Descriptive Writingn Narrative Essay

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    Rubindran Nair (PSV/BI/BM)

    DESCRIPTIVE WRITING

    The driver steered his moped down the corrugated red mud road outside of theNigerian town of Oshogbo, north of Lagos, with me bouncing along on the back seat.In front of a wooden gate he wobbled to a halt. The surrounding rain forest wasdripping with humidity; wraiths of mist wandered between the big trees. I got off, paidhim, and entered.

    The Sacred Grove of Oshogbo was one place I had been looking forward to visitingin Nigeria. As prevalent as indigenous religions still are in West Africa, it is often hardto find public expressions of them in towns and cities; the Christianity brought byEuropean slavers and colonialists has taken root and pushed most of these religionsout of mainstream life. But in the Sacred Grove shrines honor all the local deities,including Obatala, the god of creation, Ogun, the god of iron, and Oshun, the

    goddess of water, whose aqueous essence is made manifest by the river runningthrough the trees. The place is unique in the Yoruba religion, and that intrigued me.

    As I passed through the gates I heard a squeaky voice. A diminutive middle-agedman came out from behind the trees the caretaker. He worked a toothbrush-sizedstick around in his mouth, digging into the crevices between algae'd stubs of teeth.He was barefoot; he wore a blue batik shirt known as a buba,baggy purple trousers,and an embroidered skullcap. I asked him if he would show me around the shrine.Motioning me to follow, he spat out the results of his stick work and set off down thetrail.

    We stopped in front of a many-headed statue. "Ako Alumawewe," he blurted out,sucking on the stick. A deity? I asked. He nodded and spat, then headed down thetrail to another stone effigy, that of Egbe. After kissing the ground at its base, he heldforth at length in mellifluous Yoruba. Since I spoke no Yoruba and he, it turned out,no English, it became clear that my visit wasn't going to be as edifying as I hadhoped.

    "Hello!"

    I looked back up the trail. A Nigerian man in penny loafers was making his waygingerly around the puddles and heading our way. He was young but a belly was

    already spreading under his white Izod shirt; he wore tight beige highwater trousers.It was clear that he was living a life of relative plenty. He introduced himself asPastor Paul, from a church in Benue State.

    "You come to look at the Grove?" he asked, shaking my hand. "Good. It's verytouristic."

    A young woman emerged from the trail. Her wardrobe, too, could have been boughton sale at JC Penney's, but unlike Pastor Paul, she was fit, with fresh eyes.

    "My interpreter," Pastor Paul said, pointing to her. "Of course I can't understandthese people. We have our own language in Benue State."

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    The little man talked up a storm in Yoruba, but the interpreter said nothing. Our guidethen led us down to the river. The water ran bright green between the trees;monkeys jumped around the canopy above. Arising from a mess of roots wasOshun's statue, which occasioned a monologue from the little man.

    "What is he saying?" I asked the translator.

    "He says locals bring sacrifices to the gods here. Maize, moi-moi, cola nuts."

    Father Paul shook his head, his brow wrinkling, his lips pursing. There were nolocals about, I noticed. Where were they? Dodging oversized ferns, our guidehopped down the trail, and we followed him.

    "Debel! Debel!" he said, pointing with disdain at a pug-nosed bust with an evil smirkstanding amid a tangle of roots. The Devil.

    The pastor's face retained its pinched expression. "Of course, this man is ignorant,"he said to me, waving his arm in dismissal. I said nothing.

    Up at a promontory above the river we found Olu Igbo the lord of the forest.Placing his stick in his back pocket, the little man fell silent and bowed. It was indeedan awesome sighta giant stone effigy standing among great trees, with hugeeyes and long arms spread out like wings. Hoots and warbles percolated in from thefoliage; rain began to fall but its drops, intercepted by the manifold layers of leavesabove, hardly touched us.

    The pastor harrumphed. "I tell my people in church to abandon these beliefs forGod." His voice rang loud in the amphitheater of great trees. "Such ignorance. OurAmerican pastors have a lot to say about how ignorant we are. We are trying tochange, but these beliefs persist. Life is hard in our country. The people want toinsure themselves, so they worship God and these idols. But it's ignorance. Don'tyou agree?"

    "Why did you come here then?" I asked him as we walked back to the road.

    "To see the skilled work of our artisans."

    That was as good an answer as any. At the gate we tipped the guide and partedways.

    Jeffrey Tayleris a freelance writer and traveler based in Moscow, and is theauthor ofSiberian Dawn(1999). He contributes regularly to The Atlantic Monthlyand files frequent dispatches for Atlantic Abroad.

    This essay was first published in The Atlantic Monthlyand then, online, in the"Atlantic Abroad" section of the Atlantic's Website, athttp://www.theatlantic.com/unbound/abroad/jt990526.htm.It is used here with thekind permission of the editors of The Atlantic Monthly.At Atlantic's Web site, youcan also find hyperlinks to several other fine examples of descriptive writing.

    http://www.theatlantic.com/unbound/abroad/jt990526.htmhttp://www.theatlantic.com/unbound/abroad/jt990526.htmhttp://www.theatlantic.com/unbound/abroad/jt990526.htm
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    NARRATIVE ESSAY

    Learning something new can be a scary experience. One of the hardest things I've ever had to

    do was learn how to swim. I was always afraid of the water, but I decided that swimming was

    an important skill that I should learn. I also thought it would be good exercise and help me tobecome physically stronger. What I didn't realize was that learning to swim would also make

    me a more confident person.

    New situations always make me a bit nervous, and my first swimming lesson was no

    exception. After I changed into my bathing suit in the locker room, I stood timidly by the side

    of the pool waiting for the teacher and other students to show up. After a couple of minutes

    the teacher came over. She smiled and introduced herself, and two more students joined us.

    Although they were both older than me, they didn't seem to be embarrassed about not

    knowing how to swim. I began to feel more at ease.

    We got into the pool, and the teacher had us put on brightly colored water wings to help usstay afloat. One of the other students, May, had already taken the beginning class once

    before, so she took a kickboard and went splashing off by herself. The other student, Jerry,

    and I were told to hold on to the side of the pool and shown how to kick for the breaststroke.

    One by one, the teacher had us hold on to a kickboard while she pulled it through the water

    and we kicked. Pretty soon Jerry was off doing this by himself, traveling at a fast clip across

    the short end of the pool.

    Things were not quite that easy for me, but the teacher was very patient. After a few more

    weeks, when I seemed to have caught on with my legs, she taught me the arm strokes. Now I

    had two things to concentrate on, my arms and my legs. I felt hopelessly uncoordinated.

    Sooner than I imagined, however, things began to feel "right" and I was able to swim! It was

    a wonderful free feeling - like flying, maybe - to be able to shoot across the water.

    Learning to swim was not easy for me, but in the end my persistence paid off. Not only did I

    learn how to swim and to conquer my fear of the water, but I also learned something about

    learning. Now when I am faced with a new situation I am not so nervous. I may feel

    uncomfortable to begin with, but I know that as I practice being in that situation and as my

    skills get better, I will feel more and more comfortable. It is a wonderful, free feeling when

    you achieve a goal you have set for yourself.