As we were on final approach into Lagos, I was looking out the window and watching the tin roof villages go by. Before we were even on the ground, you could tell, Nigeria is a very poor country. The roads were red dirt. There was little if any vegetation visible. Not a tree to be seen. I got a little nervous, wondering if there would be an actual runway to land on. Must be, I’m sitting on this huge plane, and Lufthansa and British Airways fly in and out of this airport all the time. Heck Virgin airways even has a division called Virgin Nigeria.
The tin roofs and red dirt roads gave way to a grassy plain that then gave way to a runway. The pilot softly touched the ground, but as we braked, you could feel the plane vibrate and shutter from all the cracks in the runway.
After slowing, the plane turned left off the runway and there I saw an airplane graveyard of sorts. It was very bizarre. Two planes, including one large Boeing 747 were sitting there, rotting. Weather had taken its toll on the planes, the colour faded, stains from where the rain would run down the sides. Weeds growing in an around the wheels. The planes weren’t parked on any kind of asphalt, they were sitting there in the red dirt. There were markings on the plane that said, “Nigeria Air”.
This morning, I did a quick search on the internet of “Nigeria Air”. The closest I can come is a wikipedia article about the now defunct Nigerian Airways, which closed up shop in December of 2002 stranding a large number of New York bound passengers with tickets that were no good. Could these planes have been sitting there since 2002?
I read in a book on Nigeria that the Lagos airport was modeled after the Schiphol International Airport in Amsterdam. I’ve been through Schiphol a number of times and it’s a nice, really big airport.
As we were driving up to the airport, from a distance, it looked okay. But as we got closer you could see the condition was not getting any better. It was old. Most of the baggage equipment was rusted, almost rusted through. I commented to Vish who was sitting next to me that it looked like they only had one baggage trolley.
We pulled up to the gate and the door opened. The heat and humidity felt like a warm wet towel being thrown onto my face. We deplaned and were met by our “security team”. I had forgotten about that part. Two security guards from a security company in Lagos. One gentleman from Miami, another from Spain. They were joined by 4 large Nigerian men in black suits with colourful ties. We were all escorted as a group through passport check and sent to baggage claim.
Long moments of angst as we waited for our bags. The bags kept coming out waves and you kept waiting for the luggage belt to shut off and panic to set in as you bag has disappeared. Like being picked for teams in gym class, no one wants to be last. Each person would grab their bag, often with a small smirk and move towards the exit, where we were told to gather. You could read peoples minds, “Whew! My bag! I’m not last!”
I was almost last. Just like gym class.
Once we all had our bags we were corralled out to the buses. There were two busses, one for bags and one for people. Of course, there weren’t enough seats for everyone so some people had to ride with the bags. This was also the first point to really taste the chaos of Lagos. We were escorted by a police vehicle which also allowed us to get the buses right up to the door. I didn’t see much, I had my head down, bags into the first bus, jump my body into the other. The curtains were closed on all the windows which led me to believe, it’s probably the best idea. Don’t want the locals to see who’s on the bus.
Of course, as more people poured onto the bus, they started pulling open the curtains talking loudly about how unreal this all is. “Look at that person! Look at all those bags! He’s got no shoes! That sign says no standing, why is he standing there then?”
Vish, hopped up into the passenger seat next to the driver and was immediately chased out by one of the large men in the dark suits. “That is my seat,” he said sternly, but with a friendly tone, “You don’t want to be sitting there anyway, too dangerous.” Vish hopped out and moved one seat back.
Finally all bags and bodies were on board, with a siren squeal from the police vehicle, the sea of people parted and we were off. I don’t really remember much about the airport or the area as we exited, I was too busy listening to the Spanish security guard and his speech to us.
“No one is to leave the hotel. IF you need to leave the hotel for ANY reason, you MUST call either myself or the other security guard to escort you. We recommend that you do NOT leave the hotel. Either myself or the other guy will be sitting in the lobby if you need assistance for anything.”
The airport is about 20 Km from the actual city of Lagos. We left the airport and traveled down a 4-lane road. About 100 feet or so from the shoulder was a wall that surrounded a tin roofed subdivision. And from that wall to the shoulder, the red dirt was packed with parked cars and motorcycles. Between cars were people standing next to small wooden stands selling a hodge podge of items. It was like a makeshift market out on the side of the road.
Even between the cars on the road, men were walking with armfuls of candy or fruit. Some had pre paid phone cards. One fellow even had an armful of cushioned toilet seats. “It’s like driving through Wal Mart” someone commented.
The saddest thing I saw was malnourished, caged dogs. Three or four of them in a 4’ x 4’ locked cage. Big sign, “Dogs 4 Sale”.
At the end of this gauntlet of people and peddlers, was what appeared to be, for the lack of a better words, the bus stop. Pulled over on both sides of the road were loads of 15 passenger vans. Most painted yellow. People would pile into them and as soon as every seat was filled to overflowing, meaning people were literally standing on the running boards with the sliding door wide open, the van would swoop into moving traffic and zip along, two or more people hanging outside. I never did get to see how or when these vans stopped. I guess you’d just tap the driver on the shoulder if you wanted to get out and hoped he stopped.
We crossed a short bridge, which seemed to mark the end of the market area. No longer were the roads filled with people and stands. Now, it was just piles of garbage. Refuse of all types lined the road. Piles of paper and plastic mixed in with broken wood and concrete. Sometimes small mounds, other times 10’ high. And in between these piles were billboards. Billboards selling things you’d find in the industrialized nations. Expensive cars, hair products, Tag body spray, banks. I wondered, “Who are these billboards for? Certainly the bulk of the population can’t afford a Mercedes, nor do they have money to put in the bank.” I, to this day, still cannot grasp the contradiction of a pile of burning tires next to a Hummer billboard.
And there were many piles of burning tires. Thick clouds of black smoke pouring into the air. It reminded me the picture we had all seen after the first gulf war where the retreating Iraqis set the oil fields on fire. As far as the eye could see, and mind you that wasn’t very far with the thick smoke, were plumes of black or grey smoke. It seems that all that we do in the U.S. to combat global warming becomes negated by all that happens in these other countries.
We drove along, my brain trying it’s best to absorb and remember all the sights. Small villages surrounded by shoddily built brick walls. Shanties build just feet from the road where families with small children were sitting outside watching the cars speed by. Every now and again a motorcycle would speed by with two people on, narrowly missing the corners of the bus. I even saw one guy riding a moped balancing a 10’ long 2 x 4 piece of wood on his head.
Every now and again, the driver would have to slam on the brakes so as not to hit the bus in front of us with all of the luggage. We hit traffic snarls that were often the result of another “drive thru Wal Mart”. We were told by the security guy not to make eye contact or even look at anyone. “Do not initiate anything.” He said.
And yet, people on our bus were constantly snapping pictures, running video cameras. One guy even opened the window to get a better picture. I’m guessing we were lucky that nothing bad or dangerous happened to us.
The hotel we were staying in was on an island called Victoria Island. We had to cross a number of bridges to get there. And each bridge started and ended with the same officially painted sign on the wall, “Do not urinate, Do not defecate, keep Lagos clean!” And between the two, the walls were full of what Matt would call “Hawai’ian billboards”. Hastily painted signs or handbills, even spray-painted directly onto the bridge, “Roof leak? Call 355…”, “Hole in wall? Fix call 355…”, “Plumber call 355…” The only other official looking sign said, “Pay your taxes”.
“The beach is over there, but you don’t want to go,” Said our Spanish security escort. We all looked right and all you could see was another shanty town. We made a hard left and drove along a 10’ tall white washed concrete wall. There was a small opening in the wall which we turned into, We had arrived at the hotel.
Tomorrow, the hotel… And to whet your appetite, here’s the gorgeous view from my 1st floor hotel room.
No comments:
Post a Comment