Thursday 13 October, Lagos – Nigeria / Amsterdam – Netherlands

Joy wakes up at 6-7am as he has to drive someone to the airport. Shino and I get up three hours later. We have some breakfast, I say hello and goodbye to Shino’s fiancée over the phone, and we talk about how great it would be if Shino could come to China.

As virtually every man I have met in the last three months, Shino dreams of going to China and finding a job there. He hopes he can make it next year. His uncle has already made it over, and like a majority of Africans in China, Shino’s uncle went to the south (Guangzhou) to conduct trade between China and Africa. One day, not too long ago, the uncle’s wife, who still lives in Nigeria, received a telephone call. On the other side of the line was a young Chinese woman that Shino’s aunt had never heard of. The Chinese woman had two messages: First, she was (also) married to Shino’s uncle, and second, Shino’s uncle had gotten himself into trouble and will be in prison for quite a while longer…

Around noon, Nyomi arrives at the guesthouse and we’re off to the airport. In the car, Shino and Nyomi chat with each other while I watch Lagos pass me by for one last time. My mind drifts off and my quiet mood floats back and forth between nostalgic and surreal. Like when you’re in that sleep deprived zone of semi-awareness where all senses are only running at half speed.

The very last picture...

At the airport, I say goodbye to Shino and Nyomi. “Don’t forget about me,” says Shino. “Never”, I respond, as I watch the red cab drive him back into his Lagos life. Shino’s line, with its tragic undertone and which I’ve heard in every West African country I have visited, still rings in my ears as I check in. After I’ve checked in, I meet Alex outside, who has come over just to say goodbye. We talk about staying in touch while I smoke one last cigarette, and then the time has come.

The final route, from Dakar to Lagos

I am now sitting on the plane which will take me to Dubai, from where I will return, back to the world I know. I can’t believe my trip is done. Floating (in a tin can) far above the world, my head is so full with all the experiences of the last three months that it keeps switching from seeing hundreds of images simultaneously and simply blacking out.

I’m sure people will ask me which country was most special. There’s no answer to that. There were unique experiences in every single country and so much has to do with just being at the right place at the right time. One thing is sure though, if I wouldn’t have had music to open the numerous doors to many of those unique experiences, this trip would have been vastly different.

It all started in Senegal: edginess with Red Shirt on only the second day; tama lessons and lunches at Adama and Bigue’s house, performing with Adama’s group of drummers for 40 crazy women, traveling with Leif and stumbling upon a centuries old initiation ritual in a sacred forest. Then colorful Mali: rasta jamming with Jah Man, frustrations over Ramadan, inspiring and rewarding development work with Yvonne and Gael in Mopti, feeling light with Corneille in the Dogon country. Poor and pure Burkina: Hanging and playing with Oumar and Moussa’s group in Bobodioulasso. Spending three days on a disintegrated bus with over 200 goats and sleeping on the street.

Easygoing, educated, English speaking Ghana: Talking about passion for films and music on the canopy walkway drifting over the Kakum jungle, American fratboys in Kokrobite and live music and dance rehearsals in Accra. Quietly hidden, beautiful Benin: Romantic Ouidah with its voodoo intensity, on the motorbike with Louis, house hopping in Abomey and Porto Novo, being speechless when women ask to be taken to China while you hardly know them. Mad, edgy, sharp, talented, conflict-ridden Nigeria with its Lagos traffic, black masses of youth and power at the Shrine, dancing to afro-beats and highlife, Felabration and playing tama at Terra Kulture.

It’s been a trip. I don’t think there have ever been three months in my life where I have so often thought to myself how incredibly fortunate I am. It’s amazing how easy it is to make months go by anonymously, with each day melting quietly into the next, while with a slight effort, months can also be filled with valuable memories and experiences that will enrich a lifetime.

When my uncle asked me some time ago why I always feel the urge to travel around the world and see different things, I didn’t really know how to give him a short answer. Others have also asked why I would choose to travel to the other side of the planet just to sit in dirty buses, sleep in flee-infested beds, eat shitty food, risk diseases, accidents, and robberies, and not shower. Such questions make me think of Louis Armstrong’s answer when he was asked “What is jazz?” (“If you have to ask, you’ll never know”). While that answer may be a bit too snobbish, the essence is that these types of things are hard to explain, and the travel urge and curiosity is all based on a feeling.

Most importantly, in addition to just being fun, traveling to cultures outside my comfort zone makes me see and learn, it makes me put myself into perspective and appreciate what I have.

And now I want to watch Harry Potter on the airplane entertainment system…

Wednesday 12 October, Lagos – Nigeria

I meet up with Alex at his work at the paper mill. The factory is located in a colorless industry zone and as can be expected of a paper mill, it has the character of a second hand frying pan. The dull walls of the reception area are decorated with plaques glorifying the company’s unique mission and vision. Apparently, the “Uptown Paper Mill” is devoted to employee development, offers strategic solutions, prioritizes customer care, and maintains an exclusive brand. Funny how all companies in the world try to distinguish themselves by having mission statements that are exactly the same.

 

While I wait in the reception area, my eyes focus on the door. I call on my telekinetic powers to make a Nigerian version of David Brent or Michael Scott walk through: overly cheerful, painstakingly annoying, glasses, and a thick Nigerian English accent. It doesn’t work and Dawn (Pam for those who prefer the American version of “The Office”) tells me to sit down. She seems a bit grumpy today.

 

I grab a bite to eat with Alex in “Sweet Sensations,” a popular Nigerian fast food chain. Holland is playing Sweden in a Eurocup football qualification match on the TVs so I can’t help but be slightly distracted. After the food, I go to an ATM and find out to my alarming surprise that I can’t take out any money. The good news is that I am leaving tomorrow and that I don’t need much more than money for one night at the hotel and transport to the airport tomorrow. The bad news is that I really don’t have anything anymore. Then I remember I still have a 50 Euro backup note at the hotel, which is just about enough for the remainder of my stay in Nigeria, assuming nothing goes wrong. I take a motor bike back to Ikeja and miraculously survive the ride on a highway from hell.

 

I had met Paul earlier this afternoon at the hotel; a friendly guy in his mid/late-twenties who says he works as a consultant for the hotel. His clothes and car show he has a lot of money, but the (light and not overly bright) way he talks suggests that he didn’t make it himself. I wonder what the hotel consults him about. Around 10pm, I go with Paul and some friends of his to the Shrine. While they are all good guys, my desire to leave them alone to focus on their teenage macho coolness is stronger than my curiosity to find out more about Paul’s consulting work. Once we’re inside, I accidentally get separated from the group.

 

Once again, the entrance is free and so the Shrine is filled with people and testosterone. This being my fourth time here, I now feel comfortable on my own and the atmosphere that felt intimidating the first time (and even yesterday in the beginning), now feels familiar even though nothing has changed. Goes to show how atmospheres are largely inside your head.

 

I walk around and see the young group of guys that I had run into here yesterday (friends of the Open Mic night guy). We chat and after half an hour, Shino and Joy arrive. The three of us eat suya and drink beers and liquor outside, and then we go back in. Like yesterday, there are several really cool bands throughout the evening, but there are also some hiphop acts that excel in being uneventful and unimaginative. Shino and Joy are enthusiastic and excited, and the three of us have a lot of fun, joking, drinking, and dancing. A heated dance contest takes place on stage and the crowd roars, screams, and votes. A great Afro-beat/Highlife band follows, but suddenly I feel dizzy and shaky from all the strong alcohol that Shino has been feeding me. Time to go home.

 

Shino and Joy drive me back to the guesthouse. As Shino wants to bring me to the airport tomorrow, we ask the guesthouse if the two of could stay with me in my room for tonight. To my surprise, it’s no problem. I am dead tired, and join the loud snoring of my two big fellow bedmates.

Tuesday 11 October, Lagos – Nigeria

Shakin' that hip thang

My tama lesson at Terra Kulture starts at 11am and it’s even more fun than yesterday. Two women, language teachers at Terra Kulture, stay in the room and dance, clap and sing along while we do the lesson. Again, Shino joins and plays with us. We’re having ourselves a little party.

 

Hard at work

Suddenly one of the women lets out a quick shout. Their boss is approaching. With the speed of light and a smoothness that reveals a certain routine, one hides behind the door and the other positions herself casually on a chair. Once the boss has passed, the dancing and singing continuous. In the west or China, children often have to be pushed to make music, dance or sing. Here, people have to be stopped from doing so.

 

After the lesson, I spend the afternoon with my laptop in Terra Kulture arranging practical issues as my departure from West Africa is only two days away. Around 5-6pm, I want leave for the Shrine, but no taxi wants to take me due to the endless traffic jams at this hour on the way to Ikeja. At 7pm, I finally leave.

 

My driver is called Yakubu, and is also security guard at Terra Kulture. Yakubu is married, with two daughters and one boy. He is an army officer, and has part time jobs as a security guard and driver in order to make ends meet. He complains about the widespread corruption and harshness of Nigerian society. As Yakubu is a Christian from the North and a member of the mostly Muslim Hausa tribe, I am curious to know how he feels about Boko Haram.

 

Boko Haram is a small but fanatic Muslim movement within the larger Hausa tribe that advocates the imposition of Sharia law on all of Nigeria (currently, a handful of northern Nigerian states are under Sharia law). These days, it’s impossible to open a Nigerian newspaper without reading about Boko Haram’s killings or bombings. The group has been particularly violent since the outcome of the last elections, which saw the very Christian Goodluck Jonathan from the Igbo tribe emerge as victorious. Since independence, the Hausa have delivered the large majority of Nigerian leaders and army officers. Yakubu says that Boko Haram simply can’t stand a non-Hausa being in charge.

 

Yakubu is extremely critical of Boko Haram and says they are a bunch of dangerous nutcases that only want chaos and disorder. Above all, he cannot understand why anyone would actively oppose development and choose to be backwards (the rough translation of the Hausa name “Boko Haram” is “western education is a sin”). Talking more general about the whole Hausa tribe, he regrets their lack of motivation to develop. On the other hand, he appreciates the Hausa’s honesty, kindness, and hospitality. Yakubu notes that he Yoruba are the exact opposite: He admires their business minds and focus on development, while he dislikes them as human beings. When he stops someone on the street to ask for directions and the guy is helpful and friendly, Yakubu says “you’re not Yoruba, are you?” The guy answers: “Of course not!” The men give each other a brotherly smile and drive off. When asked about the Igbo, Yakubu just shakes his head and says that they only care about money. 

 

Traffic is still horrible, and it takes around 2 hours to reach Ikeja/the Shrine. In the pouring rain, we find the hotel close to the Shrine that was recommended to me by Chike from Bogobiri. Unfortunately, the hotel is full, but Yakubu is extremely kind and helpful, and spends the next 40 minutes together with me, driving around looking for a hotel.

 

While I haven’t had any issues related to safety so far in Nigeria, I’ve also been considerably more careful and alert than I had been in the other West African countries. I may not have followed many Nigerians’ advice (“don’t travel outside Lagos!” “Within Lagos, just stay around Victoria Island, Lekki, and Ikoyi,” “always be back in the hotel before 9pm!”), but I always made sure that I exactly knew where I was going and that there was usually a local that knew where I was at any given point. I’m wondering now whether I may be making a mistake by tempting fate and moving to an area that was not recommended for a foreigner to stay at, with only two days before the end of my three-month trip. Ah well…

 

After lots and lots of going back and forth in the rain, we finally find a guesthouse that is safe, inside a compound that is close to the Shrine. Around 10-11pm, I check in and immediately go to the Shrine.

 

For the first time in my life, I am slightly disappointment to learn that entry is free of charge. In light of the considerable difference in atmosphere and especially the (perceived) safety levels between the first time we went to the Shrine (no entrance fee) and the second time (entrance fee), I had hoped there would be an entrance fee. As it is still unsure whether Ouzo and Roy will make it, I prepare myself mentally to be alone and extra alert, at least for the coming hour or so. I straighten my back, put on my “yeah-that’s-right,-I’m-the-ultimate-kungfu-master-who-can-chop-a-house-in-two-using-only-two-fingers”- look, and step inside.

 

Just like the first time I came here with Dom and Nyomi, the Shrine is filled with people, mostly guys in their twenties. No white face in sight and eyes from every direction staring suspiciously my way. Not more than 20 seconds after I’m inside, I feel a tap on my shoulder. I’m thinking “Damn, didn’t expect trouble to start this soon…” I turn around and stand face to face with a young guy and three guys behind him. All are looking at me. I look back at the guy in front; my eyes tell him “didn’t-you-hear-me?-I-said-two-fingers!” while my mouth says “hey man, how are you doing?”

 

The guy asks with a deliberate and slightly impatient tone in his voice “how are you?” I say “good, thanks” and turn back around, about to walk on to some other place. Immediately, he taps me on the shoulder again. I’m thinking “Jesus, what?!” I prepare to increase the sharp look in my eyes, the coolness in my voice, and the confidence in my shoulders, and look the guy straight in the eyes again when he says, as friendly as can be: “you play the talking drum very well!”

 

Huh?

 

The guy explains he was also at the Open Mic night (see my post for 8 October) where Dom and I went with Ouzo and apparently, I was even on stage with him together for a moment, accompanying a Fuji song that he sang. The guy introduces me as his friend to his friends, and we all hang out for a bit.

 

Every evening during Felabration, about 10 different acts (bands, DJs, rappers) play for about 20-30 minutes at the Shrine. It seems to be around 50% hip hop, with the other 50% divided between Afro beat, reggae, highlife, and other types. While there is no real or official program, the changing of the bands and the instruments goes quite smoothly and professionally.

 

An hour later, I meet up with Roy, who takes me with him backstage. We sit and chat about music in Nigeria and China. Roy’s “real” Afro-beat band (i.e. not the young band he played with last Sunday at the Stadium hotel) will play at the Shrine on Saturday. Unfortunately, I will already have left for Holland by then. Roy is eager to position himself as an authority and central pillar in Lagos’ music scene and continuously introduces me to musicians that walk by. While it is possible his remarkable hospitality comes from the bottom of his heart, my feeling is that he somehow hopes that I can arrange tours for him in China.

 

While I get a bite of suya, I run into Femi, one of the organizers of Felabration. I had met Femi at the symposium yesterday at the NIIA. Femi is a culturally passionate business man and has always been very close the Kuti family. A great Afro beat band is playing, and Femi arranges for me to stand on stage so that I can be close to the musical fire. Roy had tried to do the same just a few minutes before, but apparently his authority was less convincing to the ridiculously large security guy standing in front of the stage. As Roy stands next to me when Femi calls me up, I feel bad for Roy’s loss of face, but I’m not sure what else I could have done. In the meantime, the band is brilliant; it bites, kicks, strokes, pokes, caresses and then bites again.

 

Monday 10 October, Lagos – Nigeria

I check out and leave my bag in a corner behind the reception. The next 6 days will see the annual “Felabration” across Lagos, a festival dedicated to Fela Kuti filled with seminars, exhibitions, documentaries and concerts. As there will be concerts every night at the Shrine starting tomorrow, I will move to a hotel in Ikeja next to it.

As part of Felabration, the Nigerian Institute of International Affairs (NIIA) is hosting a symposium about the impact of Fela and about “Africa and the New World Order” at 11am. The flyer notes that the panelists will include the president of Nigeria’s central bank and Wole Soyinka. Wole Soyinka is a Literary Nobel Prize winner, a national icon, and together with his cousin Fela Nigeria’s biggest hero in the cultural-political sphere. I’m very excited to attend the symposium and I manage to convince my tama teacher to move today’s lesson from 11am to 1pm.

I arrive at the NIIA in my dirty ragged clothes and bandit hairstyle, and take a seat among the ironed suits and cleanly shaved chins. I chat with Stephen, an educated and interesting guy who works as a TV host, PR consultant, and “life skills speaker.” The room is filled with an air of Nigerian intellectual and cultural elite; a refreshing contrast with the raw, primal life experiences of the last three months in countries such as Mali, Burkina, and Benin.

Neither the head of Nigeria’s central bank or Wole Soyinka show up. The head of the central bank has an urgent meeting about the appreciation of the Naira (the eagerly awaited results of which are announced the following day on the news), and Wole Soyinka is still in the US. Fortunately, the organizers have arranged for other interesting speakers. Unfortunately, the symposium starts exactly two hours late, so I’m not able to hear what they have to say as I have to run out for my rescheduled tama lesson, just when the whole thing starts.

Luckily, the tama lesson is a lot of fun. The Nigerian talking drum is very different from the Senegalese one: it is bigger and mostly played with one hand holding a stick. Nevertheless, I learn how to play several typical Nigerian rhythms on my Senegalese tama and after a while, Shino walks in, grabs a drum and the three of us play together, laughing, dancing, soloing. I decide to stay at the Lighthouse one more night in order to remain in this area of town and do another lesson at Terra Kulture tomorrow.

One of the slides from a presentation, about what Africa should do in order to develop: the last sentence mentions the need to emulate China and India

When the lesson is done, I quickly take a motorbike back to the Symposium, hoping that it’s still going on. I walk in and still get to see three speakers: a pastor who is a great speaker, a professor, and one of Fela’s daughters. Full of passion, they talk about the necessity of growing empowered and independent Nigerian minds, about uniting and mobilizing the country’s countless talents for the sake of development, about the Chinese being the new colonizers, about fighting corruption, about continuously failing power-hungry African leaders, and of course, they talk about Fela.

After the symposium, I run into Roy, the saxophone player who led the young Afro-beat band yesterday at the Stadium Hotel. We chat, exchange numbers and agree to meet up tomorrow at the Shrine.

Isaac, the guy from Sierra Leone whom I met in Bamako/Mali (see 14 August and the days following) has been writing to me, saying he is very ill and that he needs money for an operation.

Getting it not so straight

While I had already given him some money for the operation when I was still in Bamako, I decide to give him some more. I go to the Western Union and to several banks, but it appears quite a hassle to send money from Nigeria to Mali. While the Western Union system seems to function widely and effectively among the French speaking countries in West Africa, coordination with Nigeria is clearly lacking. I start to understand why trade is so ridiculously low between different (West) African countries. So many basic things that still need to be taken care of to get Africa’s house in order…

Sunday 9 October, Lagos – Nigeria

Nyomi drives us to the airport, where Dom’s plane will take her back to China in the afternoon. I return to the Lighthouse and relax for a bit. Alone once more.

In the evening I go the Stadium hotel, where Chike has told me an Afro beat band will be playing. Like last week, when we came here to see Highlife legend Victor Olaiya, the place is dark and deserted. Fortunately, there’s a band playing. And it’s playing Afro beat! Yoohoo! A more experienced saxophonist leading a group of young players. It seems to be something between a rehearsal and a gig. I sit down and try to look slightly mean and cool, as I’m a little self conscious about being alone and it doesn’t feel completely safe.

After half an hour, Alex comes and joins. We go out to get some street food: suya, rice, and onions. We return to the Stadium hotel, chat and listen to the band.

Saturday 8 October, Lagos – Nigeria

Alex, one of the Nigerian couch surfers, picks us up in the morning. We take a taxi and walk around in the Balosegun Market, famous for its textiles. Decisive and ferocious, the ruthless negotiating predator Dom sniffs her way intently through the stalls, ready for the kill and hungry for her prey. In the meantime, Alex and I eat our sausage rolls outside.

 

Alex is a warm, gentle, attentive student from Lagos who lost his parents quite some years ago. I would have thought that in light of his soft personality and difficult history, it would be “relatively impossible” for Alex to survive in Lagos’ dog-eat-dog wilderness. While in the beginning, he says he loves Lagos and couldn’t live anywhere else, he says a little later that he can’t wait to leave. He wants to go abroad, preferably to Qatar or Dubai.

 

 

Alex in the white shirt

Alex studies computer science and focuses on security of online transactions (which I did not know they had in Nigeria…). In order to pay for his education, he also has a full time job. He describes his daily routine: At 6am, he leaves house so that he can be at work before 8am; he works until 5 and then goes to his fiancée. Around 10pm he goes home to sleep. He then wakes up at 3am to study for two hours, and gets ready for work.

 

It’s not easy to survive in Lagos, as the city is ridiculously expensive. Prices for hotels and for dinners at restaurants and fast food chains are higher than prices in Amsterdam. Rent for locals appears to be cheap though. Alex pays around 15 Euros/month for his small room/apartment. Interesting to note is that he pays the same amount for his monthly internet subscription. Even more interesting is that, when compared to what his friends pay, his house is expensive while his internet is cheap. The composition of living expenses here is quite different from Western Europe or China.

 

He also wants to start a trading business, importing electronics from Asia. I’m slightly worried about his plans, especially in light of his vulnerability to scams: he was recently robbed of USD 2000 through an internet scam and had last week paid a hotel for two tourists he had never met before and who have since magically disappeared.

 

After an hour, we say goodbye to Alex and continue elbowing our way through the hustle and bustle of Balosegun market. After the market, we walk through the general area. We pass a mosque, a church, some squares, and hundreds of people and honking cars on the streets. For the first time, it feels like we are actually in a city, where people live lives, where there are smells and where these is color. Before this, Lagos had mostly consisted of a random collection of alienated ugly buildings, highways, SUVs, and street vendors; a weird, enormous city with no center, no heart, and no soul. It still is a weird, enormous city with no center, but at least there are little pockets with heart and corners with soul.

 

Our heads filled with city chaos and our lungs with exhaust fumes, we are dying for a quiet place to sit and eat. This essentially means finding an air-conditioned fast food place, as there’s nothing else that would fit the bill. We ask around, but Nigerians have a rather peculiar way of giving directions (“you walk on until you see that building, and then you MOVE!” [combined with wild gesticulations]). Despite all the directions, we find a fast food chain; TVs showing Nigeria playing football against Guinea and quite horrible food.

 

We take a motor bike back to the Jazzhole and sit down with some coffee. Again, we run into Ola, who continues telling his stories as if he hadn’t stopped since yesterday evening. In between his stories, he is extremely friendly and helpful with finding Afro-beat live music and calls upon Yeni Kuti (fela’s daughter) and a friend named Ouzo for suggestions.

 

I came to Nigeria especially for the Afro-beat live scene. In my mind, Lagos was to be an anarchistic hellhole where the excesses of violence, robberies, kidnappings and other moral decay are only equaled by the fierceness and fearlessness of its brilliant musicians: drunk, rough, playing in dark alleys at the cosmic axis of life and death. I imagined Lagos to be like Italy under the “de Borgias” as mentioned in the famous quote by Graham Greene in the Third Man. Google it for the exact quote, but it goes something like this: “In the 30 years in Italy under the “De Borgias,” there was warfare, death, and destruction, but it brought forth Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci, and the Renaissance. In Switzerland, they had 500 years of democracy, peace and brotherly love. And what did it produce? The cuckoo clock…”

 

Unfortunately, the Afro-beat live music scene is largely non-existent in Lagos. Aside from Fela’s sons Seun and Femi (and Femi doesn’t even play real Afro-beat), there are literally no more than a handful of bands playing it. Femi and Seun spend most of their time touring abroad, as there is no money to be made playing Afro-beat in Nigeria. Those few that do play real Afro-beat give a variety of reasons for the lack of Afro-beat bands, ranging from that the style is too hard to play, to the fact that the music is too specific, too much linked to an overall life style and political views, and too much linked to the persona of Fela Kuti. Also, true Afro-beat requires playing with at least 10 musicians on a stage, excluding dancers. With life being already hard on musicians, it’s virtually impossible to make money if you have to pay so many band members.

 

There are Lagos bands playing traditional styles such as Highlife, Juju and Fuji. However, all in all, traditional music is being eclipsed by the world demolishing sacrilege of useless, anonymous hiphop and R&B. If God exists, he is no music fan.

 

Ola’s friend Ouzo comes to meet us an hour later in the Jazzhole. Ouzo is a music promoter and manages several local musicians. He says he knows some places for live music tonight and offers to take us around in the evening. We take taxi to drop off our stuff at the hotel, change clothes, and we’re back on our way into town. Yippie!

 

We are going to an open mic night that is organized by a friend of Ouzo’s. We had expected a dark, smoky, and artistic hangout in a cellar, but instead we enter something that feels like an American sports bar: TVs on the wall, bright colors, glass tables, semi-designed plastic chairs, and people in fancy clothes. There is a band, positioned slightly clumsily in the middle of the room, backing a big girl singing Alicia Keys.

 

After two songs, the band plays an instrumental. Ouzo gets all excited and wants me to play tama with them. He jumps up and drags me to the stage, where he sets up a microphone and makes me play. Feeling weird and shaky, I play along. As everywhere else, people around appreciate a white guy playing an instrument of “theirs” and smile enthusiastically. After one song, I take place behind the drum set and we start playing Herbie Hancock’s “Chameleon.” However, the girl who organizes the evening drags me back from behind the drums in the middle of the song and says I should play tama instead; more special and unique…

 

As the evening progresses, the audience gets more into the open mic night and the atmosphere becomes hot and festive. There is poetry and a couple of local and even national heroes that sing and rap. Especially one rapping girl really gets the crowd dancing, singing, and clapping, and I get pushed onto the stage with my tama once again. The whole bar is now into the groove. Girls in the back are merrily shouting along with the songs and we dance and smile along with the fun.

 

After several hours, we go. Ouzo shows takes us into a typical club for a minute and a half, but as it’s still dead inside, we leave. We sit down for a bit to exchange contact information with Ouzo, who asks to be filmed while doing a little promotion talk about his own musical management services and his Nigerian artists. We take a taxi and return to the hotel.

Friday 7 October, Calabar / Lagos – Nigeria

We hang out in Terra Kulture in the afternoon and then have a cozy dinner with mercilessly pounding rain outside.

 

After dinner, we take a taxi to a fabulous bookstore – CD shop – Café – live music venue called the Jazzhole. I am excited about going out to hear live music again; it’s almost been a week since I’ve heard any. Also, I’ve heard good stories about the highlife band that will perform tonight: old local legends that played among many others with Ry Cooder’s Buona Vista Social Club. While they were officially supposed to start at 7-8pm, we arrive around 9-10pm. As everything with a set time in Nigeria seems to be starting 3 hours later, it would seem we’re on time.

 

I get slightly suspicious when the guys at the door are not asking for the entrance fee that I was told we would have to pay. My fears soon get confirmed. Five minutes after we sit down, the band announces the last song. Shit. Where did these guys get the nerve to start playing on time? Must be the age; demented or something.

 

We stick around in the Jazzhole after the show. It really is a fun place: laid back, nice friendly atmosphere, and with a wonderful selection of books and CDs. We run into Ola, the old man who held the lecture on the history of Highlife and Afro-beat last week in Bogobiri. Ola is a very jovial character who likes telling stories and while he is primarily a filmmaker, he claims he has worked as a reporter, diplomat, street sweeper, cleaner, and a gangster. He is clued into and proud about Nigeria’s Highlife and Afro-beat traditions and gladly makes that known to all around; especially about his relations with Fela Kuti. He suggests we go to a bar around the corner, where there is a band playing traditional Nigerian Juju music.

 

He drops us off in his car and walks in with us to make sure we’re okay. The band is playing on a small terrace on the sidewalk, around 20 guys sit at plastic tables, and there is a TV showing English Premier League football. Ola talks to one of the guys at another table and asks him if he could keep an eye on us and make sure we get into a taxi safely when we want to leave. We say goodbye to Ola and enjoy the juju music.

 

At first I’m not too relaxed as I don’t know how safe it is out here, but as the evening progresses, it’s clear that the guys around us are a lot of fun. Especially when we start dancing, we get enthusiastic smiles and handshakes from all in the audience and the band. Apparently, whites really have a reputation as colorless, boring, a-musical dimwits that don’t know how to move or have fun.

 

The bumshake is back in business, and it’s priceless to see one huge African guy rub his shaking bum affectionately against the crotch of another huge African guy. I dance with them and jokingly imitate their moves; I’m Mowgli in the Junglebook, dancing with a couple of “Baloo the Bears.”

 

Thursday 6 October, Calabar – Nigeria

We wake up at 540am so that we have enough time for a forest hike and be back before 10am, when Delvin will pick us up from the base. The heavy rains from last night have made the ground is soggy and the forest feels even more dense and wet than it felt yesterday. We hear monkeys, see elephant trails, smell the swines, and feel the snakes. A pity that all we see are birds and a squirrel.

 

Immersed in the peacefulness of nature, my mind wanders. Suddenly, the ranger jumps up and hits me on my arm. Before I can look at him and think “what the…?” he hits me on the arm again. “Ants!” he shouts “Run!!!” I look down and see ants, squirming, on my arms, on my legs, on my chest. Not the normal tiny soft ants, but big, firm, strong ants. The worst thing is that their bites are sharp and stingy. I find the panicky reaction of both the ranger and the guide rather alarming and so I quickly do what they say. I run and after 30 meters I stop and stamp on the floor. Brushing them off doesn’t work. I have to grab, squeeze and pull them off, one by one. Ruthless, nasty, devastating mini-beasts. Quantity beating quality. I’m picturing what it would be like to be covered by countless black swarming ants; death by a million tiny bites. Quite an unfortunate way to go…

Contemplating the realms of the relatively impossible

When most of the ants have been forcefully removed, we walk on. We chat about dangerous animals and ask the guide and ranger whether they have ever seen an elephant attacking someone. “No, elephants do not attack people” “But we’ve heard of instances during safaris where elephants have attacked people without any apparent reason…” “Not these elephants” “really…?” “Really. It’s relatively impossible.”

As we chat more with the guide and the ranger, we are surprised, impressed, and most of all entertained by the sheer number of things that appear “relatively impossible” in Nigeria’s rainforests.

Composition 436

Around 1030am, Delvin picks us up with his motor bike. As we get ready, the students run up to us with their cameras and ask us if they can take some pictures. We take pictures with each of the students separately, with all of them together, with some of them together, with some others of them together, and then of us separately with each of those same groups all over again. Somehow we manage to wrap up the photo shoots before sunset, and Delvin takes us back to the National Park’s Headquarters. Bassey, the girl that helped us with the registering yesterday, has arranged for her friend to bring us to Calabar airport.

The four of us eat some Nigerian fast food along the way. I ask why Calabar is so safe while the whole south east region of Nigeria is famous for its kidnappings. Bassey’s friend responds that it has to do with the nature and culture of the tribe. Some tribes, he says, are not decent and just want quick money. His tribe, the tribe that originally comes from the Calabar region, is “peace-loving and wants to work in order to make money.”

We arrive two-three hours early at the airport. Dom does some work while I get ridiculously frustrated with the airport officials. I had already checked in online, and now they tell me I need to pay extra for not having printed out our boarding passes. As there is no printer at the airport, I have no choice but to pay the fine. However, no official seems to know how to receive and process the fine. Efficiency or knowledgeable staff in Nigeria? Another one of those relatively impossible things…

When we arrive back in Lagos, we meet up with travel agent Stanley. Now that we have some more time to chat, we find out that he is actually a “Nollywood” script writer. It may be an explanation why he came across as a rather “slow” travel agent before. We are picked up by a guy named Joy, who is a friend of Shino’s and brings us back to the Lighthouse. Although we had planned to go out with Shino, we’re pretty tired and all stay in.

Wednesday 5 October, Calabar / Cross River National Park – Nigeria

We walk around for half an hour to find the bus to take us to Akamkpa, which is an hour drive from Calabar and is located at the entrance to the Cross River National Park. As we can’t find the bus stop and keep getting conflicting directions from people on the road, we end up taking a taxi to the National Park. We arrive at the Park’s headquarters, negotiate (“no, we really really are students, we just didn’t bring our student IDs…”), and make arrangements for a one-night stay plus a guide for the Park.

A guy called Delvin takes the two of us on his motorbike and drops us inside the park, where we will be staying. Sitting on half a bum at the very back with the big rucksack, being yo-yoed around for an hour on the bumpy roads is not the most comfortable I’ve ever been.

When we reach the National Park at 3-4pm, there is a group of 10-13 forestry and wildlife students, who will be staying in the Park for a month to do research. Due to a lack of communication with Headquarters, the Park’s staff has already put some students in the room that we were supposed to get. Consequently, we sleep in the staff room / office.

Like all other places I’ve been in Nigeria, there’s no mosquito net. I don’t understand why all other West African countries are filled with mosquitoes and mosquito nets, while Nigeria seems to have neither. Both Lagos and Calabar are near big waters and it is the rainy season, so there should be plenty of mosquitoes around. Would love to hear about Nigeria’s secret recipe to repel mosquitoes; maybe it can be implemented all across the world.

After we put our bags in the room, we go for a two hour walk in the rain forest, with two girl students, a ranger with a gun that is mostly to scare of poachers and hunters, and a guide who just arrived from another national park. The forest is dense, wet, and humid. Partly because the vegetation is too dense, partly because we’re not sufficiently deep inside the forest, and partly because there just not that many there, we don’t see any animals, except for some birds and a millipede. It’s fun hearing the students and the guide talk about the trees and trying to call out all the official Latin names. Also, we learn which leaves to eat when you’re bitten by a supremely venomous black mamba or king cobra (both of which are here in the forest!) or when you don’t want to get pregnant. Yes, there are leaves or seeds from certain plants that need to be boiled and consumed, and function as a contraceptive.

We return to the base and as it gets dark, we sit on the steps of the guest house and enjoy being in nature, far away from noisy and polluted Lagos. One of the students (referred to as “mama”) cooks the food we bought at the market for us. The food tastes really good, much better than any restaurant we’ve been. After dinner, I play scrabble again for the first time in decades.

Tuesday 4 October, Calabar – Nigeria

In the afternoon, we change money at one of the many black market exchange shops owned by a Hausa, the largely muslim tribe that originates from Nigeria’s north.

 

We walk around Calabar and the Watt market, with its dark and mysterious feel. As so many times before, the hundreds of brilliant photo opportunities remain unrealized as people do not like being photographed. Or better: people do not like to be photographed without receiving money. After the market we visit the Museum of Calabar, which is in the old colonial Governor House on the top of a hill with a beautiful view of the river. It is a great historical museum with elaborate and solid explanations about slave trade, colonial and post-colonial history of Calabar and Nigeria.

 

Smoked fish

After the museum, we want to walk along the riverside but it’s already getting dark. We take taxi to Calabar’s older quarters but there isn’t much to see. We have some dinner at a fast food chain that serves the famous traditional Calabar soups and return to the hotel.