SHAKING IN MY BOOTS IN THE BUTT END OF THE WORLD

This next little series of stories takes us to the depths of Africa and into Nigeria. I think it must be understood that NO ONE, I ever met, volunteered or went willingly to this place. To say I was scared, in the butt end of the world, is a gross understatement. I was petrified. After all of the places that I had been and all of the crap I had seen, this place was truly the most dangerous. What happened to land my ass there, was a very bad business decision of my boss. I believe he came up with some of these gems, because he had too much time on his hands. One day, while reading his newspaper and thinking of new business ventures, a lightning bolt from heaven hit him right between the horns! “Geezus”, he says, “someone bring the scribe, I have just had a brilliant idea.” “What if” he continues, “we build a plant in Nigeria, partner with a major “bad actor” from there, and win all of Shell’s pipeline work in west Africa?” “Brilliant,” says the scribe, “you are indeed a genius!”

It seemed that what followed many of his great ideas, was that, my ass would be landing in some “crap hole “shortly thereafter. And inevitably, with myself and others, would be trying to sort out the business part of the dream. Nigeria was no different. With some general visions in mind, I packed my bags and accompanied by an operations guy and a production manager we dove in. What was in store for us was an eye opener of epic proportions. I had read about, and even visited, places where I guarantee that you don’t want to be. None of them even came close to this place. It made Kuwait look like a holiday camp! I could puff up and say, “I was not afraid”, but that would be a lie. We had a small plant in Lagos, that was operating at the time. From the people working there, I had already heard enough to know that I wanted no part of this rodeo. I politely declined the offer to go, and indeed, suggested others in our executive, that were far better suited to this place. Alas, I boarded the plane anyhow.

On arrival at the airport in Lagos, a few things focused my attention. Firstly, the heat, my god it was stifling. At least 100 degrees, humid, smelly and loud. Secondly, once clearing customs (with an agent from our parent company H), we proceeded to get some local currency. Well, 250 quid, got me two BIG ass BRICKS, of bills. Each one of the bricks about 5 inches thick. There was absolutely no way I could have counted it before sundown. The next thing that struck me was the horrible smell of the money. The lumps or bricks that they gave me, in exchange for real money, were of various denominations, humid and limp. I expect the smell came from the humidity and dampness of the currency. Further, I suspect that the money had been handled 1000’s of times and stored in some pretty rank places. There was no possible way to secrete this money on your person, so everyone had some form of hand carry bag or briefcase for that purpose. Then came the overall smell, a combination, of the heat on unrefrigerated food, on unwashed bodies and on garbage piled along side everything. Head clearing too say the least.

Already, I disliked this place and I hadn’t made it out of the airport yet. Outside was another world. It seemed as if everyone in Lagos had shown up to the airport to greet me. There were guards on the doors to keep the hoards at bay, however outside was chaos. People yelling and screaming, cars honking, children crying, vendors selling, beggars begging, taxis enticing, and everyone looking at you like fresh meat. Geezus, it was intimidating. Fortunately, the parent company H had a policy that said, anyone arriving in Lagos had to be met by them and transported, immediately to their offices for debriefing. At that point they also assigned you an armed guard, to remain glued to your side each time you left your accommodations. However more on that later. I am convinced that if I had left the airport by myself, I would not have made it out of the parking area in one piece. And most certainly, without any possessions. We pushed through the crowds, me clutching my two bricks of money. Into a company car and off to work.

The drive into Lagos is like nowhere else in the world, save Thailand, for traffic. I believe I counted 11 lanes of traffic going both ways on a 6 lane freeway. The cars were bumper to bumper and door to door. You could, not possibly open your doors, even 3 inches while stuck in this traffic. It was claustrophobic! Your face was about 6 inches from the guy in the next car. It was sssslllllooooowwww. However, we finally made it to H’s office where they provided me a company vehicle, driver and armed guard. The guard carried a small machine gun.

He sat in the front seat, machine gun propped up in front of him, where everyone could see it. If this was intended, to make me feel better about the security situation, it had the opposite effect. Now I was really crapping myself. I was hot, my clothes stuck to me, my money smelled, I was scared and truly feeling sorry for myself, in the butt end of the world. Finally a long day was over and I was deposited at our company apartment, shared by the management of our plant in Lagos. Well at least I’ll now get to try some African cuisine, right. Not! We had our own local cook, but the UK staff who worked in country had taught him to cook nothing but UK style. Bangers and mash for dinner, what?

After an evening with my colleagues, filling my head with local horror stories and the do’s and dont’s of living in Nigeria, I was up early and into my car with driver and guard. Now I’m headed for the south of the country, onto the Niger delta to meet with our proposed partner and find some suitable land to erect our plant on. We needed to be on the ocean, with good harbour potential, near a highway, and in the ugliest of possible sites. Why ugly you might ask? Well it seemed like our company could only function in the worst crap-hole in each location, we decided to set up in. After all, you wouldn’t want anyone to feel good about where they worked, now would you? In any event, we drove south from Lagos, through Port Harcourt, a city of about 1.4 million, at that time. We continued south, headed for the very bowels of Nigeria. Seeking the place where all of the effluent from west Africa is voided into the ocean. My memories of this trip were of heat, noise, jungle, mud and lopsided shanty towns bordering the highway.

Passing thru Port Harcourt I had the impression of a huge dilapidated shanty town, and a seething mass of people trying to eek out a living. Although Nigeria had immense Oil wealth, little of it seemed to make its way down to the people. Just a couple of days prior to my arrival, 286 locals had been killed, when tapping into a Gas transportation pipeline, when a spark ignited an explosion. Stories such as this were common. We then proceeded south from Port Harcourt, in search of the delta and a place to setup. It was in this part of the journey that I really came to know the dangers of west Africa. By this time, I had settled into an uneasy truce with my fate. I am no longer feeling sorry for myself, now I just want to be done with my part of it and get out of here. Suddenly, in the middle of the highway we come to a stop. Peering out I can see rubble, twisted metal and old tires piled high in the centre of the road. Milling around this pile are about 20 young men brandishing machetes, axes and the odd small rifle. Now my heart is in my throat!

The driver says, “mister, don’t worry, I will see what they want.” With this, the guard, props his machine gun even higher, so it is clearly visible to those outside. We inch closer to this gathering and can now hear a chant coming from the “bobbing and weaving” mass. The driver roles down his window and speaks with, what appeared to be, the leader of the blockade team. They speak in earnest for a couple of minutes, the guard holding his gun high and scowling out at the group. The conversation now concluded, our driver reaches into his pocket and pulls out some bills, which he hands to the leader. We are then waved thru and slowly pass the blockade and proceed on our journey. At this point, I cannot contain myself any longer. “What did they want?” The driver leans back and says, “road tax”. He continues, “in this manner, the local villages stop traffic and collect a tax or ransom from travellers using the highway. ” Don’t the police stop them?” “Sure”, he says, “but they only move down the road a bit and set up again. “Besides,” he adds, “the police were probably being paid to turn a blind eye”.

Now I am curious. “What do they do if you refuse to pay?” “Well” he continues, “If you have a guard with a big gun, probably nothing other than shouting and screaming and jumping around.” “If you are from a neighbouring village, they will probably pull you out and beat the crap out of you, until you pay!” Hhhhmmm, that sounds like a good negotiating strategy.” If you are a businessperson, with no guard, then they may kidnap you, seize your vehicle and then ask your company, if they would like to pay the tax.” Now I’m truly concerned! I should know enough by now to satisfy my curiosity, however I just gotta know; “does that happen often, where they kidnap someone?” “Just read the papers” he says, “someplace, it happens every day!” Geezus let me out of here! Once again, I feel that ominous gurgling in my bowels. Aaaaahhh, a day in the life of Nigeria, mamma!

Finally, about high noon we reach the place, which has been proposed as our plant site. Two of our people are there and meet me at the side of the road. All I can see is jungle, steaming swamp, stagnant water, mud, more mud and bugs. Yup looks right, this must be the place. Our guys have been there a few days, are staying in Port Harcourt and are less than happy with their lot. I am sure they felt it was somehow my fault that they landed here, on this site. When in fact, the site was property of our “soon to be” local partner. I kicked around there, for a few hours, trying to avoid driving back up the road and thru another “roadblock”. However, I finally had to return to Port Harcourt and meet with our partner-to-be. As it turned out this was another of life’s rewards that I could have lived, without.

In Port Harcourt, I met with our local agent, who was hired to show us the ins and outs of business in Nigeria. He was a tall, expensively dressed, formal looking guy, more suited to life in Manhattan than in southern Nigeria. And as I later found out, he spent a great deal of his time in Houston, hobnobbing with the Houston Rockets basketball team. Later; I did attend a party with him and some of his NBA friends and had a brief glimpse “of how the other half live”. But that is a story for another time. In any event we met and he filled me in on our “potential partner’s” business and background. I developed, very quickly, a sense that our “agent” was a little intimidated, and was holding something back. Little did I know, just how correct I was.

We entered into his office building and were shepherded directly through, a packed reception area and into a large wood panelled office. In the middle of the office, crouched a large, polished teak desk, about the size of a 1970’s Cadillac! In the middle of the desk perched a big, solid looking, chrome sign that read “THE CHAIRMAN”. I guess, at this point, I was no longer confused as to the title of the guy, I was about to meet. Nor how important he thought he was. Behind this imposing island of wood, leaning slightly forward, appearing ready to pounce, and devour anything in sight, was a large African male. He was clothed in green camo fatigues and sported a red beret, on top of a shiny bald head. He had a belligerent look on his face (worked on me, scared the hell out of me). I suddenly came to the realization where Idi Amin had escaped to after fleeing Uganda. Maybe not, but he was a close imitation! Our agent appeared to near wet himself, as he fawned over the “Chairman”.

I would like to say that the meeting was pleasant, however that would be untrue. He made his points, on how he envisioned a partnership running. Basically he would run it, we would give him piles of money, in return for him allowing us to serve him, in “his” part of the country. Our agent drank in every word, bobbing his head up and down in cadence to the “Chairman’s” monologue. At this point, I realized, that this agent would be useless to me, in this type of meeting. Great! So I’m now on my own, in the bowels of Africa, and too stupid to be intimidated. I politely wait for this guy to finish his diatribe, then I firmly explain to him, how this type of relationship would work. To say we were polar opposites was an understatement. As the meeting wound down, it was apparent that neither of us had any room for the other’s opinion. I had rode this “bull” many times and knew exactly how it would play out. He, on the other hand, was “The Chairman” and was used to, everyone in his part of the world slobbering on his combat boots.

At last, we were out of there, myself not even realizing how much danger I was in. To say I bonded with The Chairman was not even close to how it went. As soon as we reached the lobby, my companion bolted for the bathroom. On our ride to town, he is trying to put a positive spin on it, but struggling to find anything constructive to say. He was mostly silent, I’m sure thinking of ways to keep his money flowing, yet to never have to get into that kind of meeting, ever again. He dumps me at the best hotel in Port Harcourt, which might have climbed to about a 2 star, on its best day. It was hot, humid, smelled, looked tired and unfriendly. Oh well, home sweet home.

My most vivid memory of the hotel was when paying the bill. The desk clerk took one of my big bricks of money and counted EACH AND EVERY bill in the pile. This he did from one end without dismantling the brick. Then, to my amazement, turned the pile over and counted it again. This took 15 minutes. Apparently much of the transactions were done with bricks of money, and it was quite common for the middle of the bricks to contain “blank” sheets. Further, some notes might be printed on one side and the back be blank. SO even though the banks had counted the brick and banded it tight, certifying the content, business owners recounted it each and every time it changed hands. Oh how I hated the Naira.

Fast forward a couple of months and I am now instructed to return to Nigeria, and finalize the discussions with our proposed partner. I could hardly wait. This time I am accompanied by a senior VP with authority to put pen to paper and formalize any agreement we arrived at. My first trip was still clear in my mind, so I did not see him needing his “signing pen”, anytime soon. However, some additional discussions had been held at a higher level. As well as, external pressure having been applied by our “client” to make this plant happen. So maybe? In any event I went with an open mind, and the goal of putting an agreement together so that I never had to return to this place.

On arrival, not much had changed, it was hot, humid noisy and the money smelled. Same procedure as before. We were whisked away to H’s head office, given a car and a driver. Luckily we got the same driver, who got close and said, “Mister I need to speak with you.” He proceeded to tell me that if the same guard were assigned to us, to turn him down and request another. He added, “did you know when we went last time, your guard had no bullets for his submachine gun!” He had “sold” them and we were travelling without ammunition right thru a roadblock! At this point my blood ran cold. I looked at him to see if he was just teasing me. Nope, he was dead serious. I realized then that I was so close to being a kidnap victim on our last trip. Once again, my “manper” was at serious risk of being soiled.

Reassured that my new guard had bullets and they fit his gun, we jumped in and headed for Port Harcourt. There we met our agent and head for The Chairman’s office. Our agent had met our Senior VP previously and they chatted away like old buddies. It was obvious that he knew where his checks were being signed and therefore had no further need to speak with me. We entered the offices, were whisked thru, a still packed, reception area and into The Chairman’s office. Our leader takes a page from the agent’s book and roundly slobbers and drools over our host. I felt slightly nauseous at this display. We sat down, a round of coffee and chitchat, and then down to business. It started with The Chairman repeating how he envisioned the relationship proceeding. In addition he made it sound that him and I had agreed on each of his points. The hackles on my neck stood up.

And of course, the old JimboRed mouth could not be still. I was somewhat irritated and blurted out, “hold it!” “That’s not how it went at all.” I then restated our company’ position on the partnering structure. Especially, since we were providing everything other than a right to be present in someone else’s country. Not used to being contradicted, his eyes turned blood red. Oops I thought, maybe I have irritated him. Too bad I figured, one should not tell mis-truths”! He now bangs a huge “meaty” fist on the table and yells, “are you calling me a liar?” Well I was, but tried to be diplomatic with my answer. He is now steamed and shouts out, “IF I SAY I WILL BE AT YOUR HOTEL TONIGHT TO PUT A BULLET IN YOU. YOU BETTER BELIEVE, I WILL BE THERE!” He finishes with, “I AM A CHRISTIAN!”. Up jumps our senior guy and with both arms raised, yells, “me too!” I look at our agent, he is pale, but nodding his head up and down. Well I guess that leaves me as the only “heathen” in the room. Lord, when my life ends, please don’t send me, to the same place, where these guys are going!

Now I am truly shaking in my boots. I am stunned. Never had I been threatened, like this in my life, over a business deal. What a negotiating strategy! Geezus! It was surreal, yet the full impact set in immediately. I rose, thanked everyone and headed for the door. For me this meeting was over, as was any question of ever meeting with this man, ever again. I get downstairs in a hurry. My “christian” leader catches up to me and gasps, “that guy is really scary”! He adds, “what do we do now?” Our agent appears, looking like he will faint or wet himself, or maybe both. He looks at me and says, “I think you need to leave Nigeria, now!” I can only agree, so he gets on the phone to secure me a flight out. By 11:30pm, I am on a plane to Paris. As it sunk in, I realized just how close I might have been to not making it out. Once in Paris I called the President of our company and told him that I had left Nigeria, and would never return! And further, if he had any intention of sending me there again, then he should just fire me now. His response was, “Jimbo you’re just too sensitive, lighten up!”

Clearly, this post is far too long and I expect too boring, however I must add a few additional snippets, that happened during our stay in Nigeria. Even though I would never again travel to this country, I still had involvement in our business there. At one point, we needed to hire security for our staff, as attacks (kidnappings) of expat’s became more endemic. We secured the services of a well renowned, global, mercenary, protection group. They came in, evaluated the situation and made recommendations, which we followed. One of these was to secure an “escape boat” in the event of a land based attack on our facilities. This done the mercenaries went about their business of making our facility secure and training our personnel in evacuation measures. One day while they were out practising maneuvers in the “escape boat”, they were hijacked and captured by pirates! “Geezus”, I blurted out, “maybe we need to look for a better team and faster escape boat!” No one appreciated my humour. Anyway, after a week or two in captivity and the payment of some “tax”, they were released, along with our escape boat.

I am now at the end and I expect many of you are thinking, bullshit, impossible, what a load of crap and other such, literary critique. Well, I just want to say, every word is as true as my memory allows. I am also here to tell you, that what I have transcribed is a small snapshot of the events that happened in West Africa. There were many, many more, even more outrageous and unbelievable. So, at the risk of being thought “an old fool”, I will keep the rest to myself.