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October 02, 2008
8:06
Happy Indepedence Day.... wooohoooo
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From Fixing Nigeria group on Facebook.

For nearly five decades, the Nigerian experience has been a potpourri of events orchestrated by the actions and inactions of her citizenry. Within several narratives, the stories have been told from different perspectives, leading to the emergence of a crowd of voices, ideas, and initiatives proclaiming and advocating for the rebirth of a new order. However, in the midst of the mounting consensus for change, the prevailing paradox is a flurry of excitement about the dream of a new Nigeria, an overwhelming zeal without knowledge, activity without productivity, glamour devoid of substance - a mere dissipation of passion without action. The truth is, in this journey towards national greatness, talk is cheap and will never be enough.

So much has been said recently about what could be done to properly reward, honour and empower our national flag designer, Pa Taiwo Akinkunmi. His story has been told over and over again. Over the years, numerous promises have been made by government, a few corporate bodies and individuals about how the old man and his family can be given a befitting treatment with a lasting impact on his health, welfare and the essence of our national heritage which he and many others who have also added value represent. A few good men and women have kept their promises and this has been helpful to Pa Akinkunmi. But to what extent?

Hence, upon the realisation of the need to match words with action, a team of young Nigerians led by renowned IT expert and social entrepreneur ‘Gbenga Sesan, visited the Ibadan home of Pa Akinkunmi on the eve of the October 1st Independence Day celebration in a bid to set the tone for a constructive agenda that will put an end to the unpleasant tales of indigence currently surrounding the unsung national hero. The meeting with Pa Akinkunmi and his family was hinged on a two-fold agenda:

1. A Nigerian Flag Foundation that will promote patriotic values among Nigerians while ensuring that no national hero (regardless of how minute his/her contribution) is forgotten. The Foundation may also cater for health and other welfare matters affecting Pa Akinkunmi, his family and other “forgotten heroes”.

2. A book on the life and times of the national flag designer, the proceeds of which will go to the Foundation (Trust) managed by a proper Governing Council or Board of Trustees.

Although Pa Akinkunmi was unavoidably absent as he had to leave earlier than planned for Benin City on that day, his eldest son Akin Akinkunmi stood in his place. It was a deeply emotional meeting, which revealed how much help the family needed from well-meaning Nigerians who would be willing to assist. Akin, a 33-year old HND graduate of Building Technology is still unemployed and practically stays at home with Baba. He also recanted details of how early this year, his father was invited by the Governor of Oyo state, Otunba Alao Akala, on the premise that though he was an indigene of Ogun state residing in Oyo State, plans were being made to give him a deserving reward and honour soonest. Akin, his eldest son who accompanied him to the meeting was also promised a gainful employment by the governor. That was in February 2008. To date, several efforts by Akin Akinkunmi to reach the governor on behalf of his father have proved abortive.

He also spoke about how resources from a popular TV game show have helped them procure and renovate a property in Ibadan. As the meeting progressed, it became apparent that for any meaningful and sustained repositioning of the Akinkunmi family to occur, the first son of the family would need to be established on the pathway of responsibility and enterprise. Without probing further to get more information about why he hasn’t been able to apply his hands to work in a bid to help his dad and family, we knew it would be impossible to suggest anything constructive about empowering this young man – who can in turn build and sustain his family’s legacy. It was then with great relief and a unanimous bodily expression of ‘eureka!’ that we all jumped up the moment Akin revealed to us his passion. What was it about? He loves machines and would love to build capacity in the repair of generators, and has had plans to resume apprenticeship with a “generator house” but was held back by the need for funds to take care of his family while learning more about generators. We were happy that Akin opened up to us in a way that helped define what next needed to be done. At this point, we had spent about two (2) hours deliberating with him on the purpose of our visit to his family and the need to help him find purpose.

As the meeting drew to a close, the gathering resolved as follows:

1. That the “delegation”, working with others with interest in this cause, will commence work on the book project and, the Nigerian Flag Foundation initiative;

2. To help connect Akin with an employer (and mentor) who will provide him an environment where he can pursue his passion (generators);

3. That one thousand (1,000) letters be written and signed by one thousand (1,000) concerned Nigerians addressed to the Executive Governor of Oyo State, reminding him of his promises to assist Pa Taiwo Akinkunmi and his family. The letters should be sent on or before November 31st, 2008.

The following persons were in attendance at this historic meeting:
1. ‘Gbenga Sesan – Convener
2. Jide Adeyemi
3. Ohimai Godwin Amaize
4. Tayo Opatayo
5. Femi Giwa
6. Ferdinand Adimefe
7. Oreoluwa Ladokun
8. Akin Akinkunmi

END

Toks Boy - If a fool at 40 is a fool forever what does that make Nigeria? What does the future hold at 50? 60? 70?

If Nigeria is independent then what about its citizens? When do they break free of the shackles their "Government" continues to tie around their ankles, wrists and waists, imaginations, dreams and aspirations?

Yesterday morning a man woke up and drove to work as the manager of a small convenience shop in Suru- Lere specialising in every day items for the home as well as some frozen goods. He was not expecting it to be very busy as the area was very quiet. At some point in the afternoon some men walked in and took his life. And the contents of his cash drawer.

Just like that.
In the middle of the afternoon.
Just like that.
In the middle of the afternoon.
Just like that.
In the middle of the afternoon.

Yesterday night another family flung their screams into the dark . Futile really as it was mixed in with the millions of other screams crowding out the light. Will we ever see the dawn?

Happy Independence Day Nigeria. One day I hope you gain wisdom, maturity, compassion, understanding.

I hope it is not too late.
September 19, 2008
2:04
Life on Mars
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I arrived in the US as a naive, highly inquisitive, very excited 13 year old in my beige Rayon suit and nylon shirt with the psychedelic designs and my patent leather black shoes. I, along with the other transit passengers was whisked from JFK to LaGuardia (or was it vice versa?) via helicopter (no advance warning oh.) to catch my onward flight to Ohio. Everything was a blur, mad, unreal. A small taste of what was to come.
I started in the local high school almost immediately where I was one of maybe five black students but the only one from the "motherland". I scared them small with my accent and I think my reading of a page of literature in English class in that first month will probably stay with those lucky enough to be there for life. They probably still talk about it at the school reunions. Along with the very tight flares and unwieldy platforms that I once showed up in on the misguided basis that I looked "cool, man". One wrong move either way and it was either a broken ankle or give up any plans for having children. Life after school revolved around homework, going to films, watching TV and taking long walks around the campus where we lived. It also revolved around finally having access to my one downfall in life. Cakes, cookies, candy, chocolate. See mum used to work at NTC on Marina and everyday after school we would "pop by" to visit her on the way home. This visit normally involved totally bypassing her floor (after all I can see her at home, abi?) and heading straight for the canteen which stocked all the finest delicacies and sweets and the latest comic books. If the place had a bed I would never have left. Anyway, one day after school, in the US (please keep up) I went home, got my laundry and made my way to the laundry room which was in the basement of the block where we lived. I threw the washing in the machine, along with the soap powder, got it going and decided that after all this hard work and effort I deserved a treat. I made my way over to the machine and bought myself a Mars bar. I slowly unwrapped it looking forward to the sheer bliss of it and then my head exploded. As I bit down and chewed on the sticky chocolate the room started to move and swirl. Everything turned rubbery. The colours became most vivid. The sounds much too clear. I slumped against the wall and dropped the bar. I traced my way to the elevator and pushed the button. I crawled in when it arrived and by this time I was in a cold sweat. I fumbled my way to my room where I collapsed into my bed after putting the aircon on full blast. My heart was palpitating, colours swirled around in my mind, I felt myself floating. My head was pulsing, my heart thumped in my chest. All I could see in my mind's eye were these swirling psychedelic colours and shapes. They were very intriguing, they way they kept moving around, changing shape and form and hues. I lay like this for God knows how long before I finally came to. At first I wondered if it had all been a dream but the soaked sheets were evidence to the contrary. And so it was that I discovered life on Mars.
September 15, 2008
5:32
A Hard Rain is Gonna Fall....
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Talk is cheap. I know that. I was always the quietest one in my social circles. I was viewed as an oddity. An enigma. An old soul in a young man's body. I once went a month year barely uttering a sentence to the people I lived with.

I wrote a poem about words back then. I only remember these lines:

Some people throw words around
like left over currency
after a cheap foreign holiday
I guard my words like diamonds and gold
for they are the currency of my soul.

I am content to just be. To listen. And listen some more. But deep within me the emotions churn. The facade might be calm but the interior is aflame. So much so that sometimes I break out in a hot sweat.

So what is this all about? It is about the need for change. The need to do something. As the comments on my last post have revealed we are now getting to the stage where words are no longer enough. Enough words have been written and printed to flatten the Amazon rain forests and yet we are where we are. Or even backward. So now what? I also realise that whilst we sit here on our blogs postulating and agitating for change there is only a small minority of us. After all how many people in Nigeria even have access to the internet? Well, it is my field so let me tell you - less than 5% of the population. And that's being generous.

So what to do? How about a million (man) march? Would that make any difference? Could we even garner a million in this days of apathy? How about a strike by civil servants? Would that get support? How about a petition delivered to Aso Rock? Would it even get to the door? What do we have to do as citizens of this great country to get

- constant power?
- proper education for our kids that does not cost an arm and a leg?
- proper healthcare - ditto the above?
- transparency in government?

and that's just for starters. Another poem

Someday a hard rain is gonna fall
and strip us naked one and all
where will you run when its falling down?
where will you hide when it's raining all around?
Hard Rain, Hard Rain.

In my view we have run out of hiding places. We are exposed. It's raining all around. Hard Rain.
August 30, 2008
3:59
All that you have is your soul.
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Oh my mama told me
'Cause she say she learned the hard way
She say she wanna spare the children
She say don't give or sell your soul away
'Cause all that you have is your soul

Tracy Chapman- All that you have is your soul.

I have been silent over the past few weeks only because I have been silenced by my environment. My defences have been breached by the various news reports official and unofficial about the state of this once great nation. I still have not learned that one must not take it personally. But then again maybe I never will.

Where do I start? Is it the apparent waste of N800m (yes million) by the Chairman of NDDC to a sorcerer to get rid of his rivals. He was alleged to have been ordered to burn N250m (yes million) as part of the ritual.

Is it the unofficial fund raising for Obama in Lagos that raised over N400m (yes million)? Does Obama need fundraisers from Nigeria? Is he not already the best funded Presidential candidate ever? Could the average man on the streets of Naija coping on less that N500 daily do with some of that money? Or does he have to run for US President to get access? Who are the big boy and girls who were prepared to make these donations whilst ensconced in the cosy confines of the Muson Centre. Did they drive through the streets of Lagos to get there? Did they notice the poverty along the way or is it the case that they were in their blacked out SUVs with the proverbial convoy and sirens.

Is it the total lack of visibility of our fearless leader. Yar Adua, Yar Adua. Wherefore art thou Yar Adua? My love for you at the time of the elections is quickly dissipating. Absence is not making my heart fonder. In the last year I have only had the opportunity to see you once on TV. All other times I have to rely on grainy photos in grainy papers as you meet and greet some contract seeking parasite or other. Where is the State of Emergency on the energy sector? The agricultural sector? The aviation section? The financial sector? The telecoms sector? The public sector?

Apparently we now have about $64bn (yes billion and yes dollars) in reserve due to the generous price of petrol. What are we reserving it for? A rainy day? Everyday I wake up and look outside my window and I see the thunderstorms. Can you not hear it from the deep seclusion of Aso rock? Do your advisors not tell you about all the people drowning out on the streets?

Is it the fact that my very own people continue to let me, and ultimately themselves, down on a daily basis? Where the me first mentality has overtaken everything? Where anything for the boys is now the byword to life? Where progress can only be measured in the size of the contract?

Is it the fact that we went to the Olympics and came back defeated? (Put the football to one side. We should have won the Gold. We beat those boys before and we could have done it again.) What happened to the funds for the athletes? How many athletes went to the Olympics? How many "officials" accompanied them? Why is no one asking questions? Why is no one doing the maths?

Is it the fact that I turn on the telly to see a formerly disgraced Governor being chased and surrounded by journalists who are seeking his views on National matters? Has the man even finished with his own case? Is he still not a criminal? And a thief? Yet he has the audacity to be seen out in public? He seems to have gained the weight back. the good life is evident in his face. I guess it was all a misunderstanding. I suspect he will run for Governor again at the next elections.

These are truly the times that try men's souls. They are certainly trying mine.
August 18, 2008
4:27
The Boys are back in town....and in business.
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CHELSEA 4- PORTMOUTH 0.

The first half was the best Chelsea display I have seen in 5 years. Even when I was at the Bridge every weekend. Even when Gullit was in charge. Even in the days of Mourinho.

And then of course Man U (who??) failed to beat the Geordies. The look on Fergie's face. Priceless. Squeaky bum time and its only the first game of the season?

Oh what a weekend!!
August 11, 2008
7:39
On behalf of all Chelsea fans.....
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It would appear that Wayne Rooney and some other members of the Man Utd team picked up a "virus" on their money grabbing, empire building "tour"of Nigeria (i.e. in and out of Abuja). Apparently the poor dear and his colleagues were sick to their stomachs (i assume this is the same way the spectators felt), laid low and were unable to train after getting back to the UK.

According to squeaky bum Fergie - "I doubt if we'll get Rooney fit for the start of the season with the virus he's had,'' Ferguson said. "It's a virus he picked up in Nigeria and it's not a nice one, but quite a few have had it. It's such a bad virus and he's got to be training to be fit.''

Whilst I did not realise that there were nice viruses that one could pick up, I would nevertheless just like to extend my sympathies to these guys (no sincerely). Really. Honestly. Trust me. I mean it.

Though next time I am confident that the Chelsea Abuja Supporters Club will ensure that the "mixture" is more powerful. Cough. cough.

I would also like to point out that no such fate seems to have befallen the mighty Portsmouth. Draw your own conclusions.

The Premiership Season starts this weekend. Bring it on.
July 27, 2008
12:13
Customer Service. Naija stylie.
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I phone a hotel nearby that prides itself as 3 star to make a booking for a guest. The receptionist that answers asks me for the guest's name which I duly giver her. She then asks me for how many nights which I again confirm. She then quotes me a price which is different from he brochure in my hand. She tells me that this is for a different type of room. I explain that this tyoe will suffice. And she promptly hangs up.

Thinking we have been accidentally disconnected as is common here I ring back. She answers again.

Me: I think we were cut off.

She: No. I hung up.

Me : But why now?

She : You told me the name of the Client, you confirmed the number of days required and you already knew the price. So what else?

Me : A thank you would be....

She had hung up. Charming.

I call a very local estate agent in Ajah from whom we are looking to rent a room. We have a discussion at which I manage to get him to lower his rates. We arrange to meet the next day. Before he hangs up he says: Thanks very much for your call. I really look forward to seeing you in our offices tomorrow and I look forward to serving you and doing business with you. I really value your custom.

And there you have it. Naija. You just never quite know what to expect.
11:20
A slow descent into hell...
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Over to my sister in law's house to say hello. My family complain that they used to see me more when I was travelling back and forth from the UK than now that I am based in Naija. I explain that the trip from the UK to Lagos was a lot easier than the trip from Lekki to Suru-Lere. Those who have experienced the Lekki traffic know what I mean.

Anyway after catching up with a few pleasantries I ask whether she has managed to find another job being as she is fed up with her current one and then she tells me this story. Apparently not too long ago at a Zenith bank branch the manager was upset that sales targets were not being met and therefore decided that punishment had to be meted out. The punishment took the form of asking all the staff to get on their knees. Like you know back in primary school. More astonishingly they all complied!! We are talking about adults here. Some were parents. Some had actually acquired their degrees through legal means. On their knees. Apparently afterwards one of them resigned and has now acquired a lawyer. My sis in law is not sure what the claim will be.

At another bank branch apparently the manager needs a walking stick for her mobility. Word has it that when she gets frustrated she uses this as a whip to get the staff to sit up and take notice. Imagine being flogged at work. In a bank. What do you tell your friends and family when they ask you how your day was? This is not counting the numerous stories of these bank marketeers that are prepared to drop more than their principle(s) in order to reach ever demanding targets. Or sleep with the boss. And his wife.

Yesterday we were on the Lekki expressway on the way to the beach. Out of nowhere appeared a white pickup that forced us into the inside lane towards the kerb where people scattered helter and then skelter to avoid certain you know what. The pickup was closely followed by a dark blue 4 x 4 carrying the usual rag tag boys in blue. As I watched open mouth the lead car forced a car against the outside kerb and another few inches and the driver would have hit the divide at speed leading to a front tyre explosion. And God knows what else. I asked my driver to try and catch up with the perpetrators but they were going at such a speed it would have been impossible to do without risking our lives and other innocent ones. So they got away with it.

In the lead car driven by a Nigerian was a white man. In the back of the truck was some black fibre as used in the deployment of telecoms services. And it struck me that my fellow countrymen are readily prepared to kill their fellow man, woman and child in order to help a white man get his fibre to site on time. What price communication?

How can we have any sense of self worth when we are being sold out so cheaply by our very own?
July 26, 2008
14:33
Goodnight Entebbe -Part 2
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I am writing this follow up under pressure from one of my favourite bloggers - Yar Mama whose blog Silent Screams is always a source of a smile. Sometimes a giggle. Sometimes just outright guffawing. There are times also when I am overwhelmed at the richness of her prose and the depth of her observations. Needless to say I feel under pressure to deliver the goods on this one. So here goes..

Step out the front door like a ghost
into the fog where no one notices
the contrast of white on white.
And in between the moon and you
the angels get a better view
of the crumbling difference between wrong and right.
Round Here by The Counting Crows.

He stepped out from behind the tree causing the three of us to stop dead in our tracks in shock and surprise. The visit so far had been littered with all sorts of weirdness and strangeness and we were already on edge. The piercing screams and howling in the night, that had been denied in the morning. The almost military vibe of the dormitories and surroundings. Having to use a bucket to do my number 1 business in our hut. Having to use a hole in the ground for my number 2 surrounded by all sorts of rodents and other non paying voyeurs. So please understand that the last thing we needed was him stepping out of the shadows like a ghost.

His first sentence will stay with me till the day I die. "I used to be a Muslim" he said and left it hanging there in the air for us to inhale, taste and digest. After what seemed like hours of silence from us which realistically was seconds he repeated it again still standing in the shadows of the tree for fear of being seen. I finally managed to get my words out. "Then what happened?" I asked. "They came to take me away from my family. Twice I ran back but each time they came to take me back. I miss my brother and sister. My parents are dead. It is only my grandparents left."

It turns out that the charity we were visiting which provides a home for children orphaned by the AIDS epidemic had picked him from his grandparents and then "converted" him into Christianity as a pre-condition of being looked after. Twice he had run back to the bosom of his family but each time they had come back to get him. He had initially refused to give up his faith but eventually they had disciplined it out of him (or at least he let them think so).....

Imagine his surprise therefore when having been told that all Muslims were evil and going to hell anyway to find himself seated across from two Muslims. Both of them married to Christians!! I mean come on. It was obvious he was in turmoil. And no wonder. His beliefs were being tested. Again. I had not noticed him earlier in the afternoon when we had had our meet and greet with some of the students. At first they had been welcoming and curious about this trio of visitors - one an Asian lady, one a lady of mixed racial identity and the third a large black man. The warmth had evaporated somewhat when they discovered that two of their visitors were Muslims. Some, including the teachers, visibly shrank away.

After many general questions about our identities one finally piped up with the question. How did we (the Muslims) feel about not going to heaven? Well what can you say to a group of children between 7 and 16 years old when asked this question. We took a deep breath and tried to explain that there was enough room in heaven for us all to much shaking of heads and mutterings of "no, its a lie". "Who told you this?" we asked as their teachers disappeared further into their seats. Accusing fingers were pointed and pretty sharpish the ceremony was ended and we each went back to our own realities somewhat unsure of how to deal with the exchange we had just had. And then he stepped out of the shadows.

We moved closer into the darkness to afford him the privacy that he so craved as he had refused to step into the light for fear of being seen talking to us. He told us how he missed his brother and sister so much with such a sadness and melancholy that still brings tears to my eyes even as I write this after all this time (this is why I had been delaying). He said he was now resigned to his fate (or faith?) like a man destined for the gallows who had put up a good fight but had exhausted his defences. We offered words of encouragement. Told him he still had his whole life ahead of him he would not be in the camp forever. There was a big world out there filled with Muslims, Christians, Jews etc. We used ourselves as examples of what was possible. Marriages between faiths. All faiths working together to make a better world.

Finally when there was no more we could say we bid him goodbye and he slouched back into the shadows. He had a serene smile on his face as he left us. Almost as if to say he had overcome a major hurdle. As if we had given him some kind of hope. We had helped him with the struggle that his young mind had been trying to cope with. To understand. To interprete. No doubt he would have had a few restless nights as he tossed and turned trying to digest all that had happened that day.

We made our way back to our huts and to a fitful sleep again interrupted by the now familiar but no less unsettling wailing. The next morning we bade farewell to the camp and made our way back to the city in silence. As we got on the plane to head back to London I could not help but wonder about the crumbling difference between wrong and right.
July 02, 2008
16:46
We sit in a bar ...
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We sit in a bar listening to a group murder several rock tunes. The group on stage consists of five half dressed girls and three guys. The lead boy singer and a couple of the girls sport dreads. The lead singer throws his around in true rock star fashion as he murders song after song and massacres several rap tunes just for good measure. At one point a girl performs a song by Evernescence that makes my colleague double check his glasses in case they have cracked such is the screeching she produces. Behind me a man sits sipping a pint of beer whilst chatting to his mate who is sucking on a fag. When the band takes a break (whoopee) we are then bombarded with gospel music over the speakers. One particular singer has a lot of love for Jesus and is not afraid to let the world know. Three vacant girls with vacant eyes and matching smiles sit at the bar nursing diet cokes and swaying to the music.

No this is not a night out in London or Lagos. My colleague and I on a day trip to Bahrain which for you that are not clued in on these matters is a Muslim country. I notice that the man behind me who is dressed in the full jalabia has his beads wrapped around his wrist and keeps glancing at his watch. I wonder if he is keeping an eye out for the call to prayer. Or the wife.

I learn later that come the weekend the place is really jumping as the Saudis pile in from across the border. In Saudi there are no bars, no drinking, no girls with vacant eyes and vacant smiles. No half naked singers or singers pouring out their love for Jesus. But this is available 45 minutes across the bridge. In Bahrain. The trick is to get there and back half sober. If one were to cause or be in an accident and be accosted by the law well things get pretty hairy. So the guys pace themselves and leave before the tipping point. Or spend the night. For some strange reason I feel at peace and as if a weight has been lifted off my shoulders. The world is not a perfect place and we are not perfect people. Live your life to the best you can and be prepared to give your side of the story when the questioning begins.

At the airport in Bahrain we are surrounded by a sea of black widows. No they are not all widows as some of them have their husbands, and children, in tow. But to my mind they are dressed as such. In a shop in the duty free area there is a woman dressed from top to toe in black. She is selling these outfits. It is a strange sight to see a retail clothes outlet where everything is black. The only differentiator being the decorative beading on the sleeves or around the ankles. Otherwise black. I imagine the amount of time that Iyawo could save if only she adopted this way of dressing. No more hours waiting by the front door while she decides what to wear. Black again tonight darling? Lovely. No, no. The one with the red beading is fine. It matches my eyes.

Around the concourse at Dubai airport there are a large number of Indians and Pakistanis on both sides of the divide. There are just as many arriving as are departing. These are the worker ants for the numerous building sites in Dubai. Everywhere you turn there is a crane putting up another skyscraper. My colleague informs me that Dubai is now the proud home to 35% of the world's building cranes. It is hard to miss them. Skyscraper after skyscraper. Crane after crane. New block after new block. All trying to outdo themselves. Dubai should be the 8th wonder of the world. It has the world's tallest building. The only 7 star hotel. The only mall in the world with a ski slope. It is building an underwater hotel. It has built a replica of the world out of man made islands in the ocean. People have bought these islands. It is now building "The Universe" out in the ocean.

Around the hotel there are huge skyscraper apartments. Underneath are retail outlets. The usual suspects. Fast food, clothes etc. In these blocks at night you are lucky if you can count more than a dozen apartments with lights on. Out of maybe two hundred flats. You see there are no inhabitants. Most of them lie empty. They were bought as investments. The rent is unbelievable. Five thousand dollars per month for a three bed flat. The place is a ghost town. Yet still they build. Apparently the oil will run out in 10 years. And they are afraid that they will be forgotten. They do not want to be forgotten. So they do things to make sure they are not forgotten. Like recreating another Las Vegas in another desert.

I walk down to the beach behind the hotel to clear my head. It is practically deserted. Most locals have skipped the country. Outside temperature is hovering around 49 degrees. Who can blame them? The only people on the beach are a few Indians crouching in the sand and staring into the far distance. I wonder if they dream of home and the families left behind. They are not allowed to bring their families with them here until they earn above a certain amount monthly. Which the greater majority of them never do. Also a few elderly tourists. They look German. I notice towels on the deckchairs (sorry I could not resist).

After staring out to sea myself for some time I turn around and get the very strange feeling that I am on a film set. Like those sets they create in Hollywood for films like King Kong where everything is out of proportion. I feel like one of those plastic action heroes. Staring me in the face are rows of huge empty skyscrapers. All trying to outdo each other. They are immaculate. They are silent. They are surreal.

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