In a development that has shaken the already brittle foundations of international air travel, a massacre at Niger’s largest airport has left 35 souls prematurely meeting their maker, and the British Foreign Office has, with all the urgency of a sloth on sedatives, upgraded its travel advice to the throat-clearing ‘do not travel’ category. The attack, reportedly carried out by persons with a singular lack of regard for airport security protocols, occurred at the Diori Hamani International Airport in Niamey. Gunmen, presumably uninterested in duty-free shopping, opened fire in the terminal, turning a place of departures into a place of eternal departure.
The Foreign Office, in a statement that seemed to have been written by a committee of stunned goldfish, warned British nationals that ‘the situation is volatile and could change rapidly,’ a revelation that must have felt like a bucket of cold water to the families of the deceased. The official advice, now resplendent in its clarity, tells Britons: ‘Do not travel to Niger,’ a directive that ought to have been self-evident given the recent bullet-riddled state of its airport. But then, as any seasoned traveller knows, the Foreign Office is often playing catch-up with reality, issuing warnings that are roughly as timely as a Christmas card in July.
The attack has been condemned by the usual roster of world leaders, each vying for the most tragic diction, while the actual business of burying the dead and comforting the bereaved is left to those without press release budgets. Meanwhile, the travel industry is bracing for a surge in insurance claims and a dip in Nigerien tourism, a sector that can ill afford any more dips; it was already limping along like a wounded gazelle. As I write this, fingers trembling with a mixture of gin and rage, I can only imagine the scene at the airport: the chaos, the screams, the surreal juxtaposition of ‘departures’ boards and the ultimate arrival.
And what of the British government’s response? They have activated their ‘consular assistance’ team, a group of people whose job it is to hand out leaflets about grief counselling while the bodies are still warm. The absurdity is not lost on me.
We live in an age where we are warned about ‘do not travel’ after the damage is done, where the Foreign Office’s crystal ball seems to be perpetually in the shop for repairs. The attack in Niger is a grim reminder that the world is a fragile place, and that our best efforts at security are often just a paper shield against a storm of bullets. In the end, the only travel advice that seems to hold water is this: if you want to stay alive, stay at home.
But even that is no guarantee, for the world is a madhouse, and the madhouse knows no borders.
