Surprised by Joy

 

Joy was a stranger to me for many years. So much so that I could not find it in myself to read about or celebrate with others in their joy. I am not talking of happiness or any pleasurable occasion. I speak of those very intimate moments when your soul sings upon grasping a sight or action that is out of our control.  They are fleeting and a total surprise. And they sometimes go unnoticed.  

My first recognizable surge of joy came one fall afternoon in small town Minnesota. I had recently moved from the big city of Rio to a rural town of under 300 residents. I was coming to terms with being a stay-at-home mom and experiencing the fall season for the first time.  I would take my sons for a short walk to the post office, walking down the middle of a tree lined street and jumping into piles of leaves. It suddenly struck me.... how lucky I was to be able to enjoy that moment! Joy! 

Some 20 years later I experienced that same feeling of good fortune, being especially selected to experience something good. I had taken off on a solitary walk through the woods of northern Minnesota to enjoy being in nature. A rustling in the undergrowth caught my attention just as a small fawn bounded onto the path just inches from where I stood. As I was still contemplating its beauty and grace, I heard signs of something else approaching the path through the dense foliage. I turned in time to come face to face with a large timber wolf. It took my breath away! Later, when I was describing this encounter with a stranger at the camp ground, she said, "Don't you feel like some higher power just gave you a gift?!" Joy!

I must point out that my joy is not gratitude or thankfulness. I never asked for, anticipated or worked towards these moments. They are unexpected gifts which trigger a joyous surprise.

I look back now on my life (yes, I am getting to that age), and see these moments of joy like shining lights through my memories: not being able to hold back the tears while my future husband sang to me on my wedding day; kissing my beautiful newborn son just minutes after he arrived;  finding my 3 year old who had been lost in a crowd on a dark winter's night; receiving a handwritten love poem from another son; walking through my garden to find a sprout I had not planted; floating above a full size manta ray just off a coral reef;  hearing music created by my sons; sitting down to a English pub lunch with family; night swimming and sailing in phosphorescent water;  dolphins; spring in London's Kew Gardens;  watching red and green macaws fly past the car window in traffic; harvesting wild grape for jam; wandering the streets of a European old town and discovering a cathedral choir singing.

Have I used up my allotment of moments of joy? Can I expect more to come my way? Who knows when some good fortune will come my way again? Should I be content with my life so far? I've had a good life... is it greedy to want more joy? 

It is best not to dwell on it, best not to let anticipation dampen enthusiasm with disappointment. But I will let joy surprise me, and I will not let it go unnoticed.  

Too Late!

I have never missed a plane before: never got caught in traffic on the way to the airport; never forgotten tickets or passports at home; never been blind-sided by an unknown visa requirement or passport stamp. When it comes to travel I do my homework and do the necessary far in advance.

Summer travel is particularly challenging. There is much to be packed into a short time: phones, transport and accommodation, along side doctor and dental appointments. And summer in Minnesota has much to offer. There are people to visit with, flowers to smell, backyard barbecues and fireside chats. I have to remind myself to take time on the boat, in water and in the woods. I don't want to miss time with the little ones, or quiet moments in nature.  Will the highlights of the summer be my ability to schedule appointments, or finding all the shopping items on my list? Or will it be the wolf who silently stared me down in woods?

My theory has always been of taking care of business early in the summer, check off all the boxes on the list, so the final days can be relaxed and carefree. But at some point I have to get on a plane with all my luggage and fly off into the unknown. I tried to make the whole process more streamlined by booking COVID tests far ahead, checking on baggage restrictions and visa issues. When it came time to board the plane I just needed to upload my negative COVID test result onto the Nigerian travel portal and pay a fee. I planned to get it all done the day before and sleep easy one last night before boarding.

The chatty nurse who swabbed my nose for the necessary PCR test was sure the results would be available the day before we traveled, but continued to tell a cautionary tale of another traveller who had to reschedule her flights due to her not leaving enough time between the test and the flight.  Mentally I disregarded the warning with an unkind thought that it served them right for going on a safari during a pandemic.  I only started to worry about my test results coming through the night before.

I checked my email hourly throughout the night. Then got up and checked the medical website for test results. Nothing. I emailed my employer and travel agent. They told me to phone the lab. By the early light of dawn, I had called every phone number associated with the lab and testing facility, but only got automated messages: "Results are pending." For how long no one could tell me.

We decided to drive to the airport in the hope that the results would come through on our phones any minute.  The travel agent was in favor of cancelling the flight till a later date. We sat curbside at the airport and checked for results one more time before realizing that we would not make the flight.  It was out of our control. We now had to think of how we could get another flight on a date when  COVID test results could be guaranteed.  We could be prevented from boarding an international flight for not having a test result as well as having been tested too early. 48 hours was too late; 72 hours was too early. Other travelers were quick to point out that I had left it too late to test, but it seems to me like just bad luck.

We drove home again with all our luggage, stopping for a large breakfast on the way to boost our spirits. The travel agent started working on finding us new flights, and Jon started contacting differing testing venues.  I took a nap. We now have two itineraries: one earlier flight and one two days later, depending on when our new test results come through.  Oh! how international travel has changed. No longer can we sleep easy the night before, taking for granted that all it will take the next day is to show up at the airport on time with your passport. 

Philly for the Uninitiated

 

“Tell me and I forget, teach me and I may remember, involve me and I learn.”
Ben Franklin

A quick tour round Philadelphia brought my attention to that which I had forgotten about the history of this place. My HS text books and movies such as "Rocky" and "National Treasure" didn't really teach me enough to answer some questions that arose on this recent trip to the City of Brotherly Love. 

• Why does the airport Starbucks sell New Jersey mugs if Philadelphia is in PA?
• Who was the King of Prussia and how does he fit into Philadelphia history?
• Why is the Rocky statue at the bottom of the steps?
• What truth is there is the Valley Forge historic hardships?
• What river runs through Philly?
• What is the difference between a cheesesteak and a hoagie?

So this I have learned in the last three days...

Philadelphia airport lies closer to New Jersey (just across the river Delaware) than the city of Philly. And the scenic river that runs through the city is the Schuylkill , which is surprisingly a Dutch name and not a the original Delaware name.

King of Prussia is a large suburb of Philadelphia and is named after a pub. The pub owners wanted to honor the king who supported the American fight for independence and generously sent Barons to train George Washington's troops. These Prussians are not to be confused with the German Hessian troops that fought with the British in the American Revolution.

I was surprised to learn that most of the story of the hardships of Washington's army at Valley Forge are myth. The site was actually a strategically located fort which could support a large city within reach of the British forces and was easily defensible. There were some losses during the 6 month stay, but most deaths were from disease and not starvation or cold. In actual fact, the soldiers were allowed a ration of 1/2 pound of beef a day. Some soldiers were deemed unfit for duty due to lack of clothing, but were easily replaced by well-equipped units. But the romantic tale of Valley Forge is how we want to remember the suffering, yet heroic troops.



I was also surprised not to find the Rocky statue at the top of the famous museum steps featured in the movies, but in fact it hasn't been there since the 1980's. The Art Museum didn't dignify the statue as art and had it moved off site. It wasn't until 2006 that Stallone asked for the statue to be moved back to a location nearby the steps. That is where I found it, near the base of the steps where everyone likes to stop for a selfie before pretending to run up the stairs and dance at the top.

There is still much to learn. However my short time here will not allow an in depth look at Philly culture and history. There are more streets to wander and more treats to taste. I do know that the Philly Cheesesteak we ordered was authentic, and it is not a hoagie. Hoagies are cold sandwiches, and we waited for over 30 minutes for our sandwich. Unlike French fries, the cheesesteak origins can be traced back to a hot dog vendor in Philadelphia who introduced the beef into a bun. 

On a side note, a Philly resident made our tour slightly more confusing by yelling out tourist information to us as he pedaled by on his bike. He buzzed by us three times with various directions to must-see sights, but we had not idea what he was referring to. 

Where do you drink?

 

Certain beverages have left an indelible mark in my memory.  We all have those signature drinks that remind us of special occasions or places.  A simple suggestion of the place brings back memories of the taste, and each sip takes me back to the place.

I began drinking Boldo do Chile in Brazil. No one else in my family understood my liking for the herbal tea that tasted quite sharp and medicinal. I think I was the age where I wanted to be different, break  away from the norms. So I took the tea bags to college, which shocked my UK classmates. It made be feel daring, exotic and strangely unique.

I grew up on good Brazilian coffee... all day long: strong and dark and freshly brewed.  My first job overseas in Bulgaria brought with it the challenge of finding a good cup of coffee. Locals drank strong Turkish coffee out of small paper cups, but it just wasn't the same.  In addition, there was no ground coffee available, only the beans. I remember finally tracking down a small handheld nut grinder and slicing my fingers open while attempting to grind some beans. 

Since then I have become accustomed to coffee of all strengths and roasts, as long as it is black and sugarless. I still grind my own beans if I can, but if you ask me where I've tasted the best coffee, I'll say, "in my pajamas on a lazy Saturday morning."

I discovered Retsina in Greece. In my mind there is no better wine, but then maybe I am confusing its earthy pine flavor with the pleasures of a seaside taverna. And the way the light fresh wine complemented the salad and bread after a relaxing day in the sun, might also have influenced my fond memory. 

The same goes for my homemade mulled wine. It is really just red wine with lemon and apple juice. But it conjures up memories of Christmases around the world: in Rio, on the streets of London, by an open fire in Minnesota. 

The pairing of mulled wine and mince pies goes back centuries, and I find if difficult to think of one without the other. On one memorable Christmas, the British Embassy of Sofia held a carol service and, in true English tradition, we sang old tunes and smelled the mince pies baking in the ovens. After the mulled wine had been distributed, people milled about, children underfoot, like an old movie. 

Another of my favorites will always take me back to Kwajalein, in the Marshall Islands. Happy Hour there was on Saturday at 5:00 pm at the old 'Snake Pit'.  After a week of classes, the teachers would gather on the rocky beach to watch the sun go down and drink gin & tonics. 

As I taught there for 8 years, that should add up to a lot of G&T's. However, the ongoing joke was the haphazard arrival of supplies such as gin and tonic. The island would go months without gin, then as soon as the barge came in, tonic would disappear from the shelves. And as most people will know, there is just no substitutes for either gin or tonic. 

I always marvel when I arrive at a new place, order a G&T, and it is actually served up. I am encountering the same difficulty now in Nigeria.  Such items as milk, juice and tonic are hard to come by, and people tend to hoard when a case is available.  I've started experimenting with other mixers, but secretly long for that bitter quinine taste.

And there are those drinks that just cannot be taken away from their origins. The beverage is a 'one-and-done' sort of experience. There is no replicating the memory in another location.

The dry country of Kuwait drove some people to brew their own wine and beer. But my first taste of a cool mint lemonade in the heat of the desert made me realize that there are better things than alcohol when you feel you're melting.  I have tried to replicate this deliciously cool drink, but without success; mainly because I rarely have that much mint and blender on hand. So I will file the taste away in my memories of delicious moments and, who knows, I may encounter it on other travels, in another place. And it will be a pleasant surprise.

I have not yet found a truly African drink that I can take away with me. Smoothies are seasonal, the weather and food are too hot for cocktails, and I'm just not a bush bar beer drinker. I am noticing a predominance of ginger flavored drinks, but I reach my ginger limit quite quickly.  I'll have to let you know when I find that drink that will remind me forevermore, of Africa.

Shopping 4U

 

Weekly shopping trips happen on Tuesday evenings, with a bus provided for a limited number of staff going to one of the acceptable supermarkets in Abuja. My early experiences were very educational, as I learned what I could get, where to find it, and how often it might be available. I really couldn't think past, "Does anyone know where to buy foil?" 

Now I am more accepting of the produce I find and can sit back and reflect on the experience of shopping in Abuja. First, we pick up an armed guard with an AK-47 and wearing camo.  He rides shotgun (literally) to provide a deterrent to kidnappers. One bus forgot to pick up their body guard, and we all got an earful from the angry security officer. 

We unload at the store and mask up. Depending on the store, and the week, we might find milk and cheese, and I am tempted to hoard when I see tonic water. However, I am going to have to carry everything I buy and so I don't go crazy.  Many cans and packages look like they came from the UK 5 years ago.  I have bought some real mistakes, like pounded yam powder and frozen fish sticks. But I have also learned how where to find decent coffee and crackers. Our diet is quite simple, and I can always find chicken, eggs and bread.

4U is one of our regular stores, and it has a great deli for fresh hummus and olives. Before entering I visit the food van parked out front to order a shawarma or Chinese to go. I avoid making eye contact with the fruit and nut vendors. These men and women hang around the parking area with the season's fruit piled into their head pans. The men carry oranges and bananas, the women have  avocado, where the little girls always carry nuts. Once I made the mistake of asking one the price of a hand of bananas. A large group immediately surrounded me, hounding me to buy their produce. Things got out of hand when produce started falling from over head and landing on me.

I learned to make it to the safety of the bus before asking for bananas. It is easier to negotiate a price when you are able to get away. One of my colleagues believes in doing her good deeds each week by giving out 1000 Naira notes as gifts. You can imagine the scene like t-shirts being fired from a cannon. The crowd goes wild. 

Most of what I have seen of this country is from the bus window on our weekly shopping trip. I window shop the huge variety of plants for sale along the side of the road. I wish we could stop and I could buy some, but then again, where would I put them? I enjoy the flame trees that blaze with orange red flowers all over town.  I try to take pictures of all the hawkers selling cheap goods through car windows. I understand why I am discouraged from taking a taxi when we pass a car so dilapidated and loud it hardly runs. Still, 6 passengers will pile in, often fighting off others for a seat. The tuk tuks (known as keke here) are fun to watch, but strictly not for expats. Riding one of those you would be just asking to be robbed.

I do appreciate a talkative Uber driver. They can explain some oddities on the side of the road. Like why men sit on upturned wheelbarrows by the side of the road. Apparently they are waiting to be hired for the day (although I still don't understand why I see them sitting there in the evenings); and why we suddenly encounter oncoming traffic on our right of way. 

Other scenes need no explanation.  I am amazed that a women can urinate on the side of the road without undressing, squatting down or dislodging the load she is balancing on her head. Remarkable and shameless.  On the whole most Abujans dress much better than us expats. It is rare to see a woman without a wig or elaborate hairstyle, dressed to the nines in sequins and ruffles. The men, also, would never go out dirty or in jeans. 

A combination of COVID and safety measures have severely restricted my movements around this country; down to one shopping trip a week. I heard one other staff member declare that if next year is the same, then she's not coming back. But I wonder if life was any different before COVID. Did expats travel down to Lagos for the weekend? Did they go out camping or hiking in the bush? I am sorry to say that my life will probably not change that much as an expat in Abuja in the future.  And now I look back on my childhood and days as a young expat wife with amazement. No, traveling in Nigeria will never be like that again.

My African Garden

 

My initial thought was to write a professional blog on the process of starting a community garden on the grounds of my international school in Abuja, Nigeria. However, after more reflection, I realized that my experience has more to do with African culture, than with international teaching.  

I saw no reason not to try planting a garden. I knew colleagues already had their own container gardens on verandas, and as soon as the rainy season started in earnest, I wouldn't even have to worry about watering. The school already had some beds prepared, although they needed some work. Termites had eaten away the wooden border, and quack grass had lodged itself into the hardened red dirt. But this wasn't to be my private garden.  When another staff member showed some interest we started to make a plan. Who else was interested? Could we have students involved in the garden throughout the school?

I was surprised at the lack of positive response from the staff,  who were quick to point out the problems: it had been tried before and abandoned; no one took charge of weeding and watering; there is too much sun; there are no seeds available here and you are prohibited from bringing them into the country from abroad.  I had enlisted a team of high school students to help as part of their Design class, but I had not anticipated the lack of enthusiasm and support. The way I saw it, the fact that the school employs a small army of grounds keepers and gardeners who are hardly overworked, and the abundance of sunshine, were pluses when it comes to growing vegetables and flowers. And to make a point about the needed seeds, I planted some beans and popcorn from the supermarket.   I still believed I could make a go of it and started collecting scraps for compost.

But I still need the administration's permission and blessing. It turned out that the compost was my downfall. The Head of School called it smelly, and the HS principal assured me that it would attract rats. My plans were put on hold because they didn't fit in with the vision of the school. What that really meant was: it didn't fit with the HOS's vision of the gardens of Versailles.  He asked for a bigger plot with more beds for showy flowers like roses and pansies.  It was unfortunate that the new location stood mostly in shade.  The Design students and I came up with a new plan but had difficulty generating genuine enthusiasm for a project that had suddenly come under someone else's command.

Under new command, the garden plans moved quickly. The cement truck is coming next week, and our HOS will choose the plants himself before we break for the summer. Meanwhile, I turned my attention back to my original project: weeded and hoed the beds, mended a very leaky hose, and planted some seeds I had taken out of a local pumpkin.  I was fortunate that my planting coincided with the start of the rains, and my pumpkins are looking healthy. Far from being a community garden, it is more like my secret garden.  The only other staff that know of it are the custodians who use the hose to clean their mops and hang up their uniforms to dry. Although, I do believe that, if my pumpkins grow to full size, news will get out, and I will be able to involve others in the joy of planting and growing.

It does go against the grain here - this need to do your own projects, get dirty and create something yourself. Where as in other parts of the world everyone is running off to the DIY megastores and nurseries, here you pay someone to do the project...or even better, get someone who is already on your payroll to do it to keep them busy.

Surprisingly, I learned the same lesson with my garden as Jon did at the golf course.  Just as I am not expected to create my own garden,  Jon is not expected to golf without help from two or three caddies. They wait for him as he gets out of the car and compete for his business. They carry his bag, retrieve his balls and hand him each club.  Jon has tried to sneak into the club unseen in order to have a quiet round of gold without the large entourage, but it is just not how things are done here.  On the weekend, or over the holiday, I sneak on to campus to visit my secret garden like I am doing something clandestine.

My Negative 🦠 Experience

 

Jon came home from a day golfing in the hot Abuja sun and complained of feeling achy. So we cancelled plans to go out and eat with friends. Jon did not feel better the next day, so he contacted his principal. We were working from home anyway, teaching remotely, so COVID wasn't even part of the equation. Jon was told to go and get a Malaria test, or even just take some Malaria medication and feel better.

But the next day I began to have symptoms, so I encouraged Jon to go and get tested. Testing isn't easy, cheap or reliable here in Nigeria, but it was our only option. We waited three days for the results, and several phone calls to the clinic suggested they had lost Jon's COVID test. Meanwhile we self-quarantined and my symptoms worsened. By the end of the week I couldn't get out of bed and had a fever of 103°. Still, without the test result, it was difficult to make a case that I was sick, and I ended up attending the staff meeting from bed. Jon was feeling much better and was shocked to finally receive a positive test result. I was relieved in a way, now I could be sick in peace and finally get some sick days.

There was no immediate relief.  First we had to go through the school's contact tracing briefing. This meant answering hundreds of questions to determine who I might have exposed, and what exactly my symptoms were. And, for some reason, we couldn't take it for granted that I had COVID just because Jon had tested positive and I had all the symptoms including a burning throat and difficulty breathing.  Jon was told to quarantine and teach from home, I was told to go and get a COVID test. What I really wanted was some drugs that might give me some relief. 

A school driver took me down to the testing site.  I wondered if anyone else in the drive-through lot was actually sick like I was, or if everyone else was there just for the purpose of travel.  At $150 the test tends to be for expats only.  My Head of School was there getting tested himself, and suggested I might want to go to a hospital. I didn't know of any hospital in Abuja but was willing to go and see a doctor for a chance to get a prescription for some meds. 

The medical facility turned out to be difficult to find, and after several wrong turns and stops to ask for directions, my driver finally drove me into a gated compound that was definitely not a hospital. It looked more like a construction site where the house was either being renovated or had been abandoned.  I was led through a side door into the house and found it no better inside. I had to step over what appeared to be a puddle of blood on the floor to sit myself down on a plastic chair.

A thirteen year old girl dressed as a nurse took my phone number and made a show of listening to my lungs with a stethoscope. I did not see any PPE, hand sanitizer or even a device to take my temperature. I was then told I needed to be admitted.  As I was wrapping my head around the idea, the girl went on to ask for a deposit of 2.5 million Naira ($7000).  I told her I didn't have that sort of money, but I would like a prescription for some medication.  She reluctantly agreed to give me the drugs and wrote out a long prescription.  I then needed to go get the drugs from the pharmacy. When I asked the girl where that was, she didn't know. So I wandered outside and round the back of the building. Suddenly two people blocked my path. One introduced himself as the manager, and the petite woman with him was the pharmacist. She grabbed my prescription angrily and took off. I followed her and found her berating the young nurse because apparently drugs are only for admitted patients. Admitted patients? Where would these poor souls be hiding?  

The manager unlocked a door to what could have been an office, but looked more like a store cupboard. He told me to wait there and left. Feeling about to faint, I considered lying on the floor, but the blood spatter put me off. I don't know how long I was there, but it didn't take much to realize that no one was coming to my aid. I staggered outside to find my driver, explaining that I needed to go elsewhere to get medication.  At this point my HOS intervened and persuaded them to give me something. It was explained that I would have to wait as their system was down. I opted to wait in the car, where I could at least rest my head. 

At long last I was given the nod that I could go back to the pharmacy and get my prescription. It turned out the pharmacy was a prefab shed or outbuilding in the rear of the property. And no one was too pleased when I walked in there! After several employees yelled at me to get out, the manager looked around for another place for me to wait. He opened an empty shed where I found a small mini-fridge to sit on. 

I was surprised to see the diminutive pharmacist show up with a bag of medication. But I couldn't have it until I paid. "Where do I pay?" She didn't know.  Why did everyone working here act like it was their first day on the job?

Despite my symptoms I was motivated to get my meds and leave, so I found two men taking money from a card table out in the parking lot. There didn't seem to be any queue so I pushed up as close as I could get to the table, figuring they couldn't ignore me. I asked for their bank account so I could do a transfer on my phone. Unsurprisingly they had no idea, and one man went inside to inquire. He came out with a crumpled piece of paper covered with doodles, notes and scribbled numbers. Upon closer inspection I found some larger numbers with a bank name, plugged it into my phone and the payment went through. I didn't wait for a receipt, but went off in search of my tiny pharmacist and her bag of drugs. The thirteen-year-old nurse made one last effort to persuade me to stay and be admitted. No... if I stayed here my dead body would be found weeks later in a storage cupboard or slumped against the bags of cement in the back yard. 

I finally arrived home to find my COVID test had come back negative. I remember breaking down in tears with the realization that I would be expected to go back to work.

Ironically, ten days later I tested positive and was finally admitted into the very same medical facility I visited to get the meds.  I spend three hellish days in their isolation ward which consists of a newly built room behind the crumbling house.  It didn't take long to realize that their incompetence and outright neglect meant that they wouldn't notice if I left.  I called Jon who met me in the parking lot after I simply walked unseen out the door, with no medical staff on site to stop me.