Turning a Corner

Gabon

Covered in mud and reeking like a swamp, I made my way into Ndende to track down Gabon’s immigration and customs.   And, upon reflection, this is a quirk of West Africa that I have come to enjoy.

On the one hand, when you arrive in Australia, you shuffle initially along a sort of Fallopian concourse into a wider corridor, hemmed in on either side by bright walls and tiles.  Everyone instinctively knows which way to go and if you don’t, you follow some suit wheeling a trundle-case like a designer dog. Pretty soon after that, there are shiny duty-free grog shops, followed by large coloured arrows painted on the floor and walls, to direct you down a sterile one-way corridor to the relevant immigration/customs stalls.  Unless you are James Bond, the only rebellion to be made is to linger long enough to buy an oversized Toblerone, but in the end you literally have no other option than to proceed to the immigration hall.

On the other hand, in West Africa, the onus is entirely upon you to locate and then motivate the immigration/customs apparatus.  It is not uncommon to find these ‘offices’ deserted and located tens of kilometres from the neighbouring border and from each other.

So, after a 30km ride into town, buying a SIM card, washing and fuelling the bike, I managed to find immigration/customs.  There, I was stamped into the country officially and told that no documents were necessary for the bike, that my entry stamp alone would suffice (a lie).  Thus I began my life as a smuggler and headed on my merry way, on my illegitimate steed.  The Baja was still wearing the knobblies we’d put on for the mud, which made an eerie whine on the tarmac.  I wanted to put the old road tyres back on, but I was also hopeful to be able to keep the knobblies strapped to the back of the Baja - as painful as that was - out of caution for future mud battles.  So, expecting the process to be as simple as it was to put the knobblies on, I stopped at another roadside tyre guy.

You would think by now, after all the bad experiences with mechanics that I have had in Africa, that I would have learnt by now.  But obviously, I haven’t.  Whereas I snapped at the guy that put the knobblies on, for no reason, such scepticism would have served me well at this point.  But, I was tired, hungry, filthy and impatient to get into the guts of Gabon.  So what I could have done myself, carefully, in about an hour, turned into a 4-5 hour ordeal with these peanuts.

The issue was, that the road tyres that were strapped to the back of the Baja through the mud, had been severely constricted by the straps, perhaps bending the steel veins inside and breaking the bead.  So, three or four times, these idiots put the tyres on and sent me on my way, only for the Baja to lollop along like the Fred Flintstone-mobile.  Several times, I went to ride out of town only to realise that the tyres were not running straight.  I found myself locating dishwasher detergent, pummelling, deflating and reinflating these tyres on the side of the road in the equatorial sun.  Eventually, when the tyres were on as well as they could be, there was a still a discernible wobble that I hoped was just compressed tyres, but eventually accepted were bent rims.  Basically, these idiots bent my wheels and I’m the bigger idiot for having let them.  So I checked into a place that did pizza, had a shower and listened to a podcast to let my blood cool.

The following day I made for Libreville, a city about which I had heard nothing but bad things.  For the most part, the road was great, when I could take my eyes off the wobbly front wheel.  I rode through Lambarene, of Albert Schweizer fame and through the amazing Gabonese jungle marvelling in the array of bush meet on offer hanging by the side of the road.

About 30 kms out from Libreville, the road turned agricultural in a serious way.  Just pause to appreciate this.  We are talking about the country’s main, in fact only, arterial road into the capital city.  Basically, Gabon’s version of the Hume coming into Melbourne.  But out of nowhere this road just turns from being beautiful tarmac into dusty craterscrape.  I’m told that the Chinese contractor woke up one morning to find that all the money had vanished, so the road stopped.  They were working in, not out, so from Libreville’s Craigieburn into the city, the road is like riding the Finke trail in Citylink traffic.  The going was tough and I had left my run too late, so had to choke my way on after dusk.  Halfway in, the tyres and my luggage and had come loose several times and my Pacsafe went through the chain, so in a fit of frustration I lost it and threw the tyres on the side of the road.  If you are concerned that this may have been littering, trust me, they would have certainly been snaffled in under 10 mins.  Here, a tyre isn’t bald until you can see steel.  Presumably in frustration, the Baja’s trip-computer (speedo, odo and tripmeter) also gave up the ghost.   At last, I was glad to meet Bastien at Adi the Couchsurfer’s place, who even with a burnt clutch, had still beat me there!

Libreville actually turned out to be far more enjoyable than I expected. But unfortunately, as with many stops in the one-port-one-city countries of West Africa, we were there primarily to secure a visa.  As it were, we were in Libreville for the Cameroon visa.  Nobody else has trouble getting the Cameroon visa.  Most Cameroonian embassies, including the Libreville embassy, usually throw months of visa at would be visitors.  Yet somehow, Bastien and I managed to get the goat of this one Consul*.  At first the Consul wanted us to produce a document proving that we were tourists… For this, he wouldn’t accept our passports, the 7 months and 14 preceding countries worth of tourist visas, or my Lonely Planet.  After that, he wanted a letter from my employer, but eventually we settled on a letter of invitation from someone inside Cameroon, which Bastien’s mum** again arranged.  After all of this, he only gave us 14 days.  Whilst reflecting on the bad luck we’ve had on visas, Bastien simply concluded that people are racist towards the French.  He may be right. 

* Which I'm informed in French is pronounced C&#%sul - pardon the French

** Legend

If you’ve read any of my blog posts to date, you know that I have met mechanics on this trip.  At current count, I put it at about 30.  I can recommend a motorbike mechanic in every country on the west coast of Africa, from Benin to South Africa and I can recommend Land Rover mechanics up the East Coast, in every country up to Kenya.  But, the best of the best, the pick of the bunch, is Deleur in Gabon.  Not only is Deleur a mechanical genius, he’s a true gentleman and a he’s a storyteller.  He’s my kind of man.

When I wasn’t tilting at the Cameroonian embassy, I mainly hung out at Deleur’s workshop tinkering with the Baja, having a few beers and a yarn.  And I must say, in this department I found myself outgunned, not having a single story that involved surviving a machete attack, or catching a dead body whilst fishing; both minor ditties from Deleur’s recent months.  He had the scars and the calibre to back it up, and I eventually left, paying only an embarrassing fraction of what I should have. Next to nothing. Thanks Deleur!

With our 14 day Cameroonian visas in hand (still dirty about this) Bastien and I bashed our way out to Craigieburn-Libreville, over the equator and into the overgrown green heart of Gabon.  Before long we were riding in the rain, but regardless, this was a simply stunning ride.  With the jungle trying to reclaim the road, pressing in on either side, we went our way through misty mountains, alongside gaping valleys engulfed with rain, a clear kilometre across of muddy swirling flood.  During the first weeks on the Ark, this is what the view would have looked like.

For lunch, we stopped to have a little fish in an accumulation of huts that passed for a central Gabonese town, and I was a little concerned - if not alarmed - to discover that the Baja’s battery was dead.  Battery’s die, but usually not so abruptly and not right after such a decent ride, which should have had the charge right up.  I was conscious of the trip-computer’s recent passing and an uneasy feeling seated in my stomach that had nothing to do with the fish.  But, I resolved to get a new battery at the next town and thus began Bastien’s tenure as chef-de-pushstart.

Cameroon

Anyone familiar with my vehicle history will be aware that I am sometimes content to tolerate deficiencies in a vehicle, so long as it keeps me moving forward.  There was Paxton – bless his beautiful soul – who deserved an easier life, or to have died younger.  Sure, he had a perpetual black eye and was a little rough around the edges by the end, but he could chew up the miles, the paddock and the odd fence better than any.  God, I miss him.  There was also the CBF, whose starter – fittingly – refused to start for a while.  For a good few years there, if you were in the Bourke/William Street vicinity around about knock-off time, on the footpath and amongst the peak hour traffic, you might have seen me waddling up a bit of momentum on the CBF to get her push-started.  Dignified? – maybe not, but did she get me to and from work for years? – yes, she did.

So, when we struggled to find a battery to fit in the Baja I consoled myself that I would just be able to keep bump-starting her in the interim.  I did it every day for 3 years with the CBF, a couple of days through the Gabon and Cameroonian jungle should be fine.  And I had Bastien to push! Happy days... 

This logic was called into question shortly after arriving in Cameroon.  A stroke of luck, saw us enlisting to the battery hunt, a handsome man in a leather jacket - the spitting image of Morgan Freeman.  Marcel found us an appropriate battery, which initially appeared to resolve the issue.  But, the following morning, the brand new battery had drained and we were back to the bump-starts.  Not only was the battery not charging, something was draining it overnight and so the plot thickened.

But, once started, the Baja was still pulling like a champion.  We soon found ourselves on a hard packed ochre clay track which burrowed through the jungle.  A bright red artery that wiggled its way through tiny villages and more green than I knew existed.  We raced in and out of the stray shards of light piercing the understorey, past marquees of bamboo, errant tendrils reaching for the Baja and the odd fluoro butterfly bouncing off my visor.  This was a serious contender for the most fun ride of the trip to date.  At one point, I just had to stop to check out a guy who was selling a crocodile on the side of the track.  I really wanted to buy him (the croc) and let him go in the next stream, but I wasn’t sure how to carry a crocodile on the Baja and, circle of life…

Of course, stress intruded when I ploughed through a surprisingly deep slick of mud and water.  The Baja splashed her way through and collapsed on the far bank; electrically speaking, dead.  Recalling that the electrical issue first reared its head in the rain in Gabon I wondered whether there night be a loose wire somewhere getting wet… But, bizarrely enough, after a push-start (thanks Bastien) the Baja roared to life and the trip computer came back – wooo! For five minutes – boo…

After a jumbo prawn lunch, we rode through the rain (of course) to Douala where the Baja began to hit the wall.  You may recall that so far, the most catastrophic mechanical issues occurred in Kampala and Nampula.  So, when pulling into Douala the Baja began to surge like a boat and cut out under anything less than roaring revs, I made the decision to avoid in future any cities ending in ‘-la’.

The following morning matters got worse when again, we were knocked back from getting the Nigeria visa.  I’m just going to tangent on this issue a bit, because it was actually a fairly stressful situation.  As I said in the last update, I’d had advice that getting the Nigeria visa was always going to be one of the most significant hurdles.  It has always been hard to get, particularly when you are not applying at an embassy in a country where you don’t have residency. Why, I have no idea, but it makes Overlanding Africa hard (read: impossible) if you have to get your visas arranged before you leave home.  However, we had understood that it would be possible to get the Nigeria visa at a few embassies on the way, but from both the north and south that number had been dwindling steadily, down to just one or two.  To make matters worse, a dispute that dates back to before the Biafran war, in the Anglophone districts neighbouring Nigeria had seen that area become increasingly unstable and the border was even slammed shut for a month earlier this year.  It is also not feasible to overland around Nigeria.  Chad and Niger are simply no go zones and to fly-ship the Baja over or around Nigeria, would have cost thousands and been a real question of whether it would be worth it, or even possible to arrange in under two weeks (recall our Cameroonian Consul friend and the 2 week visa).

The other thing is that we were in Cameroon on a visa which was issued pursuant to a letter of invitation given by Bastien’s mum’s colleague, meaning that that colleague would be liable for any malfeasance during our visit.  As such, leaving the bike and simply flying over Nigeria would be a big problem (recall my second update about import duties and the potentially expensive/bureaucratic nightmare of not exporting a vehicle that was temporarily imported, within the specified time).  Basically, you can’t leave a vehicle in a country without potentially screwing whoever gave you the letter of invitation, which would be an issue in all the countries back to Namibia.  So if you consider this, together with the fact that the Central African Republic and DRC are also no go zones, plan B was probably going to have to be to ride the Baja back to Uganda via Zambia.  An 8,000km backtrack that would take months and involve having to go back to Uganda (vale Bushpig)… And the Baja was packing it in… So, it was going to be a big bloody problem to not get the Nigeria visa!

But, of course, we did.  We bowled up to the final embassy before the border and did what we had to do.  It wasn’t pretty, but we got it done.  Which left time to focus on fixing the Baja.

In Douala, I found a mechanic that looked reputable and had a multimeter, though didn’t speak English.  Through a slow process of Google translate and electrical diagnostics, we identified that the rectifier might be the issue.  The mechanic sent his mate on a goose chase to find a spare, which miraculously he did.  So things looked good and we celebrated with escargot for dinner.

The following day we made for the Nigerian border and almost immediately, the ‘new’ rectifier blew so it was back to bump starting (thanks Bastien).  Again, for love of my mother, I’m not going to describe the ride to the border, except to say that we had a military escort, so we were safe.

Nigeria

All that we had heard about Nigeria made it sound like a hell-hole.  50 police stops a day, rampant corruption, hellish roads and crazy drivers.  It wasn’t like this and maybe it was the fact that it was the first English speaking country I’d encountered since Namibia, but I thought it was one of the friendliest countries I have ever visited.  Certainly one of the friendliest in Africa.  There were a bunch of police stops, but they were more cheeky than anything.  I stopped in front of one young officer in stylishly torn army fatigues, an AK-47 slung over his shoulder and a pom-pommed beanie.  It would have been over 40 degrees standing on the bitumen.

            “What have you got for me?” he asked.

            “Just a smile and a wave, champ” I replied.

            “No wine..? You didn’t bring me wine?” he ventured.

            “Sorry bloke, I drank all the wine last night actually.  So I’ll take a Nurofen if you’ve got one”

            “Ok den, next time brother” and he waved me through with a chuckle.

This was as bad as it ever got and in fact, when I had to stop the Baja one time, I needed a push start which the officer gladly provided, even after I declined his mild attempt to solicit a bribe.  Maybe this is what people mean by pushy police in Nigeria.

The traffic however was horrendous.  When we stopped for the night, our faces were like pandas from the exhaust, soot and dirt.  It was a slog, dodging crazy mini-bus drivers and slaloming around the huge potholes.  More than once, I found it easier to enduro up the nature strip, rather than play chicken with oncoming traffic.  That and swerving around the odd naked man walking on the highway actually proved to be quite fun.  Punctuate this with hilarious service station chats and photo shoots with the locals and it’s fair to say I liked Nigeria from the beginning. 

In Lagos, I met Bastien’s family in a beautifully hysterical arrival, then rendezvoused with Phillip for the first time in 10 years.  If you haven’t read ‘the Ugly’* page of this Blog to get the background with Philip, please do.  Long story short, he’s the guy who inspired me to do this trip and it felt good after all this time to finally return the book.  I stayed over a week in Lagos with Philip, his partner Lexi and their Labrador, Disco.  All were so generous with their hospitality, especially Disco who obligingly entertained me in frequent pillow tug-of-wars.

*not a comment on Philip, rather a comment on The Badger, the Baja, Cameron and I

The main aim in Lagos was to get the Baja’s electrics sorted and I figured that in a city of 18 million people, it would be possible to get the spares necessary.  It was, sort of.

I then met a madman named Dele Bami, who was also a mechanic.  I had heard him described as the wheeler dealer you want to be your wheeler dealer.  If he could fix it and help you, then he would.  Part Italian, part Nigerian, full crazy, Dele loves all things motorsport and built his own rally car.  He started his Land Rover TD5 by a combination of hotwiring and a windscreen wiper button he’d installed as the ignition.  We took a shining to each other immediately and before long he was roaring stories about enduro races in Togo and how life is better in Nigeria.  We cruised the neighbourhood in his Land Rover and everybody seemed to know him.  We would pull up to shanties brimming with auto carcasses and Dele would shout in at whoever was there.  We collected a various array of rectifiers in all shapes and sizes to try and transplant into the Baja, each only a couple of dollars.  I enjoyed hanging at his shop, where you had to be careful not to trip on his little step brother, or the detritus of motorbikes, cars, go-karts, 4x4s and a crane.  Mid job, he noted that we were using the hood of a Porsch as a workbench and we collapsed into maniacal laughter.  Dele plans to ride up to the UK for the Isle of Man race, so hopefully we can catch up en route, maybe in Morocco.

Eventually, Dele found a rectifier from a bike in his yard. A KTM or a Yamaha, I forget which.  The rectifier worked, but would not fit in place nestled between the Baja’s seat and engine.  The solution was to secure the rectifier to the outside of the chassis with a combination of industrial blue-tak and fencing wire.  We then lengthened the electrical system and wired it in.  Frankenstein’ed in, this fix has worked the last 1000km and hopefully will continue to (touch wood), as I’ve learnt that the original part is no longer made by Honda.  Dele accepted payment in the form of a modest bottle of whiskey. 

There’s still the issue of battery drain, but I’m working around this by disconnecting her battery when the Baja is not running.  As my mate Steve who is a biker and a qualified electrician told me, there’s a reason they sell the electricals on these bikes as one big set.  It is almost impossible to find a discrete electrical fault unless one of the major parts has failed.  She’ll be right.

As I said, I liked Nigeria.  Despite ever more visa issues to be worked through in Lagos, I enjoyed surviving this city, which just had a crazy edge to it.  There is an oil rig in the middle of the harbour, which is basically the equivalent of putting one in Docklands.  There is a 10km long highway running through the lagoon, presumably because it was easier to do that than tear up the slums which line the length of the shoreline.  I ended up doing an interview for the TV after meeting a guy waiting at the ATM.  I think because people live on top of each other, there is basically no personal social space.  Any person within conversation distance is by default a part of the conversation and Nigerians chat with everyone like they have known them for years.  A good example of this was Phillip’s driver Abiola, who became an instant mate.  Despite the numberplates, which state "Lagos – Centre of Excellence”, the traffic in Lagos is never good, but when I went to leave, the megalopolis was jammed shut because the President was in town.  I rode 30kms around the city to avoid this and when I did get to the outskirts, there was a further 30kms of motorcycle crush.  1000s of motorbikes shuffled and jostled each other, alongside the road, over a trail that would have been better suited to BMX’ing.  Mounds of dirt had been piled over traffic barriers, drains and roadworking paraphernalia, to allow the crowded column of riders to skip the acres of deadlock.  Were I on a bike any bigger, I would have been the cork in the dam.  It was insanity, but it worked. Just like Lagos.

The little Baja that could

As you can see from how deeply she’s blushing, the Baja is embarrassed to have her bits showing, but even so, she remains classy and dedicated to the job at hand.

At this point, she is a going concern, but a day by day prospect.  Every time we pause for longer than a fuel stop or a cursory look around, I discreetly unbolt her fairings and disconnect her battery.  Of an evening, that battery gets pulled out for a charge along with the iPhone and GPS, the only difficulty being that it and the charger are each the size of a brick.  Her trip computer is the canary in the coalmine for battery charge and we have a little celebration every time it comes on.  I’m happy if that happens once a day.  We are armed with electrical tape and a spare rectifier that is ready to be Frankenstein’ed in should need be.  We are also lugging a spare battery, which if worse comes to worse will be the backup plan.  Based on the levels of battery destruction through Cameroon and Nigeria, I reckon 4 to 10 batteries will see us the 5,000km into Morocco, should both rectifiers give up the ghost.

So where does this leave us..?

I am currently taking a little holiday from the trip in Ghana, loving life.

I had been told that Ghana is ‘Africa for beginners’ and I’d heard it described warningly as ‘touristy’.  By the time I arrived, this sounded perfect and it hasn’t disappointed.

I will provide a brief update on Ghana, but after that it’s going to be a strap in, riding boots on, balls to the wall, 5,000km blast to Morocco, through Cote D’Ivoire, Guinea (which during April is flatteringly summarised by Lonely Planet as “very hot everywhere, and not a pleasant month to travel”), Senegal and then a little desert known as the Sahara, in the height of its summer.  I’m sure it will be plain sailing.

‘Til then,

Bonne Nuee (that’s French for good evening)

Stu