Nigeria
Nigeria has a fairly fearsome reputation for kidnappings, car-jackings,
corruption and hassle and many travellers are more wary of transiting
this country than the Congos. A few months ago we were no different,
but by the time we reached the border we’d met so many people that had
enjoyed their time there that we were as excited as ever to be entering
a new country.
Our first day didn’t disappoint. After a protracted exit from Cameroon
at the sleepy border-post (it took them some time to find an ink-pad
that had not dried up) we drove to the Nigerian side and found ourselves
warmly welcomed to the country by Michael and Francis, both wearing
Hawaiian-style tropical shirts. It was great to be able to speak English
again and we were soon chatting to them about the problem of catarrh
during the harmattan and what cards they had sent their wives for ‘Lovers
Day’. They teased Chris a little for forgetting that it was Feb 14th
and asked how he would make it up to me (actually he made a very good
camping-stove-tuna-pasta in the cheap hostel room we stayed in that
night).
And the conversations didn’t stop….Over the next few days we were attacked
by civil servants as we ate lunch, became embroiled in chatter with
Margaret in the bakery, and spent an hour at a time talking to hotel
receptionists. Throughout our trip we’ve found it very difficult to
explain exactly what we are doing but, whilst the concept of a year-out
for pleasure is still very alien to them, the Nigerians we met were
genuinely interested and excited by what we told them.
Maybe the fact that Nigeria is a such a huge and diverse nation had
made them more open. There are thought to be over 140 million people
(that’s makes 1 in every 6 Africans Nigerian!) split into literally
hundreds of tribes and linguistic groups. We had chosen to travel through
the north - which is ostensibly Muslim and dominated by the Hausa people
who are spread far and wide into Niger and northern Ghana/Benin/Togo
- but despite this every town feels very different. In Jos we found
streets where every third building was a church or mission: ‘Church
of Christ in Nigeria (COCIN), ‘God Loves Us Temple’ etc. And when we
visited Yankari National Park, which is more famous for it’s Wikki Warm
Springs than its animal-count, we found hundreds of young people worshipping
at the party-temple whilst we camped in the car park of what looked
like Bedford County Council (suffice to say, not the best park we’ve
been to). And then finally up to Zaria – famed for its traditionally
decorated Sultans Palace and old town of mud-houses.
On the way to Zaria we picked up some diesel, a risky business in Nigeria
where enhancing fuel with kerosene or water is commonplace. Shortly
after pulling out of the station I noticed plumes of black smoke in
my wing mirror and suspected the worse. After about 80 km the car dropped
through one of the many potholes in the road and came back out the other
side sounding different. We limped on into Zaria, found a hotel we could
camp at and went out for a couple of beers for Chris’s birthday eve.
Morning (and Chris’s birthday) came and we checked the car thoroughly.
After deciding that it was maybe just the fuel, which was nearly gone
anyway, we carried on as planned. We visited the palace (very interesting),
got coerced into going to a leather shop (quite expensive) and finally
found somewhere to refill our gas bottle (tea again!) before heading
out of town. Once on the highway, Connie’s newfound throatiness was
suddenly joined by a severe lack of power and the temperature needle
crept ominously up. We pulled over, filled with the fear of having melted
one engine again, and tried to identify what the hell was going on.
The crowds gathered and we realised we had stopped next to some god-forsaken
village on the outskirts of the city. A chap with a red beret pulled
up and offered to come back with a mechanic – ‘the best in town’ - at
this point there was little else we could do so we agreed.
Abdul spent the next couple of hours suggesting this or that, trying
that or this. I mentioned the fact that we might have picked up bad
fuel, which he jumped on straight away, draining our tank into jerries
that were probably sold off later that day to great profit. Connie sounded
better so we paid him and drove 200m down the road to fill up. 1km further
and we knew we had to stop again. Chris walked back to get Abdul whilst
I sat in the car pretending to read and trying to ignore the kids pushing
and pulling at the doors – one even got a whistle out to get my attention!
Chris’s birthday afternoon was then spent watching Abdul pull bits out
of the car, fiddle with them and put them back. Eventually he insisted
the car was ‘fixed’ and made Chris drive back onto the highway where,
as far as I can gather, the conversation went like this: “see, it’s
all OK”, “no it’s not, listen to it. I can’t get it out of low-ratio”,
“it’s OK, you can drive in low-ratio 5th gear”. Suffice to say after
10 mins Chris was back, chucking Abdul out of the passenger door and
gesturing for me to get in. We drove very slowly and noisily back to
the hotel we’d persuaded to let us camp at ‘for one night only’ and
parked up for a second night.
Next day we decided that the best thing to do was to find some ex-pats
and so we took a cab to the poshest hotel in town and went to change
some money. The Hausa money-changer/shop-keeper/finger-in-lots-of-pies
guy was soon on the phone calling the white man in town. Ten minutes
later a cab turned up and Richard unfolded out of the passenger seat;
Chris and I clocked the unkempt hair and cigar before the posh South
London drawl even started. Richard was relatively new to Zaria, having
lived in Lagos previously, but he soon had Chris on the phone to Roger,
a straight-down-the-line Yorkshireman who had been in Zaria for a quarter
of a century. Between them they agreed that there was no-one local to
be trusted with a Land Rover engine but they knew someone in Kaduna,
80km away, that they could get to come up.
Roger, in typical bluff fashion, called Tony a ‘bushman’ because he
came from a very rural part of Nigeria and was very small – he did in
fact look quite like a bushman of the Kalahari a very long way from
home. We watched as he sat perched on the front of the car, legs tucked
between the radiator and the engine, and meticulously took it all apart
and put it back together again (broken timing belt tensioner and subsequent
hot engine which bent the tappets). After three days she was running
again and we gave Tony and his cousin a lift back to Kaduna with the
dual purpose of running the engine in whilst he was still around. Tony
and his extended family lived in a small concrete building at the back
of their unfenced yard, the kids playing in the oil and discarded car
parts. Tony was full of energy and didn’t stop checking the car – telling
us we should change the brake pads soon and fiddling with the idling
speed until we were happy with the sound. He seemed nervous about giving
us the bill and when he finally passed us the scrap of paper we saw
he had listed the parts prices but left a blank for labour. “Whatever
you think,” he said. Fortunately we’ve had to use plenty of mechanics
in Africa (!!) and so calculated a price that seemed reasonable and
Tony seemed happy. We hope so because he was one of the most competent
and conscientious mechanics we’ve met so far.
We had spent the three days Tony had been fixing the car being treated
royally by the ‘Zarians’ we met. Richard invited us to his for red wine
and a take-away of roasted goat-meat and rice-cakes. Despite having
to finish a presentation for the next day, he opened two not-so-good
bottles after the first decent bottle and we settled into fascinating
conversation about Nigeria and London. Richard is quite a character
with some great stories to tell and we are looking forward to seeing
him in London when we return. Slightly hungover, we’d then been taken
out to a local bar by Rogers’s driver, Alex, and his girlfriend. Alex
is originally Ghanaian and so had a different slant again on present-day
Nigeria but it’s amazing how engaged everyone is in the politics even
if they are resigned to the corruption. Finally, Roger and Richard let
us join them for their regular Sunday night drink at the golf-club bar
whilst a American Baptist preacher whipped a huge crowd up into a frenzy
on the polo field next door. Bizarre.
And so finally we managed to tear ourselves away from the almost embarrassingly
helpful and hospitable locals of Zaria and drive to Kano, where we treated
ourselves to one of the best Indian meals Dean unexpectedly joined us
- our Aussie cyclist friend from Cameroon had caught us up! Obviously
this warranted more beer but Kano is a Sharia city (strict Islamic law)
and alcohol is served only in expensive hotels. Roger had told us about
the ‘Kano Club’, a members only sports club where the beer was cheap
and so we all marched down and talked our way in. After a couple of
rounds a retired civil servant joined us, and after a couple more rounds
he asked if we’d like to play darts. Great. He led us into the darts
room, filled with the club teams practicing for an upcoming match. One
lady let us borrow her arrows and we were joined by ‘Mr G – G is for
gambler’ for a couple of games. We managed to avoid his heavy-handed
hints for a bet but did have to put in to their fundraiser, each donation
met by a ‘Whaaaay, hup, hup, hup’ chant, the likes of which I’ve only
ever heard in films depicting 1930s public schools. It’s strange the
places you find colonial influences. At the end of this long, boozy
night, we left the club to walk the 100m back to the campsite but were
instead commandeered into a completely knackered old saloon car by a
Russian Ivana-Trump-style lady and her son. I swear it would have been
quicker to walk.
We had been wary about Nigeria and only visited a very small part of
it. Despite the terrible infrastructure (constant water and electricity
cuts and bad roads) it was the most fun we have had in a country, we
met some really lovely people we hope to stay in touch with, and the
food is excellent (spicy fried rice & chicken – yum). Another country
to add to the ‘must go back to’ list, next time Lagos and the south!
Photos
Palace guard - Zaria
Leather shop -
Zaria
Abdul stealing our
fuel
Another melted engine
head
Tony and son
Chris and Alex
