Togo – Mt Agou

28 April:  My heart went out to our poor Nigerian driver, who looked exhausted and defeated after he was ordered to pay several bribes on the journey from Lagos to Lome. We reached Lome by 06h30 and keeping Rachel’s warning about the dangerous beach in mind, a tired Alan and I dragged ourselves to where we thought we could find a bank and accommodation where we could lay our weary bones.

I was extremely grateful when a lady enticed us into a restaurant before handing us an ice cold fruit juice. After freshening up, we paid the exorbitant price nonchalantly and booked into the hotel next door. We then set off for the banks. It was extremely hot, my legs were past swollen, we got badly sunburned but we did stumble upon a market where we found some food, much needed shampoo (my fancy camping soap did not stand a chance against Africa’s dust) and my sense of humour. Then it was off to the internet café and by 21h30, my batteries have run out.

The market in Lome.

29 April:  It was so hot! At 04h00, I was under a cold shower, washing clothes. After a visit to the Ghanaian embassy, I spent 6 blissful hours in the air conditioned internet café, trying to download pictures and sending e-mails. Then it was off to do some shopping for bread, avocadoes and bananas. Stuck in the room that night, sweating profusely, I visualized myself back in the internet café with the air conditioning.

30 April: I had no more dirty clothes to use as an excuse to be in the shower, so when the internet café opened, I was the first patron. I sat there patiently enjoying the cold air until it was time for us to fetch our visas for Ghana. At the motor park, we had to wait a while for our share taxi to fill up.

Another day, another taxi, all is well in Africa

Our journey to Agou was not uneventful. It involved a motorbike accident and several conversations with musicians and Rasta’s, all asking me if I was married to Alan. After 15 cramped hours in the share taxi, my sense of humour was slipping away. I informed Alan that we were married from that point on in the trip. At the Bafana Bafana guesthouse, Alan enjoyed a local meal while I enjoyed the local beer.

1 May: Joe had declared himself our official guide and by 07h00, we were on our way to Agou in a share taxi. There were four other passengers but after five km, the driver stopped, two passengers got on a motorbike, we traveled one km further, stopped again and the same two passengers got back in.  There is some law and order in Togo and you get a fine for overloading, but looking at some of the other vehicles and luggage, I was determined not to think logically while traveling in Africa.

It could have been the heat, but I watched in amazement as two joggers came past, running slowly for 10 m before stopping and doing some dance movements to the left and then the right before repeating the exercise.

The 12 km hike to Mt Agou turned out to be pure magic. 30 m Silk Cotton trees reminded me of the Avatar movie and I couldn’t stop trying the capture the images on camera. We took shortcuts through the villages and were greeted by everyone. The villages were immaculate and the villagers use everything in nature. They pick leaves to feed the goats and in the one village’ courthouse, they contained the branches to act as umbrellas. According to Joe, petty crime is punishable by a bottle of wine while, more serious crime calls for a goat. Mangoes and avocadoes kept falling off the trees.

We can learn a lot about green living from this village.

Before reaching the top, I received a lecture from Alan about keeping a low profile in the security area and being careful taking  pictures. Lucky for us, just as the security guy was escorting us to the top, two French guys arrived in a taxi, distracting everyone’s attention by taking pictures left right and centre from the communication towers on top. No one, including Alan, said anything when I took a picture of the South African flag next to the Mt Agou sign. We didn’t linger too long and just before we got our passports back, we chucked the rubbish that was lying around the dustbin into the dustbin.

On top of Mt Agou

Descending was just as pleasurable. At the Agblodone village we were invited for lunch by the locals and were given Avocadoes to take with us. Back at the start, Alan and Joe had some home made beer before we got a share taxi back to Kpalima.

Walking down the mountain

After a quick shower, we were on our way to Mt Kloutse. The guide was not the friendliest and once again, a Rasta was lurking in the background. We ended up paying a fee to be on the mountain and hiked to the top before descending to Agome Tomegbe, Joe’s village.

The hike involved some bundu bashing and I thought Joe was wary of snakes, but it turned out to be snares he was wary about. Safely at the village, we went from home to home where he introduced us to all his family. Alan got more chillies (for his garden) from the market and then we headed back through the spectacular road again.

For supper, we had bread with avocadoes, lemon juice and salt. My best meal so far.

Nigeria – on our way from Cameroon to Togo

Once in Calabar, the waiting started again. When I tried to make the Customs queue more efficient (shouting id cards this side, passports this side and questioning everyone that looked like they were pushing in), Alan hissed at me 'mind your own business', so I tried to take a deep breath and be the most patient person in Africa. It was only later that I was informed that people were paying the security guy bribes to be let in by means of phone cards J

The immigration officer was very unhappy that I had been issued another visa. After making a statement about our journey and our religion, our pictures were taken and we given an ultimatum: “One week to get out of Nigeria or you will be arrested”.

People were shouting everywhere. The police demanded money. The union demanded money. After returning from a much needed toilet break, I discovered that our luggage was carried 20 meter to our waiting taxi by two guys, who demanded an exorbitant amount and another fight broke out. I got in the taxi, stuffed toilet paper in my ears and read my book until the fight was resolved. The guys were paid a fifth of what they wanted and we were finally on our way to Uyo. 

We had a very enthusiastic preacher with us who prayed for our safe journey. I joined him and prayed for calmness and the sensibility not to knock someone’s teeth out.

My resolution of not drinking any alcohol whilst on the trip was broken after I was offered an ice, ice cold beer. After watching the Michael Jackson video 4 times, Alan went with the bar tender looking for food.

At the food stall, the bar tender asked Alan if he had any medication on the trip. It was only after answering: “Yes, stuff for headaches and stomach” that he was handed a plate of custard and beans.

27 April: We were picked up by our driver at 06h00. By 08h30, we were still waiting, but luckily Alan and myself, being seasoned African travelers by now, could calm the Cameroonian’s traveling with us.

Our enthusiastic pastor started our journey singing and then prayed, asking God to protect the driver, the engine, the four wheels and us. He took his job seriously and after 4 hrs he asked a passenger to sing hymns, competing with the local radio.

It was a big relief to me since the couple behind me had been chewing bubblegum the past hours and the toilet paper I stuffed in my ears was not effective. It was very touching to see how the Cameroonian couple treated one another and their little boy. I have never seen a happier 5 month old boy.

We finally arrived in a very chaotic Lagos at 18h30. Rachel, a Cameroonian working in Ghana, was also going to Lome and arranged transport to the motor park where the taxis leave for Togo. At the hectic motor park, Alan and Rachel went looking for a money changer whilst I was left behind with the luggage and an extremely irate driver. It felt like ages, in which my imagination ran wild, before they returned.

Lagos was getting to everyone and instead of looking for accommodation for what was left of the evening, we bargained for a share taxi. Spread out on the bonnets of the taxis, Rachel, Alan and the group of young Nigerians talked politics and soccer whilst I was saying one prayer after another, hoping that my poor dad would never find out that his daughter was at that moment, stuck in a motor park in Lagos, surrounded by Nigerians.

28 April: We finally left Lagos at 00h30. The trip was not uneventful and we were stopped several times along the road. At the Benin border, the custom official asked Alan if didn’t have anything for him. Alan gave him N200 and he grabbed the other N200 as well. I felt like punching him.

Cameroon – Mt Cameroon

20 April.  Still not used to all the attention, we sat on our Landlord’s stoep chatting to all the locals and the immigration officer who informed me that my visa had expired. He kept on hinting for a gift. It was not his lucky day. Still unable to exchange any currency, he ended up buying us a coke and bread, which I gratefully gulped down. 

By 10h00, George, our landlord brought his truck around and our baggage was thrown in the back, a gospel tape was put in the tape deck and off we sped on a very dusty road. In the following hour, two snakes sailed across the road.

Finding someone to exchange money was turning into a mission so we gave George $10 to cover his costs before being able to exchange some Euros. Armed with local currency, we took a motorbike to the motor park, got lucky and within 15 minutes, we were on our way to Bimenda. 4 People in the front and 4 in the back.

Colourful plakkies everywhere

The famous Ring Road lay ahead. Unfortunately, all we saw was dust and darkness. The windows were kept open (maybe because the boot was already open) and red dust followed us everywhere. By the time we finally made it to Bimenda at 21h15, we were covered in red dust and the driver took a towel and dusted us and the luggage. Alan, myself and our 4 backpacks shared a motorbike and the driver to the International hotel, who surprisingly offered us accommodation. I took the longest shower of my life, trying in vain to get the red dust off myself and my clothes.

The famous red dust

We were starving. Being in the car with 7 other people made sleeping impossible since falling asleep could mean knocking your fellow passenger unconscious with your head going through the potholes. Since there was no space, drinking and eating was also impossible. 12 hours in a taxi without stopping had taken its toll.

21 April. A visit to the Immigration Office confirmed my suspicion about the immigration officer in Dumbo’s hints for a gift. Al bought tickets for the bus and was chuffed to mention we had booked seats and would be leaving at 13h30. Ye right!

How to capture a tall woman

Comes15h00 and all the passengers booked on 3 busses are put on one bus. Fights were inevitable. The guy who booked seat 11 on one of the three busses looked forlornly at the lady sitting in his seat. She in turn glares at me, since we were both booked on different busses on seat 16. 30 Minutes later the driver hit a speed bump and everyone flew in the air, mobiles and loud verbal abuses included. Luckily for us, we had a mayor or two with us going to a conference and the driver slowed down.

 As we “rescued” more and more people stranded along the road and the breathing space inside the already overloaded bus got less and less, several more fights broke out. Alan and I joined the “you won’t go to heaven” chant if the bus driver refused to rescue any more people.  We finally arrived in Buea at 23h30 where we had to use a 20 liter water drum as a bath plug and the rubbish basket as a table since the only electric plug was above the basin.

We used our 20 liter water can as a bathplug

22 April: The day was spent arranging my visa to Nigeria, the trek to Mt Cameroon and exchanging money. A visit to the internet café also showed me that I was getting very patient. 

23 April: We were slogging down the street by 7h00, big 85l backpacks filled with 6l of water on our backs, small backpacks filled with 3l of water in front, expecting to start the hike by 7h30, as arranged the previous day. By 09h00, our official hike started at upper farm, where were cheered on by prisoners chanting 'put a bit more effort in the hiking'.

The official start of the hike

My bird watching reverie was crushed after Francis gave me the same answer “it’s a bird” twice after I admired the bird calls. Since there was water available at hut 1, we had some snacks and a short rest before pushing on. All along the Guinness Route we encountered empty whisky sachets. Our guide's explanation was: 'It's offerings to Efaso Moto, the owner and protector of Mt Cameroon. He will allow people ot live and visit the mountain as long as nothing is removed. When annoyed, he will shake the ground and when angry, he will spit fire into the air.' I had my doubts about the whisky.

A huge fig tree

Another steep uphill followed the small break at intermediate hut and then we stopped at the magic tree.  According to legend, the tree survived previous volcanic eruptions and special reflecting tape is wrapped around it so people can see if from afar. Pretty soon after, we reached hut 2 where a group of students were already relaxing and admiring the view.

The magic tree

Once the sun sets the temperature drops, so after a quick wash, the thermals were donned. Whilst we were laying snug in our sleeping bags listening to the student group singing, they were sitting outside drinking whisky with the porters and guides.

24 April: We only left the hut by 7h30 and after a steep uphill reached hut 3. The temperature dropped and whilst Alan and I were putting on our layers, the porters decided not to escort us to the summit. Although it was not as steep as the first bit, Alan was starting to show strain. Francis pointed out a rock to me and I was instructed to go ahead, which I did, thinking I could set up the GPS, cameras and flag before they arrive.

Catching my breath

Unfortunately, the wind was howling, my camera got all misted up and my GPS recorded a height of 4075 m and said I was 20 m from the peak mentioned on Peak baggers. It was sad to leave so soon but Francis and Alan were suffering. They raced down the scree and by the time we met up with the porters, it was hot again.

The 1999 crater

Their race continued but William, the porter was kind enough to carry the litter I picked up along the way. I was very tired but felt a bit disappointed after reaching the camp. After fetching some water, picking up the litter around the camp and having a quick wash, I headed for a hill from where I watched the sun set while the guys made a fire, cooked the food, and talked politics and soccer.

25 April: I was not the only one awake by 4h00 and Francis our porter entertained us with his gospel songs while making a fire. After burning the rubbish we picked up, we were off by 7h00. 5 Minutes of forest was followed by Savannah and then the lava field.

Mt Cameroon is a fascinating mountain and forest followed soon after. It became pretty slippery and we all took a tumble or ten. By 11h00, we have reached Bokwaanga, where we took a share taxi to Mt CEO Offices.

Last stretch through a forest

Along the way, I have picked up more litter and by now, my daypack was, amongst other things, really in need of a wash. We took a share taxi to Motor Park 17 in Limbe and then another share taxi to Limbe where Alan took an instant liking in the rustic Bay hotel.

I immediately started washing my day pack and then I had to abandon the mission to go and look for an ATM machine, a trip we repeated three times because I kept on forgetting things at the hotel. Then it was off to the Fako Fast Ferry to buy our tickets. We were pleasantly surprised to see a picture of the boat and to hear it was only CFA 30000 to Calabar and that we had to be there by 3 am.

The rest of the afternoon was spent washing and trying to dry our clothes and recharging everything. I could not stop staring at Malabo Island, tempting to take a boat and see if we might get lucky and be granted permission to visit Equatorial Guinea’s highest mountain.

26 April: Getting to the harbour that time of morning was a bit scary so we didn’t haggle too much about the overpriced motorbike ride to the harbour. The Ferry Service was very efficient. Our passports were taken, our tickets stamped, baggage searched (till they reached all the wet laundry and abandoned any further searches) and chucked in a truck before we were also chucked in busses.

A lack of sleep made everyone grumpy and several arguments broke out. One guy carrying fish was told to get rid of it before entering the bus. Another guy who complained about the delay and mentioned time and money was informed by the wise elderly that he could, since he has the money, take a flight, but that at the last flight, the passengers were stuck on the plane for 10 hours waiting without any water.

Listening to all the bantering, I was happy to be where I was, squashed in or not. Finally the bus moved to the wharf and we waited for another hour listening to some heated conversations before being allowed on the boat.

We finally left Cameroon at 6h00 and the journey was started with a prayer. A video of a gospel concert were played repeatedly for the next three hours. Then a local movie (part 1 and 2) from Nigeria was shown and had everyone in stitches.

Nigeria – Cameroon – The Dumbo Trek

Stops were few and far in between. At our first village, we met a Rastafarian who was kicked out of Cameroon. He believed he was Lucky Dube’s brother and a prophet.

Mountains in Cameroon

Mangoes that fell off the trees kept us hydrated since we sweated like crazy and because of the drought, water was very scarce. Just when I thought I could not lose another drop of sweat, it started raining. We walked in the rain for an hour before the sky was covered with flying ants. Two little boys carrying food to their village, who had joined us walking for the past 10 km, stopped to feast on them while we marched on.

One of the little boys that joined us

When we reached the Sabongido village, Thomas had clearly had enough after a 12 hour hike. Our bags were promptly tied on to a motorbike and after protesting that we didn’t have enough Naira to pay the driver, he insisted on paying for us. He has had it with the crazy tourists that insisted on doing the Dumbo trek, used only by smugglers after a perfectly good road was build between Bissaula and Cameroon.

A steep uphill

Take 1 driver, 2 passengers, 2 85L backpacks, 2 small backpacks; put them on 1 motorbike on 1 extremely bad road and you have an adventure. Alan threatened to get off and walk every time falling seemed inevitable and I giggled nervously, thinking that it’s a miracle that we hadn’t fallen yet.

The arrival of two drenched, shivering and filthy tourists in Dumbo caused quite a stir. The immigration officer bought us a cold drink and because we needed his stamp for our passport, we tried to make small talk ignoring the vision of dry clothes after a nice hot shower.  

Finally we were shown to a room and told we could pay the next day, after exchanging money. Grateful that we had a dry place to sleep, we accepted the bucket of cold water.

Nigeria – Chappel Waddi

8 April: Five minutes after stepping off the airplane in Lagos, I was drenched with sweat. It was hot. It was very hot. Luckily the arrival cards were made of cardboard, which we used as fans. After exchanging money, we took a very expensive taxi to Westtown inn. After all the horror stories we had heard about Nigeria, we didn’t want to hang around anywhere unnecessarily, especially not since it was almost midnight. 

In order to get our visas, I had to make a hotel reservation before the time and was told that two rooms would be $200. I e-mailed back to say that we would be sharing a room and that the cost, according to their website, would therefore be $100. I never received a reply back.

Dodgy room or not, the air-conditioning was pure heaven.

9 April: Breakfast was a dry omelet complimenting a piece of dry bread and we never received any change from the $200 we had to pay as a deposit. The manager was right after all, the room was $200. In hind sight we should have polished off the mini bar.

Another very expensive taxi to the motor park followed. We had changed our plans. Instead of flying to Abuja and taking a share taxi to Serti, we would take a share taxi directly to Serti. Seeing the bible lying on the taxi’s dashboard and listening to the hymns being sung, eased my mind a bit. During the 90 minutes it took the driver to get everyone’s luggage in, several arguments broke out.  Sweating profusely, I tapped my feet to the rhythm of the hymns sung. I controlled my fear by imagining thoughts like “What the hell did I get myself into” floating skywards in a tiny bubble, before exploding. A long prayer by the driver and our 16 fellow passengers followed, and then we were off on our estimated 15 hour journey.

Exactly seven hours later, we stopped for a bladder break. Men and woman alike formed a line next to the road, their backs turned to the passing cars and emptied their bladders. I am proud to say, I was amongst them.  It was only after Alan’s sarcastic remark “Nice white bum”, that I realized the Nigerian ladies were all wearing skirts. We were passed onto three more taxis before our journey ended in Makurdi by 23h00.   

10 April: A motorbike ride to the motor park was followed by our first taxi for the day. Two kilometers further, we also had our first breakdown of the day. Several more taxis followed and we finally arrived in Serti at 21h30. A bucket wash at the “Gods time is the best” hotel followed before I hit the sack, amazed at how strong I still felt.

11 April: After arranging a chartered vehicle and guide at the Serti Tourist camp, we were finally on our way. The trip was not uneventful. Some roads have gigantic potholes, so it is quite common to see vehicles coming straight towards you in the oncoming lanes. Our driver was also adamant not to pay “toll fees” at a boom gate erected by locals and a fistfight was avoided when he tried to run the local over.

In Njawa, we were welcomed by Mr. Chronicle, the Gashuki Gumti's national parks’ head. He generously offered us a bed in his house, washing facilities and food. People flocked to come and greet us and "you're welcome", “you’re very welcome”, were heard wherever we went.

12 April: Being a porter on Chappel Whaddi is clearly not a popular profession. When Anthony, our guide tried to recruit porters, everyone scattered away. Unfortunately for them, Hebrew and 14/14 were too slow. Mr. Chronicle pulled them to one side and what seemed like an earnest talk followed.

Following Mr. Chronicle’s instructions not to let Hebrew and 14/14 escape, Anthony set a heavy pace and we arrived at Jauro Hamasale village just in time to greet the chief. And then we were offered a lovely hut to stay in, maize, wild honey, sugar cane and a live chicken. The guides were extremely excited about carrying the chicken up the mountain and slaughtering it on top. My facial expression must have changed their minds. When I got back after a wash in the river, the chicken was slaughtered. I muted Alan and Anthony’s snoring by stuffing toilet paper in my ears.

With the chief, just before our hike to the highest peak

13 April. The chief’s extended family once again brought us too much food. We started our hike at 7h00 and got to our campsite at 11h30. I was eager to get to the top but Anthony was adamant to eat first and take a siesta till 15h00. When it started raining, he took one look at my panic stricken face and changed his mind. We made it to the top.

Taking GPS reading at the top

Once back, everyone was relieved to take a siesta while I explored the mountain.

The evening, sitting around the fire, we were all in stitches when Alan tried to convince the Nigerians that the dreadful Chinese Soya was proper food.

14 April. A terrible nightmare about visiting the wrong peak resulted in my dragging Anthony back to the summit where I measured the other two peaks close by as well. Our early morning visit was rewarded by fresh milk from a Fulani who stays at the top and after breakfast, we started our hike back to Jauro Hamasale, where lunch awaited. After the obligatory dash was paid to the chief and the photos with his wives taken, Anthony led the stiff hike back.

My first Sunrise on a Western African peak

Mr. Cronicle and his welcoming committee were waiting for us and insisted on carrying our day packs back the last 2 km to his home. After being offered food and a bucket of water to wash in, we started telling stories.  By the time Hebrew and 14/14 were asked if they would take another group up, we were all hysterical.

Our reluctant porters made it back safely

15 April. 3 Motorbikes were needed to take us back to Serti and since there were no volunteers (maybe our big backpacks had something to do with it), Mr. Chronicle’s help was called for. Three very reluctant drivers were ordered to take us to Nguranje.

The journey through the mountains was not uneventful. Motorcycles had to be swapped to handle some of the steep uphills and eyes were closed on most of the steep downhills. Once at Nguranje, Alan refused to travel another centimeter on a motorbike and we chartered a taxi to Serti, where we were treated like big adventurers.

A two hour journey followed through the mountains

16 April. When the Moslem prayers started, we were walking to the motor park, where it took 3 hours before the taxi was full. At Marabastad, Alan discovered that his daypack with some of his valuables was never transferred to our current taxi and arrangements were made to get the backpack back to the motor park in Takum. Another taxi transfer led to another adventure. AC our driver was singing along to a cassette of gospel songs with such immense pleasure that we all joined in. Our first running water and electricity in days awaited us in Takum. It was pure bliss.

Stopping for petrol along the way

17 April. I suspect not a lot of tourists visit Takum. On our way to the motor park, we were paid by a local to have our picture taken. Alan’s bag has not arrived yet and we were advised to return after lunch.  While walking back peacefully to our hotel, feasting on the mangoes that have fallen off the trees, we were picked up by the security police and interrogated for two hours. It was obvious, Takum doesn’t get tourists.

Back at the motor park, Al was informed that he had to go back all the way to Serti to fetch his own backpack, since it contained valuables.

An enjoyable 24 hours followed where I had a whole room to myself, a heavenly shower every 30 minutes when the heat got too much, and the best drink ever – an ice cold coke. At 19h00, I experienced a magnificent lightning storm before the rain poured down.

Al had an adventurous ride back to Serti where he was welcomed back like a lost brother. He endured the storm in a truck with no wipers.

18 April. I kept alternating between watching the lizards and taking a much needed cold shower to counteract the heat till Alan arrived back at 14h00. At 15h00, we were instructed by the immigration officer to go back to Lagos (a 2 day journey) since I was illegally in Nigeria. The custom official at the airport had stamped the wrong date in my passport.

Some pleading and tears followed, and after being kept in suspense for over two hours, we were told that we would not be allowed out of the country, but if we wanted to take the risk, we didn’t have to return to Lagos. We took the chance.

A bumpy ride on the back of the motorbike followed and pygmy kingfishers, parrots and birds of prey accompanied us all the way to Bissaula.

Our drivers were extremely helpful and arranged accommodation and a porter for us before taking us to the health inspector and then the immigration officer. 21h00 was no time to sort out problems in a small village on the border of Nigeria and Cameroon, and we were instructed to come back the next morning.

3 Minutes after entering our room and noticing the gigantic cockroaches and smelly toilet, my tent was pitched outside. Because of the heat, I was surrounded by locals sleeping on tables, chairs and even motorbikes. I felt very safe in my tent, protected from all the cockroaches, listening to everyone snoring around me.

19 April: The next morning, Alan emerged from the dingy room with horror stories about the cockroaches getting cozy in his sweaty hair. The immigration officer must have taken pity on us because our passports were stamped with no further questions. Thomas lifted both our backpacks on his head and by 06h00, our official Dumbo Trek started.