holy mountain

Our last day in Obudu we didn't have much time.  We had to get on the road fairly early to make sure we got back to Abuja before dark.  The drive is only supposed to take six and a half hours and we'd gotten better directions for the way back from the people at the resort, but we wanted to leave a little room just in case.

We had just enough time to visit "Holy Mountain," from where you could see the border of Cameroon.  The bellhop at the resort incidentally doubled as our tour guide.  He promised, "20 minutes there.  16 minutes to take pictures and 20 minutes back."  What if we want 17 minutes to take pictures?

So we all hopped in the car with the bellhop riding shotgun.  He led us up a road that was more grass than anything else, and after a short, slow drive we arrived at the top of Holy Mountain.  (When asked what made the mountain holy, the bellhop answered that when the Germans invaded during WWII, the villagers were saved in that spot.  We were all fairly certain the Germans never occupied Nigeria;  I checked Wikipedia (which is always right): they didn't.)  But we were as high as the clouds, and watching them roll in and out felt like 16 minutes in heaven.  The cloud cover was actually too thick to see the border of Cameroon, but we were able to look down on a gorgeous waterfall, Cataract Falls.

On top of Holy Mountain

I'm not sure if it was originally his idea, but the bellhop suggested that if we stand in a certain spot and jump it would appear in a photograph as though we were moving from one mountain to another.  This inspired much silly jumping and even more giggling.  It also resulted in some hilarious pictures, which I include here gratuitously.

A belly shot, no less.

After returning the bellhop to the resort, we started the long drive home.  Along the way we passed fruit stand after fruit stand, where we stopped to buy mangoes and oranges and papayas for 1/10th the price we'd pay in Abuja.  

We eventually reached the edge of the city, but unfortunately we did so with a thousand other cars at the same time.  The traffic was so bad it took an extra two hours to actually get into town, during which all six of us almost drowned we had to pee so bad.  Joey almost strangled me when I told him I'd kill him if he stopped the car to pee by the side of the road (I'm sorry, I don't have that luxury.  I have to wait an extra five minutes to pee because you can't hold it?  I don't think so).  After this lady-like litany, O. handed Joey an empty bottle of water.  The laughter made it hurt even more.  

We reached the restaurant in Abuja and were finally able to "ease" ourselves (as they say here).  Our trip was over, but the memories and friendships we built will last a lifetime. 

Click here for the link to all of my pictures from the trip.

born this way

I heard Lady Gaga's "Born this Way" on the radio last night.  Ironically enough, Nigeria recently outlawed homosexuality.

Dear all members of all legislative bodies across the world, don't you have anything more important to worry about than what gay people are doing?  Can't we just let them be?

But considering my pop culturally-inept husband didn't know what the song is about, the people at the radio station probably don't know what it's about either.  

monkeys!

So after eight hours in the car on bumpy dirt roads in the middle of the African bush, what would one logically do the next day?

Get back in the car. Duh.

The website for the Afi Mountain Drill Ranch, home to "Africa's most endangered primate," says it's only 55 km from the turn- off to Obudu Mountain Resort.  And we had a map.  Drawn by the concierge at the resort.  He told Joey, "You will see a monkey (pause) holding a banana. (Knowingly,) It is not real. (Pause) It is art.  After the monkey, turn right."

It took us three hours. To get there. Which means it took us three more hours to get back.

Lest you think I'm prone to hyperbole.

These roads made the ride from Abuja to Obudu look smooth.  These roads truly put our massive SUV to the test.  At least once every five minutes we all held our breath as Joey gunned through some giant mud pothole (I use that term loosely. Hell, I use the term, "road," loosely in this context). But the longer we sat in the car and the farther we got from the resort, the more determined we were to find this monkey ranch literally in the middle of nowhere. That dip in the road looks like it might take out the car? Everybody pray!


Surveying our options to get through the muck.

I should clarify. The longer we sat in the car and the more machete-wielding eight-year-olds we passed, four of us were all the more determined to find the monkeys.  My friend, L., and I were enjoying a grand adventure.  She and I couldn't wait to see those monkeys.  Joey and O. could have cared less about the monkeys.  They cared more about the repercussions of not taking their wives to see the monkeys.  The other two, our poor friends who'd only been in Nigeria barely over a month, were not so determined.  I'm pretty they thought we were going to drop them in the middle of the bush and leave them to fend for themselves against the locals. They sat in the back of the car, holding each other's white knuckles and every so often trying to convince us to turn around.

But we finally passed the monkey art and spotted a small sign for the Drill Ranch. We turned onto the road, excited to get out of the car and see some monkeys, only to be confronted with a narrowing and harrowing dirt road (Ha.  Ha....). Half an hour past thousands of cocoa trees and a tiny village of bona fide round mut huts with thatched roofs and a carpet of drying cocoa nibs on white sheets spread over the ground, we finally arrived at the Drill Ranch.


It is not real.  It is art.

A pair of Oregon conservationists founded the ranch almost 30 years ago to resuscitate the near-extinct population of drill monkeys in Africa.  Drills are only found three places in the world: southeast Nigeria, southwest Cameroon, and on Bioko Island of Equatorial Guinea (ref). The Drill Ranch is also home to some chimpanzees, who we got to watch during feeding time.  Listening to them clamor for bananas was an awesome experience.  Judging from some of our conversations with the locals, it seems like the conservationists have successfully educated the public that primates are better left uneaten.

Drill Monkey.



"Hey, Bob.  Ya gonna eat all that banana?"



Besides the monkeys, the Drill Ranch is also within walking distance of a canopy walk. Glutton for punishment that I am, we headed straight there. Although this canopy walk was built by the same people as the one we just visited in Ghana, the Ghanaian one was much more terrifying. This canopy walk had a much more significant wobble, but the trees here seemed significantly shorter as well. Oh, and while the humidity was so thick it made the Iowa State Fair feel as dry as the winds currently gracing our presence from the Sahara Desert, it didn't rain this time either. Thank God.

Collectively, over 500 primate photos, several bug bites, four muddy feet, two disturbing bush toilet experiences, one large rash, and one slight electrocution later, the six of us piled back in the car for the long drive back to the resort. We arrived at the base of the mountain just as the sun was setting. It was a magnificent ending to a fantastic day.

a follow-up

The tailor of the confiscated fabric came over this weekend.  Let's call her B.  B. outsources embroidery to a different tailor whose workspace is located somewhere outside of Abuja.  Apparently the embroiderer set up in an illegal structure, so when the government came to tear down the shanty, they confiscated all of his fabric. 

What does it say about my life that after B. explained the story, I said, "Ooooh, that makes sense,"  because it totally did? 

Anyway, the two pieces B.'s working on for me needed some minor adjustments, so she's working on those.  I'll be sure to post my sweet new threads when they're finished.

marathon fail

This marathon is just not happening.  Not for lack of trying either.   Joey and I started training in July for the race at the end of February, but training for a marathon in Abuja is a lot harder than training for a marathon in Des Moines or DC.  The first five months of increasing mileage we fought intense humidity and the hot sun.  By the end of October we couldn't get up early enough to beat the heat; no matter how much water we guzzled or electrolyte-infused goos we gummed, I could only make it twelve miles before my insides felt as shriveled as a raisin.  Now the temperature has finally dropped to a comfortable level but the air is so dry that the pungent odor of burning garbage scratches my nostrils and burns my throat while I'm hurdling tree branches that have burst through the concrete, rocks, goats, and sleeping Nigerians on the sidewalk.  Running on the street isn't any better, because then I'm dodging crazy green cabs who are so distracted by the oyibo running on the side of the road they actually veer toward me.  Or honk like I'm in their way.  There is no such thing as a runner's high here.  You can't just zone out and run.  You have to constantly pay attention, or at best you'll end up with a broken ankle, at worst hit by a car.  So as much as I desperately want to rock that Kilimanjaro marathon tee shirt, it's just not going to happen this year. 

We have found one place in Nigeria with incredible weather:  Obudu.  A few weeks ago we loaded up the car with two other couples and an ungodly amount of snack food and drove to the Obudu Mountain Resort in southeast Nigeria for a long weekend.  The drive alone was an adventure; there's no such thing as road signs here.  How we managed to even find this resort was seriously a miracle considering every fifty miles or so we came across a traffic circle, where our friend O. leaned out the window and called to the hundred motorbike drivers buzzing around the circle like flies to point the way to Obudu. 

"Okada! (Pronounced just like it's spelled, okada is what they call motorbikes here.  Apparently it is also acceptable to address the drivers as, "Bike.")  Which way Obudu?"

"Straight," was always the answer.  Well, actually, it was always the answer when O. asked.  If Joey tried to ask for directions, the answer he'd receive was usually a confused look accompanied by "Ehh?" (think guttural noise a la Tim Allen in Home Improvement.)

But the word "straight" does not mean you actually drive straight down the road.  Because "straight" here is usually accompanied by body language that one might normally insinuate means left or right.  For example, Bike first turned his entire body all the way to the left and said "first you go straight." Bike then swiveled to the right, extended his arms and said, "and then you go straight."  Finally Bike oscillated back to the left and finished, proudly, with, "and then you go straight." Oh, thank you.  Now we know where Obudu is.

But by the grace of God, after eight hours on bumpy dirt roads past some villages with people who we'd all swear had never seen white people before, we turned a corner and the scenery changed.  All of a sudden we'd arrived at the base of a gorgeous, lush, green mountain.  While the car wound up 10k of switchbacks the view grew more and more stunning, and we ended up on top of a truly beautiful and peaceful mountain.

The pleasant surprises didn't stop there.  We rented a three-bedroom villa that was absolutely darling with its whitewashed beadboard walls and wicker furniture.  We drank wine and played games while cuddling under blankets and taking in the breathtaking views over the valley. Yes, blankets - the air on top of the mountain was crisp and clean and chilly!  We found a refreshing oasis at Obudu Mountain Resort; none of us could believe we were still in Nigeria.

See the rainbow?

  



a photo journal of thanksgiving dinner



 


Chowing on apps after a long morning prepping

   

Nadine working on the mashed potatoes

 

Lena and me, trying to keep everything warm

 

Everything but the cranberries:  turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, green bean casserole, and creamed corn.  Gravy and rolls were on the table!


 

Omar helping Joey carve the turkey

 

From left to right: Ahmed, Nadine, Brian, Joey, Omar and Lena

Letting dinner sit with a game of Apples to Apples.





Time for pie!  Pecan pie, pumpkin pie and caramel cream pie - YUM.

 

Aren't we cute?

 





online reviews are ruining my life

I'm serious. They have completely debilitated my shopping prowess. I can't buy anything anymore without reading every. single. review.  And even if almost all of the reviews are positive, that one bad review will completely cloud my judgement and render me unable to purchase the item.

Take, for example, sheets. Average review of 3 1/2 stars on Amazon.com:

"These are the nicest sheets ever! A great deal!" say reviewers 1-42.

"These sheets SUCK. They are scratchy and absolutely NOT 1200 thread count," says reviewer #43.

"Very happy with these sheets," according to reviewers 44-84.

"The sheets are great - for six months. Then I woke up with my foot next to the mattress because there was giant hole!" contributes reviewer 85.

Then reviewer 86 gave then a one-star review because the color in person didn't match the color on the computer monitor. Very helpful.

So don't read the reviews, right? No way. In fact, if an item hasn't been reviewed yet, I am even less likely to buy it. How do I know from that grainy little picture and clever online marketing if the product is worth it? Someone has to tell me what to think! And if an item has only been reviewed by one person, even if that person positively glows about the product, that's not enough statistical probability for me. Then those 1200 thread-count, Egyptian-cotton sheets that only cost $30 will actually be burlap (or maybe I've lived here so long I think everything is a scam).

I mean, what if I pay $100 for a set of sheets, wait 3 weeks to get them, wash them and they're scratchy? Good luck trying to return already-washed sheets through the mail (I totally would return those in the store, though. I'd look that manager straight in the eye and tell him his sheets are sheet.) Or what if I pay $100 and I wake up one morning with my foot in a hole? Or like the pair of sheets I'm attempting to replace, what if this pair pills and itches after ten washes?

This is what happens when you have lived in Africa for a year. Twelve months of no shopping, after growing up in the suburbs and having nothing else to do but shop, results in a shop-obsessed- I-suddenly-must-buy-an-ice-bucket crazy person. I am going through shopping withdrawal. What I wouldn't give right now to sit in my car, listening to NPR and fighting holiday traffic to rush through the frigid winter air into the warm, fluorescent wonderland that is Target. To lean on a shopping cart and sip my tall, Starbucks, one-pump-pumpkin-spice, non-fat, no-whip latte as I wander aimlessly through the brightly lit aisles of Bed, Bath and Beyond and listen to cheesy, over-played holiday tunes. To pick up a box, turn it around, read the label, look at the packaging, feel the quality between my fingers and come to my own judgement about whether or not I should buy it. But instead I am relegated to the product of my Google searches and Amazon sorting mechanisms. Then what should be a simple solution to a simple problem (I need new sheets: buy a new set), turns into marathon internet shopping session in which I read 5000 reviews and buy nothing.

By the way, I decided my blog needed an update. Just wanted to give credit where it's due: Lizz, I used your template. I hope you don't mind.

And I'm definitely interested in your reviews.