The aircraft wheels touched the runway at 7:15pm. At 7:14pm, half the passengers had already unfastened their seat belts. At 7:14:04pm, one half of the other half had the overhead lockers open. At 7:14:45, one half of the last half had started talking on their mobile. And the last quarter of the quarter (or whatever, pardon my weak maths) sat back and soaked in all the action, bracing for the touchdown.
I'm going to love this place, I say to myself. Just as I love all the madness back home, I'm going to love it here...
Here?
We've just landed in Lagos for a short looksie reccee, and I already kindof know what's in store.
Or, do I?
I walk out of the aerobridge and look in the direction of my co-passengers gliding down the escalator. Cool, I think, and I step onto it. An Indian in Nigeria, what cause should there be for concern? Only to realise, in that split second between my cock-sure confidence and a frantic groping for some support, that the rails of the escalator are not moving, but the steps are. So if you haven't tried stepping onto a moving object, while holding on to a stationary object on the side, I'd say, do try it once to appreciate my cause for panic. It's like seeing your torso move forward (and downward), but your hands firmly in place, tugging at the body in motion. And the many more (smarter) passengers who did not hold on to the side rails for support add to the forward thrust from the rear, leading to a near stampede-like situation. My panic, as you can see, is not misplaced. By the time I've figured out the cause for this pandemonium, I've already stumbled on the steps a couple of times - fallen, got up, fallen again - and made a complete fumbling-ass of myself. Not a promising start to a new place.
But I find my optimism intact; I'm going to love this place.
The airport terminal is hot, humid, and crowded. The ACs aren't working today, someone cribs. That's reassuring. It tells me simply that on most other days, the ACs DO work. That's quite okay. Just the other day, IGI plunged into total darkness. I have no reason to crib.
'You're welcome!' A jolly protocol officer welcomes us with warmth and helps us with the immigration formalities and we chat about this and that. It takes forever (an understatement) for our suitcases to arrive on the baggage carousel, but that's okay. Until a couple of years ago, most airports in India functioned on the same premise of non-urgency. I look at the other seasoned passengers who seem unperturbed. Every one looks happy and so so content. 'You're welcome!', gushes another officer on duty. I'm going to love this place, I think, and bend to pick up my suitcases. 'You're welcome!' says another official, helping me with my bags. 'Only two pieces?' he asks, with raised eyebrows. I nod. 'You sure?' I nod again. 'Wow. You're welcome!' I hear, and we move on.
By the time I've cleared the customs (and yes, they do ask for the yellow yellow-fever card, so I didn't get poked in vain) and stepped out of the terminal building, my ears are choking with 'You're welcome's. When a police officer from the siren-screeching security escort van (you'll need two, one each in front and behind your car, if you're any true blue expatriate in Nigeria) nods his head and says, 'You're welcome,' I give up. It's more of a pleasant endemic here, and I realise they probably do genuinely mean it.
Outside, the daughter cribs. 'I don't like the people here.'
Is this the moment of truth? Have I failed as a global citizen? Have I bred brats who are racists, despite the best of my intentions?
'Why?' I ask feebly.
'I feel scared at the way everyone's talking here. Why are they fighting?'
I heave a sigh of relief. So it's something that innocuous. I squeeze her paws and reassure her. ' Don't worry darling. It's just that they have a louder voice. Don't you see them laughing?' That's true, actually. Look around you anywhere in Lagos and you'll see everyone happy. Happy and jolly and cheerful and merry. Yes, even the poor (much like in India, you see them everywhere) laugh a lot, and they mean their laughs.
I'm going to love this place, I say to myself and sit in the car. 'You're welcome, madam,' says the driver, and we drive on.
The streets are more-or-less dark (the entire nation runs on generators, so the late evenings belie the robustness and the throbbing feel of daytime). Most houses look like Osama's Abottabad compound with impossibly high boundary walls topped with barbed wires. The escort vehicles are doing their job well. In about 20 minutes, we are there at the hotel.
'You're welcome, madam,' say the guards in the escort vehicles as they leave.
'You're welcome, madam,' say the hotel guards and waiters, as we wheel in our suitcases.
'You're welcome, madam,' says the smartly turned out person at the reception as he hands us room card.
The hot-bod Nigerian men will put the Greek Gods to shame, any day, even with their clothes on.Oh yes yes, I'm going to love this, I secretly salivate.
The door doesn't open with the card. We try again. It doesn't. Someone (this time, an even hotter Lebanese) comes, fiddles with the door for fifteen minutes. I don't really mind the sweet delay. I'm going to so so love this place, I say, and go back to ogling.
We hear a beep which means that the card and door contraption are working. 'You're welcome,' says the chikna Leb, and ushers us into the room.
Once in, all four of us make a mad dash for the loo. The quickest, my daughter, breezes in, only to be out in a second announcing, 'The door has no lock.'
'Maybe it's the style, you idiot,' butts in my son. 'What would you know about boutique hotels?'
'It doesn't matter,' I say. 'We'll manage. Let me go in.'
'No. We'll have to get it fixed. This is not acceptable,' says the Mister, checking out the door.
'Let me go, will you?' I shout and push my way in to the swanky lock-less loo. I am reminded of all the bytes floating around the virtual world about Lagos, and I know that if there's any truth in them, try as he might, the Mister will never succeed in getting the lock fitted.
I'm going to so so love this place...I say with utmost bliss as I go about my small business.
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