in transit
I am currently back in Nigeria, after busing from Yaounde to Douala on Thursday, and flying from Douala to Lagos on Friday. My second trip through Douala was pleasant, if not as exciting as the first. The one entertaining incident occurred at the Artisans Market on Friday morning. I was running low on Central African Francs so, in order to pick up some souvenirs, I traded away some clothes. (Thanks for the suggestion, RL) Which means those horribly uncomfortable shoes did finally end up being good for something!
Flying into Lagos, I was actually a little excited. Nigeria is hard, and rough, and tiring, but it has an undeniable energy. Especially Lagos, which is kind of like the New York City of West Africa. Like it or hate it, you have to experience it. And, this time, I had the benefit of familiarity. Plus light. I almost couldn’t believe I was arriving at the same airport I’d used before.
For my first arrival—to briefly back up 6 weeks—it was 8 p.m., well after dark The building was dim and everything seemed dusty and poorly marked. After I (finally) got my bag, I exited the baggage claim to enter a dingy arrivals hall. Off to one side, behind a chest-height wall, were a bunch of guys shouting and watching as I changed money with the indifferent cashiers at the exchange desk. Out front, it was more of the same, only they were cordoned off behind a rope. A bunch of men gesticulating towards taxis. I could see a few of their cars and, behind that, nothing but darkness, split by a few blazes of lantern light. Otherwise, pitch black.
I am not proud of the fact that my mind swerved immediately into stereotypes and worst case scenarios, but apparently I’ve seen Black Hawk Down too many times. I was pretty certain that things were about to go badly. I enlisted an airport employee for help, which seemed clever, but then hoofing it a couple hundred yards to what appeared to be a private car eliminated any confidence I had built up. It didn’t help when the driver pulled off the main road and headed into a crowded, poorly lit parking area, where he proceeded to wedge us into a too-tight spot. Apparently stuck, he got out of the car and called over some random stranger from a crowd of guys sitting around a fire. The stranger climbed into the driver’s seat. At that point, I was certain that my cash and laptop were toast and was just hoping I’d make it through in one piece.
As it turned out, the car was, in fact, simply stuck. The stranger maneuvered it free and the first driver returned. I also discovered why we’d taken the detour; there had been a miscommunication at the airport and the driver thought I still needed to change money. So had brought me to the parking lot, where the crowd of men included some Hausa moneychangers. And it was very, very dark, because Nigerian utilities are totally unreliable. We drove into Victoria Island and found my hotel. I paid the amount promised. Everything was fine.
Contrast with Friday afternoon’s Arrival #2. I got in at 4 p.m. The terminal still looked a little dingy, but no worse than any other less developed airport. Went through immigration and waited five minutes for my bags. Outside, there were no gesticulating hordes. A guy in a vest walked up and said casually “You need a taxi?” I said yes, we agreed on a price, he grabbed a driver, who went to get his car (also private). I tossed in my bag and we drove to the university.
It was partly the time of day that made the difference, partly the benefit of experience. Largely the realization that Nigeria is not as hostile as people say. Yes, it’s hard to travel here--the Guesthouse’s grungy paint, dirty floors, mosquito raids, and dysfunctional plumbing, along with today's epic quest for decent food, are offering all too vivid reminders of that. But, thankfully, I’m no longer in constant fear for my life.
Flying into Lagos, I was actually a little excited. Nigeria is hard, and rough, and tiring, but it has an undeniable energy. Especially Lagos, which is kind of like the New York City of West Africa. Like it or hate it, you have to experience it. And, this time, I had the benefit of familiarity. Plus light. I almost couldn’t believe I was arriving at the same airport I’d used before.
For my first arrival—to briefly back up 6 weeks—it was 8 p.m., well after dark The building was dim and everything seemed dusty and poorly marked. After I (finally) got my bag, I exited the baggage claim to enter a dingy arrivals hall. Off to one side, behind a chest-height wall, were a bunch of guys shouting and watching as I changed money with the indifferent cashiers at the exchange desk. Out front, it was more of the same, only they were cordoned off behind a rope. A bunch of men gesticulating towards taxis. I could see a few of their cars and, behind that, nothing but darkness, split by a few blazes of lantern light. Otherwise, pitch black.
I am not proud of the fact that my mind swerved immediately into stereotypes and worst case scenarios, but apparently I’ve seen Black Hawk Down too many times. I was pretty certain that things were about to go badly. I enlisted an airport employee for help, which seemed clever, but then hoofing it a couple hundred yards to what appeared to be a private car eliminated any confidence I had built up. It didn’t help when the driver pulled off the main road and headed into a crowded, poorly lit parking area, where he proceeded to wedge us into a too-tight spot. Apparently stuck, he got out of the car and called over some random stranger from a crowd of guys sitting around a fire. The stranger climbed into the driver’s seat. At that point, I was certain that my cash and laptop were toast and was just hoping I’d make it through in one piece.
As it turned out, the car was, in fact, simply stuck. The stranger maneuvered it free and the first driver returned. I also discovered why we’d taken the detour; there had been a miscommunication at the airport and the driver thought I still needed to change money. So had brought me to the parking lot, where the crowd of men included some Hausa moneychangers. And it was very, very dark, because Nigerian utilities are totally unreliable. We drove into Victoria Island and found my hotel. I paid the amount promised. Everything was fine.
Contrast with Friday afternoon’s Arrival #2. I got in at 4 p.m. The terminal still looked a little dingy, but no worse than any other less developed airport. Went through immigration and waited five minutes for my bags. Outside, there were no gesticulating hordes. A guy in a vest walked up and said casually “You need a taxi?” I said yes, we agreed on a price, he grabbed a driver, who went to get his car (also private). I tossed in my bag and we drove to the university.
It was partly the time of day that made the difference, partly the benefit of experience. Largely the realization that Nigeria is not as hostile as people say. Yes, it’s hard to travel here--the Guesthouse’s grungy paint, dirty floors, mosquito raids, and dysfunctional plumbing, along with today's epic quest for decent food, are offering all too vivid reminders of that. But, thankfully, I’m no longer in constant fear for my life.
posted by Emily at 4:18 AM
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