From Lagos to Doornfontein

My welcome to humid Lagos included spending 40 mins sans passport at 0430 in the morning -- an immigrations official disappeared with a stack of them for 'processing' of some kind, which involved him actually walking out of the main terminal with all the docs in his hand. In my various third world travels, this was a special and unsettling first. The official, clearly enjoying his regular power kick, refused to give us any information whatsoever, and patronisingly chided us to stay where we were rather than follow him outside, which is what I did.

So there I was, outside the airport, in Lagos, of all places, without a passport, watching this guy saunter off… After being refused re-entry to the immigration section, I realised that the entire planeload of passengers had been similarly deprived. They were all sitting on the luggage conveyor belt, waiting with the sort of acceptance that you only generally see in Africa, no matter what one’s background. We got the passports back in the end. Friends have warned me to look out for my double.

It was a heavy week on the work front, and I didn’t have much time to explore, sadly. That said, Lagos reminds me of Indian cities, actually: sprawling, vibrant with women dressed exquisite print fabrics, and one crazy traffic scene. My visit was for work, so I was sadly confined to sanitised air-conditioned spaces much more than I would have liked…though I have to say that the air-con wasn’t all bad. I enjoyed the Nigerians; they were friendly, welcoming and confident. We sampled local delicacies, including even giant snails cooked with tomato [impressive achievement for my mostly vegetarian self]. Rubbery comes to mind.

I had a surreal evening visit to a bar called Pat’s, much to the horror of a South African journalist friend who knows Lagos well. Pat’s is frequented solely by foreign men and pretty long-legged Nigerian women in 4-inch heels and very miniskirts. This little excursion was followed by an armed escort back to the hotel...I did try to get a photo with the two gunmen in their unbuttoned shirts but they sadly declined.

My return to the airport was also memorable – in the most embarrassing of fashions. Since I was travelling in the early evening, the company security coordinator arranged an armed police escort again. I presumed that, like the night before, this second vehicle would simply follow behind. But no. They drove ahead of us, aggressively hooting, gesturing out the windows and, intermittently, using flashing lights to push the Lagos rush-hour traffic out the way. It was like being in a high-speed car chase, African dictator style. Instead of taking 2.5 hours to get to the airport, we took only one. This was the closest I’ll ever get to being Idi Amin or Robert Mugabe. I was absolutely mortified and hugely grateful for the tinted windows. My driver was sympathetic to my embarrassment, but reassured me, “Don’t worry, this is how they do it in Lagos. Everyone will be wondering who you are.” Oh what comfort.

Anyway, I made it to the sweltering airport in time to queue and be searched multiple times over a 3 hour period. The flight routes to Jo’burg all depart at midnight and arrive in the early morning, and there were no other passengers of my age-race-gender. Not that that’s anything new in my travels. I have to say I was somewhat relieved to step out into the fresh sunrise air of the rand again.

This past Saturday afternoon I went on a historic tour of Doornfontein in downtown Jo’burg, run by the Westcliff Heritage group, in a large and cumbersome bus. The whole thing was bordered on surreal, in a sort of amusing fashion. My friend and I were basically the youngest on the bus by quite a long way, he was the only black guy, and my java print skirt looked positively loud next to all the floral cottons.

The tour was four hours long, believe it or not, with only one disembarkation at an old curtain rail factory, still functioning, and which still has the defunct apartheid racially-segregated signs above the toilets: “Bantu Males”, “European Males”, “European Females”, and so on. Quite extraordinary. We saw all sorts – synagogues, factories, transport depots, a crumbling mayor’s house, the ridge behind the Ponte tower, theatres, mosques, old wells, and more. Really quite fascinating, though best done when tired or hungover, I’d say. We ate delicious pizza at Ant’s in Melville afterwards and watched the full moon rise.

It’s a hundred days till the World Cup, the newspapers shout out. I’ve been on radio a few times talking about search trends and the new stadiums -- oh the random things I've ended up doing. The evenings are warm and borderline sultry, and the mornings are starting to cool a little. I’m determined to start Zulu lessons soon. It’s already been way too long. Oh, and the worms have survived, by the way, so the wormery lives on after all.