My phone wasn’t fully charged in the morning. First I thought that my New Age cable is already broken, then I realized the power was off at night. At about 6:30am someone knocked at the door. Took me a while to realise that the person was knocking at my door, after all I was in a two-room vip suite. Surprise, it was a bucket of hot water to wash. Wow. Vip indeed.
15 minutes later another knock at the door. I opened and it was… Abdoulaye. The man with whom I talked first about going to Cameroon. The man who wouldn’t lower the price of the trip. The man whom I told I’d be looking around for better price. The man I told I’d call him but I didn’t. Network was mostly off the previous day or when it was on I couldn’t make any call out, and then I just assumed the thing was cancelled. But Abdoulaye came ready to go to Cameroon. Oh. I told him how things were and he was visibly unhappy. He said he’d called me the previous day when he had someone looking for bike to Cameroon but I hadn’t picked up. I saw no missed call! He showed me that he’d called me, I brought my phone… and there it was, a missed call from Abodulaye, about the same time I was talking to my other bike rider. Shit. I could understand him, losing 13k naira income while a shirt ride in town is N100. But what could I do? I tried to explain that since he didn’t want to come down on the price and I told him I’d look for better price and that I didn’t call him, the deal was off. He wasn’t taking it easy. He even asked me for “something” but what could I do?
I went out and sat for nescafé, there was a cafeteria across the street. I took three sachets. The man had no food. He first poured tea to the mug. I told him I need water. He poured cold water. I told him I need hot water. He boiled a cup for me. It takes a Polish to know how to make coffee.
I went to change the money. In the shop we even chatted about this strange exchange rate that doesn’t fit anything but the men said that that’s how it is here. Good for me. Alhaji didn’t want the $50 bill, it was too small denomination for him. He also only took the new (the one with security stripes) $100 bill and I only had one on me, the other two were “old.”, i.e. 2003.
So being tempted by the good rate I went back to guesthouse, took the last two new $100 bills. I’ll suffer in Kinshasa with the old ones. But it’s żądza pieniądza.
In the meantime 8 o’clock passed and my bike driver wasn’t around. I called him, he said he knocked at my door and there wasn’t anyone, he was outside.
I went out, he was there. We went first to change my extra dollars. The man in the shop got even a bit suspicious that I came back and with new ones. A white man flaunting the money around, let’s hope he won’t tip any armed robber. Ah but which armed robber would go into these mountains?
From the shop we drove to immigration to stamp my passport out. The buildings were out of town, there was even some local checkpoint – a man keeping a rope across the road and lowering down for vehicles and bikes to pass. We rode through a forest and at one point someone shouted at us “stop, stop” but the driver kept going.
The immigration buildings were empty but finally someone came out. He stamped my passport, the driver told him which “road” we were taking to Cameroon, the man wrote down my details on piece of paper saying that he’d put them later into the official book.
We came back to town, using different route, I assumed to avoid the men shouting “stop.” The driver – his name was Dauda – asked for 30mins, the family called him and he had to go “give them some money.” Fine.
He came back soon, attached my big rucksack on the back of his bike – when he first saw it he said he was afraid of the weight of the load – but my small backpack in front of himself and I sat behind me, it was tight but in the end the tightness was good on the crazy road we were taking.
The crazy road started even as we were in town. It very soon became no more than a bushpath, narrow and bumpy.
These are mountains so we were going up and down on some very steep roads. With us there were many other bikes carrying sometimes incredible amount of load.
Going down I appreciate the lack of space on the bike as I wasn’t sliding down the seat. Going up I appreciated tightly attached backpack supporting my back. I preferred going up.
In town while we were going to immigration we climbed some steep streets and the bike was barely going forward. Here in the bush, on much steeper and difficult paths the bike was going strong. I asked Dauda about it and he admitted he has a thing installed that adds power to the machine.
The mountains around were gentle and green. The thing I was scared of most were tiny bridges, often made of a single wooden board. I told Dauda I can get off but he kept going steady.
We met out first river crossing. There was a pirogue. N100. I asked Dauda to pay because my wallet was hidden in the small backpack. The piroguer was trying to get a higher price from the other bike that was with us.
Some time later another river crossing. Literally a few meters wide, in the water stood an old man with one hand crippled and he moved the pirogue with his one hand to the other riverbank. I moved away from the sandy bank and I waved at him and in response he made a gesture that said I should give him “something.”
The third river crossing we just crossed riding.
The landscape was pretty, the mountains had no forests, so there were beautiful green views, we passed villages and Fulani cattle herds. Sometimes a local checkpoint was stopping us but Dauda wasn’t having it.
Finally we arrived at the Nigerian immigration checkpoint. The man registered me in the book and demanded N1000 for it. I told him I had no more naira, he said he was also taking cfa. I told him I had no cfa but he insisted that it’s standard that when I get passport stamped in town I have to pay. If I got my passport stamped at that very post I wouldn’t have to pay. The immigration officer in town told me that man doesn’t have a passport stamp. But the man kept insisting, “we are here in the bush, no food”. On the subject of food, we passed fields of cassava, corn and groundnuts, not to mention the endless cattle.
In the end the man said he’d call the immigration in town – he claimed they must have told me I’d need money – and he did make some call and mentioned the N1000 I was supposed to pay but hung up and eventually let me go.
With quite many villages around the terrain would be perfect for treks. Beautiful views, paths everywhere, villages mean food and water are available. Again I thought in many other places such a bike ride would cost much more, with a promise of visit to “authentic villages” and seeing “real life.” In Nigeria it’s cheap and cheerful.
I occasionally had to get off the bike when the road was too bad or a small stream was to be crossed and I walked across on the stones. I had asked the previous day for stops for pictures but I can’t imagine how it would work. There was barely any smooth surface on the road and going constantly up and down Dauda would soon get infuriated with my silly requests. So I was snapping photos while we were riding.
How do you recognise you’re in Cameroon? Your driver makes an unexpected stop on an easy stretch of the road and changes the sim card. I’m glad I’m not the only one that has the priorities right. Also I was grateful for all these little stops when I could come down from the bike as I could stretch my legs. I have quite many weird injuries from the ride. I feel my knees after then being bent forcefully for 5 hours. I was often holding the big backpack behind me and a knuckle on my right thumb is abraded. An internal side of my forearm is chaffed from holding the rough material of the backpack.
In Cameroon we started going down a bit more. We descended about 200m in altitude on a particular steep and stony part of the road. We finally arrived at an immigration post, outside a village of Mbengeji. It was more of a police stop. There was a man there but he told us to wait for the policeman. The day before Dauda told me the stamp costs 2000cfa but I told him to leave it to me. Now he asked me if I speak French I said I did but with the policeman I’m not going to.
The policeman arrived after about 20mins. Young, handsome and friendly, he stamped my passport, registered me on a piece of paper handed me the passport and asked for 3000cfa. I of course refused. Officer I don’t have any CFA, I will get them in Banyo, I don’t have any naira, I spent them in Nigeria. I paid for the visa already. But visa is visa and laissez-passer is laissez-passer. I must pay for the stamp and it’s 3000cfa. I said no. And he wouldn’t discuss with me, he said it’s his commissaire who will see my name in the entry book and will ask the man for the due money. I said no. I said if the money is really necessary I’d go to the police station and give it directly to the commissaire. And he started talking to Dauda, my bike driver, in French. Do I not have to pay for the road at the end? Dauda I paid before. Before? Really? Who pays for the road before. Dauda started telling the police boy how I also refused to pay at the Nigerian border post. The police boy called me dur. I’ll take it as a compliment.
But he didn’t give up and we sat on our bikes and drove to the police commisary, who happened to be literally 100 meters down the road. As we sat on bike Dauda just said “don’t show them anything”. And of course, the first word of the commissaire to the boy were “let him go”. I thanked, said that they were kind (spit spit) waved goodbye and we left.
The road got smoother and wider. It was like this all the way to Banyo, there were even stretches of asphalt. But Dauda started saying that he’d drop me in a village before Banyo so I can take a car for 1000cfa. Aha. First he said that he cared for my permanently bent knees. When I said my knees were fine he said that there will be four checkpoints and on each he’d have to pay. Aha. So better I should pay for the car. But fine, he did well on the road, I can take the car. Before the village with the car a checkpoint. Papers please. And Dauda has no papers. Oh well, even I know in Cameroon you don’t leave house without your carte d’identité.
I once was stopped in Douala in company car at night without passport. First the policeman said 100,000cfa to get out of the situation. That was crazy money so we called the company’s security officer and he retrieved my passport from the office. Later work colleagues told me I’d been lucky – there was a Spanish man from work caught without papers and he spent a night arrested.
So, Dauda talked himself out of the situation telling the policeman he’d just return after dropping me 200 meters further so I could take the car.
The car was there but empty and waiting for passengers. Dauda said I’d waste time, another bike would be 2000cfa so he’d take me to Banyo but he’d need more fuel. All good, I gave him 1000cfa but in Cameroon fuel is double the price of Nigeria, the man should have known.
We went on. And just as we passed a sign announcing Ville de Banyo, Dauda left the main road and went into the bush. And for yet another what seemed like hour we were riding narrow bumpy paths, passing other bikes of course. We descended a bit precipitous path into town at the end. Finally. Dauda asked for money before we entered among the buildings so that people don’t see. I gave him all the naira I had + 1000cfa. We rode another few hundred meters, he stopped a local bike for me, 100cfa, told me to stay in Auberge Posada and left. He went back to Gembu. Another 5 hours… The man is tough.
Auberge Posada is in town centre. It costs 3,000cfa. The rooms were shabby, seedy, tired. Water only in buckets. Even the receptionist on his own accord told me I could go to another hotel. I asked which one, he mentioned Dream City for 15k and Confluent for maybe 5k.
I took another 100cfa bike to Motel Confluent. It was a bit out of town but just a couple of hundred meters. A boy was at a reception. They have water in shower, the room looked decent but despite posters announcing rooms for 5k (and 3k and 4k in an annex) he was adamant the price was 6k. I asked for a discount he said no. I asked about the 3k and 4k rooms and he said they are not “safe” as they are outside the main compound. I asked if Banyo is really that unsafe he asks but of course, people beating each other.
I finally managed to get him down to 5500cfa. He didn’t have change. I dropped the bags and left. I was dead hungry and soon I discovered I was also tired.
But first things first, SIM card. MTN line cost 100cfa, 4.2GB cost 2100cfa. Then as I was next to what seemed like a bus terminal. Yes, N’Gaoundéré costs 6000cfa, it’s a small bus, departs at 7am. Will I make it for the evening train to Yaoundé? The bus arrives at 5pm, if it doesn’t rain we will make it. Good.
I paid with the 10,000cfa bill and a man went looking for change. I sat down. I felt thirsty hungry and weak. It was quite hot. In the bus terminal there is a mosque and the mats were spread pretty much all over the place with men getting ready for afternoon prayer. As they were lining up in neat rows to prepare for, I don’t know, the main part of the prayer, when the imam calls Allah Akbar and everyone gets down on their knees and touches the ground with their foreheads, I saw the man coming back with my change. But instead coming back to me he just removed his shoes and join the prayer. As I was waiting through all those Allah akbars I thought I had my answer to the question who has it worse: Muslims or non-Muslims living among them. I was getting frustrated. Frustrated to such extent that when I bought a bottle big water I decided to walk the middle of the street and drink it in front of everyone. In your face, Ramadan!
Food I found in a chop joint around the corner. Maman was serving rice and beans. The beans were of different style than the ones in Nigeria, they were black with pieces of meat added and they were delicious. As I was already finishing a 1.5l bottle of water that I bought 5mins ago I saw the men next to me sitting, glasses and a plastic cannister in front of them. Palm wine! I gladly joined them and it was good. The meal cost me 800cfa.
I went to find a place to print and scan a document someone required from me “today by 4pm”. I managed but again, it took effort to send the file to the computer.
I saw a bar and promptly entered. I took a bottle of Mützig, a lager. It was unfortunately not too cold. A local gendarme sat next to me and we chatted a bit.
From the bar I walked around a bit. I tried to change euros in a bureau d’échange but the moment the woman took my money the power went out. “Come tomorrow.”
I took moto back to the hotel. Outside the room I heard water running. It was running in my room. One of the taps in the shower was missing and water ran through it. The hotel’s answer. Sorry monsieur it’s too late to call a technician, tomorrow we will fix it. You’ll have to wash in bucket. Fuck. I snapped at the manager that he takes the money but does not provide the service. Then it turned out that the price was really 5000 and I was lied to by the receptionist when I arrived. And the manager “was not informed” about the shower and the reception boys? They didn’t know. Yeah right. You could hear the water running from outside.
The way to cool down? Beer! The woman next door was raising fish and it wasn’t carp, it was mackerel. It was delicious, possibly the first time I ever had roasted mackerel, served with baton du manioc, which is a long piece of grounded cassava dough, harder than Nigeria’s eba, you can cut it into pieces. It’s sold wrapped in some leaves. The woman had no drinks so I took moto to town. Town was quite busy, people hanging around the streets but there was no streetlights. Where are those bandits the hotel boy tried to make me be scared of? I sat in a bar that looked better than just wooden shack. The music blasted from the speakers. The music has also changed, it’s the kind you hear in Cameroon and Congo, makossa. I like Nigerian trance rhythms more. The Guinness was 900cfa and it was not even slightly chilled. So I went to a wooden shack where there was a properly chilled Guinness. After 10pm motos charge more for the ride: 150cfa. I burned mosquito coil for the night.
Coming back to Maman 