Mr. Pi’s cycling equation

It is all improvised.

So says Andrew "Mr. Pi" - the salt and pepper mustachioed math teacher from the American International School of Abuja. He comes to Nigeria from Poland via Chicago, his last name one of those sneezes of consonants has been shortened to the mathematically appropriate diminutive.

Andrew is talking about the traffic as we return; bikes stepped to the back of his Toyota sedan, from a cycling excursion around the dam twenty minutes outside of the city. A whole lot of what I have seen in our couple of weeks here in Africa is the result of folks improvising. The teachers we have been working with have given up many of the things that citizens back home don't even think twice about, shipments of household belongings arrive but get ensnared in red tape, favorite foods are nonexistent, power flickers on and off as if it is controlled by a roulette wheel and a mosquito bite could lay you up for weeks - you don't even want to know what a spider bite might do - but they carry on with smiles.

And right on cue, as I write this sitting in the Abuja airport we are delayed two hours - just enough time to make catching our connecting flight in Lagos to Accra a very iffy proposition - we too may soon be finding ourselves having to improvise.

Anyway, this is supposed to be a post about the bike rides I took with Mr. Pi.

Riding a bicycle is the closest thing one can do to self powered flying and remain connected to the earth. Cutting through the wind, gliding and bumping along faster and smoother than one could run but still cutting a narrow swath. You cover more distance quicker but you can still notice things that would be smear from a car's window. The second advantage of exploring a new and wonderfully strange place on two wheels is more often than not the locals give you a free pass - much as people everywhere cut the addle minded a little slack, bicyclists are treated as a benign anomaly.

Backpack, water bottle wedged in a cage, a helmet that looks like half a perforated egg shell, wrap around shades and bright colored spandex makes for a source of joyful amusement when dropped into a hillside village in Borneo, a palm oil plantation in Sumatra, inner city Cleveland or amongst a clutch of thatched roundhouses on the outskirts of Abuja, Nigeria.

Friday after school Andrew and I went on a little test ride through the city streets near the apartment complex where Sara and I were staying tie hour hosts Lyle and Rita. Children laughed and grownups waved - we passed through with an immunity that would usually be reserved for a clown on a unicycle. When we stopped people chatted with us, straddling that bike as we stood there, we posed no threat.

The next morning we started out around 7am - enough time to get a couple hours in before heading out to the airport (where, unfortunately, we would sit for hours).

We drove to the dam and parked the car by the gates of a German run sailing club. The club has no boats - Andrew says there was rumor of the joint having had a single catamaran years ago but where that vessel is - is unknown to humankind. The place is not closed down, just a boat club with no boats - it makes total sense in Nigeria.

The ride around the dam was great, we came upon a couple villages did some muddy single track and Mr. Pi talked with some cows. I will let the pictures do the talking. My only regret - a regret that is becoming a refrain for this trip to Africa, is that I had too little time to spend.

Next time, we have to be sure to build in a little extra time to allow for some improvisation.

Service charge–not included

Baksheesh, greasing the palm, a little something for you, tip, bribe, dash, tax, service charge – however you want to assign a name to it it’s that little extra bit of cash, passed in a handshake or hidden in the fine print, that makes things happen.

Here we sit in the domestic airport of Lagos, Nigeria. I tipped our driver – the man who carried our luggage to the ticket counter – the man who carried our passports to the ticket counter for us (bypassing the 50 yard long line) I paid for our luggage overage and I tipped the security guard who was questioning Sara about the beads she had bought at the market . Here in Nigeria this is called Dash – appropriately rhyming with cash.

These little bribes are commonplace as we travel around the world and while our friends back home n the States may turn their noses up at the perceived impropriety – these same folks find no fault in paying hidden charges on their airline tickets – service fees – luxury taxes – paying shipping and handling for “fee” items -pricing automobiles san tax and title- destination fees for rental cars etc. etc. and of course none of these fine folks would ever enjoy a hundred dollar meal at some shmancy joint and then not leave a tip for their waiter. It’s all perspective my friend. At least when I slip the equivalent of twenty bucks in a Moroccan cop handshake I know that money is going to an individual who will spend it locally.

This toe dipping into Africa that Sara and I are participating has not left us a whole lot of time for sightseeing yet – but we have managed to get out a little thanks to the kindness of our new friends we are meeting at the schools.

I collect masks and I mentioned this to our middle school crew at the dinner they hosted for us. Immediately two of the teachers there volunteered to escort us to a nearby market. The invisible magic charm we seem to be traveling with on this jaunt seems to be holding out. We were warned about crowds, pawing vendors, mud, pestilence, and locusts the size of geriatric dachshunds. (Okay, I made up the part about pestilence and locusts.)

What we found instead was a pleasant stroll through uncrowded stalls populated by persistent, but not pesky proprietors. I scored a couple masks and Sara some giant glass beads and a table runner all at prices that we felt were more than fair. Great fun was had by all. And as an added bonus – when we later went back to school to have dinner with the high school teacher – the guard who signed us in was the same guy who sold Sara her beads in the market an hour earlier.

Now I’m not saying that greasing the wheels every now and then by donating a little extra cash into local economies has given me a little bankroll in my karma credit union account – but I’m sure it hasn’t hurt.

The young man on the left carried our packages through the market for us – I tipped him well.

American International School Lagos, Nigeria

So far so good!

Upon our arrival in Lagos Saturday evening we sailed through immigration in record  time (this is of course relative – I’ll talk  a bit more about the travel here in my next post) according to our gracious and savvy host, school librarian Kay Riley and things just kept running at a quick an invigorating pace.

Sunday night  Kay hosted us for a pizza party at her place with the elementary school teachers. We chatted and got got insights into the teachers classes which helped us pick lessons and presentations for our work with their students.

The gate to school.

Sara had a quick intro to the elementary and then she joined me for an hour assembly with the middle and high schoolers. Then we divided and conquered. Sara bravely facing off with the first graders and I wrangling the eighth grade. We continued on, Sara with elementary and me with the rest of the middle school, but our schedule was adroitly drawn up so that we were able to step in and make a little cameo appearance in most of the other’s sessions. This allowed us to take some questions from the middle school kids as a team before I led them through performance and writing clinics and for me to perform my hit primary poem “I Sit On My Bottom” with the carpet dwellers.

In the evening we dined and laughed with the middle school teachers and made plans to take a trip to Lekke  Market (I need to check the spelling on that) with a couple of them after school the next day.

So, Tuesday Sara continued on with the little guys and I worked on extended metaphor and memoir with the high school. We crammed a whole bunch of students onto the sessions in order to see everyone in the short time we had and I was more than impressed with hard work by the students and the enthusiasm of the teachers who attended the workshops.

A quick trip to the market to buy some beads and masks, a lovely dinner with the high school folks a 5am wake up and BAM – here we are at the airport getting ready for or next Africa adventure.

On to Abuja!

Up Down all around the town – it is a magical day.

Back when Sara and I first started this international poetry thing we found ourselves in a hotel mini van bouncing across desert roads in Bahrain chasing a herd of camels with a crew of fellow speakers from a literacy conference. One of these colleagues was a Doctor Seif – a specialist in Arabic grammar. While we bounded across the sands laughing and gaining on the humped denizens of the desert Dr. Seif exclaimed, “It is a magical day!”

This has become a catch phrase for me and Sara when something incredible is happening during one of our excursions. Today was a magical day.

I stopped in our little hotel’s restaurant to grab a quick cup of coffee before heading to a pizza reception hosted by our librarian poet wrangler Kay. I poured the packet of instant coffee over three sugar cubes covered that with a layer of condensed milk then drowned this whole oleo with boiling water from a small tin spouted pot. Nigerian coffee.

A big guy sitting  at the counter asked me, “Why is it that Americans drink coffee and Brits tea?”

I replied that I had no idea then I complimented him on his Up Down. Earlier in the day I learned that the traditional Nigerian dress of matching top and slacks that the men wore was colloquially know as an Up Down. I said that I might have to get one for myself.

“Wait here.” my new friend replied.

He disappeared for bit then came back and handed me an Up Down. “A gift” he said.

I learned that my benefactor was a retired general, Major General Bashiru Jinadu to be exact. And now I have an Up Down – of course it is going to need a bit of taking in – but it is certainly one of the biggest gifts I have ever received – literally. I humbly reciprocated by giving him a copy of my new book and promised to take him out for dinner if he ever found himself in the Cleveland area.

Thanks general, it is a magical day. How did you know orange is my color?

Zimbabwean afternoon

Well the only regret Sara and I have from our trip to Zimbabwe is how short it was. We’re on a working streak across the continent – left – done – up right – left and then home. But in the short time we’ve been here we know we definitely want to come back.

After school on Friday our genial host Hob Boazman took us for a little trek around Domboshava where hiked up a giant rock and viewed some cave paintings with ages estimated between four and thirteen thousand years. I guess once you’re past four thousand years old who really counts anymore right?

By giant rock I am talking a thousand foot climb up what looked to be one solid piece of stone. Swooping and undulating like sand dunes encased in concrete. The surface of which provided steady lichen covered footing for the ascent to the overhanging cave where the cave paintings were. The fact that we were already four thousand feet above sea level when we began the march was made readily apparent to our sea level conditioned lungs – but the journey was well worth summit breath catching.

So, here are a dozen or so pics from or too short stay in Zimbabwe.

The trail was marked right on the stone so even a couple yahoos from Ohio couldn’t get lost.

Hats off to my fellow hikers.

Imagery that has stood the test of time – and then some.

Photographs never do inclines justice, I’m sure Sara and Hob would agree with me on this.

One of the park’s permanent residents.

A rock that we hope doesn’t roll.

While it looks like a green field this whole surface is hard rock – the color from lichens clinging to its face.

We’re certainly hoping the arrows of destiny point us back in the direction of Zimbabwe someday.

Flailing hamsters

Here's a podcast from Catherine Russell that mentions a recent workshop I presented at the Western Reseve Wrters conference in Kirtland, Ohio.

http://ec.libsyn.com/p/1/6/3/1634eff71ed95b73/2013-10-06Podcast67.mp3?d13a76d516d9dec20c3d276ce028ed5089ab1ce3dae902ea1d01c08637d5ce597368&c_id=6228256

Harare International School, Zimbabwe

Sara and I are the luckiest two crackpot poets on earth. I write this sitting in the lovely home of Elementary school principal Kari Boazman and her husband Hob who is currently frying bacon for our breakfast here in Harare, Zimbabwe.

We have just finished a three day visit to Harare international School where we worked with students grades K thru 9. Our visit was directed and produced by librarian extraordinaire Mellissa Chifokoyo.

Three days was just not enough time to spend with these stellar students – but it was enough time to know we’d love to come back and work with this fine staff and  kids again. We started with a couple assemblies – one for elementary and one for the upper school and then Sara and I split up and lead writing workshops with the kids.

Peacocks and guinea hens roamed the campus squawking like upset cats as we worked on lessons in figurative language, narrative structure and public speaking skills.  I don’t know what the bird’s problems were – we were having a great time – perhaps they knew they were missing out on all the fun. Bird brains, go figure.

HIS is an IB school and they practice the PYP and MYP brand of elementary and middle school pedagogy. To those outside of the education world acronym crowd – suffice it to say they teach kids right. Inquiry based learning encouraging the students curiosity and critical thinking skills as opposed to prep for some bubble test. our style of writing instruction just meshes with this teaching strategy. of course an enthusiastic teaching staff and administrators doesn’t hurt either.

HIS was a great way for us to tip our toes in sub Saharan Africa – you won’t have to ask twice to get us back!

A Bear in the Kitchen

New collection of some old and some new stuff out with Red Giant Books.

Just in time for me to leave the country for a month - but upon my return in November I will certianly be more than eager to book some readings.

If you're interested in hosting this crackpot poet hit me up salinger@ameritech.net

Here's the title piece:

a borrowed cabin

You don't want a bear in the kitchen

they make a terrible mess

so said the neighbor on the phone

a tiny electronic voice of caution

whose ring we almost didn't answer

because we were so sure it couldn't be for us

this not being our home

it's not their fault, you see

they are so hungry

this time of year

having drowsed through most of the winter and all

and this one's pretty aggressive

busted right into the house

across the creek from you

be careful

What does one do?

when ones place in the food chain

has been threatened

by 328 pounds of groggy

louse infested Ursus Americanus

claws capable of raking through

a refrigerator's skin

as easily as if it were the cake's frosting

the beast smells hidden behind

magnetic weather-stripped doors

canines the size of of a human forefinger

implanted in jaws endowed

with twelve hundred pound per square inch

bite force

tiny squares of glistening safety glass

from an exploded patio door

diamond dusted into matted fur

sparkling like snowflakes

in the silent moonlight

do you go onto the deck?

beat pans and pots together

turn off the lights

hide in the closet amongst the snowshoes

do you pray?

and to whom

what does one do?

when reason

and logic

and your master’s degree

in 16^th century literature

are rendered useless

by a confused and frightened carnivore

scratching at

the kitchen door?           

The Poetry Friday Anthology

Bird Feeder Denizen

Oh Hi. Looks to be a juvenile goldfinch to me.