Nigeria: Day One
It is the rainy season here in Nigeria. This became apparent as the water droplets streaked past the planes on the window, obscuring my potential first viewings of the city of Lagos. It was not until the airplane began making its way to the terminal that I realized I was excited. My first footsteps on the continent of Africa was about to begin and I had no idea what to expect.
The doors of the plane opened to warm humid air, but all I could think was, these are my first lungfuls of African air. It smelled like it had been raining a lot, that sort of mildewy scent that emanates from damp carpets, but I am learning that this city engages your senses more than anyplace else I have been.
A fellow Exxon employee, Brian, happened to be traveling in the adjacent seat as I on the plane. Brian, a Caucasian, allowed me to really see some of the subtle differences of our similar work experiences. Through our talks it was clear that he was here for work, and I verified that I was primarily here for growth. Brian and I both had an error in our immigration paperwork, but at the entry desk, Brian was not allowed to pass and I was. Same guard, same error, different person. Similarly, whenever I handed my passport to an airport official, they would reply ‘welcome home’. That’s amazing. Even the guard checking the bag blessed me with those two words. My American passport meant nothing except I had not been home in a while, and that has set the tone for my experience thus far.
Although I felt welcomed, I still felt like a stranger in a strange land. A Nigerian Exxon employee escorted myself and the other travelers to the bus that would take us to our destinations. And there we waited. The plane landed at 10:00AM and I arrived at the bus no later than 11:00AM. Due to complications in the baggage of two travelers in our party we did not leave the airport until Noon. That hour was filled with hunger and thirst, but also with my first chance to observe the people. It is hard to comprehend how much infrastructure we expect in our American lives, until we get to a place without it. Just the walk from the terminal to the bus allowed me to slightly grasp some of these things.
The guard with the AK-47 was the first sight to leave an impression, not because he had a gun, but because he had such a stripped down, second-hand gun. My guide to the bus was initially missing, and it was amazing how many people could smell opportunity in the air. One man asked me if I would like to use his phone for a call, another asked if he could carry my bags, a third and fourth if they could drive me somewhere. I felt nervous, not because I felt in harm’s way, but because I knew I was out of my league. Luckily, the escort appeared before I became too edgy. The walk to the bus was mud strewn with potholes intermittently spaced along the road, and people were everywhere. They were not at the airport for flying, but were there to make a living doing whatever small tasks were available. In the bus was my the last of my initial observations. The bus had all the curtains drawn, which was expected. I was most surprised by the fact that no one besides myself was tempted to look outside. I was in a bus with five Caucasians, most of whom had never been in the country, and they were seemed little interested in the brand new world around them.
Eventually the bus driver announces we will begin moving. But first, he says he must find out where he is taking us. It turns out, your hotel location in Nigeria (for Exxon employees at least) is not guaranteed until you actually arrive in Lagos. Then they find a place for you, with your stated preference being ideal. All but one of our group of six were staying where we wanted to, the unlucky fellow just happened to pick the short stick that day. The bus is off, and before we leave the grounds of the airport, the incessant honking begins. This honking is the one constant in Lagos. Even as I sit in my hotel room typing this, the chorus of different pitched horns is piercing the narrowly insulated hotel walls. Back to the bus ride. The things you notice immediately, are the poverty and the audacity of the people. The poverty is obvious through the plethora of shacks and dilapidated housing that line the major highways, but the audacity is more interesting. The phrases, balls to the walls comes to mind. Meaning there is no half-stepping. When they want to sell something, they get in the middle of the highway and sell it. Speeding cars be damned. This guy really wants to sell some automotive floor pads, and this guy needs to get rid of some embroidered napkins, or some fruit, or some sodas, or DVD’s. At some point I begin looking at the toes of these road vendors to see if there feet are imprinted with tire treads. They are not, and it’s because they are good at this. This audaciousness is found in many things I have observed thus far. The driving stretches the limits of reasonableness, people cross the street as if they are only mildly aware of the implications of getting hit by a bus, business men ride on the back of mopeds, and people find work in anything from picking weeds by hand or shoveling dirt from one pile to the next. It’s chaotic, it’s primitive, and it’s beautiful. The tenacity, that celebrated hustler spirit, I witnessed in the hour and a half ride goes straight to the top of my list. Out of poverty comes necessity.
As our police escorted caravan enters the first of the ExxonMobil compounds, I see why the rest of the party took the time to sleep or chat with their coworkers. They are expected to be isolated from this society. The compound is behind a big wall with big metal swinging doors, and appears to be a self sufficient living quarters. I quickly learned that Bayshore (where I stay) is the same way. I can eat here, catch the bus to work, and sleep here without any needs of interacting with the outside world.
After dropping off the first of our crew, we continued on our way down the increasingly smaller streets. At one point, to avoid a traffic jam, the police escort ushered us down the wrong side of a one way street. As much as I was enjoying the increasingly liberal road rules, my destination was soon upon us. The Bayshore Suites is a Lebanese Owned, ExxonMobil rented temporary housing facility that does a very good job of providing generous accommodations in a place where the general population has so little. After some initial confusion (they claimed I was not supposed to be staying with them) I got into my room and started to get as settled as possible. The staff, all Nigerian, has proved very nice and has so far offered to take me to church. They promised the service would be short, three hours at the most.
That is my account thus far. I am trying to fight sleep as best I can, but luckily the perpetual cacophony outside my window is going to make staying awake much easier. Tomorrow, I will invest in some earplugs.
The doors of the plane opened to warm humid air, but all I could think was, these are my first lungfuls of African air. It smelled like it had been raining a lot, that sort of mildewy scent that emanates from damp carpets, but I am learning that this city engages your senses more than anyplace else I have been.
A fellow Exxon employee, Brian, happened to be traveling in the adjacent seat as I on the plane. Brian, a Caucasian, allowed me to really see some of the subtle differences of our similar work experiences. Through our talks it was clear that he was here for work, and I verified that I was primarily here for growth. Brian and I both had an error in our immigration paperwork, but at the entry desk, Brian was not allowed to pass and I was. Same guard, same error, different person. Similarly, whenever I handed my passport to an airport official, they would reply ‘welcome home’. That’s amazing. Even the guard checking the bag blessed me with those two words. My American passport meant nothing except I had not been home in a while, and that has set the tone for my experience thus far.
Although I felt welcomed, I still felt like a stranger in a strange land. A Nigerian Exxon employee escorted myself and the other travelers to the bus that would take us to our destinations. And there we waited. The plane landed at 10:00AM and I arrived at the bus no later than 11:00AM. Due to complications in the baggage of two travelers in our party we did not leave the airport until Noon. That hour was filled with hunger and thirst, but also with my first chance to observe the people. It is hard to comprehend how much infrastructure we expect in our American lives, until we get to a place without it. Just the walk from the terminal to the bus allowed me to slightly grasp some of these things.
The guard with the AK-47 was the first sight to leave an impression, not because he had a gun, but because he had such a stripped down, second-hand gun. My guide to the bus was initially missing, and it was amazing how many people could smell opportunity in the air. One man asked me if I would like to use his phone for a call, another asked if he could carry my bags, a third and fourth if they could drive me somewhere. I felt nervous, not because I felt in harm’s way, but because I knew I was out of my league. Luckily, the escort appeared before I became too edgy. The walk to the bus was mud strewn with potholes intermittently spaced along the road, and people were everywhere. They were not at the airport for flying, but were there to make a living doing whatever small tasks were available. In the bus was my the last of my initial observations. The bus had all the curtains drawn, which was expected. I was most surprised by the fact that no one besides myself was tempted to look outside. I was in a bus with five Caucasians, most of whom had never been in the country, and they were seemed little interested in the brand new world around them.
Eventually the bus driver announces we will begin moving. But first, he says he must find out where he is taking us. It turns out, your hotel location in Nigeria (for Exxon employees at least) is not guaranteed until you actually arrive in Lagos. Then they find a place for you, with your stated preference being ideal. All but one of our group of six were staying where we wanted to, the unlucky fellow just happened to pick the short stick that day. The bus is off, and before we leave the grounds of the airport, the incessant honking begins. This honking is the one constant in Lagos. Even as I sit in my hotel room typing this, the chorus of different pitched horns is piercing the narrowly insulated hotel walls. Back to the bus ride. The things you notice immediately, are the poverty and the audacity of the people. The poverty is obvious through the plethora of shacks and dilapidated housing that line the major highways, but the audacity is more interesting. The phrases, balls to the walls comes to mind. Meaning there is no half-stepping. When they want to sell something, they get in the middle of the highway and sell it. Speeding cars be damned. This guy really wants to sell some automotive floor pads, and this guy needs to get rid of some embroidered napkins, or some fruit, or some sodas, or DVD’s. At some point I begin looking at the toes of these road vendors to see if there feet are imprinted with tire treads. They are not, and it’s because they are good at this. This audaciousness is found in many things I have observed thus far. The driving stretches the limits of reasonableness, people cross the street as if they are only mildly aware of the implications of getting hit by a bus, business men ride on the back of mopeds, and people find work in anything from picking weeds by hand or shoveling dirt from one pile to the next. It’s chaotic, it’s primitive, and it’s beautiful. The tenacity, that celebrated hustler spirit, I witnessed in the hour and a half ride goes straight to the top of my list. Out of poverty comes necessity.
As our police escorted caravan enters the first of the ExxonMobil compounds, I see why the rest of the party took the time to sleep or chat with their coworkers. They are expected to be isolated from this society. The compound is behind a big wall with big metal swinging doors, and appears to be a self sufficient living quarters. I quickly learned that Bayshore (where I stay) is the same way. I can eat here, catch the bus to work, and sleep here without any needs of interacting with the outside world.
After dropping off the first of our crew, we continued on our way down the increasingly smaller streets. At one point, to avoid a traffic jam, the police escort ushered us down the wrong side of a one way street. As much as I was enjoying the increasingly liberal road rules, my destination was soon upon us. The Bayshore Suites is a Lebanese Owned, ExxonMobil rented temporary housing facility that does a very good job of providing generous accommodations in a place where the general population has so little. After some initial confusion (they claimed I was not supposed to be staying with them) I got into my room and started to get as settled as possible. The staff, all Nigerian, has proved very nice and has so far offered to take me to church. They promised the service would be short, three hours at the most.
That is my account thus far. I am trying to fight sleep as best I can, but luckily the perpetual cacophony outside my window is going to make staying awake much easier. Tomorrow, I will invest in some earplugs.
posted by Anthony Jackson at 11:36 PM
2 Comments:
Hm, and where will you find earplugs?
You Should TOTALLY Go to Church with Them... Awesome!
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