Personally I have spent one full week in Nigeria so can’t really say I’ve been to, or know, the country. And given that I was confined to my hotel, the Eko Atlantic, the office on Victoria Island, and when travelling between or around the city, never left the comfort of the chauffeur driven car or the company’s bureau manager, my opinion is somewhat muted. But given it is the most populous city in Nigeria, and I still experienced persistent power outages, roads that made pothole-ridden Joburg look like a play-park and traffic like child’s play, it doesn’t look like an easy place to explore. And from these experiences, I cannot imagine what a road trip from Port Harcourt to Ogoja, close to the Cameroon border, must be like. Chris Duncan takes you on this exact journey – all leading to an experience he says he wouldn’t want to repeat. – Stuart Lowman
The Route
by Chris Duncan
It is time to leave Port Harcourt for a few days on a journey into the country crossing over three states to the town of Ogoja located in Cross River State and not far from the Cameroon border, deep in the SSE of the country. The occasion – an invitation to attend a memorial service of a late relative of the owner of the hotel.
The town is situated approximately 370 km’s and 7 hours traveling time from Port Harcourt. I wasn’t all that keen at first but the prospect of viewing the countryside and getting out of the hotel eventually won me over.
So the brief: travel on Friday, attend the memorial service on Saturday, enjoy some hospitality and return home on Sunday. Wear your Nigerian outfit for the service I was told, a bit difficult as I do not possess one but an old African shirt from my days at moyo would have to suffice.
Friday morning dawned, bag packed, a sandwich ordered for the road and what a struggle it was to get the kitchen to prepare a simple cheese and tomato sandwich. When we finally stopped for a break and I unwrapped it, it was nothing like what I had asked for, at least the hard boiled egg was done the way I asked- hard boiled.
Considering the distance we were traveling security insisted that we go with a second vehicle escort to accommodate an extra policeman should we run into trouble. With myself and Chile in one car with the driver and a policeman followed by a driver and policeman in the other car my adventure began.
And what an interesting journey it was, the traffic out of town was heavy but once we cleared the limits the road opened up. A dual laned road, it is difficult to call it a highway for there were no road markings or traffic signs, sometimes the lane you were traveling in abruptly ended and we crossed the vegetation separating the lanes through an off road track and sped down the opposite lane against the oncoming traffic. Then came the sections with potholes, some of them big enough to bath an elephant in as we weaved our way through these obstacles.
As we passed through towns and villages, sometimes at a snail’s pace due to the congestion and the state of the road they were always fascinating to observe, the sides of the road lined with stalls stocked with wares of all kind, people walked around avoiding the deep mud from the recent rains as they went about their business, the attendant litter and the general hustle and bustle of life in Nigeria.
Here and there we passed overturned trucks, lying on the side of the road or in the central meridian. On a newly resurfaced section we came across an overturned fully loaded horse and trailer, the second one today with the tanker trailer pouring fuel into the gully between the lanes. On the opposite lane were gathered a crowd of motorcyclists, all with empty 25l containers like vultures about to descend on their carrion. Armed police attempted to keep them from descending on the tanker to gather the spoils. Most were keeping a healthy distance from the scene but here and there I spotted a few them scrambling through the vegetation to scoop up the spilt fuel. The air was heavy with the reek of fuel, one spark and the tragedy of what occurs here often would be replayed again.
Hopefully nobody will toss out a cigarette butt here as we passed through the danger zone and certainly not a place to linger. A scary scenario indeed.
I inquired as to the recovery process, no such thing as the fuel will be allowed to soak away before the truck is recovered if it ever is. No hazmat teams here, no health and safety, no environment control.
What was noticeable about the journey were the vehicle wrecks littering the roadside, grim reminders of the dangers of travel on these roads. The usual culprits – excessive speed and unroadworthy vehicles.
We must have passed several dozen checkpoints and roadblocks as we sped along, the sergeant in our car simply waved his beret at them as we passed through. The cops we were passing did not look pleased, no money to extort here. On another occasion we stopped to refuel but the queue to the pumps went on forever, no problem, for our cops jumped out, waved their guns around, moved the barriers and suddenly we were in the front of the queue, another time we took the wrong turn and struggled to get back into the traffic and again they jumped out, stopped the traffic as we re entered the queue. Such are the advantages of traveling with MOPOL.
The countryside we passed through was very lush, tall palms, coconut trees, mango and several other types that I did not recognize. Plantations of yams, cassava, corn and paddy fields of rice were scattered amongst the jungle. The flatland’s rolled into gentle hills reminding me of Zulu land, I felt at home as we traveled along. There was little wildlife to see, perhaps it had something to do with our formula one driver for at times the scenery was a blur.
We halted for lunch at a filing station along the way and sat under the shade of an old Almond tree laden with ripening nuts which was a peaceful affair. Myself and Chile sat together as the drivers and policemen sat at a respectful distance away.
The last hours drive was slow as we picked our way down a muddy potholed road to our destination. Finally arriving at the owner’s country residence where we found him in good form and enjoyed a tour of his property which included a bunker and a helipad.
From there we drove into town to our hotel for our stay which is also owned by our owner. Cheap and cheerful comes to mind as I sit on the patio covered in Tabard as millions of insects buzz me as I enjoyed a Spanish Omlette with fresh cut chips and a beer as I write this story.
Saturday morning and it is shower time. On checking into the room yesterday and doing an inspection of the room I could not help noticing a large empty bucket and a smaller bowl in the shower and wondered what they were for. Well this morning I found out, no water pressure and the shower does not work hence the bucket and bowl. Duly cleansed it was time for breakfast. Another Spanish omlette and chips, this time served with baked beans and was quite acceptable.
Our convey set off back to the owners house and then to the families burial ground where the service was held. Being a high standing member of the community the Catholic service was presided over by the areas Bishop. A full service it was, complete with altar boys, several priests and the heady scent of incense. Instead of an organ there was a very pleasant beat of drums and other indigenous instruments together with harmonious singing. The mass was concluded with the offering of communion and the unveiling of the tombstone.
We then retired to a guest area where lunch and refreshments were served complete with an introduction to other honoured guests and visiting dignitaries.
I took an opportunity to have a wander outside the ground and watched with interest the comings and goings on the road. Not much car traffic but loads of motorcycles. They appear to be the transport of choice. Whole families on the tank and saddle, firewood, bags of yams and even a double bed on one. Cheap second hand machines imported from China.
Back to the hotel to a power outage and no diesel. Dinner is a choice of Nigerian or Spanish omlette, not much choice here so the omlette it will be yet again.
I was awoken before five on Sunday morning to the sound of torrential rain which did not bode well for the first part of the journey as they road was in very poor condition.
A quick breakfast with Chile (yes, another Spanish omlette for me) before we hit the road, back via the owner’s house to collect some passengers to be dropped at Enugu airport which was on route.
We crawled our way along the potholed road for with the heavy rain the depth of the potholes is unknown. It was interesting to observe the villagers emerging from their homes. Cooking fires were being lit, teeth brushed on the verandas, children playing, goats sheltering from the rain and chickens scratching in the sand. The dawn of a new day.
The return journey was the same route that we took and except for heavy downpours which required some concentration from the driver was mostly uneventful. The pit stop for fuel was at the same garage and again the MOPOL intervened and took us to the front of the queue, not without some arguing and shouting from the garage security and other frustrated motorists waiting patiently in the queue.
And then there was the heated exchange at one of the roadblocks which I thought was going to turn ugly but with rank being pulled our convey sped away. There is nothing like waving a loaded AK47 around to sort things out.
Thankfully we arrived back at the hotel in one piece, around trip of 14 hours and 840 km’s later which gives an average of 60 km per hour – not surprising with the state of the roads.
An interesting journey into the heartland of the country it was but given the state of the roads one I would not like to repeat too often.
