The Lagos Airport Experience. The Latest from our Africa Travel Specialist.

(The names have been changed to protect the innocent / guilty, as the case may be)

I am a fan of Nigeria. I’ve lived there, albeit some years ago, and have visited regularly on business since. Yes, it has a terrible reputation, and most of the stories you have heard about it are true ,– though bear in mind that they do not all happen every single day to every single person. Lagos is big, bad, chaotic, infuriating, overwhelming, noisy and lively,  and of all my West African destinations, this is the one that makes me feel that somewhere deep, deep below the surface there may lurk an African Hong Kong. The energy is there, the desire to do business and get things done is there . If only the city didn’t keep tripping over its shoelaces then maybe, one day, it won’t deserve its reputation.

Anyway, earlier this year I found myself arriving at Lagos airport once again, with two first-time visitors in tow. I had been subjected to a barrage of questions over the preceeding week as to exactly how things would work, what they needed, what they could expect. ‘Don’t worry, it will be fine – Nigeria is actually not bad,’ was pretty much the summary of the response.

Unfortunately I hadn’t reckoned with first impressions, and the desire and ability of the airport officials to ensure that Lagos airport’s reputation is both upheld and justified.

The first offence was a schoolboy error. Coming up through the health check, the three of us were asked for our Yellow Fever vaccination cards. I knew I’d forgotten mine. I’d remembered it at the airport this morning in Europe. An early morning departure from home, I’d put the passport in my bag and accidentally left the inoculation card on the shelf. Not to worry, other than in Congo I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been asked to show it. Turns out one of the Nigeria rookies had made the same mistake. The Port Health officer was delighted.

‘You will be deported!’ he said, his eyes lighting up. ‘This very night, back to your country!’

Bob, who had his card, looked concerned. Charlie, who had been the least keen to come to Nigeria in the first place, seemed to think that being deported didn’t sound like such a bad option, but he wasn’t going to give in without a fight. I just said ‘fine,’ knowing that this was only the start of the negotiation process, and said I would call our agent to let him know we were delayed and would be out shortly.

‘You will not be out shortly,’ said the Port Health man. ‘You are going home!’ and took us off to his desk to note down our flight and passport details. I wasn’t going to hand over my passport, but held it open for him so he could record everything in his battered notebook. Meanwhile the rest of the passengers on the flight were filing past, unchecked, and a couple of other officials arrived to contribute to our process. One opened the game by pulling me aside and saying that we could settle this very easily.

I told him I was going to wait for our agent to arrive, as he had told me he would. ‘Where is your agent?’ asked Port Health man No 2. ‘He is coming just now,’ I replied, and refused to call him again.

 Meanwhile two things happened almost simultaneously. Firstly it emerged that Charlie had disappeared.

‘Where is your friend?’ demanded Port Health No 1. ‘You are 3 people, aren’t you?’ Bob and I had no idea. We were 3, but where the 3^rd one had got to, we did not know. We thought he was with you? The first Port Health man vowed to find him and ran off towards the exit.

About that time, Bob took his phone out of his pocket. It turned out that the device was not correctly locked, and as he pulled it out, the camera was triggered. Including the flash.

‘What are you doing snapping an Officer?’ demanded just about anyone in uniform within a 50 metre radius. A minor scuffle ensued, ending with Bob’s phone being in the hands of some form of airport security man. Tempers flared and an explanation was sought .Bob’s plea that it was an accident was not going down well. All sorts of tut-tutting and ‘can you imagine, snapping officers on duty, what is this man doing?’ were going on between the various officials. In the end, Bob convinced them to at least take a look at the incriminating shot, which showed a blank wall. For some of the assembled company, what the photo was actually of was irrelevant.  The fact remained that Bob had taken a photo in a place where he shouldn’t have. Eventually however not even one of Nigeria’s finest can keep pretending that while regrettable, no real harm had been done, and the phone was returned with the photo deleted. The process was probably helped by the fact that by this point Charlie had been located and was being escorted back to Port Health. From the point of view of the authorities, this was probably an easier one to win.

Charlie wasn’t coming easily. He refused to show his passport and started having a shouting match with the first Port Health official, until I intervened and got them to agree that the official would note down the details while Charlie held his passport open. A pleasant man in a suit arrived and was introduced as the big boss, and started talking with me and Bob. I gave him the full on apology, how could I have forgotten my yellow card, even I, who had previously lived in Nigeria, etc etc, and after a couple of minutes he said that on this occasion, he would let us go, however our details had been noted and if it happened a second time, etc etc. Anyway that, it would appear, was that, and he walked with us towards the door.

‘There is just one problem,’ he said, ‘your driver, he has been detained. It seems he tried to force his way into the airport…’ ‘and he insulted a senior officer’ chipped in Port Health No 1.

Right. Good. I was pretty sure the driver would be able to extricate himself, and said we would wait.

Bob helpfully pointed out that had Charlie and I had our Yellow Fever cards with us, none of this would have happened.

‘Would you recognize the agent?’ I was asked.

It is usually the same guy and even if not, they wear Hi-Vis jackets so I probably could.

‘In that case, come with us to identify him, so we know his story (of coming to meet you) is true, and he is not just one here to make trouble.’

We re-traced our steps back past Port Health and up the back stairs of Lagos airport. Various unfortunates languished in cells, some with lights, some without, presumably on their way back to where there had come from. One corner was acting as a prayer-room, various other offices were stacked high with files while hard working airport employees sat on plastic chairs, reading the morning’s newspapers. Eventually in a large cupboard-sized space under the stairs we found our driver filling out a form.

‘Is this him?’

‘Yes ,– that’s our man,’ I said.

It wasn’t quite the end of it. My details had to be recorded with those of the driver as some form of guarantor, and eventually we were led out into the sunshine and found our car.

Charlie commented that so far, Lagos was just as bad as he had expected, and seemed almost pleased that he would be able to go home with a good Nigeria horror story all of his own to add to  everyone else’s.

Three days later, we were departing again. Nigeria has ambitions to become some kind of aviation hub, and the casual visitor to Lagos airport dropping in on a weekday evening could be led to believe that this ambition is being realized. Between about 9 and 10 pm, a dozen or so international flights are scheduled – the locals to Douala, Abidjan, Freetown, the rest of Africa; Nairobi, Addis, Johannesburg, Cairo, and the long hauls to London, Paris, Frankfurt, Istanbul, Dubai, Houston and Atlanta.

The place is heaving. It seems the world really does connect at Lagos. You can even check in online.

The one problem with the world connecting at Lagos is that there are only 2 x-ray machines. The queue snakes back, well out into the terminal. Tempers are fraying, small children are crying and everyone else feels like doing the same. The aircon doesn’t work and the few fans available are dedicated to keeping the immigration officers cool. It takes a sweaty hour and 15 to get to the x-ray machine itself.

The other side of that is immigration. I have a multi-entry visa in my passport and the officer sees an opportunity. Despite the fact that both the entry and exit stamps from my previous visit are clearly visible on the page facing the visa, he wants to be sure that I somehow haven’t been staying in Nigeria since I entered the first time, 3 months previously, as I am only allowed to stay for up to 30 days per visit. A supervisor is called, and to his credit advises the man handling my passport that here is one case that he will just have to drop. At the next desk, immediately under a ‘Lagos Airport Fights Corruption’ poster, complete with whistle-blower hotline numbers to call, the Immigration officer returns a passport unstamped to a Nigerian passenger, who in turn tucks a 1,000 niara note into it and hands it back across the desk. I’m half tempted to call the hotline, but even I, the Nigeria optimist, have had a little too much of Lagos Airport recently to risk another few hours there tonight assisting the investigation.