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.