Leaving on a jet plane

It is no secret that I was meant for a different era. I have learnt to accept it with time. It is not easy to come to terms with it. Not effortless at all to finally make peace with the fact that you skipped a generation or two. In fact, quite demanding. Only more painful than writing a whole paragraph saying the same thing over and over again.

I love the old world, the world of the 60s and the 70s, the world of free sex, rock and roll, Ursula Andress and Sophia Loren, and no airport security. Anyone who has spent more time getting through baggage screening, metal detectors, and frisk searches than in flight would have the good sense to concur. Whether it is all for "our security" is questioning, especially since I did manage to 'sneak in' a can of deo in my cabin baggage just for the thrill of it. This woman I know has been carrying a cigarette lighter in her hand bag with elan.

Anyway. This is not about airport security. It is about the absence of it. For a good part of last week I have been travelling. Nigeria has no baggage screening in any of its airports. No aero-bridges, either. You just walk on the tarmac! Fantastic, isn't it? To still find the old world. I especially loved the Owerri airport. Well, it is a cargo airport doubling up as a passenger one since the Port Harcourt airport has been closed for what seems like forever. It is green all around. Lovely.

Abuja is the perfect example for lopsided development. In a country where three-fourths of the population lives below the poverty line, is a capital city of broad expressways, glittering hotels, and magnificent landscaping. It is the bride of Nigeria - all decked up as if she walked straight out of the bandbox.

We went to Dome, the only bowling alley in Nigeria. I don't know if bowling is a silly game or if it was the five double shots of vodka but I managed to score three strikes without ever having played the game before. Nah, it must be a silly game. I have consciously kept off bowling. I believe it is a game for the superficial snobs.

Flew down to Owerri the next day. The drive from Owerri to Port Harcourt is beautiful. Green everywhere, and a smooth stretch of the road too. Just try not to get involved with the booming business of the region - kidnapping for ransom - since you would mostly be on the wrong side of it. When you are not unnerved by the sight of burnt vehicles dotting the road, the sight of highway police greets you - they stop you virtually every two kilometres or so.

Port Harcourt is called the Garden City. Make no mistake, it is not like the garden city of India. The gardens here refer to the natural growth. It is gorgeous, nonetheless. Went to Choba the following evening. One of our instant noodles plants is in Choba. Basically did not do much there except have a jolly good time. Went to the plant sometime after midnight where I was quite the bundle of joy to discover that I still can recognise a shell and tube heat exchanger when I see one. Yes Dad, all that money you spent on my education did not go down the drain.

Chaand sifaarish jo karta hamaari deta woh tumko bataa
Sharmo haya ke parde giraake karni hai humko khata
Zid hai ab to hai khudko mitaana
Hona hai tujhmein fanaa

Humse door jaaoge kaise
Dil se hamein bhulaaoge kaise
Hum woh khushboo hain jo saanson mein baste hain
Khud ki saanson ko rok paaoge kaise

Saw Fanaa. Finally! I was wrong, and it is not often when that happens. They still know how to pen lyrics. And they still know how to write good Urdu shaayari. As the song goes, 'Subhaan Allah'!