World Wildlife Fund
Sunday 27 March 2011
Nigeria, cycling not permitted.
“Here’s what you’ll do. Take the bus from here to Lagos, then another bus to Calabar. Get your Cameroon visa from the consulate there, then you take the ferry to Limbe in Cameroon, do you understand me?”
These were the words from the Nigerian consular in Cotonue, spoken to me in a loud, firm, aggressive tone, indicating his way or no-way. I tried to explain the aim of my trip to him; cycling from UK to South Africa without using any form of motorised vehicle, but he explained his only concern was my safety and cycling on my own was not safe. He asked me to write down, and sign, what he had told me, as conformation that it was clear what I had to do and then to return for the visa later.
Having applied for a 21 days I thought once I would simply cycle through Nigeria all the same, but he was one step ahead of me. Returning at 4pm I was handed back my passport with the new visa…only with 7 days granted. There was no way I could cycle it in 7 days, no way, especially as the day it was issued counted as the first day. I felt like the tour had just hit a brick wall, like the bike had two flat tyres and buckled wheels. My tour would now lie in the hands of coach drivers, unsure of where I’d be and exactly what route I’d be going I felt cornered and powerless to do anything about it. I felt like going to the nearest airport and flying home, just leaving the bike there and flying home. My picture-puzzle would be missing a piece, Nigeria. Any momentum to continue ceased. With no incentive to carry on I just plodded around on auto-pilot. Taking a moto-taxi to the coach station I bought a ticket, explaining I also had a bicycle to take. The coach was due to leave the next day, Friday 18th March at 3pm.
The next day I arrived at 2:30pm. With still no coach at 3:15pm I asked if things were ok, then I was told it arrives between 3 and 5pm…of course, how silly of me to forget, I was in Africa. When it finally turned up at 5:15pm I was told I had to pay another 5000 CFA (£6.00) for the man on the coach who deals with everyone’s passports with the border officials, oh and another 5000CFA for the bicycle.
On arriving at the Benin / Nigerian border I still had to exit the coach to see the border official to be stamped out of Benin, then walk to the Nigerian official. This was interesting. He said as I had not obtained my visa in London that it was not valid. I knew his game, welcome to Nigeria, the land of corruption. After explaining my situation he said that for $200 I could enter! Now panic set in. The coach, which I could just see from his window, had crept forward, just passed the Nigerian gate. The coach with 50+ black people, and all my belongings, heading for Lagos, just waiting for the white man, me. The corrupt little bastard just sat there in his chair, copying my facial expressions of dismay, knowing he had me cornered, the only choice I had was to make a reasonable offer of a bribe, he accepted the 30,000 CFA (£36.00) and then stamped the passport. Had I have been cycling there would be no bribe as I would have had time to deal with it appropriately, but again, matters were out of my hands and control. The coach journey was a start-stop affair, police check-points every few km, with raised eye-brows each time they boarded and saw me, the white man.
I was worried about arriving in Lagos so late. Finding a room for the night would be far from fun but a lady on the coach, who worked for the company, said the coach station had accommodation. To ensure I stayed at the coach station a security guard escorted me around and showed me the accommodation, a room with several couches and people laying on them, not quite what I had in mind. Then he said there was a room with two beds in I could use, one of the beds already being taken but I could use the other bed, preferring my own room I noticed there was a hotel next door but told it was too dangerous for me to go there, even with the security guy, so a shared room in a noisy coach station it was.
Back-tracking to the Cameroon consulate. Here the atmosphere was relaxed. The consular was so delighted to see Marvin again he gave us his can of coke to share. Application was a laid back affair, writing a brief letter of why I wanted to visit his country. Collection being made a few hours later, the passport now stamped with a 90 day entry.
I still had concerns over the bike. Marvin gave some much needed reassurance to the tour, he new I was stressed and reaching the end of my tether so having talking to him proved much needed, he certainly helped getting me back-on-track, although this whirlwind of chaos was still not over.
Returning to the coach/cargo depot the next morning the bike had still not arrived so I called Richard - the chap at the Lagos depot. He called the delivery truck driver to see where it was, calling back he said it will definitely be there in the evening, regardless of what we were being told by the stubborn chap at the depot here. With time on our hands we headed to the city’s botanical garden for an afternoon of greenery, shade and relaxing, something I definitely needed to do.
Returning later to the cargo depot, a smiling assistant happily informed me my bike had arrived and to take a seat and wait. Ten minutes later Yellow-7’s wheeled out I’m a take a sigh of relief. Ripping the packing from the saddle, handlebars, front and rear racks I cycle back to the guest house…about the only cycling I managed to achieve in Nigeria.
I still felt like I was in a long tunnel but starting to see a glimmer of hope at the end, the only obstacle now was the ferry to Limbe.
Marvin had previously found the port terminal (a loosely used word) so the hard work had been done. With the ferry departing at 6:00am...or thereabouts, we decided to sleep the night there, in the ‘departure lounge’ (a goods in/ goods-out parcel room). Marvin took a taxi there and I rode the bike, this improved my Nigerian mileage to about 5 miles! Half way to the port the skies opened and it rained, claps of thunder and lightening,
I felt like this was a last attempt of punishment by the powers that be for succeeding to get this far and not stalling at their hurdles, almost like an angry show of failure from their side at my persistence. Minutes later I’m at the port, a local man informs me “ey, your bruva is inside”. We go to desk to check-in. One more hurdle from above, the ferry has broken down and the next one will depart same time but Thursday morning!! Taking a deep breath and big sigh I laugh, one more hurdle, surely the last one.
This now turned out to be worse for Marvin as his visa expired the following day. Returning to the port at 10:00 am he explained the situation to the immigration officer, whom was actually quite understanding and said this would not be a problem, no bribes required, nothing…..was I still in Nigeria?!
Wednesday evening eventually turns up and once again we make our way to the groggy port. It was chaos, sacks and boxes piled high in the ‘departure lounge’, people trying to find places to sit down and rest for the night. I’m now told I have to pay additional for my bike, an expected ‘extra’ but I manage to barter the price down to 12000 CFA. When the boat starts boarding in the morning the madness re-commences, go here, go there, do this, do that. The ferry resembled a River Thames day trip boat, hardly a boat you’d expect to take 200 passengers and excess cargo. Were told to go the hull section, where the ‘first class’ seating was. Four dirty port holes on either side with water sloshing up and down the glass, this is the sort of boat disaster you here on the BBC news. I felt claustrophobic and concerned for my life. Life-jacket count, zero. Life-boat count, zero. Faith, zero. As the boat pulls off a prayer commences, this continues for ten minutes, turning into a gospel style ‘Lordee Lordee’ session of shouting and screeching. Marvin walked out but I thought best I stay and blend in...who was I kidding!
The hotel / campsite turned out to be some good medecine. A grass patch to pitch the tent perched 20ft above the sea with a bay view, swimming pool, value for money bar/restaurant, good wifi connection, all for 5000 CFA / night. The jewel-in-the-crown was meeting Frederick, he was from South Africa. It seemed quite strange that I had met Marvin, whom was from Germany, Frederick’s destination, and whom came from Cape Town, my destination, a rather coincidental gathering of three travellers. We exchanged stories and routes, and where best to get visas. The best swap for me was the Lonely Planet guide book. Frederick’s covered all the African countries, whereas mine was just for West Africa and ‘expired’ here in Cameroon. Realising this he said we may as well swap books. So now I have country specific info all the way to South Africa. Reading some pleasing news this morning (Sunday 27th) that I do not need visas for Namibia or South Africa!
These were the words from the Nigerian consular in Cotonue, spoken to me in a loud, firm, aggressive tone, indicating his way or no-way. I tried to explain the aim of my trip to him; cycling from UK to South Africa without using any form of motorised vehicle, but he explained his only concern was my safety and cycling on my own was not safe. He asked me to write down, and sign, what he had told me, as conformation that it was clear what I had to do and then to return for the visa later.
Having applied for a 21 days I thought once I would simply cycle through Nigeria all the same, but he was one step ahead of me. Returning at 4pm I was handed back my passport with the new visa…only with 7 days granted. There was no way I could cycle it in 7 days, no way, especially as the day it was issued counted as the first day. I felt like the tour had just hit a brick wall, like the bike had two flat tyres and buckled wheels. My tour would now lie in the hands of coach drivers, unsure of where I’d be and exactly what route I’d be going I felt cornered and powerless to do anything about it. I felt like going to the nearest airport and flying home, just leaving the bike there and flying home. My picture-puzzle would be missing a piece, Nigeria. Any momentum to continue ceased. With no incentive to carry on I just plodded around on auto-pilot. Taking a moto-taxi to the coach station I bought a ticket, explaining I also had a bicycle to take. The coach was due to leave the next day, Friday 18th March at 3pm.
The next day I arrived at 2:30pm. With still no coach at 3:15pm I asked if things were ok, then I was told it arrives between 3 and 5pm…of course, how silly of me to forget, I was in Africa. When it finally turned up at 5:15pm I was told I had to pay another 5000 CFA (£6.00) for the man on the coach who deals with everyone’s passports with the border officials, oh and another 5000CFA for the bicycle.
On arriving at the Benin / Nigerian border I still had to exit the coach to see the border official to be stamped out of Benin, then walk to the Nigerian official. This was interesting. He said as I had not obtained my visa in London that it was not valid. I knew his game, welcome to Nigeria, the land of corruption. After explaining my situation he said that for $200 I could enter! Now panic set in. The coach, which I could just see from his window, had crept forward, just passed the Nigerian gate. The coach with 50+ black people, and all my belongings, heading for Lagos, just waiting for the white man, me. The corrupt little bastard just sat there in his chair, copying my facial expressions of dismay, knowing he had me cornered, the only choice I had was to make a reasonable offer of a bribe, he accepted the 30,000 CFA (£36.00) and then stamped the passport. Had I have been cycling there would be no bribe as I would have had time to deal with it appropriately, but again, matters were out of my hands and control. The coach journey was a start-stop affair, police check-points every few km, with raised eye-brows each time they boarded and saw me, the white man.
I was worried about arriving in Lagos so late. Finding a room for the night would be far from fun but a lady on the coach, who worked for the company, said the coach station had accommodation. To ensure I stayed at the coach station a security guard escorted me around and showed me the accommodation, a room with several couches and people laying on them, not quite what I had in mind. Then he said there was a room with two beds in I could use, one of the beds already being taken but I could use the other bed, preferring my own room I noticed there was a hotel next door but told it was too dangerous for me to go there, even with the security guy, so a shared room in a noisy coach station it was.
The minibus to Calabar departed at 6:00am the next day, but from another coach station. Being too small to carry bicycles meant this had to be sent separately, luckily the coach company also doubled as a cargo company so organising this wasn’t too much hassle, but just caused worry as to how well it would be handled, and also meant I wouldn’t leave Lagos until the following day, Sunday morning, for the 400 mile journey. Richard, the husband of the lady I met on the coach the night before also worked for the coach company and was only too glad to help organise the bike’s logistics, at a reduced price. This was expected to arrive in Calabar 12 hours after me, on the Monday morning, with the 7 day visa on countdown there was little room for delays. Later Richard took me on his motorbike to find a suitable (Visa) ATM for some Nigerian currency, and in the evening escorted me to Lagos / Calabar coach station on a coach with many other colleagues that had to go there. He said what he had done was no great deal but for me it was exactly the sort of help and brief friendship I needed in a chaotic city like Lagos. With no accommodation here I slept on the waiting room seats until the early hours for the 6:00am departure…or thereabouts.
The journey to Calabar was another start-stop affair with police road-blocks every few kilometres. The main reason for the road-blocks is to supplement their income as all vehicles have to pay a 20 Naira (8 pence) fee. With Nigeria being extremely religious the journey started with a prayer, followed by 1 ½ hours of sermons via CD’s, just what I needed at 6:30 in the morning after a sleep deprived night. The only thing I was praying was that the bike would arrive and I would exit Nigeria on time, before the visa expired.
At 4:00pm the minibus finally arrives in Calabar. A relatively relaxed city…. but after seeing Lagos even London would appear to be a relaxed city. Using my guide book I found the cheapest guest house in town.
Waking the following day I had concerns as to weather I could actually obtain the Cameroon visa here, maybe a touch of paranoia creeping in, things surely couldn’t get any worse. Luckily walking out the front door I met Marvin. A German student here for university study and tourism. Marvin had received his Cameroon visa a few days before so new exactly where the consulate was, informing me the consular was a friendly person and visas are issued the same day. We first walked to the coach/cargo depot to see if the bike had arrive, no luck. We were told it would arrive in 2 days time! More worry, more concern, more stress. I said to Marvin if this carries on I’d just get the Cameroon visa and bus to the capital and fly home, without the bike. The last country I wanted to be in with an expired visa waiting for my bike was Nigeria, officials could simply name their price, being the ball in their game of football was something I didn’t want.
Back-tracking to the Cameroon consulate. Here the atmosphere was relaxed. The consular was so delighted to see Marvin again he gave us his can of coke to share. Application was a laid back affair, writing a brief letter of why I wanted to visit his country. Collection being made a few hours later, the passport now stamped with a 90 day entry.
I still had concerns over the bike. Marvin gave some much needed reassurance to the tour, he new I was stressed and reaching the end of my tether so having talking to him proved much needed, he certainly helped getting me back-on-track, although this whirlwind of chaos was still not over.
Returning to the coach/cargo depot the next morning the bike had still not arrived so I called Richard - the chap at the Lagos depot. He called the delivery truck driver to see where it was, calling back he said it will definitely be there in the evening, regardless of what we were being told by the stubborn chap at the depot here. With time on our hands we headed to the city’s botanical garden for an afternoon of greenery, shade and relaxing, something I definitely needed to do.
Returning later to the cargo depot, a smiling assistant happily informed me my bike had arrived and to take a seat and wait. Ten minutes later Yellow-7’s wheeled out I’m a take a sigh of relief. Ripping the packing from the saddle, handlebars, front and rear racks I cycle back to the guest house…about the only cycling I managed to achieve in Nigeria.
I still felt like I was in a long tunnel but starting to see a glimmer of hope at the end, the only obstacle now was the ferry to Limbe.
Marvin had previously found the port terminal (a loosely used word) so the hard work had been done. With the ferry departing at 6:00am...or thereabouts, we decided to sleep the night there, in the ‘departure lounge’ (a goods in/ goods-out parcel room). Marvin took a taxi there and I rode the bike, this improved my Nigerian mileage to about 5 miles! Half way to the port the skies opened and it rained, claps of thunder and lightening,
I felt like this was a last attempt of punishment by the powers that be for succeeding to get this far and not stalling at their hurdles, almost like an angry show of failure from their side at my persistence. Minutes later I’m at the port, a local man informs me “ey, your bruva is inside”. We go to desk to check-in. One more hurdle from above, the ferry has broken down and the next one will depart same time but Thursday morning!! Taking a deep breath and big sigh I laugh, one more hurdle, surely the last one.
This now turned out to be worse for Marvin as his visa expired the following day. Returning to the port at 10:00 am he explained the situation to the immigration officer, whom was actually quite understanding and said this would not be a problem, no bribes required, nothing…..was I still in Nigeria?!
Wednesday evening eventually turns up and once again we make our way to the groggy port. It was chaos, sacks and boxes piled high in the ‘departure lounge’, people trying to find places to sit down and rest for the night. I’m now told I have to pay additional for my bike, an expected ‘extra’ but I manage to barter the price down to 12000 CFA. When the boat starts boarding in the morning the madness re-commences, go here, go there, do this, do that. The ferry resembled a River Thames day trip boat, hardly a boat you’d expect to take 200 passengers and excess cargo. Were told to go the hull section, where the ‘first class’ seating was. Four dirty port holes on either side with water sloshing up and down the glass, this is the sort of boat disaster you here on the BBC news. I felt claustrophobic and concerned for my life. Life-jacket count, zero. Life-boat count, zero. Faith, zero. As the boat pulls off a prayer commences, this continues for ten minutes, turning into a gospel style ‘Lordee Lordee’ session of shouting and screeching. Marvin walked out but I thought best I stay and blend in...who was I kidding!
Six hours later the boat draws closer to Mount Cameroon, something I had been looking forward to seeing. I had almost set this is a turning point of my tour, marking the end of west Africa and the start of southern Africa, so to be passing in a boat, on the ‘wrong’ side of the mountain didn’t quite seem what I had In mind. An hour later and were at the port, where the expected chaotic madness of pushing and shouting commences.
It was like being pushed through the final part of this long funnel that I’d been in, once cleared by the friendly customs officer I opened my arms and greeted the lush green country of Cameroon with a big smile, and huge sigh of relief the past seven days were over.
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I keep reading these in the wrong order!!!!
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