Still

Despite this, Nigeria are still useless.

As only Africans could

"Shut up there, what do you know about football? All you people know, is to fight." The little corner of the canteen at work erupts in to fits of chuckles. The Ghanaian cleaner is putting his Somali colleague in his place. He was basically saying that when it comes to football, or anything for that matter, Somalis should keep schtum.

One doesn't get this level of frankness anywhere else (apart from anything involving Hugo Chavez). In relations between African countries, people say what they feel. No restrictions brought on by political correctness, or worse still, politeness. The joy though, I hope, is that these sorts of statements pass by without rancour. The Somalian takes it on the chin, and grins. Ghanaians aren't perfect either, and his turn to swing for the Ghanaian's jaw will come, as surely as night follows day.

The incident reminded me of school, and the aura of devilish mischief I must have exuded. We teased each other mercilessly, and I think sometimes I may have been slightly more merciless than others. The most popular joke in school had to do with Somalia. Our good friend, G, had been caught up in the civil war which started in the late 80s. If I remember his story correctly, he'd trekked with family from Mogadishu to Ethiopia. He'd learned to sleep with a Kalashnikov under his bed, in case he had to protect his family in the lawlaess badlands Somalia had become.

And were we sympathetic to G's plight? Were we heck. The fact that he'd been involved in such drama gave us more ammunition with which to fayah him (to use a Nigerian colloquialism). There'd been pictures of Somali suffering on the news, so we had an idea of what was going on. The joke? What is the fastest animal in the world? A chicken running through Somalia.

For those wondering...

No, I'm not in Ghana. I should have gone with the Beeb, but as you all know, Auntie a broke-ass organisation. They decided to run a seriously pared down operation on BBC3 (seen it?), and not go the whole nine yards like they should have done. So, I'm being forced into mere mortality, and watching from the uneasy comfort of my living room.

And no, I'm not upset that Nigeria lost to Cote d'Ivoire. When you've supported the Super Eagles loyally for as long as I have, you get used to getting caned...

Au retour

It's 1927hrs in Doha, and I'm sitting in transit. My flight to Gatwick doesn't leave till 0210hrs, and right now that feels like the other side of the moon. Ordinarily, I'd have gone on a whistlestop tour of Doha (à la Istanbul), and come back for my flight - but I'm bushed. My body clock's been playing tricks on me for the past few nights, and running off into the desert sand won't help. Plus, my watchword while in Kathmandu was "chilling", and I know I did a heck of a lot of that. The end of the holiday isn't the time to break my mantra. I also feel that Doha is a place I'll be coming to again; I'll get another chance, I'm sure.

It's the 23rd/24th, so the airport is like a market place. Expats leaving to join their families in far flung corners of the globe, Arabs perhaps seeking cooler climes. I might amuse myself by buying some alcohol, not because I'm an alchy, but because of the free mini wheelie suitcase that comes with it. I've always wanted one of them, but since I'm generally averse to hand luggage, I never plan adequately for it. I also started reading Kiran Desai's Inheritance of Loss while in Kathmandu, so I'll continue it. The start of the book set in the Himalayas chimed perfectly with my stay in Nepal - neither Doha nor London quite cut it.

Soaps and toothpaste

Over time, I seem to have developed a system of comparing countries I visit to the countries I know best. If I visit a developing country (waiting for the right time to switch to calling them “neo-colonial states”), I inevitably compare it to Nigeria; and if I visit a country in the “West”, I compare it Britain. They’re both countries where I spent many of my formative years, and much of my adult life. So when I landed in Kathmandu, all the comparisons were with Nigeria. The airport runway was strewn with hulks of rusted airplanes, and for some reason I thought of the Biafran War of Independence (let’s debate names of conflicts another time). I thought of how grounded bombed out aircraft must have looked in the red sand of eastern Nigeria. The loose parallel is that Nepal has had its own civil war, and I say loose because those planes were obviously not there as a result of war, but neglect.

A bus picks you up from the foot of the aircraft and transports you a mere 50m to the terminal. Heaven forfend an Aussie tourist should graze their knee on the hazardous 50m trek to the terminal! The terminal is a room, with a few counters. I didn’t get my visa in London, because I discovered it’d be cheaper if I got at the airport. I walk to the booth to take passport pictures for the entry visa, which is about $20.

In my previous post, I mentioned that it suffered from a bit of developing worlditis. In the duty free alcohol shop, smaller than the size of your average London offie, I saw one the most equitable examples of division of labour. There was a man to carry the alcohol to the check-out after it had been bought. A man to make photocopies of the passport. A woman to take the cash from the customer. A man to take the cash from the woman and get change from the till. A man to hand the purchased alcohol to the customer. And I’m sure there was someone else doing something else I couldn’t quite figure out. Who says Bolshevism is dead? Or perhaps it’s as a result of the Maoist inspired unrest in the country.

The route to the house had all the hallmarks of Lagos, yet it was remarkably different. I do not recall one single pothole on the roads. Not one. Even my posh New Cross has potholes (big ones). Not very Lagos, I know. But the roads were congested, and you’d see the drivers plough at hair raising speeds against traffic to get past jams. Quite Lagos. But it was the smell of exhaust fumes, and the realisation that when I got home, I’d be smelling of eau de Toyota engines, circa 1982. Very Lagos. The motorbike is the saviour of the developing world’s transport system. Without them, life would be unbearable for commuters, and Kathmandu is no different. The streets buzz with sounds of motorcycle horns, plus the primary riders all have helmets. I even spotted a woman rider, and thoughts of women’s liberation began permeating my thoughts.

At the house, I was again reminded of the importance of consumerism in my westernised psyche. I buy, therefore I am. In New York a few weeks ago, I bought, and bought, and then I judged its habitableness by whether I could buy Ribena or Copella there. Whenever one travels, one compares what is available at the destination with what is available back at home. My thing for liveability is internet. But I spotted some other curious things: blue Dettol soap, yes, blue; Colgate toothpaste with “mint crystals”, which tasted just like Close-up. Those were available thanks to the manufacturing giants, China and India.

Showers are one of life’s glories. A good shower can awaken and soothe both at once. A shower that makes you think of the source of the hot water is even sexier. The water in the house is heated with solar power. It’s not complicated, it’s just some panels on the roof! Nigeria, are you listening? So I had a sexy shower, had lunch, slept, woke up, had dinner, slept, woke up, slept. Woke up, wrote this. Life is good. All the interspersed sleeping is as a result of jetlag. Kathmandu is 5hours, 45minutes ahead of GMT – making it 15minutes ahead of New Delhi. So I'm watching BBC, CNN, Al-Jazeera, and the headlines are at quarter to the hour. Weird, I know.

Foothill of the gods

Landed this morning in Kathmandu. The city is surrounded by mountains - the Himalayas. They look like gods looming over a pious population, gazing up adoringly. Kathmandu, which means the Wooden Temple, is at the foothill of the gods. As we approached the runway, I could imagine a James Bond stunt director plotting how to make the plane suddenly disappear amid all the nooks and crannies of the mountains. Then you'd hear a boom, some rising smoke and fire, culminating in a medium shot of Ernst Stavro Blofeld in his wheelchair, stroking an albino Mongolian tiger, or some other equally bizzare genetic anomaly. Mwahaha. But Bond always survives, like I did. I'm here now. Bond also always gets the girls - that, I'm still working on.

Doha International

As I type this, I'm sitting in one of the waiting areas at Doha International Airport, en route for Kathmandu, Nepal. The connection is dial-up slow, but there's just enough bandwidth to post this without biting my toenails in frustration. Plus it's free! None of that BT-wifi-Cloudzone payment in blood extortionism of Heathrow... The duty free (pictured) is quite the thing, not on the scale of Dubai, of which much is always said in praise. But I've just spotted my Christmas treat for myself - a Nokia phone I had my eye on is being sold for about $400 here, yet I was planning on forking out 300 of Her Majesty's finest gold coins (I know it's an alloy, but Her Majesty's finest copper, zinc, and nickel alloy coins isn't as romantic, does it?) Plus there are few other treats. Fiddy's first unreleased album was called, "Power of the dollar", it's time for a reissue, methinks.

At Heathrow, I felt a pang of anger towards Richard Reid, he of shoe bomber fame. Because of him we all have to strip in public, or at least take our shoes off, grrrr. And I wasn't wearing my finest "made in Israel" Marksy and Sparksy sock, but some ordinary, frayed pieces of cloth and elastic masquerading as socks. My foot fashion credibility has been pegged down a notch or two.

I should be landing in the Himalayan kingdom at about midday local time. For the first time in my travels, I'm do not know what to expect. I can only think Gurkhas, Sherpas, and Prachanda. But the world is immense, and if there's anything I know, it's that I know nothing. The plan is to know less of nothing. Go on, hound me for not making sense. If you dare.

Africa-EU love-in (or not)

Africa and the European Union finished their "parlay" (Nigerian hack mode...) on Sunday. The most dramatic event didn't even take place in Portugal, where they were meeting, but in London. John Sentamu diced his dog collar live on Andrew Marr's show, saying he wouldn't wear it again until Bob Mugabe relinquishes power in Zimbabwe. It was an incredibly symbolic gesture for the Anglican Union's number two to make, and so immensely media savvy. We live in a visual age - it was one of those jaw-dropping televisual moments.

On Friday, as the great and the good of Africa and Europe were gathering, the BBC World Service programme, The World Today brought together some Nigerians to tell the EU what they want from them, how they see the partnership panning out. Listen below:

Also, see the response of some of Africa's newspapers to the summit.

Hosea 4:6

Today's Observer has a harrowing piece on child witches in parts of Nigeria. The children are beaten and bound - treated like animals. It always infuriates me to read or hear about stuff like this. Not because it's about Africa, and it reflects badly on me (my ego isn't so easily bruised), but it taps into my righteous indignance as a human being. There are some things which should be seen as universally evil, about which there cannot be any debate, and this is one of them.

I see no religious or cultural justification for treating children - who cannot defend themselves - in such a manner. It displays some of the basest and most abhorrent (an overused word) behaviour of humankind.

Stories like this are reported often enough, taking place in Britain, and in Africa. But I know how easy it is to brush it aside as some kind of filicidal fringe. It isn't. I remember my days at a boarding school in Nigeria, one of the Federal Government Colleges. One of the boys in my dorm was cursed enough to be branded a witch, along with his siblings. Nobody would eat with him. If you've been to boarding school, you'll know how important sharing food is to the collective experience and the strong bonding that goes with it. For nobody to touch your food, is for you not to exist. Nobody would be seen hanging around him, or any of his family. The kid was probably only about 11 years-old, and he already knew what it meant to be ostracised. I've written about this before.

The Crucible by Arthur Miller is one of my favourite plays of all time. Like I've said before, when Arthur Miller wrote it, he used the Salem witch trials as an allegory for Senator Joseph McCarthy's hounding of suspected communists. He probably didn't write it with Nigerian snake oil salesmen and helpless African children in mind.

Hosea 4:6 says, "my people perish for lack of knowledge." Have I taken it out of context, and twisted it for the purposes of this post. Maybe. But people are perishing because of their ignorance, and I think it's apt to use a Bible passage to illustrate this point.

Watch the video. Read the piece. Get angry.

Something of the Fidel

I was in the US just last week, trying but failing to just chill out, and visiting la famiglia (both in crime and blood). It had been eight years since I went, but it was still easy as pie to slot in and feel at home. I also did the "Chinese bus" trip from New York to DC, which made me turgid with middle-class guilt about labour, unions, safety. All because I didn't pay top dollar on the Greyhound instead.

While visiting my uncle (real uncle, not "uncle" in the African sense) in Maryland, he asked about work, how I was doing, etc - as uncles are wont to do. "I love the BBC", he said. "But". But what, uncle? "But why do all the stories about Africa involve animals and doom and gloom?" This is a tough one to defend, especially because often I work on the Africa desk. Also because I don't like the Dark-Continent-as-one-huge-Safari pre-colonial view of the continent. Still, please don't send me any complaints about misspellings, pronunciations, or anything else to do with the BBC.

People want to hear good news about Africa when the truth is that good news isn't reported about anywhere else. The nature of news is such that it's about what's happening now. "Man scoops dog's poo from pavement" isn't as newsy as "man bites dog." For all the sins attributed to the BBC, it does do is fair share of "good news" stories. It's just that it does them in the context of current affair documentaries. I've just seen one on BBC World: Survivor's Guide - The Nurse Next Door. Set in northern Nigeria, it displays the kind of community healthcare needed to sustain and enhance the wellbeing of Africa. Rural areas are too often marginalised in planning in Africa, and the documentary shows there are solutions. There's something of the Cuban healthcare system about it, a touch of Fidel. Watch below (hopefully):

Johnny was a bad boy (like Don King)

I've been an absolutely naughty boy. The blog gods will not rest until I show penitence for the disdain with which I've treated the sacred act of blogging. Until I atone for my blog sins, I shall have to invent a shield to ward of the curse-filled bolts of lightning being fired in my direction. "I apologise, and I shall not do it again," he says with a droopy face cloaked in Catholic guilt.

African Shirts has returned to blogville. There should be some kind of oath of dedication to blogging, which all would-be bloggers would sign. The punishment for breaking the oath would be simple - a Yubitsume (pictured).

Since the last time I blogged regularly, life has been plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose. Work has been the same, but it's also changed. As most of you have no doubt heard, the BBC is facing some "restructuring". Will I lose my job? I doubt it. But I went to an event at Channel 4 around the time of the annoucements, and there was a feeling among people attending that Auntie's employees needed to suck it up. Leave the Beeb and look for work in the independent sector. Don't rely on traditional media for jobs. Digital cable and the internet have almost exponentially increased the avenues for people interested in media see, hear, speak, and read evil till the devil's dried out and emaciated.

As for my "personal life", whatever on this fine planet that means... Well. Let's just say, all is fair in love and war and sex. Or is it?

My last post before this was a threat to write about my trip to Jerusalem via Istanbul. the threat never quite materialised, snuffed out like a house spider under a feather duster. But spiders are like Heinz products, they come in 57 different varieties (or more), from the weak to the resilient. And this house spider refused to be snuffed out, and shall in due course, crawl out from under the feather duster, and scurry to freedom.

Back in blighty + pictures

I'm now back home in London, and still haven't posted anything about Jerusalem. My time there was packed with activity, and I'll recount all the details soon. In the meantime here are some pictures from my few hours in Istanbul:

The Shysters/Good Samaritans who made sure I saw Istanbul.

Sultan Ahmet Mosque at night.

Roast corn, with Sultan Ahmet in the background.

McDonald's. Front yard being cleaned, could be a Saturday night in any Western European city.



The almighty Starbucks.

Klodfarer Street, where I stayed. Marseille anyone?

Byzantium

Atatürk International Airport is clean, if not particularly inspiring. Airports always tread the line between being sanitised to prevent an MRSA outbreak among travellers on the one hand, and being cathedrals to consumerism on the other hand. If the watchmen had their way, airports would strictly be the former. The problem with airports is that people only pass through them, they're not like bus or train terminals, where people gather and meet. It might be they're that way by virtue of being out of town, or by convention.

My flight was due to leave at 7.50 in the morning, which left me with about 9hours to kill in Istanbul. 8hours is plenty of time. I've had "affairs" that lasted less than that. I had contemplated sleeping in the airport, waking, and leaving first thing in the morning. But my street cred would suffer badly. I'd never be able to really say that I'd been to Turkey, it'd just be a sly crossed fingers addition to my list of visited countries. Istanbul is famed for its East meets West culture, a city that straddles the border between Europe and Asia, a seamless bridge where here and there become one, become (t)here.

When one travels, one tends to meet three kinds of people: shysters, kind strangers, and a third kind of person, who is a combination of the two. People who sell tourism tend to be one part shyster, one part Good Samaritan. And I guess those are the people I encountered at the airport. They sold me a hotel for my few hours in the heart of Istanbul, and transport to and from the airport. It might be 1am, but I’ll walk around, take pictures, and go back to bed. Whistle-stop trip to Istanbul.

As the car races between Atatürk International Airport and Sultanahmet, one can only ask what objection Europe has to Turkey's prospective EU membership. In fact, the chief opponent of Turkey’s EU membership - fiercely secular France - probably has more in common with religiously secular Turkey, than it does with openly Catholic Poland.

The route is lined with trees, driving is slightly erratic, a cool breeze sweeps across the Bosporus, a wonderfully symbolic body of water. On the way back to the airport in the morning, the sea is dotted with anchored ships, their lights glistening in the distance. Sultan Ahmet Mosque, or the Blue Mosque as it’s popularly known in the West, almost hovers over Istanbul. It’s on a higher plane to most the city, and because of the trees around the city, you can only see its full glory up close. From a distance, all one can see is a giant hovering Islamic spaceship, waiting to abduct all comers and lift off into the foreign galaxies.

Hali Hotel is on Klodfarer street, a mere two minutes walk from the Blue Mosque. It’s 1am. I do what any battle hardened traveller would, I take stroll to the mosque, eyeing the McDonald’s “restaurant” on the right side of the road. On the opposite side is a Starbucks. Further down are tram stops. Mercedes E-class cars cruise by with musica Americana blaring through rolled down windows. I might as well be in Frankfurt, or Brussels.

Couples sit among many rows of benches under the gaze of the mosque, killing time. Some wear headscarves, some don’t. Some have wedding bands, some don’t. I try to imagine couples sitting by St Paul’s Cathedral in London. I can’t. In one corner is a vendor, selling roast corn. There’s always been a competition to find the European nationals most similar to Nigerians. Italians always make it because they gesticulate a lot. Greeks are always there or thereabouts. With roast corn on the side of the road, Turkey has got to be Nigeria. And with a corn cob in my mouth, I walked back to Hali Hotel, slept, and got ready for Jerusalem.

I'll put pictures up when I can.

Terminal 3

The flight is taking off at 1630hrs. I left New Cross Gate station at 1318hrs. I did what I always do, and left relatively late. My normal routine is to get to the airport just as checking in is coming to an end. That way I don't have to queue, and I don't have spend hours inanely walking through duty free shops, thinking, "bloody hell, if it costs this much tax free, imagine how it must cost in the real world." My routine almost means that there's a relatively straight path from my doorway to my seat on the plane.

But in these days of heightened security fears, one has to allow for time to sit down, take off one's footwear to allay the Man's fears that one isn't a shoe bomber. And when the Man asks why the Florida alligator skin shoes weigh so much, you can reply, "I'm Rick James, bitch!" At which point the Man will not be responsible for his actions. The Picadilly Line to Heathrow feels like the most generous tube line in the world. It stops everywhere, and picks up everyone. So, I opted for the Heathrow Express, that beloved bastion of executive cool. No cattle car for me, sir.

The train pulled in less than an hour after my departure from New Cross Gate. So I waltzes to the Turkish Airlines counter, give my spiel - I packed it myself, it didn't leave my sight, no the laptop hasn't got porn on it, but what's that to you, sir... I check in less than 5 minutes. The fastest ever check in time. I say to all Nigeria bound flights to put that up their pipes and smoke it. What look like early bird Nigerians are milling around the Virgin Atlantics desks, hoping not to be trampled by the horde who'll arrive this evening. So what do I do for two hours while I wait to get on the plane?

Ponti's cafe. I believe they have quite a few of them around London. This is no time for exotic food, so I plump for an all-day breakfast. You can't go wrong with those. Nothing like a traditional morning fry up for lunch. I then practically stroll through immigration, no hostility whatsoever. Quite boring, really. Where's the drama? I must find a Lonely Planets guide or something similar. But Smithy's don't have one, and neither do Borders. It's like there's a booksellers apartheid style boycott. The books go from India straight to Istanbul, with nothing in between. Must get one when I reach.

What else do I need? Ah, digital camera. Thank God for multinationals, the immoral so-and-sos, Dixons comes to the rescue, tax free as well... What else? I forgot my shekels, bugger. Well, £40 worth isn't too bad. And then there's was the elderly black woman. South African looking. I hear the snipping, but wasn't sure what it was. And as Sods Law states in Chapter 6, Article V, "thy lap shalt be the recipient of an elderly black woman's fingernails as she clips them nonchalantly in an aiport lounge." Yep, it landed on me as I sat down, contemplating how to next amuse myself.

Tonight, Istanbul (not Constantinople), and tomorrow, Tel Aviv, Israel.

Michael Hill

Some of you may have heard, and others may not have heard. Michael Hill, the father of the little girl, Margaret, who was kidnapped in July, has died of a heart attack. I'm sure you don't need to read the news story to have your own opinions on what might have triggered his heart attack...

Charlie does it again

Charlie Brooker is possibly the funniest writer in British newspaperdom. The first two paragraphs of his column this week are just glorious. I defy anyone to read it and not laugh out loud. If you succeed in not laughing out loud, my bank manager will give you five pounds. And, as someone who's pin has in the past magically vanished from his head, I understand Charlie, I really do. For more Charlie Brooker gems, read his account of trying to quit smoking.

As they say in Nigeria...

This one is too much!

Banging on

No pun intended. It seems as if I've developed an obsession with all things homosexual - 2 posts in one week? Anyway, 18 men arrested for acts of sodomy. Speaking of which the BBC World Service has just broadcast a 2-part documentary on homosexuality laws in different countries. The first part is set in Jamaica, where the act of "buggery" is illegal, and the second is set in South Africa, where homosexuals are allowed to marry. Homosexuality is still a huge issue, as can be seen from the US Democratic candidates so called gay debate.

Transatlantic Drugs Trade

Assignment on the BBC World Service delves into the world of the West African drugs mule.

link fixed.

Social Welfare comes to Africa.

The Ugandan government is to give $10 a month to "chronically poor". Should be an interesting experiment to watch.