Pt. Noire - Blackest of Nights

Hoffman and I were visiting the Company’s West African offices. The trip was a crazy one: San Francisco – London Heathrow – Lagos, Nigeria – Libreville, Gabon - Pointe Noire, Congo – Cabinda, Angola – Luanda, Angola – Paris, France – San Francisco. We might have even thrown in Kinshasa, Zaire somewhere, but I can’t remember. All that in only three weeks and a bit. It was exhausting.

The Pointe Noire office was a two person show: a Country Manager and a Finance Manager. I don’t even remember whether we had any oil production in the Congo at that time. Maybe we were just negotiating to start drilling. Anyway, very small office. Country Manager was off-site being treated for malaria. The Finance Manager (FM, for short) was hosting us. He had organized a “meeting-’n-greeting” service to pick us up at the airport.

Hoffman taught me: never go out of an airport in West Africa without being damn sure that the person with whom you are leaving is really who says he is. Some travelers had been met by a person with the properly logo’d shirt, with seemingly proper credentials, and who even knew the traveler’s name. The unsuspecting traveler then got in a car with the guy and ended up in some bleak hideaway being held for ransom. No thanks.

Our smiling “greeter” was waiting for us as we entered the terminal. We must have been the only expats arriving because he walked up to us with hand extended. His shirt had a logo matching what we’d been told to look for. We shook hands and asked his name.
He asked back, “Who are you waiting for?”

We replied, “No, no. Who are you?”

His grin widened and he replied, “Charles”, which also matched what we’d been told. We ignored the logo on his shirt and asked, “What Company are you with?” Again, he gave a suitable answer.

Finally we asked, “Who are you here to meet?” He showed us a much-folded piece of paper with our names semi-legible on it.

So far, so good: he’d passed all the initial checks. We let him get our bags and help us through a surprisingly straightforward customs and immigration process. As we headed toward his car, we verified that the license plate matched what the FM told us it would be. If any of our checks hadn’t matched up, we’d have remained in the public part of the airport and tried to contact the FM. After so much flying around the world to these out of the way places, these security precautions seemed normal to us – no big deal.

Charles led us to a new black SUV, loaded our luggage, and drove us to the Company’s guest house. Pt. Noire had no safe or comfortable hotels for foreign guests, so the Company retained quarters for visiting employees. The house was quite nice – clean and bright. Too bad it turned out we wouldn’t be there much. We freshened up then a car and driver, which we again carefully vetted, took us to the Company office where we met the FM. It was mid-afternoon by this time. We chatted for a while then FM suggested that we go to his house, have a cocktail, and talk about what we wanted to do tomorrow. We’d been traveling for hours; it sounded like a great plan to us.

Charles drove the three of us 15-20 minutes to the gate of a high-walled compound. A security guard swung open the solid metal gate at the sight of our vehicle. A second guard was inside. The white painted stucco house was a chic, clean, tropical beauty with landscaped grounds. FM took us inside. His housekeeper asked what we’d like and brought us drinks in a sunlit, open family room looking out on the backyard gardens -- and the security wall beyond. It was a huge house and so far as I could tell only the FM lived there. Pretty upscale, even if it was in Pointe Noire, Congo.

We talked work for a bit, but the FM didn’t really seem interested. We drank a couple more drinks then he said, “Let’s go to the yacht club and sit by the water.” We loaded into his car and he drove us to a nice outdoor bar – South Atlantic Ocean waves, beach, tropical breeze, sun, beautiful. We left the car on the street. He tipped a couple kids to watch the car while we were gone.

We had a few beers and watched the gentle surf go in and out. He told us about life in Pt. Noire. Yes, it’s third-world-ish and you’re always worried about security, but not as much as in some other cities in West Africa. Once you get the lay of the land, there’s a thriving expat community and plenty to do – as we’d find out. The legacy of the French occupation in late 19^th and early 20^th centuries meant that the food was excellent.

The sun started to go down and we returned to his car. He’d left his mobile phone in the car. Now it was gone – car doors unlocked -- no sign of forced entry -- kids no where in sight. Hoffman had left a binder in the car that had a cheap calculator in it. They took the calculator and left the binder – smart kids. The FM just shrugged it off. He said, “I’m here a lot and I’ll see those kids again. I’ll pay them a few dollars and I’ll get my phone back. Want me to try to get your calculator?” Hoffman shook his head “no” with a laugh. The calculator was probably worth about a dollar.

FM drove us to a restaurant and we had a very nice meal. Like always when traveling I tried to eat only piping hot food, no raw vegetables. And, never, never drink the water. We didn’t even order drinks with ice. And when we ordered beer, we made sure we saw them open it in front of us … ditto with bottled water. Otherwise you weren’t sure whether the content was pure or came out of a tap into a “recycled” bottle.

By the time dinner was over it was past 10:30pm. We were beat, but FM said, “Nightcap.” He drove us towards the center of the town and parked. We walked down barely lit streets that were bustling with people. This was definitely NOT the expat part of town. We attracted interested stares, but no more than that. I felt VERY white. FM led us toward the sound of music a block or two ahead. We rounded a corner and found tables set up on the street outside a bar in the tropical nighttime heat. We found three open chairs and sat and listened to a not-bad band. We had a few more drinks. Fleas or some other creatures chewed on my ankles right through my socks. Finally, we said, “Enough.” It was after midnight. He drove us back to our rooms at the guest house. We agreed the car would pick us up at 9AM the next morning for work.

I took two aspirin and drank two bottles of water before going to bed. Most African beer, it is said, is made with formaldehyde as a preservative. Plus, it’s strong beer … maybe double the alcohol of American beer. The attending hangovers are massive.

I got up about 8am, took a shower (and some aspirin), and walked into the bright main room. The house staff provided coffee and breakfast, and I started to feel human again. We were ready to go by 9AM on the dot, but no car. No car by 9:30. With help from the housekeeper, we called the FM. He said, “Oh, yeah. I’m running late and I told Charles to get you at 10am.”

Thanks for letting us know, MF … sorry … FM. Another hour’s sleep wouldn’t have hurt.

So we got to the office at about 10:30. We tried to do what we came to do:

“Show us your computer set up. Who manages the system? What problems have you had? How did you handle them? What problems do you anticipate? What are your biggest risks?”

“Show us your accounting section. What are about your financial controls? What problems have you had? How did you handle them? What problems do you anticipate? What are your biggest risks?”

“Show us your office security measures and procedures.”

Etc.

We were not impressed. We heard lots of “Oh, that’s not a problem here.” Or “Oh, he’s not in the office today.” Or “I’ll show you that tomorrow.”

It was aggravating that we couldn’t get much business conducted. The FM knew weeks ago that we’d be coming. He even knew the questions we were going to ask and what we wanted to see. Seems like he would’ve made sure we could meet the people we needed to meet. It felt shady and, while the guy was extremely personable and fun to be around, I was concerned about what he might be covering up. He was certainly living the grand life here … even if it was off the beaten track. What was he not telling us?

After a couple hours of work, such as it was, he said, “Let’s go to lunch.” He took us to a nice place. Nothing to special to note about it, except that it was a long lunch.

We went back to the office and worked fairly unproductively for a couple hours at which point he said, “You guys must be tired. Why don’t you go back to your rooms and we’ll pick this up over dinner?” Huh? We’ve traveled several thousand miles and now worked a total of about five hours. We fly out tomorrow afternoon. We said, “No, let’s finish this up.”

He said, “Well, actually I have an appointment with a government official.” We were not amused, but there was not a lot we could do. So a driver took us back to the guest house.

In truth, a nap was a good thing; I slept like a log. I got up about 7PM and cleaned up for dinner. We hung out until the FM picked us up at 8PM. He drove us to a fancy French dinner club called the Pizzeria that you’d never know was there … set back off one of the main streets. (We never figured out why a French restaurant that didn’t even serve pizza was called Pizzeria.) The owner and staff seemed to know him. This became a theme. We ate a proper meal and drank quite a bit. It was a long affair. He picked up the bill and as we’re leaving, he said, “Nightcap?”

We said, “No. We have lots of work to finish in the morning and we fly out tomorrow afternoon.”

“No problem,” he said – meaning, we discover, not that he’s taking us back to the guest house, but that it’s “no problem” about working tomorrow.

And the next thing we know we drive up outside yet another bar. We follow him in. The owner and staff seem to know him. We have some local beers: Ngok, meaning crocodile. I’m feeling wasted. It must be midnight by now, and all I can think about is how I’m going to have to drag myself out of bed in the morning, and that I still have to pack, and that I’m going to hate sitting on the plane tomorrow feeling hung-over.

Finally we leave and the FM, unbelievably, says: “One more place.”

We say, “NO way.”

He says, “Oh, this is a local place you have to see this to believe it.”

We say, “NO, really.”

He ignores us again and drives down several side streets and then off onto a dirt track through a seemingly empty field. At the end of the track is a low building with dozens of cars around it, but no lights. I hear a faint whump of a bass line coming from inside the building and see shapes of people around it. Intuitively, this is NOT a place I thought we should be going. As he gets out, FM says, “Watch your drink in here.” As in: “Watch your drink in here … because someone will sneak a drug into it and the next thing you know you’ll be in the alley with your wallet and passport stolen … and maybe beaten up -- or worse.”

This is just nuts but what are we going to do? He’s out of the car and heading for the building. No freaking way am I staying out there in the dark by myself or even with Hoffman. We follow him.

The owner, and the staff, and the bouncers know him. Money changes hands at the door. Conversations with heads close together take place. A couple of the people glance at us. We’re waved in.

The door opens and I’m hit with the sound of rock music like a physical force. I can feel the percussion from the speakers in my chest. My head throbs. It’s hot. It smells like densely packed bodies, stale beer, and smoke. I sense more than hear the noise of screamed conversations occurring over the music. It’s so black inside that I can’t see anything for several minutes. Little by little my eyes adjust – alternately aided and hurt by multicolor strobe lights flashing over the tiny dance floor in the corner.

More than half the crowd are women. I’m two steps in the door and three of them are pressed up against me. They’re all looking in my eyes, smiling at me, and talking. Hand on my chest. Arm around my waist. Arm around my neck. Touching me, touching me.  My right hand is in my front pocket where my billfold and passport are. I smile and try to fend them off. Big lips pout back at me as a quite nice breast presses against my chest. I feel an insistent squeeze on my butt. Now I’m not smiling, I’m feeling claustrophobic. The FM rescues me, shakes his head at the hookers, and leads the way to the bar through the mob.

Three Ngoks appear and we watch the bartender pop the caps in front of us. We grab the bottles and put our thumbs over the tops. We turn our backs to the bar, keeping the beers in hand, and look out at the scene. It’s a constant parade of women walking by. One or two stop and lean over to say something in my ear. It’s so loud I have no idea what they’re saying – and they’re probably speaking French anyway. One leans in, smiles, and grabs my crotch and presses her chest against mine. That was one too many. No smiles from me this time. I move her back a step using my fist holding the beer bottle. She frowns and sneers something obviously unhappy. A nearby guy gives me a hard look. Eventually the trick-parade thins out as they realize we’re not buying. Another round of beers arrives.

Normally I would have liked to watch the craziness. But, it is too dark to see – black faces in a black night club. The music is painfully loud. Typically I’d have danced, but no way was I going into that churning mass on my own. The longer we are there, the less comfortable I become, and I haven’t been comfortable starting at the parking lot. I feel like a target – a conspicuous, easy target.

Finally at maybe 3 or 4AM, the FM decides he’s getting no more out of us. He leads the way out. More money is exchanged with people at the door. Perhaps a “parking fee”, i.e., making sure the car is still there with all its accessories – wheels, battery, etc.

The FM drives us back to the guest house. It seems to take forever. We stumble out and agree that a car will pick us up at 10AM. That gives us a chance for three or four hours sleep anyway.

I drink four bottles of water and take four aspirin. I know that’s going to be useless, but it can’t hurt either. The room is spinning as I strip down to my underwear and flop on the bed.

I almost don’t hear the alarm because of the pounding in my head. I throw my clothes into the suitcase, take a shower, and stagger out into the main living area. Hoffman’s waiting. “How do you feel?” he asks.

I reply, “Stupid. I’ve never been so stupid as last night. I should have just said ‘Take me home.’  right after dinner. I think he was trying to get us in trouble. I think he wanted something to use against us. If we find something really bad in the operation here, he could ask, ‘What’s your wife going to say when I tell her about that hooker from the club?’ That club: a scarier place I’ve never seen. And he’s been there a lot.”

“Can’t argue with any of that. Let’s get out of here.” Hoffman says. I nod (which hurts) and we drag our bags out to the waiting car.

We made no attempt to do business at the office. He was not going to let us find anything, if there was anything to find. Our flight was in mid-afternoon. We said our good-byes and headed toward the airport in the blaziing West African sun, which actually felt good after that blackest of nights.