My Experience at Muritala Muhammad International Airport.

Muritala Muhammad International Airport. My friends have been asking me for a report.
Ok here it is.

Arrival:
1. It was hot and balmy. First introduction was to officials forming human rings motioning to you menacingly where to go.
Some were in their flip flops.
To the Ebola desk we were marched. Forming orderly queues was difficult because demarcators weren’t there and officials didn’t bother.

I had a pen so filled out the forms. A lady with a 6-9 months old baby was picked on. She asked for a pen but was told they didn’t have. She wanted to proceed if they couldn’t provide her one but the overzealous officials sorrounded her, got into a shouting match. One of the uniformed one told her ‘You would know today whether na me put myself here’.

I could see the baby was really tired and the mum was upset.
How much would a bic biro cost?
Customer service seemed to be having the ability to have a go at tired people.
Don’t expect a smile.
I left after handing my pen over to another desperate passenger. Never got it back.
Then, through to the Immigration where you went through 2 desks before being cleared.
Then to pay *N150 for a trolley. I was told there was no N50 change. She expected me to leave it. But I waited till someone handed her the denomination of Naira I needed.

Had to hand over that to another supervisor, who barked out an order for another man in a uniform to bring the trolley to me. By then I had counted more than 4 separate uniforms worn by different people.
Got to the carousel. The same set of bags were just making the rounds for 15 minutes. There was little space to park your own trolley. I waited in the second row straining my neck to catch a glimpse of my bags whilst keeping an eye on the hand luggage and the extra bags full of Tobelrone chocolates I bought at the dutyfree.
I felt it then. Or let’s say it fell on my head. I ran my fingers through my head and there was wetness. Wasn’t disapproving of it as it wa a relief to sweat breaking from my stretched skin pores.
But how come? Alas it was the leaking roof. I had more of that and remembered that the tiling I saw on the way to the Immigration was dodgy. I saw a few exposed electric points as well.
I wondered what the health and safety rules were.

You could see money was being spent and the facelift is ongoing, but you also wondered why it couldn’t be a well executed project……
But hey, it’s almost an hour and a half since we disembarked! Bags damaged from being pulled like in the WWF bout, I heaved a sigh of relief.
It was a bit premature. Just outside on the way to freedom were an array of customs lads in a mixture of army green and khaki brown uniforms. Of course I was ‘parked’. The thought of them going through my things carefully packed by my Missus terrified me. I don’t know how to pack, let alone repack.

I told them everything in there was personal and some were gifts for my brother, whose wedding I came for.
Then the penny dropped. ‘Oga, na good thing you come do, celebrate for we too nau’.
That bit negotiated, I got into the rather hot night, sweaty, tired and in dire need of a cold shower.
I looked for a payphone to check where my brother was. I left my contract phone back in the UK and knew payphones are one a dime in most airports. That is always an opportunity for national carrier telecoms to demonstrate their ego and presence.
Didn’t get that but a young boy with a mobile for rent. I asked how much he charged. He simply told me I should determine what I would give him.

Smart ass know I may not have naira.
Outside the airport was BEDLAM. The Airforce and Army guys created a bottleneck and were generally making a nuisance of the place.
Took another hour before we negotiated their madness to breathe the sweet, fresh Nigerian air from my brother’s air conditioned car.
Departure:
I thought that should be a breeze.
The carpark is some 600 meters from the airport. They have shuttle buses which ran every 30 minutes.
Problem is, it only stops at the Arrival hall. If you have heavy luggage to drag around, you’re toast.
Alternative was to hire a taxi from there to the airport. That is N1000 flat.
But just as you exit the car park unto the motorway, the traffic is ever present. You see military guys armed with shiny new Kalashnikovs standing by drum barricades looking like lions hungry for prey.
It took is 18 minutes to do a journey of 4 minutes. I don’t understand that sort of brazen security. No scans, no intelligence reports, just mere presence of daredevils.

I began to wonder if these folk weren’t the messiahs we need in Sambisa Forest. As the taxi finally negotiated his way past them and the ubiquitous convoys of large 4 Wheel drives and trucks of the ‘high and mighty’, often driving recklessly in that traffic melee, you were motioned to where to park by militarized police officers. You would have thought it was an ISIS territory or something. It wa scary.  Navigate past the woman hawking padlocks and sellotapes into the departure hall, you were greeted with a jetstream of hot air mixed with stale sweat.

Like WiFi connects to a strong signal, your own sweat glands jerks to life and you’re uncomfortable.
Weighing your luggage is an occasion. An official is there barking orders at you about what you know you want to do. Why deploy anyone there?
There the ordeal begins. You wait in line as some ladies screen your passports.  Then wait in another painfully slow queue to some guys with gloves on rummaging through people’s stuff. Would have been nice if it was limited to those ones alone (your luggage goes through 2 levels of search there). There are at least 2 other guys at attention prying at your stuff.

Privacy means nothing.
When you eventually scale through stupid questions like ‘why are you carrying so much garri?, you people make food expensive in Nigeria and Oga find us something’, you went to the BA area to check in your bags.
Off you go to the boarding gates. But first you have to go through a check which asks for your customs card.
Then to the Ebola guys who despite measuring your temperature as normal, insists on having your Nigerian address! I told them I don’t live in Nigeria, and that they have phone numbers and email to reach me, they played the jobsworth card.

Still doesn’t make sense to me.

Now, tired and on your last limb, you had to walk through the rigid dividers from one end to another to reach the customs.
Other airports use the movable ones to shorten the walk when there aren’t too many people to attend to.
At the customs, you meet with a first guy who directs you to a cubicle. That one okays you to proceed to the next.
You were then asked to go to the scan area. Those ones only use hand to communicate if they weren’t barking orders at you.
They had no electric frisks. They only patted you down. It’s awkward to have a man touching my privates.
Now you are dog tired to even see advertisers message on the panels. The design and prices of the airport is making you dream about one thing only – That bottle of French wine BA serves as appetizer.

Through to boarding. You had to go through another guy who checks your boarding pass. Another set of uniformed folk who rummaged through your hand luggage and rucksack, yet another patting down from a tired looking man in need of a bath.
Then you sat down in an area the air condition is in need of ‘transformation’.
Two white dudes couldn’t stand the heat so they practically stood in front of the cooling machine.
There were no toilets on the level you were if nature called. You had to go down some dimly lit staircase.
If you had kids, an old age pensioner or wheelchair bound, or have mobility issues, you are on your own.
No tissue papers in the toilet. You had to use the device in the picture to water-wash with bare hands. Then, no handwash soaps. See pictures.
The corners of the toilet had larvae of some insect in there.

I met a cleaner there but it still oozed a stench.
The toilets in the departure halls was so bad my brother ran back and warned me not to even think about it.
I really want to see things for myself. For the life of me, the design of the place, the people flow, and human interaction points are very poor.
People make up their minds about a country from the point of entry.
I hope the extension currently being built redeems our image.
For the doubters………..see the images attached