Nigeria: Day Two
It’s 5:30 AM and as promised, the Lekki Alarm Clock has woken me up. I thought it strange that this hotel had no alarm clock in the room, but I now understand why. Everybody wakes up at 5:30, whether you intend to or not. This is courtesy of the Lekki Freeway that borders the side of the Bayshore Hotel. My fellow expats told me of this phenomenon, but I was still shocked to experience it. As if on cue, the symphony of honks start and will not stop until 10:30 PM. Oh well, I had my wake up call set for 6:00 AM anyway.
I take my shower in quickly diminishing hot water, and brush my teeth hesitantly using the tap water (they insist it’s safe at Bayshore, despite the repeated warnings of the Bus driver warning us against tap water). I would simply trust the line that Bayshore has its own filtration, but then I ask, why can’t they filter out that slightly brown color? Oh well, its 24 hours later, and I am ok.
Breakfast is some Lebanese approved, Nigerian prepared, version of American breakfast cuisine, and the results are quite interesting. Interesting is the official word for things that I am hesitant to call bad, but I certainly do not think is good. So far, a lot of things in Nigeria are interesting… but I expect that my perception of things will change as I spend more time in country. After breakfast we head to the car where I am introduced to our driver. His name is Linus, and he is as my boss explains “the happiest guy I have ever seen, he is always smiling”. If whitey was paying me a good salary for two half mile drives, I would be smiling in his face as well. Regardless, Linus expertly executes the acrobatic moves of getting us across the highway without breaking a sweat. A feat I was too be impressed by until later that afternoon when he pulls an even greater performance.
The quick two minute drive to the office grants me my first impression of Mobil House. Mobil House is like an island, not that it stands alone from its environment physically, but more so like a wart on a face, or a gold tooth amongst a smile. It’s big, uninviting, and maintains a sense of westernized corporate order in a country that generally lacks such things. It simply does not seem to belong. But it is here, and I am glad for it, because it is completely necessary. Once past the multiple security checks, you emerge into what ExxonMobil clearly considers ‘architecture inspired by African tradition’. I’m convinced, but then again, I am the westerner who knows nothing really about what I am talking about. One thing to note, when I get issued a badge, you literally write your name and other info in a giant book and that serves as the record. Same with checking in my laptop. No computer database, no redundancy checking, no verification, and really no point. But this is one of the first examples of western expectations unsuccessfully executed in a non-western world. It is similar to the ‘honor code’ system at Bayshore Suites where you write in a ledger what you ate and drank, and ExxonMobil pays the tab at the end of the day/week/month. Regardless of what is written there, Bayshore Suites is going to charge whatever it wants to Exxon as long as the amount passes the sniff test.
So at work, I am shown to my cubicle where I get settled and introduced to a few people. The vast majority (appears to be 85% or so) of Mobil House employees are Nigerian citizens, with expatriates making up the remainder. My group is more 50/50. Shortly after arriving, a man comes and takes my chair, stating that he had stolen the chair I initially had from someone else, and that it must be returned before he gets to work. He returned with a much crappier chair that had seen its prime about ten years ago. He promised to bring another later, along with a phone, a trash can, and a few other things. This is a white guy by the way, in case your mind is visualizing a Nigerian (not sure if that was a necessary clarification). I like my dilapidated chair though, it reminds me of my furniture at home.
The highlight of my workday was the hour long explanation of how dangerous Nigeria is from my boss. Don’t get me wrong, this city is very visibly dangerous, but my boss takes it to the extreme. He literally goes to work, gets to the hotel and locks his door, and does not come out until the next morning. He eats the American food that he had shipped over ($6000 worth) for breakfast, lunch and dinner, because ‘I ate the food twice, and twice I got food poisoning’. He considered going to the gym at Bayshore Suites, but the first day he was going to go, it was robbed by an armed gang who stole everybody’s stuff. So never going to the gym he says. He proceeded to give examples of contractors getting shot (injured not killed) when driving to the mainland without a police escort, and of people getting robbed on the street because they look like rich white guys. For clarification, he explains that I will not have as much of a problem (because I am black), and that the Lagos island that we are on, Victoria Island, is safer than mainland Lagos. Although, I am seemingly imperious to fears of death, his continued monologue of danger begins to sink in. I am now officially worried about my safety in Lagos. This is probably a good thing, because now when I go out, I will be more aware of my surroundings. I explained this to him to which he says something like ‘I came here to work and to make money, I did not come here to die’, but wishes me luck in staying safe if I venture out. After the hour safety discussion, we discuss what I am here to do.
Lunch time comes, and my boss reluctantly takes me down to the cafeteria. He explains that he ate here only once (reference previous statement of food poisoning) and has stayed away ever since. But, he continues, he has since found out that they have a sandwich and salad bar. I notice once he gets his meal, that they are out of lettuce at the salad bar, and that the sandwich appears to be four pieces of toast, poor guy can’t catch a break. I on the other hand am looking forward to my meal. The National (aka Nigerian) selection was Cassava, Fufu, Otongo Soup and some other goodies; but I was set on the less adventurous curried chicken with rice. As I get in line, I notice that I see a lot of the National dish being served out, but then again most everybody in the caf was Nigerian. But as I get closer, I do not even see the rice and curried chicken, but when I ask, the lady says yes there is chicken. She was referring to some other chicken, not my curried chicken. So here I am at the ordering place and I do not know what I am looking at. So I get a little of everything. By the way, there is no such thing as a little. They give TREMENDOUS portions, to the point where its preposterous. So, my little of everything was still a lot. The second I saw her spoon the Otongo Soup and noticed that there was a mucous like film hanging from the ladle, I knew I was going to have some problems. I have explained to some, that my only beef with Nigerian food comes from the heavy use of Okra, which becomes slimy when boiled. This Otongo Soup was the definition of slimy, but I promised to give it a shot.
I get my plate and meet my boss at the table, and I can sense his disgust at my plate before I look up and see it. ‘You’ve got bigger balls than I do’ he says. My balls were not that big after all, because I did not make it very far into that meal. I took my first bite of Fufu, and it was so spicy, and so foreign a taste that I had ended up drinking half my glass of water. Then I tried the Cassava, which looked like a potato like food, and found that to taste like toilet paper. Don’t ask me why I know what toilet paper tastes like. It was not bad, but it was just bland. I wrapped some Otongo Soup around it, yes you have to wrap it or else the stuff will just stick to your spoon, and tried the combination. That was better, but no success. It was when my boss said ‘You don’t have to do this to yourself’ and ‘I won’t think less of you if you give up’ that I did indeed give in. I found the international line and returned with some yummy curried chicken and rice. The rest of my day, I spent battling massive indigestion, and refusing to get sick.
Around 6:00PM (time out, my office mate is cutting her nails with scissors) we go home, or at least we try to. It took us two minutes to drive to work, would have taken at most ten minutes to walk it if we were allowed to, but it took us an hour and a half to drive home. The worse part is that there was no obvious reason what the delay was for. Cars just were not moving. Evidently this trip doubled the last record for longest trip home, but I was not that bothered by it. I was able to witness a little bit of Nigerian life during that time. Chickens, small shacks that were barely livable, mansions whose land was evidently worth more than most places in Beverly Hills, seemingly eighteen year old police men and their AK-47s, car to car salesman carrying socks and shirts, friends socializing, a guy taking a crap in the bushes, men repairing tires, vendors selling fruit, beautiful women being flirted with, drivers creating their own lanes, restaurants and jazz clubs, potholes that made the road look like a cleared minefield, range rovers, Mercedes, pintos and hoopties. An amazing spectrum of things, but still the overriding flavor is poverty. Maybe not in the eyes of those in the streets, but in my eyes, ones that have seen better. And I feel correct in saying better; there are basic necessities that are not being met for a lot of the people that you see here. I am the first to say that all you really need is food, water, air, and shelter but it seems these basic requirements are not fully being met in the general populace.
It was easy to theorize about how to ‘fix’ Africa back in the states, or how Yar’Adua was doing a good job in revitalizing Nigeria, but on the ground and in the streets it was hard for me to think of ways of making things better. How would you go about cleaning the streets of the overwhelming garbage? Where could you house people so that they are protected from the elements? Why is there such a disparity of wealth? How do you change a culture built on ‘corruption’? The last one is particularly tough to me. You bribe everyone here, but when it is expected and a source of salary for most; how do you change that, would you want to? Dash, a gift, a tip, a present, whatever the form, small infusions of cash are the way of getting things done and spread the wealth amongst the population, but also undermines the ability of governments to curb corruption and large scale corporate bribes. How do you permit something in the micro without it also affecting the macro? Tough stuff.
Back in the car, we finally make it back to the hotel after our driver forces his way across four lanes of gridlocked oncoming traffic. At this point, I am eager to take care of my indigestion, and also to relax. I talk to my Pops and watch some TV before heading down to dinner. My stomach barely at ease from lunch, I take it light during dinner and overhear a pretty funny convo. ‘Did you make it to the happy hour, I hear they ran out of food and drinks’, response, ‘They always do’. I need to get out more.
One of my coworkers from Houston showed up as I was finishing my meal (turns out he just got out of work) and he exchanged some money with me. I now have my first $100 worth of Naira. Those hundred dollars gives me 11,700 Naira, which turns out to be a pretty thick wad of cash, but they say it goes fast. As seems to be the custom, Star beers were purchased and everyone drank until they felt tipsy enough to sleep through the honking horns. Another eventful day in Naija.
I take my shower in quickly diminishing hot water, and brush my teeth hesitantly using the tap water (they insist it’s safe at Bayshore, despite the repeated warnings of the Bus driver warning us against tap water). I would simply trust the line that Bayshore has its own filtration, but then I ask, why can’t they filter out that slightly brown color? Oh well, its 24 hours later, and I am ok.
Breakfast is some Lebanese approved, Nigerian prepared, version of American breakfast cuisine, and the results are quite interesting. Interesting is the official word for things that I am hesitant to call bad, but I certainly do not think is good. So far, a lot of things in Nigeria are interesting… but I expect that my perception of things will change as I spend more time in country. After breakfast we head to the car where I am introduced to our driver. His name is Linus, and he is as my boss explains “the happiest guy I have ever seen, he is always smiling”. If whitey was paying me a good salary for two half mile drives, I would be smiling in his face as well. Regardless, Linus expertly executes the acrobatic moves of getting us across the highway without breaking a sweat. A feat I was too be impressed by until later that afternoon when he pulls an even greater performance.
The quick two minute drive to the office grants me my first impression of Mobil House. Mobil House is like an island, not that it stands alone from its environment physically, but more so like a wart on a face, or a gold tooth amongst a smile. It’s big, uninviting, and maintains a sense of westernized corporate order in a country that generally lacks such things. It simply does not seem to belong. But it is here, and I am glad for it, because it is completely necessary. Once past the multiple security checks, you emerge into what ExxonMobil clearly considers ‘architecture inspired by African tradition’. I’m convinced, but then again, I am the westerner who knows nothing really about what I am talking about. One thing to note, when I get issued a badge, you literally write your name and other info in a giant book and that serves as the record. Same with checking in my laptop. No computer database, no redundancy checking, no verification, and really no point. But this is one of the first examples of western expectations unsuccessfully executed in a non-western world. It is similar to the ‘honor code’ system at Bayshore Suites where you write in a ledger what you ate and drank, and ExxonMobil pays the tab at the end of the day/week/month. Regardless of what is written there, Bayshore Suites is going to charge whatever it wants to Exxon as long as the amount passes the sniff test.
So at work, I am shown to my cubicle where I get settled and introduced to a few people. The vast majority (appears to be 85% or so) of Mobil House employees are Nigerian citizens, with expatriates making up the remainder. My group is more 50/50. Shortly after arriving, a man comes and takes my chair, stating that he had stolen the chair I initially had from someone else, and that it must be returned before he gets to work. He returned with a much crappier chair that had seen its prime about ten years ago. He promised to bring another later, along with a phone, a trash can, and a few other things. This is a white guy by the way, in case your mind is visualizing a Nigerian (not sure if that was a necessary clarification). I like my dilapidated chair though, it reminds me of my furniture at home.
The highlight of my workday was the hour long explanation of how dangerous Nigeria is from my boss. Don’t get me wrong, this city is very visibly dangerous, but my boss takes it to the extreme. He literally goes to work, gets to the hotel and locks his door, and does not come out until the next morning. He eats the American food that he had shipped over ($6000 worth) for breakfast, lunch and dinner, because ‘I ate the food twice, and twice I got food poisoning’. He considered going to the gym at Bayshore Suites, but the first day he was going to go, it was robbed by an armed gang who stole everybody’s stuff. So never going to the gym he says. He proceeded to give examples of contractors getting shot (injured not killed) when driving to the mainland without a police escort, and of people getting robbed on the street because they look like rich white guys. For clarification, he explains that I will not have as much of a problem (because I am black), and that the Lagos island that we are on, Victoria Island, is safer than mainland Lagos. Although, I am seemingly imperious to fears of death, his continued monologue of danger begins to sink in. I am now officially worried about my safety in Lagos. This is probably a good thing, because now when I go out, I will be more aware of my surroundings. I explained this to him to which he says something like ‘I came here to work and to make money, I did not come here to die’, but wishes me luck in staying safe if I venture out. After the hour safety discussion, we discuss what I am here to do.
Lunch time comes, and my boss reluctantly takes me down to the cafeteria. He explains that he ate here only once (reference previous statement of food poisoning) and has stayed away ever since. But, he continues, he has since found out that they have a sandwich and salad bar. I notice once he gets his meal, that they are out of lettuce at the salad bar, and that the sandwich appears to be four pieces of toast, poor guy can’t catch a break. I on the other hand am looking forward to my meal. The National (aka Nigerian) selection was Cassava, Fufu, Otongo Soup and some other goodies; but I was set on the less adventurous curried chicken with rice. As I get in line, I notice that I see a lot of the National dish being served out, but then again most everybody in the caf was Nigerian. But as I get closer, I do not even see the rice and curried chicken, but when I ask, the lady says yes there is chicken. She was referring to some other chicken, not my curried chicken. So here I am at the ordering place and I do not know what I am looking at. So I get a little of everything. By the way, there is no such thing as a little. They give TREMENDOUS portions, to the point where its preposterous. So, my little of everything was still a lot. The second I saw her spoon the Otongo Soup and noticed that there was a mucous like film hanging from the ladle, I knew I was going to have some problems. I have explained to some, that my only beef with Nigerian food comes from the heavy use of Okra, which becomes slimy when boiled. This Otongo Soup was the definition of slimy, but I promised to give it a shot.
I get my plate and meet my boss at the table, and I can sense his disgust at my plate before I look up and see it. ‘You’ve got bigger balls than I do’ he says. My balls were not that big after all, because I did not make it very far into that meal. I took my first bite of Fufu, and it was so spicy, and so foreign a taste that I had ended up drinking half my glass of water. Then I tried the Cassava, which looked like a potato like food, and found that to taste like toilet paper. Don’t ask me why I know what toilet paper tastes like. It was not bad, but it was just bland. I wrapped some Otongo Soup around it, yes you have to wrap it or else the stuff will just stick to your spoon, and tried the combination. That was better, but no success. It was when my boss said ‘You don’t have to do this to yourself’ and ‘I won’t think less of you if you give up’ that I did indeed give in. I found the international line and returned with some yummy curried chicken and rice. The rest of my day, I spent battling massive indigestion, and refusing to get sick.
Around 6:00PM (time out, my office mate is cutting her nails with scissors) we go home, or at least we try to. It took us two minutes to drive to work, would have taken at most ten minutes to walk it if we were allowed to, but it took us an hour and a half to drive home. The worse part is that there was no obvious reason what the delay was for. Cars just were not moving. Evidently this trip doubled the last record for longest trip home, but I was not that bothered by it. I was able to witness a little bit of Nigerian life during that time. Chickens, small shacks that were barely livable, mansions whose land was evidently worth more than most places in Beverly Hills, seemingly eighteen year old police men and their AK-47s, car to car salesman carrying socks and shirts, friends socializing, a guy taking a crap in the bushes, men repairing tires, vendors selling fruit, beautiful women being flirted with, drivers creating their own lanes, restaurants and jazz clubs, potholes that made the road look like a cleared minefield, range rovers, Mercedes, pintos and hoopties. An amazing spectrum of things, but still the overriding flavor is poverty. Maybe not in the eyes of those in the streets, but in my eyes, ones that have seen better. And I feel correct in saying better; there are basic necessities that are not being met for a lot of the people that you see here. I am the first to say that all you really need is food, water, air, and shelter but it seems these basic requirements are not fully being met in the general populace.
It was easy to theorize about how to ‘fix’ Africa back in the states, or how Yar’Adua was doing a good job in revitalizing Nigeria, but on the ground and in the streets it was hard for me to think of ways of making things better. How would you go about cleaning the streets of the overwhelming garbage? Where could you house people so that they are protected from the elements? Why is there such a disparity of wealth? How do you change a culture built on ‘corruption’? The last one is particularly tough to me. You bribe everyone here, but when it is expected and a source of salary for most; how do you change that, would you want to? Dash, a gift, a tip, a present, whatever the form, small infusions of cash are the way of getting things done and spread the wealth amongst the population, but also undermines the ability of governments to curb corruption and large scale corporate bribes. How do you permit something in the micro without it also affecting the macro? Tough stuff.
Back in the car, we finally make it back to the hotel after our driver forces his way across four lanes of gridlocked oncoming traffic. At this point, I am eager to take care of my indigestion, and also to relax. I talk to my Pops and watch some TV before heading down to dinner. My stomach barely at ease from lunch, I take it light during dinner and overhear a pretty funny convo. ‘Did you make it to the happy hour, I hear they ran out of food and drinks’, response, ‘They always do’. I need to get out more.
One of my coworkers from Houston showed up as I was finishing my meal (turns out he just got out of work) and he exchanged some money with me. I now have my first $100 worth of Naira. Those hundred dollars gives me 11,700 Naira, which turns out to be a pretty thick wad of cash, but they say it goes fast. As seems to be the custom, Star beers were purchased and everyone drank until they felt tipsy enough to sleep through the honking horns. Another eventful day in Naija.
posted by Anthony Jackson at 3:49 AM
1 Comments:
Hey,
You don't have to do these everyday if you don't want to, or don't have the time, but I'm really enjoying them. Also, Nigeria sounds a lot like Egypt. Maybe it's an African thing.
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