African Airports

Douala International Airport

I have just spent a few days in Port Harcourt, a city that sadly has little to recommend it.  What however struck me about the trip was the difference between the airports, I left Douala and flew to Lagos. The airport at Douala, which features in A Woman Of Africa, is unique, "decrepit" is another word that springs to mind, along with "chaotic", however, despite the leaking roofs, disabled clocks and total lack of administration there is generally a pleasant atmosphere, the staff are usually polite, and cheerful and seem to have a realistic sense of humour about the state of the airport.

Murtala Muhammed International Airport at Lagos, however is a fairly modern large busy airport, which seems to function with reasonable efficiency and unmitigated hostility from the staff. The girl on the information desk was far too busy chatting on her mobile phone to actually provide a service, the security guard who searched me seemed to be under the impression that I was personally responsible for the UK government immigration policy. "Why is it so difficult to get permanent residence in the United Kingdom?" , he kept blaring in halitoses ridden breath whilst making the most incompetent search imaginable, I could have probably carried a rocket launcher through he was so obsessed.

Prior to boarding my hand luggage was searched again, "What have you got for me?" is the inevitable question posed by Nigerian Customs and security staff as opposed to the more internationally recognised "Anything to declare?"

Having finally attained the relative security of the plane, I wondered, perhaps the formulators of UK Immigration policy have also travelled through Lagos, and it would be little wonder if they had formed a poor opinion of the country.

Which brings me back to the fact that, first impressions last, those who are chosen to police their countries borders can do  great service or catastrophic dis-service to their fellow countrymen.  I know and have met many polite, courteous and  hard working Nigerians, however none of them seem to be able to get a job at the airport.

A Ghost in The Machine

Yesterday, I was sitting in a leaky Zodiac just of Limbe (formerly Victoria) Cameroon as divers performed a seabed survey prior to a rig move. There was a rolling swell and a slight off shore breeze. In fact perfect surf conditions for the area, two days earlier based on weather maps I had been sitting on he same beach with my board and no waves.   Science does not have all the answers; Murphy’s Law as ever is the only reliable rule.

Many years ago, when I was much too young to really appreciate it I read Arthur Koesler’s “Ghost in the Machine”, I got the gist but I think I missed a lot.  Since then I have traveled far both physically and mentally, (I avoid the use of the word spiritually), I have been in Mosques, Temples, Churches across the world, I have read as many works on the great and lesser religions as I can lay my hands on.  Religion, I have come to suspect to be a natural state for the human animal, I greatly enjoyed the aggressive humanist atheism of Christopher Hutchins’s  “God is Not Great”, (read it in Saudi Arabia which added spice). Whilst I find him intellectually fulfilling (and probably right in most cases) I think he does miss something. The human quest for spiritual enlightenment has provided us with some of our greatest works of art, our greatest achievements, and our worst atrocities.  From the Crusaders sacking of Jerusalem, when the street reportedly rand as deep as the horses knees in blood and entrails to the Twin Towers, religion has been a driving force for horror.

Any one who has ever purchased a decent stereo system will have encountered that annoying hum, that is generated by an un earthed amplifier; connection of the earth lead reestablishes balance and removes the buzz. I have come to the conclusion that Koestler’s “Ghost”, is a loose earth lead wired into our brains that manifests itself as spiritual need. Unfortunately for some people the “hum’ becomes so annoying that they can no longer think clearly enough to make the earth connection and they plug them selves into the mains and we have Osama bin Ladin, George Bush, and Jehovah’ s Witnesses.  Eventually the system overloads and they fry their brains. Like Paulo Coelho's Santiago I have made my journey and returned to the point of departure, When the hum gets too much I pick up my surf board and paddle out, it does not matter any more how good the surf is, the connection is made. I don’t need a guru I have a surfboard shaper.

Nirvana is a long tubing right hand wave with sun shining through the back and no one else out...... forever.....

Unbearable light from a Heart Of Darkness

I have just returned from a brief trip to Congo, it should have been a pilgrimage; it is after all where Heart Of Darkness I set. Whilst it is true I had little time ashore and can not really claim to have “seen’ the country, one thing in particular struck me; The Light. Much of the West African Coast is dark and brooding, the jungle frequently pushes right op to the shoreline a deep olive drab beneath a darkling cloud laden sky. Congo was light, Magreb light, the beaches were long white and sandy and the sea a sparkling blue. 

I am sure that the rainy season must produce that darkness, but it absence struck me forcibly. Admittedly the name “Pointe Noire” lends itself to the ambience, but it’s subtly undermined my long held vision of Conrad’s novella, “Mr. Kurtz, he waxin’ down he surfboard, drinkin ‘ cold beer”. Just isn’t the same.

A genteel Aside from my usual rantings

As a sun seeking nomad my self I read this book with a sense of reaffirmation of self, I am not mad I am not alone!! An addiction to vitamin D is not a heinous social sin to be discussed on anonymous web sites, but something actually quite normal, as a result of this book  I will no longer hide my plane tickets in discrete brown paper bags and when I fly to Mauritania I will not feel the need to lie to my friends and tell them I am going to Middlesborough....

"Sunshine", is as important to the Heliophile, as "The Female Eunuch" was to the bra burners of the 60's, in both cases these book are liberators of skin.

Read it and emigrate!!!

SUNSHINE!

Ex Africa semper aliquid novi

Ex Africa semper aliquid novi—Pliny (AD 23-79)

There are times when I wonder why I chose to live in a country where every time I turn on a tap it's a mater of chance what (if anything) will come out, and when there is water the colour spectrum ranges from puce green to ultra violent.  A country where clocks are quite clearly decorative as no one ever does anything on time, in fact the international Airport at Douala for at least three years only had two clocks, neither of which worked, which was actually irrelevant as nothing ever took off on time any way. The national airline was known as "Air peut etre" (Air Maybe); the roads consist of more pothole than road and the mosquitoes are on steroids.  However just as I think I am coming to my senses and should settle down in Biddeford or some such place I come across a gentleman like the chap in this photograph, quite clearly the Cameroonian James Bond on a motor bike that the Local "Q" has adapted for amphibious operations! It is the sheer insanity of the place; Louis Carol at his most opium riddled could never have imagined it. 

Pliny, all those years ago, was right and it holds s true to day

Ex Africa semper aliquid novi

Johnson was wrong when he said, "When a man is tired of London he is tired of Life", however had he said the same about Africa he might have been much nearer the mark.

Questions and Answers

Before I joined the police service, I read a lot in preparation for the interview. One book that I found absolutely fascinating was “ Bent Coppers” a history of Corruption in the British Police Service. Having seen the cover, I expected to find it written by a John Lennon look alike who labored under the impression that all Police Officers were in fact Neanderthal neo fascists who had trouble reading without moving their lips and spent their time (in-between Lodge Meetings) fitting up innocent members of this weeks ethnic minority of choice.  That I expected this shows also something of my own preconceptions at the time, (or, dare I say, prejudice) I was, despite having a masters degree in a liberal arts subject, under the impression that anyone who was in any way “ social “ (e.g. commentator/ worker etc) automatically used unscented soap, knitted their own musseli, wore National Health glasses, and was a fully paid up member of CND and the communist party. Like most preconceptions they were wrong.  The book was clearly written, and informative and in the main body of the text largely non-judgmental, it was however the epilogue that will always remain with me, (it must be remembered that this was in the days before Lord McPherson put the final nail in the coffin of British policing). The conclusion of the book was (I do not remember the exact words and I gave away my copy), but the gist any way was: “ the British Public must decide weather it wants to be protected by a Police force that is effective but occasionally does not bear too close examination, or would prefer to be left defenseless and have a squeaky clean Police force that looked good and acheaved little”.

After my first two weeks in the force I was in a classroom that was addressed by a man whom I consider to be the Messiah of Modern Policing, the then Chief Constable of Kent, Dave Philips. Dave Philips was a blunt Yorkshire man, with a mind that was anything but blunt, a visionary, and like most prophets a man unheralded in his own land.  The class of which I formed a part had just been subjected to two weeks of Intense Political Correctness, lessons on stereotyping, and other political buzzwords and then there was Dave Philips. I would like to say that rolls of thunder heralded his entrance, blistering lightening lit the sky and that the curtains of the lecture hall were rent in two. However in the interests of veracity I cannot, it was spring in Kent and birds were twittering almost annoyingly outside. Dave Philips entered, wild grey hair flying, suit sleeves rolled up to the elbow and wearing the most incongruous white socks.

It is not often that one can recall the contents of a speech many years after the event, however, Dave Phillips (to the evident dismay of our immaculate instructors) launched into a speech on the insights of the First world war historian and writer Liddell Heart, and then proceeded to advise the raw recruits that stereo typing works. “As an avid ornithologist”, he told us “ I see a nightingale and hear it’s song, I do this on a number of occasions, when on a later occasion I hear the same song but I can not see the bird I can rest assured that there is a nightingale present”. I remember watching the instructors groan at this patiently obvious piece of common sense that so went against what they were trying to teach. Dave Philips was (in his own words) “ A f*cking good detective” for the simple reason that he understood human beings and was not afraid to act on that understanding.  This of course placed a glass ceiling on his career, in a service that rewards the pursuit of mediocrity and punishes excellence.

Despite various ups and downs I eventually made it through my probation and started on what at one point looked like being a fairly successful career in Law Enforcement. Or as I saw it “Justice Enforcement” not necessarily synonymous!

I spent a certain amount of time on an interview team, (Part of what we shall call here CID, tough under the Dave Phillips model something far more surgical); there I worked for an Acting DS. I remember him as being very efficient thorough, a good interviewer, self possessed and extremely helpful to a young copper. He taught me a lot about case files and investigative procedure.

He was, however, not some one I stayed in touch with after I left. Today I was waiting to go off shore and I was trawling through the internet looking for old colleagues, and I typed my former Sergeant’s name into Google, looking I suppose for a Facebook Page or Linkedin or Myspace, to my shock I found a series of Articles about how he had been convicted of stabbing his wife, and was on the sex offenders register and had a rape conviction.

This forced me to reflect, it is often said that society gets the Police Force it deserves, and I wonder how true this is. Police Officers are notoriously subject to divorce, alcoholism, suicide, depression debt and addictive behavior, it comes with the territory. There was, in one of the articles, a photograph of my former DS, he was easily recognizable. What had made him like that? What had gone wrong? Was he some one who should never have been recruited or did the system make him then fail him? I do not know and I am not qualified to say, but I feel the question must be posed.

I read once that the difference between a Police officer and soldier is that a soldier deals with Violence, a Police Officer deals with the consequence of violence. In both cases the individual becomes desensitized.

The question remains though; are we asking too much of our Police officers? I recall one occasion where during a particularly nasty public order incident, I had quite literally been fighting for my life, I eventually overcame the offender. I can still feel the adrenalin pumpimg through my veins the uncontrollable twitching in my muscles as they spasmed whilst trying to reabsorb the life saving hormone and return me to normal. As soon as the cuffs clicked around the offenders wrists, an offender who moments before had been trying to stab me, I was required to calmly caution him, whereas every instinct in my body, based on millions of years of evolution wanted to drive his head through the tarmac and dispose of the threat once and for all.  I remember tripping over the words of the caution, until an older and more experienced officer grabbed me by the arm (obviously realizing what I was going through) and walked me round the patrol car three times till I was calm enough to perform my duty correctly.

But what does that do to the mind and body? Adrenalin is a powerful substance evolved to power the fight or flight reflex, it raises the heart rate more effectively than any street corner amphetamine, and channels the blood flow of the body, narrows vision and impairs mental function, in short it turns us back in to the savages we once needed to be to survive.

Police Officers however are expected to go from this cloud of red mist to quiet professionalism in under a second. It’s like asking some one to drive a Ferrari a full speed into a brick wall and get out unscathed, it’s asking too much. Something, sooner or latter, will break.

I have no idea who or what broke my former DS, but next time you see a broken copper look beyond the self righteous indignation of the tabloids, and ask yourself, would you rather let the machine that is Law enforcement run as nature intended, in which case you might sleep peacefully in your beds, or should it be neutered/ emasculated (sorry about the gender specific) / and rendered safe and ineffective? A safe police Force is like a safe sword… Pointless.

It is a paradox, and one that reminds me of one of my favorite songs, “Sympathy with the Devil”  Jagger belts out,

Every Cop is a criminal

And all the sinners saints”

And then summarizes so well

“ I shouted out, who killed the Kenedeys?

When after all

It was you and Me”

A suitable epitaph for the Blind Lady Who Stands atop the Old Baily,

“Sympathy For the Devil”

I wonder when they will pull her down, after all she is gender specific and quite clearly Caucasian?

R.I.P BRITISH POLICING

Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves

A short story that has nothing at all to do with Africa:

Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves

“Go on quicker Louis! Go on quicker! Why dost Thou loiter?” . The Sheriff, held a blazing torch in his hand, the flames flickering almost horizontally in the howling wind that whipped his long black hair around his harsh angular face. There was as smile on his face as he goaded me on. My horse was slipping on the muddy path, the water ran in torrents between the sharp flints that were being exposed as the topsoil on the steep path was being washed away. His thick black cloak whipped and cracked in the wind, a black flag against the ragged mountain, signalling to the torch-bearing mob of ignorant villagers gathered in the valley bellow that justice was being done, that soon all would be well, the Gypsies were on the move again, the rains would stop, the curse of the Gypsies presence would be lifted and of course their precious little children would be safe. He thought he was so clever, so big and strong because he could order a small band of gypsies to roll on, like the misguided idiot who commands the falling tide to retreat and claims for himself the credit. And the rain? We don’t bring the rain! Does he not know that Fire is the Devil’s only friend? And there they all were these ignorant fools, hollering and clamouring in their pathetic fear of the unknown, and what do these idiots bring us of all things: Fire! You do not quench a flood with pails nor douse an inferno with flame! How blind are those that will not see? My horse slipped and stumbled, I caught hold of his soaking halter and steadied him, his black flanks rising and failing with exertion and panic.  I heard the Sheriff laugh at my perceived misfortune, “Go on quicker Louis! Go on quicker! Why dost Thou loiter?” I could hear the gloat in his throat. I stopped and steadied myself, I stood up to my full height, people generally forget how tall I am and it invariable takes them aback. I smiled at him and I new that the blood red light of his torch would shine on my gold teeth.  Understanding the surroundings, reading the environment and knowing how to use it to the best effect, that is the true magic of the Gypsies. As I smiled at him the light of his torch flared off my teeth and cast my face into jagged scarlet relief sending fleeting black shadows across my sunken cheeks and highlighting the arch of my nose. I smiled, and his face froze, and his blood ran cold.

“I shall stand and rest, but thou, thou shalt go on till…. ?

I winked slyly at him, and turned back to give my horse the attention he deserved. The Sheriff stepped backwards sharply in fear, I know he did this because even above the roar of the wind and the rain I heard his heavy boots splash in the mud, and because that’s what they always do. Without needing to look I knew that his right hand would have reached for the comfort of the curved wooden handle of the flintlock pistol that was tucked into his belt. He crossed himself and I sensed as much as heard him mutter beneath his breath “ retro mehi satna..” ( “get behind me Satan”. I heard his sword clink in its scabbard. I smiled to myself.

Many ages ago the sword of Centurion Quintus Caecillius had rattled in its scabbard just so, and scared me half to death as he stirred in his sleep atop the barren hill. He was propped against the wooden monstrosity  and snoring deeply. The body that hung from the cross was beyond salvation, the fluids had already filled the lower limbs and they were swollen  and discoloured. Excrement ran down the base of the cross. Beside the indolent Quintus, however had been the object of my desire, the foot long wooden box with the sliding top, that contained the brass nails. When full each box would contain enough nails for ten Crucifixions. Brass for which the souk Arabs would pay good money. The box was heavy and awkward and rattled as I lifted it. The leather wine skin  that lay empty at Quintus’s side had given me confidence that he was so deep in his cups that he would not stir.  It was a dangerous enterprise for the theft of Imperial property could have placed me on a cross with those very nails. “Render unto Caesar that which is Caesar’s” had preach the doomed Nazarene  who would soon find himself  atop that very same hill. In fact I thought to myself the man should be grateful I had brought him a few minutes extra life. But as for his pious nonsense, I figured Caesar had quite enough to manage on so I had made it my business to lighten his burden and I relieved him of that which was his as frequently as possible. Quintus’s sword rattled. I looked back, he was stirring in his sleep. I was so far committed to the enterprise that there was no turning back. The cross loomed overhead. Now I am not nor ever have been a regular visitor to Church, Synagogue or Mosque. I had already calculated that if He whom we do not name was really so bent on justice and the punishment of sinners I was better off not drawing myself to his attention but hoped that there were plenty off others to keep him busy and that I might pass beneath his all seeing gaze, but at that moment I uttered a silent prayer to Him that we name not.  Now I am not completely ignorant and I had heard the grey beards wagging on about the Patriarchs, and I knew that when He whom we name not decided to make appearances in person it was usually pretty spectacular; thunder claps and burning bushes seemed to be the order of the day. As I uttered my silent request, which I admit might be seen by some as somewhat hypocritical. I knew at once that the unsleeping eye had at last fallen on me. Quintus and the cross appeared to be frozen into the likeness of the frescos that the Roman’s so loved to paint around their walls and pottery, I however appeared to be able to move freely amongst them with out arousing the slightest reaction.  I figured that I should be grateful and not a little respectful, for if this was indeed the hour of my passing it was certainly better than being pinned to a couple of beams of wood in the  desert sun, till my life was slowly drained away. I noticed too that the stench of the hanging body too, appeared to have been assuaged by the sweet ( and I find somewhat sickening) smell of Jasmine.  I knew He was present it was an oppressive over bearing sensation. He did not, it is true, speak in words, I was rather hoping that he would, for were he to speak in Latin or Aramaic that would show up those self righteous old fools at the Temple with all their patronizing cant about Hebrew grammar. As it was I was denied the pleasure, but meaning formed in my mind. A rather dull trick for an omnipotent deity, I thought to myself, when the snake charmers of the caravans could perform the same feat, and they were Samaritans! I checked myself, it was probably a two way process and I thought I was probably in enough trouble as it was without aggravating the situation by thinking disrespectfully, after all He was known to be somewhat capricious.

His message was quite simple, without all the usual directions about who could and who could not be worshiped and all that stuff about begetting, and eternal damnation. He was not particularly pleased with me and I had been a disappointment to Him. However by my last  actions I had prolonged the life of his only begotten son ( I knew there would be some” begetting “ sooner or later He can’t help Himself). As a result of this unconscious act of mercy on my part the messiah would spend more time amongst His people and his pain and humiliation delayed, in reward I was to be pardoned my sins past present and future nor would my descendents be punished. Then, as if as an after thought,  He added that this only applied to future “theft” and that I was not to consider it a licence to commit idolatry, adultery and murder and all those other things He normally gets so worked up about.

His presence lifted and I started to run down the stony hill. The crowds were already gathering, nothing draws a weekend crowd like a brutal public execution especially when it is a local celebrity. I was hopping and skipping like a new born lamb, I had been given divine authority to commit Larceny. I wanted to get a good position in the crowd because I was eager to see the pandemonium that would break out when the theft of the nails was discovered. It also pleased my sense of irony that a carpenter would be held up by the lack of nails, which were still well hidden beneath my cloak and would soon be buying me some fine Assyrian wine.

Now I had more pressing concerns as I struggled with my sodden horse, than pleasant memories of a sunny afternoon in a distant land long ago. The land was different the language was different the people were different, but a bloodthirsty seething mob is a blood thirsty seething mob be they Hebrew or Rumanian, the difference was that this time it was my blood they wanted.  It was true I had often reflected Jesus ( or Issa) as we had called him back then had a sense of theatre, and he could work a crowd like no other I have seen.