*Warning! Long post!*
Last week a big black jeep with a monster grille ploughed into us. By ‘us’ I mean me, Benjamin and my little Japanese car.
It was 8.30 pm and there we were, the three of us, minding our business, tired and hungry after a long drive in bumper-to-bumper traffic. We had successfully crossed The Bridge and were meandering through Maryland; me, Benjamin and my little Japanese car.
I was reclining in the front seat, phone in hand, drafting a text message to a friend - nothing serious or particularly important; just a chatty message about my day at work. I was about to press ‘send’ when the white Camry in front of us stopped suddenly, without warning.
Benjamin is small and quick, just like my car. They both reacted quickly and avoided hitting the Camry.
“Who is this idiot?” Benjamin asked angrily. I sat up to see who the idiot was.
At that moment the big black jeep with a monster grille ploughed into us; me, Benjamin and my little Japanese car.
I’d never been in a car accident. The amazing thing about it was the suddenness of it all. One moment I was about to send a silly text message, the very next was five seconds of synchronised chaos – the unexpected shock on impact, the sound of shattering glass and crumpling metal, the screams of bystanders, a spinning sensation, the jolt to my neck and a rush of thoughts in my head – “Are we wearing seat belts? Yes we are. Oh my God is this an accident? It can’t be! I want to sell this car! Where’s my phone? Shit I’m going to miss Dr. 90210.”
But the most vivid impression I had was of the disrespectful way my car was shoved out of the way, rammed off the road and into the Camry like the victim of a vicious bully.
Ten seconds after impact Benjamin and I got out of the car, right in the middle of a crowd of hysterical bystanders and a glare of headlights. It was like being an A-list star stepping out of a limo into a crowd of fans and the bright lights of camera flashes. Except that my limo was a limo no more and the ‘fans’ were students from a nearby college, a couple of eyewitnesses and a handful of area boys.
Attached to the crumpled back of my car was a black jeep. The driver reversed, disengaging his monster from my poor defenceless ride. Bits of twisted metal and shattered glass rained on the road.
The driver of the jeep jumped out and came over to inspect the damage. At one point he looked so nauseous, I was worried he was going to throw up all over what was left of my car.
“You’re a grown man” one guy in the crowd said to him “Why are you behaving like this? Abi you wan cry?”
I took a closer look at the guy and understood why he looked sick to the stomach - he was just another poorly paid driver in Lagos, probably with a boss who had warned him that he would pay for repairs the next time he rammed into someone’s car.
“This car is finished! Just park it! There’s no point, nothing remain!” the crowd of students yelled “Tell him to buy you a new car!”
I looked at the car closely and realised that the accident felt a lot worse than it actually was and ignored the crowd that was trying to work us up. But apparently they had succeeded with Benjamin, who was yelling at the jeep driver and looked like he was about to punch the guy.
Just then the owner of the Camry began to complain about the damage to his car but before he could complain too loudly some witnesses pointed out that he was the cause of the accident so he quickly drove off before the crowd got violent.
There was a lot of noise and confusion and I realised I needed to resolve the situation quickly and get out of there.
“Give me your oga’s phone number” I said to the jeep driver.
To my surprise he replied “He’s in the car”. I couldn’t believe it. The owner of the jeep was sitting there watching all the drama after what he’d done to my car.
“What?!?” the crowd screamed. “Why can’t he come out?” “Who does he think he is?” “Is he God?” “Drag him out!”
I don’t know much about the psychology of crowds but one thing’s for sure – a crowd quickly assumes a life and voice of its own. If there are any voices of dissent within it they are drowned out or forced to form another crowd. And that’s what happened. Crowd 1 was of the “Let’s beat somebody up now” point of view and Crowd 2 (blessed are the peacemakers) were the pacifists who kept things in order while I figured out what to do.
I walked over to the jeep and a group of people followed. I turned to them, said “Let me talk to the owner alone” and right away some of the guys in the group who were right behind me turned to the others and said “Let us talk to the owner alone.” This crowd was beginning to get on my nerves.
I tapped on the tinted window in the ‘owner’s corner.’
The guy inside sized me up before the window slid slowly down. He was middle aged and dressed in a suit and tie. I introduced myself as the owner of the crumpled heap in front of his car and asked him what the next step was towards getting my car fixed. “Sir” I concluded, “I can’t believe you didn’t even come out to see the damage you caused.”
Before the guy-in-the-tie could reply, some guys in my ‘entourage’ yelled “Come down from there! Are you God?”
The guy ignored them and said to me “Calm down, I don’t want to talk about it here, let’s get off the road first then we can discuss things.”
“He wants to run away!” For once I agreed with the crowd.
“Why can’t we discuss it here?” I asked the guy-in-the-tie.
He explained that he didn’t think we could talk properly with all the people around so we agreed to move the cars down the road to the nearest bus-stop. But the crowd wouldn’t let his jeep go.
“He wants to run away!”
So the guy-in-the-tie was forced to get out of his big black jeep and walk a few yards with me to the bus stop.
Benjamin reluctantly drove my rattling car off the middle of the road (where we’d caused about a half-mile of traffic) and parked it at the bus stop, with bits of metal and part of the bumper trailing behind like a bridal train. Benjamin was certain that the driver of the jeep and his oga had hatched a diabolical plan to escape but I was certain that that wasn’t going to happen.
We gathered at the bus stop, me, Benjamin, my little Japanese car, the guy-in-the-tie his big black jeep, trembling driver and Crowd 2. Crowd 1, a much larger group, was annoyed at the civilised turn of events. I hadn’t raised my voice or allowed Benjamin to punch the other driver so it was quite obvious that there was no action to be expected. They melted away, leaving a small group of decent individuals who had witnessed the accident and were eager to help.
We had finalised arrangements for the drivers to meet at the mechanic’s workshop, exchanged business cards and the guy-in-the-tie was about to scribble an undertaking on the back of his card that he was responsible for repairs to my car, when an elderly couple stepped forward.
“Er, what about my car?” the woman asked the guy-in-the-tie. I had noticed them earlier and thought that they were part of Crowd 2. Apparently not.
We were all confused. “My car” she repeated. “My car was affected, what are you going to do about it?”
Car? What car?
She pointed at a battered beat up Volvo parked behind the jeep and led us over to show us the damage. Crowd 2 joined in the inspection. We looked and looked but couldn’t figure out what dent was new and which one was pre-existing. Even she wasn’t sure and had to ask the elderly man (who turned out to be her driver) to point it out.
Apparently after the jeep hit us and we hit the Camry we spun a bit then hit the Volvo which was driving towards us. But come on! It was such minor damage compared to mine. It was ridiculous.
The guy-in-the-tie tried to reason with the elderly woman and Crowd 2 chipped in, telling her to go home and be thankful that she didn’t suffer the damage that I had. But she got hysterical and insisted that no one was going anywhere until her car was discussed.
At that point the guy-in-the-tie lost his temper, raised his voice and spoke a lot of Yoruba. The elderly lady replied with an equally loud voice, a lot more Yoruba and arms waving all about the place.
I tried to interrupt “Excuse me, could you just write the undertaking so I can go?” but the guy-in-the-tie said I should wait and continued arguing with the woman.
I was tired of all the crap but was too polite to loudly insist on being attended to – these people were twice my age and I was a victim of my upbringing.
I waited impatiently, making phone calls while Benjamin eyed the jeep driver and Crowd 2 supported the guy-in-the-tie as he battled the woman’s unreasonable request.
In the middle of the madness, a man in rags walked right through the crowd straight up to the guy-in-the-tie, held out his grimy hand and said loudly “gimme money, I never chop since morning”
We all paused for a moment – who the hell was this? – until the poor harassed guy-in-the-tie screamed “my friend get out of here, what’s my business whether you have eaten or not?” His driver grabbed the beggar, removed him from the scene and the lady in the Volvo resumed her complaining.
I just shook my head and thought “Loony Lagos. What the hell am I dong here??”
When they finally reached an agreement (I don’t understand Yoruba and so have no idea what the final outcome was) to my surprise the woman turned to me and asked for my phone number. Whatever for??
“Because you’re the one who hit me.”
Oh please. “Excuse me ma, I did not go out of my way to hit you. I wouldn’t have hit you if he didn’t hit me so don’t blame me” at which point she gave me the standard Naija speech about how she was old enough to be my mother blah blah blah and I should trust her blah blah and she only needed a witness blah….
I rolled my eyes as she talked. It was dark so it was safe to do so, (one of the advantages of not having functional street lights on Lagos roads) otherwise I would’ve had to stand through a long lecture about my rudeness, how disrespectful the youth of today are, and the general state of the nation.
I gave up, gave her my number, the guy-in-the-tie wrote an undertaking to fix my car, we shook hands with the members of Crowd 2 and everyone said goodnight.
Then Benjamin and I got into our little Japanese accordion and rattled our way home.
Saturday, October 27, 2007
Monday, September 3, 2007
Proudly Pedantic
No one has mastered the fine art of being pedantic quite like me.
I remember a conversation I had with an old friend, D, when I was seventeen. (D ‘Past’, not D ‘Present’) We were lazing about at her house talking about (what else?) guys - who was fine, who was funky, who liked who first and all those very important things.
Then she mentioned that a guy who lived down the road had confided in her that he was helplessly in love with me and that he had never felt that way about any girl before; I was interesting and fun and he was hopelessly in love.
“He’s what?” I asked.
“He’s in love with you!”
“Yes I heard that part” I said, “What I’m asking is – is he helplessly in love, or hopelessly in love?”
“What?” D looked blank.
“First you said he’s helplessly in love, then at the end you said hopelessly. So which one is it? Helpless or hopeless? Be specific.”
First she laughed and said I was crazy or something like that, then when she realised I was serious she looked very irritated. “Does it matter? Whatever it is, he’s in love.”
“It matters…” I explained carefully “…because I’m going to record it in my diary and I need to be accurate. I need to capture his feelings as he declared them.”
She looked at me like I was mad.
The thing is I didn’t believe her to start with. Not the bit about the guy being in love - that might have been true. But D was such a huge fan of frothy romantic novels that she probably made up the bit about helplessness and hopelessness.
So I’m the family pedant who likes to be very clear in conversation. “Say what you mean and mean what you say” and all that.
Anyways, the year I was seventeen was a glorious year. We were young, we had fun, we had crushes on each other and we played loud music. ‘We’ being a group of guys and girls who hung out at my friend D’s place nearly everyday.
(I must digress at this point - what happened to all the guys from my teenage years?? Where the heck did they all go?)
One day one of the guys in the group noticed that my voice sounded a little hoarse.
“You’ve caught a cold?” he asked.
“I don’t know if I have.” I replied.
“But you have a sore throat?”
“Yes I do.”
“Then you’ve caught a cold” he pronounced.
“It’s not a cold yet so I can’t agree.”
“So…the answer is no, you haven’t caught a cold then.”
“Well I don’t know, I may have, it could be that it just hasn’t manifested yet. Can I answer this question tomorrow? Because by then I’ll know whether or not I’ve caught a cold.”
Looking back, I’m really surprised that he stuck around that long to have that sort of silly conversation with me.
Or maybe... he was the guy who was hopelessly, helplessly in love.
I remember a conversation I had with an old friend, D, when I was seventeen. (D ‘Past’, not D ‘Present’) We were lazing about at her house talking about (what else?) guys - who was fine, who was funky, who liked who first and all those very important things.
Then she mentioned that a guy who lived down the road had confided in her that he was helplessly in love with me and that he had never felt that way about any girl before; I was interesting and fun and he was hopelessly in love.
“He’s what?” I asked.
“He’s in love with you!”
“Yes I heard that part” I said, “What I’m asking is – is he helplessly in love, or hopelessly in love?”
“What?” D looked blank.
“First you said he’s helplessly in love, then at the end you said hopelessly. So which one is it? Helpless or hopeless? Be specific.”
First she laughed and said I was crazy or something like that, then when she realised I was serious she looked very irritated. “Does it matter? Whatever it is, he’s in love.”
“It matters…” I explained carefully “…because I’m going to record it in my diary and I need to be accurate. I need to capture his feelings as he declared them.”
She looked at me like I was mad.
The thing is I didn’t believe her to start with. Not the bit about the guy being in love - that might have been true. But D was such a huge fan of frothy romantic novels that she probably made up the bit about helplessness and hopelessness.
So I’m the family pedant who likes to be very clear in conversation. “Say what you mean and mean what you say” and all that.
Anyways, the year I was seventeen was a glorious year. We were young, we had fun, we had crushes on each other and we played loud music. ‘We’ being a group of guys and girls who hung out at my friend D’s place nearly everyday.
(I must digress at this point - what happened to all the guys from my teenage years?? Where the heck did they all go?)
One day one of the guys in the group noticed that my voice sounded a little hoarse.
“You’ve caught a cold?” he asked.
“I don’t know if I have.” I replied.
“But you have a sore throat?”
“Yes I do.”
“Then you’ve caught a cold” he pronounced.
“It’s not a cold yet so I can’t agree.”
“So…the answer is no, you haven’t caught a cold then.”
“Well I don’t know, I may have, it could be that it just hasn’t manifested yet. Can I answer this question tomorrow? Because by then I’ll know whether or not I’ve caught a cold.”
Looking back, I’m really surprised that he stuck around that long to have that sort of silly conversation with me.
Or maybe... he was the guy who was hopelessly, helplessly in love.
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
Don't Worry, Be Happy
Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls…I’ve been on a blogging hiatus because I have a recurring cold and am presently hooked on cough medicine which keeps me almost permanently drowsy.
I love Benylin with Codeine. It gives one such a pleasant, happy feeling. All is right with the world. I love Lagos.
Last year when I had to fly several times for work, it was a pleasant coincidence that I had a cough at the time and so had a bottle of Benylin with me. It suppressed those endless racking coughs, soothed my throat and, just by the way, (only as a fringe benefit) knocked me out so I wouldn’t have to experience the flight.
This year when the ‘rains’ began and my cough resurfaced, I decided to try another brand of cough mixture, worried about my increasing attachment to Benylin.
I took a bottle of Day Nurse to work to prevent me from coughing all over everyone in Marketing (and some in HR.)
“Non Drowsy!” the bottle proclaimed. Oh yeah? Then why did I fall asleep halfway up the stairs to the Finance dept?
I took Night Nurse in the evening and could barely get up the next morning. My sore throat was gone but so also was my energy. I felt heavy and drugged.
So I went back to Benylin. It tastes great, works instanta, promotes world peace (don’t worry, be happy, I am!) and is an essential item in my Fear of Flying toolkit.
I’ll return to complete the Brazil posts as soon as this pleasant haze lifts.
I love Benylin with Codeine. It gives one such a pleasant, happy feeling. All is right with the world. I love Lagos.
Last year when I had to fly several times for work, it was a pleasant coincidence that I had a cough at the time and so had a bottle of Benylin with me. It suppressed those endless racking coughs, soothed my throat and, just by the way, (only as a fringe benefit) knocked me out so I wouldn’t have to experience the flight.
This year when the ‘rains’ began and my cough resurfaced, I decided to try another brand of cough mixture, worried about my increasing attachment to Benylin.
I took a bottle of Day Nurse to work to prevent me from coughing all over everyone in Marketing (and some in HR.)
“Non Drowsy!” the bottle proclaimed. Oh yeah? Then why did I fall asleep halfway up the stairs to the Finance dept?
I took Night Nurse in the evening and could barely get up the next morning. My sore throat was gone but so also was my energy. I felt heavy and drugged.
So I went back to Benylin. It tastes great, works instanta, promotes world peace (don’t worry, be happy, I am!) and is an essential item in my Fear of Flying toolkit.
I’ll return to complete the Brazil posts as soon as this pleasant haze lifts.
Sunday, August 5, 2007
Snakes on a Plane, Frog in the Bathroom (1)
Back to Brazil and the second event in the series:
2) Flew a total of about 25 hours to get to a ranch in Campo Grande
I lurve Samuel L Jackson and all his movies, except for that ridiculous Snakes on a Plane. Why don’t I like it? First I’d rather walk than fly. I established that fact in my post on July 17.
Secondly, I don’t understand the function of snakes in society. I don’t understand the function of cockroaches either, but this is not about them. I’d really appreciate it if a herpetologist out there would explain to me (slowly, slowly) exactly where snakes fit into the circle of life. They are just so scary. I guess what you don’t understand, you fear.
Put my two main fears together and you have Snakes on a Plane.
Luckily I didn’t experience anything close to the nightmare of seeing a snake slithering about on the flights I was on, but I did have a brush with one at the hacienda.
The flight to Sao Paulo felt like it took forever. If I remember correctly, it lasted over ten hours from London. Ten hours suspended in the air, surrounded by strangers, strapped to an uncomfortable seat with no leg room.
I had a window seat next to a young Brit, a friendly chatty guy who had backpacked across Asia and was now ready for South America. The lady on his other side, sitting by the aisle was ready for him. She looked much older, was obviously very attracted to him and flirted openly for hours.
Sometimes he would turn to me to ask questions about my trip and my country but she would always interrupt to get his attention back. By the time I got tired of talking to him and was ready to sleep she had her left hand resting on his knee while he studied a map.
Every time I looked out of the window it was dark. There was absolutely nothing to look at, just endless blackness. It was like the sun had overslept or something.
At the airport in Sao Paulo I was worried about missing my connecting flight to Campo Grande. No one seemed to speak any English so I waved my hands about and chanted “Campo Grande, Campo Grande.”
At first the people weren’t very friendly. In fact they were borderline rude; ignoring me, looking right through me, walking off as I approached, until they discovered I was a foreigner and the dazzling smiles came out.
I’m not one to ascribe racism to every negative encounter with non-black people but there were definitely negative vibes going on. I guess technically it wasn't racism, because they were really nice and helpful when they found out I’m not Brazilian. Maybe it’s an internal problem, the sort of problem usually faced by countries with colour-coded populations.
I finally got directions to the domestic wing (still frantic about missing my flight) and when I got to the VARIG/TAM office upstairs a lady behind the counter smiled and said “Jay Jay!” when she saw my Nigerian passport. She was really friendly and though her spoken English wasn’t that good I figured out she liked football (what Brazilian doesn’t?) and probably admired Jay Jay Okocha. So Jay Jay’s dribbling skills helped make life a little easier for a fellow Nigerian, miles away in South America. She gave me my boarding pass and directed me to the right terminal.
Remember I said her English wasn’t fantastic? Her directions were confusing so I ended up at the wrong place.
“Campo Grande, Campo Grande” I said to some guards.
One of them escorted me to the right terminal where I settled in to wait for my flight.
I felt lost and alone. Just as I was kicking myself for not buying a Portuguese phrase book, I heard someone speaking English. This sounds ridiculous but the sound of words I understood was really comforting.
I moved closer to the English couple who were talking about their trip. They were also going to Campo Grande so I sat near them and read a book while enjoying the sound of a familiar language.
2) Flew a total of about 25 hours to get to a ranch in Campo Grande
I lurve Samuel L Jackson and all his movies, except for that ridiculous Snakes on a Plane. Why don’t I like it? First I’d rather walk than fly. I established that fact in my post on July 17.
Secondly, I don’t understand the function of snakes in society. I don’t understand the function of cockroaches either, but this is not about them. I’d really appreciate it if a herpetologist out there would explain to me (slowly, slowly) exactly where snakes fit into the circle of life. They are just so scary. I guess what you don’t understand, you fear.
Put my two main fears together and you have Snakes on a Plane.
Luckily I didn’t experience anything close to the nightmare of seeing a snake slithering about on the flights I was on, but I did have a brush with one at the hacienda.
The flight to Sao Paulo felt like it took forever. If I remember correctly, it lasted over ten hours from London. Ten hours suspended in the air, surrounded by strangers, strapped to an uncomfortable seat with no leg room.
I had a window seat next to a young Brit, a friendly chatty guy who had backpacked across Asia and was now ready for South America. The lady on his other side, sitting by the aisle was ready for him. She looked much older, was obviously very attracted to him and flirted openly for hours.
Sometimes he would turn to me to ask questions about my trip and my country but she would always interrupt to get his attention back. By the time I got tired of talking to him and was ready to sleep she had her left hand resting on his knee while he studied a map.
Every time I looked out of the window it was dark. There was absolutely nothing to look at, just endless blackness. It was like the sun had overslept or something.
At the airport in Sao Paulo I was worried about missing my connecting flight to Campo Grande. No one seemed to speak any English so I waved my hands about and chanted “Campo Grande, Campo Grande.”
At first the people weren’t very friendly. In fact they were borderline rude; ignoring me, looking right through me, walking off as I approached, until they discovered I was a foreigner and the dazzling smiles came out.
I’m not one to ascribe racism to every negative encounter with non-black people but there were definitely negative vibes going on. I guess technically it wasn't racism, because they were really nice and helpful when they found out I’m not Brazilian. Maybe it’s an internal problem, the sort of problem usually faced by countries with colour-coded populations.
I finally got directions to the domestic wing (still frantic about missing my flight) and when I got to the VARIG/TAM office upstairs a lady behind the counter smiled and said “Jay Jay!” when she saw my Nigerian passport. She was really friendly and though her spoken English wasn’t that good I figured out she liked football (what Brazilian doesn’t?) and probably admired Jay Jay Okocha. So Jay Jay’s dribbling skills helped make life a little easier for a fellow Nigerian, miles away in South America. She gave me my boarding pass and directed me to the right terminal.
Remember I said her English wasn’t fantastic? Her directions were confusing so I ended up at the wrong place.
“Campo Grande, Campo Grande” I said to some guards.
One of them escorted me to the right terminal where I settled in to wait for my flight.
I felt lost and alone. Just as I was kicking myself for not buying a Portuguese phrase book, I heard someone speaking English. This sounds ridiculous but the sound of words I understood was really comforting.
I moved closer to the English couple who were talking about their trip. They were also going to Campo Grande so I sat near them and read a book while enjoying the sound of a familiar language.
Saturday, August 4, 2007
Pick Up the Phone, Girl
My friend T lives in Minneapolis and so I was really worried when I heard about the bridge that collapsed there on Wednesday. We’ve been friends since we were six and she’s one of the ‘experts’ I called during my contacts crisis (July 12 post.) Her mum was our music teacher in Primary school and we sat next to each other all through Secondary school.
We’ve been the same height for years. She constantly disputes that fact, imagining herself to be the taller one (ha!) but the truth is we’ve been the same height for years, experiencing vertical growth at pretty much the same rate.
Together we suffered the torture of wearing thick glasses while growing up, consoling ourselves with the ‘fact’ that ‘short-sighted people have been found to possess above-average intelligence.’ I don’t know how true that is, nor can I remember where we read that research finding, but consoled we were.
She got contacts first and I envied her liberation from glasses. Then she got LASIK surgery to correct her sight but I will stick to my contacts thank you very much. (It appears my contacts are also determined to stick to me, as evidenced by their clingy behaviour on July 12.)
Back to the main gist, these past couple of days I’ve called T’s cellphone nearly thirty times but it kept going straight to voicemail and her phone at home rang endlessly.
I left her a message, no response. Sent her an email, no reply. I became frantic and tried calling her parents here to find out how she was. Couldn’t get through.
So I decided to go to her parents’ house during my lunch break on Friday, since they live near my office. But I couldn’t: it rained on the island and traffic is bad when it rains and all that. Actually that’s not why. It did rain but I think I was sort of afraid of what I would hear and preferred to hear it over the phone than face to face.
So this morning I tried calling her parents again. No show so I tried T. Cellphone went to voicemail and her landline at home rang and rang - until her father picked up. I was a bit confused because I wasn’t expecting anyone to answer, least of all her father who, as far as I knew, was right here in Lagos with me.
Anyways, to cut a long story short, turns out T and her hubby are chillin’ in Cancun Mexico, celebrating their fifth wedding anniversary while I’m here developing an ulcer over her whereabouts.
We’ve been the same height for years. She constantly disputes that fact, imagining herself to be the taller one (ha!) but the truth is we’ve been the same height for years, experiencing vertical growth at pretty much the same rate.
Together we suffered the torture of wearing thick glasses while growing up, consoling ourselves with the ‘fact’ that ‘short-sighted people have been found to possess above-average intelligence.’ I don’t know how true that is, nor can I remember where we read that research finding, but consoled we were.
She got contacts first and I envied her liberation from glasses. Then she got LASIK surgery to correct her sight but I will stick to my contacts thank you very much. (It appears my contacts are also determined to stick to me, as evidenced by their clingy behaviour on July 12.)
Back to the main gist, these past couple of days I’ve called T’s cellphone nearly thirty times but it kept going straight to voicemail and her phone at home rang endlessly.
I left her a message, no response. Sent her an email, no reply. I became frantic and tried calling her parents here to find out how she was. Couldn’t get through.
So I decided to go to her parents’ house during my lunch break on Friday, since they live near my office. But I couldn’t: it rained on the island and traffic is bad when it rains and all that. Actually that’s not why. It did rain but I think I was sort of afraid of what I would hear and preferred to hear it over the phone than face to face.
So this morning I tried calling her parents again. No show so I tried T. Cellphone went to voicemail and her landline at home rang and rang - until her father picked up. I was a bit confused because I wasn’t expecting anyone to answer, least of all her father who, as far as I knew, was right here in Lagos with me.
Anyways, to cut a long story short, turns out T and her hubby are chillin’ in Cancun Mexico, celebrating their fifth wedding anniversary while I’m here developing an ulcer over her whereabouts.
Fill the Form, Dammit!
In my July 27 post I wrote about the series of smaller events which made up my Dramatic Experience in Brazil. This is the first:
(1) I wrote an essay and got picked to attend an Earthwatch expedition
My essay was about environmental aesthetics; about trees and fields and greenery in an urban landscape. I wrote about water and waste and the hazardous mix of the two in some parts of the country. I don’t recall writing anything about birds or animals.
So I was really surprised when I read the Earthwatch invitation letter and found that we were going to spend two weeks researching wildlife in the Pantanal. I enjoy watching animal documentaries from the safety of my bed but have never been keen on getting too close. But after some thought I figured why not? Something new.
The lady at the Earthwatch office in London nagged me endlessly about filling out the health insurance form. There were loads of forms to fill and I was sure I had filled them all. No, she insisted, you haven’t sent me the health insurance form. Please fill it, sign it, and fax it. I agreed to but forgot to.
She called me again. “I won’t let you get on the plane without that form being faxed to me first.”
How was I supposed to figure out which one was the health insurance form? I grumbled to myself. (Grumble a lot, especially on Wednesdays.)
All the forms looked alike; lots of questions and small print and boxes for comments, how was I supposed to dig through it all, it was such a waste of time, what the hell did she need the form for, aargh I hate this, which one is the health insur - actually it was quite easy to figure out which form it was because it had ‘HEALTH INSURANCE FORM’ printed clearly at the top. But I grumbled anyway. It’s very therapeutic. So is cursing and swearing, though I understand that ladies aren’t meant to swear. Why not? Who created that rule? I’ll effing swear if I want.
Where was I? Aha, the form. I filled it, signed it and faxed it the day before I left. A week later as I was being wheeled into emergency surgery I thanked God - and the lady at the Earthwatch office in London - that I finally filled out the form.
(1) I wrote an essay and got picked to attend an Earthwatch expedition
My essay was about environmental aesthetics; about trees and fields and greenery in an urban landscape. I wrote about water and waste and the hazardous mix of the two in some parts of the country. I don’t recall writing anything about birds or animals.
So I was really surprised when I read the Earthwatch invitation letter and found that we were going to spend two weeks researching wildlife in the Pantanal. I enjoy watching animal documentaries from the safety of my bed but have never been keen on getting too close. But after some thought I figured why not? Something new.
The lady at the Earthwatch office in London nagged me endlessly about filling out the health insurance form. There were loads of forms to fill and I was sure I had filled them all. No, she insisted, you haven’t sent me the health insurance form. Please fill it, sign it, and fax it. I agreed to but forgot to.
She called me again. “I won’t let you get on the plane without that form being faxed to me first.”
How was I supposed to figure out which one was the health insurance form? I grumbled to myself. (Grumble a lot, especially on Wednesdays.)
All the forms looked alike; lots of questions and small print and boxes for comments, how was I supposed to dig through it all, it was such a waste of time, what the hell did she need the form for, aargh I hate this, which one is the health insur - actually it was quite easy to figure out which form it was because it had ‘HEALTH INSURANCE FORM’ printed clearly at the top. But I grumbled anyway. It’s very therapeutic. So is cursing and swearing, though I understand that ladies aren’t meant to swear. Why not? Who created that rule? I’ll effing swear if I want.
Where was I? Aha, the form. I filled it, signed it and faxed it the day before I left. A week later as I was being wheeled into emergency surgery I thanked God - and the lady at the Earthwatch office in London - that I finally filled out the form.
Friday, July 27, 2007
Revenge of the Pig
Prior to my Dramatic Experience in Brazil (three years ago), I lived life unaware that I had a pancreas.
Honestly. I didn’t know what it was, and therefore had no idea I had one. The word ‘pancreas’ sounded vaguely familiar - isn’t that the name of a station on the London underground? St. Pancreas? No? Oh well.
I realise I sound horribly ignorant but people, the internal bits that are top of mind are the heart, lungs, kidneys, liver and the spleen. How many medical series on TV feature episodes starring a pancreas, eh?
My Dramatic Experience wasn’t one big incident; it was actually a series of eleven smaller events:
(1) I wrote an essay and got picked to attend an Earthwatch expedition
(2) Flew a total of about 25 hours to get to a ranch in Campo Grande (remember, I'd rather walk...)
(3) Met some truly wonderful people at the ranch
(4) Castrated a wild pig
(5) Developed severe abdominal pain and had to be airlifted to the nearest hospital
(6) Was informed that I had a pancreas that required immediate surgical attention
(7) Remembered the castrated pig - was this karma?
(8) Seven hours in surgery, a week in Intensive Care
(9) Met more wonderful people at the hospital and discovered they spoke no English
(10) Learnt pidgin Portuguese
(11) Developed a new outlook on life…
Unfortunately I can't write about this right now; it’s Friday night and I’m tired so tomorrow I’ll start chronicling the series of events.
Honestly. I didn’t know what it was, and therefore had no idea I had one. The word ‘pancreas’ sounded vaguely familiar - isn’t that the name of a station on the London underground? St. Pancreas? No? Oh well.
I realise I sound horribly ignorant but people, the internal bits that are top of mind are the heart, lungs, kidneys, liver and the spleen. How many medical series on TV feature episodes starring a pancreas, eh?
My Dramatic Experience wasn’t one big incident; it was actually a series of eleven smaller events:
(1) I wrote an essay and got picked to attend an Earthwatch expedition
(2) Flew a total of about 25 hours to get to a ranch in Campo Grande (remember, I'd rather walk...)
(3) Met some truly wonderful people at the ranch
(4) Castrated a wild pig
(5) Developed severe abdominal pain and had to be airlifted to the nearest hospital
(6) Was informed that I had a pancreas that required immediate surgical attention
(7) Remembered the castrated pig - was this karma?
(8) Seven hours in surgery, a week in Intensive Care
(9) Met more wonderful people at the hospital and discovered they spoke no English
(10) Learnt pidgin Portuguese
(11) Developed a new outlook on life…
Unfortunately I can't write about this right now; it’s Friday night and I’m tired so tomorrow I’ll start chronicling the series of events.
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