(LP Hartley)
“[The travel book] is little more than a licence to bore…the lowest form of literary self-indulgence: dishonest complaining, creative mendacity, pointless heroics, and chronic posturing.”
(Paul Theroux)
“Travel writers have often come to be seen as outriders of colonialism, attempting to demonstrate the superiority of western ways by ‘imagining’ the east as decayed and degenerate.”
(William Dalrymple)
“In an age when journalism is becoming more and more etiolated, when articles are becoming shorter and shorter, usually lacking all historical context, travel writing is one of the few venues to write with some complexity about an alien culture.”
(Rory Stewart)
For my final dispatch of 2009, I thought I would take yet another trip down memory lane to revisit some of my old haunts. I was a bit reticent in starting this blog earlier this year. Whether it was my technophobia, my consternation over what I possibly had to say, or my fear of drifting into an overly self-indulgent solipsism, I wasn’t sure if I would hack it, or at least keep up the pace. I must admit that, at times, I’ve felt the burden of expectation from my legions of fans who goaded me into this nascent endeavour and it’s been tough to motivate myself. But at other times, I’ve had a blast and thoroughly enjoyed regaling all my readers with the tales of my shenanigans abroad. I only hope that come 2010 I’ll be able to keep up the pace, for in late January I start full-time [student] teaching. These postings may dry up a bit, though I shall do my best to churn out as many diatribes as possible.
So, now, I delve back into my pre-blogging days and provide the original accounts from some of my adventures over the years. In the interests of transparency, I’ll list the approximate date I originally composed the piece. It will also give you a chance to see how – or if – my writing has evolved over the years. Unless otherwise noted, all the excerpts below were sent as group emails to a select audience. For those of you who didn’t know me before any of the events I’m sharing…well, I don’t really know what to say.
As an added bonus, where I’ve seen fit, I’ve added a few bits of contemporary analysis, or a quotation or two that I’ve dug up out of my notes.
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‘Nigeria is not a great country. It is one of the most disorderly nations in the world. It is one of the most corrupt, insensitive, inefficient places under the sun. It is one of the most expensive countries and one of those that give least value for money. It is dirty, callous, noisy, ostentatious, dishonest and vulgar. In short, it is among the most unpleasant places on earth!’
(Chinua Achebe)
I’m deep in the heart of the oil-rich Niger Delta region of southern Nigeria, working for one of the most frivolous development organisations that I have ever come across…
In light of recent developments down here - militant rebel youths in Port Harcourt are supposedly waging an insurgency against all the big oil multi-nationals, kidnapping westerners, shooting indiscriminately on the streets and in restaurants, etc. - I thank the few of you who have recently written with concerns over my safety and well-being. Even though I am based in Yenagoa, capital of Bayelsa state, I am rather close to Port Harcourt and I do spend a fair amount of my time there. But please don’t fret: the problems are probably overblown (standard fare for this neck of woods), directed towards those in the oil industry and for the most part it’s all localised. If there is a positive to the organisation I work for, they do put a high priority on the safety of staff…
Yenagoa has charm, a city built on sand in the flatlands puddled with mangrove swamps. It is much like I pictured it, something right out of Graham Greene’s The Heart of the Matter or VS Naipaul’s A Bend in the River. Houses, food kitchens, stalls and dingily-lit supermarkets crowded with imported goods cling to an impressive road built by the Germans and paid for - at double its worth - with redistributed oil money. Palm groves lace the background, and beyond them the tragically beautiful sight of the ubiquitous gas flares light up the night sky for miles. The sunsets are among the most immaculate I’ve ever seen, especially lately as the rainy season dies down and the clouds slowly make way for increasing amounts of blues, reds, oranges and purples in the early evening sky. I am not sure whether I will miss the rainy season. At times, it bucketed down incessantly for days on end. But at least it kept things cool. Now it’s slowly getting drier and therefore hotter and steamier…
The day-to-day situation down here is depressing: billions of dollars of oil money go directly into the coffers of federal and state government officials who then lavish gifts upon their friends and family; really, the corruption is utterly ridiculous and in my dealings with the state government I see it on an almost daily basis. In the meantime the majority of the people remain impoverished. The income inequality is unbelievable; there is no middle class…
There is no escaping the pothole-lined roads, the sight of charred vehicles (and the occasional body) every few hundred meters, not to mention the constant army and police presence and omnipresent roadblocks. I’ve given up trying to keep track of the amount in bribes I’ve had to dish out since my arrival. And we can’t travel after 6pm on any given day due to the constant high risks of armed robbery. Great fun, I’m telling you…
The food thing: I may seem to miss a lot of the home comforts but I’ve managed to delve right into some of the local delicacies. Because of the aforementioned lack of variety and choice, you really have little option but to eat the same delights as the locals (I was tempted to say natives there…). I hesitate to ask exactly what constitutes the bush-meat stew, but it tastes great so I plug away. Fried snails look delicious but are a bit on the rubbery side. ‘Beef’ means the whole cow: nothing goes to waste. When ordering beef, you can expect skin, guts, even some lovely tufts of hair. Absolutely delectable. I must say, however, that for the most part I’m consuming more basic sundries like roasted fish (probably from the heavily oil-polluted local waters), plantains in various forms, okra and rice dishes…
(October 2004)
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Postscript: in the summer of 2005, whilst teaching at summer school in Uxbridge, my friend Aoife visited from Cambridge for the day and I dragged the poor girl, against her will, to New Cross in south London for a Nigerian meal. I enjoyed it and was fine; after all, I made it through my stint in Nigeria with hardly any stomach problems, which is astounding considering the levels of hygiene and the amount of street food I indulged in. Poor Aoife didn’t fare so well. She’s barely spoken to me since.
Postscript, part 2: I re-visited that very same restaurant in August 2008. I tried to dupe Grant into going with me, but he wisely refused. So I made the solo trek and once again, enjoyed an exquisite Nigerian dish. My stomach didn’t forgive me for over a week and I had a small Nigerian running around in my belly for days. It was agonising, but that was that. I haven’t back since. So there you are Aoife: I got my come-uppance.
(December 2009)
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You see the thanks I get? This was from one my students in Nigeria:
Hi Daniel,
It was so bad that d devil used u as his instrument to deprive me of my Ph.D studyfellowship thro yr ill pieces of advice like including my bank statement.Regards.
t.t.t
(Sometime in early 2005)
And this, I feel terribly guilty for sharing. People somehow managed to get hold of my email address and send me letters like the ones below. These are all snippets from one particular boy, all received after I left Nigeria and was living in Belfast. I don’t intend it as dark humour, more as a sign of just how desperate some of the people there are. I did my best to help as many people as I could, but for various legal reasons I can’t divulge exactly what here.
Daniel,
How are you doing bro, I've been send mails but you are not replying. What's the problem. I do really care for your health. Are you sure that you are alright? pls tell me what happened so that my mind can rest or so i can start looking up for solutions.
Is it cos i told you to send me things? Pls don't send me anymore, Your brotherhood is enough and I only want you around.
Send me a proof that you are alright by replying.
PLs danny, I've never been at rest since your inability to reply my mail.
Just reply this one.
Danny,
How are you doing. What's up with the job you're looking for. Hope are getting well. How's your groundma's health.
It's really hard here. I'm in a hell of frustrations and i really need your help in any kind. Advice, Finance, lots of them. Please reply at once because your are my bro who will help me now.
Danny remember, No father, No elder Brother and in nigeria's frustrations.
Offer me any help you can at the moment. I need some clothes and footwears, if you can send me ones you no longer use, I'll be most gratteful.
Good luck in you life and to good health to you and your friends and family.
Hi Danny,
wish you all happiness of life. How are you doing? How is your Groundma and all your family members? Hope that you're coping good. Well it's just as if you have forgotten me, but nevertheless, i still understand. Sorry i've kept off contact, it's because of too much poverty that is hanging on my neck.
It's not been easy with me, the toughness of my going is under a constant increment. Infact, i need all the lucks in the world to carry on. Less i forget, what are you up to now? Have you gotten the job i've been praying for? Tell me about your new realm and dimension.
Well whenever you pick up your qouran, please remember my own case to God as i do remember yours in my prayers. Please Daniel, if you have anything to help me on, just don't hesitate to send it to me. You know i told you that i want to write a movie, but it's too tough with me now financially that i can't even pay for the typing.
Please danny, any how , but please send a small something to me, even a note of a Hundred pounds Bill. wrap it with a paper and send it to as a letter to…
(emails received over the course of early-mid 2005)
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Chinua Achebe, probably Nigeria’s most well-known writer, whose Things Fall Apart is part of the curriculum in many schools, had this to say in his slim tome, The Trouble with Nigeria:
‘Look at our collapsing public utilities, our inefficient and wasteful parastatals and state-owned companies. If you want electricity, you buy your own generator; if you want water, you sink your own bore-hole; if you want to travel, you set up your own airline. One day soon, you will have to build your own post office to send your letters!’
‘My frank and honest opinion is that anybody who can say that corruption in Nigeria has not yet become alarming is either a fool, a crook or else does not live in this country.’
‘It is a measure of our self-delusion that we can talk about developing tourism in Nigeria. Only a masochist with an exuberant taste for self-violence will pick Nigeria for a holiday; only [someone] seeking to know punishment and poverty at first hand! No, Nigeria may be a paradise for adventurers and pirates, but not tourists.’
(December 2009)
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I never really sent out much during my time in Riga. I was too busy reading, whingeing about my poorly foot, getting beaten up in dodgy ‘clubs’, and doing lots of research and writing about education policies in Latvia and the effect that this had on ethnic Russians. Here I’m sharing my ‘creative’ side. A few of my more buffoonish friends – you know who you are – were the lucky recipients of the following haikus.
Part I: on a good day (rare)
Glorious Riga
Beautiful ladies, hello!
'Tis delight to meet
Part II: standard day (the norm)
Ladies of the night,
Gentle, promising, lovely
No: whores, sluts and tramps
Part III: special occasions (every now and then)
How much for you dear?
Why for you, big boy, nothing
Why so cheap? You man?
(November 2007)
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Lviv is probably a good example of simultaneous poverty and splendour in grandeur. This place has untapped potential, lots of it, but it seems to be more Russian poor than East European poor. It’s constantly compared to Krakow and is even audaciously called by some a ‘poor man’s Prague’. I say it’s still a ways from such lofty comparisons, even if it does have a heavy central European feel to it. Despite the dear old grannies selling rotten, withering bunches of flowers and rancid bags of apples on street corners, despite the open drains releasing waste water onto the cobbled streets, despite the crumbling, deteriorating yet magnificent architecture, despite the statues with missing legs and noses, despite the insolent and often non-existent customer service in all the charming cafes, and despite the thick coat of grime and dust that seems to cover every edifice, this place has immeasurable, almost indescribable allure. A lot of the city is remarkably and miraculously well-preserved: Lviv (Lvov/Lwow/Lemberg) has a long and tortured history of being traded between the Russians, Poles, Germans and Austro-Hungarians and there seems to be that surreal look characteristic of a city that has been bandied about too often. There’s really not much of a Russian or Soviet feel to the city itself – save for one or two of those stark, realist statues paying homage to the great defenders of years past - although the outskirts do tend to remind one of those bland, featureless Soviet conurbations that grew impressively from nothing in just a few short years and dishearten by their sameness and banality. But for the most part, Moscow thankfully ignored Lviv.
Have I mentioned the great public transport system? There are the usual trams and trolleybuses characteristic of most European cities, albeit circa-1950s, but the most common and fun mode of getting around is by marshrutka. It’s nothing more than a minibus that stops on demand, akin to the kinds you find in most lesser developed countries in places like Africa and the Caribbean, bursting to the rafters with way too many people, violating every safety regulation known to mankind. Now I understand that when you get a congregation of old, fat, sweaty bodies who haven’t showered since the cold war in heavy overcoats you can expect a rather foul and putrid stench but I find myself longing for the good old days of Nigeria where the only odours on offer were those of dead chickens and excess sweat. Here you get a myriad range of wonderful scents, mostly consisting of various fart-like fragrances. I really can’t convey to you the amazing gamut of smells you get: I thought I’d been exposed to many different types of farts over the years but every day I get another new and pleasant surprise. And nobody seems to notice and/or care: old men let rip with grandiose farts of artistic proportions and people don’t batter an eyelid at any of these signs of anal loquacity. I even had a student whose sonic blasts throughout class often meant that other students’ comments were barely audible at times. He was admittedly a weak student but any time he opened his mouth and attempted to speak the sound would come out the wrong end: a direct link seemed to be established between him opening his mouth and his bottom opening up. He was lucky to get out any coherent words, but when he did, they were usually accompanied by a chorus of approval from his backside. I could hardly contain my laughter but the other students just sat there glumly, seemingly oblivious to this mayhem. I was even proud of myself for telling him that his arse had indeed put forward a very compelling argument after one beauty of a ‘remark’ but I’m afraid this comment was lost on the majority of the class. Thankfully he only actually showed up to 3 classes and hasn’t been seen since.
(November 2005)
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Another gem from the recent book on Communist jokes I’ve been reading:
Grandma Hanacka enters the tram in Prague with a heavy sack and a suitcase. While stowing her baggage, she does something that no lady in polite company would normally do. The Germans in the car hold their noses in disgust. Granny turns to her Czech fellow travellers: ‘They’ve shut our mouths but they can’t do the same to our arses.’
Now here’s a guy I’d love to meet: Jerzy Urban, a Polish satirist, described as ‘the sort of man who ostentatiously and deliberately breaks wind in living rooms and watches the reaction of other guests’. My kind of man.
(December 2009)
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The future: the next few weeks ought to be fun. I’m now finished at Keene and can look forward to a month-long hiatus from the education world before I take up my teaching placement in Manchester. In a few short days Emma will be descending upon these cold and frosty shores – her first trip to the US - and after Christmas, the two of us are setting off on a 2-week road trip across the Midwest and down into the deep South for a gumbo-fuelled odyssey of fun and adventure. In early January, our dear friends and frequent Layman’s Guide guest stars Brian and Kristen are tying the knot. I certainly can’t wait.
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“As my body continues on its journey, my thoughts keep turning back and bury themselves in days past.”
(Gustave Flaubert, in a letter to his mother, 23 Nov 1849)
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