Thursday, December 01, 2005
The run up to Groundhog Day in Maiduguri.
I am referring to Bill Murray's film not to anything involving rodents or snowflakes. I felt like I was having Bill Murray's Groundhog Day in Maiduguri. When you do not have electricity or water in your place of lodging, you are forced to go out-especially when it is necessary to exterminate thousands of mosquitoes in your one small room by spraying it full of toxic gas. You can only sit at a restaurant for so long and then, without friends or standard hokey pokey healthy entertainment options, you must find a bar. Lack of electricity is a direct cause of alcoholism, poor behavior and crime, to say nothing of economic slow down. Despite having preposterous reserves of oil, Nigeria provides Maiduguri with electricity for at most a couple of hours each day, some days it provides none whatsoever (Of course, the populace attributes this shortcoming to corruption and regional favoritism-corruption could very easily cause a civil war in this country).
So the lights go out, again, the room is sprayed into a haze of brain death, and we have to deal, somehow, with our wakefulness. In a town that is scattered with sizeable Sharia courtrooms in an area that is famously strict with its Islam, it is not easy to find a bar. We hear of two: one is incredibly far outside of town in something people call a slum that we have been warned about and the other is at the National Air Force Officer's Mess, where I was to live my Groundhog Day.
The drive to Maiduguri was sometimes frustrating. Several checkpoints were tedious and pushy. Some peon from the seventh or eight unessential branch of the armed forces invented a huge shouting nonsense about our papers of ownership, which he wanted to be issued in Nigeria (?) and blathered about taking us to the police or his supervisor. We were glad to speak to his superior; we offered him water, which he declined and then started speaking over one another in loud and offended, though sufficiently playful, tones about him refusing our gift and how offensive this was and how we felt unwelcome. He respected our proof of ownership, saw our stubbornness and sent us off. Even when you get away from these encounters, it is hard not to start cursing and slamming the dashboard when you are pulled over ten minutes later to go through the whole stupid impromptu role playing festival again.
We were not prepared for the Air Force checkpoint (what on earth the Air Force is doing manning a checkpoint in the middle of arid scrub brush underneath their dismal tree beside their board of nails was not immediately clear). The chief inquisitor of that post was simply friendly. He suggested we go to the National Air Force Officer's Mess (hereafter called NAF) and hang out with him. He suggested, also, that we lodge at NAF. Ok, fine, sure, we'd love to, let's have your number, so great to meet you, be calling in just a minute. Goodbye. As we drove away from that checkpoint we shared our nightmare ideas about what staying in a barracks or spending more time with the armed forces would involve and we laughed at the idea of getting in touch with a checkpoint soldier.
But that night, spurred by a blackout, a general lack of options and the assurance of a civilian that NAF was the place to be on Friday nights, we found ourselves quarrelling with motorcycle taxi drivers outside the gates in front of uniformed guards with the M16s.
Apparently we were early. It is members only until midnight, when the party officially begins for the paying public. We mention to the bouncer that we have been referred by a member of the Air Force, so somebody goes and collects the Commanding Officer, AbdulRazhaq (the Major). He asks where we are from and decides to offer us a waiver for the evening. He lets us be seated, encourages us to wait four or five hours until the party kicks off and then excuses himself to join his table of guests. We have been awake since seven am; we slept awfully the night before; we have driven five hundred miles and we think the idea of staying in this enormous plastic chair courtyard for another five hours is fairly inconceivable. We offer him a beer out of gratitude for his hospitality and he suggests that he may join us shortly.
I am referring to Bill Murray's film not to anything involving rodents or snowflakes. I felt like I was having Bill Murray's Groundhog Day in Maiduguri. When you do not have electricity or water in your place of lodging, you are forced to go out-especially when it is necessary to exterminate thousands of mosquitoes in your one small room by spraying it full of toxic gas. You can only sit at a restaurant for so long and then, without friends or standard hokey pokey healthy entertainment options, you must find a bar. Lack of electricity is a direct cause of alcoholism, poor behavior and crime, to say nothing of economic slow down. Despite having preposterous reserves of oil, Nigeria provides Maiduguri with electricity for at most a couple of hours each day, some days it provides none whatsoever (Of course, the populace attributes this shortcoming to corruption and regional favoritism-corruption could very easily cause a civil war in this country).
So the lights go out, again, the room is sprayed into a haze of brain death, and we have to deal, somehow, with our wakefulness. In a town that is scattered with sizeable Sharia courtrooms in an area that is famously strict with its Islam, it is not easy to find a bar. We hear of two: one is incredibly far outside of town in something people call a slum that we have been warned about and the other is at the National Air Force Officer's Mess, where I was to live my Groundhog Day.
The drive to Maiduguri was sometimes frustrating. Several checkpoints were tedious and pushy. Some peon from the seventh or eight unessential branch of the armed forces invented a huge shouting nonsense about our papers of ownership, which he wanted to be issued in Nigeria (?) and blathered about taking us to the police or his supervisor. We were glad to speak to his superior; we offered him water, which he declined and then started speaking over one another in loud and offended, though sufficiently playful, tones about him refusing our gift and how offensive this was and how we felt unwelcome. He respected our proof of ownership, saw our stubbornness and sent us off. Even when you get away from these encounters, it is hard not to start cursing and slamming the dashboard when you are pulled over ten minutes later to go through the whole stupid impromptu role playing festival again.
We were not prepared for the Air Force checkpoint (what on earth the Air Force is doing manning a checkpoint in the middle of arid scrub brush underneath their dismal tree beside their board of nails was not immediately clear). The chief inquisitor of that post was simply friendly. He suggested we go to the National Air Force Officer's Mess (hereafter called NAF) and hang out with him. He suggested, also, that we lodge at NAF. Ok, fine, sure, we'd love to, let's have your number, so great to meet you, be calling in just a minute. Goodbye. As we drove away from that checkpoint we shared our nightmare ideas about what staying in a barracks or spending more time with the armed forces would involve and we laughed at the idea of getting in touch with a checkpoint soldier.
But that night, spurred by a blackout, a general lack of options and the assurance of a civilian that NAF was the place to be on Friday nights, we found ourselves quarrelling with motorcycle taxi drivers outside the gates in front of uniformed guards with the M16s.
Apparently we were early. It is members only until midnight, when the party officially begins for the paying public. We mention to the bouncer that we have been referred by a member of the Air Force, so somebody goes and collects the Commanding Officer, AbdulRazhaq (the Major). He asks where we are from and decides to offer us a waiver for the evening. He lets us be seated, encourages us to wait four or five hours until the party kicks off and then excuses himself to join his table of guests. We have been awake since seven am; we slept awfully the night before; we have driven five hundred miles and we think the idea of staying in this enormous plastic chair courtyard for another five hours is fairly inconceivable. We offer him a beer out of gratitude for his hospitality and he suggests that he may join us shortly.
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