Arrival in Lome, Togo landed me back into a maelstrom of motorbikes on the road. It occurred to me that the reason motorbikes generally didnt follow any rules in Accra was because there were so few of them cruising the streets. In Lome, with so many bikes about, it would create a lot more chaos if everyone were blowing through red lights. There was something very comforting about being back in a sea of motorbikes surrounded by my African two wheeled brethren! In Lome I sought visas for Benin, Republic of Congo, and Gabon. On arrival at the Gabon embassy, they wouldnt let me enter wearing shorts. Mind you, the temperature was 98 degrees F with 70% humidity. Since the visa window was to close within 20 minutes, I raced off to the local marketplace for a very quick shopping trip. I returned wearing the cheapest pair of pants that I could find in the 5 minutes that I had to look. They were very colorful and I looked ridiculous. On leaving the Gabon embassy in my festive pants, I made a momentary wrong turn into a street that led to a military facility of some kind. There was no sign and I had just gone about 20 feet from the intersection before I tried to turn around, but of course the military guys who happened to be on the corner ordered me to stop, demanded my documents, and detained me for an hour. The delay caused me to miss the morning visa submission for Benin, which would keep me in Lome over the weekend. Thanks guys. Must have been the colorful pants that made them so suspicious. The new tires that Id mounted in Accra (Continental TKC80s) started with the usual squirmy new tire feel, but quickly wore in and felt far better than the Mefo Explorers that Id had been running up to now. Hopefully this set will make it all the way to Cape Town since there is nowhere in between to get tires. Getting this set from another traveller whod had them shipped to Accra was no more than a stroke of luck. In Lome I joined Mikayla who Id met in Cape Coast, Ghana. She had been living in Lome for a few months already and she and her roommate Sylvie took it upon themselves to show me some of what the city had to offer. Mikayla hopped on the back of my bike and we sped around the city to find restaurants, bars, and beaches. Near the Benin embassy I found a guy to repair my seat, which had blown a seam due to abrasion from my boot when I hopped on from the high side (since the surfboard was mounted on the low side). By the end of the week, my passport was tanked up with visas and I was ready to roll. Unfortunately, Dyna Rae was not. Just outside of Lome she began to stumble occasionally. Id felt the same issue back in Ivory Coast and had used the tried and true approach of ignore it and hope it goes away, which had worked fantastically well up to now. After riding some distance, her stumbles became bad enough that I decided to pull over so that we could discuss what the problem was. It seemed as though she was having trouble breathing, so I cleaned and re-oiled the air filter as best I could along the roadside and had a look inside the top of the carburetor. The entire time that I was tinkering away a woman working at a nearby toll both was trying to convince me to give her my phone number so that I could meet her sister. I had trouble making her understand that I was only passing through and wouldnt be here at all if I hadnt broken down and I would never be here again as soon as I could get moving. Dynas problem improved somewhat, but it was still evident that she was very irritated about something. I had a long ride ahead, so I just carried on and tried to ignore her complaints. I spent the day riding the wrong direction: straight north along the entire length of Togo. The next day I was happy to make the turn eastward and I burned across Benin on excellent roads,entering and exiting the country within just 5 hours. Oddly enough with such a well-maintained road, I didnt find a single petrol station on the traverse. In Togo it seemed that there were petrol stations on practically every corner. It reminded me not to rely too strongly on assumptions for what lies ahead. Upon entering Nigeria, the road disintegrated completely. It turned into my least favorite kind of dirt to ride: a narrow, grooved track filled with about 6 inches of sand. The hard sides of the grooves seemed to continually knock your front wheel sideways to start it plowing forward and have you jump out to the groove where the sand was deeper. Local guys on 125cc bikes flew past me smooth as could be and I told myself that it was because their bikes had narrower tires, running lower pressures and were unloaded. But I honestly fear that I just cant seem to figure out how to ride in this stuff. Since crossing into Nigeria, military and police checkpoints resumed that had been nearly absent in Togo and Benin. Some were legitimate and some were not. Id read about the Nigerian Stick Men who stand at the roadside laying spiked barriers across the way to demand money from travelers and truckers. Part of the reason for taking a route through the middle of Nigeria via Abijan is that these characters and other lawless folk are more prevalent and aggressive in the south of the country. My route seemed to be a good choice as all I encountered were friendly people. At every village smiling kids ran towards the road as I passed shouting 'Oyibo! Oyibo!' which is the Nigerian word for a white person. Even the Stick Men were nice let me take their photo. I was trying to make it to a village called Kaima, but soon found that was a terribly optimistic target given the road condition. As night fell I turned off of the dirt track to find a campsite amongst the giant termite mounds that dotted the forest floor. The ground was flat, solid, and free of low brush so it was easy to ride into the trees and out of sight without even a trail. Unfortunately Id lost a water bottle during the journey along the bumpy road and had been sweating like crazy moving slowly in the dirt. That night I learned that trying to go to sleep thirsty is a lot less fun than trying to go to sleep hungry. I had to focus to stop dreaming of a giant glass of iced tea or a bottle of Gatorade straight out of a California gas station refrigerator. As I lay sweating in my tent my thirst grew and eventually I became so desperate that I climbed out to suck out the few drops of water still trapped in my water filter. I swear that I nearly packed up and motored to one of puddles Id seen on the road to suck some water through my filter. Since my tent was broken, Id rigged the rain fly to press against the tent body to keep insects out. It worked well for anything flying around, but the giant ants that prowled the forest floor were a different story. One after another, I would feel one crawling on me, Id shoot up, click my headlight and punch them into the floor of the tent. As I lay there surrounded by ant corpses, swallowing against the dryness in my throat, and trying to slip into sleep, I wondered what in the world I was doing in the middle of Nigeria.
As I sat at the Nigerian police station I wondered how in the world Id managed to land myself in such a tight spot and when I would finally be able to go to sleep. The day had started out well enough getting on the road at 6 AM and finding some water within an hours ride after a thirsty camp the night before. I knew that I was in for a long day, but as the road changed from dirt to broken tarmac and then some sections of good tarmac with less massive craters to weave around, I became hopeful about making it to Abuja before nightfall. If Id know what the day had in store I may have simply stayed lying thirsty in my broken tent on the forest floor. No one seemed to have anything good to say about Nigeria. The north is awash with rebel militias and stories abound from the south of aggressive bandit type folks stopping people on the road. Consensus amongst overlanders seemed to be that the safest path was to shoot straight through the middle, via Abuja. At one checkpoint a soldier asked me what I thought I was doing riding here on a motorbike alone. Have you not heard of Boko Haram? Is it not safer to stay home? he asked. I said that I supposed it was, but then I would have to see Africa only on television, which got a laugh from him. Boko Haram is an Islamist group with links to al-Shebab and al-Qaida, responsible for numerous bomb attacks and thousands killed over the last few years in Nigeria. The group is known for attacking Christians and government targets,bombing churches, attacking schools and police stations, and kidnapping western tourists <sup id="cite_ref-14">[1]</sup>. I had believed their exploits were constrained to the north of the country, but I apparently I need to do my homework a bit better. I rode 16 hours before reaching the outskirts of Abuja, long past nightfall. The last section of road before Abuja felt like the most dangerous thing Id done on this entire trip. Taxi bus drivers hurtled through the darkness with no lights, dodging the deep road craters however they liked, no matter what was coming the other direction on the narrow road. In the dark, you barely see holes in the road and whatever random thing coming from the roadside before it is right in your path. Im rather used to chaotic driving by now, but what I found myself in that night seemed like a reckless abandon of all sense whatsoever. As I looked down at my map, with the distance still to go to Abuja, my heart sank, knowing how long the previous stretch had taken. I was elated when 20 miles outside Abuja, the road changed from that chaotic mess to a brand new, perfect modern three-lane freeway with very little traffic. I was flying. And then, as if that wasnt enough, beautiful shining streetlights appeared over the road to light my way. I couldnt believe it - I was home free. I had been riding for 16 hours, only stopping for gas and to pound a couple sodas. And now I was going to make it. I hooted loudly in my helmet. Five miles from my exit the bike sputtered and died. She would start, but would die under any throttle. After a few desperate attempts it was clear that I wasnt going anywhere quickly. I put the bike on the stand, leaned against it and put my head down. Id spent everything Id had and hardly had anything left to care about what was wrong with my bike. I was at the roadside in the dark in the middle of a Nigerian city. This was exactly the kind of exactly the type of exposed situation that I wanted to avoid. I let the whole scene of the road blur out in front of me and shut my eyes. I just wanted to sleep. Then I got up. I started pushing my fully loaded bike up the mild grade ahead. There was simply nothing else to do. In Accra Id met a guy named Bill who lived in Abuja and invited me to crash at his place when I arrived. His house was only about 5 miles away, but it was uphill and I didnt know the best route to get there. Sweat streamed off of my face, and the last of my water was gone before I made it a mile. After two miles I could see the grade steepen ahead and decided that I would need to figure something else out. While looking for some bushes to hide in by the side of the road I found 6 young guys sitting on their motorbikes and convinced one of them to give me a tow. Neither of us had ever towed a bike before and the first attempt nearly ended in disaster. Eventually we figured it out with me doing a lot of shouting "slowly, slowly!" I was moving again. Slowly, but there wasn't far left to go. Maybe this was really going to work out OK. I dreamed that Bill had a cold beer waiting for me. Then the police showed up. They officer demanded that we come to the police station with him which first involved towing my bike the wrong way down an off ramp straight into oncoming traffic. It was an incredibly stupid thing to do, with cars swerving to avoid us at the last second. But he was the one with the gun, so we did what this moron ordered. Once at the station, the officer explained to me how that I had committed very serious offence and that I was in quite a lot of trouble. Mind you this is a place where you regularly see people riding on the highway sitting on the roofs of cars. They put on a show of concern that I was who I said I was and going where I said I was going. They insisted that we call my friend Bill to vouch for me. Even with Bills diplomatic status as a US AID worker and a confirmation that his place was indeed where I was headed, there were plenty of other reasons manufactured that I should be detained. I tried the usual approach of contritely acknowledging my wrongdoing and offering that perhaps I could simply pay the fine and be on my way, but to no avail. There were 8 officers in the police compound that night and it seemed that I was to be the entertainment for the evening. After 3 hours with the police going round and round in circles trying to figure out what in the world these guys really wanted I nearly lost my cool. It was past midnight and I was exhausted and very thirsty. Finally I let them know that we could either figure this out in the next 10 minutes or I was going to go curl up right next to my bike in the police compound and pass out. They finally released me on the condition that I had a police escort to where I was headed. I arrived at my destination at nearly 1 AM along with my policeman friend who now had his hand out for payment of the escort that hed provided me. My day was finished. I was incredibly grateful to Bill and his family for the hospitality they extended to me as I arrived late at night looking like a bum with the police in tow. The next day I got to work fixing the bike. After a thorough carburetor and air filter cleaning she fired right up and pulled strong as I rode around the block. I congratulated myself on a job well done and went back to enjoying some air-conditioned socializing with Bills family and friends who all seemed to have interesting paths that brought them to Abuja. Nigeria is a wild place to be working as an expat. Nearly the entire economy is based on oil revenues and the system is so corrupt that hardly any of those proceeds get where they are supposed to and mostly end up a long series of officials pockets. The US government has a massive AID mission in Nigeria, but the corruption endemic to the existing power structure makes it difficult to gain traction on the most important problems. Security is an ever-present concern for the workers as foreigners are often the targets of attacks or kidnappings by characters like Boka Haram. One morning we were set to leave for the park, but were stopped by the security guard as he listened intently to his radio. A few blocks away, a crew of Boko Haram had tried to bust a few of their homeboys out of prison, which resulted in a shootout. Before it was over, 20 Boko Haram suspects lay dead. I was having a much nicer time in Abuja than might be expected from reading the news. Monday morning I loaded up my gear to get moving, but when I tried to start the bike there was no happy thumping Dynas single cylinder. After reluctantly unloading everything to get to the engine, a spritz of carburetor cleaner carburetor at the air inlet gave her the kick she needed and I was on the road again, but not for long. Before Id gone 10 miles she started stumbling again, killed, and wouldnt restart. I really didnt feel like taking my bike apart again in the street, but few other options presented themselves. I found some fuel in the airbox and the carburetor full of gas up to the overflow leading me to believe that I had a problem in the float bowl of the carb. On the last disassembly I had replaced the o-rings of the float, but not the float needle which blocks further gas flow into the carb after it has reached the correct height. I took the float apart and replaced the needle with a fresh one, although the existing one looked fine to me, and checked the float height. I put the bike back together and she started but still ran like crap. Since it was already 3 in the afternoon at that stage, I decided that a retreat to Bills place was the most prudent course. I couldnt believe that after 4 times disassembling the carburetor I still hadnt managed to fix the problem. There were only so many things that could be wrong! I felt inept and my gumption was sapped. I checked for vacuuming in the tank, verified that fuel was flowing from the petcock, looked for a vacuum leak at the carb, looked for loose wire connections, used a clear hose connected to the float drain to determine that the float was indeed shutting off fuel at the correct height, and I had already checked for compression and for a strong spark on the last go-around. Spark. Oops, I had spark, maybe I no longer did. When I removed the spark plugs the next morning I found that they were absolutely caked with black carbon. As it turned out I had probably solved my initial clogged jet problem on the first try, but reinstalled the float carelessly so that it hung up and wasnt shutting off fuel flow. The 20 or so miles that I had run with the float stuck created a super-rich condition, and the black as soot plugs turned out the be the new running problem with very similar symptoms to a clogged jet. A good cleaning of the plugs and I was good to go. My head had been so stuck in the groove of a carburetor problem and I was so ready to believe that Id failed to solve it that I failed to see the simple solution. A silly mistake, but I was happy to have it solved. I had shown up late at night looking like a criminal to the door of a guy who Id met only once before. As I failed fixing my motorbike day after day I felt as though I was wearing out an already undeserved welcome, but Bill and his wife Ida just kept helping and telling me not to worry about it. I had a safe place to sleep while I sorted out my bike and Ida pretty much fed me three meals a day. Bill and I drank beers on the back porch and solved the problems of the world while his three boys ran around finding trouble to get into. Again and again on this trip Im met with kindness from strangers when I need it most. It inspires a state of gratitude that I get to carry along with me for the miles ahead. State of gratitude or not I absolutely hate how people drive in Nigeria. Its a maddening mix of aggressiveness, unawareness of surroundings, and lack for regard for consequences. The evidence presents itself frequently enough as semi truck and busses smashed to oblivion on the side of the road. During the 11 hour ride from Abuja to the Cameroon border I was run off the road 4 times by oncoming trucks occupying my lane either passing someone or avoiding potholes. Once was on a blind corner, but the others were straightaways. They could see me coming a quarter-mile away and just didnt give a shit. Getting out of the way was my problem. One of these instances I had to jump off the road into sand and loose rock at about 45 mph and could easily have crashed. That time it was a police truck that forced me off the road. Cant say that my stay has made me a fan of Nigerian police overall as they seem to be either arresting me, asking for money, or trying to get me killed in traffic. Leaving Abuja I stopped for fuel more frequently because stations were often out of gas or had massive lines to contend with. Ironic that the people of a country with nearly all of its revenue from oil have to endure fuel shortages with regularity. As usual I drew a crowd at every stop. The demeanor of the Nigerians I encountered could best be described as aggressively friendly. As I approached Cameroon, the landscape became lush and hilly and I was happy for a change of scenery.
Oh no, now I understand a friend who had stayed in Nigeria for a few years that he is absolutely not fond to return. As for you things can only get better...
Great read! I may even be able to figure out carb problems now, due to your descriptive report. Sounds like it was a roller coaster of day.
Really enjoying this. Just signed up last week after reading through your whole thread on HorizonsUnlimited. I'm in Gulu, Northern Uganda doing some farming and hoping (with stars aligning) to do a trip south at least to zimbabwe to see my uncle. Hopefully august/september. Not sure of your proposed timeline to round the southern tip and head north again but I'll keep watch to try to catch you somewhere for a beer. My parents honeymooned on the beach in mozambique, sounds good enough for me. Loving what you're doing. Well done and push on...
Ugandans I spent time with used to characterize the Nigerians much as you found them to be: aggressively friendly, entrepreneurial. A generlization, for sure, just as my being German has drawn comments about Germans being overly obsessive and anal. No way that could be true...just ask my wife.
Thanks man - Should be in Uganda somewhere around September or October I think...keep in touch, be great to grab a beer..
I crossed the border into Cameroon at dark after 11 hours ride from Abuja and collapsed in an oven-like flea infested room. I didnt care and passed out almost immediately. But I do think that I have fleas now. The guys at this small border crossing were friendly as could be and made the end of the day a piece of cake. The road near the border with Nigeria was rumored to be very difficult, especially in the wet season. Fortunately for me, we are right on the edge of the wet season and the roads are still in decent shape. The roads are currently being graded, most sections are pretty good, and soon enough the trip from the Nigerian border should be smooth as can be. As I rode into the Bamenda Highlands of Northern Cameroon I felt wonderful cool air rushing past my face for the first time in months. I wound up a steep valley with an opposite wall of dark sheer cliffs with vines running down them and topped by lush vegetation. The never-ending bends, sparse traffic, and perfect tarmac made it difficult to resist laying the bike over hard through the bends on the throttle, scraping away precious millimeters of rubber on the tires that had to make it all the way to Cape Town. The steep jungle valleys and crisp air reminded me of a miniature version of the Andes. I had a bit too much fun on one of the bumpy sections of road and managed to break my surf rack again. This time the rear arm of tubular aluminum snapped right off. I rigged up a surfboard belay anchor to get me down the mountain. I simply wandered down the street in the random little village that I slept in the night before and didnt have to go far before I found someone to help. With my metal working savior, James, I carried a relic of a pipe bender out from a garage and he and his crew got to work fashioning me a new arm for my surfboard rack from piece of tubular steel. The entire operation required some bending, cutting and welding to make a bend that was tight enough without collapsing the tube. Get a load of his welder: And viola - a new handmade surfboard rack! All of this was done right in the front of his house with the whole family milling about. The chicken just chilled in the house. They use to most primitive of tools and materials that are on hand to make things work. Back home in the US you could imagine someone saying that the problem simply couldnt be solved, but here these guys use ingenuity and persistence to the job done. I watched James spend hours trying to extract a bolt from my rack that was frozen in place and had the head snapped off. He must have welded a rod onto it to try to turn it more than a dozen times before he finally managed it. The shop crew all ride motorbikes too. But they werent really fans of airboxes. After spending nearly the entire day at his house I bid farewell to James and his family with my surfboard again solidly attached to my bike and rode out to the coast. Once again, Id quickly found help when I needed it most with my poor surfboard swinging in the wind. Days like this make it feel as though when youre chasing after something worthwhile the universe truly can conspire to make it happen. Maybe its just easy to perceive it that way. Or maybe there is little difference between the two ;-) Just before dark I found a nice reef break peeling across a tight little bay filled with dark brown volcanic sand. My view from the water was the volcanic cone of Mount Cameroon that towered just behind my camp, ringed in wispy clouds. The next morning I surfed until lightening strikes near the horizon chased me out of the water and motored south to find another wave and another camp for the night. As usual, I arrived after a day of riding with my face caked in diesel dust, looking like a character straight out of a Road Warrior movie. And as usual I receive a friendly greeting, offer of a cold beer and a gorgeous spot on the beach to pitch my camp and rest. Life could be worse. At my next surf stop I met the local surfer, Peggy. By all accounts, he is the only surfer in all Cameroon, surfing here since 1994, when his boss brought him a surfboard from France. Since then, his surfboard collection has grown substantially, but company in the water has not. Unfortunately - the ocean provided no waves for Peggy and I to trade. Leaving Cameroon, I found a gorgeous undulating dirt track leading me towards the Gabon border. No trucks running me off the road, no massive tarmac craters, and no diesel dust collecting on my face. The short rains from the previous nights had put just enough moisture in the ground to make the dirt nice and tacky - perfect for railing around corners with a confident feeling about the friction between the rubber of your tires and the surface below. It was the most fun I'd had riding in months and I was stoked to have a long dirt track and nothing to do all day but ride. It's the start of the rainy season in this part of the world and I wanted to make some progress south before the Congo turns into a proper mud pit, so I kept on the gas.
What an awesome shot this is, light beaming out of the lady's heart! After passing thru Nigerian Hell, Cameroon seems to have turned it around for you right nicely, and this pic says it all. <hr style="color:#575757; background-color:#575757" size="1">