The following is the entry from my travel diary about 15 years ago ... Enjoy!
8 August 93 – Bush Night
It's 8:00 in the morning and we're finally back home--or what we call home here--at the Seramo Guest House. I'm covered with the dirt of the road and of the forest; I'm starving and my hair smells like wood smoke and ashes but oh, what an adventure it's been!
It all began yesterday morning when Dr. Adediron and Agbo Folarin (artist) showed up with plans to take us on a field trip to a waterfall, some oba (king)'s palace and the Ogun festival somewhere else. It was to be quite a full day. I was not mentally prepared for such a full schedule because I remember being told that the trip was canceled because of the fuel shortage. But here they were--ready to go. Peter, our driver, had found fuel somewhere ...
We stopped to get some akara (fried bean cake) from a place on the way to the waterfall. This particular stand was famous far and wide for its recipe. It was good because they put in whole shrimps and onions and even some red pepper pieces chopped up that must have made the batter red/orange in tint rather than the more regular white. I think I could make them at home with green onions and the shrimps.
The waterfall was located in a small town known as Erin Oke (Elephant Mountain). We had to drive on a narrow dirt road to get near it. Then of course we had to walk up a path clearly prepared for tourists and well wishers. Everything was luscious and green. It was spectacular and lovely to see all that cascading water. The vegetation had gone wild in the mist. A guide took a few of us up to the end level. We climbed the rocks in our bare feet because it was too wet and slippery to risk wearing shoes. That 2nd level was incredible-- 1) because fewer people bothered to take this leg of the journey due in part to improper rock-climbing wear (Too bad! NOT!)--straight skirts that inhibited walking, much less climbing rocks.
The water falling into water was so powerful, it sent up a lot of mist and a good breeze. It was like taking a shower there. I stood with my feet in the water that was collecting and streaming down to the level part. I removed my glasses and closed my eyes, and held out my arms to soak in some of the essence of rejuvenation that lived in that place. There was a lot of energy there. I thought Yemoja (the River Goddess and Mother of Fishes) must have been present. I thanked her for making me feel so refreshed. That experience did much to lift my ailing spirits . . .
On the way back down to where Peter's van was parked were some picturesque views. I tried to capture some of them ...
We also bought same "walnuts" from a child who was hawking there. The shells were much softer than the walnuts we know of. We could crack these just by hitting them on a surface with nothing but our hand. They were "meaty" and a bit green tasting, but good just the same.
After that we went to Akure in Oyo State to visit the oba (King) there. Apparently he's got the nicest palace around. He was a short little guy on a high throne who received us and gave us pop and his calling card. His people were dressed in fine cloth, while Beggar's Row was just around the corner. He's in the process of building a new palace which will be quite impressive once it's finished. He also had a child at his knee who was perhaps 8 or 10 years old. The hair of 1/2 his head was clean-shaven, the mark of an ilari (king's messenger). They begin to teach kids their professions at a very young age, here, with the apprenticeship system. Maybe we could learn from that. Americans might be upset about self-determination and late-bloomer issues, though ...
After that, we went to eat at a restaurant that didn't t have enough food to feed all of us at once. All they had anyway was beef and chicken and pounded yam (which is too much like potatoes for my taste!) I got my food from a vendor at the door. It was something like a boiled egg wrapped in a puff-puff. It wasn't bad, but a little greasy. The yolk of the egg was white, not yellow like the eggs from home. That may have answered another question for me, because I've gotten fried eggs at the bukateria on campus and wondered where the yolk was--because it appeared to have none.
After that, we made our way to lre-Ekiti for the Ogun festival. The roads were narrow, paved but full of pot-holes. We had some minor trouble with the van along the way. We should have taken it as an omen that Ogun (god of iron, war and hunting) did not want us to attend ...
Our driver, Peter had stopped at an unusually short fuel station que that morning to get petrol. With the shortage, it's not uncommon for people to wait 4 hours for fuel and then pay inflated prices for a set ration. It's ridiculous when you think that Nigeria is an OPEC nation. Along with that, you've got people paying bribes to get more than their share and then people start hoarding the fuel so that only a few people have it all. Then you've also got some people taking advantage of the shortage situation who sell inferior and junk gas. Perhaps this station had a reputation for that, unbeknownst to our driver, and reason why the line was short. Apparently Peter had boughten some petrol that was full of dirt. The van protested only mildly on the way to the Ogun Festival Just the same, we should have listened.
When we arrived at the village, we were not exactly welcomed. During the Ogun Festival, it is not uncommon to see people cross-dressing if they want. And most people carry long switches, similar to the Egungun festival. However, it seemed to me that these people went at the whipping with much more vigor/anger. It's a cathartic celebration. People can vent their frustrations in this sort of culturally approved manner. By the time we arrived in the late afternoon, people were already very drunk on palm wine -which also served to alter perceptions and reactions. We even witnessed an all-out brawl in someone's yard. Their wrestling was getting ugly ... We went to the Chief's house. He was a cool dude, a professor of fine arts (pottery and ceramics) at lfe. He did welcome us and led us downtown on the main street (Oyinbos on parade) to the 2nd story of a house where we were supposed to be safe. The crowds have a tendency to surge with excitement and fear of being whipped at the approach of Ogun and his wife. It seemed to me that people on the ground looked up at us with disapproval. It was quite a traditional place, and maybe they felt we wanted to exploit them in some way.
Some people had blue paint on their faces; metal pans and other helmets fashioned of various soft and hard materials. Some girls had new palm fronds twisted into crowns for their heads. The story goes something like Ogun (when he was alive) came to town and he was thirsty, so he went all over looking and asking for his favorite drink: palm wine. But no one would give him any, so he got mad and started killing everyone. So the girls wear palm fronds--emblematic of Ogun's favorite beverage. So all these efforts are made to keep him appeased and happy. Every time a keg of palm wine is opened, a bit is poured on the ground for Ogun. When it is empty, it is turned on its side, so that Ogun knows it holds no wine. The festival is celebrated annually, for fear that Ogun will unleash his reign of terror once again if they neglect him. Ogun never forgets, and his anger is fierce ...
They have masqueraders, too. Ogun and his wife appeared above the heads of everyone else. We made a cultural blunder here, one of many that just wasn't explained to us until too late ... As the masquerader is passing by, people are supposed to show it respect by not looking at it. The Ogun couple even has a corps of whippers to shoo people away from them. They threw rocks and sand up at us, to get us away from the windows, to keep us from looking at the gods in our midst. But we just moved to the balcony then, and found a new visage. People were also mad about that, but we just didn't know ...
The point/impression remains that we had offended Ogun with that action. I sincerely believe that's the reason we had such automotive problems on the way home. Ogun is the God of Iron. He has reign over all things made of metal. That is significant since at about 7:45 that evening, on the way home, Peter's van stalled irrevocably. We tried everything to start it again: pushing it, cleaning the carburetor, cleaning the fuel lines ... We wound up pushing it for miles and waiting for hours while Peter and the Professors fiddled with it in the dark. Things were starting to look pretty bleak--of course I was miserable, a state much exacerbated by my lack of food and water. It still amazes me how freely some people take things--it's that over-developed sense of entitlement thing again. The take-take-take mentality was getting to me ...
At one point we were stranded out in the bush (Yorubaland is forest country), on the roadside next to a few empty market stands. I was miserable, but the stars were out in all their speckled beauty. Fireflies glowed in the air above our heads. These two complimentary points of light . . . Another moment to lift my spirits, but it couldn't last. Soon the clouds surrounded them and finally swallowed them up. Even the fireflies seemed to have disappeared. Sigh! I really do not enjoy the company of my fellow students, and being with them in such a trying situation really doesn't do much to improve moral. They took the carburetor apart 2 or 3 times, and we pushed that van for miles. Agbo Folarin, forever the optimist, kept saying "There's a slope just ahead. All it needs is a little momentum and it'll start. Je ki a try. You'll see--" We pushed for 3 or 4 or 5 miles. At one point Peter coasted so far ahead of us (engine still not running) that we lost him. There we were, walking in the black of night. A group of Oyinbos stranded in the dark, Ogun laughing in the tall grasses that bordered the road. Cars passed by us so close that we had to stop and catch our balance before we went on. Finally, Dr. Adediron climbed into a car to get help at nearby Ijeru, just over the Osun/Ondo state border. We asked another passing car to run us to the place Peter had finally stopped, which was a considerable distance.
When Adediron returned, we had pushed the van into a closed petrol station. By then it was 11:00 pm. It was too late to get alternative transportation, or lodging for the night. We decided we couldn't just leave the van, or Peter with it. We'd passed a burned out car not so far back in our trek. We were afraid something similar might happen. We also couldn't stay with it just at the side of the road either, for fear of what might happen ... Adediron had found a mechanic who was willing to help us at that time of night. They worked for hours in the dark trying to fix whatever was wrong. By about 2am, they decided that was useless and they would tow the van (with us in his station wagon) to Ijeru, so we could sleep in the van in a populated area . . . But the tow line broke.
It was raining and misting outside, and I was tired and crabby and hungry and stuck in the front seat with Adediron and the mechanic. Fortunately for me, though, when the tow line broke, they both jumped out and I had some space to myself. This occurred in front of a little sort of stand at the side of the road, where 2 or 3 people had a little fire burning, and I could hear them talking and laughing there next to the warmth and light. One was scraping the burnt part of a roasted yam. They were bundled up, prepared for the coldness of the night to creep into their bones--and combated it with the fire and knitted caps. One who had a blue cap adjusted the wood on the fire and sparks flew up. I knew right then that I wanted to be with them and not with my whiny group. I've got a thing for points of light in the darkness. Or maybe just sitting beside a fire like that called up some memory of a Van der Post book for me. What can I say? I just know that their evening appealed to me far more than mine. It was then that the owner of the station wagon jumped back in and threw the thing into reverse. I think he thought those guys were thieves or highway robbers and he was trying to high-tail it out of there. I can't remember what happened to make him come back, but he did.
We ended up pushing the van to the side of the road there, opposite the 3 with the fire. It was to be the "safe place" where we would spend the night, in the van. A few people were upset that we would be spending the night in the bush like that. But I felt safer there than in any city, just because there were so many fewer people around in general--like at home. But apparently that has a different meaning in Nigeria--fewer people around, yes; fewer people to hear you scream when the thieves and thugs take advantage of you; fewer people to help you out when you need it.
I asked Dupe what those guys across the road were doing there. She said "Protecting the area from alternative thieves?" --implying that they were thieves themselves. I had seen a board with spiked nails in it, in the headlights of a truck behind us. Apparently, they used such tactics to stop the traffic. I thought it was pretty bold for robbers to have a little stand and a fire for their nightly work there. I became more and more intrigued listening to them talk and laugh, and watching their firelight. Then Adediron explained their work to us: They were border guards, or customs officials whose job it was to fine/tax transport vehicles that wanted to cross the state line. They were looking for smugglers--but they also accepted bribes. So they had real work there in the night. They were legitimate. Suddenly, the spirit of Janna overcame me and I wanted to go over and sit with these strangers. I wasn't at all pleased with the atmosphere in the van. Peter was telling more stories about the perils of night travel in Nigeria. Thieves, attackers, a fresh dead body hit by a car ... a basket with a brick hidden inside that would "seriously mess up your car if you tried to hit it," dead animals full of nails that would cut up your tires, beatings ... I didn't want to be listening to that, nor did I want to believe that the guys across the road were of that element. Across the road, they were now bargaining with a lady-smuggler over a payment "What's 100 Naira split 3 ways? Not much." They wanted more, but they didn't sound malicious at all. Of course they accept bribes, and well they should. It wasn't until later that I learned, when the tall, thin one with the blue cap stood up and paced restlessly, disgusted with his government: These three guys hadn't been payed in over three months. Their only income was this revenue they rather proudly generated for the government--receipt book and all. So they continued to come to work, continued to earn their keep. They just cut out the middleman.
Anyway, I was in no mood to sleep by then, having caught my 2nd wind. I was also in no mood to listen to Peter's tales of treachery and horror stories of the night, nor to fight the mosquitoes that had infiltrated the van, so I watched the sparks fly up from the fire across the road, and again heard them laughing and I just had to say "They sound like characters! I want to go over there and talk with them!" To my amazement, Adediron said he'd come with me to see if they'd accept our company. Tope came too. We offered them 2 yams we had purchased on the road.
These guys were fun. They were tickled pink that we were learning Yoruba and trying to speak it. They didn't hassle us that we weren't quite fluent for our 2 years (like the jerk in the bookstore last week). They didn't expect us to know much after only 2 years. One guy had 7 years of English (maybe they all did), so he understood, and remembered what it was like at that level. I felt quite free to talk with these guys--in Yoruba, no less--with Adediron there as witness which may improve my grade since he knows I can and do speak. That's another problem with this Yoruba class. It's full of so many strong personalities and I just don't want to, or feel like I can compete with them. So often when I do say something around them, my opinion, my words, my ideas are cut down and dismissed. It's no wonder I don't say much around them--It's a self-preservation tactic. But if I can get away and not have to compete, I can speak. Sort of.
They told us their names. Femi was the tall one full of charisma, I guess. He had a strong, deep voice, a great smile, and a sparkle in his eye. I spent the night sitting next to Rotimi (Return to me?). We asked if he was an abiku (born to die) child because of his name. He of course wanted to know if I was married. Was I Christian? No. What did I believe? We said we'd gone to a babalawo to have our heads read. Femi said that his father was a babalawo. We named our patron gods/goddesses and Rotimi asked me if I believed in that. I said I believed in a lot of things, but God wasn't necessarily one of them. I think he was Christian, but he didn't press the issue that I wasn't, and he didn't try to convert me. That was nice. We've seen 2 classes of Christians: the normal ones and the over-bearing born-agains who feel it's their duty to save all us pagans. Rotimi was normal, and Femi was great!
We put the yams on the fire to roast in their skins. So I did have yam in some form or another that day. By then I was so hungry, it tasted delicious. Much tastier and sweeter than the glutenous lump offered at lunch. These guys were so great, sharing their fire with us, their conversation. I really began to enjoy myself after meeting them. I stayed up the rest of the night keeping watch with them. Tope and Adediron went back to the van and Agbo Folarin fell asleep on one of the benches next to the fire. But I stayed awake with them and time just flew by. I wanted to help them in some way, but I didn't know what I could have done. They made the night for me and I was grateful.
Rotimi was asking Folarin about getting into college at Ife. He's got all the qualifications. I just hope he can find the funds, or that Folarin can at least get him a job there, somewhere. They asked if we could be pen-pals. Everybody wants to be your pen-pal because they think you'll send them nice gifts and get a visa to the US for them. Until then, I only met 1 or 2 people I really wanted to write to (no one from the Xian camp!). These guys were cool in a warm sort of way.
By 7am, public transport had arrived to shuttle us back to Ife. I got a picture with these customs officials, though. It was certainly a day for highs and lows.
I don't think I can express what a thrill it was for me to hear Femi rise in the morning (he had taken a nap after his shift) to see me still sitting on the bench beside the fire, now in the morning light. He laughed a bit, pleased with my apparent heartiness and said my name with those lovely low tones that come from the chest: Ige. People in Yorubaland have a way of just saying your name, not because they want to tell you anything, but just to recognize your being, your individuality. It's a sort of praise.
Ah, life is how we want to remember it, and I shall remember these guys with fondness. I wish them well, and I hope they write.
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* Oyingbo is the Yoruba term for white people who are “pepperless” in the popular myth that we can’t handle hot, peppery food. Oyingbo literally means skin that is white because our black skin must have burned off in the sun. Oyinbo is what’s underneath.
** A babalawo is a diviner and a healer, aka witch docter. To have your head read is to have a babalawo divine your ‘patron saint’ of the Yoruba pantheon of Gods and Goddesses. Once you discover which one you are a child of, you may decide to follow in their footsteps--although your personality often already follows that of the patron saint. For example, I am a Child of Olokun. She owned the Oceans, and like so much water, she was very calm and tranquil. She never had children of her own, though she was a very successful business woman who made beautiful blue glass beads known today as Olokun beads.
