The Barracks
It seems as though I get a deeper and deeper understanding of what real Africa is like the longer I stay here. My father took my mother, brother and a coworker of his and I out for dinner one night. He took us to Abaja Baracks. Abaja Baracks is a military barracks installation in Abuja where there also happens to be a local open air market which, consequently, is run by the military. Having lived in numerous third world countries I thought I was prepared for the occasion.
The market was set up in a circular fashion with a one way, single lane street constituting the only walkway. All the shops were open faced and crammed together much like the items they offered for sale within. One thing I noticed about Abuja, Nigeria is that everyone seems to notice your presence wherever you may be. Not just as you walk on the street but even when you are being driven at 40 mph as you are observing people on the street they have an uncanny ability to lock eyes with you at the very last moment. Therefore you can imagine the intense sense of being observed which we felt as we made our way to the center of the market where the open air “restaurant” was.
The “restaurant” or, as I like to call it, the African food court, was situated in the center of the market. To access it you have to find one of the many small alleyways in between the shops. Once you break out of the alley and into the market square you are flushed into the chaos. There is movement everywhere, no solid concrete floor only puddles and mud. There are vendors of everything useless imaginable everywhere, the varied smells hit you in the face from every direction. Children walk around in tattered clothes, some naked and crying. Beggars at your feet; doing their best to survive with whatever limbs they have left. And yet, despite all of that I saw an infinite amount more of smiling faces.
The layout of the food court was very interesting. In the center, in a square-ish formation, were the women who grilled the food (and only women grilled the food). The grills were made of half barrels (barrels cut down the middle) on its side, with iron bars laid across the cut opening, supported by four metal poles, two on each side, forming an ‘X’. The grill resembled a trough with a fire burning underneath. Behind the women were the busboys (most likely their children, and only boys) who washed the platters and served the food. The women chefs and their children ran their own independent enterprises while the beverage and seating providers ran theirs. Basically, you come into the market and choose a place to sit. After having done that you walk around to see what the women had to offer and at what price. You select from the varied menu (grilled chicken or fish with an optional side of chips, err, fries) and indicate to the lovely chef where you are located. On this particular evening we settled on the fish.
The spot we chose to dine was a mere 10 feet from our chef’s grill. Prior to being seated our beverage server takes a small plastic water bottle filled with kerosene, its bottle cap pierced with several holes and administers small drops of the yellow fluid onto the table we were about to dine on. As a final touch, he spreads it over the entire surface with a damp rag. I thought he was absolutely mad and yet I was absolutely intrigued. Why in the world would you do that? Did I mention the flies? Yes, well, let’s do the math. African sun + fish + open air market + filth = Enough flies to blot out the sun. Hence, the application of kerosene onto the tables. Apparently they are repulsed by the odor and quite frankly I thought we would be as well. We did not notice it at all.
I am sure after reading all of this you would think, why would your dad do this to you? Well, you have to understand that I am from a family of travelers, places like these are what we are always looking for; the essence of the country we have the privilege of visiting. I was loving every minute of it. Unfortunately, my mother, coming from a third world country, was not impressed. Why should she after all, anyone who was born and raised their entire life in a third world country knows the number one objective is to get out of a third world situation. She kept insisting that there was no way her dad would ever take her to places like this in the Philippines. Despite her disgust at her surroundings she was doing her best to have fun, which she candidly gave credit to the fact that she had taken her anxiety pill prior to our arrival.
I felt absolutely silly in my green polo shirt and jeans. I thought about what an ass I might have looked like to all these people around me. Then again, would it make a difference to them what I wear or is the color of my skin enough to evoke such sentiments. I thought about what I could do to go local, and I nearly laughed out loud at the thought of myself in the local dress walking about town hoping that people would see me as an albino instead of a white person, or half white for that matter.
A little Nigerian boy arrived with plastic bowls of water and a bottle of dish washing detergent. I figured that this is the equivalent of lemon and warm water in some restaurants, and sure enough it was. Soon after this realization our little friend returned with our grilled fish and chips. The food was wonderful, the fish was grilled perfectly and I am now quite the fan of Nigerian spicy sauce. The fish was so good that my mother out ate all four men and we were forced to order another grilled fish bringing our total to three whole fish each measuring about a foot and a half long. I was thoroughly impressed with the evening and very proud that our approach to this country, much like all of the countries we have visited, paid off.
Later that evening I braced myself for any unpleasant consequences of the grilled fish. Nothing at all, and the same results to follow for two days. It was not until I had dinner at a family friend’s house (a wealthy Swedish family) that I had an upset stomach. What was on the menu that night? Potatoes, salad, filet medallions and gravy; Western food, go figure!
The market was set up in a circular fashion with a one way, single lane street constituting the only walkway. All the shops were open faced and crammed together much like the items they offered for sale within. One thing I noticed about Abuja, Nigeria is that everyone seems to notice your presence wherever you may be. Not just as you walk on the street but even when you are being driven at 40 mph as you are observing people on the street they have an uncanny ability to lock eyes with you at the very last moment. Therefore you can imagine the intense sense of being observed which we felt as we made our way to the center of the market where the open air “restaurant” was.
The “restaurant” or, as I like to call it, the African food court, was situated in the center of the market. To access it you have to find one of the many small alleyways in between the shops. Once you break out of the alley and into the market square you are flushed into the chaos. There is movement everywhere, no solid concrete floor only puddles and mud. There are vendors of everything useless imaginable everywhere, the varied smells hit you in the face from every direction. Children walk around in tattered clothes, some naked and crying. Beggars at your feet; doing their best to survive with whatever limbs they have left. And yet, despite all of that I saw an infinite amount more of smiling faces.
The layout of the food court was very interesting. In the center, in a square-ish formation, were the women who grilled the food (and only women grilled the food). The grills were made of half barrels (barrels cut down the middle) on its side, with iron bars laid across the cut opening, supported by four metal poles, two on each side, forming an ‘X’. The grill resembled a trough with a fire burning underneath. Behind the women were the busboys (most likely their children, and only boys) who washed the platters and served the food. The women chefs and their children ran their own independent enterprises while the beverage and seating providers ran theirs. Basically, you come into the market and choose a place to sit. After having done that you walk around to see what the women had to offer and at what price. You select from the varied menu (grilled chicken or fish with an optional side of chips, err, fries) and indicate to the lovely chef where you are located. On this particular evening we settled on the fish.
The spot we chose to dine was a mere 10 feet from our chef’s grill. Prior to being seated our beverage server takes a small plastic water bottle filled with kerosene, its bottle cap pierced with several holes and administers small drops of the yellow fluid onto the table we were about to dine on. As a final touch, he spreads it over the entire surface with a damp rag. I thought he was absolutely mad and yet I was absolutely intrigued. Why in the world would you do that? Did I mention the flies? Yes, well, let’s do the math. African sun + fish + open air market + filth = Enough flies to blot out the sun. Hence, the application of kerosene onto the tables. Apparently they are repulsed by the odor and quite frankly I thought we would be as well. We did not notice it at all.
I am sure after reading all of this you would think, why would your dad do this to you? Well, you have to understand that I am from a family of travelers, places like these are what we are always looking for; the essence of the country we have the privilege of visiting. I was loving every minute of it. Unfortunately, my mother, coming from a third world country, was not impressed. Why should she after all, anyone who was born and raised their entire life in a third world country knows the number one objective is to get out of a third world situation. She kept insisting that there was no way her dad would ever take her to places like this in the Philippines. Despite her disgust at her surroundings she was doing her best to have fun, which she candidly gave credit to the fact that she had taken her anxiety pill prior to our arrival.
I felt absolutely silly in my green polo shirt and jeans. I thought about what an ass I might have looked like to all these people around me. Then again, would it make a difference to them what I wear or is the color of my skin enough to evoke such sentiments. I thought about what I could do to go local, and I nearly laughed out loud at the thought of myself in the local dress walking about town hoping that people would see me as an albino instead of a white person, or half white for that matter.
A little Nigerian boy arrived with plastic bowls of water and a bottle of dish washing detergent. I figured that this is the equivalent of lemon and warm water in some restaurants, and sure enough it was. Soon after this realization our little friend returned with our grilled fish and chips. The food was wonderful, the fish was grilled perfectly and I am now quite the fan of Nigerian spicy sauce. The fish was so good that my mother out ate all four men and we were forced to order another grilled fish bringing our total to three whole fish each measuring about a foot and a half long. I was thoroughly impressed with the evening and very proud that our approach to this country, much like all of the countries we have visited, paid off.
Later that evening I braced myself for any unpleasant consequences of the grilled fish. Nothing at all, and the same results to follow for two days. It was not until I had dinner at a family friend’s house (a wealthy Swedish family) that I had an upset stomach. What was on the menu that night? Potatoes, salad, filet medallions and gravy; Western food, go figure!
posted by globetrottin99 at 2:02 PM
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