Browsing ktravula – a travelogue! blog archives for September, 2009.
“Freedom isn’t free. Neither are refills.”
– Seen at a local coffee shop in downtown Edwardsville.
These are pictures from the weekend, taken mostly at an outdoor picnic that took place at the Cougar Lake Area, where there was line dancing, boat/kayak riding and volleyball. Enjoy.
PROVIDENCE, R.I. [Brown University] — Brown University announced today (Monday, Sept. 14, 2009) that internationally acclaimed Nigerian novelist Chinua Achebe has joined the Brown University faculty. Achebe comes to Brown after 19 years on the faculty of Bard College, where he was the Charles P. Stevenson Professor of Languages and Literature.
Named the David and Marianna Fisher University Professor and professor of Africana studies at Brown, Achebe is best known for his novels and essays which critique post-colonial Nigerian politics and society as well as the impact of the West on Africa.
Born in Ogidi, an Igbo village in Nigeria, Achebe studied at University College (now the University of Ibadan). His first novel, Things Fall Apart, is the most widely read work of African fiction, having sold more than 12 million copies in English alone. It has been translated into 50 languages. His other prominent works include No Longer at Ease, Arrow of God, A Man of the People, and Anthills of the Savannah.
For many decades, Achebe has worked to build greater understanding of Africa through his uncompromising political commentary, social critique, and creative writing. Acknowledged godfather to many African writers, he served for a time as editor of the African Writers Series for Heinemann Publishing. He is the author of numerous collections of short stories, poetry and essays. One of his essays, “An Image of Africa: Racism in Conrad’s Heart of Darkness,” aroused considerable debate and had a marked impact on Conrad criticism. A devoted student of Igbo culture, his latest work on Igbo culture and theology is scheduled to be published in October 2009 by the University of Notre Dame Press.
Achebe is the recipient of numerous honors. He was awarded the Man Booker International Prize for outstanding fiction in 2007. Among his more than 40 honorary degrees is an honorary Doctor of Humane Letters from Brown, where he will serve in the Department of Africana Studies and oversee the Chinua Achebe Colloquium on Africa, a new initiative to be developed by Achebe in keeping with his life’s work to foster greater knowledge of Africa.
News source: http://news.brown.edu/pressreleases/2009/09/achebe
ktravula’s comments: Why did Professor Achebe not come to Brown University while I was there?
…I drove to St. Louis.
I will save the details of the journey for my memoirs, but I can tell you that it is (one of) my most memorable experience so far in the United States, one that I will not forget in a hurry – except I lose my mind, of course. Thinking about that, no pun intended, maybe I should insure my memory. Now, the vehicle that I drove was an automatic with a very sound engine. I always preferred the shift gear vehicles, but I can’t complain when someone offers me a car to drive for free, and it turns out to be automatic. I have noticed that many cars in America are automatic, even the trucks and trailers. The passenger was female – a painter, and the road was clear because it was night. We set off at around 11pm to the Emergency Room at a certain “Barnes Jewish” Hospital, and we returned around 4am, tired and exhausted. I’ve never felt so alive, plying the many veins that make up the American road network.
Well, let me be a little less cryptic. The female passenger was my friend the artist, and she had broken her ankle earlier in the day while descending a flight of stairs. She twisted her ankle, tripped and fell on her back. I didn’t know how serious it was until she drove into campus and I saw it, all swollen and sore. It surely was an emergency. How she managed to drive to me, I had no idea. When I asked why she could not go to a nearby government hospital, she told me that the healthcare system of the US does not allow her adequate healthcare in a government hospital without having to pay more than she cold afford. A simple visit to the hospital for an x-ray scan might cost up to $1500 in bills. I couldn’t believe my ears. This piece of information only brought home the realitites of the national healthcare reform debate that has rocked American politics for a while now. In Nigeria, you could get a scan for $5 at any standard laboratory, and the government hospital will treat a patient immediately for any emergencies. And one doesn’t need a health insurance. America has the costliest healthcare system in the developed world, it seems. According to Holly Ruff, this is a country where people actually declare bankruptcy after recovering from a major illness, even when they have insurance.
“Barnes Jewish” is a charitable but well equipped hospital in St. Louis which sometimes allows its patients to pay according to their own plan, or not at all, depending on the state of their finances – according to what I hear. The foot was scanned, and the doctor found that my friend had only sprained her ankle, and would need to stay at home for a few more days. The leg was stablized, bandaged and braced, and we headed home. It was my first time of carrying my international driver’s license on me after the wine debacle, and it turned out to be a very good decision.
Healthcare is important to everyone, and no one, no one should have to die because they’re poor,, and no one should have to go broke because they fall sick. A society with as many rich citizens like America should be able to take care of it’s poor. This is not Obama’s policy. It is only common sense. The same goes for Nigeria. As I sat in the lobby waiting for Holly to emerge from the emergency room where she was being attended to, I began to think about the number of people who were rushed into the emergency room while I was there. I thought about all the sick people I know, and how much they already suffer, without worrying about having money to pay for it. I have a close family member diagnosed with cancer, and my heart goes out to her. A close friend of mine that I last saw in about 2008 in good health has now been diagnosed with a bone disease. He’s also sickle celler. One of the families here that has been very nice to me has a cancer patient in it. Patrick Swayze, the actor famous for his role in Point Break and Ghost has been announced dead after a long struggle with cancer. Just a few days ago, we had mourned the passing of Senator Edward Kennedy of the USA, and Gani Fawehinmi of Nigeria, both favourite public figures whose lives were cut short by old age, and a terminal disease. It is a world filled with sickness that we live in. We should not make it worse by restricting care and support to only the ones that can pay for it. Helping the weak and taking care of the sick may just be the most noblest act we could perform as conscious human beings, or the sanest reason of our existence.
This post is dedicated to healthcare reform, in the United States where it’s long overdue, and in my country still in need of much more infrastructural and human capital development.
Holly R. is an artist who lives in a country cottage in Edwardsville. She is also a tennis instructor in a high school in St. Louis.
I first met her in church on Sunday last week, and since the first time she walked in to sit on the seat right in front of me, something told me that she would be an intriguing personality. I was drawn to her. She surely didn’t look like every other person in church on that day. She looked like a combination of a little nervousness, and a little out of placeness. After the service, Rudy introduced us and we exchanged contacts. Rudy had introduced us to almost the whole congregation actually, since everyone wanted to know who we were and where we were from. In the evening of the day, I got a first email from her. We have been in touch since then, mostly through email.
It was Friday, and I had talked Reham the Egyptian into following me to town to do some shopping for fruits and food. She obliged and we both went like two good FLTA students enjoying a beautiful city in the evening. If anything, it would give us another chance to look at downtown Edwardsville which we’d both been planning on visiting for a while now, without chance. She had just picked up a mobile phone which a relative in the US had sent to her from NY, and she had nothing else to do, like me. She equally felt the need to do a little shopping, so off we went. The bus from our “village” to Edwardsville station took only about twenty minutes, and we were sitting down at a lovely bus station/park, observing the beautiful scenery while we waited for the connecting bus to Walmart. It came on time, and we went with it. The distance from Walmart to Aldi’s is just a stone -throw. We walked the short distance, and we got there. The major difference between Aldi’s and Walmart is not only in the price of goods. It has cheaper fruits and food items on sale, for sure, but it also had some strange peculiarities that Walmart didn’t have. For example, you had to put in a quarter in the shopping carts before you could use them. And they won’t give you a shopping bag when you finish shopping. You had to buy it for yourself. All is fair so far, especially since they sell cheaper stuff than the other big stores. The problem came when I passed by a section of wines within the store, and took fancy to one lovely bottle of Californian Merlot.
No, the problem came when I wanted to pay for it.
“May I see your identification, please.” The little lady at the counter said to me nicely, and I fumbled through my pocket to locate my ID that labels me as “A Visiting Scholar.”
She looked young enough to be a first year student in a neighbouring University, or even SIUE itself.
She looked at the ID, then at me, and asked. “We need to know that you’re old enough, before we can sell you the wine.”
I couldn’t believe my ears. I looked around to see if Reham was close by to laugh with me, but she was still busy shopping, and a few more people had began to line up behind me. I looked at the cashier and asked whether she was really serious. She was. I told her I was far older than that, and then she excused herself and went to show the card to someone superior to her. Then she came back to repeat the message.
“She said that you must show proof of your age or you can’t have it. Do you have a driver’s licence please?”
“I do, but it’s not here.” I said.
“Passport?”
“Yes, but I don’t take it everywhere I go. Come on! Do I look like a 17 year old kid to you?” I asked, getting almost angry at this time, but keeping calm. I was already causing a situation, and Reham looked at me from within the store with a puzzled look that showed her wonder at what I was being interrogated about.
“You have to be 21,” the lady said, firmly.
I was livid.
“Of course, I’m 21. I was 21 many many years ago. What kind of a shop is this?”
“I’m sorry,” she said again. And she looked like she meant it. She’s a youth, and she must understand my pain without being able to offer any help. “But that’s the policy. You may go elsewhere. Maybe they’ll sell it to you. It’s the policy here not to sell to anyone without ID.”
I left dejected and much annoyed. The scene repeated itself a few minutes at Walmart, where the cashier this time was an older woman whose line was “In case of anyone younger than 40, we require a valid identification.”
It was a horrible experience, I tell you, but I have now gotten over my disappointment with my grocery stores. With plenty teenage drinking and drunk driving in America today, they can’t seem to help it. But I retain my rage for the old Nigerian football stars on television who all claim/seem to be 24 years old when their mates are almost grandfathers. They it is who have successfully persuaded the whole world that if someone looks like me, without discernable beard or moustache, he’s most likely a minor, not fit the pleasures of Dionysus. Oh, the horror of it. For here I am, a travelling Nigerian spirit now floating aimlessly in a limbo space, unable to experience the true fullness of the American bottle. Fie! Fie! Fie!