Global risks

I am now thoroughly ensconced back at my desk, roibos tea in one hand, mouse in the other. Blogging services are resumed.

One of my colleagues joked that he had expected me to have been kidnapped while I was away. This got me thinking. According to the RiskMap 2009, published by the Control Risks Group, Nigeria ranks number four in the top ten kidnapping-for-ransom countries in the world. So, you might conclude that a visit to Nigeria is not the wisest thing to do.

I disagree. I went, and I returned without incident, or even the suggestion of one. Why? Because I was miles away from the problem. Nigeria’s troubles are concentrated in the Niger Delta. The hotspot, if you like, is Port Harcourt in the east. The west of Nigeria could be a holiday destination if it wasn’t for the litter on the beaches.

On New Year’s Eve I shared a table with an Olympic swimmer. She had competed for Zimbabwe earlier that year, realising a life-long dream. Sat in conversation with her, I asked how safe it would be for me to visit. Her answer raised a wry smile on my face.

“Are you a farmer?”

“Not last I checked.”

“Then you’ve got nothing to worry about. You’re bringing foreign money into the country.”

She then made another point to me, which I’ve already alluded to. There is more to Zimbabwe than Harare. The south of the country is, I’m told, beautiful. You can go on a safari for less than $300 USD within two hours drive of the nearest airport, and stand a handbreadth from lions and giraffes.

Of course, the counter to that is if there are safer places to go where you can do similar things, why entertain the risk? Simply put, because I saw things that most people will never see. As I clambered up the side of a waterfall, I knew that the chances were strong that aside from locals, no one else ever did this, and that held a little magic for me.

On the other hand why take any money into a country like Zimbabwe, run by a man who is a blight upon freedom? If you can be sure he won’t get his mitts on it, fine...

Correspondent's Diary, Lagos - Day Three

Lagos is hazy in the morning, a persistent cloud that shrouds the air, though the sun still beats through. It is the time of the harmattan, dust carried on the wind from the deserts of the north. It is ever-present, but only seems to affect the air high above. At ground level the air is balmy, if humid.

Chris accompanied me out to the Federal Hotel where I was to exchange £500 Sterling into Naira. My mother reckoned the exchange rate was about 206 to the pound, at least according to the internet. I had envisaged walking in to the hotel lobby where there would be official travel exchanges set up. I couldn’t have been more mistaken.

We arrived at the hotel and Chris led me to some wooden huts set up outside the hotel. They looked like market stalls, filled with fabric, threadbare chairs and local carvings. I got the impression from Chris that he knew one of the guys here was better than the rest, and we went inside. I left the talking to Chris, sensing that this was not the time to flex my negotiating skills.

After a few moments of barter and chuckles – two I didn’t exactly expect to go together – Chris beckoned me to come outside, then asked me again what the rate on the internet was. He nodded when I told him, then he took me back in and spoke to the guy again. After a few minutes he motioned to me and I pulled out the sterling, counting it out to Chris, who checked it and handed it to the trader, who did his own count. Several rolls of Naira were handed to me, and I stashed them out of sight after a quick check.

Heading back to the car, Chris explained that the traders knew the internet rate and would immediately offer that to ‘Whitey’, but he knew they did this and would negotiate with them for a better rate. Sure enough, he got us 210. Doesn’t sound like much, but it amounted to an extra 2000 Naira, which at present rates is about £10. Worth the few minutes of bargaining.

After my Dad finished work we headed to the yacht club again, and Elias, the assistant Bosun who also looks after the Tarpons, helped us push my Dad’s GP14 in to the water. He and I had a quick sail on a close reach, broad reach and a run, then back to the club. The winds were dying and as most of the boat-boys had gone home early we had no safety boat. Getting stuck against an ebb tide with scant wind wasn’t on our list of things to do, so sensibly we got the boat back out the water and de-rigged.

We had arranged to meet up with two of the other expats later on in the evening at an English place called Pat’s Bar. It was your classic English home-away-from-home sports bar, and the kind I usually avoid like the plague. It was also filled with mosquitos, though not the malarial biting kind. Some very svelte Nigerian girls were in, with a clear objective on their minds that would inevitably involve a transaction of some kind.

Not a transaction I was interested in making. Unfortunately, with homosexuality being rather illegal over in Nigeria, playing the gay card wasn’t really a viable option. Instead I just had to grin through their attentions and play along, knowing that at least I had some backup and an escape route. My brother fared a little better than I, having experienced the phenomena in Thailand.

For my part, I wasn’t at all sorry when we called home-time and headed for the safety of our Toyota 4x4.

Just step aboard a Boeing, going...

Tomorrow morning I board a flight for African climes. I’ll be joining my parents out in Lagos, Nigeria, for the Christmas season and staying through New Year. For someone who has never ventured so far south before, it promises to be an interesting venture and I’m looking forward to discovering for myself what expat, and local, life is like.

Aside from obtaining a visa, I’ve been turned into a human pincushion in preparation for my trip. No less than six infectious diseases to be vaccinated against, boosters for jags I last had when I went to Romania in Sixth-Form. I’ve got anti-malarial tablets to take while I’m out there, and have been advised not to wear any scented deodorant and cover up as much as possible – prevention being better than cure, as the nurse reminded me.

I admit it makes sense, but it sounds like the sort of thing my mother would say. She’s been living out there with my Dad, and is one of the most efficient organisers I can think of. Nothing gets past her. Especially mosquitoes, who have always considered her a fine delicacy. Despite that, she hasn’t warned, mentioned, complained about or in any way referred to being swarmed by the creatures. Rightly or wrongly, this leads me to suspect that all is not quite as horrific as the nurse was leading me to believe. We shall see.

Speaking of horrific, the FCO website doesn’t exactly sell the place as paradise either. Kidnappings, spontaneous civil unrest, scams, curfews... Sounds just like Glasgow on an Old Firm day.

As befits such an adventure, I will be keeping a record of my visit on this blog. Hopefully I’ll have some interesting stories to tell, and if not, I’m sure I’ll find something to rant/wax lyrical about.

This will also be my first visit to T5 at Heathrow. Oddly, I’m more worried about that than the rest of the trip...