by R. A. Lang
We made it to the junction with only seconds to spare. The angry mob was almost on top of us, but they couldn’t make it to us quickly enough to block our escape as they were all on foot.
The track I turned into was badly broken up, and some of its potholes were over two feet deep and too wide to jump at speed. We were already out of the main danger, but we still didn’t know whether the workers’ unions had had the brains to organise another group to use the same track we were on. Out of sight and in the middle of nowhere wouldn’t have been a good place for Chris and me to be caught.
We continued swerving around the potholes for another half hour before the road began to improve, but it was still slow going.
There weren’t any signposts at the junctions out in the middle of nowhere, and I had only been along that route from the opposite direction once in the past. Luckily, I navigated correctly in the right direction, which was a first for me, so we didn’t get lost and eventually ended up back at the little village of El Tigrito without incident. This day there weren’t any workers hanging around as before; they were all outside our site entrance, picketing without an audience.
I was receiving death threats from anonymous emails because my mechanical completions system was reducing the project schedule. The project was seven months behind when I had first arrived back in December, but using my system I had succeeded in bringing it forward by around three or four months. This enabled the oil company to make an unplanned $437 million in early oil exports.
As a change from the usual boring road to the site, I began using that old track more often. I continued working for a few more months before leaving in September of 2002 and returning to the United Kingdom. In August, one of the girls working for me began working to rule, and would threaten the other girls not to assist or cooperate with me as she was in charge.
She also relayed the same to the contractors’ workers who were also involved with completions. She’d go to the Colombian project manager behind my back with stories that she could do my job and that he should make me hand over the administration password of my database so she could make improvements to it. One day I was requested to go to the project manager’s office, and as I entered, I found all my staff already sitting there.
The project manager explained that I needed to give my admin password to the girls so they could make changes to my database, at which I just laughed. I asked if the company would like to first purchase my copyright protected system, as I was the sole owner. This changed everything and I was permitted to leave without giving my password, which I wasn’t about to give freely after the years it had taken to create in any case. I took my truck keys off the girl and made her travel in the company bus to better assert my authority over her.
During those last few months, Carolina had started demanding yet again, and insisted that I helped her married sister, her sister’s husband, her two brothers and the rest of her family, which continued until I was about to fly home. Eventually, I weakened and left her with sufficient funds, including extra for a lawyer to get us divorced for the second time.
I was given a business class ticket back to Wales and a thank you handshake from the project manager without any bonus at all. All the staff employees had received mega bonuses for bringing in the project months earlier than forecasted. It amused me to think that their project was already seven months behind due to their genius, and it was my unpaid-for system that was responsible for putting it back on track!
Chapter 13
Libya to Nigeria
July of 2003 was my first introduction to Melliteh, Libya. It was mainly an LNG tank farm and jetty. I was based on a desert camp near the ocean with very poor facilities. We needed to queue in the hot daytime sun to use one of several computers to check our emails, which didn’t help matters very much. My stay was shortened, however, because I wore shorts in the camp canteen one evening, which offended the locals also living on the menonly camp.
Basically, they could see the tattoo of the blue marlin on my right calf muscle, which I’d had for the international game fishing tournament in Thailand, and they tried reprimanding me for having it. What angered them most of all was that I’d desecrated a body created by Allah.
Needless to say, I was instructed to visit the project manager’s office the next morning where I was told never to wear shorts again in front of the locals, so I voiced my opinion and quit the project at the very same time. My thinking was: If I have to accept their religion, then they should equally accept mine. I always made a point to respect the local laws and customs in the countries I visited, but often wondered why they didn’t return the same respect when they visited the United Kingdom. It all felt like a single direction attitude, one I didn’t agree with.
I managed to get a seat on the afternoon flight from Tripoli so off I went. In the meantime, Chris, who I’d met in Venezuela, was doing his best to fix me up with a contract working with him again; but this time in Nigeria, so I knew it wouldn’t be too long before I was earning again. As it worked out, I was only out of work for three weeks.
In September of 2003, I arrived in Lagos, Nigeria en-route to Port Harcourt, which was in the Rivers State, which Chris had secured for me. I was travelling on a Dutch airline which didn’t go to Port Harcourt, so I needed to spend one night in a Lagos guesthouse before taking a domestic flight the following morning for a short, one hour flight southeast.
It was a slight culture shock, but not too different from what I’d already experienced in Pakistan and Venezuela. Being in a third world country naturally made one cautious of the surroundings and the thought of being so far from home was always on my mind. A representative of my agent was loyally awaiting me amongst the disorganised chaos in the arrivals area. There were some barriers with people hanging over them, so I was lucky to have seen the representative holding such a small card with my name written on it.
He walked me to where his car was parked and tried his best to ward off some dodgy-looking followers all wanting to exchange their local Nigerian naira for US dollars. The drive to the guesthouse took over an hour and some of the sights I saw on the way are better not explained.
The guesthouse was situated in a quiet, urban part of Lagos, with a high wall surrounding it like most houses in Nigeria. The tops of all the walls were covered with broken bottle bases cemented in place and supported with coils of razor wire. Armed guards protected the entrance equipped with the usual AK-47s. The guesthouse supervisor was there to welcome me and explained he’d also be the one to make me breakfast in the morning and take care of any requests I had to make me comfortable. All the rooms were large with en-suite bathrooms and the television had European channels.
I noticed that there were many mosquitos in the room, so the supervisor wasted no time in spraying it for my own protection. Almost all the Nigerians suffered from malaria, which was a much bigger concern for me than the dangers of being a victim of kidnapping.
After an early start we left for Lagos airport the following morning where I was again swamped with local men all trying to see what they could make from me. They were actually rather amusing and I’d get to see them every time I was on rotational leave.
My flight to Port Harcourt wasn’t the most comfortable. I was quietly sitting in a window seat with an empty seat next to me, with the aisle seat already occupied. I was looking forward, towards the other passengers boarding, when I noticed a man of mammoth proportions struggling to make his way down the narrow aisle. I was wondering how a man of such proportions could possibly fit into the narrow seats onboard the aircraft when he stopped at my line. The passenger in the aisle seat got up to allow the man access to the empty seat next to me.
This huge man was a gentleman as well as a gentle giant and apologised to me that the empty seat was his. He seemed to use his body weight to force his way down into the narrow seat, but with his immense width, I was squashed up against the window for the entire flight, as there really wasn’t anything he could do about
it but sympathise with me.
After my short domestic flight, I’d figured out how they got sardines into the little cans and arrived in Port Harcourt so I could expand my lungs for the first time in over an hour. It was a very basic airport with a single runway. The runway was made from concrete and even had cables running across towards the end of it which aircraft taxied over. There was the body of an old crippled aircraft at the side of the runway, which had been completely overgrown by the dense undergrowth.
There wasn’t the usual tunnel to connect to the aircraft, but instead, steps to exit onto a hard standing outside the terminal. Port Harcourt felt more humid than Lagos and there were many flies and mosquitos in the air, together with some other flying insects which I’d never seen before, and passengers were made to wait outside while queuing at immigration. Eventually I collected my case and exited the airport and immediately saw a rather skinny man holding up a sign with my name on it. This new skinny man was called Kenneth and he was to be my personal driver for the next twelve months.
Kenneth was a cheerful character who always had plenty to say and would keep me up to date with local news and political movements. It took well over an hour to drive to Port Harcourt from the airport and by the time I arrived at my hotel, I felt like I’d known Kenneth for years.
I stayed just a ten minute drive from the office, in the Genesis Hotel on Old Wogi Road. I enjoyed my stay at the hotel, and I thought it was much safer to spend my spare time there instead of venturing out to the local bush bars like many other expats liked to do.
Due to my contract, I was required to stay for a full three months before having my first rotational leave. The project involved attending a kick-off meeting in Yokohama, Japan, and I was grateful to have my time in Port Harcourt broken up.
I explained to my colleagues before we left Nigeria all about the important Japanese customs, which had to be respected if we were to get contracts successfully signed. I guess all my advice was ignored as we were the client for the project.
The trip to Japan was a long one. I took a domestic flight from Port Harcourt to Lagos and after a six hour wait, took a midnight flight to London for another six hour wait. From London I flew at midday directly to Tokyo by flying over the North Pole. This was quite a strange experience. It was a sunny day in London as I took off, but after just a couple of hours I looked outside my window to see the sun setting in the distance so day became night even though my watch still told me it was the afternoon.
We all left our Japanese hotel at the same time the day after we’d arrived to visit our proposed contractor in Yokohama. In just the first few minutes of formal introductions, I knew we could forget any contract being signed.
The Japanese respectfully handed each of us their business cards using both hands to hold their cards, their thumbs over the top of them, in their main meeting room before we were seated. My colleagues took their cards using just one hand instead of taking them in the same manner with which they were given and simply glanced at them before putting them into their back pockets! They may as well have slapped our hosts in the face. I knew then that we shouldn’t waste any more time and fly back to Port Harcourt.
Due to all the years working for the Japanese in the past I was able to return their respect and do the ceremony correctly, plus exchange some pleasant dialogue in Japanese to add to the respect of being a guest in their country. After five long days spent in discussions all day in our host’s office, we were invited out on the final day to a very reputable local restaurant, which is also a part of the Japanese professional business ethics.
We were courteously escorted into a private room in a restaurant, which could sit all of us around a large round table. Much to the dismay of my Nigerian Project Manager, I was seated in between the Vice President and proposed Project Director of our Japanese hosts, opposite him.
It is customary in Japan, as well as South Korea, to pour the drinks for your guests or hosts yourself, and for them to pour your drinks. A very warm custom which I have maintained since. My problem was that as I had the Vice President on my right hand side and their proposed Project Director on my left hand side, I was basically kept busy the whole evening topping up wine and sake glasses.
While pouring drinks, you had to touch your pouring arm’s elbow as if to support it with your other arm’s hand, to show your intention was with full respect. I was swapping my arms all evening while turning to the left or back to the right. Needless to say, I had two sets of glasses. One set on the right of my plate and another set to the left of my plate. This was so I could drink with each of my Japanese hosts individually. I have loved Japanese customs ever since.
It was no surprise that contracts were never signed by that contractor, or should I say corporation, and I’m sure it was due to the total lack of respect that my fellow colleagues showed during the introductions on the first day’s opening meeting.
It was Christmas time when I left Japan and I flew directly to London, before taking a coach back to Swansea. My three month trip was well timed so I could have Christmas with the family. After a brief two week break it was back to Nigeria for me.
In Nigeria, my stay was not without its surprises. Often, I encountered roadblocks, which stopped me from returning to the hotel unless I paid off the police several times per week.
One night, while enjoying a few beers in the hotel bar, I was invited to join the hotel owner and two of his local friends. I liked to smoke cigars in those days, and the owner’s two friends also fancied a smoke. I went back to my room and brought some more to share; as I was going on my rotational leave the next day, I didn’t need them and gave them the box. That gesture was received very well and proved to be a good move.
One of the two introduced himself as the chief of police for Port Harcourt, and the other was the High Court judge. We had a good time, and the chief of police asked whether I was being harassed in ‘his town’. I mentioned that it was rather humiliating being forced to stop at police roadblocks and having a gun pointed at me. I explained that I was never allowed to go on my way without giving away some Nigerian naira.
I also mentioned the risky drive to the airport when I was leaving on rotation. He fully understood what I was saying and gave me his card. He told me to call him and hand his officer my phone the next time I was stopped. That will be the last I’ll ever see of my phone, I thought.
He also added that he would lend me one of his officers who would sit in the front seat of my car whenever I needed to go to the airport with his AK-47 in full view. I was thrilled because there were often community roadblocks along the airport road, and the people at those roadblocks always demanded payments for passage as a kind of unofficial toll. Basically, nobody went anywhere in those days without money to ‘dash’ out in such times of need to avoid more serious problems arising.
The Chief of Police also said that he would have a letter prepared that would give me the freedom of Port Harcourt!
In Nigeria, people couldn’t be caught driving down the street when it was the first Saturday of the month. That day was called sanitation day. There wasn’t any real infrastructure in Nigeria, despite its enormous wealth from its oil and gas reserves, and that included no garbage collection. Therefore, sanitation day was invented to try to reduce the garbage in the streets and possible diseases it may cause. Everyone was required to clear and burn everything outside their homes or businesses on these days.
On sanitation days, the air was thick with the acrid smell of smoke from all the plastic materials, old car and lorry tyres, and even dead animals, so it was better to remain indoors until it was over. If I needed to go to the office, I’d leave very early in the morning and remained in the office until late afternoon when it was possible to drive again.
My stay in Nigeria did wonders for my waistline, much like Pakistan had in 1999. I contracted dysentery from either the food of water while I was there, which lasted a few months. Once the initial painful cramps were over, it was more of an
inconvenience than anything else and I managed to lose two inches off my waistline before taking the correct antibiotics to cure me.
I made some good Nigerian friends whilst staying in Port Harcourt, and have maintained email contact with them ever since. It’s no secret that Nigeria has a bad reputation, however, there are so many wonderful characters in the country who would happily be the first to come to your aid, whatever it may be. A few years later, the true warmth of Nigerian hospital and helpful support came to light when I really needed it the most.
Chapter 14
France
In October of 2004, I found myself working in Paris for a subsea company. It was an interesting change to write documents for subsea installations for Angolan and Nigerian oil projects, rather than represent the client and only ask to see what someone else had written.
The local French in Nanterre adopted me the very first week I arrived. The French in Nanterre were totally different from the other Parisians. They used to pick me up on the weekends to show me around including Paris at night. I enjoyed it so much that I even agreed to work through Christmas and the New Year to take advantage of a quiet office!
I’d be collected every Sunday morning by a local man on his scooter, taken to a few micro bars to introduce me to his friends, and then to a wine shop where he would buy a couple of bottles to accompany lunch. In the meantime, his wife would be busy preparing lunch in true French style, together with their two young daughters. It was a really welcome break from the hotel, which didn’t serve any food on the weekends. After lunch, we’d go to a nearby forest where he could exercise his dogs for a couple of hours, before returning back to his house again.
