meisa?
on Fantastic Voyage (Nigeria), 22/Jul/2010 09:12, 34 days ago
Here are some ways in which I am like a pale, shadowy imitation of Byron.- he had malaria (several times), and may have died from it (along with being bled till he was dry, poor chap).  My wife has had malaria, though with less serious consequences.- he made close friends with a number of Albanians.  We worked briefly with an Albanian lady who is now an international development consultant living in Germany.- he learned all manner of languages, most notably Armenian (because he thought it’d be hard) from a monk in Venice.  I am slowly, slowly acquiring words of Hausa (which probably isn’t actually that hard to learn) which I’m learning from a colleague.- while travelling, he wrote one of the best travelogues there’s ever been which made him staggeringly famous, and perhaps the first modern celebrity.  I am writing a blog for friends and family.- he kept an absurd menagerie of animals, and often seemed to love beasts more than people.  Our home is surrounded by wildlife and it brings me much joy.- he had to leave his beloved dog (was it Bo’sun?) behind on his travels, and when it passed away built it a monument at Newstead.  I have left the fabulous gecko Wilfrid behind (thanks, Nat!), who has had to go to the vet already, the poor lamb.- he failed to lead a revolution in Greece, despite spending a lot of money and energy on it.  I am probably going to fail to have any significant impact on the education system in Nigeria.- he spent much of his first journey being delighted, fascinated, and appalled by the sexual practices he discovered.  I continue to be intrigued by the Nigerian attitudes to sex (and toilets, actually, but that’s not really so similar).- he inspired love in all he encountered.  I have had a lot of conversations with strangers, and got on very well with many children thus far.- he was incapable of resisting sexual advances, which he received from more or less every woman, and most men, he ran into.  I haven’t received the level of advances that I was trained to fear before coming here, but do get paid more attention than is my due.- he was obsessed with his girth, and I think was naturally inclined to rotundity, so occasionally purged himself with ridiculous diets.  I cannot resist the fatty, fatty foods of joy here.- he was a magnificent swimmer (makes me think of Mickey and Pauline, that), and showed off his skills whenever he possibly could– most famously across the Hellespont.  I have been lucky enough to use a swimming pool here twice thus far, and have been interested to discover that Nigerians generally can’t swim.- he often drank to wild, wild excess (which I can only assume he exaggerated grossly in letters).  I drank more than I could handle last night.- he loved children, in an often strangely selfish manner.  I am perpetually delighted by the children here– of whom (in a population with an average age of about 18 and a life expectancy of below 50) there are many.- he was proudest of his‘ethnic’ attire.  I am itching to buy some Nigerian clothes, but secretly fear I’ll look like a buffoon.- he found it very hard to be on an equal footing with anyone, and usually had master-servant relationships with those around him.  I can’t prevent people stopping meetings when I’m waiting to talk to them, calling me ‘sir’ and ‘Mr Simmon’ (sic), and thanking me for my presence.- he liked almost everywhere he went outside of Britain more than his island home.  I love this country.- he often felt awkward and gauche in his body (partly but not entirely due to his clubfoot).  I do too (I’m a British man after all), but even more so when I see how comfortable Nigerians are with their own physicality.- he was frustrated by his work (as in, what he got money for), which was writing, essentially– and felt he was destined for greater things – like being Napoleon – which he sought to be in his spare time, and perhaps in his relationships (with people and readers).  I’m frustrated by my strange and jerky career in education, and spend most of my spare time trying to read and write about Old English (and writing blogs and drinking copious amounts of alcohol, obviously).- he was infuriated by what he saw as people’s – particularly Greek people’s – lack of interest in their own history.  It troubles me that Nigerians’ memory seems to extend back about ten years to the start of democracy, with a vaguely mythic acceptance of wars before that, and a golden age of peace and order as part of the Empire.  Only one person I’ve spoken to so far – and he was an academic who shared my frustration – seems to be aware that the land and peoples here existed before about 1820.