Karaoke

It was Marebec's birthday last week, so Dave had arranged a surprise party for her on Saturday night. It was to be held at the Filipino (no idea how to spell that) residence in Abuja, so really I should have been prepared. I've heard about Filipino parties before, hell, I've even seen video evidence of what is expected of everyone who attends. But I was so consumed with shame after nearly giving the game away to Marebec, that I simply hadn't thought it through. It was only as we walked through the door that the bomb dropped - the telly was on, words up on screen, microphone, someone warbling from the sofa....... NOOOOOOOoooooooooo! Karaoke!!!!

I feebly tried to delay the inevitable, taking a plate of food even though my belly was already bursting, planning strategic bathroom visits, and engaging in deep and meaningful conversations (or at least seeming to). Finally though there was no escape and really, after Kevin and Indar's valiant efforts I couldn't really refuse. So nowt for it but to down a bottle of Star and a fat glass of gin. Confidence thus enhanced I took the mic and gave the vocal chords a good stretch.

Really though, it's a wonder I'm not fighting off the hoard of record producers that must be trying to reach me after my grand show. I know for a fact that my rendition of Madonna's 'American Pie' would certainly set a few tongues wagging: "But who is that girl?"... "I've never heard such a voice" ... "She's certainly got a special something..."

The Filipino community will never be the same again.

Think of a shopping list, any shopping list...

Going to a big name supermarket here is simply not like popping in to your average Tesco, Sainsbury's or Waitrose. In the UK, if you're lucky, perhaps you'll find some clothing or CDs in addition to the usual grocery items and household cleaning products. Very meagre offerings by Nigerian standards. Here, if you entered one of the larger supermarkets with the following shopping list you wouldn't be disappointed.

To Buy
eggs
milk
stationery
walk in fridge
deoderant
drinking fountain
heavy duty knee pads
hammock
chandalier
generator
ice-cream in a cone
rubber dingy
pony bridle
cheese
two foot high plastic hippo

Zzzzzz

I'm someone who really values my zzzz time. In fact I consider it almost sacred. Certainly if I get any less than 6 hours kip a night I live the following day with a head full of cotton-wool and eye-bags to my jaw. So maybe that's why I'm struggling to get to grips with the Nigerian attitude to sleep. I just can't comprehend it at all. Every single night there is something that jolts me from my slumber. It could be any of the following:

* Night vigil at one or three of the churches that surround my compound. This generally takes place between 1-3am, with loud speakers facing out of the church.
* The clangitty-clang of the night watchman every hour. (see previous post)
* A neighbour playing warbly love ballards at 2am.
* A neighbour sweeping and beating carpets at 4am.
* Call to prayer at the mosque at 5am.
* Shouting and singing at 5.30am.

You might guess that this is a nation of heavy sleepers, and it's just my super-sensitive night-time bat ears that allow me to be disturbed by this racket. But investigation proves that while there are thundering snorers (renowned worldwide for falling asleep first and not missing a snort until daybreak), there are also many many people who are similarly woken throughout the night.

That being the case, I simply don't understand how people can justify being the perpetrators of such a din when they know people are trying to get some shut-eye. Surely it's obvious that if you start beating carpets at 4am your neighbours won't be getting the luxury of sleeping til six. More to the point - what on earth possesses you to take on such a task at that hour?

No-one ever complains. They just get on with the day as normal, sleep or no sleep. I just can't fathom it. I really can't.

Fact for Free

Sitting in a converted shipping container (my office) while someone drills and bangs metal studs through the metal walls (for curtain rails) is really rather unpleasant.

To recreate the experience at home just place a metal bucket over your head and give it a whack with a piece of led piping.

Roads

I read this in a Margaret Atwood novel I wormed through last week:

"People don't think in terms of roads, but in terms of where they want to go: a road was where someone else wanted you to go. A road was an insult."

She wrote this of the Italians but I thought it sounded quite a lot like here. I would also add that anyone else on the road is also an insult. It seems imperative to be the first and fastest on the road, weaving through obnoxious slower traffic, breaking at the last possible moment and of course beeping as much as possible. Vehicles too are regarded with contempt, pushed to all the limits and poorly maintained. Apart from the horn. Everything else can be faulty, but a car must have a good hooter.

"My pillow smells of King!"

And other tales of Nigerian beds I have known.

The Lung-Puncturer: The slightest roll or, heaven forbid, a bounce results in bruising and yelps of pain as thinning, moth-eaten material fails to protect delicate bodies from the rusting springs.

The Kings Bed: I shared this bed with another VSO the night after it had been vacated by a King. A very comfy night, but in the morning my slumber chum exclaimed, 'My pillow smells of King!' Mine did too and for those of you who want to know what King smells like it's rather like fusty old man.

The Foam Dipper: My own. The first night was comfy enough, but ever since I have been unable to escape my own me-dent that has cratered the left-hand side.

The Hundred Pound Pillow: What looks like a breeze block, has the texture and density of a vacuum packed sack of new potatoes and smells rather damp? My pillow in Port Harcourt.

The Slumbering Giant: (or Porn King). A colossus bed enjoyed by one lucky Lagos VSO. Huge and big and round, with satin-feel throws. Big enough to fit approximately seventy million people. Or maybe around 7.

2005: The Final Journey

Surviving a dull afternoon in PH was one thing, but surviving the following journey to Opobo was quite another!

First we needed to get a car to take us 2hours to Ikot Abasi where we would hopefully manage to meet the Cameroon lot. By the time we got the go ahead from them (reassurance that they had passed immigration and were on their way) it was late. Add to this the fact we had been traipsing back and forth through the motor park with our goody bags from Park 'n' Rob and you get a bunch of drivers very unwilling to negotiate a fair price. Battle ensued, with Tammie bravely taking the lead as the rest of us slowly melted into puddles under our rucksacks. By the time a price had been fixed and a car allocated, it was half full of other hopeful passengers. They were unceremoniously offloaded as we stood, embarrassed, trying to avoid slipping on the dead rats at our feet (really, a very choice motor park!). Finally set off with four of us in the back seat as usual - numb-bum-tastic!

Next leg of the journey was a night-time okada ride from our meeting point to the riverside at Ikot Abasi. We wobbled by the roadside with fireflies for company as we waited for someone, anyone to pass. Finally an okada was hailed and sent to fetch more. They whizzed out of the gloom, revving and belching out their two-stroke fumes. Another price battle was soon ended when again Tammie led us in strike - threatening to just walk the whole damn way. The road was loooong and daaark and potholed and my okada man was particularly chatty, resulting in a faint showering for me. Nice.

Third: A speed-boat ride across the waters to the merry little town of Opobo. The boats go fast. They are noisy. There is a lot of spray and they bounce and jiggle on the open water. The 'path' was lit, occasionally, by a zero watt torch that was lazily pointed in almost the direction we were headed. I gripped my seat and enjoyed the breeze.

Finally, and almost the most killing, was a trek up to Mary and Peters house. 15 minutes uphill through Opobo, with a big, slightly soggy rucksack, and the heavy humid air was a real test of stamina. But we made it! And were soon back down to the water front to enjoy some chop and a few beers and wait for 2006.