I really need to learn to Man Up

I have just returned to Calabar after a lovely two weeks at home. I have the worlds best parents, who bought me a ticket to go home for my birthday so that I could indulge in hot showers and electricity and wine. And it was the best birthday present in the world. Nothing beats Jersey in the summer, and it was great to be able to catch up with so many people, although as predicted the time flew by and I didn’t get to see nearly as many people as I had hoped. And the down side? Me learning that no matter how settled I might think I feel in Calabar, I will never be happy about going back or saying goodbye to everyone at home. Given how much of a total mess I was back in February when I first left, I had really hoped that I might manage to be a bit more controlled this time round at the airport. But no such luck. There was nothing dignified or reserved about my departure. So much for the British not showing emotions. I once again shuffled through security snuffling and snorting, with tears pouring down my face. On the plus side, my lack of dignity and inability to control my emotions works wonders in terms of the way I am treated by airport staff – the man that needed to go through my bag couldn’t have been more apologetic as he asked me to unpack the 20 packets of ‘pasta in a mug’ and packet macaroni cheese, 6 copies of trashy magazines, and 5 packets of Boots cucumber face wipes. However I think I was slightly less hysterical than I was in February, as the people at security didn’t offer me a glass of water and a seat before asking me to go through the scanner this time, so maybe there was a small improvement. Either way, someone really needs to teach me to Man the Hell Up.

I took full advantage of my luggage allowance, and came back with my bags full of every type of dried food on offer in Waitrose. Including couscous, dried mushrooms, a bottle of Pimms, Pringles, chocolate and magazines. As well as the entire contents of Boots, and Warehouse’s summer collection. It might be a bit late to be mentioning this now, but if anyone bought shares in Warehouse or Accessorise during the last two weeks, they will be smiling.

Whilst I was at home I also attempted to have something done with The Hair. My hairdresser took one look at it and had to walk away for a few minutes. But after cutting it all off, it seems to be falling out a little bit less. In a bid to avoid me going in with a comb over the next time I see her, she also gave me what seemed like an entire year’s supply of free samples. So I’m sorted for intensive conditioning treatments for the rest of my placement.

On the not so good side, after feeling pretty healthy for the past four months, I got home and got some nasty bug. So spent the last few days at home feeling very sorry for myself because I couldn’t do any of the things I wanted to do. My mood didn’t improve during my journey back to Calabar, which went something like this: Jersey – Gatwick – Heathrow – Abuja - Lagos (yes, that’s right, Lagos) – Abuja – Uyo – Calabar – MY SQUAT. I left home at 12pm on Saturday and arrived at My Squat at 8pm on Sunday. I was already feeling quite tired by 4.20am on Sunday when we went to land at Abuja (I’ve never been good at sleeping at planes), and so I was slightly confused when after starting to descend, the plane began to go back up again. And up. And up. And then the Captain announced that unfortunately we couldn’t land at Abuja. Well, not yet anyway. The landing lights on the runway weren’t working. But not to worry, he assured us; the plane had enough fuel for another three hours. Excellent. So for the next hour we circled Abuja. Over and over and over again. Until finally it was accepted that the men working on the lights would not be able to fix them, and we didn’t have enough fuel left to keep circling until daylight. And so off we went to Lagos instead. We sat at Lagos for an hour or so, refuelled the plane, and finally landed in Abuja at 9am. This didn’t actually bother me too much as it helped to take some time away from the 11 hour wait I knew I had at Abuja airport before my flight to Uyo. It also didn’t seem to bother anyone else on the plane. We were sat there for over 4 and a half hours longer than we were expecting, and yet no one seemed to complain. People just sat there quietly and waited until we heard the next update. I’ve been on planes that have attempted to land in Jersey, failed for some reason (usually fog) and everyone has complained endlessly. Not so here.

I did discover one slight downside with long waits at Nigerian airports. They are not designed for people travelling on their own with a lot of luggage. Just trying to get a trolley was a mission in itself, and then I discovered that the trolleys don’t fit through the door to the bathrooms. The airport was really busy, I couldn’t risk leaving all my luggage out in the corridor. And I couldn’t check my luggage in until 2 hours before my flight. But after having just sat on the flight from Heathrow for 11 hours I was desperate for a change of clothes, a wash, and to brush my teeth. So I had to improvise. I found a deserted corridor and crouched down behind my trolley to change my top, and then brushed my teeth over a plant pot. I hope they don’t have security cameras. I was also very very thirsty, but the only place I could buy water was upstairs in the airport. And guess what, there wasn’t a lift. Well actually, there was a lift. But it had a sign on it saying it only went to the 3rd floor offices, it didn’t go to the 1st floor where there was the cafeteria and the bar. Of course not, because people waiting at an international airport aren’t likely to have a lot of luggage. It would make no sense at all to have a lift going to the cafe. So by the time I could check my luggage in at 1.40pm I was just about ready to abandon my luggage and go and buy a drink anyway. Although I’d gone from wanting water to wanting a neat vodka. My journey back to Calabar continued to not go quite as planned, as in the taxi on the drive from Uyo (it’s at least a 2 hour journey to Calabar) our taxi ran out of petrol. In the torrential rain. By that stage I was starting to feel like someone was really trying to see how long I could stay awake without passing out.

When the plane couldn’t land in Abuja, the lady sat next to me turned to me and asked if it was my first time in Nigeria. I explained that it wasn’t, and she said thank goodness, because she didn’t want me to get a bad impression from the very start. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that nothing about what had just happened had surprised me in the slightest. When she asked how I was liking Nigeria, and I said I was really happy, and liked living in Calabar, all she could say was, “Why?” She couldn’t have looked more surprised. She said that whenever she hears anyone say anything positive about her country she wonders whether they’re living in the same place as she is. Like many people I have spoken to here, she is fed up. Fed up with the fact that Nigeria has resources. And Nigeria has money. A lot of it. And yet these resources and this money are not getting to the people who need it. She was fed up with the leadership. And she was fed up with the fact that in some ways the country has gone backwards in recent years rather than forwards. So when she asked why I liked living here, I didn’t know what to say. Because I know that part of the reason I’m happy here is because I know that it’s just for now. If this was where I knew I would be living for the next 20 years, my response might have been very different. Unlike most people here, I have the luxury of knowing I can go home for two weeks to escape the craziness, to soak up the easiness of life there, to enjoy the hot showers, the running water, and the constant electricity. So why do I like living here? Probably because it’s a novelty. ‘An experience’. But for most people here it’s neither of those things. It’s every day life, and it’s frustrating.

Unfortunately this has turned into another negative blog post. But no matter what the reason is, it is nice to be back. My Squat was exactly as I had left it, and hadn’t been taken over by Ratty as I had feared. In fact the only signs of life were a half dead cockroach and a big fat slimy millipede. I also had my reunion with Harp and fried yam last night. And Jenny got me the best birthday present anyone living here could ask for, a “Stop Nigeria I want to get out of here” voucher, entitling me to a day’s swimming at the lovely hotel up the road, including dinner there. They serve pizza. And cold beer. And have a huge flat screen TV in the outside bar area. So as soon as we find a Saturday when it isn’t raining, I plan on taking up residence on the sun lounger at 8am and not moving until someone actually has to ask me to leave.