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I am sure you have probably all been wondering what the hell has been going on with the expedition. Well, the quick and dirty answer is twofold: a lot and not much. In the last five and a half weeks we have managed to drive a grand total of about 360 kilometers. We were stuck in Pointe Noire, Congo for exactly four weeks until we decided that we needed to pull the plug on the Angolan visa process there and try our luck elsewhere.

We have been in contact with a Dutch couple that we met in Nigeria who have been following a similar route and although they experienced problems of their own in Cameroon and Gabon, made it through Brazzaville, Congo and Matadi, D.R.C., where they got five day Angola transit visas issued to them in 24 hours. Based upon that information, we packed up the trucks and headed towards Brazzaville because we were also informed that we would be denied entry into the D.R.C. without a letter from the Angolan Embassy in Brazzaville stating that it was possible to get a visa in Matadi. For the D.R.C., no proof of onward travel, no entry, plain and simple.

Sounds easy enough right? Drive 360 kilometers to Brazzaville, get a letter from the Angolan Embassy the same day, drive to Matadi the next, get a transit visa for Angola a day later and within a week or so, we would be sitting pretty in southern Africa with the problem areas comfortably in our rearview mirror. However, in the infinite wisdom of Lord Buddha, when it comes to the future, “whatever you think it will be, it will always be something different.” This line of thinking could not possibly be more applicable that here in Africa.

The road from Point Noire to Brazzaville takes the cake as being the worst road we have driven on during the expedition. In fact, I would feel comfortable betting that it is the worst road in the world. We got the trucks stuck on multiple occasions in mud that was waist deep. We were forced to drive on small deviations that took us up hills at what seemed like 45 degree angles, and at one point, we had to actually build a bridge with the help of some local villagers using bent railroad rails and rotted logs to get the trucks over a narrow, but very deep culvert.

Stuck in the mud again

Truck blocking a section of Congolese national highway route N1

As if the road were not exciting enough… it took us the better part of three days to drive the 360 kilometers from Pointe Noire to Brazzaville, we had to contend with the rebels. There is a region of the Congo just west of Brazzaville known as the Pool Region. The Pool Region is home to the remnants of the rebel army that had been fighting the Congolese government during the bloody civil war here in the 1990’s. After a peace treaty was signed in 1997, the rebels were out of a job and although the rebels, locally known as the Ninjas, received some political concessions, the unequal distribution of wealth in the Congo they were fighting a decade ago still remains largely in tact today. With no money, the rebels have little other choice but to get what they can from people crazy enough to venture down route N1.

It was not long before we had our first rebel encounter, but we were prepared… at least as prepared as you can be for a rebel encounter in the middle of the Congolese jungle, and made it through the makeshift checkpoint for the price of a few packs of cigarettes and some vitamins that had been floating around the Tundra. The Ninjas were actually pretty cool, telling us that with no jobs, they are forced to “tax” people on the road. If the Ninjas go to the bigger towns to look for work, they are arrested and thrown in jail. When we told the Ninjas that we sympathized with their situation and that we were American tourists, they insisted on taking photos with us. The whole situation was a little nerve wracking, especially since most of the rebels were either drunk, stoned, or both. Additionally, many of the Ninjas were armed with AK-47’s which they demonstrated were very much operational. Shattered nerves and gray hairs aside, we got some pretty sweet shots with the rebels… it is not everyday that you can whip out a photo you took with some genuine Congo rebels.

Not what you want to see when you come around the corner

Mark and the Ninjas

We encountered several more Ninja roadblocks along the road to Brazzaville, mostly at huge mud pits where vehicles had become stuck. The Ninjas would happily help dig you out of the mud for a large fee and they had it set up as such that no matter which way you drove, you were going to get stuck. Lucky for us, we had two trucks, snatch straps and our own shovels, so when we did get stuck, we did all the work. Because they could not ethically “tax” us for work they did not do, they let us pass in exchange for a few small “gifts,” e.i. cigarettes, broken sunglasses, and bananas. We had hoped to make it out of rebel territory in one day, but the condition of the roads ensured that was not going to happen. As it turns out, we ended up spending a night at a rebel camp with the district rebel chief, Mr. Tompette. Mr. Tompette was very hospitable, and let us park our trucks near his compound so we would be safe for the night. We even watched old DVD’s of the 10th anniversary of the peace treaty with our rebel host as other Ninjas gathered around, grumbling when they caught a glimpse of the president on the screen. The next day, after playing around with some guns and taking a few photos, Mr. Tompette provided us with a Ninja escort all the way to Brazzaville, completely free of charge.

Today on Mr. Tompette’s Neighborhood, the Americans drop in…

It was a lot harder than we thought, but here we are in Brazzaville, Congo, which according to Aneki.com, is the city with the worst standard of living in the world. The people are actually pretty friendly here, and although there are signs of development and progress in Brazzaville, visible remnants of the civil war still exist; buildings pockmarked with bullet holes, security checkpoints, a strong military presence, etc. We were originally planning on being out of Brazzaville in a day or two after getting the letter we needed from the Angolan Embassy, but as luck would have it, the Consul, the only individual in an entire three story building with the ability and authority to sign our letter, is on vacation for a week and we arrived just as he was packing his suitcase. I should get Lord Buddha’s view on the future tattooed on my eyelids. That way, I will not be surprised when the simplest of tasks becomes a monumental undertaking. As a result, we once again find ourselves playing the waiting game while trying to ignore growing feelings of déjà vu. It is reported that the Consul will return from his holiday on Tuesday… we can only hope.

Over a week ago now was the beginning of the action packed speed run through Niger, Nigeria, Cameroon and then further down the coast of the West coast of Africa.  The Thundra and Little Pepe are now safely resting in the courtyard of the Botanic Gardens Guesthouse here in Limbe, Cameroon.  The crew and the trucks well deserved break in this beautiful garden on the beach came just in time as all of our patience and sanity was truly running thin.

On Thursday, April 27th, we left Ouagadougou, Burkina Faso in the early evening.  We drove into the night and found a campsite off the highway around midnight. Over the radio I heard Steve Bouey ask, "How much longer do you want to drive?" Moments before that I was thinking, either we drive until midnight or until the temperature drops below 85 degrees. They both happened at about the same time.  Due to our money constraints these days, we camp the majority of the time to save money.  However, since the temperature is generally well above 100 degrees even after dark sleeping or for that matter, sitting, is not really an option.

We went to sleep shortly after arriving, but sleep we did not get. About an hour after the lights were turned out, a herd of donkeys, or group or gang, was prowling around the field we decided to stay in.  Donkeys generally seem like fairly benign animals, just towing carts around and doing their stubborn thing. The reality is much different.  These characters make the most ridiculous eeeeeehhh-haaaaaaaw noises you have ever heard, and they carry on all night long.  Not just the occasional I am a stubborn donkey eehh-haaw…these guys get after it.  Long drawn out wails that sound horrible, even painful.  We have never really been able to pinpoint what compels these noisemakers to get with it, but they do it in packs, they do it alone, they do it whenever they damn well please, they are donkeys (asses).  This donkey gang was charging each other, running back and forth, and at points even charging toward the tents.

The next morning came around and we were greeted by the usual group of the local curious children from the nearby village. At about 6:30 they were crouching around the tents.  They mean no harm, but the whispers and crackling of branches under their feet is enough to put a halt to any leisurely get out of bed slowly morning.  We were packed and on the road quickly and made it to the border before noon.  Burkina Faso into Niger was extremely easy, so we were able to make it to Naimey, the capital, by the early afternoon.  There we got some more money and gas to carry on to the Nigeria border. Again we carried on until it started to cool down and camped in a dry riverbed. Since we had made it back into the Sahara for the 3rd time since we have entered Africa, the cool desert nights made for some decent sleeping.

Again the next morning the local kids were there as our alarm clock, appropriately on Camels since we were in the Sahara.  After giving them a little food for breakfast we took a couple of photos and raced to the Nigerian border. No problems, contrary to our preconceived notions of Nigerian corruption, the border was one the most pleasant yet. We figured that we would be near Abuja, the capital by the evening…wishful thinking only goes so far in Africa. I grabbed a handful of Euros from Bouey and exchanged them on the black market only to find out that the exchange rate was nearly double what we expected, making gas and expenses much cheaper.  That was only until we made it to the other side of town to the gas MegaStation with 30 or so pumps.  The only thing it was lacking was gas to pump. After talking to a couple of locals in the line wrapping around the gas station and about a mile down the road we were told, "Gas is not coming until tomorrow, your only option is to buy gas on the black market."

At that moment it came clear to me why a crazy Nigerian man ran across the street toward our trucks with an old beat up one gallon plastic oil container full of gas.  He was the king of the gasoline black market.  Within two minutes of pulling over to the side of the road, at least 7 or 8 gas vendors were swarming us, along with an audience admiring the trucks and I suppose us as we were quite out of place in this small town in the middle of nowhere Nigeria. A police officer with a beret and bloodshot eyes from too much of whatever is part of his afternoon routine joined the gas festival.  At first we thought he was going to shut down this illegal marketplace, but he was much too stoned to do that and besides it was a chance for him to make a little money as well. Soon all of the gas vendors were in argument as to who found our gas guzzling trucks first. The argument was getting so heated at one point that we were about to just get in the trucks and leave before a fight broke out.  Moments later they calmed things down and decided to split the 10 gallon purchase between two of the vendors.  Our hope was to buy just enough of the double priced gas to get us to a real gas station in the next big town.

Abuja was a dream long gone at this point, but we were hoping to at least make it to the next town to get gas before dark.  After passing 6 or so small towns on the way to Gasau, well over 10 gas stations were dry, including Gasau.  What could be the problem, we thought.  We filled up with some more black market gas and pushed on hoping to get out of the city and setup camp.  I radioed to Bouey, "Does it look like there should be somewhere to camp soon?"

"There are no towns on the map between here and Zaria."

It was true, no towns between there and Zaria, but villages would make an appearance every 10 km or so. After driving for a couple of hours, the group decision was to just pull off the side of the road and sleep in the cars until light.  Nigerian drivers are out of their mind and from the number of wrecks on the sides of the highway, it is easy to see that driving at night is a horrible idea. Moments after we got somewhat situated next to the road a truck full of men pulled up.  Four to five men were sitting in the bed of the beaten up early 90s Toyota. They jumped out of the back of the truck with AK-47s in hand and approached us with a small flashlight. Looking back I wonder why I had no fear as we were in a country full of rebels and bandits, or so we had heard. "Hello?" said one of the men. We responded, "Hello??"  As they approached their silhouettes became more apparent, they were wearing berets and uniforms, they were the police.  In Nigeria, they speak English a little bit differently and instead are called the Crime Patrol.  It was hand painted crooked on the side of the pickup in a highly official manner with red paint and the last letters squeezed in as the artisan in charge of labeling the vehicles must not have been an ace in spacing and typography.

They invited us to sleep in front of the crime patrol station and assured us that we would be safe there as they would be patrolling back and forth all night long and keep an eye on us.  That morning I woke up at about 6 am and looked over at the station to see that the person in charge of car labels had also been commissioned to label the crime patrol station. The outward appearance of the station led me to believe this would not be the place to file a report if something bad was to happen.

The next morning we finally found a gas station that had gas at the pump at the nice low price of about $.60 per liter or $2.20 per gallon. To prevent any more hold ups with the black market gas we filled up every last jerry can full of fuel. While Mark and Bouey worked on filling and securing the cans to the truck, I went with another man to exchange some more Euros in order to pay for our 400 liters of gas.  As with anywhere in Nigeria, there is always someone who knows someone who can exchange money.  The other option is to go to the bank, but that is a little hard considering that I passed 4 banks on the way to change money in a back alley, all of which were closed and had been for some time.  Standardized systems are not exactly the Nigerians strong suit.

That evening we drove as far as we could before dark and ended up in a town called Gboko. At a gas station with a horribly unkept hotel in back we scrambled to figure out how we were going to find a decent place to stay that night. A young man named AOJ approached us and asked, "Is this hotel not pretty enough for you guys?"

We replied, "It is fine but we cannot find anyone to help us."

"I can show you some hotels in town that are much nicer with a place to park the trucks."

AOJ jumped in the truck with me and we made our way towards the hotel that he thought would suit us. I radioed back to the Thundra, "We have to take a detour as the road is under construction."

Immediately AOJ turned to me and said, "Can I talk to them on that thing!?"

"Of, Course."

AOJ then full of excitement yells into the microphone, "Steve, Steve!!!"

He was so over zealous that he did not realize pushing the button on the side of the mic is how the system works.  Since it was dark and there were no time for radio lessons, I had to reclaim the mic until we reached the hotel.  We went down one detour…it did not go through, down another…it did not go through.  About 30 minutes later we had finally reached the hotel.  I gave AOJ a few dollars for his trouble, which he did not even expect…he was doing it just because he was a good guy.  And most likely because he was a Christian, as he asked me upfront if I was.  The missionaries have a very strong presence down here.  He asked if he could come meet us in the morning before we left and inquired how it might be possible for him to join the crew.  We told him that we could talk more about it in the morning as we were exhausted from the already 14 hour day.

Bright and early, on time, AOJ was in the hotel lobby and although we wanted to sleep in, as usual Africa will not let us.  The front desk called to alert us to AOJ’s arrival.  We took showers and made our way out to get breakfast, AOJ had already left. After gassing up the cars we were on our way out too, but there he was, AOJ on the back of his friend’s moto waving and yelling. 

"Hey guys, hey guys!"

AOJ only speaks with full excitement.  "I thought I had missed you, but I wanted a photo."

His friend had an old film camera and snapped a couple of shots.

We made it into Calabar that afternoon and were setup for free at a hotel called the Zoo Garden.  We gave our usual pitch to the owner, but he did not seem to care as the hotel was under renovation. Mark and I went on and on about how we can benefit him by directing other overlanders to his hotel as they check out our website.  He interrupted and said sure we will accommodate you.  I think he was just sick of listening to us.  Calabar and the rest of Nigeria is notorious for power outages, so we went much of the stay without lights or fans, but that is nothing new here in the 100 degree, 100% humidity heat of Africa.  With relative ease other than power outages making photocopies hard to get, we had our Cameroon visas and were on our way in a matter of two days.  With only 500kms to go we were in sight of a tourist oasis for a little R&R from the rigors of Africa.  Limbe was a day’s drive away, or so we thought.

As we neared the Nigeria-Cameroon border the immigration police stopped us to check our documents.  "You have overstayed your visas," said the policeman.

"This is not possible, we have three month visas."

"At the border they have the ability to change the validity of your visa by putting a different date on the stamp."

This was news to us.  Not over the course of 50 countries have we encountered anything like this. A visa has the validity on it, not on the stamp.  The guards on the other side were so nice, but ultimately did not know what they were doing as they also used a Nigerian resident stamp to stamp our passports.  The guards let us through, but informed us that we may have troubles at the actual border.  With no choice but to push forward, we took our chances.

At the next stop we had our first real dose of Nigerian corruption.  The border guards led us to believe that they were the immigration checkpoint, when in fact they were not.  They again told us that we had overstayed our visas and would have to drive back to Calabar to fix the problem. After two hours of negotiations and many attempts from these guys to get $300 US dollars out of us, we got the best of them.  Mark started talking about corruption and then I went on to patriotism saying:

"You know how Nigeria has a bad reputation for rebels and corruption and crime. The men at the other border clearly made a mistake and as a Nigerian citizen who is educated and clearly more intelligent than the other guards, you have an opportunity to make up where your other citizens are lacking.  We write stories about all of the countries we visit and you have a choice right now, do you want to give Nigeria a good name or a bad name?"

Mark  through in some words about the golden rule and next thing you know the border guards let us through, escorted us to the actual immigration house and made sure that we would not have any more problems with this mistake. In fact, they even gave us lunch and cold filtered water to drink.  We gave the two corrupt border guards TWBR t-shirts, and although they do not deserve them, we will always know that those are their TWBR diplomas, as April 2nd, 2008 they graduated our school on how to fail at extorting money off the fine expedition crew of The World by Road.

Now, with 80kms to go before the first town in Cameroon, 2 hours left of daylight and an unpaved road notorious for being bad, the day had really just begun.  The Cameroon border process went quickly and easily with a notation from the last checkpoint, "The road is a little muddy right now, but you have strong cars so you should be fine." A little mud is no match for Thundra and Little Pepe…I will leave you with these photos, but 5 hours after crossing the border we traveled 80kms, dug out a cargo truck, pulled a sedan out of an excavation pit, and drove through a 4 foot deep pit of mud.  It took a team of young Cameroonian boys to help push the Tundra out of one fix, half of the excavation pits we drove in complete darkness and both skid plates on the trucks are ready to be replaced.

This week started on March 27th in Ouagadougou, Burkina Faso and ended on April 4th in Limbe, Cameroon.  This blog could run on for thousands more words if I was to include all of the small tasks each day like finding gas, exchanging more money, finding a hotel room in complete darkness as the lights are out again, or just finding the right road due to lack of signs.  Each of these days started at sunrise and ended no earlier than midnight, usually with only one meal each day. Tourists that fly into Africa never really see what is going on behind the scenes, but as we drive each kilometer of land between each town passing villages and interacting with the locals, it is easy to see just how difficult one single day can be here in Africa.  The citizens of Northern Cameroon are essentially forgotten about by their government (recently evaluated as the most corrupt government in the world) with roads in such disrepair that it is impossible to travel them in the entire 3 months of the rainy season.  This means that supplies and food can go this long without arriving.  The only road out of this area that is maintained is a logging road, paid for by the logging company that is taking all of the local people’s valuable timber for profit.  They will never see a dime of the money that is made off of this.  Unfortunately there is not much any of us can do to fix these problems any time soon, but just remember when you are cruising down the highway or sitting at work saying, "Why do I have to work while they are on vacation?" Last week, just like every week, we live like the locals and it is not a vacation. Here in Africa, the challenge of the week can sometimes turn out to just be the week itself.

This is the best and only road from Southern Nigeria to Cameroon

80 kms of thick jungle and mud serving well over 30 villages of various sizes

Locals triple up on small motos for this journey, we helped these guys by throwing their 100lb bag of potatoes on the roof of the Tundra.  They helped us by pushing when we were stuck in the mud. These roads are a team effort for everyone involved.

Path A or B?

The logging road is much better, but it does not reach those beyond Mamfe.

3 days to get drive the 250kms from the border to the friendly town of Limbe. I have never been so happy to reach a destination.

PS…I love my job, even though I have not seen a paycheck in over a year:)

I am starting a new series of blogs called “The Challenge of the Week.” Back in the early days of the expedition, I tried to spend a good 20% of the time trying to present the real side of this expedition that most people do not know. After a couple of weeks of presenting these problems to people, I started to get numerous emails from the viewers telling me that I need to lighten up and that I am taking everything too seriously. That was back in New Zealand and since the audience comes first these blogs went away.

Now that we have been on the road for over a year and are in Africa, I think it is time to resurrect these blogs. Why? Over and over we hear things like, “That is the sweetest job on the planet.” or “How do you get a job like that?” I will not deny that no place or job exists that I would rather find myself in right now; however, this romantic notion of driving around the world is far from what is conjured up in most peoples heads. In an average week much more of our time is spent doing things like fixing holes in tires, changing oil, getting visas, and researching than it is spent seeing the sights, drinking beers, or taking strolls on the beach.

Now once a week or so we are going to try to keep you updated on the latest challenges we encounter. Not only will it give a more accurate representation of what we go through each week, but hopefully it will give you a window into what the lives are like for the the locals and the problems that they deal with.

This week the challenge has been visas. The visa of note most recently is for Nigeria. While in the USA, all embassies seem to be required to post up to date information and at least maintain a basic website, abroad it is a whole different ball game. In Bamako, Mali our plans originally set us to get Niger visas. We knew that in Niger we could get our Nigerian visas, but when we were in the Niger consulate I decided to ask, “Is there a Nigerian Embassy in Bamako?”

Bouey replied, “No, I already checked.”

So I insisted, “Let’s ask the nice lady here, maybe it was not listed.”

There was a secret little unlisted Nigerian embassy in Bamako after all. We use a few different methods to plan out the web of visas that we must get to keep the trucks moving. The two most used are the Lonely Planet guidebook and a website called http://embassyinformation.com/. Most of the time these are accurate, but when you are in a city that has less than 30% of its streets paved, it is safe to guess that these modern methods may fall short.

So once you find out that there is an embassy, then you must find out where this embassy is. Is there a directory for Bamako? Ha. You are lucky to find a street sign, let alone a book listing the locations of everything in town. I managed to get the phone number for the embassy and gave them a call in hopes to get directions, but the connection was so bad I could not hear anything the man on the other side of the line was saying. All I could make out was…”find a taxi and ask them.”

Out on the street there are always a plethora of taxis waiting to get your business. We had to ask about 4 taxis before one admitted to not knowing where the embassy was, but would be willing to drive around and ask people until he could find it. This gentleman was a true asset to Bouey and I on this day of visa fun, and after a while I think he started to feel like part of the team as he got an idea of what we were dealing with. He drove the streets of Bamako asking person after person for the location, all of them pointing in some different direction. After about 45 min, we managed to find the long dirt road to nowhere that was marked as the way to the goal. For most of us when we think of embassies, pictures of fortified buildings with armed guards come to mind. Nigeria does thing a little bit differently.

Half a mile down the road leading to the embassy there is a little maze of small streets that leads you to entrance, the whole time doubting that this could possibly be the right place. Even the cab driver was still asking for directions when we were only 50 feet away from it. Then I hear Bouey yell out, “There it is!”

“Where.”

“Right there.”

My little American eyes are not trained for this, but see for yourself if you would notice this embassy…

We made our way inside and the man at the “gate” immediately said, “You must be the guy I talked to on the phone earlier.” Clearly this embassy is not often very busy. We were told to sit down in the front room just behind the white door you see above. Two mangled chairs with a half broken blades exposed fan set the mood for the waiting room, along with broken window on the wooden door. We were told to sit down and wait. A nice young lady came out from around the corner about 10 minutes later with forms and instructions. To keep things simple we needed the following items within the next two hours:

1. Our passports

2. Photocopy of our passport

3. 2 passport sized photos

4. Photocopy of our Mali visa

5. Photocopy of the title of the car

6. Photocopy of the Carnet documents, front and back

7. One four page visa form for each of the four of us.

8. 55,000 Francs per visa

After a little pleading, our situation was left to this…If we could simply get all of these materials by the time they close this afternoon, we could get the visas at 3 pm tomorrow. Not before 3 not after 3, if we were late we would not get the visas until Monday. So now the clock begins, we must come up with all 8 items within about 1.5 hours, the temperature outside is a comfortable 106 degrees, our taxi has no AC with black interior, and our ATM cards only work in one of the banks in the whole city.

First, we went to get the money. This one worked out easy, there happened to be a branch of the right bank randomly around the corner. Next comes all the photocopies. In Africa photocopies are a big deal and there are little shops all over…easy. Ha, Ha. The power for our entire section of the city was out. Our cab driver drove us all over in the hopes that one place would have power. Finally we gave up and decided that all the power was out on that side of the river. The only place for copies was 5 km across the river and into the center of the city.

We raced over the bridge and made the copies, at the same time filling out the visa forms. Where have you traveled in the last 6 months? Where are you going after Nigeria? How much money do you make? What is your profession? It is just Bouey and I, so we are trying to fill out 4 of these forms while bouncing around on the dirt streets. My handwriting looks like a 4 year old with the turbulence. Then we get the my favorite question of the day. Have you ever forged or fraudulently filled out papers to get a visa in a foreign country? Um…not in the last week other than on the form I am filling out right now for Brook and forging his signature.

Our friendly cab driver for the afternoon. He helped me communicate what we needed to the copy people.

Just in time we raced back to the embassy, dropped off all of the papers and documents, and were informed again that if we were not at the embassy at 3pm sharp tomorrow, we would not get our visas until after the weekend. It turned out to be a pretty interesting afternoon, but certainly not a relaxing walk around the local park. Each day we deal with something like this, sometimes fun, sometimes ultimately frustrating. This day worked out at the end, but countless days are just as full of action and end with disappointment. There is not anything much more draining than running around like this all day only to accomplish nothing. Each day that we deal with the embassies or getting the cars fixed we realize just how difficult it is, not only for us but for the locals. Just another day in the life on The World by Road. Oh and one more thing, most of this day was conversed in languages we do not understand.

Our trusty ride for the day.

Exhausting at 106 degrees.