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Friday, May 18, 2012GOING BANANAS ON BANANA ISLAND
Ahhh, so here I am, back in Bananaland, after an albeit way too short sojourn Down South. In time - give me a few days cos I've only just unpacked - I shall select a few chosen photos of a place that Hubs & I quite simply can't get enough of. But in the meantime, I thought I'd run a few of my frustrations by y'all.
Since moving into our apartment on Banana Island, which isn't an island, but is on an island called Lagos Island, which is over the wet stuff from Lagos mainland............are ya still with me?.............yeah?.......OK..........well Hubs & I made a conscious decision not to smoke inside the home. So, in order to have a fag, we nut out to the balcony & pollute the great Nigerian air and/or sky. (At this point, anti-smokers, kindly stay confined to your boxes, unless you'd like to engage in an argument that you won't win. *ahem*) OK, so getting back to having a fag............sometimes, during the day, I'll go out & sit on the balcony & either look at the scenery, play a game, send text messages or read some or other drivel. It's just while I have my fag & then I come back inside & carry on with whatever I may be doing.
So yesterday, having got a new DingleBerry that is really bloody pukka, I went out to sit on the balcony & set about trying to 'personalise' my new phone. But it won't pick up a strong enough signal in order for me to register my email accounts, because I live on Banana Island & the cellphone reception if fucking pathetic at the best of times (which causes me immense frustration, because my SA cellphone - also a DingleBerry - works perfectly & never has a problem with reception, which I suspect is a secret plot by Vodacom to get as much money out of their customers as possible, especially when sed customer has her phone on roaming & has to pay obscene rates to either make or receive calls) I eventually gave up trying to register what needed to be registered & lit another fag, to ease my frustration as it were. If I can motivate myself enough, I'll try again later this afternoon. (When I explained my frustrating attempts to Hubs last night, he said "Dunno what the problem is, I get a full signal outside & managed to load all my stuff." If it wasn't for the fact that we're only on the 3rd floor, I'd be tempted to push him over the balcony. *sigh*)
Another thing that really, but really pisses on my battery, is leaving & entering the country through Murtala Muhammed International Airport, in Lovely Lagos (NOT!) I thought leaving in December was bad enough, but a fortnight ago really beats that experience! I was soon to discover that 'improvements' (ROTFLMFAO) were taking place & upon entering via a scaffolded opening, I was greeted by a sweaty, dawdling mass of people, who were trying very hard not to walk over several barrow loads of sand, which had been dumped rather unceremoniously on the floor, which was by the way, in the process of being broken/ripped up. The sand was in the direct path of foot traffic & along with various other construction obstacles, entering the actual terminal building quite a mission. But, with the gentle prodding of ankle-snapping suitcases on wheels, we made our way past the dawdlers & headed towards the check-in desk...............................where we were stopped & informed that our cases would have to be weighed before going any further. The temperature inside the terminal building must've been around 30C+ & with a humidity level of close to 100%, it was not exactly pleasing to ones demeanor, if you get my drift. So, without objection (and because I knew our cases were well underweight) I duly plonked the cases on the scales & was issued with a pink ticket, while Hubs was issued with a white ticket & we were instructed to proceed to 'security', before we could go to actually check in.
Security. Hmmmmmmmmm.
Murtala Muhammed International Airport does not, repeat NOT have the gift of scanners. (Even if it did, they'd be fucked within a week, thanks to the constant power cuts & electrical surges).
So, for 'security', we have the Black-o-matic version.
This involves one hoisting ones suitcase up onto a rickety table (I suspect it was a school principles desk in 1958) where one smiling Black-o-matic 'Airport' Security Person will instruct you to open your case for "inspection".
Hmmmmmm.
Having performed this task, the Airport Security Black-o-matic then smiles very politely & then slides your case 12" to his right, for a Secondary Blac-o-matic Security Police Person to rummage a bit more. Items are taken out, held up, looked at, put to one side & as much disruption is caused as possible in a few short minutes, simply because it can be. Having not found anything suspicious or illegal (despite a now 3rd Black-o-matic taking a shine to my bottle of Aigner White, which I silently dared him to take, cos I would've created enough shit for a fucking nuclear fallout - don't touch my perfume!!) my suitcase & its shuffled contents were then pushed towards me with a grunt of "OK" & I am expected to repack & get the case off of the rickety table within 3 seconds, or 2 if possible. Screw you I thought & took my time putting things in order again. Then Hubs had his turn, which was fun. I'd locked his case with just a cable tie & when the Police Security told him to open it, he asked them for a knife or pair of scissors, in order to cut the cabtie. Hehehehe...........oh wot fun! The filth insisted he open his case & Hubs insisted they provide him the tool in which to do so - Catch 22 situation. When informed that it was the Airline/Airport security who insisted that passengers couldn't carry knives or scissors, what is the passenger supposed to do? One bolt-eyed 'officer' got really agitated & started shouting, to which Hubs shouted his responses. Finally, a more understanding 'officer' came along & offered Hubs a knife - he was very polite & also very helpful. Want to antagonise my ol' man?, just shout at him! Anyway, the case was opened, the contents barely checked (because there was an almighty queue buiding up) & Hubs was informed it was "safe to close" DUH!!
We checked in, which was thankfully painless, although incredibly slow. By this time, our clothes were sticking to us as we were drenched in sweat.
We went outside, for a last fag, before going through passport control. As we went to enter the terminal building again, an armed security guard asked "What have you got for me?". This, we have had the misfortune of learning, is standard procedure by anyone performing even the most remote 'public service'. A bribe is expected, for doing absolutely fuck all, & that is exactly what this particular security guard got - sweet FA.
By the time we got to passport control, I was not a happy bunny. I had the beginnings of a tension headache, was drenched in sweat & quite literally couldn't wait to get out of the bloody place & on to the plane. The 'passport control officer' made the mistake of again, trying to solicit a bribe. "Eeeh, what have you got for me?" he said, all the time flicking the pages of my passport. I was just gatvol, so I wiped the sweat from my forehead & flicked it towards him, saying "Here, have some sweat - that's all I've got for you!" He asked Hubs the same question & Hubs' standard reply of "I don't carry cash when I travel" didn't go down at all well - the bastard actually wanted to question him as to WHY he didn't have any cash! There is no bloody stopping these people honestly!
To cut a long story short, there is yet another security check before passengers can go into the waiting area prior to boarding. And yes, you guessed it, the woman who frisked me asked what did I have for her. I snapped "Nothing!" altho' I was so very sorely tempted to offer a lekker snot klap, free of charge!
Upon our return this this gawdawful airport on Monday, Hubs company 'fixer' was on hand & he organised the stamping of passports etc. We collected our luggage, got the passports back & then headed towards the exit doors, only to be stopped by the 'Health Authority' dipshit, who wanted a bribe for assuming we didn't have valid Yellow Fever stamped innoculation cards. We've got the legit cards, with the legit stamps & the dipshit got zilch. A 'customs officer' of the female gorilla variety stood in my way & wanted to know what I had in my suitcase, so I gave her my best 'Do You Really Want To Fuck With Me Now?' look & said "Dirty washing............nothing more than a case full of dirty washing." What the hell she was expecting me to declare I simply do not know.
Murtala Muhammed International Airport - it's gotta rank as one of the most disorganised, inept, corrupt airports in the whole of this continet!
And just to make my friggin' day, when we got home to the apartment, I noticed a distinct smell coming from the kitchen. It really was ewwwwwwww. It turns out that 2 days after we left, the electricity had 'tripped' in the mains box & because no one was in the apartment, it stayed off for 7 days.
Which meant that everything in the freezer defrosted.
And started smelling.
And the fluids from sed frozen foods, spread all across the kitchen floor, turned a lovely shade of green & basically stank both the freezer & kitchen out.
And I am mad, because this bloody country doesn't have any form of regular or efficient electricity suppliers. You get what you can from whoever you can & the rest is down to enormous generators. The gennys kick in when mains electricity dies & naturally, the gennys go off again when mains electricity springs to life once more. This can happen at least 6 times a day. The power surges caused by both the mains & generator cause incredible damage to electrical appliances. One very expensive washing machine later (used once!) & I know what I'm talking about! So, now & again, the sudden surges actually trip the mains switch & this is what happened whilst we were away.
There are days when I could quite easily kill...........................
So, MTN cellphone coverage is crap at best, the electricity supply is deadly & the airport in Lagos is a nightmare.
Frustrating? You wouldn't chuckle................... Labels: Banana Island, bribery in Nigeria, electricity suppliers need hanging by the balls, Lagos Airport, Murtala Muhammed International Airport  
Saturday, January 07, 2012PHUCK IT, I'M A SNOB Having suffered - both mentally & physically - from 10 days in Tenerife, I have decided to admit to the world that I AM A SNOB (ner ner ner) There................I've said it, so phuck the phallout. I had a right stress on within hours of leaving the apartment on Banana Island (which isn't an island). Due to the mass exodus of expats and several thousand locals, we were advised to get to the airport early, as traffic was hectic and the road was bound to be clogged with people eager to escape their lovely surroundings *ahem*. We left with some 4hrs to spare before the eagerly anticipated flight to Madrid, with Iberia. We whiled away an hour by smoking and sweating profusely outside. It was better than inhaling the stench of stale urine and gawdawful body odour inside the terminal. Then the fun started. There was a rumour, our 'fixer' Nelson informed us, that the flight was going to be very late..........as in 'verrrrry late'. Thinks to self : there goes the fucking - oops, I mean phucking - connection to Tenerife innit? After much teeth-pulling from the ignorant beeyatch seated at the Iberia check-in counter, we were informed that the flight had been sort of cancelled...............sort of insomuchas it would be several hours late in arriving, but would not do the 'turn around' because there wasn't a replacement crew. Phuck. When asked what we were expected to do from the aforementioned beeyatch, we got the typical nose-picking induced shrug of the shoulders and blank look on the face that you just wanted to smack some bloody responsibility into. These imbiciles are paid to do a job, but when there's a problem, they want absolutely nothing to do with passengers. The beeyatch in question reluctantly said we could stay in a hotel in Lagos overnight and catch the flight the following day. No phucking good sweetheart, we got a connection to catch. Bitch! After much to-ing and fro-ing, a hefty bribe and infinite pleading, we got the last 2 seats on the BA flight to London and then a connection to Madrid, but after that, it was a case of "well, yer on yer own now". To cut a long and frustrating story short, we got to Madrid, pleaded with a human Iberian booking officer and finally got to Tenerife some 27hrs after setting out, totally knackered. The kids had arrived safely from Dublin and were sorted at the hotel. They had spent the day exploring. Chikkin almost knocked Hubs over when she ran to greet him..............hell that child grows like a Triffid I swear! The following day - Crimble Eve - was spent snapping up last minute gifts and trying to ignore what was becoming a dreaded feeling that the Playa de las Americas was not all that it was cracked up to be. The 4 star hotel where we were holed up, ran quite efficiently, until it came to the restaurant. Every single waitron had a phucking attitude, but y'know what, after seeing the behaviour of some of the tourists/holidaymakers, I'd also have an attitude. I don't think the scowls were aimed directly at us - altho' it's obviously a possibility - but more at the invading hordes of 'Benefit Bunnies'* that made their way to such a beautiful island. Mind you, on reflection, half the staff were foreign anyway and only a few of the phuckers would or could speak English. The floors in the entrance lobby were always nice and shiny tho'. I'd also like to admit that a real effort was made in sprucing the joint up with Crimble decorations. Crimble came and went. Sight-seeing came and went. The disappointment in our surrounding grew. I reckon I saw more camel-toed skanks, more middle-aged wimmin sporting 48EEE busts which dangled or bounced off of fat rolls - all the while trying to fight their way out of ill-fitting swimsuits (and gawd forbid, bikinis) - plus badly tattooed Eastern European pikeys, who thought going topless was the norm.........................I saw more of these types in just over a week, than I have in my fiftysomminc years. The men were just as bad - budgie smuggling Speedo's on a perma-tanned (including the soles of the feet nogal) 60yr old beer-guzzling-gut-hanging male specimen, just ain't sexy, as much as he might wish it to be. Apart from that, you can only tan so much can't you? Surely, your skin will reach the shade and texture of a leather handbag, and then it doesn't tan anymore? Whilst doing a spot of people watching at the hotel pool area, I saw different extremes - from a couple dressed head to toe in black every day, to a really dodgy looking Eastern European couple, who seemed miffed that they couldn't really wander around nekkid and had to suffice with just having the tits out. There were definite Benefit Bunnies, complete with roll-up fags, a penchant for the cheapest alcohol on offer and bodies that tinged pink in a weak sun that poked through the clouds now & again. It was chilly for crying out loud - it was only 18C! A couple of times, I had the misfortune to be within hearing distance of some middle-aged sarong-straddled wench who was 'checking up' at home. "Are y'alrite luv? Yeah, yeah, it's smashing, it's right sunny & I'm gerrin' a nice tan but the food's norrupt'much". I was tempted to shout "I'll second that!" Out on the street, there were times when we all felt like we had to run the gauntlet against so-called 'PR' people. These are the not-so-friendly folk who try to usher you into the bar/restaurant/niteclub they happen to be 'promoting'. One or two of them were friendly, but there were many who took liberties and pushed boundaries to the extent we thought someone was trying to kidnap Chikkin. That was downright scary. Foot traffic comprised of bunches of council estate-esque, buggy pushing slags from the likes of Dagenham - one hand clutching the bad hair extensions, the other guiding the 4yr old dummy-sucking brat in the designer buggy, with baggy arsed, beer swilling partner in tow, singing his favourite footie chant. Elderly men and women tootled around in their hired mobility scooters, wearing expressions that varied from 'get out of my way, I'm a cantankerous old git' to 'this beats walking any day'. On the whole, the majority of them looked as if they'd gone to Tenerife to have that last toe curling experience before popping their clogs. Sad, very sad. A Senegalise fake watch hawker offered Hubs anything from rip-off Gucci sunglasses to a prostitute (of any age or colour) to a line of white powder, which could be snorted. You name it and he could provide it. He was actually quite a nice chap, despite his trade. I think one of the lasting impressions I have of a town like Playa de las Americas is of vomit. Wherever we walked, there were puddles of chunky, colourful vomit - some fairly fresh and some perhaps deposited from the previous evening. Even flies didn't buzz around over it, which I guess tells me that even they have a bit of taste. Four out of five of us had suffered with upset tummies and nausea, so I guess maybe we were the lucky ones, 'cos at least we didn't add to the barf on the streets. I honestly don't think restaurant or cafe hygiene - behind the scenes - is of a particularly high standard. I saw specialised water trucks washing down roads, but no attempt was made to clean up the vast quantities of splattered puke on pavements. Shortly before leaving for the holiday, my mum told me her son had "been to Tenerife lots of times................he says it's really nice there". Little alarm bells went off in my head. It didn't take long for me to realise why. Having watched the hilarious TV series 'Benidorm', I truly thought we would be 'away' from the Benefit Bunnies, being in Tenerife. I was wrong, very wrong. I am a snob. And proud of it. * Benefit Bunnies: Those who live in the UK and think the closest thing to work is nutting down to the Post Office to collect their dole money, which the government is stupid enough to pay. Labels: Banana Island, Benefit Bunnies, dodgy Senegalese hawkers, Lagos Airport, mobility scooters, Playas de las Americas, skanks, Tenerife
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