A thunderstorm in Lagos

I’ve been to Lagos more times than I care to mention, but I’d never experienced a Nigerian thunderstorm.

And then this morning the heavens let rip.

The lightening didn’t just flash, it flickered like a faulty fluorescent tube-light; violently, vigorously, almost like it was vomiting out the thunder that predictably followed.

The skies were the most foreboding shade of grey; ominous, prescient; threatening more flashes and more noise; menacing and daring anyone to step outside – at their peril.

After the lightning, the air was pregnant and you could almost feel the shrinking back from the impending clang, even before it happened.

Then it came: the largest boom you’ve ever heard.  

The windows shook, and it even felt as if the floorboards trembled in the wake of the almighty bang.  But not just one bang, a battalion of bangs – almost a mini 1812 Overture in a burst of thunder – the divine canons roared and with them the rain spewed down.

Pelting and pouring, the rain gushed earthwards, taking no prisoners – I was half expecting to see Russell Crow announcing the coming of the second flood, ready to escort us with emergency lighting to the ark’s cargo bay.  But obviously, that didn’t quite materialise.

So I slurped down my last drops of over-brewed coffee and headed back to my hotel room before heading to the office.

As I walked down the corridor, which despite the lighting, was dimmer than a potholer’s cave, a new sense of malevolence came over me and I was instantly reminded of the hotel corridor from the film, The Shining.

I quickened my pace, illogically.  As I walked down the long corridor – I was right at the end ( of course) – the faces of African heroes, whom I’d gazed upon so many times before in this hotel – seem to lose their smiles, and take on grimaces and growls hurrying me on to room 106.

Julius Nyerere, Wole Soyinka, Patrice Lumumba, Kenneth Kaunda, Obafemi Awolowo, Hugh Masekela, Jomo Kenyatta, Ebenezer Obey….all glaring…..in monochrome solidarity with the turbulence outside.

Their faces leapt from the photo frames and I felt their eyes piercing my back as I scuttled to the sanctuary of my room.

The storm once it passed was only a memory, but one that lingered – and the tinnitus-like ringing from the bangs of thunder and flickering bolts of lightning were kind of still with me.

I knew most things in Nigeria are bigger, bolder, louder than elsewhere - now I can add their thunder storms to the list.

Ran out of change?

While I was recently staying at my usual hotel in Lagos - the Regent, in Ikeja - I needed to change some money.

I only had pounds sterling - but thought that wouldn't be a problem.  And as it turned out, that was indeed not the problem.

I inquired at reception and here is the almost verbatim exchange:

"Hi, can you change some pounds sterling, please?"
"Yes, I can," came the reply from that rather disengaged laconic chap behind the front desk.
"Great." I eagerly countered.  "I'd like..."
"But I have no cash," he interrupted, as he drew open the empty drawer by his side, with the verging-on negative energy he'd managed to muster.
"You have no cash?  But you just said you can change my money?" I retorted, a tad bemused.
"Yes, I can change, but I have no cash."

The logic flawed me.  Completely flawed me.  Or was it a language thing?

Did he mean something like: "I could change your Pounds into our delightful (often a smidgen soiled) Nigerian Naira, if I had Naira, but I don't have Naira, so I'm afraid I can't." I wonder?!

I think that's what was intimated in the brief but rather frustrating exchange.

Regardless, I stormed off miffed.

A rather enterprising waiter, cottoned on to my displeasure and enquired as to my ire.  When I explained what had just happened, he quite happily said: "I can change your money for you.  How much do you want to change?"

Taken aback, but relieved, I splurted out: "£100 please, what's your rate?"

In a jiffy he was back with my (as predicted tattered, battered and decidedly dowdy) Naira.  All 25 000 of them.

I was happy and when the receptionist asked the following morning, with an eager grin on his face, if I'd still like to exchange some money, I simply shook my head and said I'd had it done elsewhere, heading off for my fried eggs and breakfast.

An unexpected country

Leaving Nairobi on the Friday before Christmas, was always going to be a little bit manic and fraught with more than the usual challenges of getting down Mombasa Road to the airport.  But I didn't anticipate quite how much turbulence was in store for me as I left my apartment with a good three hours to spare before my flight was due to take off.

Thanks to a certain Mr B's generosity, we had used Star Alliance miles to get me on Ethiopian Airlines Nairobi-Addis Ababa- Bangkok, which had good timings and seemed to be the best option.  So I abandoned my usual darling airline Qatar Airways and decided to try ET out  - as they are known.  I had flown them in August to London and sampled the rather splendid (if ageing before its time) Dreamliner, with brand new seats and cabin controlled air as well as little smart features like auto-dimming cabin windows - no more announcements about "pulling up your window shades as we're about to land" - they can be centrally adjusted.

John, my taxi driver expertly navigated the bumper-to-bumper parking lot that should have been the highway through the CBD by taking all the upper back roads - and within less than 40 minutes we were well down the road to JKIA (Jomo Kenyatta International Airport).  I was dozing in the back seat when a jolt and a bang forced me from my slumber and I realised we had a blowout.  

A rock from a lorry ahead had come unstuck and bounced down the highway.  John couldn't avoid it so we were now on the side of the incredibly busy road trying to jack up the car to change the tyre - and I use the "we" rather royally - as John grappled with wheel nuts I gazed on disbelievingly.  However, even with the added muscle power of several passers-by they couldn't release the nuts and the shattered wheel was stuck.  

Panic started to set in as the clock ticked.  I called various friends to see if they were close by or could get a car to me.  One poor chap was stuck in the "car-park" in town and was even closer to missing his flight than I was.  Then the taxi firm came to my rescue with a 2nd car that was in the vicinity.  I was back on my way - with a rather feeble wave to John left on the kerbside still doing battle with a very stubborn tyre.

Security cleared, bags checked all the way to Bangkok, passport stamped and the relative serenity or a rather overcrowded lounge attained, I sat down to a glass of wine and a beef samosa.

I had noticed on the screens outside that my scheduled time of 1800 take off was showing 1830 and thinking (as you are prone to do) this is Africa, it will be right, thought nothing more about it.  Well the boarding time came and went and I approached the Kenya Airways lady on the desk for information.  She advised that the plane was just landing.   I said sure, fine, no worries etc.  My connection in Addis (as we Africa travellers shorten the capital of Ethiopia to) was 4 hours long.  I had nothing to be concerned about.  The boarding times shifted like Saharan sands: 1830, 1930, 2000, 2205.

I was beginning to get anxious.  And nowhere was any ET representative to be found.  At the first major time change, the pre-boarding lounge had been emptied (they needed the space for other flights) and the commotion and annoyance that caused had forced tempers to pique and I believe the airlines folks had had enough of complaining, shouting, screaming badgering customers and headed for the proverbial hills.  Like a lost sheep I wandered around waiting for a boarding call and at last it came…but it was now approaching 2300 and there was no way I was going to catch my 0040 to Bangkok.  

Resigned to this fact, I sat in my seat (1L) and tucked in to the beef curry offered.

De-planing in Addis was to deliver an experience I had hitherto perhaps not even countenanced let alone been part of.

Let's just remind ourselves, we were now 6 hours delayed and landed at 0200 local time.  The ground staff had a few moments to plan for our impending arrival - one would have thought.   

And yet, the pandemonium at the transfer desk was like a scene from a war-torn part of the world as the aid agencies struggle to hand out food parcels.

Clamouring, pushing, shouting, hoping to be next to be attended to by the clearly overwhelmed Ethiopian Airlines staff. I went upstairs to see if there were other options and the misinformation from at least 3 ground staff people sent me backwards and forwards getting nowhere fast.  I went upstairs to customer service, I went downstairs to the transfer desk again and at one point entered the Star Alliance lounge to perhaps seek solace - saw nothing but more passengers with raised voices and headed back downstairs.

I found myself sandwiched between 3 desperate (and loud) business men trying to get to Khartoum and a pushy cow-eyed man who seemed to have no idea what was going on on his aborted way to Dubai.  To my right there was a group of tourists perched on the transfer desk counter claiming to have been there 7 hours - trying to connect to Kilimanjaro.  My heart sank.

What annoys and angers you the most in these situations is the lack of information or worse still sometimes mis-information.  Being promised that the plane was landing in Nairobi when it clearly wasn't; being assured that connecting flights would be held back, which there was little intention of; the total silence from ground staff to advise the group what was going on with re-bookings and hotels etc.  It was quite frankly shambolic.

While my torture at the transfer desk was not that long - its was long enough.  I managed to get the eye of a senior looking woman and politely asked to her to help me get to Bangkok - she took my passport and boarding pass, asked me to wait a moment and disappeared.  I stood amongst the throng - that I have to admit by now was diminishing - and hoped, prayed and sighed heavily.   In the meantime, the printer was so busily churning out boarding passes, it was like a scene from the Sorcerer's Apprentice and I feared we would soon be knee-deep in seating information and flight numbers, expecting a Gandalf-like figure to appear and wave his wand to calm everything down.  Unsurprisingly, no wizard of any description turn up.  Just my luck. !

Several Indian travellers were on their way to north America and they jostled and shouted for 5 star hotel accommodation while they transited; one Italian UN gentleman "begged" the guy behind the ET desk to "make eye contact", "answer me", "give me an update".  Yet the latter remained unmoved and continued striking the keyboard with apparent oblivion; a guy next to me on his way to Jeddah, had his new boarding pass but no hotel voucher and the ET staff in front of me rebuked him for standing in the "business class" line - there was no such thing the Jeddah-bound passenger said and the Ethiopian Airlines changed his line with "well you know it's first come first served!".  I gasped and thought - it's not my battle.

Then almost vision-like, my passport and new boarding pass arrived, along with a hotel voucher and visa pass-card to get me through Ethiopian immigration.  I thanked the lady kindly and was on my way to passport control.

After contending with several queue-jumpers I was on my courtesy hotel bus - the time approaching 0500 - I'd left the house at 1500 the day before. 

I fell asleep almost immediately and stayed in a state of slumber for 10 hours.  I was drained.  To say I will think twice about travelling ET is an understatement...

I now sit at my hotel room desk looking out on to the Addis hills, the sun is shining and the winter col air wafts in cheekily.  I had foolishly thought last night I would go on a city tour - or visit the African Union headquarters, but after my deep sleep and a heavy desire to just get home - I must confess I have no intention of leaving the sanctuary that is the Addis Ababa Hilton.

So whether I can now add Ethiopia to my list of visited countries is debatable - but one thing is for sure, I never expected to see the Ethiopian capital under quite these circumstances.

What makes a good party?

This past Saturday witnessed one of my most successful parties in Kenya to date.

We had a drinkipoos to celebrate Christmas; I put on a modest spread of peanuts, salami, crisps, sausages on sticks and a few shortbread biscuits.  As is customary guests were encouraged almost to obligation to bring a bottle of something intoxicating and come ready to enjoy the evening to the fullest.  I had arrived back from Lagos the evening before a tad tardy due to "late arrival of the incoming aircraft" nonsense and a torrential downpour over the runway in Nairobi causing the charming pilot to abort an attempted landing, veering southwards, banking for half an hour and then finally touching down to the rapturous applause of the Nigerian passengers; she erred on the side of caution and I suppose they (and I) were grateful for that.  At least I got home in one piece.

I digress.

So the night before, still on Lagos-time, I had rearranged the furniture to make more space - I was expecting quite a few to furn up - and started to get plates, cups, glassware at the ready.  Luckily, my helper, Emmy, had already assisted in this - which was a Godsend. 

Then on the day itself, I adorned several vases with various ikebana-esque arrangements - some of which looked like the blooms had been cast from 10 metres away.  A bit more furniture moving, then slicing and dicing for the pasta, chopping and cutting for the cold meats selection and we were good to go.

Mince pies were at hand for the gluttonous, (thanks P), the wine flowed as at Canna for those in need of lubrication and there was music for all tastes - well almost all.

I must admit, I ensured that candles were lit and sparkling - even in the powder room - the Christmas tree was glistening with fairy lights to get us in the mood of Yuletide, the early birds coiffed a limited supply of champagne and the room had been doused with enough tuberose scent to have half the bees of Kenya swarming. 

But you see, that's not enough.  That doesn't make a party, or at least a good party.  And the jovial, witty, erudite host can only take part of the credit - a small part, I might add.

It's the guests that make a good party - of course.

The dutifully faithful turned up on schedule my good friends R & V laden down with water, fruit juices and just under 100 samosas - why just under I enquired and the honest reply was returned that some had been eaten on the way - well who can blame them - they were handmade and delicious.  Thank you Carla...

Slowly but surely,  the apartment filled and then swelled with the invited; and then burgeoned with the not-so-invited until there were about 60 or 70 in the place, over-spilling quite necessarily to a rather fortunately large balcony, and the eclectic mix of guest assured a lively if not raucous exchange of conversation and chatter.

Groups formed, discussions were energetic and lively, and the mood was palpably electric - and the vodka helped  ;-)

The night went on, the neighbours complained, the early birds left and the die-hards partied hard.  We danced, we laughed, we imbibed.

And that's what makes a good party: the people; those silly persistent guests who enjoy, inhale, hoover up everything life has to offer.  I'm blessed to know so many of this type of human being - and that they want to come to my parties.  It's the guests - it's the people who make a good party.

The mobile department store - Lagos style

27C was the seat allocated to me on the Kenya Airways flight from Lagos to Nairobi and after I politely asked an usurper to vacate my place, I sat down for the 5 hour trip back home to Kenya.

Kenya is celebrating its 50th birthday this week and while I could rant on about that for a good blog entry or two, that's to be left for another time.

This particular story is about the "mobile department store" as a colleague referred to it.  

Lagos is as you might expect from its reputation or know from reading about it in other blog entries of mine, a chaotic, rumble-tumble, fight-for-your-life, snatch it or lose it, shout as loud as you can kind of place.  Some of you may remember my tales of Kenya road disobedience and the cursory decorative nature of traffic lights in Nairobi.  Well, the Naija folk do abide by most traffic rules - certainly their police are a tad more concerned with enforcing the Highway Code for the greater good.  So, red lights are mostly observed and junctions treated with a modicum of respect.

And as the minibuses, cars, trucks, motorcycles all come to a grinding halt at the red-amber-green, a sea of hawkers descend on the drivers and passengers to sell their wares. The cornucopia that the eyes behold is boggling and incredible.  One might not be too surprised by steering wheel covers, car air fresheners, and even phone accessories, yet this is the mere first floor of the great Nigerian equivalent of the Grace Brothers' bazar.  

Fruit balanced on ladies' heads, SIM cards by the hundred dangling like heliconia flowers, ice cold drinks promising a welcome respite from the dusty Lagos sun, peanuts neatly packed into triangular plastic bags bursting with cellophane goodness, chewing gum and CDs displayed on a metre square board ready to be popped into your player in the car: even these are bland plainsong in the cacophony that is  Captain Peacock's sanctuary in Lagos.

Then you notice the less obvious department store items - the lift has moved through floors 3 and 4 and continues upward.

Self-help books are offered here; fluorescent framed pictures of Jesus glinting in the headlights - it's getting dark by now; tea-towels, socks, handkerchiefs, and other cotton items; and the obligatory fire extinguisher.  Did I just obligatory?  Hmmmmm, well.....

You think you've seen it all and then the merriment of the festive season assaults the senses:  Christmas trees, complete with twinkling lights, Santa hats in "traditional" pointed style and also the rather avant-garde Stetson-with-white-fur-trimmed version.

With all this profiteering and darting around on the part of the vendors, I must confess, sometimes my appreciation for the male form trumps the produce on offer and the lithe gleaming physiques on the left and right are a delight to behold.  But caveat emptor: make eye contact and the potential sale becomes a distinct reality.  The car continues ahead, and the seller, sensing a willing buyer, jogs, skips, runs to keep up with the car in the hope I'll relieve him of some of his stock.  I quickly look the other way and pretend to be busy iPhone-ing.   Usually, they give up after about a 100m dash - and lurch towards the next upcoming car.  Phew...that was close!

I don't consider myself a John Inman wanna-be and certainly any references to Molly Sugden's errant pussy are in your own mind, reader, but this tale has its parallels.  I have withheld and restrained from such gratuitous references - well at least up until now.

But as I am bombarded via my iPad with Yuletide yodeling from Cliff Richard, Bing Crosby, the Jackson Five and many others aboard my Boeing 737-rather-old-200, I wish I'd bought one of those Christmas Stetsons, to at very least prove I managed to get to the 7th floor of Naija-Are-You-Being-Served - the topmost floor where the milliner entrepreneur spirit reigns supreme.

Long live the mobile department store and may its employees reap even greater success in 2014.!!

Blast from the past

I recently received an invitation from a long lost colleague with whom I worked when I was at Cable & Wireless - when the company was a great monolithic carpet of telecoms coverage.  Alas, now it's been hoovered up by Vodafone and is no more.

I have kept in touch with many from those halcyon days of internet bubbles and crazy start ups - most of which ended up in the dustbin of risk capital.   But I did lose a few on the way.

It was about 2-3 months ago, I had a thought about one particular colleague, J Hendricks - yeah almost like the famous guitarist, but different - actually very different.....  Then I failed to do anything about it.  And it was just this week that J actually got in touch with me via LinkedIn.  The myriad of options we have to connect, reconnect and stay in touch these days are invaluable.

We connected and started to reminisce a little over email.

Before I knew it he sent over a picture from one of our business trips to Milan way back in circa 1998/9.  I posted it on Facebook and invoked a tsunami of likes.  I was a mere 28 or so and the youthful glow was evident - and not just in my rather bold orange plaid T-shirt that I was proudly sporting.

What a beautiful surprise.  I don't even recall the photo being taken - and I certainly didn't have a copy of it.  So it was pleasant indeed to receive it.

And so I got to thinking, there must be so many non-digitised pics out there and we don't go to thte trouble of scanning them and preserving them for eternity on FB, Google, Smartmug, Flickr or Tumblr.  We ought.  Yes, we ought! 

I do have another very good friend (from school days) C Stevenson, as she was then, who delights, and occasionally horrifies, us ex-Netherhall-ites with photographic memories of sixth form gatherings or on-stage (no exiting left) shenanigans as we rendered Fiddler on the Roof immortally destroyed with our shambolic efforts at acting and singing.

But most of us, I suspect, have an attic full of Kodak paper-ed images just waiting to be uploaded and subsequently downloaded. 

So my call to you - is do it....get scanning and zip, PDF, archive, upload and share all those wonderfully embarrassing pictures - and in some cases like the pic of me (which is clearly not a selfie) they may be rather flattering also.

Thank you Mr Hendricks.!

Bumps and scrapes

Airports can have funny effects on people.  Some are kinder, some are more purposeful and some are simply rude - I'm talking about the people, by the way, not the airports.

I was catching a flight today from Bangkok, Suvarnabhumi, international and thanks to my business class ticket, I smoothly jogged my way through security and passport control and directed myself to the VAT refund counter.  I must confess I had spent rather a lot and the duty was worth redeeming.

A man of some distinction was meandering to the same line and I spotted his assumed wife to be languishing behind me.  I wasn't in any particular rush and paused at the entrance to the queue letting her catch him up - no sooner had I halted my luggage cart, and from nowhere a second man jolted forward and nipped in behind the first ahead of the wife.

"Yes, everybody's welcome.  Go ahead.  Don't mind me."  I snipped.

The man's spouse then started muttering in Mandarin and the muttering went on all the way to the counter.  I had to wait for a convenient opportunity when she at last turned to me to explain that she was "together" with her husband.

"I know, I know."  I soothed.  "I was chastising this other ignoramus.  Not you!"

I inhaled, proceeded to the counter, collected my duty refund and went on my way to the gate.

On board the Qatar Airways flight bound for Doha, where I was connecting to Nairobi, I joked with the stewardesses and stewards and was soon in my familiar seat, E3, all set with a (again as usual) slightly less than ideally chilled glass of Bollinger Rose.  All was well in the world.  And certainly nothing an ice cube dropped in from a small height couldn't cure.

The flight was uneventful - save a few merry bumps over the Bay of Bengal - and that's how I like my flights.

At Doha, already passing security, I had to get some US dollars for my visa into Kenya, and discovered that the only way to do this was to leave the inner sanctum, that is the premium business class terminal and head to the main transfer.  Arriving there, plunged into throngs of transferring passengers, it was like another world.

A world of a jostling, jousting, juxtaposed rabble.  Still, I was ushered through security (again) with "business class" priority and was soon on my way back to the premium terminal for peace and serenity.

And so to my third security check at Doha airport.  It's all necessary, of course, but I felt the routine speedy processing in Doha is more cosmetics than substance.

As we alighted the transfer bus, I sensed an impatient lady behind me, like an expectant filly, trying to get to the hurdle on a steeplechase before the other nags.  But she fell at the first, dropping her boarding pass and losing momentum to get ahead of me in the line.

Her impatience was voracious as she flung her wheelie onto the conveyor belt before my tray was fully loaded; my fingers jammed in between.  Did she not know I had just been manicured that very afternoon?  Getting one's nails done at the Hyatt Bangkok is not a cheap affair.  But alas, she was oblivious and something propelled her forward with verve.

I tried not to think about it too much, collected my nerve - and my tray full of belongings and headed upstairs to the lounge.

I hadn't sauntered, I hadn't lingered.

And then entering the lounge, I discovered the reason for the lady's impertinent impatience: hunger.

She had managed to beat me upstairs, grab a dish over-brimming with Wheetabix, yoghurt and other breakfast delectables and was happily gorging herself.  Of course.....it was the hunger that drove her to distraction and distress.  But I'm not sure that's an excuse for rudeness to fellow passengers.  Or am I being disingenuous?!

Anyway, I plonked myself down at a table far enough from her to be content, and equally scoffed down my scrambled eggs and baked beans.

 People are strange when they travel.