Nigeria I
30 May-13 June
Heading to Kiama
On our map the route from the border to Kiama and Nigeria’s Kainji National Park was marked in red, which the key described as ‘Express Highway’. In Mali, when planning the route through Nigeria with Helmut, a German expat who had just concluded several years working in Nigeria, he had described the road was ‘terrybill’. For the first 10 miles or so this translated into a wide, flat, African red dirt track with few if any pot holes and we began to wonder how much this civil engineer knew about Nigerian roads. However, within a few minutes of passing through Kosubosu, the last town before Kiama some 60 miles away, we were now definitely on the most ‘terrybill’ road .. ever! We slowed to a crawl in order to negotiate the washed out switch-back of a track which, over years of no maintenance, had lost its surface leaving a testing mix of deep ravine like gashes and boulders of various sizes. It was very tiring being endlessly twisted, bumped, bounced and bruised as we inched our way through the wooded countryside.
Looking for a site to bush camp, we soon discovered that there were few tracks leading off the ‘Highway’ and those that did led to groups of huts. Eventually a wave from Liz confirmed that at last she had found a camp site. No wider than Boris and with bushes and trees scraping the sides of the vehicles, the opening led to a lovely granite pan, flat and devoid of trees with a smooth rounded dome to one side and from which we were able to watch the sun set over a sea of treetops coating the rolling Nigerian landscape around us.
After a good night’s sleep and with bruises temporarily forgotten, we returned to the Highway from Hell in the expectation that the surface would improve. It did not, the piste got worse and became more difficult to drive on; a situation from which we began to draw a perverse sense of pleasure. Every mile covered was a mile less and a victory over the surface beneath us; we were enjoying it! The only areas where the surface was decent were in the isolated villages that we came across. What a change from Benin, we were greeted like royalty! Dreadfully poor people were waving and children dressed in rags were rushing to the roadside from dilapidated huts, smiling and shrieking, ‘bartulay’ (white man) instead of ‘cadeaux’. Our arms were aching from returning the waves and we began to appreciate what it must be like for the Queen when on a royal drive about!
Once, between villages and amongst the scrubby trees at the roadside, we came across a group of nomadic herdsmen with their cattle; obviously on the move, not only was their donkey laden down with belongings and the odd live chicken, but the cattle also were being used to carry the tents that these charming and friendly people lived in. Even the children were carrying live chickens or leading goats. It was an amazing sight and a glimpse of a way of life rooted in Africa’s past.
Late in the afternoon we crested a rise and saw a tarred surface ahead of us; after nearly a day’s driving, averaging not more than ten miles an hour, we were at the outskirts of Kiama. Passing through checkpoints either side of the town we headed towards the Kainji National Park, but being just a little bit behind time .. like over half a day! .. it was now late afternoon and, as we couldn’t make the Park before sunset, we found a place to bush camp and after a good meal were asleep on top of Boris by 8pm.
Kainji National Park
Early on the morning of the 1 of June we reached the gated entrance to Kainji National Park and having paid the entry fee, all of about £5 (including guides, game drives and camera fees!), we followed the narrow dirt track that ran through 20 miles of the most beautiful, untouched wooded savannah, to the run down .. very, very Nigerian style run down .. lodge. The staff were not keen to let us camp so, to allow Ralf to camp in his customised campervan, we stayed in a little used and musty smelling room, with very precarious air-conditioning and a bathroom floor awash in water from a leaking pipe. Hummm, that sounds so selfless, it wasn’t at all; Peter wanted a cool, air conditioned night’s sleep!
That afternoon we took a guide and set off in the back of Ralf’s campervan, a good viewing platform with large windows in the sides, to look for hippos in the nearby river. On the way we came across plenty of antelope and baboons, but our guide seemed a bit at sixes and sevens when it came to actually finding the hippo pools; twice we got out, walked about 20 yards into the trees before we were then led back to the van. When we did eventually get to the river bank, we spent about 10 minutes staring at, well, nothing! Throughout, our guide clapped his hands, loudly, this being a sure fire way of attracting game and in particular the nonexistent hippos! Back to the van and on to another pool, this time and about a quarter of mile down river there were three greyish blobs. Through our binos we were able to see our first hippos; they seemed quite unfazed by the guide’s renewed hand clapping and were spluttering, yawning and grunting when not under the surface. We spent a long time sitting on some rocks by the riverside taking in this lovely, if distant, scene; it was very special. Then back to the van and as a finale the guide directed Ralf down a track that led nowhere, except to a large swamp! By now the back of Ralf’s van had become a veritable sauna; we had closed all the windows because of the swarms of tsetse flies (the same size and inclination as a horse fly) and we were literally dripping with sweat. We couldn’t get back to the Lodge fast enough.
Heading to Kiama
On our map the route from the border to Kiama and Nigeria’s Kainji National Park was marked in red, which the key described as ‘Express Highway’. In Mali, when planning the route through Nigeria with Helmut, a German expat who had just concluded several years working in Nigeria, he had described the road was ‘terrybill’. For the first 10 miles or so this translated into a wide, flat, African red dirt track with few if any pot holes and we began to wonder how much this civil engineer knew about Nigerian roads. However, within a few minutes of passing through Kosubosu, the last town before Kiama some 60 miles away, we were now definitely on the most ‘terrybill’ road .. ever! We slowed to a crawl in order to negotiate the washed out switch-back of a track which, over years of no maintenance, had lost its surface leaving a testing mix of deep ravine like gashes and boulders of various sizes. It was very tiring being endlessly twisted, bumped, bounced and bruised as we inched our way through the wooded countryside.
Looking for a site to bush camp, we soon discovered that there were few tracks leading off the ‘Highway’ and those that did led to groups of huts. Eventually a wave from Liz confirmed that at last she had found a camp site. No wider than Boris and with bushes and trees scraping the sides of the vehicles, the opening led to a lovely granite pan, flat and devoid of trees with a smooth rounded dome to one side and from which we were able to watch the sun set over a sea of treetops coating the rolling Nigerian landscape around us.
After a good night’s sleep and with bruises temporarily forgotten, we returned to the Highway from Hell in the expectation that the surface would improve. It did not, the piste got worse and became more difficult to drive on; a situation from which we began to draw a perverse sense of pleasure. Every mile covered was a mile less and a victory over the surface beneath us; we were enjoying it! The only areas where the surface was decent were in the isolated villages that we came across. What a change from Benin, we were greeted like royalty! Dreadfully poor people were waving and children dressed in rags were rushing to the roadside from dilapidated huts, smiling and shrieking, ‘bartulay’ (white man) instead of ‘cadeaux’. Our arms were aching from returning the waves and we began to appreciate what it must be like for the Queen when on a royal drive about!
Once, between villages and amongst the scrubby trees at the roadside, we came across a group of nomadic herdsmen with their cattle; obviously on the move, not only was their donkey laden down with belongings and the odd live chicken, but the cattle also were being used to carry the tents that these charming and friendly people lived in. Even the children were carrying live chickens or leading goats. It was an amazing sight and a glimpse of a way of life rooted in Africa’s past.
Late in the afternoon we crested a rise and saw a tarred surface ahead of us; after nearly a day’s driving, averaging not more than ten miles an hour, we were at the outskirts of Kiama. Passing through checkpoints either side of the town we headed towards the Kainji National Park, but being just a little bit behind time .. like over half a day! .. it was now late afternoon and, as we couldn’t make the Park before sunset, we found a place to bush camp and after a good meal were asleep on top of Boris by 8pm.
Kainji National Park
Early on the morning of the 1 of June we reached the gated entrance to Kainji National Park and having paid the entry fee, all of about £5 (including guides, game drives and camera fees!), we followed the narrow dirt track that ran through 20 miles of the most beautiful, untouched wooded savannah, to the run down .. very, very Nigerian style run down .. lodge. The staff were not keen to let us camp so, to allow Ralf to camp in his customised campervan, we stayed in a little used and musty smelling room, with very precarious air-conditioning and a bathroom floor awash in water from a leaking pipe. Hummm, that sounds so selfless, it wasn’t at all; Peter wanted a cool, air conditioned night’s sleep!
That afternoon we took a guide and set off in the back of Ralf’s campervan, a good viewing platform with large windows in the sides, to look for hippos in the nearby river. On the way we came across plenty of antelope and baboons, but our guide seemed a bit at sixes and sevens when it came to actually finding the hippo pools; twice we got out, walked about 20 yards into the trees before we were then led back to the van. When we did eventually get to the river bank, we spent about 10 minutes staring at, well, nothing! Throughout, our guide clapped his hands, loudly, this being a sure fire way of attracting game and in particular the nonexistent hippos! Back to the van and on to another pool, this time and about a quarter of mile down river there were three greyish blobs. Through our binos we were able to see our first hippos; they seemed quite unfazed by the guide’s renewed hand clapping and were spluttering, yawning and grunting when not under the surface. We spent a long time sitting on some rocks by the riverside taking in this lovely, if distant, scene; it was very special. Then back to the van and as a finale the guide directed Ralf down a track that led nowhere, except to a large swamp! By now the back of Ralf’s van had become a veritable sauna; we had closed all the windows because of the swarms of tsetse flies (the same size and inclination as a horse fly) and we were literally dripping with sweat. We couldn’t get back to the Lodge fast enough.
The Policeman
The following day, as we left the Lodge, we were seen off by the assorted staff members, including our clap-happy ‘guide’ who proudly announced he was in reality none other than the catering manager! Returning to the Park entrance we then drove north east towards a town called Agwarra, about a day’s drive away and in the heart of the Kambiri tribal area. Helmut had recommended a visit to this area, the people having retained many aspects of their ancient culture and way of life. The route was bad, but what made it worse were the check points along it and in particular the attitude of the police manning them; surly and at times menacingly so, the police wanted to exert their authority and we felt more like suspects than tourists.
We made Agwarra by mid afternoon and Peter, aware that it would be polite to visit the local Kambiri paramount chief, stopped at the police headquarters to ask how this could be done. The policemen were standing outside under a tree and the police sergeant insisted that such a visit was not necessary in Agwarra, but that it would be a good idea at the village were going to visit. After showing them the map, they pointed out a Kambiri village and suggested it would be ideal; still very traditional and one where we would be welcomed. As Peter was asking what route we should take, an off duty policeman on a small Chinese motorbike screeched to a halt in front of the headquarters. He was then offered as a guide and would take us to the village, about 12 miles away, for the cost of the fuel used. A price of 200 naira was agreed and we set off behind the motor cyclist.
The first stop was the nearest roadside stall selling bottles of fuel; no more than 50 naira’s worth of petrol was poured into the tank and our voluble guide pocketed the change! We left the town and headed out along a dusty track through open fields, with scattered woodland stretching away to distant rolling green hills; in the fields people were bent double, hard at work preparing by hand the soil or planting seeds in rows. This rural idyll was just what we had hoped for.
At every conceivable obstacle in our path, our motor cycle escort gave exaggerated waves of an outstretched arm to slow us down, followed by a jabbing of his hand to show what route we should take around it. As his speed and balance were becoming increasingly erratic, we were relieved when he stopped in what we assumed to be ‘our’ village, only for him to signal for us to wait in our vehicles whilst, with a theatrical flourish, he dismounted and disappeared into the village, returning after about 5 minutes clutching a small bottle of water and with a lady whom he asked us to give a lift to as she wanted to go to ‘our’ village. It was as she was climbing into Ralf’s van that our escort waved the ‘water bottle’ in the air, unscrewed the metal cap, took a swig and with a smirk, showed us the label emblazoned with the words ‘London Gin’! He then informed us in broken English that it was not far to our destination and, putting the bottle in a jacket pocket, mounted his bike and promptly roared off down the track. We tried to keep up with him, but within a few minutes there was no sign of him apart from the dust settling on the track ahead.
After driving for about 5 minutes, we rounded a corner and came upon our escort gulping down what remained of the contents before hurling the empty bottle over his shoulder. Seeing us approaching, he leered at us in a rather unfocused fashion and made several comical and unsuccessful attempts to kick start his bike into action. Obviously a little tipsy before we met him, our police escort was now blind drunk. We pulled up alongside him and Peter got out, map in hand, to try to determine where we were; the policeman moved towards Peter letting go of the bike which promptly toppled to the ground. At this point and whilst the policeman was attempting to get his bike upright again, a car pulled up and the driver told Peter that the village we wanted to visit was the one we had just left! We had been conned into being the ‘taxi’ for the woman and the payment used to buy the gin.
Peter told the policeman that we no longer needed him, at which point the last vestiges of any drunken bonhomie left his face to be replaced by a malicious scowl. Pushing his face into Peter’s, the policeman said he had run out of petrol and demanded another 200 Naira. Faced with a menacing, drunken example of the bad reputation that surrounded elements of the Nigerian police, we paid him.
We turned around as quickly as possible and, with the woman wisely declining the policeman’s offer of a lift and remaining in Ralf’s van, we drove off. Like something out of a murder/suspense movie and just as we were breathing a sigh of relief, there in the rear view mirror was the policeman on his motorbike, lights flashing and horn sounding. He roared past and, when in front, forced us to stop; parking his bike in front of Boris. A situation that had been unsettling had now become alarming and potentially very dangerous; in the middle of nowhere and at the mercy of this corrupt representative of unfettered Nigerian authority, we forced ourselves to smile as he approached the driver’s window.
The policeman, head and shoulders into the car, began a drunken, threatening but largely incomprehensible tirade that repeatedly included the phrases; ‘police serjeant’, ‘important man’ and ‘arrest you’ and concluded with a demand for 20,000 Naira. By now Ralf and his increasingly hysterical passenger were standing beside Boris and whilst the policeman was prodding the woman and telling her to shut up, Peter removed all but 2,000 Naira from our wallet. He then explained to the policeman that this was all we had, showing him the contents of the wallet and holding out the money.
Peter was completely non-plussed when the policeman then refused the money; however Ralf understood that, with an increasing number of witnesses arriving from the surrounding fields, the payment had to be made away from public view and so, with the money in his pocket, he accompanied the policeman to the rear of his van. Ralf returned some minutes later, saying that the bribe had been accepted, we were free to go and that his passenger had been told she was to continue on the rear of the policeman’s bike. As we sped away the woman was refusing to travel with the policeman who, in his turn, was wagging his finger and threatening the cowed group around him.
What a nightmare trip it had been; this example of the drunken corruption of a representative of the very body that was supposed to uphold the law was to hang over us for the rest of our time in Nigeria. We hadn’t seen the village or the people we so wanted to see and we certainly didn’t want to remain in the area for fear of a visit in the night from this most awful of policeman. We drove in the gathering evening gloom back to Agwarra where we had another shocker; we were told that the ferry we wanted to take was not running because of the low river level and, as there was no other crossing point, we now had to drive all the way back to Kiama. What a horrible run of bad luck.
It was now getting dark and we had to find somewhere to bush camp and the further we got away from Agwarra the better. We found a good spot well off the main road and, with thunder and lightning all around, spent a sleepless night with every noise and distant light a possible impending visit from the police.
A Kambiri Village
Early on the morning of 3 June, as we began to retrace our route to Kiama, we passed Kambiri villages and felt we still wanted to visit one; we had come all this way to meet these people and felt cheated by the previous day’s events. We stopped near a village where a man was leaving on his motor cycle and flagged him down to ask if a visit was possible. He was the village pastor, but was unsure about our request. The hyper-active buzz of another of another bike interrupted our conversation; the Pastor waved at the rider who then careered across the track towards us. The rider turned out to be a leading Kambiri figure in the area and the local church, the beaming passenger was his wife. Their names were Moses and Mary! They simply couldn’t have been more obliging; although on their way to a Regional Assembly meeting in Agwarra, they simply dropped anything they may have had planned for the morning and led us to a group of huts not far away.
We had a most memorable time; protected by a fetish, the huts formed a compound and contained an extended, non Christian, Kambiri family group and we spent time using Moses as our interpreter and guide to learn how these dear, gentle and hospitable people lived. When we arrived they carried on with their daily routine quite unfazed by our presence; bare breasted women feeding their babies or pounding millet and an old man repairing the walls of a mud hut. Sadly though when we asked Moses if we could take photos of the women, they were asked to put on their clothes and the photos then became rather formal. Moses insisted on having photos taken of us with the Kambiri family, one of these Ralf was able to print off in his van and then gave one copy to Moses and Mary and one to the Kambiri family, who were delighted and overcome by the photo, something they had never seen before, and passed the postcard sized picture from one to another accompanied by excited giggles and cries of recognition.
Moses and Mary then very kindly took us to the nearby ‘town’ of Gallah, a sprawling collection of huts with the odd one storey mud brick house. This was where they lived and here we were introduced to the local Kambiri chief, before they walked us around the small, cramped market and every so often stopping to explain what was for sale and its use . Sadly time was not on our side and Moses’ offer of a more extensive tour had to be turned down. What a lovely morning we had had and how it had made up for the unpleasant incident of the previous afternoon.
(Nigeria june 18, 21)
After a good lunch of market yam chips dipped in Ralf’s tomato sauce, we headed back the way we had come passing through Kiama and then turning east towards the Nigerian capital, Abuja. In the late afternoon we came to the River Niger and crossed it for the last time, having first done so in Bamako in March. That night we camped on the edge of the sandy football pitch of a small village called Patikou. As usual we had a large audience; it consisted solely of men and children, Liz was getting used to her every move being scrutinised whilst cooking and often felt as if she was on ‘Ready, Steady, Cook’. The women of the village had no time to spare for such frivolity and didn’t appear until after dark, by which time they had completed their chores as the family work force. The women in Africa have to do just about everything it seems; the men, when not chatting to one another in the village meeting room, spend time lying exhausted on a bench or asleep in a chair under a tree. Even on the odd occasion when a man had done something and was returning, machete in hand, to the village, often as not he was followed by a woman bent double carrying the fruits of his labour.
The chief of the village came to visit us, sitting on one of our chairs and, through an interpreter, wanted to know all about us; he was a dear old chap. Forced to retire to bed early because of the mosquitoes, we heard one man coming back to show us off to his wife; she must have been disappointed when she found us all shut up for the night. We could hear them walking around us a few times and chatting away excitedly as their torch illuminated different bits of Boris. It was rather sad really, but we certainly were not going to get up and come down for them!
On To Abuja
The following morning, 4 of June, we decided to have our morning visit to the bush, wash and breakfast away from the glare of onlookers, so left as early as we could and not far away found a lovely clearing that had been a gravel quarry for road construction. Shucks, this would have been the perfect place to camp! We did though enjoy a long breakfast break here before continuing our journey towards Abuja.
Later in the morning we got a text from Philippe and Suzanne to say they were in Bida a few miles ahead of us. Our mobile phone has been a great asset thus far in Africa; we have found that in every country we have passed through, with the exception of Mauritania, there has been reasonable coverage and no problems with connecting to the local network. So we were able to arrange a rendezvous, met them there and as planned began to travel together as a group of 3 vehicles across Nigeria into the Cameroun.
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