4 lanes are better than 3 in Lagos

Spending time in Lagos is a little like spending time in Disney Land; you know it’s not real on the surface, but when you dig a little, the deeper you go the more real it seems.  Come on, you agree – you’re telling me that you’ve never sauntered down Main Street in Orlando or LA and been only mildly shocked at strangers dressed in all manner of “cartoon” get-ups prancing around and crossing your path?  Remind you of a high street near you?@!

And so it is, to a certain degree with Lagos – however it’s not as kitsch or dare I say glam as the Magic Kingdom.

I had the “good fortune” to be staying a long way from the office on this trip and this afforded me an opportunity to see more of the “city of lagoons” – which is how the Portuguese named this city when they first landed here several hundred years ago, to the consternation and bemusement of the indigenous population.  And boy, did I see some sights.   

There were bakers transporting their loaves mile upon mile on a palette about 1m x 1.5m jammed full of newly baked bread perched precariously on the back of a rickety moped and speeding through traffic like a cockroach on wheels.  There were sellers of all kinds peddling their wares, dangerously close to the highway.  And winding side-streets took us on “short-cuts”, which felt disproportionately long, but we zipped past barbers, bars, shacks and hardware a myriad of merchants of all types.

But I think the thing that struck me the most and pushed me to doing this blog entry, was the 3 lane highway that drivers didn’t think wide enough.  Wide enough, you repeat?  What do I mean? 

Well, you see on most highways there is a hard-shoulder (or emergency lane) to allow access to ambulances, police vehicles and the like – and Lagos is (with a smile, perhaps surprisingly) no different.  Yet, the locals, perhaps peacocking or perhaps thinking the further away from the verge you are, the quicker you go, insisted on using the hard shoulder.  

Now, if the highway were clogged and not moving – then one may forgive motorists' selfish disregard for safety and other citizens in their driven desire to get home after a long day’s slog at the office.  But, no!  The highway was flowing like milk from a happy goat’s teat. (Sorry about this image – but it seems consistent with West Africa, where the goat is eaten with ferocity and gusto.)  There were no jams, and no slow-gos.  This traffic was speeding at over 80kmh quite merrily.  I was a little agog.

Sometimes what you have is not enough; sometimes the potential is not realized; sometimes the whole is not shared with the many – but rather hogged by the few.  For me, the highway linking the mainland of Lagos to Victoria islands and others was a metaphor for this disappointing situation in Nigeria.  The Big Men (Oga) need to show they’re bigger than the others – they drive on the hard shoulder; the aspiring disregard rules to get ahead of the pack – they drive on the hard shoulder; and the disenfranchised slip over from the inside lane to lane 2 or even 3, to feel “bigger” and squander the prospect of a highway that could move even faster, if everyone stuck to the rules.

However, no matter how fast the Ogas sped down the emergency lanes, no matter how well they thought they’d got one over on authority – or worse, their fellow Nigerians – it all came to a grinding halt at the toll booth.  Here the e-tag system was only partially working and all the traffic crammed and spilled over to a set of tellers taking money with only half of a half-smile and ample lethargy to give any sloth a crawl for its money. 

You sigh, you smirk– and you scratch your head thinking: what was all that bravado for?

It's the food, silly.

Returning from my Christmas and New Year jaunt and being a good 3 kilos heavier, it was natural I should ponder my expanded waistline and share with you some of the reasons for my orcine bulge.




One of the things that certainly Singapore is know for, is its food - and I'd really forgotten how good it all tastes.








Here are some of my temptations to which I happily succumbed while over there.

Fish-head curry at Muthu's restaurant.
Delicious...

Drunken prawns at Jumbo's seafood place.
A bugger to peal but worth the effort.
Sweet and delicate.

Broccoli with ginger - normally it's done with garlic, but my old boss had a penchant for ginger and now, so do I ....

What a fab claw with sprinklings of fresh coriander.

Steamed fish with fresh herbs...very good and tender.

Murtabak - a devilish indulgence with meat filling and a stinging curry sauce for dipping... 

My favourite teh tarik - which means "pulled tea" and it's sweet as hell.





And both this and the murtabak are from Zam Zam's near Arab Street...

This is the starter platter at No Menu for our New Year Eve's dinner.

And this the pasta course - there were so many courses I lost count...LOL

Ahhhh the colourful shop houses.

And this the Red Dot Building  which is the background currently to my facebook timeline page.










A great time and great friends once again.
Can't wait to get back to Singapore.  I do miss it terribly.

Looking back on 2011

Today I took down my Christmas tree - a little late - since one should dismantle it officially on 6th January - the 12th day of Christmas - but I was out of town on a work thing.  Still as I packed away the various baubles and beads, some of which date back to my childhood a good 35 years ago, I was taken to pondering 2011 and what it was like for me.

Way back in January 2011, I was blessed with a plethora of amazing friends who helped me celebrate my 40th birthday.  We had two incredible parties - one in Maryport and one in Singapore with over 160 guests between them.  I used the word "blessed" because indeed I was and truly am.  And even those who couldn't make it sent beautiful greetings of birthday wishes.  It was without doubt a splendid way to start my 40s.

Shortly after that, Baxter and I voyaged to Burma and stood in awe of the valley of Bagan with 4000 odd stupa, monasteries and temples in front of us.  One sees pictures of superfluous sights and one sighs in admiration - but seeing it for yourself is really breathtaking.  This was a first holiday for Baxter and me since our separation, that was repeated when we journeyed to Tokyo in May.  Walking down the winding streets we did when we lived there, brought back splendid memories of our time there together.  We met friends, ate well and enjoyed all that is Japanese.

However, it was only a few weeks later that I left Singapore and ventured over the Indian Ocean to taste Kenya life and sample what the "dark continent" had to offer.  Perhaps this was partly a mid-life crisis, partly my urge to experience more and more of life, perhaps partly jolting a certain man back to reality, partly a life-trek to purge my own demons.  And then, who cares now, I'm here and loving it.  Africa, and Kenya in particular has so much to give the world.  I hope the world sees and seizes it.

Since I've been living in Nairobi, I've been lucky to travel to Dar-es-Salaam, Kampala, Lusaka, Accra and Lagos.  I'm learning the differences between east and west, between ki-Swahili in the city and on the coast, between kikuyu and kamba, between Westlands and Karen and Kangeme.  Life is the pulchritude we call diversity.  I've safaried (with Baxter) in the Masai Mara and seen flamingos by the thousand (with my parents) in Naivasha - and there is so so so much more to see.  In a couple of weeks, Baxter and I (again) will be flying off to Zanzibar, and its spices, beaches, serenity.

I had a house-warming in December and was again blessed with a flat full of fantastic people.  I've made some awesome friends here in Nairobi - and for that I'm also thankful.

I then topped it off with Yuletide in Bangkok and New Year in Singapore - again surrounded by friends of all hues.







So, on balance a good - nay awesome - year 2011 was. 

I turned 40, I moved to Africa, got my Baxter back, saw amazing places and have so much more to see and do.

2012 has just started, but it's gonna be a tremendous stupendous year - and I hope as many of you as possible reading this, will be part of it.

A dowry and a drive from hell

From left to right: James (groom to be), Manu, Stella, Anne and yours truly

This weekend I had the pleasure and honour to attend the dowry ceremony of the wife-to-be of one of my Nairobi colleagues.  He's from a tribe here in Kenya called Kikuyu, who apparently have several layers to their dowry agreeing and payment.  For us, the whole thing was combined into a single gathering.

But what a trek to get there.  As with most optimistic invitations to a great shindig only a few minutes by car away, the devil is so often in the detail.  We were late setting off since one of our party had car troubles - then we sped to the first traffic jam just 100m down the road from our starting point.  After about 30 minutes we hit a second larger "car-park" of a jam on the new super-highway from Nairobi to Thika.  Built by the Chinese, and not quite finished, the slip roads are devoid of any guidance or jurisdiction - and as one side road full, teeming with passenger buses and trucks, wanted to cross the main highway, the whole procession came to a grinding halt.

The bride-to-be is in yellow

Another 30 minutes or so passed with only centimetres gained and then as is if by magic, the traffic cop arrived and sorted us all out.  We were free.

Zooming down the now fairly empty super-highway, we arrived in the "village hall" where negotiations for the dowry amount were coming to a close.  So we didn't even descend the car but reversed out of the mud-caked car park and back on the country road to Gatundu - where money was to be handed over before gaining permission to access the bride-to-be's homestead.

The proceedings were running about 2.5 hours late by this point.  And I had a pressing engagement with a rendition of Gilbert and Sullivan back in the city centre...how was I going to manage my time?!?!

So we followed the convoy up a narrow dirt track, passed burgeoning coffee groves and luscious banana trees to the tent and after managing to engage my 4-wheel drive, parked on a rather soggy grass verge.  We headed up the track to cries of singing women.  It was explained to me, that the female guests had to request permission to enter the party and only after much volleying to and fro of "may I come in" and " no we're not ready yet" in the vernacular Kikuyu, the ladies were granted entry and the men guests duly followed.

A managed to capture a few instances of the singing here:

Cooking in the al fresco kitchen

The mood was happy and everyone patiently sat down and waited for the prayers.  A lady came forward and addressed us all.  She then bowed her head and closed her eyes - most of the guests did likewise.  Then with alarming speed, she rattled off, for about 3 minutes solid, prayers for this, that and the other.  Astounding.

We then (at last) were invited to eat.  Even though senior citizens had been given preference in the queue, we barged to the front, piled our plates, scoffed the (not bad, actually) food and dashed to find the happy couple to bid farewell.  Perhaps a tad impolite, but The Pirates of Penzance - Nairobi-style - were awaiting and we couldn't delay.

My beans, stew and chipati

Getting back to the city was much easier and we were only snarled up once.  There was a scary moment when traffic cut through an opening in the central reservation and sped up the outside lane of the opposite carriage way - they'd spotted a jam up ahead and thought they'd head it off at the pass so to speak.  Needless to say, I joined them...!  What fun...!

A rather tiring outing - I was behind the wheel for about 5 hours - and only travelled about 100km round trip.  But fascinating and the Gatundu region was quite breathtakingly beautiful.

Will need to ask my colleague when I get in tomorrow, just how many goats were haggled for at the dowry meeting and if he has secured sufficient funds to purchase them.

Not too different from a western wedding...ahem ahem.

Chemical not comic - FE not X.

A sure sign I'm getting old manifested itself the other day.

I was chatting with the parents of my godson and quite happily following things when suddenly a reference to Iron Men came up.  I thought I was being hip & trendy and nodded knowingly when they mentioned the Liverpool exhibition.

I naturally assumed a Marvel-Comic's-type display showing the genesis of the superheroes etc.  I must confess I wasn't that enamoured about traipsing around a 2nd-tier city showcase hall over Halloween to see cardboard cutouts of vamps & electrifiers - but being a godfather has its downsides I suppose.

Then the mum referred to the beach.  And the proverbial penny dropped.

Ah, they were talking about the cast-iron statues imposingly studded on the beach at Crosby by the renowned sculpter (http://www.sefton.gov.uk/default.aspx?page=6216 ) Antony Gormley.

Relieved at the prospect of something more high-brow and delfated at not being as hip as I thought I was, I agreed to accompany them all.

We zoomed down the shore to see the tide fully in, lapping happily against the promenade wall.

Almanacs do sometimes come in handy - if only my friends had bothered to consult one...

So we went into town, did some shopping and came back later in the afternoon - bought a 99 flake ice cream, poured red & green sauce over it - and finally gazed into the setting sun glinting off these rather amazing iron figurines standing motionless in the Crosby sands.

Quite a sight...even if embarrassment was a side-journey getting there.

Two Indian travellers just plonked themselves (with a certain amount of courtesy, I must admit) at my table.  I was happily and nonchalantly scoffing my beef pie, washing it down with a refreshing local lager: White Cap.  Thinking about how I could possibly kill 1.5 hours stuck at JKIA (Jomo Kenyatta International Airport), I was suddenly struck with an urge to type.

 

So here’s what’s going on around me.  Hope it will be as interesting for you to read is, as it is for me to watch.

 

A colic-consumed infant screams its lungs off – it sounds very painful – time to turn up the volume on my iPod.

 

A young local has just sat next to a stranger complete with two bottles of beer – apparently not prepared to stand in line for a 2^nd – and, I, having been queue jumped while I was there, totally sympathise.  And since there is a Kenyan peculiarity of drinking alcohol and soda drinks at room temperature – I don’t suppose he’ll care when the 2^nd bottle is already lukewarm.

 

A group of Scandinavian backpackers are crumpled on a tiny table behind me with their Mac and delighting in reminiscing in their recent safari  and African village adventures.  Cows mingle with elephants and the odd native in a bright red blanket wrapped around him making him look rather like a Quality Street sweet.

 

A wobbling blue-clad policeman passes by the cafe rubbing his chin – I wonder if he longs for a nice lukewarm beer too.  The peak cap he wears suggest authority and the 35cm cane he has sandwiched under his armpit suggesting even a tad more than that.  He about-turns and heads off in  the direction he came from .

 

One of the Indian travellers opposite me, just yawned so widely without covering his mouth I could almost see his colon never mind his tonsils.  Sigh.

 

And a female beauty in red just joined the young guy with the two beers for a “hello”.  He immediately introduced her to his new-found friend on the same table and she instinctively reached out her hand to shake the stranger’s.  He lingered, holding on for longer than a European might be comfortable with – making that African connection – conveying friendship and respect in a lengthy grasp.  A quick almost-dismissive tug of hands will not suffice here – and I like that.

 

Passengers are coming and going and I suppose I could ramble on for hours describing the funny, the fat, the fragile, the frisky or even the fatherly.  The suited, the slumped, the stressed, the shopping and even the sexy.  And coincidentally, the fatherly and sexy just happen to be the same, as I notice that my White Cap is empty. 

 

When I paid for my beef pie and beer about 20 minutes ago, the server didn’t have the correct change and he gave me extra to save the hassle of me waiting.  He smiled and said you can offset it against your next purchase...I retorted: “I might not have a 2^nd purchase, but will see you on my next flight,” – but as with people experienced in certain fields however banal or pedestrian, he knew better and thus, please forgive me as I complete this blog entry to skip to the counter for my next beer.

Replying all - ignoring all?

Just a couple of days ago, the mammoth straw was cast upon my unsuspecting back and I snapped.  Like Chinese water torture, the torrents of Reply All comments had dripped and dripped into my inbox.  I duly deleted them.

Fortunately with auto-view I can see the rubbish that people dump in Reply All mails and quickly abandon even opening them up to get annoyed at the nonsense people write in such mails - and the irrelevance they contain - sometimes even to the original sender.

This latest instance was a valid request from a colleague for information to help secure a client contract - a noble aim indeed.  However, the innocuous, unhelpful, unfettered garbage that ensued was pique of waste.

A waste of effort on the senders' part; a waste of time for the poor original sender - since all the comments were saying "Sorry, I don't have anything...!"; and a waste in general for all the other poor sods in the Reply All To box.  [This is not to mention the waste of electrons whizzing around the planet to send the emails from sender to all the recipients, then from the stupid recipients back to all the other recipients and then on top of that all the Out of Office Notifications that are returned to said stupid recipients who hit Reply All.] 

So what did I do?  Well I hit Reply All and kindly - it was polite I must confess - requested people to at least "think" before they robotically hit Reply All - I was hoping to keep my inbox a little cleaner and my synapses too...!

No wonder emails go unanswered, no wonder mails are lost in the forest of junk we get in our inboxes.

Join the crusade - tell the stupid ones, that we, the enlightened, will not hit Reply All, unless it's relevant to all those in the To line and edit the recipient list to make sure we are communicating sensibly as opposed to blindly, bumblingly and in a bothersome way.  The notes of "well said" I got back from people I don't even know suggests there is a war in great need of being waged here.

You can't hit Reply All on this blog - but you could forward to others to help share the message and clog up your friends' inboxes.

How ironic would that be!!!