ktravula – a travelogue!

Browsing ktravula – a travelogue! blog archives for January, 2010.

My Saudi

Saudi Arabia from my Google Analytics (Click on picture to enlarge)

Since the president of Nigeria left for Saudi Arabia over six weeks ago to treat his ailing self, I’ve developed a new interest in that country called Saudi Arabia. Well, not really. My interest in the country actually predates my country’s recent and now (in)famous healthcare dealings with them. My fascination is very old indeed. The country holds a kind of fascination for me as an exotic tourist destination that so many people adore as a kind of spiritual homeland. Not me though. I’m just mostly intrigued by the large stone cube in the centre of the city of Mecca called the Ka’abah which was said to have been erected by Abraham in the olden times. In many Islamic tracts, on youtube and on some illustrated maps of the world, I have also read that the site of the Ka’abah is also the literal centre of the world.It is said to be equidistant to all corners of the world. This should go on to explain why that is the direction that every moslem faces when they pray. How true is that?

I don’t know if I can ever make it into the country in my lifetime, seeing that I’m not a moslem, nor an intending pilgrim, but it would have been a fascinating trip to get close to that prehistoric monument, touch it, and imagine what it would have been like in those days when faith did not always include killing a fellow human being. It would definitely have been a place to visit on a sight seeing tour. Well, thinking about it now, I wonder if there was ever really a time in history when faith was totally without blood and gore. Even father Abraham was said to have once been asked to slaughter his own son to prove his faith.

In any case, here was what my Google Analytics turned up as statistics of readers from that famous country. Only five hits between August 2009 and today. Interesting. And contrary to my earlier thoughts and wishes, the readers are not from Jeddah where the president of my country now resides (perhaps in a hospital bed), but in Riyadh. It is very sad to realize that the president has not been reading my thoughts and opinions after all, but well, I’ll survive it. However, this knowledge now begs the questions: Who were they who read my blog? What did they read? Did they enjoy it? Was it censored? And would they be coming back soon? Of course, I will not be getting answers to those questions. Or will I?

Cartoon from www.ofilisketches.com. Used by permission.

Salaam Alaikum: Peace be unto you, folks in Saudi Arabia. Please take good care of my president if you know where he is. And if you really do know where he is, please drop me a line. If you come across him anytime soon, tell him to send me an e-mail of acknowledgement. Or at least place a phone call to the BBC, or at least a popular morning radio show in Nigeria so we know that he is still alive, agile and in charge. Tell him that, contrary to what anyone around him, countrymen are really pissed, agitated, and running out of patience right now. They believe that if he were in office during Christmas time, the United States might not have placed our country’s name on a security list of countries with suspicious citizens. I mean, when you think about it, it’s not the fault of the United States that whenever President Obama could have tried to call the Nigerian president to discuss the matter, the phone would have rung for a while, and then either gone into voicemail, or been picked by a woman who spoke English with a really muffled foreign accent. I know you understand, and that you care enough to help. That is why you have read my blog for those five long times. Thank you very much for listening, and for your support. I look forward to your response soonest.

Ma salaam.

Love from Edwardsville.

(NOTE: That drawing from Ofilisketches is used by permission. Please feel free to print as many copies as you want, and paste on the streets of Riyadh and Jeddah, just in case someone comes across him and has useful information for us. This is urgent, please. Thanks.)

Politically Correct?

And so today after a lot of soul searching and repentance of past sins of unpatriotism, I am back with a new list of bumper stickers. This time, they will be nice and politically correct, for those who like to see the good and the positive. Now you have no more excuses for not making them up as banners or stickers and putting them on your cars, mugs, shirts, doors and fridges.

The current news, as dumb as it is is that Nigerians, along with other nationals “of interest” will now be subject to more more enhanced searches at airports. It’s dumb not only because it attacks the symptoms of a disease and not the diseases itself while casting the “doctor” in a very bad light in the sight of his patients and colleagues, but because it also seeks to create more enemies – or at least, less friends, inadvertently. The fact of the matter is that “enhanced” airport searches have never solved any problems. Never ever. It only humiliates the guests, and breeds mutual suspicion. Before this December incident, every passenger on American planes have had to remove their shoes, belts and jackets before boarding. The terrorist got wise up and took to using the underwear. If we’re asked to remove our underwears at airports now, the person determined to cause havok will simply think of new means to do so. What’s more, Nigeria has never been a state sponsor of terrorism, so what’s the point? If I were an Al-Qaeda strategist, I would be thinking like this today: this would be a very good time to shift attention off of Nigeria, Yemen and Pakistan to other poor countries of the world where we can recruit impressionable kids like Umar Muttalab for our next attack. Thankfully the new TSA requirements in the US does not include full body searches for those other countries at the moment. With any chance, we’ll get this one through, and take a few thousand lives. Duh! Why am I the only one thinking out of the box? Is it just because I’m from Nigeria, or because it’s true?

Now here are the bumper stickers you should see:

I am a Nigerian. I have words for “kill”, “maim” and “slaughter” in my local languages, but none for “terrorism” and “terrorist”, and none for “snow”. What does that tell you?
I’m a Nigerian, one of the happiest people in the world. Going to heaven now is the least of my aspirations.
I’m a Nigerian. I do not need to make a point with my life when Jesus has already done so.
I am a Nigerian. America needs not be afraid of me. I’m still trying to get her visa. (Thanks Yemi)
I’m a Nigerian and not a terrorist. I have other things to worry about.
I’m a Nigerian. If I can’t lay down my life for my country, why would I give it up for your militant God?

… among many others that, again, we can make up as we go along.

But the bumper stickers probably won’t make sense right now that in another dumb development, the country’s elected representatives have resolved to sever ties with the United States unless it takes the country’s name off the list of the United States’ top security watch list. What? They even gave an ultimatum. Talk of misplaced priorities. Talk of silliness in top government circles. Talk of pouring scarce fuel on an already open but unwanted fire. Whatever happened to silent, common-sense, underground diplomacy? Now, more than the Mutallab incident on Christmas day, this is one news item that makes me ashamed, not of my country, but of its leaders/rulers. And this comes just when I thought I could be optimistic for once. Shame!

On Foreign Language Teaching

I received this article this morning about how to thrive or survive as a department of foreign languages. It’s long, but for those interested in the topic of teaching foreign languages, especially in a depression economy, it is worth reading.

http://www.insidehighered.com/news/2009/12/29/languages

NOTE: It was just a few days ago that I was talking with friends who expressed surprise that a language like Yoruba is taught in an American institution. “French or German, yes, but Yoruba?” they wondered. “How is it ever useful to anybody anywhere?Who would use it? Everyone (including the Yoruba people in Nigeria) speaks English anyway.” they said.

Apparently, it is still hard to sell the idea of learning a foreign language that doesn’t come with a “sophisticated” appeal like Spanish or Russian to most common people anywhere in the world. My interlocutors were one American and one African. A day earlier, another friend – this time a Nigerian on the chat messenger – had expressed similar sentiments. He even added a twist of the absurd by insisting that I was working for the CIA. That was the only way he could rationalize a scholarship that affords me the opportunity to teach my language in the United States. He also could not understand why foreigners could be interested in the language.

I think this attitude is a result of a fundamental ignorance of the purpose of learning anything at all, which is simply to gain knowledge. And there is no knowledge that is not power, as that writer Ralph Waldo Emerson puts it. Learning a foreign language gives one access to new ways of looking at the world, no matter how small the number of people who speak the language is. But the Yoruba language is spoken by over 30 million people, and has a culture that has survived hundreds of years and has influenced countless other cultures all over the world from the Carribbeans to the United States’ African American population, and produced one Nobel Laureatte. What is there not to learn about its culture, and language, and people? The lesson for me – if any at all – is in learning more about the importance of linguistic, language documentation and cultural studies. It helps to have something to say while being challenged about the use, or uselessness, of what one does.

Frozen!

The lake is frozen. The waters are frozen. The land is frozen. My hands are frozen. Everything is dead. It is winter.

Today I walked on water, almost like Jesus did. Only this time, it was day, and the water was no water after all. It was ice. I walked on a frozen lake. I almost gave in to the temptation to ride on it as well. Who knows, I might still give it a try. My friends in the mountains of Colorado have had snow since October. They have ice rinks up in Chicago for skating and ice hockey. I have the Cougar Lake in its frozen glory. I may not be able to skate on it, but slide I shall with my winter boots. It’s my own winter sport, invented and patented by KTravulad himself. We shall rename this spot, this water, the KTravulake.

But I pity the ducks, the geese. They have now been confined to the sky since their primary playground has become a plate of solid glass. I don’t envy them, and I pity them only a little as well, since I was never a fan of their loud cackling in the first place.

In any case, it is winter. I’m enjoying it.

To Good Times

I like to be happy, most times. Actually, I like to be happy all of the time, although I have realized that it is when I am not so extraordinarily happy, yet charged with sufficient energy that I am the most creative. I like to be happy because there is no trophy for sadness. Nothing is romantic about it. There is no medal for a constant gloomy state of mind. I have discovered that cheerfulness, laughter, conviviality are better alternatives to gloom, and sadness. I like to be sarcastic only because it gives me more avenue to laugh and be happy. I am an optimist in a way that can sometimes manifest in occasional pessimism, or is it sacrasm. But I love life, and I enjoy it, each second of the way. This is my affirmation of life.

I’m thinking back to some good times I’ve had in life. Some times, the days appear long and a simple conversation with a pleasant company either over the phone or in an internet chat brings back moments of familiar conviviality, I relapse into a sweet nostalgia of the fun care free days. They are not gone yet. They are here still. I smell them in the cold night air. Tonight I remember Ibadan, not of childhood and innocence, but of youth and pseudo-recklessness and revelry. Well, not so much. I remember Sola Olorunyomi with his truck, his bicycle and his guitar at the Students Union Building bar in the Ibadan University campus in the early 2000, discussing poetry and politics within cigarette smokes, beers and music. There was Loomnie. There was Benson. There was Bukky who loved Benson, and there was Benson who loved his bottle. There was Luvles. There was Olads. There was Kemi who later became Idayat. There was Pinheiro. There was Lola. There was Kunle. There was fun. There was the religious Seni who had a bible verse for every situation. There was Chiedu, and Chido. There was Busola, who had a first class in Linguistics. Then there was Ropo, and Chris Dudu, and Funmi who liked to write daringly. There was poetry. There was Ify. There was Najite. There was harmattan and the dry wind of November. Then there was Uncle Prof whom we embarrassed by reading his love poems back to him in that public get-together. There was his lovely wife. There was Adelugba. There was the Arts Theatre which never ever ceased to be a fun place to be at evenings. And then, there was Nike who was so thin she almost didn’t have a shadow. There was Sophie who smuggled tobacco in from Germany to give to Benson, and there were Nadine and Bettina who saw Ibadan once with Sophie and could not wait to return, just to see us. There were days of walking all night from the University all the way to Dugbe. There was Noffield House. There was palm wine and pepper soup at Niser. There was Elizabeth. And there was Bidemi. There was fun Biodun who died, but was so tall that his legs stuck out of the coffin. There was Henrietta who I liked, and who Olumide liked, but who perhaps thought that we were all bad boys. There was Demola who was going to be a monk, and who became a butt of beer jokes. And later there was changed Demola who finally fell in love and got Ope before Pinheiro made his move. There was UCJ, and the different folks it attracted. There were endless dinners. There were endless protests. There was Mellamby Hall. There was Upper Mellamby. There was room A52 and its many adventures. There was Fidho. There was Ibukun. There was Kunle. There was Ositelu. There were riots. There were strikes. There were moments of silliness and idleness. There were moments of stupidity. They were good times.

I remember Lagos a few days before I travelled to the United States, at the Silverbird Galleria for a mini bear summit. There were books. There was laughter. There were jokes. There was Tolu, and Chris, and Rayo and Kris, and Bukky and Sunkanmi, and music. And ice cream. There was fun. And food. Before then, there was Bimbo on the expressway. Then Elizabeth, sometimes earlier in the day. Then there was Food Major, and roasted beef. And family. And Jolaade. And Leke. And Yemi. And Laitan. And strawberry juice. And suya. Tonight, I remember the good times. Whenever the cold wind blows within recurring laughters, whenever I smile, whenever the days seem long and only a phone conversation, or a pleasant internet chat, connects me with a world I have since left for a little while, I remember the good fun times. Those are the moments that count.

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