… or should I say ‘Lagos does Qype’? You see, this heaving mess of a city with its dozen or so million residents crammed on top of each other must be taken on its terms and its terms alone. Indeed, before I even boarded the plane to commence my week long visit, red flags were popping up all over the place. Responding to my “Just booked my flight to Lagos” status update on Facebook, a filmmaking friend chimed in with “Sheesh. We’ve shot footage over there and had to hire machine-gun toting guards who were about seventeen years old.” Chatting at a party with an acquaintance who’d been to Lagos while working for the UN, I was assured that I would be okay “as long as I watched my back at all times and trusted no one.” As for my decades-long American travel buddy with whom I was to rendezvous in Lagos and who’d already been in town for about a week, the only advice he offered was to “please bring individually packaged hand wipes!” while an editor who’d been to Lagos and had thrown some Nigerian-related work my way made to sure to add that I “bring plenty of cash” as well. What was I getting myself into?

As ominous as these accounts and suggestions were, it was the actual Nigerians charged with representing their nation at the Nigeria High Commission here in London that really had me worried about my trip. It took six confounding, confusing and contradictory visits to the HC before I finally got my visa, only days before my flight. The looks of incredulity on their faces when I said I was only going for a holiday made me consider dropping the idea all together. Yet, I relented. Sitting at the Heathrow Terminal 3 gate waiting to board my flight, something (a flea? a spider?) bit me on my leg. ‘Oh boy,’ I thought, ‘here we go.’

As has often been the case, experience on the ground didn’t quite fit the tips received before I left. Yes, I can confirm that hand wipes were essential packing and that cash was king (I don’t think I’d have wanted to use a credit card there even if I could have). Of course, watching one’s back is never a bad idea, but the reality of negotiating Lagos seemed to be that every single act was one of faith … From zooming around in a taxi with a door that wouldn’t shut to floating through the shantytown canals of the lagoon village of Makoko, to get anywhere or do anything required placing my life in another’s hands.

Trusting others to such a degree was daunting for a cynic like me. In fact, I reckon Lagos was the most daunting place I’ve ever been. It was definitely the filthiest. More than a few times (most notably while touring the essentially open sewage waterways of Makoko and the trash strewn beaches of remote Tarkwa Bay) I caught myself wondering if I had happened upon Hell on Earth. Still there was reprieve. Lekki Conservation Centre with its boardwalk through the jungle and guaranteed mona monkey spotting provided a true slice of paradise amid the sprawling urban squalor and pandemonium. My hotel, the albeit grubby Bogobiri House, had a homey, laid back and welcoming feel that has now left me with a nostalgia usually reserved for much more scenic destinations. I have no plans to return to Lagos, but I wouldn’t be against going back. I certainly miss it and am glad to have witnessed Lagosian living firsthand.