ktravula – a travelogue!

Yesterday…

…I drove to St. Louis.

140920091271

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.

140920091274 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

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.

Hollow Friday

…America got me mad!

I was angry and upset at the same time, and there was nobody to hear or temper my livid cry. Except Reham, of course, because she was there when it happened, but she couldn’t understand why a bottle of Californian Merlot could make a young man from Nigeria so friggn annoyed at a grocery store. To me, it felt like an usual and totally unexpected encounter, and even now when I think back at it, I still fume.

Okay, here is what happened.

It was Friday, and I had talked Reham the Egyptian into following me to town to do some shopping for fruits.

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.

Dear 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!

Why I Am Malnourished

I have been worried that the reason why I felt a little weak on Friday was because I’d not been eating and eating well, so it felt necessary to restock my fridge with the things that matter as far as keeping me healthy and fat is concerned. Did I mention that I will need as much fat as possible on my skin to ward off the cold in winter? I went out shopping with a fellow FLTA here on campus.

Now let me tell you why I had not been eating well.

#1. There have not been plenty familiar food items for me to eat. I have not yet been able to make that St. Louis trip to an African shop to buy òkù èkó and some egúsí soup, so on Thursday, I summoned courage and took my knife to the belly of the ripe plantains I had got from Doug in the Foreign Language department earlier in the week, and cooked it with a little salt. It was a wonder to discover that very few people in America have ever seen a plantain or heard of it. Even Chris the American found it strange, and he kept asking me what it was. How do you explain what a plantain is to someone who hasn’t seen it before? Just tell him it’s an elder brother to the banana. Simple? Well, Chris still couldn’t bring himself to eat it until I forced him to. But that’s another story.

#2. Every time I go out to buy milk – by the way, milk here is sold in large kegs, and not in little cans like in Nigeria – every single one of the milk on sale has this little sign on them that says “Non-fat”, “20% less fat than regular milk”, “non-fattening milk” etc. I mean, seriously, how can I become really fatty before December comes, when everywhere I turn, America is trying so hard to retard my growth and the thickness of my skin?

Now, the #3 and most painful reason why I’d been malnourised is this – and not many people found it funny: everytime on the food line at the cafetaria in the University has always been a certain kind of hell. I would spend fifteen to twenty minutes waiting for my turn at the counter, and when I got there, there was usually a guy or sometimes a girl taking my order. And it would go like this. Note: there’s always bread on the menu.

Choose your bread.

S/he: Hi. Can I take your order.

Me: Yes, please. Can I have a hamburger please.

S/he: A hamburger. What type of bread do you want with it?

Me: What types of bread do you have?

By this time the other guys behind me are a little impatient, having been on the line for a long time themselves.

S/he: We have white, wheat, whole… [and the list goes on]

Me: Well, please give me anyone.

I’ve since realized my folly, because the first day I got a hamburger with a wheat bread, I hated it, then hated myself.

S/he: Okay. Now do you want cheese in it?

Me: No.

S/he: Okay. What of vegetables and the likes?

Me: You know what, I think you should put the cheese.

S/he: Alright, no problem. What kind of cheese do you want?

Me: Oh, what kind of cheese are there?

S/he: Well, we have Swiss cheese, American cheese, cheddar… [and he mentions about two more types.]

By this time, I’m really hungry, and exasperated as well.

Me: Please put any one. [Some times, I also say, “Make it Swiss”.]

After all of the question and answer segment which takes more than five minutes of my precious time, s/he says, “Please wait here. You’re number … and we’ll call you in about ten minutes,” which s/he does when the time comes. The problem is, by that time, I’m either no longer hungry, or already disinterested in the whole food.

I’ve since learnt that the Swiss cheese is better than both American and cheddar. But If you ask me, still I can’t tell the difference.

Back On the Grind

The traveller is not dead, and neither has he run out of ideas to blog about. America is not such a place where a day passes by without something interesting, something memorable. My reason for a little silence is to adjust to my new domain, allow readers to do so as well, and – you can’t blame me for this one – give Maya Angelou more than a day’s space on my first page. It’s not all the time that one gets to meet a Poet Laureate. You are officially allowed to feel a little jealous of me.

Now that I’ve got that little explanation out of the way, let me tell you a few things that happened to me in the past couple of days, starting with the most recent. I will follow up in the next posts about the other interesting things I encountered, especially one in particular that made me so livid with rage.

#1.

Popcorn

I went out on a date. I did tell you about a painter I met in church who gave me a few of her paintings. Well, she has turned out to be quite a fascinating an interesting personality. Saturday was (almost) totally free on my schedule so we went out to the cinema in downtown Edwardsville. First we stopped by Starbucks to have some coffee and some nice conversation, then by 9.3opm or so, we headed out to Showplace Cinema. One thing was obvious, nightlife thrives in Edwardsville, as well as the other parts of America that I’ve visited. The painter grew up in Mississipi but has lived in many parts of the country, most notably, Portland Oregon where she had just recently returned.

The movie we saw was “All About Steve” featuring Sandra Bullock and Bradley Cooper. It was a movie that made me laugh a lot, and it turned out that she enjoyed herself too. Now, I admit that all I would have loved to see was “Inglourious Basterds” by Tarantino, but since we got there late, we could not. The other option was “District 9”, and upon my life, there was no way I was going to pay money to see a film that so denigrated my country and people, especially when I was on a nice-going date with an American woman. No. I come from a place that frowns so much on voluntary suicide. No can do! And now, back home, when my itchy fingers began to do a little search online for the source of that totally insensitive movie “District 9”, it was to my amazement to discover that the movie was produced by Sony, the same company behind the infamous PS3 ad that referenced internet scams/rumours as being Nigerian. This begs a question: What does Sony have to gain by pissing off about 130 million people not once, but twice?

The other movie on show was Sorority Row, feauturing an (almost) all girls cast, as well as I Can Do Bad All By Myself, featuring Tyler Perry and Taraji P. Henson, my new screen crush. Then there was Julie and Julia featuring Meryl Streep, a wonderful actor of “Mamma Mia” fame. I have rescheduled a re-match to go back and watch all these ones. I have nothing but time, and nine months is a whole lot of time to waste without having as much American fun. Talking about nine months, if I impregnate someone today, does it mean that I’ll actually get to see my kid before I return home? Don’t mind me, I’d sworn to keep my mind off all dirty matters until a close friend decided to ask me, out of the blue while I was chatting with her yesterday, whom I’d been kissing. All I asked her was to tell me why I seemed to have a sore throat, and a mild fever.

Now, speaking of sore throat and a mild fever. If you’re thinking what I thinkk you’re thinking, please stop it now. It is not the flu. I repeat. It is not the flu. However, to put all doubts to rest, I am going to the University Health Centre as early as possible on Monday morning, to do a thorough check-up. I didn’t fly all the way to America only to get infected with a flu that doesn’t yet exist on my country’s map. Meanwhile, I am eating well, drinking well, and resting well. The popcorn from the movie, I should tell you, is one of the best I’ve had. And unlike the one in “some Nigerian cinema” which is filled with so much sugar, this one was salted, and it tasted like a real movie popcorn that everyone can enjoy.

The traveller’s adventures continue.

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