il gatto nuota

Joey and I decided we're going to learn Italian.  We bought Rosetta Stone at least four years ago (before the wedding) and figured since we are headed back to Italy next month for the third time since our wedding, now'd be a good time to open the software.  Especially since it cost as much as three months of malaria medication.  I digress...

Maybe I'm just special, but I really hate the voice recognition software.  If it tells me I'm not pronouncing "no" or "e" one more time, I might have to throw the headphones against the computer screen (again).  Maybe that's why they're not working...

anti-malarials

I started taking Mefloquine. Three weeks before we departed for post.  Mefloquine isn't generally recommended for those who have suffered from depression in the past, but it is the only anti-malarial safe for pregnancy, and this time last year we'd fully intended that I'd be pregnant.

Until we got here.

One look at the haze of the Harmattan and I couldn't bear the thought of bringing a baby back to Abuja.  I absolutely believe in a woman's right to choose when it's the right time for her to become a mother, so I respect the many people who have added to their families here, but I knew this wasn't where I wanted to start mine.

I thought I'd stick with the Mefloquine anyways since it was the easiest option.  It's offered free through the med unit and you only have to take it once a week.

That lasted for about two months.  At the time I was pretty sure it was exacerbating my depression, but looking back on all that we were going through at the time: an international move to a dangerous, third-world country, away from our family and friends and Target, and with it the culture shock of a new home, a new country, a new job and new friends, I'm wondering if maybe it wasn't the Mefloquine that was making me blue.

So back in early March I switched to Doxycycline.  Doxycycline is an antibiotic, and while it doesn't cause the crazy dreams or shit-for-sleep that Mefloquine does, it does cause some killer nausea, especially if you're already prone to motion sickness.  Also, from my completely unscientific research, I deduced that it's generally recommended not to take antibiotics for more than six months consecutively since they kill everything in your system - the good bacteria with the bad bacteria.  And if the sales numbers of Traditional Medicinal's Smooth Move Herbal Tea are any indicator, you'd see a spike between March and four days ago.

Finally on Friday I decided that I was sick of feeling sick every single day.  I ran out of another box of the tea and I figured I'm already depressed this holiday season, so WTF, I'm going back to the Mefloquine.

There is a third option.  While the med unit will write you a prescription for Malarone, they don't keep it on hand, and you have to come out of pocket to pay for this drug.  I first attempted my foray into Malarone in June, but for some reason the insurance company had my birth date wrong and no one at Coventry felt the need to tell me my prescription couldn't be filled.  So I wait the six weeks I'm told it will take for the prescription to be filled and mailed to me and nothing.

After too much time on hold with Coventry, I thought I got my birth date changed.  The patient people in the med unit resubmitted the prescription, patient little me waits six more weeks and still nothing.  The idiots at Coventry couldn't figure out how to change my birth date the first time I sat on hold and so I had to call them.  Again.

Finally this time it appears the monkeys Coventry hired have learned how to differentiate between a 3 and a 4 on the keyboard.  So the med unit submits the prescription again and Coventry denies the claim.

Can you tell my why it was so freaking important that you had my birth date correct if you were going to deny the claim anyway?

At this point it's November.  I see the claim is denied and I assume that means I should be getting the prescription and a bill.

Last week I got a letter in the mail.  I have to provide payment information before I can get my prescription.

So tonight, after I finally get through to a human being who WON'T STOP TALKING, I give her my credit card number and she tells me how much this prescription for the malady that exists in the country where we live because of my husband's employer, who will only pay for the cheap drugs that have shitty side-effects, is going to cost me every three months.

$479.

So you choose.  Malaria; depression, nightmares, inability to fall into a deep sleep; nausea, intense heartburn, complete and utter irregularity; or $479 every three months.

Merry Freaking Christmas.

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?