Whisky and Washing Powder in West Africa

This is a Tale of Adventure in African Jungles Concrete and Real, told by a very tall and talented fellah, whom the Dr has known since they were young and stupid. If you know this guy, you'll appreciate how out-of-character this story is, as he is not generally considered to be one to stray far from the comfort of his sheepskin slippers, the sports section of the newspaper, the TV remote and a large glass of iced white wine.

Nor have I ever seen his voluntarily eat something that was in any way odd-looking, or possibly containing any spices other than salt, pepper and maybe some mixed herbs. David eat Plantain??? It is this information which impresses me more than almost any other thing that happened to him and Darrel, except being arrested five nights running.

David works for the CIA, the Consumer Insight Agency (of course, is there another?) and what the CIA do (basically) is Market Research for companies, using video interviews with ordinary consumers in ordinary contexts to get feedback for the companies in what makes their products sell (or not). There's more to it, but that's the Nut, I think.

Anyway, Dave and Darrel were sent to some of the most war-ravaged and generally poverty-strikken parts of Africa to collect data for whoever it is who make Omo and Johnny Walker Whisky (probably the same company... it really wouldn't surprise me).

Here is David Dunton's entertaining, insightful and thoroughly brilliant account of the events that unfolded as he and Darrel (not his brother) went to unlock the secrets of Whisky and Washing Powder in West Africa:

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You know you’re in a foreign country when the programmes on TV are subtitled and you don’t understand either of the languages.

I am in Cameroon. Land of… I don’t know what really. Okay, I suppose you could say ‘land of reggae-kitted soccer dudes; and, and, and its in West Africa (I think)’. And little though I may have learnt in my 8 hours here, it already feels like heaven. Everything is relative you see: I’ve been in Lagos, Nigeria, for the last week.

Before my colleague Darrel, and I, left on our African odyssey of washing powder & booze research, S’efricans back home would listen to our travel plans with a mixture of disbelief and envy. And then, almost to help themselves rein in the latter, would say, “Cool! But hey, you better be careful of those Nigerians.” Well, in your eye you clueless afro-pessimist ponces! Their brothers in the diaspora may have got a lot of bad press of late, but your everyday Lagushian (‘citizen of Lagos’, you cucumber-sandwich-eating twit) is actually a very genuine, decent person. And this is all the more remarkable, because the city they live is just plain nasty.

Lagos is the Amazon of concrete jungles. Buildings in various states of disrepair stretch out as far as the eye can see in all directions, and then disappear into the smog horizon. Forests of billboards line the roads. Even the traffic is organic, flowing like a river: no lines or staccato stops, just a steady stream drifting slowly along. Cars travelling impossibly close together, eddying around craters in the road. And the suffocating sky holds all this captive in its muggy embrace. Almost daily the heavens open, but instead of relieving and refreshing the city, the deluge only tightens the noose - bringing street-life (where most life happens) to a sudden halt, and taking drivers captive in their cars. Because instead of merely resembling a river, the road actually becomes a river, deeper than car-door level in places. Problem is, no one can be sure exactly where those places are. Unless of course some other poor unfortunate person kindly pinpoints the exact spot to avoid by ‘sumping’ their car in the lurking, invisible Grand Canyons. Inadvertently altruistic though these canaries of the concrete jungle may seem, they do of course block a lane. So the vehicular river flows ever slower, until it would be more accurate to describe it as a long thin dam. A local lad (Antoine) we hooked up with told us his all-time record was taking over 7 hours to what should’ve been a ½ hour trip. I believe him.

Not that I was entirely convinced by all the stories he told us. Like the one advising us against using a 4x4 because the local Russian mafia had put out a contract for 500 of the vehicles. Or the one about the daily power-cuts being due not to faulty equipment, but to the generator manufacturers bribing the electrical company to flick the ‘off’ switch. Although… who knows, maybe. The power-cuts are so regularly irregular there’s no way most businesses could operate without a generator. Hey, maybe the petrol companies dig big holes in the road late at night, and plug the road drainage gutters. No that can’t be true - there aren’t any road drainage gutters. But speaking of petrol companies I did hear from a reputable source that Shell personnel in Lagos had to stop driving company branded vehicles, and wearing Shell clothing because they kept getting taken hostage, and massive ransoms demanded.

But just when we were starting to take everything Antoine told us with a bucketful of salt, he took us somewhere that was so unbelievable it made the other stories seem tame. The Doubting Thomas within was suddenly doubting his doubts. This place made Quentin Tarantino’s darkest moment look like a nursery school nativity play.

The CIA (our company) brief to Antoine had been to take us to the top-selling spirit outlets in Lagos. And this he did. But this was no ordinary drinking hole. It was at the harbour, and before we went in he told us it was a ‘girl bar’. Mmm. We thought maybe this meant it was ladies night, or a strip joint or something. He also mentioned it was full of “mosquitoes” (using his fingers to make inverted commas). We had no idea what this meant.

At the door we met the first Tarantino-esque character - the shifty-eyed Lebanese establishment owner. He flashed a gold-toothed smile and gushingly ushered us into his lair. Inside we were set-upon like foxes who haven’t been given a head-start in the hunt. Only this time it was foxes who were doing the hunting - swarming masses of babe-ness came at us from all sides; pawing and caressing their dumbstruck prey. Our whimpering protestations that we were there to work fell on ears that wanted to be nibbled, not reasoned with. Incredibly beautiful and ego-exulting as these lovely ladies were, the penny of Antoine’s mosquito metaphor finally dropped - we swatted our way to the bar.

Much to our relief our legion of determined admirers all stopped their chase abruptly about 2 metres from the bar-counter. Another penny dropped: at the feet of the swarming mosquitoes was a red line… patrolled by one serious bumble-bee of a bouncer. So there they patiently stood, waiting for the slightest inkling of an eye. Turning our backs and hoping it might all go away, we ordered a Johnny Black to settle the nerves. But our poor nerves only received a further jolt when a full bottle of the stuff was plonked in front of us. Seems they’d run outta tots - at this place you can only buy by the bottle. If you don’t finish it, they write your name on the bottle for next time. Next time??? Not.

After allowing a few medicinal tots to ease the oddness I braved a glance behind me. Hungry eyes bolted out of the darkness, followed by lips and tongues and bodies and breasts and… Riiiigghhht, stop that! I spun around in retreat. It was a very strange reality to find oneself in, especially on a working day. And once I mastered the art of looking beyond the searching eyes of the front line, I saw that it became stranger still. Across the room at dark, dingy tables sat ‘couples’ engaged in what I can only assume were protracted (and often rather interactive) negotiations. If the ladies of the night were a little frightening at times, their customers would’ve scared the afro off Samuel L Jackson. We’re talking mean muthafuckas - fresh off the ship, wired on a cocktail of testosterone, booze and anything else they could get their hands on. Quite where to look became a tricky business. The bottom of my whiskey glass must’ve been the safest bet, because I only vaguely remember stumbling the gauntlet outta there, and singing “One night in Lagos makes a…(assorted silly lyrics)” on the way home. You gotta love this job.

That said, I wasn’t loving my job too much at 6am the next day: hunched over a tin basin of foaming laundry, and doing my best to look riveted as to exactly why Mrs Funmi Adeneken chose Omo Multi-Action over Duck Detergent Soap. As the intense pounding of the hangover began lifting, so the sun started to beat down.
Slowly the neighbourhood stirred from its slumber and, for the first time ever, clothes washing became a hugely popular spectator sport. Crowds were captivated by Funmi’s shrewd use of the overnight soak method for her whites, and her driving scrub-action technique on dirty jeans. Nah, in truth I suspect they were just totally gobsmacked as to what the hell this crazy whitey with a camera was doing da washin’ with der sistah for.

People live pretty rough in these ’hoods, but once they’d sussed out that we were indeed just plain nuts, and therefore harmless, they were actually really cool, good people. Always keen for a chat, up for a laugh, welcoming and kind. By 8am its baking, and I was melting. The lady I was interviewing saw this and offered me a cold-drink. Then a hat. Then an umbrella. Then a cloth to wipe my face. That put the ‘Nigerians are nasty’ myth to bed. Sure, the dark side can come out when human beings are reduced to the survival instincts of hamsters in an overcrowded cage; but hard as life is, most of the people I met were just trying to get by and live a good life.

Lagushians may be a cool bunch, but I really didn’t like Lagos at all. In our job, we really like to interact with a place and get the feel/vibe of life there. You can’t do that in Lagos. The city is just so vast and the traffic congestion so bad, that actually going anywhere is really difficult. And because of the dodgy elements around (which we fortunately didn’t experience), you can’t just go wandering the streets as we usually do. So you often find yourself trapped at the hotel, or in the car. I think I prefer real jungles to concrete ones.

As so it was with much relief that I looked down as we started our descent to Douala (Cameroon) and saw the real lush, dense green stuff below. And suddenly Douala appeared in the middle of this. Although the residential areas do their fair share of sprawling, the place has more the feeling of a town than a city. Darrel & I wasted no time in casting off our shackles and walking the CBD end to end. The joie de vive was contagious. Unlike Lagos, we could feel the energy and gel with it.

Liberated though I felt, the language did present a new sort of barrier. In Nigeria and Ghana (both Anglophone) people tend to speak their indigenous language as a first language, and varying levels (sometimes none) of pigeon fana-ga-lo English. In Cameroon French is the lingua franca, and every one speaks it. Every one other than me, that is. Which made things a little tricky. Although I did quickly learn phrases essential for survival, like, “Vin blanc sec ne plus glason, si voux ples madam moiselle.” (“White wine with a lot of ice please, madam”)

It’s amazing how strong the French cultural influence is - breakfast was chocolate croissants & coffee at the patisserie. The sense of chic is not as brash and ostentatious as Nigeria, but stylish and vibrant. Even my wildest shirts would look bland in Cameroon. In Nigeria they drink beer and little else. Johnny Walker Black is prominently displayed in the lounge so your friends can see it, but it never actually gets drunk. Ghana is so conservatively Christian that communion wine is sinful. Johnny who? Cameroon is wild! The street cafes pump all night, every night. The energetic bottom-wiggling dancing is more than a little suggestive. They drink so much whisky that they use the empty bottles to sell peanuts in. If you’re gonna walk somewhere instead of drive, you say you’re “Le Johnny” (from the ‘Keep on walking’ ad). It’s part of life.

Another part of life that was somewhat less enjoyable was the corrupt police force. Darrel & I were arrested no less than 5 times between us in a week. On our very first night out we were hauled off to the police station and charged with spying - our video cameras being clear evidence that this was what we were up to. Each arrest followed the same pattern. First you get stopped for some ridiculous crime like spying, failing to carry your passport or going through a red light (in a country where traffic lights perform a purely decorative function). Then the policeman would scream blue-murder at you (in French). Although I had no idea what they were on about, the tone and intensity of their admonishments left one in no doubt that the heinous crime you had committed was punishable by death. The moment he realises you are not particularly impressed (or scared) by his performance, it becomes clear that your death sentence is open to negotiation (as are most things in West Africa). Usually the going would start somewhere in the region of US$100, and slowly work its way down. This is a situation that truly rewards patience and non-violence. After 2 hours or more of ridiculous negotiation, the cop plays his final card - the good cop routine. He’ll confidentially ask for your assessment of the local female talent, followed by one very last, final, small request to “Just buy me some beers.” Yeah right!

I may be wrong, but I think Africa has changed. I reckon 10 years ago our stubborn hanging tough may have got us a machine-gun to the head and a night in the cell with a man called Big Bubba. But now, there’s almost an underlying acceptance that the game is up, and the cops know that you know that they know that they’re just trying their luck.

On the Sunday we decided it was time for some real ‘field work’, so we took a 3 hour drive up the coast. I was really impressed by the good roads, and very healthy looking jungle. Beaut drive, although at one stage it suddenly dawned on me that I had been driving on the wrong side of the road for a good few kilometres. Fortunately it wasn’t a large truck that reminded me.

We saw some fish being sold at the side of the road, so we stopped to have a look. Amongst their fine catch was the empty, bloodied shell of a big turtle. Next to it in a plastic bowl was the chopped up body. In the middle of all the gore I saw a movement - it was the heart still faithfully pounding away. We must’ve just missed the slaughter. Weird, you’d be locked up before you could say “wasn’t me” in South Africa, but here these guys were casually plying their trade without a care in the world. I saw turtle soup on the menu a few times, but somehow it just didn’t appeal.

We arrived at Kribi in time for lunch and tucked into a delicious meal of sole, crevettes (prawns), plantain (supa-tasty, savoury, big bananas), pepper sauce & other scrumdidlious thingies with funny names. Followed by a wallow in the waves. I noticed the water tasted almost completely fresh which seemed a little odd - it being the sea and all. The mystery was revealed when we went on a dhow ride up the nearby lagoon. Well actually, I don’t know if you could strictly call it a lagoon. Because about a kilometre upriver we came to an awe-inspiring, mighty waterfall. Not hugely high, but wide and immensely powerful. I had a David Livingstone moment. It looked as if a water-main had just burst somewhere deep in the jungle, and this was the only place the torrent could find to escape the clingy forest. Big trees stood their ground mid-rapid, and the bushy banks pulled back at the water; but like any good prop forward, the water “ken net een pad doellyn toe.” So there was no salt water coming up that river. And doesn’t a lagoon by definition involve a bit of give-’n-take between ocean and river? Some frisbee on the beach completed a perfect day (well not for the turtle I suppose).

On our last night in Douala we again had that feeling of being in a very strange movie (although not quite as strange as the Lagushian mosquito bar). We were at a charming little restaurant, once again supping on the most delectable local fish & plantain meal, when suddenly the lights dimmed and the music blared. And out into the middle of restaurant sauntered a microphone-wielding, bizarrely dressed character who proceeded to lip sync (not very well) her way through a Tracy Chapman song. She was followed by her colleagues (solos & duets) who continued through one of the most eclectic song line-ups I’ve ever heard - Bob Marley to Britney to Baba Mal. The performance also involved some pretty impressive dancing; the most entertaining being a local dance known as ‘the bendy skin’. This basically involves sticking your butt out and wiggling like you never wiggled before. Easier said than done, as Darrel found out when he was invited to join in. But our fellow diners were generous in their praise for his valiant efforts. Good form!

At the time in the evening when your waiter normally says, “Did you enjoy your meal?” or offers you dessert, our good man came over to our table and politely enquired, “You want pussy?” (in heavy French accent). Hardly the stuff of refined dining, but an apt end to another of those situations that had just got a little weird on us. After reining in our guffaws of disbelief we replied, “Just the bill thanks.”

Then it was time to head off to Ghana. The travelling routine was starting to take its toll. It’s draining to spend a week in a place, make good friends and master your environment, only to leave and start all over again somewhere else. And our path wasn’t eased by our arrival in Accra either. Although it was a giant leap for airport staff PRO in these parts when an official explained why we were about to be delayed at Immigration, the ensuing wait was more than a tad frustrating. You see, Ghana airways had just installed a new passenger monitoring system (ie computers), and we were told that the immigration officials were still adapting to the new process. Bollocks! They were learning how to type. When my turn finally came I felt like vaulting over the glass into the cubicle and typing in my own details.

After escaping the cloying inefficiency of the airport terminal, Darrel and I enacted our now familiar “Where the fuck is our Avis car?” cursing routine on the baking pavement outside. Of the seven airports we landed at, this pathetic excuse for a car-hire company managed to actually have our pre-booked, pre-paid car waiting for us a grand total of… once. Breathtaking. And only one of the airports actually had an Avis office on the premises, so invariably our stay in each country began with a blood-spitting search for the telephone number of the scum responsible. But that was precisely the problem: no one was responsible. Because when we did finally track down the local cretin in charge, he would exhibit a complete lack of culpability, and not even attempt to apologise for our often considerable inconvenience & expense. There was just nobody to direct your bristling anger at, which leaves one wanting to do a ‘John Cleese head-banging-against-the-wall’ impression. Aaaaaaahhhhh!!! The only thing Avis ‘try harder’ at in West Africa is trying your patience.
Avis blunderings aside, it was good to be back in Accra (I visited last year). After the previous two weeks of constant novelty, the familiarity of the funny old Hotel Shangri-La was reassuring to the soul. I even recognised the waiters and felt like giving them a hug. Their ‘yes sir, no sir’ subservience to the point of obsequiousness, gave the place a sort of ‘colonialism for beginners’ feel about it. These poor guys are living clichés, but if you watch long enough you can see the humanity peep out every now and again. I tried to picture them out of their silly uniforms at home with their families, and it made me feel a little more comfortable with the whole scene. Comfortable enough to order a good number of G&T’s anyway.

After the Soddom & Gomorrah decadence of Cameroon, the Ghanain’s straight-jacket, Christian morality was all the more stark. God rules!!! He’s everywhere: bumper-stickers, business names, on TV and most importantly, running people’s lives. On the positive side this makes Ghanains very warm, gentle, generous, friendly, sincere, calm and ordered people. Not only do they have working traffic lights, but motorists even obey them. On the negative side, they’re not the most exciting bunch and open-mindedness doesn’t come easy to them. The fact that Darrel and I don’t go to church was shock enough. But for us to suggest that we did not believe God was a an amiable, elderly Caucasian gentleman who swanned about from one cloud Lazy-boy Chair to the next, but rather that he/she/it was some intangible life-force that took up residence in silly things like trees, chickens, and indeed our good selves, was just plain unfathomable. It didn’t take our good friends long to realise we were beyond saving, but not for a moment does the landscape let you forget what a lost soul you are. Almost every business’ name includes a biblical reference: ‘God Is In You Hair Salon’, ‘Jesus Is The Bread Of Life Fast Foods’ etc. The clear winner however was, ‘Anointed Fingers Circumcision Centre’.

Another one of Ghana’s big pluses is that, Darrel & I found (after extensive research under rigorous scientific conditions) this fair land to be the purveyor of the finest plantain in West Africa. God it’s good! Excuse the blasphemy, but it is warranted. We’re not talking the stodgey lumps of Nigeria, or the petite oily titbits of our Francophone friends here, no. In Accra the plantain is sliced at exactly the angle plantain should be sliced, and then fast-fried til it is crisp, but never crunchy. Lord Jesus Hallelujah, I miss those golden brown, sweet succulent wedges! As with all things in life though, where there’s a Yin there’s usually a Yang; and if this noble large banana is the exquisite jing then the vile ocru is its considerably less good other half. The taste’s not actually all that bad, but it’s the slimy texture that brings on the barf-bag. Occru is basically spinach-ey stuff swimming in a saliva-like, glutonous goo. So gooey in fact, one can’t help but ponder how, if you were to (theoretically) take one mouthful, the rest of the bowl’s contents might follow uninvited. Once I’d managed to put a restraining order on such thoughts, I was able to discover other, often unexpected, pleasures of local cuisine. Goat for example. I never thought such an unglamourous, devil-eyed, plastic-bag-eating creature would taste so good. Succulent and seriously tasty! Embracing this new-found spirit of culinary adventure we supped on a wee-beastie known as grasscutter. It’s classified as bushmeat, but before you screaming-heart bunny-huggers go lynching me, grasscutter is not some endangered species of forest-canopy ape, with pretty markings and sweet cutesy sparkling eyes. Exactly what it is however, is a little sketchy, and could’ve been lost in translation. I gather it’s a large rat-like creature, common almost to the point of pestilence. I think. It wasn’t bad I suppose, but I don’t think I’ll be presenting any further threat to the grasscutter population.

The spirits project work in Accra wasn’t too challenging because they don’t drink much of the wickedly evil stuff. Laundry research gave us a nice ‘cleanliness next to Godliness’ story. What we always find with our work is that (although it seems that way at the beginning of a project) it’s never about a product. So even watching a person going through the mundanity of their laundry routine becomes interesting (at times) because its not the Omo you’re interested in, but rather how and why it fits into the jigsaw puzzle of their life. Best I stop before I get too carried away here and make my job sound like a rose-tinted, National Geographic honeymoon. Because it’s not. Some days your mojo is just not there so you don’t connect with people. It can be stressful being a confident, curious, charming, chatty, clever, intuitive, insightful, empathising, patient, nice guy all day.

After a week of relative normalness (for West Africa), it was time to leave the cosy congregation in Ghana, and head off on a bizarre mission I suspect very few sane people would undertake: conduct video research on people’s laundry habits while their country is in a state of civil war. The dread had been mounting all trip. And now the moment had come. Cote d’Ivoire, we’re coming in!

Upon arrival in Abidjan, the remarkable consistency of Avis’ non-appearance was all the more tricky to deal with, because you have to say ‘Aveese’ to make yourself understood. Having been to France a few times, Darrel had a few words to put on either side of ‘Aveese’, which helped. But no car today monsieur, so we danced our now well-rehearsed ‘keep-an-eye-on-the-baggage jig’ through the waiting throng of over-eager, wannabe porters and scrambled into a cab.

It’s quite hard to know what to expect from a country at war with itself, but I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised by the numerous roadblocks manned by soldiers with very large guns. Although initially intimidating, it soon became apparent that these guys were far more agreeable and honest than their friends in the Cameroon police force. They were genuinely checking whether we were aiding the rebels and transporting heavy artillery in our boot.

Aside from the military presence, Abidjan is actually a surprisingly big, prosperous, happening city. Real skyscrapers poke up into the skyline, and apparently it’s the biggest port in Africa. As we neared our hotel the road was lined by open-air plant nurseries. The owners leave these beautiful plants there unattended all night. This place was way different to SA, and not just in the nasty ways I had imagined.

But any fledgling romantic notions I had of Abidjan being a misunderstood paradise were instantly quashed when we arrived at the hotel. Even if a hotel is 5-star (as ours was), it does rather put a dampener on things when the place is crawling with stern-faced UN soldiers carrying automatic weapons. Trying to lighten the mood while we were checking in, I joked with Darrel that at least they weren’t rebel soldiers. Ha-bloody-ha! We subsequently found out that the soldiers were guarding the rebel leadership staying in the hotel. These top bananas (so to speak) were in Abidjan for peace talks with the government. And they were being protected by UN soldiers because government soldiers would shoot the rebel leaders on sight. Nice. Apparently there was an attempted assassination during our stay, but we were out at the time, thankfully.

The rumour doing the rounds on the streets was that the rebel forces were backed by France. You see, even after Cote d’Ivoire became independent, France still had first dibs on any big business / public service contracts in the country. Until the new government came to power that is. Because the new government’s policy is to award contracts to the company (French or not) who can do the best job at the best price. The Frenchies didn’t like this too much, and all of sudden… surprise, surprise… a stooge army general is armed to the teeth with weapons he couldn’t possibly afford. Mmm, I smell le rat.

Military presence and army tents in the gardens aside, it was a fairly pleasant hotel I suppose. A palm-tree lined beach on a lagoon was Darrel & my daily sundown retreat for a game of frisbee. Actually some of the more ideal frisbee conditions I’ve had the pleasure of playing in: a gentle, balmy onshore breeze, soft sand, and just the right amount of tall palm trees so that it’s fun to curve throws around them, but not so many that they get in the way. I suppose there was a clear and present danger of having our frisbee shot down by the unit stationed in a nearby gazebo, but this really just served to complement the utter bizarre-ness of the situation we found ourselves in. There is a certain illicit thrill one feels as a spectator in a world that is taking itself terribly seriously but is really just a circus without the clowns. A void we seemed to often find ourselves filling.

Cote d’Ivoire has got the same joie de vivre we felt in Cameroon. It’s just had its wings clipped a little by things like mortar bombs and curfews. Towards the end of our week there we were starting to feel comfortable with the weirdness, and ventured out for a night on the town. We started the evening off with dinner at the restaurant of a Lebanese fellow who had befriended us. Gorge is one of those special characters that can’t help prodding life in the ribs and sharing the giggle. He also knows how to serve a mean Lebanese meal. So yummy in fact that we were stuffed before we’d even finished the starters. Once the meal was over, Gorge’s seemingly classy restaurant was transformed into a shrine to his real life’s passion: karaoke. Full of surprises this Abidjan place. Although there was only an audience of four or five, I had little choice but to break a vow I made to myself many years ago, and sing in public. I woomba-whe’d my way through a not so stirring rendition of ‘The Lion Sleeps Tonight’, and although I admit it was almost fun, I think it best I re-new my vow. Gorge was more than happy to croon the night away. As he poured his soul into the mic, it struck me how this man had created his own little island of ‘my favourite things’. Glowing with pride he confidentially showed me “the biggest collection of karaoke songs (on DVD) in Abidjan.” Five wall-mounted tv’s enabled guests to read the song words from any seat in the house, and two cordless microphones completed the dream. The establishment was called ‘Gorge’s Place’, and it was, completely.

After Gorge had passionately exorcised every last ballad that had been haunting his heart, we stumbled off to an ex-pat / off-duty soldier pool bar. There was a dance-floor of hungry-eyed hookers who, judging by the decorum levels of our pool adversaries, were in for a busy night. It all felt a little grubby, and we left in search of a place where ‘real’ local people go. And boy did we hit the jackpot!

We found ourselves in a thronging little dance-club with a bubbling vibe and cool crowd. It was what ‘The Curve’ (in Cape Town) would dream of becoming when it grows up and discovers its soul. Conversations went from 0 to 100 in an instant as we talked about meaningful stuff with strangers, danced like the Africans we feel ourselves to be, and just got high on the energy of the place. They also only sold whiskey by the bottle, which helped.

The DJ had people in the palm of his hand, building the evening up with his songs. It’s such a crazy, wonderful feeling to get pulled along by an intangible force. Almost like water-skiing without the boat. Not that I can actually ski… or dance very well for that matter. But dang it feels good. Deep into the dark recesses of the wild night, as people were ‘breaking on through to the other side’ all around, the DJ put on ‘the sex song’. Although on one hand I’m sorry I was sipping on my whizzos at the time and missed out, on the other I’m quite relieved as I don’t know where I would’ve put myself. It was also great to sit back and watch.

A cheer went up as the first few chords grinded out. Then everyone on the dance-floor quickly got in an orderly tight circle, one behind the other. Then, they started to kinda wiggle suggestively. And then, and then… when the singer commanded it, (in French unfortunately) all hell/heaven broke loose. This was Sodom & Gomorrah ala Abidjan, as men and women (fully-clothed of course) thrusted and gyrated wildly together without even the slightest hint of embarrassment. Couples, threesomes and multi-somes vied for the unofficial ‘position of the evening’ title. There was just no fear of censure as even guys ‘rode’ their buddy like a rodeo champ. It was all just good, dirty fun. But not really. It may be hard to believe, but it wasn’t actually grubby at all. The spirit in which it was done was all about outrageous exhilaration and having a damn good laugh; nothing heavy, and nothing even vaguely nasty. As soon as the song finished, the ‘dance’ was over and the evening rollicked on.

Even with soaring spirits, the late-night drive home was a little scary. Not because we feared a breathalyser test, but because we’d heard that the soldiers manning the roadblocks took speed and other concoctions to keep themselves awake in the wee hours, and were prone to a little unpredictability. But luckily the good man who stopped us seemed on a rather even keel. So even in fact I think he was on the verge of running aground, and only just summonsed the energy to inspect the contents of our boot.

I left Abidjan with mixed feelings. Massive relief at having made it through was the overwhelming one, but this was tinged with a regret at not having been able to fully and freely explore all the place had to offer. I would like to go back there one day in happier times and experience the joie de vivre in full flight.

One final hurdle awaited us before returning home to ‘Mom and Royco Soup’. We were going back to the land of Tarantino reality: Lagos 2, The Return. Unlike most sequels, it didn’t disappoint. There was a fuel-strike on, and Lagos had become an eerie ghost town. Our trusty airport Avis man was however true to form, and disappoint he did… at 10pm… during the aforementioned fuel-strike (no taxis). We had however (we thought), been extremely cunning before leaving Lagos the last time and got his cell number. The conversation went something like this:
Darrel: Hello Charles. Darrel and Dave here. You are meant to be picking us up from the airport.
Charles: Yoooooh. Yes… I am not dere.
Darrel: Yes, we know you are not here. Do you think could come and pick us up as arranged?
Charles: No. Ees not possible.
Darrel: (stunned silence) But, but, but you work for Avis. We pay them money so that you will pick us up. Why can’t you pick us up?
Charles: Da fuel-strike. Sorry, ees not possible. Bye

Just when you thought a company’s service couldn’t get any worse, they go and exceed your worst expectations. Much as we cursed Charles, and all his close relatives, family pets etc., we subsequently came to realise the poor fellow had little choice in the matter. Sure, his PR skills and phone manner could do with a little brushing up, but he would’ve been putting his life in danger if he’d driven on the roads. You see the government had put the price of petrol up by 43% and the labour unions didn’t like this very much. So they went on strike, and no one was allowed to work, buy petrol, or drive. And if you did, well, some union members would stop you and persuade you to see their side of the story (a few assaults, cars trashed etc.). So people weren’t getting out much in Lagos.

Rapidly grasping the growing gravity of our situation and energised by the prospect of spending the night at Lagos airport, I left Darrel with the bags and legged it down to the parking lot. Strange. None of the usual hustle-bustle, and most of the cars were unattended; no doubt going to stay put until the strike was over. Only a few brave/ stupid, mercenary taxi-drivers milled around, touting ludicrous prices. And then, round the corner came a mini-bus that had a sort of hotel-ly/corporate look about it. Without giving it a second thought I ran out into the road and waved it down. It is moments like these that make a good case for the existence of angels. It was the MTN staff bus taking employees to their hotels. The S’efrican guys inside heard my accent, and invited me aboard to tell my story. Before I’d even had an opportunity to vent about how pathetic Avis was, they offered us a ride. And to put the cherry on the top, we were escorted by two heavily armed police vehicles (one in front, one behind) to our hotel front door. Now that’s what I call service!

We checked in for the final 2 days of our African oddyssey. And checked in we stayed for those 2 days because there was no chance we were going anywhere. Even the hotel staff were too scared to leave the premises and instead stayed in the rooms. Trapped as we were, Darrel and I considered the wisest course of action to sit by the pool and drink beer; interspersed with reading books and surfing satellite stations. It was eerie to look out over the Lagos sprawl from my tenth story window and just see calm: no stagnating rivers of traffic, no haggling street traders, no hooting, nothing.

Having a travelling partner had made our often off-the-wall or hectic experiences, easier to deal with. A soothing bottle of wine over dinner became our ritual to cleanse the day away. As we’d sprout forth our cunning theories on the universe, so life felt more meaningful and grounded. It was during one particular sprouting session at the poolside bar that a rather attractive young lady brazenly interrupted us, introduced herself as Portia, and sat down at our table. Fine catches as we may be, Darrel & I realised instantly that it wasn’t just our dashing good looks and magnetic charm that had lured our visitor. So instead of beating around the bush (so to speak) Darrel, with his tongue firmly in his cheek, announced, “Portia, you have the legs of a gazelle, the body of Venus and the cheekbones of Aphrodite… but we don’t pay for sex.” Holding her poise, without batting an eyelid she replied, “That’s a bit forward of you.” We were floored! Finished. Turns out Portia had also been stranded at the hotel for a few days. I guess she could almost qualify as staff, though not officially (someone working there was no doubt taking a cut of whatever she made). She was having a slow night so she sat with us for a while. And we had a really cool honest chat about the in and outs of her job. She worked at the hotel three nights a week and business was usually very good. Her clients were generally pretty decent, and paid up. Just another person trying to get by.

We managed to get a brave hotel-driver to take us to the airport. Amazing as the trip had been, it was a great feeling to finally get onto the plane - we’d been on the road for a month, and adventure can be a tiring business. Our flight left at 10pm so we flew home through the night. I felt a bit like Captain Kirk about to beamed up to another world. To ease my path and increase my chances of enjoying some rare ‘air sleep’, I sipped rather heavily on my wine (with ice) over dinner. Just to be on the safe side I also had a Jack Daniels and a Dormicum sleeping tablet. This combination proved most effective, although I remember little of its effects. Darrel reliably informs me that mid-conversation I rather rudely closed my eyes and flopped back into my seat. He kindly relieved me of the whisky glass I was still clutching as I headed off on ‘The Space-ship Anaesthetise’.

I got a good three or four hours sleep in, before being woken up to fill-in the last of those pesky arrivals forms. Not that it was needed. Because when we landed in Jo’burg at 5am the customs officials were nowhere to be seen, and everyone strolled straight through unhindered. Incredible. An SAA from Lagos (of all places) and not a single bag searched.

We sleep-walked over to the domestic terminal and jumped on the next plane. The two hour flight home to Cape Town felt way longer than the six hours from Lagos. I felt even further removed than usual from the stuffy businessmen riding their blinkered treadmill excuse for a life. The wonders of West Africa felt like a juicy secret bottled up inside of me, but these grey men would never understand.

I arrived home with whirring feelings of euphoria, dislocation and deep fatigue. I had been to the warm heart of the great beyond; and Cape Town was cold and wet. Nothing much seemed to have changed: cats crapping in the garden, politicians up to no good, dinner at Don Pedros, rugby. Nothing was new - quite a mind-shift when you’ve just been in an environment where everything is. Trying to ride two horses at the same time can be tricky, especially when they’re going in different directions.

That horrible limbo-land feeling always reminds me of one of my favourite stories: many moons ago in colonial Africa, these slaves were out on safari portering baggage for their masters. All of sudden, they stopped, downed their heavy loads and refused to go any further. Their masters demanded an explanation for this insolence. The slaves’ reply was difficult to argue with, “We are waiting for our souls to catch up with us.” That is exactly how I felt for the first few weeks back.

But slowly the dust and brain-cells start to settle and things begin to make sense again. Mosquitoes are mosquitoes, and grasscutters are lawnmowers. The soul feels sure-footed once more, and in the still moments, it wanders dreamily back to those distant though close places, and I can almost taste the plantain.

October 12, 2003 in Adventures , Blog

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