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139.
Several men are resting beside the road in the shade of a shelter they have built of branches.
I ask in gestures if I could join them and they kindly make room for me. One of the men even sends a child into the village and the kid returns soon with a pillow for me! I close my eyes and sleep peacefully surrpumded by these men for the rest of the day.
I wake in the late afternoon, thank my benefactors and hike off. I walk until I can no longer lift my feet then pause for a solitary meal of bread and sardines sitting beside the vacant road.
Good heavens! Here comes a big truck going my way!
It’s the first vehicle I have seen moving since crossing the last border. The laughing driver stops at my frantic waving and, with his buddies from the cab, helps me clamber into the huge empty dump-bed. For me it’s as good as a Rolls Royce limo! I am pitched around the steel bed like a loose pebble as the driver navigates the ruts but we soon arrive at a bridgeless broad brown river--the end of the road. The trucker refuses to be paid! (Hooray!)
Dozens of empty canoes line the shore and clamoring boatmen wanting to ferry the tourist of the day across besiege me but the biggest and meanest puts me into the boat of his choice and in a few moments I am poled across the water.
Alerted by the commotion on the farther shore, a policeman is waiting on the river bank to greet me, confiscate my passport and welcome me to Chad.
...
138.
Nightfall.
I am alone on the road. My clothes and body are filthy. I bathe in a shallow, warm rain puddle.
A bull wanders over to check me out. I guess I am OK since he wanders off again.
I continue down the road passing villages of half a dozen huts with radios blaring. Between the villages the frogs are loud.
I lay down in the empty road to rest but the roaring sound of thousands of mosquitoes swarming close to the ground scares me back onto my feet to continue pacing. I walk until moonset.
There is plenty of starlight to continue but I am too weary.
I cover myself with my plastic poncho sheet but it is so hot I must leave my head exposed with one exposed arm beating off the mosquitoes. A dog trots by snarling, but does not investigate more closely. Some smaller creature scurries across the plastic sheet. Exhausted, I sleep.
Dawn: the blisters on my feet and back have burst.
I stop at the first village I come to and ask with gestures for water. A woman brings a small pail full while some men gather to watch me as I boil water on my little gas stove and prepare tea.
The village bully soon arrives. He looks at my open backpack and gestures for a gift from me. Then he grabs a package of dry macaroni from my pack. I tell him in gestures that I can’t spare anything since I have no idea how long I will be walking. I put my tea things away and get ready to fight for the food. He is about my size but looks strong and in top condition. I will undoubtedly lose a fight with him but I believe I must keep the few provisions I have if I am going to live through this miserable passage. To my great relief the other villagers convince him to return the package.
I pick up my pack and march off feeling kind of jittery. If he follows me into the desert I may die fighting for a stupid package of noodles. Luckily no one follows me. ...
137.
The road is bordered by flat land and shallow swamp from all the recent rain.
Nothing moves.
Grey heron-like birds and little red and black birds sit on roadside shrubs gazing at me as I pass.
When the sun is high I flop under a scrawny tree reading another of Robin’s books: “The Beautiful Ones Are Not Yet Born”, a story about an honest man trying to make a living in Ghana, a country where everything runs on bribery and corruption.
His wife and children suffer and his mother-in-law cries that he is less than a man because he doesn’t know how to “play the game of life”.
There it is again.
Sometimes the rules we are taught to live by seem only fairy tales whereas real life is a game of brute strength, bribery and murder; but then some angel on horseback comes along with the gift of life--a smile and some kindness…
I walk all afternoon. It's very hot. The road seems drier....
136.
Cameroon Border: I sleep fourteen hours in the mud room of a “hotel” and wake a bit stiff. There are no banks here but the owner of the little “hotel” I am staying in wants thirty US dollars to send to the Malta National Lottery so he exchanges some money for me.
This hotel owner is an “Ibo” which is some kind of tribesman. He says he and his family, two wives and six children, were hunted through the bush where they had to live “like monkeys” in Niger. Eleven months ago he crossed the border into Cameroon and invested his life’s savings in this miserable hotel but the title was not clear and he expects to lose “everything” shortly. He considers a win in the Malta National Lottery his last hope.
Walking out to find a market to buy something to eat, I meet a young man who offers to help me. He speaks some English and says his name is Tom. He says he hates Frenchmen because they sleep with black women and then beat them instead of giving them money.
He likes Americans because they are generous. This particular American is unfortunately too poor to be very generous but he says its OK because he just wants to practice his English anyway. Tom’s brother, who lives in Lagos, is a general and is famous for killing Ibos. The roads east are closed from flooding and it is almost seventy miles to Fort Lamy, Chad. I don't want to stay here so I guess I’ll walk it.
I buy some canned sardines, bread and canned milk and set out before dawn....
136.
Speaking halting French, my benefactor says his name is Azarak Byriam and he is from Miriam, Cameroon.
He wishes me a good day and rides away.
In a daze, I drink the milk and eat the food, and soon feel marvelously refreshed.
I have just finished the snack when a Land Rover pulls up going my way. Would I like a lift to the border? No payment. For free.
Saved in the very nick of time by these two miraculous occurrences, I accept the ride but am damn near overcome with emotion.
I ride into the border town, gulp three bottlers of orange soda pop and walk across the border. I am two days late on my transit visa but am the first person to cross in the weeks since the floods closed the roads west. The understanding border police let me cross with no argument. ...
134.
My guides roll out a mat for me to sleep on and I lie peacefully on my back watching the stars.
A woman who lives in the village knows my guides and offers us a room to sleep in—on the sandy floor of her mud house--so we move inside, but there are more mosquitoes indoors out of the faint breeze. Repellent does not deter these insects! My sleeping bag is too hot to sleep in so I roll and slap out of cover all night long.
We are up and ready to move before dawn. I fix more tea for we three travellers and we’re off!
Here’s a village where the women go topless and wear a fringe of braided hair on their heads. We look each other over with curiosity.
Onward!
These two walkers never slow down. Only nineteen kilometers to go; I hike nine with the sun getting hotter and hotter and I see no other humans on the road—no vehicles either—nothing.
My fellow travellers are waiting for me in the middle of a new concrete bridge.
Blisters on my back and both feet are slowing me down. I gather a bottle of chalky water from the swamp under the short bridge, boil the daylights out of it, make tea and share it with my good-humoured buddies.
They soon hike off again at their usual break-neck pace calling back encouragement to me, but now I am definitely slowing down.
I pass kilometer posts marking the distance to the border—seven, six, five…everyone is out of sight again.
I crash on my back against kilometer post four-- too exhausted to even unbuckle my pack.
I close my eyes There is a noise. I open my eyes.
A black Arab in white robe and turban, riding a spotted horse has reined it to a halt in front—almost over me. He has a rifle in a scabbard and a neat moustache. We stare at each other for a time. Then he dismounts and rummages in his saddlebags. He produces a small can of condensed milk, two small loaves of bread and a handful of doughnut-like cookies and gestures for me to take them as a cadeau. ...
133.
While I wait in the shade, the chief of the village walks by accompanied by a few dignified men dressed in long white robes. Their party is going to a small river nearby to bathe. When they find I plan to walk after dark the chief strongly advises me not to do it since wild animals and bandits make the road far too dangerous. As we discuss this, two merry men approach walking in the direction of the border. The chief discusses my problem with them and they agree to allow me to accompany them since they are walking to the border too. The chief says he vouches for the honesty of the two and since there is nothing else offered I go with them.I have called these men “merry” and they do seem to really enjoy themselves and having me along as a kind of “mascot”. Like me, they know a few words of French, and they cheerfully encourage me to keep up but they do set a blazing pace. I start carrying my backpack on my head the way they carry their rolled-up parcels and it seems to make walking somehow easier, maybe because the spine is not constantly bent under the weight. I soon almost master the knack of balancing the load. Nightfall—no rest. My companions insist that I use their flashlight though I don’t really need it since there is plenty of starlight. About ten pm we stop at a village where my guides are known. I can buy gas for my stove here and I boil up some sweet tea for all of us.
A few stranded truckers sit around campfires talking quietly and listening to their favorite African music on portable radios. ...
132.
Dawn: the driver tells me in sign language that the transmission is broken. This is the end of the ride. I try to find out how far it is to the border and believe he “says” five miles—but we have serious difficulty communicating. The rest of the passengers seem very glum but I think I can backpack to the border by noon so I shoulder my big red friend (my backpack) and start hiking. Those remaining with the Rover give a cheer for the brave American and I wave a jaunty goodbye. The land is flat. I walk all morning and see nothing. I meet another walker in the afternoon who gestures that the next village is perhaps five kilometers further but the border is another 35 kilometers beyond that. Now I see why the other passengers cheered the foolhardy American.Anyway, there is no lack of water out here now! The muddy road is flanked by acres of marshy infusion, the murky African savannah “glowing with menace” where ape’s long metamorphosis into man began according to the book “African Genesis”; but one swallow of this primeval broth would no doubt send my highly evolved body to the hospital and there are no hospitals out here!I build a campfire of dry twigs and boil some water to drink—there is no gasoline for my little stove. Black men wearing robes pass, stop, stare, salute and laugh! I laugh right back. This is such an odd place for a person like me to be that I fully appreciate the humor of the situation!In spite of the heat I pull on double wool socks to protect my feet and trudge on. In the evening, I decide to walk as far as I can in the hours of darkness since the daytime is terribly hot. Here is a long row of mired trucks leading up to a small mud and thatch village. Some soldiers I find in the village bar tell me that the road has been closed for eight days and no amount of money can buy a ride to the border. Looks like my transit visa will be expired. At the edge of the village I make a rest pause under a tree. I am reading a rather petulant criticism of The United States called “America, Their America” by J. P. Clark. This black African writes of being wined and dined by America’s elite in Washington D.C.. which bores and angers him. It is an ironic book for me to be reading right now! The angel of Maiduguri gave it to me....
131.
A “land shark” sells me a seat to the border of Cameroon in a nice Land Rover. The road is closed, he admits, but assures me that the Land Rover will make it. I think it probably will and climb in with three woman in white saris, four men in white robes and turbans and the usual piles of luggage—but no live chickens underfoot this time!We’re off! The road is a morass of ruts and churned mud. Sliding and sloshing, we make it out of town. On the outskirts of Maiduguri and for the first few miles of the trip, dozens of trucks and busses stand beside the road stuck in the mire. Some seem to have been here for days and the passengers have set up housekeeping alongside the vehicles. The Land Rover crawls a few more miles and then falls into an unusually deep water filled ditch. There is a sickening thump and the Rover also comes to a halt. We are stuck in mid-savanna—a flat, marshy plain.
Skinny frogs with round red-gold eyes and lime green racing stripes hop all around. There are flies here too; gad zillions of them! (Two sit on the back of my hand as I write this!)
At sunset I roll up in my plastic sheet and spend the night slapping mosquitoes, which appear in starved hordes when the flies go to sleep. I slop on my insect repellent but it’s sauce to them and they banquet on. The stars shimmer. The Milky Way is close—our lovely galaxy showing us her edge....
130.
Angel of Maiduguri
One of the VSO’s I met in Niger gave me the address of one of her girl friends, Ann, who is a teacher at a women’s college in this town. After a long backpacking search in the dark I find a house I think is hers. The Canadian girl who opens the door greets me with an open radiant beautiful smile: “Ann’s gone for the summer. Come on in. Spend the night. Stay as long as you like. Would you like a hot bath and something to eat?”This rescuing angel is Robin and, Robin, if you ever read this and recognizes yourself, I would like you to know that you were the most beautiful and kindliest person I had met in a long time. I hope someone is as good to you someday as you were to this tired, hungry, dirty traveler!Hot water flowing from a stainless steel tap fills the clean porcelain tub. I look in the mirror: good grief! There must be a human being under all that grime! I am surprised this unusual girl even let me in! I spend an hour bathing and getting presentable.When I return to Robin’s living room she introduces me to another guest that arrived while I bathed, a young Nigerian man. The three of us sip tea, listen to Bob Dylan tapes and talk about the females attending this school whose highest ambition is to become the first wife of a rich man or if that does not work out, to be the second wife of an even richer man!It is a lovely, quiet evening and when I retire to the guest bedroom it is to sleep between pink sheets protected by a pink mosquito net. Oh, my!Robin would sincerely like me to stay and I could sure use some rest time, but I am worried about the border guards. I have only a three-day transit visa for Nigeria and I sure don’t want to see the inside of a Nigerian jail!Robin warns me about the roads east. She has heard that they have been flooded by rain and are impassable but next morning after fixing me a grand breakfast she takes me to the lorry park across town on her Honda motorbike and wishes me a “bon voyage”.Thanks and good fortune be yours always, Angel of Maiduguri!...
129.
The bus makes a noonday rest stop at what might be named “Destitutionburg”. In a sort of mud store near where the bus stops I buy five shillings worth of peanuts in the shell.
It turns out to be quite a few peanuts, so I start handing some out to the dozen or so beggars that always follow me around. My gift causes a free-for-all mini riot and I claw my way back into back into the bus very shaken and with no peanuts!We make another rest pause in the next village but there is nothing at all to buy to eat but some hard-boiled eggs.
I am so hungry I buy five.
To get some food into myself and to avoid a riot, I’m peeling the shells off inside the bus and tossing the shells out the window when I hear a commotion. I look out and down to see fifteen or so children of all sizes fighting for the eggshells—hoping I have left some egg stuck on them for them to eat.
Just as I look out the window--one of these kids looks up to see if I will toss some more. There is a momentary him-to-me, face-to-face eye contact.
The child has one monster eyeball the size of a baseball and the other eye as small as a kid's toy marble.
This really freaks me out....
128.
Kano, Nigeria: It’s dark again when we arrive here and it has been raining hard.. The truck depot where I dismount is knee deep in mud.
A drunk in army uniform offers to guide me to a hotel.
Two hours and five miles later, when he is sure I have no local currency with which to buy him a beer, he leaves me on a street corner. Our long hike sobered him up and tired me out but I am able to hike back to the “lorry park” where the adventure started.
The night watchman lets me sleep free on the concrete floor of the gas station/ office where I sleep like a baby, dreaming of attending a high society ball with beautiful women and stimulating conversation.
At daybreak I find a man who will change money--find where I can catch a bus to my next destination, Maiduguri--help some beggars a little--and buy and eat a half-pound of fresh dates.
I am still reading Chinua Achebe’s book. His practical advice for today is: “A traveler to distant places should make no enemies”. That’s for sure!...
