Well, as of 01 December it has officially been one year of semi-abroad life. After averaging 363 1/2 days of the year within U.S. borders during the first 23 years of my life, I have graduated, I believe, to expat status having spent roughly 45 days in country and over 300 in something like eight others (and at least 200 hours in neutral air space). Even though this anniversary was not marked, it was met with celebration and tidings of the Christmas season, or Xmas as my Nigerian brethren know it. "Mr. Shaun, you travel soon for Xmas. What will you be bringing me? You just bring me one cap."
Regardless of what you may have heard, Xmas began 01 December. No, you cannot say otherwise, it has begun and is well underway. The subject of Xmas dominates daily work conversation. In particular, speculation on what "Boss will bring us" consumes their thoughts throughout the day. "You know boss, I was thinking..."
In that spirit, I've decided that I do not want to disappoint. The first time around, I grew tired of their constant requests for, jeans and cameras and glasses and gloves. But this time around, I've grown tired of "getting tired" of their requests. It's not so much to bring back a few t-shirts or a slick pair of slacks from Goodwill. Why shouldn't I do these things? Returning empty-handed does not stop their requests, so perhaps I'll spread a little Xmas cheer.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Monday, November 30, 2009
Customer Service
Lately, some people have called me a complainer. As I see it, it's not that I am so much a complainer, but rather I have certain expectations and when those expectations aren't met I become disappointed. I don't think my expectations are unfair but perhaps have increased in recent times. Still, in keeping with my supposed complain-ating ways I'm not going to disappoint.
Customer service in Nigeria is horrendous. This is particularly true at the Prodeco Estate where I live. You can EXPECT several things. Any greeting you receive, if you are so lucky as to receive one, will not be with a "Hello" or "What would you like?" or any words at all for the matter, but with a frown and eyes that stare as if absolutely annoyed that you would even consider ordering a meal or a drink at a restaurant of all places. To that end, I much prefer my server to slowly saunter up, feet dragging, bored out of her wits, only to stare at her tablet, pen in hand never lifting her eyes from the paper. Of course, either of these scenarios is only played out when a server, after several minutes of watching you from across the room, decides it's time to get on with the inconvenience of taking your order.
Now, certainly, I don't EXPECT the type of service one normally receives in the States, but it's unreal just how poor the service really is here. It truly disappoints me. Truly. As I think we all know, a little personality goes a long way in the service industry. Unfortunately, most of the girls here have the wrong personality; the sort that sends customers out the door. All I'm asking for is a smile or, if not that, maybe just a grunt.
Customer service in Nigeria is horrendous. This is particularly true at the Prodeco Estate where I live. You can EXPECT several things. Any greeting you receive, if you are so lucky as to receive one, will not be with a "Hello" or "What would you like?" or any words at all for the matter, but with a frown and eyes that stare as if absolutely annoyed that you would even consider ordering a meal or a drink at a restaurant of all places. To that end, I much prefer my server to slowly saunter up, feet dragging, bored out of her wits, only to stare at her tablet, pen in hand never lifting her eyes from the paper. Of course, either of these scenarios is only played out when a server, after several minutes of watching you from across the room, decides it's time to get on with the inconvenience of taking your order.
Now, certainly, I don't EXPECT the type of service one normally receives in the States, but it's unreal just how poor the service really is here. It truly disappoints me. Truly. As I think we all know, a little personality goes a long way in the service industry. Unfortunately, most of the girls here have the wrong personality; the sort that sends customers out the door. All I'm asking for is a smile or, if not that, maybe just a grunt.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Marcupial Babies of Africa
Just to let everyone know, I can't post pictures anymore. My "high speed 3G" internet is much more akin to the internette than modern technology.
My favorite thing about Africa is babies. Not because they are babies and that I like babies, which I do to an extent, but it's more along the lines of how mothers carry babies in Africa. Most often, when you see a baby in public, you see her/him riding upon it's mother's back, secured by colorful cloth of some sort.
I love this. I never fails to make me smile when I see a baby strapped safely in it's African car seat, as I've come to call them. It's fortunately one of the seemingly few practices that Africa refuses to mimic of Western society.
You can expect one of either two "riding styles" when happening upon a mother burdened with child; either way your a winner. I can't decide which is better or more cute. Imagine this: an infant, a cute infant, strapped tightly to her mother's back, bouncing in her mother's stride, head decoratively shaved, arms flailing, wobbling to the beat of her mother's step, absolutely content in the closeness of her birth-giver, head turning here and there amazed at the world, emotionless yet happy. I've never seen a baby cry on her mother's back. Or: asleep, cute, chubby little face smashed against the small of her mother's back, oblivious to the hardships of riding helmet-less upon dangerous Nigerian roads (though this does not make me smile), cradled gently though firmly in a cotton cocoon of cloth and mother's warmth. Still, I've never seen a baby cry upon her mother's back.
It's one of my very few absolute joys in a place of quite regular sadness. The cute and chubby little bastards.
My favorite thing about Africa is babies. Not because they are babies and that I like babies, which I do to an extent, but it's more along the lines of how mothers carry babies in Africa. Most often, when you see a baby in public, you see her/him riding upon it's mother's back, secured by colorful cloth of some sort.
I love this. I never fails to make me smile when I see a baby strapped safely in it's African car seat, as I've come to call them. It's fortunately one of the seemingly few practices that Africa refuses to mimic of Western society.
You can expect one of either two "riding styles" when happening upon a mother burdened with child; either way your a winner. I can't decide which is better or more cute. Imagine this: an infant, a cute infant, strapped tightly to her mother's back, bouncing in her mother's stride, head decoratively shaved, arms flailing, wobbling to the beat of her mother's step, absolutely content in the closeness of her birth-giver, head turning here and there amazed at the world, emotionless yet happy. I've never seen a baby cry on her mother's back. Or: asleep, cute, chubby little face smashed against the small of her mother's back, oblivious to the hardships of riding helmet-less upon dangerous Nigerian roads (though this does not make me smile), cradled gently though firmly in a cotton cocoon of cloth and mother's warmth. Still, I've never seen a baby cry upon her mother's back.
It's one of my very few absolute joys in a place of quite regular sadness. The cute and chubby little bastards.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Climate Change
Within 48 hours, the Delta has transformed from a deep green, rain-soaked, puddle-ridden wetland to a hazy, dry, sun-blocking dust bowl. The Harmattan wind has begun to blow bringing dust from the Sahara on it's way to the Gulf of Guinea. A seasonal trade wind, the Harmattan blows from November until March causing a bit of a dry spell for the normally drenched area.
Somehow the winds are supposed to cool the lands, but it's unclear to me just how that's possible. The Sahara is hot. Even if it receives some snow every couple of decades, every single day must be sweltering. How does it follow that this trade wind originating from the bowels of the world's greatest desert actually cools anything? It's questions like these that make me weep with joy for Wikipedia...even if not 100% dependable. Alas, Wikipedia let me down and I was forced to learn (from perhaps an even less credible source) elsewhere that the Harmattan actually pushes the "hot summer days" away. But...
Nigeria isn't that hot, though every single local inhabitant will tell you otherwise. Well, at least the Delta isn't that hot. I think Houston is worse. Abu Dhabi is certainly worse. (Okay, so I've become a bit biased on what should appropriately be considered hot.) And another thing, I remember with phathom sweats a couple of awfully painful nights spent atop a shade structure in Senegal - Harmattan blowing, body sweating, thirsting for water that would not be turned back on until morning, begging for just a miniature battery-operated fan, dreaming of bathing in a tub filled with Africa Orange - that was the hottest I have ever been in my life.
What's more, the Harmattan is supposed to bring with it irritability and bad tempers. Really. Well, I guess work is going to get even better. I can already hear my crew telling me about the bad spirits swept up by the winds that have come to cause them harm.
Somehow the winds are supposed to cool the lands, but it's unclear to me just how that's possible. The Sahara is hot. Even if it receives some snow every couple of decades, every single day must be sweltering. How does it follow that this trade wind originating from the bowels of the world's greatest desert actually cools anything? It's questions like these that make me weep with joy for Wikipedia...even if not 100% dependable. Alas, Wikipedia let me down and I was forced to learn (from perhaps an even less credible source) elsewhere that the Harmattan actually pushes the "hot summer days" away. But...
Nigeria isn't that hot, though every single local inhabitant will tell you otherwise. Well, at least the Delta isn't that hot. I think Houston is worse. Abu Dhabi is certainly worse. (Okay, so I've become a bit biased on what should appropriately be considered hot.) And another thing, I remember with phathom sweats a couple of awfully painful nights spent atop a shade structure in Senegal - Harmattan blowing, body sweating, thirsting for water that would not be turned back on until morning, begging for just a miniature battery-operated fan, dreaming of bathing in a tub filled with Africa Orange - that was the hottest I have ever been in my life.
What's more, the Harmattan is supposed to bring with it irritability and bad tempers. Really. Well, I guess work is going to get even better. I can already hear my crew telling me about the bad spirits swept up by the winds that have come to cause them harm.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Goonie Beach!
Over my wonderous vacation last month, I was given the opportunity for one of life's most spiritual journeys. Upon reaching the great Pacific Northwest by train, and unbeknown to me until shortly after arrival, I would be afforded the chance of this unforgettable pilgrimage, one that would transcend time and space, causing the reemergence of my youthful wonder and melding it with the contemplative nature of my present self, a discovery that would cast away all doubts of magic and enchantment and lead me straight to Goonie Beach!
Perhaps I was weary from the arduous journey, but I could plainly hear the crashing waves call, "HEY YOU GUYS!!!" As the great expansive blue danced the truffle shuffle, spilling upon the beach, I crept with intention through the sand, wondering how the beach had changed since One-eyed Willie's day. Just off the beach, rising like a magnificent black mountain lay what can only be called Goonie Rock, it's majesty humbling passerby and marking the land for passing ships. From it frigate birds leaped and upon it they landed, making house upon it's cracks and crags.
With sorrow, I left as the sun set, it's few fading rays beaming bright upon Goonie Beach. But still, good show you Goonies.
Perhaps I was weary from the arduous journey, but I could plainly hear the crashing waves call, "HEY YOU GUYS!!!" As the great expansive blue danced the truffle shuffle, spilling upon the beach, I crept with intention through the sand, wondering how the beach had changed since One-eyed Willie's day. Just off the beach, rising like a magnificent black mountain lay what can only be called Goonie Rock, it's majesty humbling passerby and marking the land for passing ships. From it frigate birds leaped and upon it they landed, making house upon it's cracks and crags.
With sorrow, I left as the sun set, it's few fading rays beaming bright upon Goonie Beach. But still, good show you Goonies.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
The Bleeps, The Sweeps & The Creeps
Growing up in the Midwest, life was easy. There was always hot pockets in the freezer, plenty of Tide for my mom to clean my dirty undies & NOTHING creepy to inject some wild bush disease into my body. Short of the recently discovered mosquito peddling West Nile or the sly deer tick pushing Lyme disease, I could roam the gullies of Illinois carefree. The poor children (and adults) of Nigeria, however, have no such luck.
First of all, as we all know, mosquitoes up that antie on their North American cousins by carrying robust quantities of malaria. But it gets worse. The black mamba is not only a card-carrying member of "the world's most venomous snakes" club, but it also apparently tricked some poor bastard into naming it "black" when in fact it's green. The "black" comes from the color of it's mouth. (Seriously, the people of Africa have enough problems. We don't need to make it worse by causing them another moment of hesitation. "Is that a black...STRIKE!) When it comes to snakes, I will always root for Rikki-Tikki Tavi.
They've got spiders. They've got ants. They've got massive tree roaches. I'm talking huge. They've got flies that bite and leave eggs under the skin. After several days, the red and raised skin is nothing more than protection for hatched larva. There is even a disgusting sort of worm that, well, let me put it this way: I was told that a man once went to the doctor for worms. As I heard, "He went **** on ***** and even ****** them without a ******. When he peed it hurt. When he went to the doctor she pulled a worm out of his *****. They come from the ***** *****. I'll leave it to you to fill in the blanks. Frankly, it's too disgusting to share more vividly.
First of all, as we all know, mosquitoes up that antie on their North American cousins by carrying robust quantities of malaria. But it gets worse. The black mamba is not only a card-carrying member of "the world's most venomous snakes" club, but it also apparently tricked some poor bastard into naming it "black" when in fact it's green. The "black" comes from the color of it's mouth. (Seriously, the people of Africa have enough problems. We don't need to make it worse by causing them another moment of hesitation. "Is that a black...STRIKE!) When it comes to snakes, I will always root for Rikki-Tikki Tavi.
They've got spiders. They've got ants. They've got massive tree roaches. I'm talking huge. They've got flies that bite and leave eggs under the skin. After several days, the red and raised skin is nothing more than protection for hatched larva. There is even a disgusting sort of worm that, well, let me put it this way: I was told that a man once went to the doctor for worms. As I heard, "He went **** on ***** and even ****** them without a ******. When he peed it hurt. When he went to the doctor she pulled a worm out of his *****. They come from the ***** *****. I'll leave it to you to fill in the blanks. Frankly, it's too disgusting to share more vividly.
Monday, November 9, 2009
Upon my return to Warri, I was (and still am) bombarded with questions regarding the gifts I had brought for everyone from The States. Not wanting to disappoint (and because I had in fact brought nothing for anyone), I hijacked the response of a fellow I met in Lagos on my first night in country in August, "I've brought you a hard time." Suffice it to say, this was not the response any Nigerian was looking for. "Come on boss," they would say, "I come to your office later to receive." Of course, I suggested that they not waste their time as they would be yet again sorely disappointed.
The requests for gifts continue you come, but are slowly receding back to the normal Boss I am hungry, you buy us biscuits and Boss, my tooth hurts, give me some of your chewing gum (like that's what the dentist ordered). I'm much more accustomed to denying these requests.
Though this may seem like words of annoyance, I'm usually the first to defend their behavior to anyone. I often catch myself telling others it's a cultural thing; that they request the same of each other. However, I'm not really sure if that is the case. Reflecting on this, I'm drawn to the conclusion that this reaction is caused by my own naivety. It's an easy and rather quaint response, the sort of answer that evokes an "Oh. Well isn't that interesting," in the way we would look at an exotic exhibit in some spotless, marble-encrusted museum. Unfortunately, this sort of response never really gets any closer to actually understanding what causes the behavior. The answer is convenient both for the subject and the object. The subject is saved from appearing ethnocentric and the object saves its (in this case, their) integrity. It's a convenience of social discourse. It's just something we do...
So, I'm determined to become certain whether this is actually a "cultural thing" or if they are merely attempting to take advantage of my potential goodwill.
The requests for gifts continue you come, but are slowly receding back to the normal Boss I am hungry, you buy us biscuits and Boss, my tooth hurts, give me some of your chewing gum (like that's what the dentist ordered). I'm much more accustomed to denying these requests.
Though this may seem like words of annoyance, I'm usually the first to defend their behavior to anyone. I often catch myself telling others it's a cultural thing; that they request the same of each other. However, I'm not really sure if that is the case. Reflecting on this, I'm drawn to the conclusion that this reaction is caused by my own naivety. It's an easy and rather quaint response, the sort of answer that evokes an "Oh. Well isn't that interesting," in the way we would look at an exotic exhibit in some spotless, marble-encrusted museum. Unfortunately, this sort of response never really gets any closer to actually understanding what causes the behavior. The answer is convenient both for the subject and the object. The subject is saved from appearing ethnocentric and the object saves its (in this case, their) integrity. It's a convenience of social discourse. It's just something we do...
So, I'm determined to become certain whether this is actually a "cultural thing" or if they are merely attempting to take advantage of my potential goodwill.
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