My recent trip to the beautiful Island of Lido in Venice, Italy, to attend the 65th edition of the Venice International Film Festival, was interesting as well as challenging.
To start with, securing appointment for an Italian visa at the embassy’s Lagos office did not come easy. In fact, I was almost giving up on the trip, when the visa finally came, just a day to the beginning of the 11-day festival. (The experience will be a story for another day).
I was originally billed to leave immediately, the following morning, which was Wednesday, August 27, based on the fact that the London office of Atlantic Overseas, the sole sponsor of the trip, had taken care of everything. But on arrival at the Murtala Muhammed airport, I could not get a direct Alitalia flight to Rome, and after several trials and endless wait at their office, I was advised to go home and come back on Saturday, which was already four days into the festival.
Though, I hate flying with a passion, but I eventually left that Saturday night, on board KLM, the Royal Dutch Airlines, enroute Schipol Airport, Amsterdam, Holland to Marco Polo airport, Italy. The six and half-hours flight was smooth and sleep eluded me for the greater part of the trip.
On arrival at Amsterdam the following morning, the long queue and sea of heads waiting to be cleared at the various immigration desks, immediately reminded me of the ever-busy Oshodi and Ojota bus stops.
After what seemed like eternity, an immigration officer who also demanded for relevant traveling documents from me and asked few questions about my mission to Venice finally cleared me.
Being a lonely traveler, I waited patiently for more than three hours at Amsterdam, before boarding my connecting flight to Marco Polo Airport, Italy, which was less than two hours.
The metre reading airport taxi that took me to my hotel at Malcontenta, an outskirt of Venice, and very close to Padova, collected forty-five Euros from me.
However, an arrival at the hotel, which had been prepaid and booked online by Atlantic Overseas, the front desk officer, in her smattering and heavily Italian accented English, shockingly said my name was not on their arrival guests list.
I blatantly told her to go back to the files on her desktop computer and cross check very well.
She emerged after about five minutes and started scolding me for arriving late to the hotel. Since I was tired and not ready for any confrontation, I told her sorry and collected the key to my room, which was on the first floor of the three – star - hotel Palladio.
That same lonely evening, on my way to the Central Bus Station in Venice, to explore the city and look for what to eat, because I had not eaten any nice food, since I left Nigeria, I lost my way. But was rescued by the only two Nigerians, I saw once, throughout my eight day sojourn in Europe. In our brief chats, they separately told me, they were on transit in Venice and do not reside in that tourist city.
After searching endlessly for what to eat at the Bus Station and could not find any, a young Italian walked up to me, where I sat and was admiring the aquatic splendour of Venice. The Italian to my consternation introduced himself as a journalist with a name I cannot remember any longer.
He writes for the local paper and wanted to know my opinion about a newly constructed bridge by the Mayor of Venice. When I told him, I was a tourist that just arrived Venice that morning and do not have anything to say. He further insisted that I should rate the bridge over ten percent. Just to extricate myself. I told him eight percent was my take.
He immediately zoomed off after politely declining an offer to have a group photograph with me.
Meanwhile, I spent the next five days attending the festival, which takes place at Lido, which is a beautiful Island in Venice.
Aside traveling on water for two hours to and fro the festival on a daily basis, the other big challenges I encountered in Venice, were language, loneliness and food barriers. English was not the Lingua Franca in Venice, Italy, so I found it very difficult communicating, except for words like “Ciao and Gracia”, that I later picked and started saying to any body around me.
Lack of what to eat in Venice, was another big burden I faced, and in order not to starve myself to death, I resorted to eating only pasta and bread with morning tea as a supplement.
Despite all these, I had vowed within myself not to be weighed down by loneliness. Even when the Foreign Press department confirmed on my first day at the festival, that I was the only person attending the event from Nigeria and Nollywood.
Sincerely, loneliness and boredom saw me attending an evening mass at a Catholic church close to my hotel. A ritual I performed last while in primary school and still under the watchful eyes of my strict and staunch Catholic parents.
After reading the few novels and the many past editions of The Sun, that I took for the trip. I made my bible, my best pal. This was another ritual; I had not done in a while, except when there is an emergency that needs spiritual tackling.
In one of my quiet moments at the seaside Bus Station, I marveled at the efficiency and effectiveness of the Venice Water transport system and wondered why that of Lagos State cannot be made to work same and help ease the perennial traffic on our roads.
Through out my stay, there was no such bad news as a boat crashing, sinking and colliding with another or passengers fighting at the long queues or drowning.
Orderliness was the watchword at the very neat Bus Station flowing with both young and old tourists from all over the world.
Aside the regular commuter boats that could carry over 100 passengers, you could also charter a speedboat taxi or a canoe with uniformed paddlers. And to ensure the security of lives and property, polite, friendly and eagle eyed policemen were constantly patrolling the busy Venice waters in their special speedboats. (Lagos State Government should take a cue from the Italian government, if they truly want to revive their moribund water transport system).
Unlike the taxi drivers of the other European countries that I had visited in the past, who were always willing to chat up a tourist, most of the Italian cabbies I encountered were a bit taciturn. Whenever I tried opening up discussion lines, they usually replied in monosyllables. Even the ones I met on the streets were not any different. I had to give up after several trials and started keeping to myself till I returned.
With a nostalgic feeling, I terribly looked forward to the long and tortuous journey back to Nigeria after spending eight lonely days that seemed like eight years. But before leaving, I noticed that Italian ladies, love to don “wicked micro mini skirts and shorts and do not joke with their sticks of cigarettes”. Their male counterparts also enjoy puffing, especially in places where there are no signs of No Smoking.
I finally left my hotel at Malcontenta by 5am on Sunday, September 7, 2008 for Marco Polo airport to catch a 6:50am connecting flight to, Amsterdam with same KLM.
I nearly shed tears of anger and disappointment for Nigeria, which just turned 48, while waiting for the flight to Lagos.
During the long wait, which lasted for over five hours at the airport’s lounge with other Nigerians coming home from different destinations around the globe, my heavy heart quickly went to our dear Nigerian Airways, which died and was hurriedly buried (cremated), a long time ago in a forgotten grave.
The pain and anger became unbearable; when I started seeing the way several KLM planes and that of other countries proud national carriers were arriving and departing. The one billion dollar question on my mind, which I could not find an answer to, even till date was why, did the Nigerian government kill Nigerian Airways? Imaging the joy of sighting your country’s national carrier in a foreign land, especially at an international airport as big as Schipol. Despite this global failure, we still have people parading themselves as ministers and officials of the Aviation Ministry. What a big shame and disappointment!
No doubt, the journey was smooth and fun-filled with the hosts and hostesses pampering us with assorted foods and choice drinks. But the oven type heat that brought heavy sweat on my face and whole body while waiting for my luggage at the purveyor belt, immediately reminded me that I was back at the unending hustling and bustling associated with Nigeria and Nigerians.
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