Friends of Nigeria Newsletter Selections, Fall 2005

David Woolman (left) and George Spicely in Mubi (1965)

Last fall, while searching the web for articles about the volcanic geology of the Mandara Mountains in northeastern Nigeria, I discovered a remarkable website about Sukur, a remote village that I had visited in these mountains while serving as a PCV teacher at the Government Teacher Training College in Mubi. In December, 1966, my Peace Corps colleague, George Spicely (08) 63–67, and I, along with Iliya Daniel, one of our students, hiked into Sukur from the village of Mildo Shelmi. Our trip required a trek of 4.8 miles, ascending about 1,500 feet on an historic pathway that is paved with flat stones as it approaches the heights, where the palace of the Xidi (chief) of Sukur is located.

While teaching at Mubi, I had read an account of Sukur, written in 1960 by Anthony Kirk-Greene, based on his field notes and later study from tours as District Officer at Mubi in 1954.1 Kirk-Greene’s extensive historical account of Sukur and his vivid descriptions of its stone architecture, ceremonies, iron-smelting and social structure aroused my curiosity. In addition, my work as a teacher introducing my students to the study of African history made the trip there irresistible. The journey turned out to be an educational and rewarding experience. The scenery was magnificent as anyone could testify who has trekked in these highlands. The intricate stone walls and structures at Sukur citadel were unlike anything we had seen elsewhere. We were privileged to have an audience with Usaani, the aging Xidi, who greeted us warmly and provided us with a guide who showed us many corners of the village including the subterranean enclosure where a young bull was being fattened for a future ceremony of ritual sacrifice. Unfortunately, we were unable to witness the iron manufacture, because, as we later learned, this economy had collapsed by 1960, due to imports of cheaper iron. As we left Sukur, I felt I had only begun to scratch the surface in learning all that there was to know about this remarkable place and its people.

Mubi Teacher Training College track and field team 1965- David Woolman (coach)

My discovery of the website Welcome to Sukur last fall rekindled my interest in Sukur and began a new journey toward a deeper understanding of the culture we had visited 38 years ago.2 This extended learning was enhanced by a collaboration with the ethno-archeologist Nicholas David who, with his wife Judith Sterner, has pioneered new research on the history and culture of the people of Sukur. Nic created the Sukur website, which he maintains and continues to develop.

Through correspondence with Nic, I was asked to contribute my photographs from the 1966 trip; these were accompanied by an extensive journal account of the visit that I had sent home in a letter to my mother immediately after the trip. He has incorporated these photos and my account as part of the Archives section of the Sukur website.3 From my data, Nic was able to determine that Usaani was still the reigning Xidi in December 1966 Hitherto his departure by deposition or abdication was indefinite though presumed to be within the period 1964 – 1969. He was also able to document some minor structural modifications in building walls and a decline in the upkeep of traditional ritual areas (due to Christian conversions). Another evident change was that traditional dress worn every day in 1966 is now donned only on ceremonial occasions. Nic has kindly sent me copies of several of his publications on Sukur.4 In addition, Judith Sterner very generously sent me a copy of her recent book, The Ways of the Mandara Mountains (2003), a comparative study of the different cultures in this region.5
Through our correspondence, I have learned much about the changes in Sukur today. Happily, there is now a primary school at Sukur, whereas there was no teacher there when we visited. A development association was formed in 1976. In 1992, the Adamawa State Arts Council established a small museum on site, and in 1996 this facility was staffed with an interpreter.

David Woolman at Canberra Australia, January 1999 (phot by Ina S. Woolman).

In 1999, Sukur achieved a major distinction by being cited as Nigeria’s first World Heritage Site by UNESCO; as such, it became one of 812 sites that are so honored worldwide. The official citation summarizes the significance of this unique cultural site:

In spite of these gains and much-deserved recognition, the Mandara Mountain region remains one of the poorest parts of Nigeria. In many areas, income is less than one dollar per day. Nic David and Judith Sterner have made a proposal to the governments of Cameroon and Nigeria for creation of a Mandara International Peace Park. They hope that this transborder park, if ever realized, would facilitate eco-tourism by which local people would be employed as guides and interpreters; through local control of this enterprise, the gains could be reinvested in rural education and health facilities.
Nic David is interested in hearing from any persons who may have visited Sukur at any time in the past. If you made this trip and have photographs, sound recordings, written accounts or any other data, artifacts or memories to share from your experience, please contact Nic in one of the following ways:

Professor Nicholas David,
Archeology Department
Earth Sciences 806
University of Calgary, Calgary, AB,
Canada T2N 1N4
Telephone: 403-220-5227
Email: ndavid@ucalgary.ca

(Endnotes)
1 Anthony Kirk-Greene. “The kingdom of Sukur – a Northern Nigerian Ichabod.” Nigerian Field 25(2): 67-96.
2 Nicholas David and Judith Sterner. Welcome to Sukur … a Culture of the Mandara Mountains. (Calgary: University of Calgary, Mandara Archeological Project, 2004). http://www.sukur.info/ (10-8-04).
3 David C. Woolman. “Report on a trip to Sukur on Tuesday, December 27, 1966” in Welcome to Sukur … a Culture of the Mandara Mountains. http://www.sukur.info/Images/Archives.htm
4 See N. David. “The ethno-archeology and field archeology of grinding at Sukur, Adamawa State, Nigeria.” African Archeological Review 15(1), 1998: 13-63; A. Smith and N. David. “The production of space and the house of Xidi Sukur.” Current Anthropology 36(3), June 1995: 441-470; N. David and J. Sterner. “Constructing a historical ethnology of Sukur: Part I, demystification.” Nigerian Heritage 4, 1995: 11-33; N. David and J. Sterner. “Constructing a historical ethnology of Sukur (Adamawa State): Part II, iron and the classless industrial society.” Nigerian Heritage 5, 1996: 11-33; J. Sterner and N. David. “Gender and caste in the Mandara highlands: northeastern Nigeria and northern Cameroon.” Ethnology 30(4): 355-369.
5 Judith Sterner. The ways of the Mandara mountains: a comparative regional approach. (Cologne: Rudiger Koppe Verlag, 2003).
6 See: http://whc.unesco.org/en/list/938.•

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And my friend, who’s a Nigerian academic, says, as we’re tootling around Calabar, “That’s where we keep Charles Taylor.”
“Hey, I taught his daughter a couple of years ago at American University. Let’s go over there and see if we can meet him.” The villa is posh by any standards, but particularly by those of the area—picturesque, overlooking the Cross River, at a historical location.
We were at the National Museum in Calabar, where I was attending a conference, and I’d completely forgotten that Charles Taylor was in asylum in Nigeria; but I thought this might be my opportunity to look Mr. Death in the face and maybe I’d be the last American to interview him.
I taught Charen Taylor twice at American University. Immediately after 9/11, she disappeared from class and explained to me a month later when she returned that she was frightened to death about living in the United States. “Things don’t happen like this in Monrovia. I’m much safer there than in Washington, D.C.” No doubt true.
Moments earlier she had informed me that her father was the President of Liberia and my mouth had dropped because of my astonishment. I covered up my surprise by pointing to a framed sheet of Liberian postage stamps hanging in my office. They were stamps of Al Gore, who was identified as the 43rd President of the United States under his portrait. Only a country like Liberia would issue postage stamps for both Bush and Gore, making money no matter who won the election. Charen looked at me as if I were quite mad. What better response about a country which at the time had no functional mail service. Electricity. Running water, etc. Except in her father’s compound.
So I have my friend drive us down the private road leading to Taylor’s pad, surprised that the guard at the top of the hill made no attempt to stop us. I’m in the back seat with another American professor who is attending the conference with me.
This is going to be a snap. I pull out a calling card and attach a note to it: “Dear Mr. Taylor: I taught your daughter, Charen, at American University. I’m attending a conference in Calabar and thought I’d stop and say hello.” And I sign my name.
A second guard with a rifle stops our vehicle, and I tell him why we’ve driven down the road. He’s clearly chagrined since the guy at the top hasn’t stopped us. I explain my intent and Guard #2 departs, with another one keeping watch over us, and I’m convinced that it’s only a matter of minutes and I’ll meet the Devil himself.
Then #2 returns and calls #3, who comes down the hill behind us and asks why I want to see Charles Taylor. He calls someone with his cell phone and then Tony, my Nigerian friend, is ordered to turn the car around and follow another vehicle that has appeared behind us. Everybody carries guns and cell phones.
#2 rides along with us as we follow #3 in the vehicle in front of us, and we drive for ten minutes through Calabar and then leave the city for a remote area, down another hill, passing through a gate. There are security guards all around us, toting guns and exhibiting menacing expressions, but I’m convinced the intimidation is worth it.
We enter a building and are questioned by #4 (a woman), who asks me in much more detail why I want to see Charles Taylor. The room is full of other security guards, most of whom are watching a soccer game.
#5 takes us into another room, with posh sofas, and tells us to wait while he disappears, as #6 watches us. My assumption is that Lucifer will come to the room where we are waiting.
After a lengthy period of time, #5 returns and takes me alone into a separate room, leaving my friends behind. So I’m going to meet with the Prince of Darkness by myself.
All the questions I’ve been asked several times are now asked repeatedly again, checking me out. I’m also given several pages of forms to fill out with spaces for just about everything that’s ever happened to me, including my passport number, age, date of birth, family (father and mother [deceased], my brother, his address, my job, my colleagues, and my tribe, which I leave empty). After #5 reads what I’ve written, he asks why I’ve left the space for tribe empty, so I tell him I’m Swedish, which he asks me to write on the form.

Charles Taylor (r) with President Obasanjo of Nigeria (l).

Then I’m asked to write a detailed account of my reasons for wanting to see Charles Taylor. #5’s telephone rings constantly as he reports back to others, presumably Beelzebub himself.
More questions. Do I know Charles Taylor? No. Was I ever in Nigeria before? Yes. What was I doing at that time? I tell him I was in the Peace Corps from 1962-1964.
More delays. #5 constantly appears and disappears as #7 watches over me.
Do I understand that President Taylor is in asylum in Nigeria? Yes. And then the clincher: Do I understand that the United States is trying to take over the world? The guy won’t look away from me for a minute. Yes, I agree, or at least answer that it certainly looks that way. What political party do I belong to? Democrat. Did I vote for George Bush? Are you kidding?
Finally—after menacing glares from guards #5 and #7—I’m taken back to the room with the couches but my companions are nowhere in sight. I’m told that they are being questioned by others. When they return much later, we’re told that our statements have been faxed to Abuja, the capital, but since it’s a Saturday, a weekend, and I didn’t make my request in advance, that no one can visit Charles Taylor without advance notice.
After three hours of questioning, we’re released, and Tony says that we’ve not been questioned by Charles Taylor’s guards but by Nigeria’s State Security System. As we drive through the gate, Tony points out that the building is unmarked. There is no sign identifying it—but everyone knows what the building houses.
The next day I learn that Nigeria’s President Olusegun Obasanjo was in Washington talking to President Bush the day before I stupidly attempted to see Charles Taylor. Bush demanded that Obasanjo turn Taylor over to the United Nations Tribunal in Sierra Leone, but the Nigerian President said no since he had told Taylor that his asylum would be guaranteed and wouldn’t go back on his word.
Charles Taylor is undoubtedly one of the most repugnant monsters of the last half century, but somehow I found myself siding with President Obasanjo and not with the American President who believes that the entire world bends to his will.
Hadn’t I actually assumed the same of myself? That by being a pushy American I could wheedle my way into the Devil’s inner sanctum and get the scoop of a lifetime? •
Charles R. Larsen is Chair of the Dept. ofLiterature at American University in DC.

When the gas station attendant wiped my fork on his greasy rag, I realized I had crossed an invisible boundary. This was my first day in Nigeria, and my friend and I were looking for some place to eat. We had just come from Ghana on a mini bus full of African students and had been forced to sleep on the ground
at the Dahomey border because the guard had gone home for the night. In the morning, after we were let into Nigeria, the bus dropped us in the center of Lagos, and we began to explore the city on foot.

Lagos is a cauldron, a steamy, smelly, hot stew. People fill the crowded streets, moving much faster than the cars that are stuck in irregular lanes each jousting for some advantage where none is to be had. Car horns and radios blare constantly. People shout to be heard. Almost everyone is carrying something, usually on their heads, kicking up dust as they move along. The paved streets are flanked by dirt paths and lined with open sewers covered only with slotted slabs which do not pretend to contain the odor of waste and rotting garbage. Our eyes sting, and we are the object of curiosity and comment to everyone. Two Europeans (whites) walking through Lagos is not a common sight. Children shout and sometimes dare to run up to us. Adults stop whatever they are doing to stare. But no one in Lagos seems to stop for very long; we are small pebbles making tiny ripples in their big pond.

The heat and smell and noise begin to wear on us, especially after our bad night at the border. We have been given the address of a small, inexpensive hotel of a class somewhere in the divide between African and European styles of lodging. But we are getting hungry and decide we should eat before
confronting what promises to be another night of dubious comfort.

We carry provisions with us. We have for tonight’s menu tins of corned beef and apple sauce; not as bad as it sounds, a tasteful and safe combination but one that is much better if mixed with rice. So, the task is to find some rice, something we are confident will be possible. But we see no restaurants, and it’s hard to recognize the local places that prepare and sell food. So, we do what is natural for Americans to do; we walk into a gas station to inquire where we might find some cooked rice.

“Wait,” says the attendant, a young boy, who immediately disappears. He returns quickly and repeats the same caution to us, “Wait.” A car pulls in, and he rushes over to pump a couple of liters for which he accepts a single folded note. Afterward, he takes the rag hanging from his pocket, lifts the hood to check the oil and then washes the windshield. Although the operation is entirely familiar, the local idiosyncrasies of the performance fascinate us. While we watch, the people in the car blankly stare back at us.

After the car pulls out, the attendant brings out from behind the station house one chair and one stool and says simply, “Sit.” Obedient, we now both sit and wait on the station tarmac not far from the gas pumps. As we look around, we can see that the gas station is gleaming white in contrast to the dull mud walls and plain tin roofs of the surrounding buildings. It is brightly lit by long fluorescent lights whereas the other buildings have single bare bulbs if any light at all. The gas station, a shining symbol of the new Nigeria, is for us an oasis.

From inside the station, the attendant produces a rickety wooden table stained with grease and seriously off kilter. “Wait,” he says again. By now, it is dawning on us that it is his intention to serve us, and sure enough, in a minute or two he returns with two bowls of steaming rice and puts them on the table for us. At that moment, another car pulls in for gas, and the attendant hurries over to it to perform the usual ablutions. In the meantime, we open our tins but realize we have brought no utensils or glasses with us. In an instant, the attendant sees our predicament and runs into the station house to forage.

To our amazement, he returns with forks, knives and glasses. He is as efficient and solicitous with us as he would be with any car that pulled in to his station. In order to do things properly for us, he takes the rag from his pocket and vigorously wipes both the utensils and glasses. He brings us two orange Fantas, and we pour.
The gas station is getting busier now, and more cars pull in past us to the pumps. All heads are turned in our direction, and there now is much comment about two white men sitting on the gas station tarmac eating supper. But the rice is good, and the meal is satisfying. Who needs snotty elegance anyhow?

Any concerns I might have had about germs, cleanliness, propriety and whatever else had been drummed into me as an American have slipped far behind me. I am in a new territory now, living a new life and developing new repertoires. Although I am conscious of being an actor on an impromptu stage, I am totally relaxed in this bright oasis right in the middle of Lagos. After we are done eating, we try to pay for the rice and the Fanta if not for the table and service, but the attendant will have none of it. We are guests in his country, and I know I have arrived.

This article first appeared in Travelers Tales in The Adventures of Food (1999). It is reprinted here by kind permission of the author, David Robinson.

At the time—1960—Robinson was a student at the University
of Ghana. Following his time in Ghana, he received an M.A. from Boston University in African Studies. Later he was hired by Harvard University (on contract to USAID) to go to Nigeria as a teacher, adviser and administrator of an experimental American-style comprehensive school in Aiyetoro, near Abeokuta. He was at the Comprehensive High School, Aiyetoro from January 1963 to May 1965.
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Gayle Lewis, Wife Of Peace Corps Staff Person, Del Lewis, Writes Home From Benin City

Delano says the job is exciting and challenging. He works with the volunteers, Nigerian civil servants and other country delegates. He finds it stimulating. He’s thinking about getting a bicycle for the ride to work. The bicycle is the most common mode of transportation here and Delano believes he’ll get to know more people and faster. I’m sure he’s right but riding a bicycle here takes a different skill. The roads are dirt roads with the exception of one, the Lagos Road. There are lots of potholes and the drivers are pretty wild. Other than those considerations, we think the bicycle is a good idea, if only for the fun of it.

Tomorrow night the Peace Corps is having a reception in his honor and printed invitations have been sent out. To everyone’s surprise, the Military Governor is coming in person. He has always sent a representative. The “bush telegraph” has notified everyone in the Midwest that we’re here. The people of Benin are so friendly. Everyone has such a warm greeting and when they ask “how are you”? They listen for an answer.

Clothing here in Benin is made from colorful cloth. Some of the prints are beautiful. I’m anxious to shop for and to buy fabric to have clothes made. I also want to get fabric to make napkins. As I mentioned, paper products are “dear” as the Nigerians say and paper napkins seem such a luxury. Benin is mostly a bush city so I’ll be shopping in the local market for fabric. There are no department stores or small dress shops here.

Our home is on what some refer to as “the government reservation” where many new homes have been built and are being built. We’re about a mile from town. There are two Catholic churches. I think I’ve found a school for Del and Geoff. I talked with Sister Norbert about them and she thinks she can take them in Aug. (Geoff for Kindergarten (nursery) and Del in 1 B) An American who is married to a Nigerian teaches kindergarten.

Her name is Mrs. Eweka and we’ve heard that her husband is the son of the former Oba . and the brother of the present Oba, Akenzua. The Oba is the King of Benin.
We’ve bought some carvings. We have one large one of the Oba of Benin. We shall also get to meet him at his “palace” soon. We’ve ordered some camel leather stuffed cushions. They’ll be ready tomorrow. We haven’t taken many pictures since we came because the rainy season keeps things pretty cloudy. We’ll have to get a light for the camera, when we go back to Lagos. I think Benin can only be described in pictures. (Smile)

Everyone is fine. We seem to be adjusting to an extremely new and different world without much difficulty. This is the beginning of the rainy season and the weather is pretty cool. I’d say 75-80 degrees.

We’re holding out for the best baby nurse in town. Having someone to look after the children will give me a lot more freedom to roam about and get to know the Midwest Region. We hope she’ll be free from her other job soon. This morning, I’m going to shop in the market with the Doctor’s wife. Delano will stay with the boys until I get back. I’m looking forward to this adventure and I’ve been assured that it will be an adventure. I won’t try taking pictures today as I’m not sure if it is appropriate. I’ll make a mental journal and write to you in a future letter. •

Over and over all day long I looked over the top of the laptop screen at faces that would be ordinary were they not the faces of the highly publicized victims of one of the worst disasters in U.S. history.

I wound up at the interagency the Disaster Recovery Center in Austin, Texas, a few days after responding to a FEMA call for workers via a Crisis Corps announcement on the NPCA website. A few days later on Sept. 14—thanks to a glowing recommendation from FON president Greg Zell—I flew to Orlando, FL to begin a 30-day assignment as a FEMA Individual Assistance [IA] worker in Austin, TX. After three days of training with about 100 federal employees, assorted contractors and various temps—including a dozen or so of us recruited through the Crisis Corps—I began assisting evacuees from Hurricane Katrina, and later, from Hurricane Rita. (Some clients had been slammed by both hurricanes—a tragic story in itself.) By the end of October, some 200 Crisis Corps volunteers had joined thousands of other federal workers in Alabama, Arkansas, Louisiana, Mississippi and Texas. (We were assigned the historically promising group number of U.S.A. 1.)

Storm clouds of hurricane Katrina gather over New Orleans

Through the course of 12-hour days, six or seven days a week, I worked with a diverse FEMA group. My Crisis Corps colleagues ranged from recent returnees from overseas in their 20s, to a few folks in their 30s and 40s between careers, to retirees. (The oldest was a former Ohio state trooper and RPCV from Romania who turned 65 during our deployment.) Federal employees came from a plethora of occupations, including a Bureau of Prisons supervisor who was a master at handling long lines of anxious clients, and a Federal Investigative Services field agent adroit at validating client claims by extracting life histories from fragmented evacuee home addresses in less than a minute. One Border Patrol supervisor who worked with us briefly gamely avoided asking evacuees questions about their residency status. Full-time FEMA hands offered stability. The motivation for winding up on the IA team ranged from economic (federal workers pile up overtime and living expenses) to curiosity, adventure, or a chance to pick up some new skills, including an introduction to navigating FEMA’s sophisticated data base. Altruism, mercifully, seemed to be a pervasive common thread among almost everybody, but happily for me, not the subject of much self-serving discussion throughout the long days working in the Austin Disaster Recovery Center (which, by the way, relocated twice during the month I was there—from homeless shelter to a community center to a business park).

We lived in motels on per diems which we could choose to fritter away or save, and on Sundays most of spent our few hours off between laundry loads to see the Texas countryside and try our hands at tubing, kayaking and hiking. Some, usually younger, CC volunteers and FEMA workers traded sleep in the evenings for the abundant music and nightlife in Austin.

Our work lives were supported by laptops and computer networks, which didn’t exist 40 years ago when I arrived in Nigeria. During the intervening decades I had morphed from a clueless recent college graduate to a grizzled senior citizen. I was no longer out to save the world. I was no longer the angry kid rebelling against adult parents, but the parent of three adult kids who have become too old to rebel against me. Folks representing all life experiences, all ages, came through the long lines at the Austin DRC. My job as a FEMA rep was to help each individual register for whatever assistance they hoped might be available and to help them sort out the reality of what they’ve lost, what they hoped to regain, and then help them figure out what to do next. While it’s useful to try to see the world through the eyes of your clients, I also tried to see myself through their eyes in order to respond competently. I surmised that to many of the folks seated across the folding table, I was the proverbial old white guy bugging them with personal questions about their income and family situation instead of writing them a check. (Payments, by the way, normally came later, although many evacuees received instant vouchers, cash or other assistance from a variety of worthy organizations, including the Red Cross, Salvation Army and the City of Austin). I quickly learned not to stereotype. Some evacuees seeking business loans told me of their summer homes and six figure incomes. To them I might seem to be the rather harried older contract worker, forced to earn a paycheck when I should be out playing golf or sitting by the beach.

There was humor and hope—such as the college students excited about finding billets for the new school year at local universities, or young workers who found better jobs in Texas than they had on the Gulf Coast. But most stories were sad, and perhaps the saddest were the simplest. One 80-year-old man, displaced to a Texas apartment from his lifelong home in New Orleans, confided: “I just don’t know what to do.” We both knew I had no answers.

For one 20-something woman, who came to the DRC with her husband and infant, who asked how long their free rent and a monthly stipend would continue in Austin, I did have an answer.

“Well, you might get a job and be able pay rent for your own apartment,” The young woman looked like a deer staring back at the headlights of a car (Yes, I’ve actually seen a deer look like that). I won’t be so presumptious as to know what the young woman was thinking, but her questions and history as shown on my laptop gave me the impression that the idea of becoming self-supporting was something new.

I continue to hope that asking that this young woman could see beyond the old white guy making assumptions about her life and discover some opportunity. Austin has a vibrant economy, and perhaps she could discover how to break out of the cycle of welfare in which she appeared to be mired. If that or something similar happens, I will have returned home after trying for the same goals I believed in 40 years ago.

Mike Goodkind is a freelance journalist based in California and is Friends of Nigeria Advocacy Director and Vice-President.

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The individuals and couples listed below have contributed to the Peace Corps Nigeria Alumni Foundation, which provides scholarships to deserving secondary schoolgirls in the country where most of us served four decades ago. In partnership with the Nigeria chapter of the Forum for African Women Educationalists, PCNAF is currently supporting seven scholars throughout Nigeria. To find out how you can help, go to www.pcnaf.org.


Sukur women returning from Mefir Suku market (photo by D. Woolman).	Xidi Usaani Tlagema (chief) of Sukur at entrance to his compound, December 27, 1966 (photo by D. Woolman).	A Sukur compound lacking a lintelled entrance and occupied by a commoner.