Snippets: Part Two
So I was talking to my boss the other day about how lucky he is to stay on the lagoon side of the Bayshore hotel. I on the other hand have the street side with its associated honking and traffic, and it really is preposterously noisy. So my boss says, very matter-of-factly, “You should probably talk to one of the managers about that… and it would not hurt to give him a little something as an incentive… maybe a hundred bucks or so.” Then he quickly adds, “I mean I am not telling you that you have to do that, but that was how it was done for me.” So it seems I have to bribe my way into a nice hotel room, but I am too cheap for that. I will just try and make nice with the staff so they will let me know when any of the rooms open up.
Not too long after the bribery conversation, we get out of the car and walk into the hotel. At the door, Greg asks me if I know why there are mosquitoes in the car in the morning. I said no, and that I thought the mosquitoes only came out at night. Greg then explained that our driver Linus actually sleeps in the car every night. Wow. Greg went on to say that his wife, kids and brother are the only ones that can fit in the house, so he sleeps in the car. In the process of going in and out, mosquitoes get in the car.
Similarly, when I was coming home at all odd hours of the night, I learned that a lot of the staff slept outside on any flat surface they could find. Some on boxes, some in chairs but evidently it was the best that they had. Greg asked how much one of these guards made per month as we came in the gate one day, and Linus guessed about 18000 Naira a month. That translates to about 2000 USD a year! In fact I went to dinner with one one guy and his wife recently, and our bill was over 20000 Naira. He had to show the bill to the guard on the way out so that we did not have to pay for parking, and the guard wanted to keep the bill. If some guy just spent more money on a meal than I made in a month, I would also want to show that to my friends.
This past Friday, I had a thought that I wanted to share with someone, the problem was that I did not know who to share it with. It ended up just coming out in the car on the ride home with my boss. It went something like this: “You know why I like it here Greg, because it feels very familiar. So much of the African American culture can be felt here that it’s like some weird sense of Déjà vu. I can see how their food evolved into our [African American] food, how their music became our music, how their mannerism are our mannerisms and so on. It’s a little scary feeling this welcomed and comfortable in a strange place so quickly.” After that short rant, I waited to hear what he had to say. He said absolutely nothing for about two minutes until it was time to get out of the car, then it was a quick ‘See you tomorrow’. I guess I could not blame him, I might not have known what to say either if I was a white guy that had absolutely no sense of connection with my current environment.
There has been a cultural war going on recently in the office, and the turf has been the thermostat. It is not unusual to see the Nigerians (women at least) wrap a scarf around their bodies, or for an expat to only where short sleeved shirts, both of whom do so because they are equally uncomfortable. The Nigerians complain about it getting too cold, the Expats too hot, and then there is me who thinks the temperature is perfect. I would guess that when I started here, the temperature was set at 78 degrees Fahrenheit. But ever since Friday of last week, it has slowly been creeping up. And at the last serious power outage, the AC failed to come back on at all. This left the office at around 85 degrees. To everybody this was warm, but I think the general Nigerian population preferred it at 85 to 78. So the great standoff was set. The expats (myself included) were literally sweating at their seats, complaining loudly of the temperature in hopes that the Nationals would have some sympathy. They must have heard our cries, because today things have returned to normal, a cool 78 degree peace has returned to the office scene. The expats are still hot (but bearably so) and the Nigerians are still cold, but you gotta remember the saying ‘a successful compromise leaves everyone equally screwed’.
So we went to a really nice club Saturday night called Club 10, and on the way out of it, I had a very odd experience. I walked towards my ride’s car, but ended up catching the glance of two attractive young ladies. As I passed by, one of them asked me a strange question “Excuse me sir, do you know if they let girls in there?” Perplexed, I look from them to the club and say. “I would think so.” They continued “Are you sure, have you been in there?” It was then that I realized their predicament, girls was code word for Hoes. So I changed my answer to “I don’t really know, but you can try.” Then with the most pitiful voice one of them asks “Will you walk us in?” I felt bad for them, but not that bad. I told them that I was leaving and wished them luck. But it makes me wonder, how can you tell a ho from a crowd. The bouncers at the club clearly knew, but I would have been fooled. This is why I think I may have a problem here (see Prostitution post). An Aside: To get into the club you enter this rotating tube which keeps you enclosed while it scans you for metal, it was really cool.
Late Saturday night, probably around 3AM, we were driving from one Ikoyi Island to Victoria Island. In the middle of the street with flashlights were men with guns stopping cars. I felt relieved once I realized they were cops, but I soon was unsure about whether that was a good thing. When it was our turn to stop, the cop made us roll down the window, and Obi (the driver) knew exactly what he had to do. He took out some cash and handed it to the cop as if he were paying a toll. Perhaps out of guilt, he proceeded to explain, sympathetically, why this happens. The police demand money because it is pretty much their only source of salary, he explains. On top of that, they are in a very dangerous job where they are always outnumbered and outgunned by their opposition. The criminals and armed robbers have new weapons and almost always have enough people to force the police officers into surrender. So to make it worth their while, they supplement their salary with ‘donations’ from the people. I doubt they would have done anything if we were without money, but generally I look unfavorably at AK-47’s being present when solicited for ‘donations’.
These people club hop, and the beautiful thing is that most places don’t charge a cover. They don’t even seem to have a dress code. Don’t get me wrong though, if you look like you don’t belong, you won’t get through the door because these bouncers look like they are used to kicking out the riff raff. We went from Club 10 to Volta to Caliente to Baccus to La Casa and I noticed that if you look like you have money, you get in. By the way, I have officially been to a club where the bouncers are armed with AK-47’s. Hooray!
Ladun, my office mate, was telling me at lunch that she was going to give me a Yoruba name. She told me she had been thinking of one and would deliver soon, but due to my resemblance to a Yoruba man, I could not get by without a proper Yoruba name. So upon getting back to the office, I mentioned my excitement about my Yoruba name to the office Admin. She gasped and said, no no no, you are Ibo not Yoruba. She then proceeded to take me to a nearby group of friends, and asked each of them whether they thought I was Ibo or Yoruba. Each said Ibo (although I think they were all Ibo, and therefore biased), so they decided that I was to have an Ibo name instead. In about five minutes they had it, Emeka Chukwu. I went back to my desk and told my boss that he can call me Emeka from now on, but I don’t think he is going to play along. Hopefully Ladun will still give me a Yoruba name, that way I can match my name to whatever tribe someone thinks I am from.
Ladun has malaria. She informed me of this like it was the common cold. She said she had been feeling ill, headaches, joint pain and such, and I asked her if she knew what was wrong. “Probably malaria,” she says. “Malaria! You need to go home and stay out for a week,” I reply, but she shrugs my advice off. She did end up going home early and staying home today, but it shocks me that Malaria is such a non-event here. I was talking to a coworker today about it, and she said that she gets malaria three or four times every year. I thought Nigerians were immune, but really they are just used to it. The reaction is less severe, and their bodies have built up some defense, but you still get it. This was yet another thing that impresses me about Nigerians. Americans will stay home at the slightest sign of a sickness, while Nigerians are steadfastly coming into the office while suffering a malarial fever.
Not too long after the bribery conversation, we get out of the car and walk into the hotel. At the door, Greg asks me if I know why there are mosquitoes in the car in the morning. I said no, and that I thought the mosquitoes only came out at night. Greg then explained that our driver Linus actually sleeps in the car every night. Wow. Greg went on to say that his wife, kids and brother are the only ones that can fit in the house, so he sleeps in the car. In the process of going in and out, mosquitoes get in the car.
Similarly, when I was coming home at all odd hours of the night, I learned that a lot of the staff slept outside on any flat surface they could find. Some on boxes, some in chairs but evidently it was the best that they had. Greg asked how much one of these guards made per month as we came in the gate one day, and Linus guessed about 18000 Naira a month. That translates to about 2000 USD a year! In fact I went to dinner with one one guy and his wife recently, and our bill was over 20000 Naira. He had to show the bill to the guard on the way out so that we did not have to pay for parking, and the guard wanted to keep the bill. If some guy just spent more money on a meal than I made in a month, I would also want to show that to my friends.
This past Friday, I had a thought that I wanted to share with someone, the problem was that I did not know who to share it with. It ended up just coming out in the car on the ride home with my boss. It went something like this: “You know why I like it here Greg, because it feels very familiar. So much of the African American culture can be felt here that it’s like some weird sense of Déjà vu. I can see how their food evolved into our [African American] food, how their music became our music, how their mannerism are our mannerisms and so on. It’s a little scary feeling this welcomed and comfortable in a strange place so quickly.” After that short rant, I waited to hear what he had to say. He said absolutely nothing for about two minutes until it was time to get out of the car, then it was a quick ‘See you tomorrow’. I guess I could not blame him, I might not have known what to say either if I was a white guy that had absolutely no sense of connection with my current environment.
There has been a cultural war going on recently in the office, and the turf has been the thermostat. It is not unusual to see the Nigerians (women at least) wrap a scarf around their bodies, or for an expat to only where short sleeved shirts, both of whom do so because they are equally uncomfortable. The Nigerians complain about it getting too cold, the Expats too hot, and then there is me who thinks the temperature is perfect. I would guess that when I started here, the temperature was set at 78 degrees Fahrenheit. But ever since Friday of last week, it has slowly been creeping up. And at the last serious power outage, the AC failed to come back on at all. This left the office at around 85 degrees. To everybody this was warm, but I think the general Nigerian population preferred it at 85 to 78. So the great standoff was set. The expats (myself included) were literally sweating at their seats, complaining loudly of the temperature in hopes that the Nationals would have some sympathy. They must have heard our cries, because today things have returned to normal, a cool 78 degree peace has returned to the office scene. The expats are still hot (but bearably so) and the Nigerians are still cold, but you gotta remember the saying ‘a successful compromise leaves everyone equally screwed’.
So we went to a really nice club Saturday night called Club 10, and on the way out of it, I had a very odd experience. I walked towards my ride’s car, but ended up catching the glance of two attractive young ladies. As I passed by, one of them asked me a strange question “Excuse me sir, do you know if they let girls in there?” Perplexed, I look from them to the club and say. “I would think so.” They continued “Are you sure, have you been in there?” It was then that I realized their predicament, girls was code word for Hoes. So I changed my answer to “I don’t really know, but you can try.” Then with the most pitiful voice one of them asks “Will you walk us in?” I felt bad for them, but not that bad. I told them that I was leaving and wished them luck. But it makes me wonder, how can you tell a ho from a crowd. The bouncers at the club clearly knew, but I would have been fooled. This is why I think I may have a problem here (see Prostitution post). An Aside: To get into the club you enter this rotating tube which keeps you enclosed while it scans you for metal, it was really cool.
Late Saturday night, probably around 3AM, we were driving from one Ikoyi Island to Victoria Island. In the middle of the street with flashlights were men with guns stopping cars. I felt relieved once I realized they were cops, but I soon was unsure about whether that was a good thing. When it was our turn to stop, the cop made us roll down the window, and Obi (the driver) knew exactly what he had to do. He took out some cash and handed it to the cop as if he were paying a toll. Perhaps out of guilt, he proceeded to explain, sympathetically, why this happens. The police demand money because it is pretty much their only source of salary, he explains. On top of that, they are in a very dangerous job where they are always outnumbered and outgunned by their opposition. The criminals and armed robbers have new weapons and almost always have enough people to force the police officers into surrender. So to make it worth their while, they supplement their salary with ‘donations’ from the people. I doubt they would have done anything if we were without money, but generally I look unfavorably at AK-47’s being present when solicited for ‘donations’.
These people club hop, and the beautiful thing is that most places don’t charge a cover. They don’t even seem to have a dress code. Don’t get me wrong though, if you look like you don’t belong, you won’t get through the door because these bouncers look like they are used to kicking out the riff raff. We went from Club 10 to Volta to Caliente to Baccus to La Casa and I noticed that if you look like you have money, you get in. By the way, I have officially been to a club where the bouncers are armed with AK-47’s. Hooray!
Ladun, my office mate, was telling me at lunch that she was going to give me a Yoruba name. She told me she had been thinking of one and would deliver soon, but due to my resemblance to a Yoruba man, I could not get by without a proper Yoruba name. So upon getting back to the office, I mentioned my excitement about my Yoruba name to the office Admin. She gasped and said, no no no, you are Ibo not Yoruba. She then proceeded to take me to a nearby group of friends, and asked each of them whether they thought I was Ibo or Yoruba. Each said Ibo (although I think they were all Ibo, and therefore biased), so they decided that I was to have an Ibo name instead. In about five minutes they had it, Emeka Chukwu. I went back to my desk and told my boss that he can call me Emeka from now on, but I don’t think he is going to play along. Hopefully Ladun will still give me a Yoruba name, that way I can match my name to whatever tribe someone thinks I am from.
Ladun has malaria. She informed me of this like it was the common cold. She said she had been feeling ill, headaches, joint pain and such, and I asked her if she knew what was wrong. “Probably malaria,” she says. “Malaria! You need to go home and stay out for a week,” I reply, but she shrugs my advice off. She did end up going home early and staying home today, but it shocks me that Malaria is such a non-event here. I was talking to a coworker today about it, and she said that she gets malaria three or four times every year. I thought Nigerians were immune, but really they are just used to it. The reaction is less severe, and their bodies have built up some defense, but you still get it. This was yet another thing that impresses me about Nigerians. Americans will stay home at the slightest sign of a sickness, while Nigerians are steadfastly coming into the office while suffering a malarial fever.
posted by Anthony Jackson at 7:32 AM
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