A very interesting piece in this week’s Economist about transportation logistics in Africa and one particular company, Bollore, that has taken a uniquely aggressive approach to moving goods around the continent (e.g., the majority of its staff are in Africa). Although one of the examples of success is the transport of cigarettes, it is still a heartening story about a company putting some real muscle behind projects that will hopefully spur governments into repairing infrastructure badly in need of any attention at all. Here’s a highlight from the piece:

‘Today, getting a container to the heart of Africa—from Douala in Cameroon to Bangassou in the Central African Republic, say—still means a wait of up to three weeks at the port on arrival; roadblocks, bribes, pot-holes and mud-drifts on the road along the way; malarial fevers, prostitutes and monkey-meat stews in the lorry cabin; hyenas and soldiers on the road at night. The costs of fuel and repairs make even the few arterial routes (beyond southern Africa) uneconomic. A study by America’s trade department found that it cost more to ship a ton of wheat from Mombasa in Kenya to Kampala in Uganda than it did to ship it from Chicago to Mombasa.’

(As a closet logistics junkie, I would love to be able to work on complicated projects like the ones this company does, especially in such interesting locations.)

I’ve seen many such shoddy roads and airports, but the most striking were the trains in the Congo. Last year I spent two weeks on top of, in between and inside the bowels of trains in central Congo-Kinshasa, and despite, or perhaps because of, the frequent derailings, delays and breakdowns, it was one of the most memorable experiences I’ve had while in Africa. While waiting for repairs at one village, we met a large group of people who had been waiting for months beside the tracks for a train that never came. Traders and farmers, they had lost almost all of their stock because of the delay. Their bags of harvested maize had long ago rotted and been eaten by insects.

If this logistics company and others like it can goad governments in Africa into improving roads, bridges, train tracks, riverways, etc., it will go a very long way towards alleviating some of the problems facing so many in Congo and elsewhere.

Sigh. There I was, innocently procrastinating online, when I stumbled upon an interesting story about a website that offers significant cash awards to nonfiction writers. I was excited to see that some financial heft and democracy are being thrown behind unknown writers, then I saw a sadly all-too-familiar reference and my heart sank. There are 150 million people in Nigeria, and these scammers are but a few, but damn if they aren’t persistent. Here’s the relevant portion:

‘International contributors are welcome, says Petty — “We have had three winners from England out of the 40, and we’d love to see people from other countries as well” — although the founders are leery of entrants from one foreign country: Nigeria. “The Nigerians were the one group of people who believed us from the first,” Thompson said. “One guy immediately jumped on the site and tried to game it. It was either the guy himself posting multiple reviews under different names, or a bunch of his friends.” The story, Thompson says, “was execrable, unfortunately.”‘

And I doubt, by the way, that their stories were that “execrable.” Nigerians are great writers, buddy. Ever heard of him, or him, or her, or him?

It’s strange what you begin to notice. I’ve been in Nigeria for almost a year now, and I have started seeing the influence of Nigerians all over the place, from music to books to theater. Recently I re-watched Antonioni’s classic flick “Blow-Up” and saw something I hadn’t seen during previous viewings. When the main character is running around frantically on the streets of London looking for a mysterious woman, four Nigerian men dressed head to toe in traditional robes and hats walk by, laughing and shouting. I never would have noticed had I not been living here. Maybe Antonioni admired Nigerians’ impeccable sense of style, or their joviality.

Nigerian WBC champ Samuel Peter, whose home village I visited earlier this year, seems to have had good cause for being a tad upset at his pre-bout press conference. I like that he spoke in his native language when everyone else comfortably spoke in German. I’m pretty sure he speaks Ibibio. Can anyone confirm? His opponent hasn’t fought in four years, by the way. Advantage: The Nigerian Nightmare.