Weekend in Abuja

There is little in this world that makes me happier than driving through Abuja in a taxi at night. For anyone who has grown up in Northern Europe, the combination of warm air and a dark sky is just magical. And there’s something about a twinkling foreign city (albeit one whose full quota of lights will never all be twinkling at the same time) which adds to that magic. So speeding along, with a warm breeze in my hair, a beer or two in my belly and the city rushing past my window, I think I’m the happiest I could ever be.

This weekend in Abuja was a strange one. Simon flew to Enugu (a state in the South of Nigeria) for two weeks on Sunday, and needed to be in the Abuja office on Friday to have a meeting prior to this. Since I was only going to be doing work which could be done in any office, and since there was a space in Simon’s car, I went with him so that we could spend the weekend together. I’m always nervous when I do something like this: I know that, rationally, I’m not costing anyone any money and I’m still getting the same amount of work done, but I still feel guilty for getting the luxury of a weekend in Abuja when I don’t really have a justification for being there. I also don’t like the idea that colleagues will see me coming down with Simon and think that we’re joined at the hip: far from it – the main reason I joined him this weekend was so that we would have an extra couple of days together in a six-week period where five are being spent apart.

It is a huge benefit of our placements that we are working with a large funded programme, and that we have the luxury of travelling with their air-conditioned vehicles and staying in their lovely guesthouses when we are on their business. We have glimpses into what it must be like to be an international development consultant: not having to worry about how to get from A to B, having all your arrangements made for you, having someone else judge what’s safe and what’s not. In a way, it feels like it must be liberating – simply to be able to get on with enjoying being somewhere and focus on the task in hand without having to concern yourself with the peripheral minutiae. But when we put one foot into that world, far from being liberating, it actually feels quite stifling. To lose all control over what you do and where you go, to rely on your employer for absolutely everything, to have to wait for a driver to turn up, accepting that you’re going to miss your flight, rather than be able to find alternative routes to the airport: it can be infuriating. Not to mention the fact that, since arrangements for both work and personal life are both in the lap of your employer, there ceases to be a line between the two and it’s very hard to know when you’re on the clock and when you’re on your own time: weekend and evening meetings are commonplace.

On Saturday, we decided to try to find the Salamander Café – an establishment lauded in both the guidebook and Time Out, and one which apparently sells real coffee (a rarity out here). We wrote down the address and headed out in a taxi to find it. The driver didn’t know the place, but did know the road, so we drove up and down this very long street trying to find the café. Remarkably, there were actually house numbers on many of the buildings so we were able to pinpoint exactly where this café should be. Of course, it wasn’t there. Instead, there was a run down building which looked like it hadn’t been open for some time. So instead we trawled back to a sign we’d noticed, with the unlikely claim that it belonged to an Italian restaurant and delicatessen.

So from one place we thought should have existed and didn’t, to another which we thought would never exist but, it turns out, does. Sure enough, up ‘Da Maria’s’ wrought iron staircase was an a bona fide Italian restaurant, with fine china, large wine glasses and bread baskets, and a delicatessen, selling artichoke hearts, mozzarella and wine. Unbelievable! We enjoyed an extravagant and surreal meal of antipasti, lasagne, Chianti, coffee and dessert with a consultant and another volunteer, all of us pausing every so often to say “I just can’t believe I’m in Nigeria!”.

Oh, and by the way – I had malaria last week. Yes, I know. Again. It seems pointless to blog about it any more, but thought I’d let you know. For the record.