The first thing you notice is the humidity as you’re exiting the plane at Murtala Muhammed Airport in Lagos, Nigeria. Air conditioned spaces are punctuated by warm-moist locker room-like areas; they’re like those “cold spaces” people talk about where spirits gather in an old house – but the opposite.

I was met at the plane by Mr. Sina Buranish Adenyeno, a Nigerian textile manufacturer. He was dressed in a maroon “abeay, basically, really fancy pajamas (they look quite comfy). With Sina was a woman from the Nigerian foreign department. The fact I was met by a member of the government was very impressive to me at the time. With a deft wave of her ID card we swept past the legions of sweating humanity waiting in a crowd at the entrance to customs. Dirty, dimly lit, and with a droplet of fresh blood on the floor at my feet – that is how I remember my exit from the debarkation area of the airport – my first steps on Nigerian soil. Nigeria is different than America in more ways than I can count.

Referencing the blood, I have no idea how it made its way to the cement floor of the customs area. It was undisturbed; not one of the hundreds of people tightly packed together had trodden on it. It was bright red among the shuffling feet.

After a time in the tow of Sina and the foreign service lady, navigating the labyrinthine halls of the airport, we began our search for the Chief of Security. We had made it through airport security to the common area, but for some reason we needed to go back. I felt like a salmon having just traversed Niagara Falls and being told that I must go back up. We found the man in an unmarked office located in a nondescript corridor off a pedestrian passageway; he was watching TV. My infinately patient and polite hosts convinced him that I was worthy of a ’special pass’, a magic card I could wave at security on my trek back up Niagara Falls. I could go against the flow of security without question. This was necessary, because of their need to deposit me in the VIP lounge of the airport near the boarding gates. I was to wait there for the rest of my Rotary NID team to arrive.

The lounge contained my television from home. I was quite surprised to see it in Nigeria and wondered how it arrived before I did. Next to my television, was another television exactly like it, but defunct. But it definitely wasn’t my living room, I could tell because the furniture was different and Muslim women wearing very uncomfortable looking clothing were sitting next to me – something that rarely happens at home. There were two couches, four tables, a tile floor, faux African art on the walls, and a Nigerian soap opera on my TV.

I was nervous waiting in the lounge because, other than my backpack, I’d left my luggage in the main causeway of the airport – an un-air conditioned cauldron of people pressing against each other looking for an exit, either from the airport, or Nigeria. My bags were being watched by a fellow Rotarian from Nigeria named Marco – I trust Rotarians and I trusted Marco. But the sheer number of people in such a chaotic environment caused me to worry. If I were to lose my bags I’d be without my camera, clothes, power bars and, gulp – purell. The sale of the contents of a single one of my bags would have fed three Nigerian families for a year.

I was eventually united with American Rotarians at the airport. Our yellow jackets, smiling demeanor, and for the most part pale faces made us stand out. When we exited the airport we were met by cheers from the local populace. News reporters took our photographs using ancient cameras, one pulled out a cassette tape recorder circa 1974 and asked me to speak clearly into the microphone hole. People pressed all around and security parted the crowds as we made our way through the thick night air to waiting cars and vans; my eyes began to burn.

Driving in Nigeria is an interesting adventure, even as a passenger. Dr. BJ drove me from the airport to my hotel. I questioned him about my bags, thankfully he’d rescued them from the lobby without my notice; they were safely in the trunk. I was able to sit in the front seat and was treated to a sensory experience like no other. Horns. Horns all around. Smoke belching from exhaust pipes. Gas lines forming a day before. Men, women, children, goats, scooters, motorcycles all share the broken road – seemingly all honking or being honked at. A never ending loop of smoke and poverty and sweating existence illuminated by the hot smoky sun by day and roadside bonfires at night. Buildings of cinder block rose out of the rubble. Water being sold in plastic bags. Fresh fruit and vegetables being hawked in a never-ending free-market orgy including clothing, animals, gasoline, phone cards and religion. A man bent over a wheelbarrow filled with oranges, he was cutting them with a machete and selling the slices inches from traffic. Prostitutes, a fruit on a stick stand, oily smoke from kerosene lamps, sweating dark brown people toiling or lounging. Lagos is crazy, the people tough.

Traffic en route to our hotel was doubly bad as oil and gas shortages stemming from a recently punctured gas pipeline and ensuing explosion had crippled the gas supply in this oil rich nation. Drivers simply park their cars in line in the road a day in advance in hopes of getting a few liters of gasoline the next day. Traffic needed to drive on the crowded shoulder often to get by the waiting vehicles. Sadly, the gasoline stations would only open for an hour or two, then close quickly for fear of robbers.