43 hours in Lagos

43 hours may not seem like much time to spend on-site for one's first visit to Africa, and that's only because it isn't. In rough order of making them, my observations follow. I caveat this with the hopefully obvious disclaimer that this is not intended to be my characterization of Lagos, never mind of a broader region. It's just that several people were interested that I was going to Nigeria, so I thought I'd share what I did see.

Looking out the plane window as we landed, all I could see was small, somewhat ramshackle shacks, with the occasional tropical tree sticking up amongst them. I know, what a sheltered, rich, American reaction: "Hey, there are poor people in Nigeria." But I didn't expect my first sight of the country to be such a stock photo for "developing country". (On the flight out, I saw that these shacks extended for miles in all directions. Many had no roofs.)

Nigerians aren't real keen on forming lines. (Actually, I first noticed this when were boarding our plane in New York.) Faithful readers recall that, on occasion, I have noticed the inefficient habit of people crowding the baggage claim carousel. At the Murtala Mohammed International Airport, this is elevated to an art form as people push their baggage carts right up to the carousel. At its best, the carts are jammed in so tightly that people can't even reach the belt to grab their bags.

Driving in Lagos is for locals. Lane markings are optional - I mean the very existence of the markings, as well as the observance of same - and shoulders are for passing. Horns are for saying, "I'm passing you (on the shoulder). Please move into another 'lane'." (Did I mention that Nigerians aren't keen on forming lines?) That said, being on the receiving end of a horn is undoubtedly preferable to being on the receiving end of the nightstick brandished for miles out the passenger window of an SUV marked "American Consulate Security". People walk between cars, sometimes to cross the street, but more often to sell pre-paid phone cards or bottles of water and juice. We passed a four-vehicle head-to-tail accident on the left of the road. Standing on and next to the jersey barrier between the wreck and oncoming traffic were at least twice as many bystanders as could have been in the cars.

For miles of the drive from the airport, on both sides of the road, as far as one could see, were more run-down buildings of a couple stories and shacks. Based on the painted signs, some nearest the road were stores. There was a stretch of several churches quite near one another. None had walls; they looked like just the roofs of small warehouses, with a set of pews and an identifying sign. But the majority of the buildings seemed to be homes. Many were made of cinder blocks; some had been nailed together out of scrap; tin roofs were by far the most common. I have to say that it was one of the most discouraging things I've ever seen with respect to development. Some people find that they are very discouraged by statistics; the sheer number of poor, sick, etc in the world leaves them feeling helpless. Numbers have never made me feel that way as did moving past thousands and thousands of people living in poverty. And unlike many poor parts of US cities, this was not a neighborhood that had fallen in bad times and decay; this was a vast suburb that had never been anything other than what it was. I wondered how anyone - especially an outsider - could affect any change on or with this huge expanse of people. (Lest you think I've given up, please note these were my feelings at the time. I suppose they still are my feelings, but I have a deeper belief in doing the best I can to better the world with the opportunities I can find.)

I've never seen such a concentration of radio towers. Five to ten stories high, they are everywhere. Tanko, who drove me around, says they are radio stations and cell phone towers. This was later supported by someone's comment that there is a new initiative to get the three or four cell-phone operators in Lagos to start sharing towers, as opposed to each building their own. Parts of the city looked like old pictures of Texas and Oklahoma, during the 1920s oil boom.

Land-line telephones are for chumps. At the airport and the hotel, when I asked for a public phone, the person at information handed me their cell phone.

Beyond sharing their cell phones, everyone I met in Lagos was friendly. (Admittedly, this included one Ghanaian and two Canadians.) Even the woman who let me check in late for my flight back home was nice, in her brusque, put-upon way.

Experiencing at least five power outages in the first 24 hours, I concluded that someone ought to build some improved electrical generation and distribution capacity. (As luck would have it, that's the project I was there to help. And see, I told you I hadn't given up.)

Where there's smoke, there's fire. And there's smoke everywhere in Lagos. You can smell it in the mornings and evenings, primarily from people burning their garbage. You can see it, too, a low haze. It reminded me of Grandad's stories of working in Pittsburgh, back when the smoke from the steel mills made it tough to see across the street downtown. It's not that bad, but I like Grandad's stories.

There are lots of ads for Christianity in Lagos. A good 10% of the billboards advertise a church or revival event. Many cars and vans announce the driver's faith and/or the name of their church on the back glass or trunk. The message on Tanko's cell phone screen reads, "JESUS LV ME".

I would like to know what was previously housed in the offices where we met. All the windows had heavy iron grates over them, and more interestingly, there were numerous reinforced steel doors within, as if at any moment all of Accounting or Corporate Services was going to be put on lockdown. But then perhaps all the offices, ex-pat apartments, and government buildings around made for a rough neighborhood. The deputy governor's residence, just down the street, was a lovely villa, with a surrounding wall topped by steel mesh and razor wire suitable for your local minimum-security penitentiary.