about. I have a lot to learn from that man in the parking lot.
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
"The Bush"
My operations manager is as intense as I expected, but I didn’t anticipate how hard core she would be outside of the office! First day in Abuja and she had me mountain biking. It was an absolute blast and an excellent way to start my three weeks in the country. 3 guys and the two of us hit the road beginning in a wealthy neighborhood where the Governors (big guys in Nigeria) have their "lodges" aka mini palaces. One minute we were next to these villas and then we quickly hit a hill and the next minute we were literally in the bush. Some people here say that anywhere you are in Abuja, you are 15 minutes away from Africa, and it's true.
Muddy, dusty, dry, wet, chickens, rocks, ridges, the whole 9 yards – it was a challenging ride. We road through Fulani (nomadic tribe) villages. The "huts" here are completely different than those in East Arica. They look like mini grass domes. "Obiyo,"(or something like that!) children would scream after us, many of them chasing and trying to get high fives. I attempted to give high fives, but found that even after an hour on the trail I was still not quite ready to let go of my death grip of the handle bars. Therefore, the young girls decided to smack my butt as I rode by. I’m very thankful I didn’t run any little Fulani children over, though it was close. I only almost ate it once and we only got off once to trudge through a swamp.
At one point we stopped on a hillside overlooking a field and a small group of huts in the distance and I thought…ya know I could get used to this, or at least I understand how so many others get used to it and never want to go back.
Muddy, dusty, dry, wet, chickens, rocks, ridges, the whole 9 yards – it was a challenging ride. We road through Fulani (nomadic tribe) villages. The "huts" here are completely different than those in East Arica. They look like mini grass domes. "Obiyo,"(or something like that!) children would scream after us, many of them chasing and trying to get high fives. I attempted to give high fives, but found that even after an hour on the trail I was still not quite ready to let go of my death grip of the handle bars. Therefore, the young girls decided to smack my butt as I rode by. I’m very thankful I didn’t run any little Fulani children over, though it was close. I only almost ate it once and we only got off once to trudge through a swamp.
At one point we stopped on a hillside overlooking a field and a small group of huts in the distance and I thought…ya know I could get used to this, or at least I understand how so many others get used to it and never want to go back.
Monday, January 21, 2008
Welcome to Nigeria!
Mohamed handed me his business card towards the end of our flight and said that if I ever needed anything or stopped in Rome to please give him a call. Director of IFAD Africa (IFAD being a donor organization financing agricultural development projects), I had a feeling that I would make use of this offer. I did not realize that I would need him 30 minutes later!
First one off of the plane I was thrilled to be the very first person at the immigration desk. I approached the two immigration officers behind their plastic window with a smile on my face ready to get through quickly, grab my luggage and get to my hotel where I could make up for 2 days of no sleep. "Ahhh Miss Spencer, for how long are you staying in Nigeria?"
"Three weeks"
"And why is that?"
"For work," I responded, figuring that was a normal question and a truthful response.
"Well then Miss Spencer, may I please see your work permit?"
A bit caught off guard, "Oh, I have a business visa".
The officer looked at me with no trace of the smile he had when I first approached him, "So now you are lying to me?"
"What?"
"You told me you were here for work and now you are trying to change what you said and tell me that you are here for business?!"
I am completely dumbfounded and attempt to explain that I must not have understood his question properly; I thought that work and business meant the same thing.
"Do you realize that you are talking to a Nigerian Immigration Officer Miss Spencer?"
He started getting angry and I continued to explain why I was entering (or at least hoping to enter) Nigeria.
Suddenly he called over Idi Amin’s twin separated at birth who brought me to the side and continued to drill me. A bit too close for comfort. Why had I lied about entering? Where was my letter of invitation etc. etc. I had no more answers for him and started imagining what a Nigerian jail cell might look like and/or how much money I was going to have to hand over to get into the country.
Thankfully, Mohamed and his colleagues came through immigration without trouble a bit after and saw me in my little predicament. Actually, by the time they came through we were causing a scene. Long story short they convinced the officer that I was with them and smooth talked me out of the situation. They were all smiles and had the officer laughing by the time we walked away. Thank God for the diplomats you meet when you get to sit in business class. A bit scatter brained and slightly shaken up the three men made sure I got my luggage and found my ride. Welcome to Nigeria!
Musa, one of the PrOpCom (my project) drivers was waiting for me with a sign. He led me out to the car and pointed to a truck with flashing lights and a group of 6 or so guys, a few holding AK 47s and casually said that they would be escorting us. Because I have worked on the project in DC, I knew that because the road from the airport into town isn’t the safest we always hire an armed escort for that drive at night. However, after my first interaction on Nigerian soil with the ever so kind immigration officer, being greeted by my AK-47 armed escorts was a little unnerving.
They followed behind, lights flashing, sirens on for the full 45 minute drive. I felt like I should have been the president. The enormous highways felt strangely deserted, but occasionally groups of young people would run across the street (despite the fact that we were FLYING towards them). Driving into Abuja I recognized the characteristics that have led others to describe it as "an illusion," "an artificial city," "not like Africa," etc. I would describe my drive in and my delirious first impression of Abuja as simply eerie. Sirens a blazing I showed up to my incredibly nice, but nearly empty hotel. Better safe than sorry, but man did I feel silly.
An exciting 3 hour introduction to Nigeria it has already been a very new experience of traveling in Africa.
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