JUNE 2011: TransAfrica Part II: The Return, and the Waiting Game in Nairobi

It’s been over six years since I was last in Nairobi – on a solo celebration of my 40^th with a safari out in Laikipia – and it’s good to be back. Good to be back in Africa again after last year’s adventures.

I stay at Wildebeest Travels & Camp. Advertised as an oasis in the heart of Nairobi it lives up to its billing – an old, circa 1935, stone house set on 2 acres of gardens off Ngong Road (and an easy walk into the CBD) owned by an Australian couple who were backpacking their way home from working in the UK when they hit Nairobi and decided to stay a few years back. They’ve kept the house pretty much as-is and live on the top floor; guests stay in swank-safari style tents set out across the lawn. It’s a great idea, except for the lack of sound-proofing canvas delivers, so with guests arriving in from flights as late as gone 2 and others departing for safaris as early as 0430 it’s not the most restful of places - but certainly better than any hotel option in town.

I’d no option on the flight over: to use points there was only one day, the 16^th, and when I looked into it only one seat going; which all worked out fine when my truck was due in on the 21^st ; but then it was the 25^th, and then the 29^th , before finally settling on the 27^th so it’s been a bit of a stretch hanging about waiting. However, it did afford me the opportunity to meet Simon, a local man who as a young high school student had been sponsored by my parents through Save the Children; their funding allowed him to complete his schooling  and so go on to earn a place in university and graduate with a degree in Accounting, which he now practises as a profession in his own firm. They still remain in touch yet have never met in person so it was a wonderful opportunity to meet a family legend. He took me out to meet his elderly parents on their farm outside of Naivasha; one of 16 children, they are rightfully very proud of his accomplishments and full of praise and thanks for the assistance my parents had provided for him, without which, he says, he would never be where he is at today: “no chance.” It is all-too-easy to be cynical about charity, especially when it is as disconnected as a donation on one side of the world intended for someone needy on the other (but does it ever really get there ...?), so a wonderful story to see it having truly made a difference.

Finally underway I book the train across to Mombasa – now only running twice per week so am in luck when the call comes notifying me of the amended arrival date for my ship and there is an option in 2 days time to get me into Mombasa on Saturday morning for the Monday arrival. Have always kicked myself for not having taken it 6 years before, listening instead to my safari camp owner, a white Kenyan, lambasting the train service and assuring me I definitely did not want to take it. A total train anorak I’m very disappointed and take the bus instead when off for the Zanzibar leg of the trip – and concerned again when a young American staying at Wildebeest reiterates all I’d been told those years before and declares it an “awful experience” ... But I’ve ridden trains all over the world, circled India with stints in local class included – how bad can it be?? The fact is that it’s not; in fact, it’s a wonderful trip across. Having upgraded at the station to First Class (7GBP more than Second, which is a shared cabin of 4 berths) I am afforded my own private cabin and white linen service in the Dining Car for a pretty darn good dinner and breakfast thrown in. Bag of Tuskers and a few snacks, feet up on the sink and I happily while away the miles watching the world pass by – unfortunately mostly in the dark, but still ... My couch is made up with clean sheets and pillow and while sleep is not easy with the train bouncing all about the tracks (and prior warnings playing in my head that the carriages do frequently jump the rails if the driver gets up too much speed) still, I wake to stunning vistas out my window of savannah cloaked in mist and miles of open space. Left on time, arrived on time and, overall, an unbeatable way to pass 15 hours ...

So now it’s the waiting game in Mombasa. I’ve met with the shipping agents, arranged a game plan for when the ship arrives (I am insistent on being there for the entire process even though they are to act on my behalf, which takes some negotiating but is finally agreed to) and have plenty of small and medium currency in both USD and Kenyan Shillings in gild some palms and (hopefully) ensure the process goes smoothly ... 

West Coast Complete - November 2010

And then I was home.

It's now June 2011 and as I update this blog I find the write-up for the Western Sahara, Morocco and Spain run for home has disappeared, so this entry will unfortunately have to be fairly vague ...

Crossing the border was probably the most startling transition of the entire trip, with the Mauritania side being 'standard-for-Africa' of wood huts, lots of loiterers and confused bureaucracy. A short, and extremely bumpy, run through the no-mans-land separating the two countries and it's as organized as any European crossing, complete with lorry-sized x-ray machine if they want to thoroughly scan your vehicle for contraband.

Luckily I cruised through unhindered and was out within minutes onto a smooth stretch of tarmc that didn't end until I got on the ferry in Santander, Spain.

I hugged the coast for most of the run, enjoying the bracing sea breezes after Mauritania's insane heat, and kept myself entertained admiring the massive RV's cruising past me heading south on holidays - palaces on wheels compared to my trusty, but very dirty and disheveled Landy - quickly covering off Dakhla to Marrakesh, Fes and then Tangiers.

A few days haggling my way through the Casbahs - Fes being the nicest - resulting in a matching set of camel leather soft-sided leather luggage was somewhat marred by the insistence of every single GD local to refer to me with a happy wave as "Ali Baba' which grew very wearisome very quickly until I felt I needed to get back on the road before I throat-punched somebody and spoiled the whole Zen of the trip ...

Quick high speed ferry run across the Med to Algeciras and I had left Africa behind. A straight run up to Santander in the north, a decent hotel room overlooking my ferry home and a glass of cava to celebrate and - save for the projectile vomiting across the stormy Bay of Biscay for insult after all I'd been through previously - the trip was done.

Phase 17: Mauritania

And, then, it all went to hell in a hand-basket ...

Still a long day’s run from the border I begin to hear an odd swooshing noise coming out of the engine on the driver’s side, so obvious even above the sound of tires on the road and wind rushing in through open windows that Clare comments on it from her side shortly after I’ve first picked up on it myself. A quick roadside check under the bonnet displays oil shooting out from an unknown part under the gasket. Not a good – REALLY not a good – place for a mechanical concern and we’re only a few days past a thorough check-up at the Land Rover dealer in Bamako, who gave her a clean bill of health. 

Hopefully there’ll be a decent “bush mechanic” in the next town; but, no, it’s a one-horse town where if I wanted a new set of bald tires to replace the phenomenal mil-spec super stompers  I’ve just put on in Bamako I’d be set; otherwise: nothing. But as we spin the roundabout one more time in fruitless searching before continuing towards the Senegal border and hopefully some semblance of civilization where a decent mechanic might set up shop, Clare spies a large blue overland truck parked on the side of the road and we’re quickly chatting with Berndt and Melanie from Germany and assessing the amount of oil now dripping out of the engine and leaking down into the gutter. 

Berndt, a trained mechanic with a complete workshop on board his truck, thinks it should be a relatively easy fix and suggests we skip Senegal for any number of reasons we find valid and easy to agree with and head for Mauritania instead; they’ll follow along behind us in case it gets any more serious than it presently is.

A quick swing through town and I find a decent looking set-up along the road – nothing more than a bench under a tree but lots of energetic activity abounds and there looks to be a large set of tools lying about so as it’s the best they’ve got we’ve got no choice. A thorough, everyone’s heads stuck under the bonnet whether they be involved in mechanics or not assessment later and the verdict is given: they can fix, “no problem”, and the offending part is soon wrestled out. Berndt and Melanie have also stopped in, having decided to wait out the fix with us in case there is any way he can assist. The fantastic people you meet on the road.

Hours of effort is engaged, complete with Berndt getting stuck in as well, bringing out his pop rivet gun and compressor to meld the two pieces back together and, after a few km’s test drive without issue we’re – with a wave of relief - fixed by dark and have set up camp together in what we are to learn later is the local cemetery. No wonder it’s so quiet ...

Next morning we’re off, B and M before us as I want to do a bank run in case of further issue, and we’ve also no intention of attaching ourselves to their hip - both of us being fairly ‘independent’ travelers not looking to turn it into a shared group activity. Half way to the border and a new noise sneaks out of the bonnet – a rhythmic ‘ticking’ this time. With a sense of foreboding I look under and see oil shooting out of the ‘repaired’ part like a severed artery bleeding out. With expletives spurring me on I swing round to head back to the mechanics, only to have Clare wisely counsel our better option is to catch up to Berndt and his fully-equipped truck rather than go back to the bush mechanics as - even if they can find the source of the problem (again) - they have no way to put the part back together again with Berndt and his pop rivet gun now gone. Expletives again and back around towards the border.

Quickly catching up with Berndt and explaining our situation, he is willing to get stuck into it and suggests we stop somewhere shady down the road, away a bit down past the border. Which we do; a quick wave at the local, curious, goat herder all the permission we seek as we stop under a large tree, which I start immediately hacking away at to clear the vicious thorns overhanging the work surface. Not so fast; within 5 minutes a car comes to a screeching halt roadside and we are told by the uniforms inside in most uncertain terms we cannot stop here as “two Italians were killed right here” and we must get immediately to the local police station down the road to work on the truck there. No arguments there and we’re back off, me draining oil so badly now I lose 7 litres in the next 40 km’s, arriving within a drop of Dry and Dead.

So sets up a day’s gruelling toil under a baking sun, but Sods Law prevails and we quickly go from bad to worse as the part snaps in half as Berndt attempts to remove it. Incredible, above and beyond, efforts are then brought to bear, with Berndt – one of those “I’ve got just the right thing for this” kind of guys with a truck of wonder and seemingly endless supplies for any manner of possible requirement  - fashioning a bespoke metal plate to seat the two broken pieces onto. Hours pass, sweat pours (or would were it not so dry that it never gets a chance to escape a pore before evaporating), Clare and Melanie spa their feet in buckets and in the end it’s all for nowt – the piece is well and truly @#$%ed and we’re now left with no alternate but to be towed by Berndt to the capital, Nouackchott, some 950 km’s northwest. 

It cannot be emphasised enough just how lucky we were to have come across them at the roundabout – and that they turned out to be such wonderful, helpful (and damned skilful) support for us; truly our Guardian Angels here and our heartfelt thanks for their support on our behalf cannot ever be emphasized enough.

I could probably right a whole blog entry here on just how arduous a grind it is to be towed on the end of a 6 metre rope (shortened to 3 for towns) for such a distance and on such torn up roads, with constricted steering and brakes, weaving around potholes that sprung up from under the big truck in front with only a split second to react to them, always hyper-alert without respite and jerked around like a puppet on a string (held by a very angry puppet master ...) but I’ll sum it up simply by saying it was the most grueling ‘driving’ I’d had to get through on the whole trip. Not to mention when at every police checkpoint we were reminded of the tenuous security situation and warned to be careful on the road ahead it was no pleasant experience to be completely at the mercy of the towing truck and without any ability for independent action. But no breeze for those towing either; by the time we’d reached Nouackchott some three days later we were both shattered by it all and stood milling about our seaside camp ground like survivors from a battle – which, really, I guess we were ... The alternative, though, had we not met them, is one best not lingered on too long.

Clare flew out that night to Morocco, then on next morning back to the UK for a role at the British Red Cross she was very keen on so I was to face the repairs and subsequent journey alone. A flat bed came to take the truck to the local Land Rover authorized mechanic, who took the truck in on the Thursday and then announced they were closed for Friday and Saturday so they’d get on it Sunday. Jayyyyyyyzuz ... Could have stayed at the beach another couple of days. 

In the end it turned out they’d ordered the wrong part (as they had confidently informed me Thursday when I asked for a thorough review first before work got underway they didn’t need to look at the broken part now it was “no problem” – which I KNEW would be a problem; and, hey, what a surprise when it turned out to be ...), unnecessarily removed the entire engine block looking for other issues I told them were non-existent (and were), never found the part ordered from the UK special delivery but did find the one they required in amongst their stores next day and finally got it all back together and running late Tuesday (the fault being with the vacuum pump – which had been replaced once already, in Livingstone, but that I had in error not recognized as being what it was). Expensive and time-consuming/frustrating exercise, but the truck did leave running better than ever for their over-involved efforts so at least can’t fault them on that.

From Nouakchott there are two routes north to choose between: left up the coast on great tar up to Nouadhibou; or right first on tar up into the Adrar region for Atar then on piste of varying quality to the oasis towns of Chinguetti and Ouadane, then even further up to Choum where you must either organize a lift on the Iron Ore train (the world’s longest train, at over 2.3 km’s in length and about as basic as can be) or turn left and drive the piste straight across the border with Western Sahara. Advised against driving the topline piste solo (friends having had to dig themselves out 9 times on their trip across and seeing only 3 settlements in the 650 km) I went off in search of info on the train (and being a bit of a trainspotter the chance to ride on the fabled line was also very appealing). I spoke with the head of the Tourism Bureau about my plan; no problem she said, I’ll call my uncle he’s the driver of the train, he’ll know. Calls made and all is arranged for Monday: call a fella named Hamoud on arrival in Choum, he’ll have it sorted.

Decision made I head up to Atar on an easy drive on tar through a very sparse environment, dunes starting to show now and plenty of camels browsing amongst the scrub to amuse me (laugh every time I see one of those dumb-but-look-so-proud-of-themselves beasts). Atar was nothing, and like everywhere else mostly all closed up and I am the only tourist in town, causing plenty of interested passersby at my table during dinner of mangy fried chicken and chips from a bag at the only place open in town. 

Next day I’m heading east to Chinguetti along a rough but serviceable hard-pack road, arriving after 3 hours in a town forgotten by time – and certainly by any tourists in Mauritania. Every auberge and campsite is closed save one (Bar Sahara), which I find only because the watchman launches himself out the gate and chases after me down the street begging me to stay. A few dollars to camp but he quickly assures me I have the run of the place as I need – sleep on the roof, take a room if it rains, lounge in the deserted bar area (bedecked in many stickers of prior overland visitors, none of which look to be newer than a few years back, curled up, colours desiccated from the heat).

He sets to making us tea, where over the obligatory three cups of overly sweet and bitter mint shots we hatch a plan together: a tour of the old town of Chinguetti that afternoon to view the museum and library holding ancient volumes of the Koran, a run next morning out to the ancient town of Ouadane but return and not stay, another night at the campsite then a return to Atar the following day. Never one to choose a guide over solo travel but this all sounds sensible and I know the piste out to Ouadane is going to be rough (and also doesn’t show on my GPS) so another pair of hands on board never a bad idea.

All goes well: the town tour very interesting, the Koran’s suitably parched, and Ouadane is a stunning ancient village that tumbles down a cliff face like a series of children’s blocks petulantly knocked over. But we see a storm on the horizon, very picturesque lightening arching across a black sky even though we remain in unrelenting sun, and my guide advises it’s best to get a move on – and good thing we do and quickly as within minutes the rains are pouring down off the bordering plateau and seething across the plains. Within minutes the road is awash and we are fording through puddles half a wheel deep before coming across the first of what will be a dozen washouts caused by flash floods roaring across the road, chewing everything up in their path like teeth through bread. 

At issue is not the depth, which is not great (and certainly less than the river near Timbuktu) but the current is unbelievably strong, causing me to almost lose footing a number of times as I conduct my route recces, and there are hundreds of jagged rocks now hidden beneath the water that could rip my tire apart or leave me beached upon them spinning wheels in the air and at the mercy of the rising waters. Crapsticks (as Clare would have so eloquently put it ...).

The journey back to Chinguetti quickly doubles in time but in the end we’re back without major incident and I’ve added another few notches of highly technical driving to my belt so all round a very enjoyable day’s outing. Back to Atar next day, fording more floods and towing out stuck trucks who mistakenly went for crossings without giving prior recce on the important ‘exactly where and how’ of it, in pouring rain that looks set to stay; so it seems this will be the environment for the rest of my travels through the region – arrive in shocking heat and cloudless sky, but travel through and out under leaden clouds and sudden angry bursts of torrential rains. Least it’s cooler for it.

As I prepare to head for Choum the next morning I am stopped at the roundabout seeking directions to the piste (which has my GPS baffled) when Charles de Gaulle sticks his head into my window. Honest to god splitting image, wearing the uniform of the Mauritanian Army. He expresses some concern for my safety on the route up, but is all very French about it – gallic shrugs about whether any actual security issue is presently in the area, just doing his official but friendly best to make me aware whilst also not trying to put me off in any way (as that would just not be french to have such a  ... insignificant nuisance ... as terrorism interfere with the adventure of such a journey). He bids me a hearty bon voyage and throws a jaunty salute as I drive away – would have liked to have got to know his story, am sure there is much more to it than the undercover uniform hoped to present ...

The piste up to Choum, about 3 hours north when all is good, would be a difficult route at the best of times but has now been made worse by the rains. It’s also not a route but more a run through a 4x4 training academy, with every possible obstacle and environment put in front of me as I grind my way up through it. Deep soft sand? Check. Steep tailbacks up and down the plateau with sharp bowling ball sized rock strewn about and no barriers on 300 foot cliff faces? Check. Floods requiring diversions of a few hundred metres either side into unknown ground (where landmines and hidden pools of deep mud that’ll stick a truck solid up to its doors are both very real dangers I am told to be aware of by every local I have spoken with: “Whatever you do don’t ever go off piste” they say ... Uhuh ...) all whilst trying to maintain a course with no markers to aim towards? Check. Not a single other person around to assist should things go pear-shaped, out in the middle of the stark barren nowhereness? Sure, why not, see how that stresser affects you - check. It’s all there. But I pass the test and make Choum by 2 with more than enough time to get sorted for the should-be-as-scheduled departure of the train at 5 as Hamoud has informed me in calls both the day before and this morning as well. All is good.

‘Course, Hamoud turns out to have done absolutely nothing to arrange getting my vehicle on the train. Nowt. And, in fact, there IS no train for vehicles on a Monday, never is. Wednesday, Wednesdays only I am told repeatedly by all involved in our now fairly heated discussions about just why in hell I’m in Choum today on his bidding if the (insert chosen expletive here) train does not even come here until Wednesday??!!? It is, of course, all “pas de probleme” ... It should be added here that Choum is not a town, it is a station for the train; and for that about the most fleabitten, soulless place I’ve ever arrived in – and in which I am now facing a 2 night 3 day wait in. Not happy.

But once resigned to it all being “no problem” and agreeing to wait it out there (or, more accurately, it being more like “no other solution” ...) Hamoud steps up and basically adopts me into his family for the stay, inviting me to lunch and dinner each day (and scolding me gently when informing me his wife had waited with breakfast for me the first morning and I’d not shown up as I was still asleep he discovered when subsequently checking in on me at the Gendarmerie station that was my home for the duration. Well, it was only 7 when you came by Hamoud – I am on holidays here man ...).

Time passes slowly but easily in sweltering heat during the day and torrential rains at night, lounged about in Hamoud’s ‘man room’ being waited on by wife and children for the mornings and afternoons, where assorted local men arrive throughout the day, unannounced, greet me with no sense of surprise at my being there and promptly fall asleep on the floor next to me, snoring away wrapped up in their cloaks; and then to my tent by 9 full of huge platefuls of starch and mutton gritty with sand, declining endless rounds of tea with the police should I aim to sleep at all that night.

Wednesday finally dawns and I’m up early brewing coffee when Mahmoud, who on Monday had been introduced to me as “The Chief of the platforms” (which I think is quite a title), arrives to inform me we must get to the train “gare” tout de suite! Mahmoud is not my favourite guy, a jobsworth who made it quite clear Monday I could accept a train on Wednesday or I could drive the piste (said much in the same way someone would say “go fly a kite”, or words to that effect ...), with eyes that go in opposite directions to each other and a top lip buried in a thick moustache that curls up to such a degree – and his squashed nose down to such a degree – that the two seem destined to become as one soon. I have named him “Snuf”, not as I wish to have him killed, but after Snuffleufagus (sp??) from Sesame Street, who he sounds just like. 

Snuf gets me cracking and I quickly break camp and head for the station to get loaded onto the fabled platform he has apparently – as he says repeatedly - gone to such great lengths to attain on my behalf. It is curved into a convex from use, covered in nails driven into the boards, and without rails – and when I set about hammering them in I am berated for wasting time on a day of such urgency. Two hours later and a length of baling wire affixing each point of my truck onto the platform as the only form of security it will have for the journey we are done, and I ask when the train is due to arrive (as the urgency has coloured the entire exercise and frayed tempers between Snuf and his crew). “Ce soir” he replies with a shrug, walking off for a nap no doubt. Knob.

Hamoud rescues the day with an invitation to lunch, but once done there is no regularly-scheduled nap to be enjoyed as he informs me the train is here and we must get ready to go. Now I’ve heard the train both nights previously and it’s been in about 2200 so I’m a bit surprised at both the morning’s sense of urgency and it’s sudden appearance today 8 hours early but I’m playing along amiably so off we go. To sit together in the sun, on my folding chairs in front of the truck, baking, til, after three interminable hours, I am finally affixed to the train and only now actually ready to depart.

I immediately realize what’s afoot here though: I am attached to three engines and three water tankers – but most obviously there is no great beejesus iron ore train anywhere to be seen. Am I not taking the “big train” I ask Hamoud? Mais oui, bien sur – but it is not here, you must go 3 hours “la bas” (that great French expression for “over there” that is thrown into any conversation, under any circumstance and with multiple meanings as the situation requires). It is then I realize that all the urgency of the day has been aimed to ensure I am loaded and ready to go just to get to the main train, as it must not be able to load me as part of its normal arrival in Choum at 2200. Not so good really; this adds a meaningless-save-for-the-scenery 6 hour round trip to it all and means a stretching out of the journey’s total timings from 12 to 18 hours in length now ...

But no matter; I am seated on my deck chair, stunning scenery on all sides, sun gently settling into the horizon – and with it the day’s heat – and gently rocking along to the train as we start out from the gare and into the hinterland. All is good; in fact, all is fan-bloody-tastic in fact - all that is missing is a cooler of beers at my side and I don’t think I’ve ever sat in such an enjoyable  environment  ...

And, then, it all went to hell in a hand-basket (again) ...

Without warning, with no perceptible change in speed or terrain, the platform starts to swing wildly from side to side, like a rodeo bronco trying to throw off its rider but in this case the platform trying, violently, to rid itself of the truck off its back. I can hear the shocks and springs slamming under the truck as they are squashed down to their very limit then violently pulled apart in equal measure, from one extreme of their range to another. Swearing wildly to no one anywhere near earshot I grab hold of the bulbar to steady myself from being the first casualty and one-handedly fold the chair I had just moments ago been so enjoying and quickly store it down between the front wheels where I hope it will stay put under the unrelenting onslaught of conflicting forces. Not so lucky one of two sands mats, previously bungy’d to the roof rack and wrapped together with a ratcheted strap – the force has torn that apart, then extending the bungy until it lost purchase and the hook freed off the rail, allowing one to drop quickly over the side into the great boot sale of lost items that must be this stretch of the desert. 

 

And I quickly realize too – but not quickly enough to do anything but swear – that the box of rain sheet poles that, in their case, form the cap to the folded roof tent, keeping out the elements while underway and which I had removed to allow the hot air to dry out the prior evening’s rain damage, has also done a runner, a very serious loss for both all further travels under that tent as well as any re-sale value it would have held, which for this action has now been brought to zero. And save for my death-grip on the bullbar I am quite set up to join them over the side as well if I try and make for the relative safety of the trucks interior – relative, as I am beyond certain the securing wires will snap within minutes, the truck lose out to the overwhelming forces of gravity it is currently battling with full effort against and I will a) if outside, watch it crash mercilessly down onto the desert, to be dragged along by the train like a dog caught under a truck’s wheel; or, b) if inside, have both of us go over together, though with me covering the role of the dog in this case ...

And this is – once I have made my way, Spiderman-like, along the truck to my door – the way I pass the next 18 hours of travel, broken only by short periods of calm-in-the-storm when we arrive at depots or tiny settlements along the way to allow more ‘passengers’ to scramble on top of the ore cars and settle in for a long, cold, dusty but free trip across the country but that do nothing for me but give me a chance to furtively emerge, stretch my legs and assess any damage before quickly taking refuge again back inside the truck as soon as we jerk away into the dark, scrambling into the psychological safety of the cramped cocoon of mattress-on-storage-boxes that I have made into a bed, and that in the end will for those merciful breaks take my journey from 12 to 18 and on to 24 hours in total before I am finally released. 

A mercilessly hellish journey, the worst – against a string of very strong competitors - I’ve ever suffered myself through; but at least another tick can now be made against that ever-nagging list of want-to-do’s I constantly torment myself to carry along through life like a unit of measure (though this now having secured the top spot on the list of NEVER-want-to-do-agains ...).

Finally freed from the confines of the platform – not without my having first stormed off into the Chief of Movement for the Iron Ore Train’s office and – my shite French aside – given him a fairly clear appreciation on my thoughts on being stuck sat on a siding for 2 hours awaiting a push forward to offload, which – amazingly – comes about immediately upon my leaving his office – and I gratefully head into Nouadhibou, located on a peninsula and blessed with a welcome climate of refreshing ocean breezes, if not any actual personality. 

Quick wash and a lube – for the truck, not me – and I check into the Hotel XXXX, as recommended by the Africa Overland book - another ‘could be great but for there being no tourists in years’ kind of place, but a welcomed break after 36 hours of grind and dirt and I quickly shower off inches of grime, put on anything I have that is not covered in dust and head out to eat for the first time since lunch with Hamoud in what feels like weeks ago now ... 

Not much to choose from but a Spanish-run cafe down the road (neighbouring Western Sahara having been a Spanish colony and home of the fabled – and far less well known than their famous French counterparts – Spanish Foreign Legion; so this cafe is well-populated by a motley cast who all seem to have forgotten, or lost, their way home decades ago); it draws my attention for being the only place along the strip that appears possibly open and on pushing the door aside to see if it is serving anything find myself loudly exclaiming “BEER!!!” at the startled group of Europeans seated round a few tables drawn together in a tight grouping. Yes, they answer en Francaise, only place in town (and in a country where alcohol is illegal). My GOD but that was the best beer and three more I have ever had!!!

Few days excellent R&R and it’s time to cross into Morocco, head up through Western Sahara, and aim for the finish line of Fes 1880 km’s ahead.

Phase 16: Mali

 Border formalities into Mali are surprisingly easy and informal given the heightened state of security that exists there, with Al Qaeda’s northern division causing issues from mid-line up to the border with Niger and across neighbouring Mauritania, so we are quickly into the first town – a typical border town of squalor and – for the recent rains – flooded dirt roads. 

The choices for accommodation are limited: one local campement that looks quite uninviting and, on progressing through to the other end of town, a closed auberge. So we made the (fateful) decision to push on in a race against the dark to the next town along the way. Being as obvious as we are parked by the side of the ‘high street’ a pick-up with two locals in it stops to enquire if we are heading out of town; as they are as well, we should follow along. Normally – and given AQ in the shadows – I would decline; but they are also taking on board a load of locals looking for a free ride, a bicycle and assorted overstuffed bags of greenery so I figure nobody’s kidnapping the only two whiteys in town under the eyes of a load of locals and we agree. How many more stupid mistakes can we make in one trip ...

Off they tear, not in the direction our GPS shows we should – along a clearly defined, albeit flooded, road bearing left – but right, and into a copse of trees and out along a (also flooded) donkey path. Much rolling and fording of swollen potholes commences as we try to keep them in sight, following deeper and deeper into the unknown and further and further off our correct trajectory. I go with the ‘they know a short cut’ thought process and duly tag along, offering calming words of encouragement to Clare, who is both decidedly less convinced and most definitely less happy about this new plan. An hour along and they stop in a small cluster of shanties and huts, popping over to the truck to announce this is their village and the end of their route. I try arguing that they said they were heading to the next main town, and not their middle-of-nowhere home village and that’s why we followed them, but they are very unconcerned – it is simple, they say: from here it is simply a straight drive into town. No problem they assure us repeatedly. 

Now, we have been in Africa long enough to know three things all too well: 1) there is no such thing as a straight line here; 2) pointing off in one direction does not necessarily mean the direction being indicated is to your required destination, but may just as likely be to the extent of the individual’s knowledge; and, 3) “no problem” to a local most usually means there will indeed be a problem for us types ... 

But, in for a penny, etc, and we’re already an hour into it so – fools! – we decide to give it a go. 

Bon voyages all round and we are off; but now I am with Clare on this and not at all happy with what we’ve got ourselves – no, scratch that, what I’ve got us - into. Sure enough, we are soon hopelessly mired in amongst the tall maize fields and, with darkness now rapidly approaching, the drive becomes like trying to find our way out of a farmer’s Halloween maze of high walls and narrow passages all leading nowhere. A stop at a local village – well, in fact, we drive right on into the compound through a narrow opening in it’s surrounding thick wall of mud and right into the centre courtyard – is greeted with stares of incredulity and a very curt issuing back out the way we came. 

The GPS is baffled by the dozens of possible routes and we are getting nowhere fast. For the first time on the trip my This Is Not Safe alarm is going off very loudly inside my head and we need an effective exit strategy fast – all the warnings about hostage takings and AQ activity and within an hour of arrival we’ve gone and placed ourselves in the most stupid of situations possible, well outside of any security possibly offered by the local gendarmerie all placed well back in town ... N.O.T. G.O.O.D.

I opted for simply reversing and following our tracks back out as they are clearly defined in the thick mud we’ve been wallowing through in the maze, Clare for the more scientific GPS re-coordinating back to the main entry point. She navigates brilliantly and soon enough – few turns into donkey paddocks and other ‘not the right way’s’ notwithstanding – we are back on track (literally); though I do note that our tracks are also clearly visible to both our left and right at the junction where the GPS finally, triumphantly, announces our location so either action would have worked, but I am (much) relieved that by following her projections we do now know with certainty exactly where we are at and so, with a sharp right turn and a giant exhalation we are quickly out of the maize maze and within the hour back to the border town where the whole ridiculous and foolhardy exercise originated.

So, a night in the campement it is to be then ... Where we are charged 10 USD for the privilege of parking and use of the communal hole in the ground toilet awash in urine, flies and thick noxious fumes. Nasty, nasty, nasty ... A night in damp bedding and feeling utterly minging we are up early to hang everything out to dry now that the sun has burned the rain away before getting away as quickly as possible towards Dogon country (and a clean toilet. Or bush. Anything but that bog ...).

Unfortunately, with a deadline now in place to get Clare to the “finish line” of Morocco in order to catch her flight back to the UK and gainful employment, we do not have the luxury of time to fully explore the region, famous for its unique and spectacular ancient villages carved into the face of the escarpment, so we target one location and head there – only to be met by a washed out road. We appreciate now why the area is said to be best explored on foot on treks lasting upwards of 2 weeks so we will have to enjoy the area only on the periphery. But the scenery as we wind our way up the steep tailbacks is spectacular, all dusty red rock with waterfalls cascading down, and we are - quite by chance when flagged down by a young fella roadside - lucky to be invited to tour the village at the highest point of the escarpment where a wedding ceremony – complete with very unhappy-looking bride and a reception playing a selection of Bob Marley’s finest – is underway. We wait for the catch, the ‘tourist angle’, but there is none – just a proud local Jack-the-lad keen to show us around (and off to the others) so we learn much of the culture and it’s ‘shouldn’t work but it seems to just fine’ mix of ancient animism practises, Islam and Christianity, set on a scorching piece of barren rock.

Back down the sharply-winding road, well-paved in white concrete, and with a few hours hard driving once back on the flat, marvelling all the way at what is arguably the most exciting physical environment we’ve yet travelled through, we make great time and stop for the night early to prepare for the run to Timbuktu the next day (or Tomboctou as it is referred to there, en Francaise).

Once set up with a most-welcomed cold beer in hand we are given dire warnings that the road about 13 km’s out of town has “plus de l’eau” and we are offered a guide who says he will moto out with us and then walk us through the obstacle. Sounds all a bit unnecessary for us seasoned veterans of the road but I agree - price though to be negotiated after crossing completed. Rounding a bend the next morning, after 13 km’s of decent gravel which has left me wondering what all this prior fuss was about, we are astonished by the sight of the road disappearing into a great swollen flood spanning 100 meters across, with an abandoned tour bus sunk over on its side dead centre, water lapping through its windows - apparently it’s been there a week; three cars have also been swept away in that time and the area is swarming with herders swimming their goats across, commercial truck drivers milling about casting nervous glances and local entrepreneurs who have sounded out the safest path across eagerly crowding around shouting their best “trust me, not him” sales pitch. 

Not deep – donkey mouth height as Clare puts it, as she watches them drink and walk across concurrently without lowering their heads – but the current is strong and the sunken crossing narrow – one false move while blindly aiming between the posts set on either side and it’s a drop of about four feet, more than enough for gravity and the current to quickly take over and you’d be away downstream before you could get the door open and be out. Right, so, how much were you asking to guide us (safely) across ...? 

My main concern – other than putting all my trust, and the vehicle’s safety, in the hands of someone who if he screws the route up will not be the one to be losing everything – is to keep the engine live; it is obvious from the shore that the water’s depth will be well over the exhaust and, as I’ve nothing to jury-rig an extension with, once it’s under there can be no stalling or the engine will suck it all up on re-start and that will be trip done for us ... 

Hundreds of pairs of eyes a’watching, water will be halfway up the door, route across is an unseen unknown, outcome of next few minutes actions either jubilant celebrations or destruction of truck and/or drowning. Right, so, no pressure then ..

With my (hopefully soon to be well paid for successful services rendered) guide on front left and assorted hangers-on and opportunists clinging to every other side I take it into diff lock low second and enter with what I judge, and hope, is the right mix of caution and forceful initiative; with much banging on the sides, waving of arms and yelling from all outside I cross in what must look from above like a swarm of ants carrying a huge meal back to the nest. Water quickly fills the foot wells up past my ankles but only a few tense moments later I’m safely on dry land the other side, cheering myself and clapping to the assistants, who respond with massive bright smiles and a round of applause in return for mine to them. And open palms. 

But my ‘official guide’ quickly elbows them all aside and, with relief opening my wallet a fair bit wider than it usually ever goes, I hand over 10,000 CFA (about 20 USD) to him; along with a further 1000 CFA to the youngest member of the crew – aged maybe 10 or 12 - who, despite not being invited, had appointed himself both Head Coach & Cheerleader, sticking himself like a remora at my open driver’s side window and shouting encouragement whilst confidently pointing the way while the water swirled around him mid-chest level before delivering an enthusiastic bang on the shoulder to me as soon as I had stopped. A (gratefully received) tip for him just being a great kid.

Well-chuffed, we’re soon back underway – trailing a long stream of water behind us draining out from every pore of the truck - through stark and beautiful scenery and dodging suicidal goats and camels until reaching the ‘ferry terminal’ – a collection of makeshift shelters of plastic sheeting and wooden poles – where we deposit the local herder who I had earlier picked up on the side of the road and offered a seat up on the roof rack rather than his walking our way in the stifling heat, for what will turn out to be the world’s slowest drift across through the flooded delta and river over to Timbuktu. 

On arriving on the far shore we are very surprised to find ourselves driving along a long, narrow peninsula road neatly bordered each side with tall green trees, like going up the drive to some old European castle - though it doesn’t take long to disabuse ourselves of that romantic and pleasant image as we soon enter an expanse of very unforgiving-looking sparseness and dry and are quickly upon the fabled town, looking every bit as ‘middle of nowhere’ as its name has always invoked. 

I am thrilled, giddy really, with the idea of my finally being here in a place I have imagined since first hearing of it in my teens, a distant and at the time so unattainable wonder evoking in every sense ‘adventure’. May I never stop travelling, but the Bucket List is complete.

Much like Kathmandu, another BL entry previously marked off just to do, not to actually be at for what it may have to offer, Timbuktu itself does not in any way live up to the strength of its name, being little more than a largish settlement of drab sandy buildings existing for the ancient but still active camel-borne salt caravans and the odd tourist (of whom there are all of 5 there including us) - but it never was supposed to be a town to visit; it is just, and really no more than, a magical image, and for that it proved worth every effort required to get there.

And as we are to learn repeatedly throughout both Mali and then Mauritania, no tourists (of whom - given Al Queda’s north African brethren’s enthusiasm for kidnappings across the region - there have been virtually zero in either country since early 2008) means guidebook recommendations count for little: the ‘wonderful French-run auberge extensively decorated with local artefacts, with award winning chef’ manned only by a sleeping local and empty save for roosting birds and great whirls of dust; campsites boarded up and falling into disrepair; ‘stunning balloon rides across the sweeping dunes at dawn’ existing only on faded posters, pilots exiled to a life far less romantic back in France; and any sought after amenity such as a restaurant requires sending a local off on the hunt for someone to (begrudgingly) return to staff it (or, more likely, to not). Sad really; across both countries it’s like a party everyone’s grown used to enjoying has come to an abrupt and unexpected end, leaving all still gathered there with little more to do than sit around the facade of it all and talk about how good it all used to be ...

We, however, jump in with both feet as best we can and go Full Tourist here for the first time, organizing a dawn camel ride out into the dunes for the next morning; a tour of the ‘old town’ to photograph plaques commemorating intrepid European explorers who had made the journey to find the ‘lost city’ in the 1800’s (most of whom then subsequently killed for having done so) and the original well for which the town gained its name eons ago (Timbuktu – however it be spelled – meaning “Well of Woman with Large Navel” – which, though being highly evocative in its own right, is not quite a match for what it has since become renowned as being); and, that night, enjoying a seemingly endless round of negotiations for Touareg trinkets and hand-crafted camel skin foot stools – the sales patter and rounds of tea accompanied by vibrant stories of life in the desert, camels and the salt caravans but more likely than not being delivered by the kid from down the block who picked up a few things in the local market. 

But no matter, we shelve the cynicism of the past few months and just flow along with it all, breathing in the atmosphere and thoroughly enjoying the experience of just being there (save for the camel ride, all herky-jerky movement with hard wooden saddle and rough woollen blanket for padding, which Clare declares to be one of the most uncomfortable experiences of her life and, indignantly, “NOTHING like riding a horse!” and quickly, painfully, erases all previous interest she had in returning to join the month long salt caravan trip that had previously appealed as being “such an incredible opportunity!” But having done a half day before in Kenya on one of those beasts I knew with certainty this skinny arse would not be going anywhere near such a thing, “incredible opportunity” or not ...).

Too soon – though having exhausted all possible entertainment and experience to be found there – we head back to the ferry (obviously the Express this time, it hitting a racy 4 kmph versus our first 2.7 km version, which had caused our GPS to ask if we’d want to switch to “Pedestrian Mode” as we tracked our progress across the river); and from there we swing back south and then west towards the Mauritanian border – the finish line, just two countries away now, looms large ...

Phase 15: Ghana

English-speaking; hugely friendly and efficient; air con shopping malls; electricity 24/7; traffic signals that both work and are obeyed; a fully-stocked Shoprite (excellent grocery chain from SA) with overflowing aisles; a bookshop to rival Waterstones and the ability to shop with an ATM card at the POS: Ghana is truly a miracle after the previous 15,000 kms of barely-hanging-in-there Africa ...

That said, it also manages to not feel at all like Africa for all that shine – just a bit too polished, a bit too ‘normal’ and way, way too many white folk (does every young save-the-worlder choose Ghana?? The mall’s full of them looking dreadfully earnest and studiously ignoring our presence as we pass, lest it spoil their ‘unique experience’ ...). It is most definitely, as we’d heard it described previously both affectionately and dismissively, “Africa Lite” but for that it does make for a nice – and somewhat morale-boosting – break (like washing ashore on an island of plenty having bobbed about lost for weeks on an empty sea ....).

Stayed at Big Mommas or some such “must stay” outside of Accra on the beach, and while at first I am highly cynical while driving in as it seems to be populated by no one over the age of 20 - many of whom seem to be saving the country one local guy at a time - but I quickly retire my bad attitude and we enjoy a mellow night in our truck, with a fun ‘local style’ celebration going on late into the night at the bar for a group of 17 English early childhood education uni students enjoying a weekend break after attending a conference and before heading out for a few weeks volunteer practicum. Probably a nice weekend getaway spot, but we see little of the beach as the sun sets quickly after we arrive and we’re off early the next morning for Green Turtle Lodge, another ‘must stay’ for overlanders located some miles down the coast.

Firstly though we stop off at the slave museum located in the original purpose-built fort on the Cape Coast, which of all we’d visited previously was the most impressive, with a very informative tour through the dark and foreboding underground cells/holding tanks; and while having been extensively renovated over the years, still had a real feel of ‘as it was.’ 

And President Obama has laid a plaque there on a visit the year before, so it must be a good one ...

And it is, with a very serious, well-researched and delivered tour through the underground holding cells where hundreds packed spaces ‘designed’ (read: where there was only actual space) for dozens while awaiting their fate. And interestingly we were the only tourists in attendance, the rest of the sombre crowd locals from around the region, most with children in tow on what must have been more a pilgrimage than a holiday destination.

We wrap our relaxation break at Green Turtle Lodge, surrounded by NGO’s on breaks and students on foreign internships taking in the sun. I on the other hand have a severe allergic reaction to my malaria meds (Doxy) and suddenly, blazingly, blister up while sitting under a shady tree at 8 a.m. and suffer for a week – and look like some tropical rookie who’s sun-baked himself into a severe medical condition. Not good.

Break over, we’re ready to get back to reality ...

Phase 14: Benin & Togo

Both just blips on the trip, really – tiny but necessary transit points as we continued along the bottom of the southwestern curve of the continent.

Entering Benin was as farcical as could be (and there’s some stiff competition in this category, especially given that prior to exiting Nigeria we have to clear a roadblock manned – I am told only later by Clare - by what must be about 30 crazies from the loony bin she spotted earlier down the road, where I must have my Yellow Fever book examined – upside down – by one who presents himself as a “Doctor from the World Health Organization. Perhaps you have heard of me ...?” and then after by Church Lady in matching sweater set and toothless grimace who insists angrily that she is from the “SSS – State Security Service” and she must write down every detail of our passports (on a piece of scrap paper pulled out from her bra) in a process that takes so long I finally lose humour and snatch them back from her, saying I’ve had “quite enough of this ridiculousness” and she’s had quite enough time to play her game. Broken from her reverie of assumed authority she tells me I am an “angry man” but gives back the passports without further confrontation and under my glare and bellow all suddenly shrink back and the nail-studded 2x4 quickly removed from under our tires ... 

Damn good thing they were fakes for that little display of belligerence on my part or it could have gone reeeeeeeeeeeally badly if they’d all started pulling out real badges - but sometimes you’ve just got to push back and see how it all plays out...).

Anyway, despite the best efforts of both loony and official roadblocks we make the border with mere minutes to spare – but cannot find the way through. Somewhere hidden in amongst a small village/town, all dirt roads and aimless people, is the way out but none could clearly point out where exactly Immigration and Customs was. Much driving about in circles under staring eyes before we find the decrepit concrete building tucked away in a far corner at the end of a potholed dirt road at the edge of ‘town’. Carnet and passports dealt with easily enough once required officials roused from naps, dinner, walkabouts, etc. We are then directed down the ‘road’ to Benin Immigration (still all in same town, there is no separation of one from the other both border posts are mixed in with each other), where the first official we’ve dealt with all day who is in uniform is deeply engrossed in a dvd of Commando with Arnold Schwarzenegger and gives me barely a glance as he stamps both passports and shoos me back out the door. But this is not right, and I know this will come back to bite us so despite my question having a cost associated with it I have to ask: “How many days is the visa good for?” Without looking he barks “No visa, stamp for entry only.” So, once again, it seems - despite our best and proper efforts - we will be entering a country without a visa ...

Benin a huge relief after the chaos of Nigeria – albeit back to all en Francaise after an all-too-brief English hiatus - and back to ‘ruralness’ and the more ‘basic’ development of every other country south of Nigeria; and quite a bit of fun too with their proud history of bloodthirsty conquering of neighbours throughout the ages, with a museum full of thrones built upon skulls of the vanquished, gruesome images of throat-cuttings and decapitations, and buildings at the palace (of which the museum is located at the ruins of one) all mortared together with a mix of mud and the blood of 48 sacrificed slaves (48 deities, 48 wives for the King, 48 human sacrifices every year ...).

Other than that Benin just pretty “tranquil”, friendly people and delivers decent coffee.

Togo, on the other hand, is Nigeria’s dwarfish step-child; sharing all the same ugly characteristics but squashed into a much smaller package. We are told the north is quite lovely and with some fantastic cultural highlights, however, hugging the coastline down south it is nothing but chaos and cars.

We need to stop into the capital for our Ghana visas so opt to stay slightly outside at a hostel/campsite run by a French lady who’s been in-country over 30 years (and 30 coups ...). Not a bad set up, albeit the food’s a bit pricey but as we opt for the truck over a room we balance things out well – and it’s about the only option in town unless you stay right in the thick of it all at a business-style hotel with the NGO’s and Chinese construction engineers and the beach is just a short stroll away.

Dropped off our passports first thing next morning and are told to wait in the foyer – a good sign, perhaps a while-we-wait quick turnaround? I nap; Clare fidgets and frustrates (herself). Three hours later the official comes out to find us still sitting there and apologizes – she only needed to get us our receipt but couldn’t find the right official to stamp it. All sorted now, please come back tomorrow.

We do – braving another one hour, one mile journey by broken taxi on broken roads – and so sorted are gladly on the road first thing the next morning, blowing the blackness of 10,000 belching exhausts from our sinuses despite the ocean just 100 feet from our side the whole 3 days there ...

Togo: avoid if poss, arc north.

Phase 13: Gabon

Ah, Gabon ... Land of a President named Bongo, so enamoured of himself he has renamed his home village ‘Bongoville’ (seriously: how good a name is that for a town ...??). And one which we duly pass through on day one and find to be both unimpressive in its reality and completely overdeveloped for its requirements - the true measure of a town versus the ego of its patron. One of those - as is to be found across the continent - ‘why the hell is there a huge bank, hotel and planned golf course complete with tar roads and street lighting out here in the middle of nowhere, flanked by nothing more than local material shacks for housing and people idling under trees??’ kind of towns ... Answer: ‘It’s the President’s hometown is it? Ahhh ... Of course it is ...’ 

Though, admittedly, this is not nearly as good as is to be found in Oyo, northern Congo, where rising bizarrely up and out of endless mile of undeveloped jungle like some utterly false Hollywood set designed as lair for Doctor Evil suddenly appears a full-sized international airport complete with surrounding brightly decorated, and highly modern, resorts and hotels, where there be no other person nor tourist to be found for hundreds of kilometres in all directions (nor any reason for their needing to be one there - save for it being the President’s hometown of course and one, with the roads being so completely shite from Brazzaville on up north, he insists on flying up into on visits and not driving ...).

And where we confront daily the most bone idle of local cultures met yet, best personified by the manager at a lodge in the Lope National Park who, on our enquiring about camping on the grounds for the night, cannot be arsed in any way to stop talking on her mobile and addresses me in grunts mid perturbed-to-be-disturbed sentence whilst simultaneously scratching her large exposed belly, straining out from under a two-sizes too small Ed Hardy knock-off t-shirt, and who, on finding out we required water for our shower – how bizarre a request, I know – proceeded to give me a bucket to fill and that, when I did, bled out like a stuck pig through the gaping hole in its base ... Then duly disappeared for the night and, on failing to return to the grounds next morning, I gave up on after 30 fruitless minutes searching and so drove off on without paying - as my friend Caren notes on her ‘favourite quotes’ section of Facebook: “Lazy, drunk and stupid is no way to go through life” and I think she personified that caution perfectly. And more the shame for it being the national park and gem of the country; but, as we were to find repeatedly, unfortunately typical ... Sceneries nice though ...

Gabon is also home to some of the most bastard driving yet confronted: like 200 km’s of corrugations and potholes where decent roads should be leading into Lope; or endless miles of mud-clogged mires of vertiginous logging roads carved out knife-edge wide into the claustrophobic rainforest, conveying by their very design – or lack thereof - that no man really need aim to be passing through unless paid to be doing so (and ‘so %$ck him if he can’t make it through the track, some other will ...’). All round, a real grind.

We are also met with a new welcoming cry in Gabon: “White!!” Every small child, in no matter how remote a village, has apparently learned this one word of English – bless those missionaries - and they scream it at us on our passing by with a passion ranging from Beatlesque hysteria to football hooligan vehemence - we never know to wave back in happy accord or fight back with either belligerence or maybe a more neutral, go-with-the-obvious shout back salvo of “Black!!” in return (though Clare tries a proud “Yes I am!” after several days bombardment, which is indeed a fine reply if not that by the time it is delivered by her meek (though indignant) self we are usually some hundred yards down the track and so well out of their ear-shot ...). 

We also begin to notice that we are stared and/or pointed at like aliens here on our passing – both in rural nothingness as well as in developed towns and villages – and so must quickly accept we really aren’t anywhere near the ‘beaten path’ on this route and it IS, if not crazy, then certainly a very rare occurrence for the locals to see white folk in this area (driving by in great hulking white Land Rovers) and that we must accept both the good for that (full Glee greeting) and the (far less prevalent) less-than-friendly (or often more wtf’ish??) glare in return for our smiles and waves in passing ... 

And, yes, you’re right, we’re “white!!!”

Phase 12: Congo Brazzaville

We arrive from Kinshasa with plenty of time to clear Immigration and Customs, which we anticipate will be closing at 1700. However ... For whatever reason the ferry Captain (the Big Boat is really just a barge with accompanying tug) cannot, despite multiple attempts, find the angle needed to get us onto shore. We jig, we jag, we veer, we reverse, we float sideways past unattached to the tug while it maneuvers around, we move with purpose only to get wedged in between other boats moored along the banks ... The attempts are numerous, but the humour of it all begins to fade as quickly as the light as the minutes turn into 60 then to 90 – we could almost spit into Immigration from the ferry but it’s almost certainly closed by now and in any regard there seems to be no chance the Captain will find the right moves to actually get us ashore. 

FIIIIIIIIINALLY we crash up against the shore, still 5 feet off dry land but – all crew decide - close enough to launch the truck off the ramp. The space between the ferry ramp and land ramp is a jagged pile of broken cinder blocks and other concrete detritus and I’m less than happy to have to launch across it but have little choice and get into low and go, splashing across the gap of Congo and shore, bumping wildly side to side across the tire-shredding shore and then, getting purchase but with little in the way of control or power, up and onto the steep ramp. And then stall. The diff has slipped out and I’m revving nothing but air, and lose about 5 feet of hard-gained ramp until I can get the emergency brake locked. With a shout I’ve gangs of helpers piling rocks behind the back wheels within seconds and, diff engaged properly this time, am up and over the top to cheers from the masses gathered in the gloom to watch the spectacle.

The Carnet is quickly stamped but I am then told Immigration is not at this location and I am to follow a ‘helper’ – or so I think as I try and follow the rapid-fire French. Off out of the terminal I am led, leaving Clare behind. Not good. Immigration turns out to be about 3 blocks away at what I expect is the true Beach, we having arrived at some side-option. Immigration is - of course - closed and this presents a bit of an issue: we had been lead to believe Visas were issued on the boat. They may be – but not on ours. I am told to come back tomorrow and so we move off into Brazzaville without clearance (“is no problem” I am assured. Surrrrrrrrrre it’ll be no problem ... ).

We move into the ‘famous’ Hotel L’Hippocampe, apparently the overlanders mecca, and set up camp – for free, which is outstanding - in the parking lot. It’s fine, with friendly if not over-accommodating or interested young French owners – maybe a mecca previously, but now seems primarily more restaurant than hotel – but still, I think the only option in town and good enough. Also close by the Embassies and we submit for Gabon first thing before heading back to the Beach to sort the visas.

Round One: disbelief at our having arrived – and subsequently left – without a visa last night. Much discussion. A decision is reached – no penalty is to be meted out, but we are only eligible for a 3 day Transit Visa. I explain – numerous times – that we have submitted our passports for the Gabon visa, it’s Thursday, Sunday is the 50^th Anniversary of Independence celebrations which means Monday will be a holiday (if not Friday and Tuesday as well) and we’ve then still got to get up north to the border. There is no way we can do this all in 3 days (and with the clock already ticking ...). Nothing he can do, but we can talk to The Chief. 

Standing stiffly to attention, I explain the situation in emphatic, if halting, French. The Chief is unmoved – utterly, impassibly, unblinkingly unmoved, like he’s heard not a word (or, quite possibly, not understood not a word ...) and, with slight wave of the hand and deep sigh (very Gallic ...) stops me mid-stream: “You have two choices: take the 3 day Transit Visa, or get on the next ferry back to Kinshasa. Tell me right now.” One hundred USD slides easily into his pocket and a 3 day Transit Visa it is then ... Once the transaction is completed he softens completely and tells me it will be no problem: due to the holiday nobody will care if we get to the border over deadline and as it’s his signature in our passport nobody will (dare) question the issue. Sounds all very self-inflating and I am completely unsold but, left with little (read: no) choice , cross-fingers and go.

Gabon delivers the next day, so we head to the Cameroon Embassy to try our luck on a two-fer. We are met by Jean-James, head of the Visa section who speaks perfect English and is very interested to hear of our travels. A quick 102,000 CFA later and we’re submitted, with the promise of a Monday return. Later that afternoon, as I am returning from the bar at Hippocampe, I am met by Jean-James: “There is a problem Mr Bullen, so I have come here to discuss it with you.” Crap, I think: they’ve lost our passports – it’s got to be serious if there’s a personal effort made to discuss directly. Turns out to be quite the opposite: Jean-James was concerned about the upcoming holidays so went into the Ambassadors office on our behalf, got the visas issued in a two hour turnaround, and has brought them here to us. We spend the next 2 hours talking about Cameroon over a beer, with promises to visit his hometown when we are there. Outstanding guy.

Down with hundreds of thousands of our closest, sweatiest friends to the Independence Day parade Sunday, which is an incredible spectacle with military participation from across the continent as well as from the French. Full pomp and circumstance; great show. There is one very odd interaction though: on arrival we are stopped by a flank of Police in full riot gear and frisked. In my thigh pocket I’ve a pen and (stupidly) a small folding knife. So my pen is confiscated; but not the knife (despite ‘Clare Can Tell No Lie’ pointing out helpfully that I should be careful as I’ve also a knife in my pocket they may confiscate. Thanks for that, very helpful ...). No pens allowed I am sternly admonished, and shown the gutter, which is full of snapped pens. But I can get mine back when I leave. Sure I can ... But, hours later as we move through the huge crowds departing the parade I am stopped by a hand wielded by a huge figure in black Kevlar – bit of a search-about through multiple pockets and lo if he doesn’t produce my pen to return it to me! Bizarre - pen obviously mightier than the sword and all that I guess ...

Few more days of faffing about – it’s a decent town to wander about in; with a small but good market for trinkets, nice waterfront and cafes serving decent coffee and mixed-culture foods on offer - and also to meet up with Clare’s friend Ron, who divides his time between Pointe Noire and Brazzaville so provides some good local colour and we’re off – now 3 days past visa expiry and with a long hard slog ahead. And a hard slog it is, roads a mess of deep sand we punch through in second for hours on end, dragging the diff through and furrowing a third track. 

The Carnet passes without question and is duly stamped at a small wayside shack passing for the official Customs outpost, though the ‘agent’ does follow me out after and starts asking at the truck to know exactly what electronics we’re carrying, how many cameras, how we guide (“map or gps?”) – all of which is a line of questioning that could easily veer from idle interaction and/or curiosity to serious interference all too soon but gladly passes without incident through the magic of bold-faced lying (one small digital camera and a paper map are put to display – the box clearly stencilled ‘Electronics’ and Clare’s huge DSLR smoke-and-mirrored out of the agents line of sight - and we’re off without too much delay. Then we move on down the road a few kilometres and stop at Immigration (not easily spotted but recognizable from experience as a roadblock manned by a sleepy figure lolling under a tree idly waving at the truck to stop and pointing to the shack-with-flag behind ...). I know I’m in for a hard time here and take the 10 paces to steel myself for a few tough – and possibly very expensive rounds of questioning ...

All is going fine and the stamp is poised until, with a frown, the Chief stops mid-downswing and fires off a question to one of the gathered minions. I catch an emphasis on today’s date and some quick maths. He looks up and so begins multiple rounds of (roughly translated) “why (the hell) are you in the country after your visa expired 5 days ago?? This is a very serious matter!” My initial volley of supplication mixed with humour (“I know! Isn’t this a crazy thing, but I was told it would be no problem because of applying for visas and the holidays blahblahblah”) is quickly batted away. Not good enough. I ramp up my next offering with full agreeability but some intractability on who is to blame. Not good enough – what must be done, this is a very serious matter! 

So I go for broke and bring on the Righteous Indignation, repeatedly – with full palm-slapping-thigh emphasis – directing the issue to the Chief having told me it would be no problem and taking “plus plus de dollar” (turns out on further review he actually took the correct amount for 2 Transit Visas – even if he did pocket it – but I went with stoking greed and envy at the outpost for the wonton actions of those who are afforded the opportunities gained working at the Beach and not being lost out here in the hinterland). This (magically) works – and thank god for that because I knew as I listened to myself blazing on that I had gone well, well past the right side of Working Effectively With African Officialdom, where arguing angrily gets you very quickly in the opposite direction you were aiming for ... 

Negotiations commence.

Finally – after many, many rounds and back and forths until we settle on what is considered by all to be “fair” – we’re off, exit stamps in place, and at 15,000 CFA for less in the end than the true cost of a 7 day visa. Score! And actually – in the end, as we’re allowed to leave, I’m not in jail nor being flogged out back for insubordination and my wallet’s not nearly as empty as it could have been - quite a fun interaction overall ...

More grinding through the thick dust and road-less roads leading north until suddenly – like a mirage – a clean strip of tarmac magically appears out of the scrub and with a gentle bump then a happily-surprising smoothness after so many hours of crazed driving we’re up and into Gabon ...