the Not Johnny Clegg Story of Travel In Africa
We climbed quickly into the air and escaped the clutches of Kinshasa below us, with Brazza rapidly fading behind us too as we headed towards Douala and sanity. It’s a relatively short flight, across Congo-Brazza, Gabon, and I would imagine Equatorial Guinea, before getting to Cameroon. There was the odd bit of turbulence as we flew into the darkness of a tropical night, the sun setting very quickly in Africa, no dilly-dallying like in Europe. We were to transfer from the international side to the domestic side and get a flight to Yaoundé from there, with our host Eric, who would provide our visas on arrival. Douala soon appeared on the horizon, lights flickering in the distance, a reassuring sign that we were on track. Then they disappeared. Just for a couple of minutes, then reappeared. If we’re being blocked by mountains, I thought, we’re pretty fucking low to the ground. But the lights were well below us – it was just a normal night of patchy electricity, with generators kicking in whenever the power failed. Which was often.
We landed without problems and soon made our way into the arrivals hall. Rob and his Gabonese business partner rounded us up, including a young woman from South Africa’s tourism board, who spoke fluent French, having grown up in exile in Paris and attended a swanky school there, she told me. Several times. Where was Eric? We needed our visas and clearance to get to the domestic flight. Turns out his flight from Yaoundé had been cancelled due to bad weather. No visas, no entry. No power, no lights. And every time the lights came back on, the South Africans were clear to everyone – diving on their luggage to make sure nobody stole it in the dark. For shame! After a couple of hours of hanging around the humid arrivals desk, our Gabonese colleague arguing with the officials in a combination of French and English, with a few choice Zulu and Afrikaans swearwords thrown in, had managed to get us out of the airport and off to a hotel for the night, our connecting flight having long since departed. Only problem, we had to leave our passports behind.
We headed to the Akwa Palace Hotel, not too far away and close to the Wouri River, where logs were floated down from the interior, destined mainly for China. It was late by now and everything was closed. Our host managed to get a chef and waitress to serve us dinner. “Just remember – everything makes you sick, so stick to overcooked chicken!” Rob hissed in my ear. I looked at the menu, and asked the waitress what she’d recommend. “The ndolé! It’s delicious!” was the immediate, infectious response. I was sold. It’s basically a wild spinach that is cooked in a variety of different ways depending on location and culture. Mine came with chillies, shrimp and peanuts. It was superb. I got lost in the tastes as Rob was demanding sauce to make his overcooked chicken palatable. He lathered it on the leathery fowl and launched into it, before lunging for a beer and gulping it down as the piri-piri sauce caught his throat. Once he’d stopped choking, he shut up for a bit. What a win!
Before dawn the next morning we got into our air-conditioned 4×4 and started the five hour, 230km trip to Yaoundé, Cameroon’s capital city. We’d arrived about two weeks before the elections, held faithfully every seven years by incumbent Paul Biya in the solid knowledge that they’re rigged in his favour and France prefers him in power to the unknown*. What it did mean, though, was that as we traversed the countryside, we hit army roadblocks every 20 or 30 kilometres. The process was simple: the driver drove as fast as he could through the winding roads of the forest and open grasslands, overtaking massive logging trucks and petrol hauliers without much thought for what may be coming the other way, at equally breakneck speed; hooting at everything in sight, through small villages with timber houses, some painted brightly, others not, scattering chickens, children and goats as he went. As the rudimentary roadblocks loomed – a plank with nine-inch nails facing upwards and soldiers with AK-47s manning them in case you decide to skip them – he would swear, screech to a halt and put his subservient smiley face on. Because we didn’t have our passports back yet. No sweat, he calmly gave his identity card and a wad of cash at each stop and we were on our way again. In retrospect, we were beyond lucky that we weren’t locked up for days or weeks on end while the issue was sorted out, but yours truly was filled with the bonhomie of a man released from the shame of apartheid, and faith in the humanity of all people. Basically, a naïve idiot. But it was this trip, careening through the rainforests, our driver and minder** regaling stories of Roger Milla and other football heroes, the forests flying by with stunning majesty, smells, sounds and lighting, with Manu Dibango, Salif Keita and Youssou N’Dour for company, that cemented my love for the continent, my people and its music. I can still smell those rainforests whenever I hear that music. I can still recall the arguments about which of the Biyiks was the better footballer. Magical.
We arrived in Yaoundé just before 9 am, so just in time for the start of the main conference to cement ties between South Africa and Cameroon. We sat at the podium, with yours truly to do the introductory speech, much to my horror. We waited patiently for the local dignitaries to arrive. Then took a coffee break at 10am. By 11am, when the local governor and minister of trade had decided which of them would enter last to the greater fanfare, we got underway. Sort of. We had to wait for the TV crews to get back from their own break and then repeat the sweeping entrances and ovations. That done, brief introductory speeches out of the way, it was time for lunch.***
Host Eric was in fine fettle by now, with coverage on national television assured, and took us to an ‘eco-lodge’ for lunch. It was a beautiful wooden house perched on top of a hill looking across tropical forests as far as the eye could see. It was built from the trees that once inhabited the hill and the now lack of vegetation was creating serious erosion, which the owner, who wanted to build another twenty of them on the hills around there, seemed oblivious to. Lunch was great though – donkey, pork and goat meat skewers presented on a grooved wooden platter with different spices in each groove. You rolled your skewer in whichever one you wanted, and they then grilled it for you. Served with deep-fried plantains, now a firm favourite of mine and washed down with a small 33 Export. Back to the hotel just in time for the coffee break.
By this stage, trouble was brewing in paradise, with Rob and his sidekick demanding our passports back and accusing Eric of effectively holding us hostage. Eric was incensed, accusing them of wanting a free trip that they were simply using for their own business. I stayed out of it, figuring that he who holds the passport is king. And he also had my plane ticket. The afternoon flew past, with recriminations replaced by reconciliations and renewed animosity by turn, but I was meeting with great people, many of whom were interested in sending their kids to South African universities. I was happy to oblige, having recently been at one and helped them with entrance requirements on return.
Eric then introduced me to a good friend of his – the CEO of the local branch of one of the world’s largest tobacco companies. We were soon off to his aunt’s fantastic restaurant* for dinner, with a bunch of South African Air Force pilots for company as well. They were training the Cameroon Air Force, but seldom got into the skies because of the weather, so spent most of their time drinking in the hotel. And then being grounded because they weren’t in any condition to fly. Dinner was sublime, again, with a variety of seafood, meats, vegetables and casava concoctions that I can’t remember the names of. The rest of the week followed a fairly similar pattern of torturous Cameroonian hierarchy politics, wasted time, great meetings, better food and excellent company. Time to head back to Douala and the final leg of our journey – still (worryingly) no passports in sight.
*Sorry Flair, that was the distinct impression given to us at the time, and it persists today!
**We imagined he was just there to keep us safe from harm, but was in fact Secret Service assigned to us to make sure we weren’t spying on the elections, we found out much later.
***I think you’re getting to understand that I’m a victim of largesse in all of this and lunches were thrust one me at an early age.
As digested by Deebee7
Onna telly this week
Friday 30th April
| Leicester v Ulster | 20:00 | BT Sport 2 |
| France v England (women) | 20:00 | BBC iPlayer/Red Button |
Saturday 1st May
| Stormers v Sharks | 13:00 | Premier Sports 2 |
| Toulouse v Bordeaux | 15:00 | Channel 4 / BT Sport 3 |
| Bulls v Lions | 18:00 | Premier Sports 1 |
| Bath v Montpellier | 20:00 | BT Sport 2 |
Sunday 2nd May
| La Rochelle v Leinster | 15:00 | BT Sport 2 |
Ovally Balls 
That’s ok, we won, so I don’t care.
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I want to blame Americans but it’s possible that this is mainly aimed at Avs.
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hats off to the Maori mp guy who did a haka in defiance in Nz’s parliament…………..
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Are they implying paper bags are suitable? All a bit vague and unhelpful.
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Don’t say anything about diesel either.
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Loads of Aussies who’ve scored points in finals have Irish-sounding family names
Turns out no-one w/o an Irish surname has ever scored a penalty or conversion for Oz in a RWC final (Lynagh, Burke, Flatley, Foley)
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B+I Lions v Japan on Channel 4.
Ospreys sign Jack Regan from The Sweeney/Highlanders.
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Chimpie – bags made from hemp are fine. Saving the planet innit.
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Slade – i don’t know enough about NZ politics to comment. Is there any basis for the claim that the government are creating 2 systems of health care or that the other party is racist?
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Craigs
Talk is of creating ‘special’ social/health provision for Maori -so, differentiation and without asking the Maori what they actually want/need. I think they are after a universal system that also meets their needs.
Speaker kept calling point of order against this guy who eventually haka’d in defiance/frustration.
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He’s the same MP who was ejected for not wearing a tie, wearing a traditional traditional item instead. They changed the rule over ties shortly after.
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Refit – that was a pretty dumb rule.
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Hask gonna Hask
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Can’t Haskell move on to ripping some more modern comdedy? That sub-David Brent schtik is probably past its sell-by date now.
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Haven’t worn a tie in over a year. Only wear them to interviews and important face to face meetings. For the win.
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In fact I bought some new suits and ties when Debenhams in Ashford closed down last year. Only worn a couple so I guess I have a lifetime supply if I don’t get too much fatter.
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The most spectacular play in Prague this morning. You have to go back to 9.3 overs in the Bohemians (BCC) innings to view it.
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@TomP – The commentators have never seen it done before, but I have.
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About 18 years ago at the Hepworth and Idle Cricket Ground by a Bradford CAMRA player who I could name but won’t.
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Mr Maximo, the sort of annoying person who fundamentally knows they’re annoying but revels in it, is having a welcome day off. Danny is excellent as ever and the stand-in is doing a good job too. They have, however, done themselves a disservice by both coming out as fans of The Waterboys and The Whole of the Moon in particular.
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Tomp – so they can play in the rain. True hero’s.
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@OT – Happily the fielder this morning (in your clip and TomP’s) top scored in the run chase and was man of the match!
Ala.. cough, splutter etc for Bradford CAMRA did not manage to do the same.
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I sent Dany a message about the Waterboys gibberish earlier.
He’s a good lad but a black mark against him is he jumped ship from Barbarians to Vinohrady a few years ago. Was a handy bowler and an uncultured but sometimes effective batsman.
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@TomP – It didn’t do much good as they’ve since followed it up with a paean to Crowded House.
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I can only put it down to his Vinohrady allegiance.
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Last summer the two main commentators were Dany and Terry. Terry can talk a lot and somehow ended up on the relative strengths of Czech cricket and Australian ice hockey so things can get worse.
(Terry was my co-commentator in the game I did colour on. We spent a fair amount of time discussing Czech beer and wine, and dissing a mutual friend of ours who was also at the ground that day. Talking about enthusiastic cricket is quite hard and sort of pointless when the viewers can see what’s happening.)
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“Talking about enthusiastic cricket”
I don’t think I like this new terminology.
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Doesn’t look like many other people like this new terminology either.
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And rightly so.
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Craigs, I wore a tie on Monday for the first time in a few years. Couldn’t do up the top button on my shirt. I blame Covid.
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I took every pair of heels I owned (not many, in fact) to the charity shop after the first lockdown.
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“I blame Covid”
You might as well blame Ovid.
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Let others praise ancient times; I am glad I was born in these
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Deebs – and you’re a bloke. Me too!
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Funny time for Thaum to come out as a bloke. (S)he didn’t give us much time to guess after the news about the heels either.
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:-D
Context is everything!
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But seriously … I can vote, get an edjumacation, work, have a bank account in my own name, own property (but not slaves), go on the pill, get an abortion, etc. I can’t imagine being sentenced to a life of domestic drudgery. It certainly wouldn’t have gone well.
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On the other hand, I can totally see myself as Gráinne the Pirate Queen (an ancestor, according to my mother), or the more mythical Queen Medh, despite her wickedness against the good Ulsterfolk.
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@Thaum – Me too…
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Maybe we should start a hashtag thingy.
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I’m feeling like this tonight
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Thaum – I can get you some slaves, no problem.
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Brexit dividend
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Maybe we should start a hashtag thingy.
I’m not convinced scary pirates or bloodthirsty queens would’ve gone in for hashtags and posting on Twitter or Instagram myself. Unless it was #stoletheQE2today! or #ransackedBojosdonorfundedflatrennovations or some such. Modern day slavery is best encapsulated here:
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7-7 after 7 minutes between the Highlanders and Reds in the Trans-Tasman Super Bubble So Far Going Ahead Rugby Extravaganza! 🏉
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Reds got the shove on the Highlanders there, but ref blew it for a reset. Reds get an offside penalty and hoof it to the Highlanders 22. They’ve been getting over the advantage line quite regularly until they spill the 💊 and give the Highlanders a defensive scrum.
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Turning each other over in midfield and getting through tackles before getting turned over is pretty much the pattern for now. Then Reds get pinged for offside just outside their 22. Highlanders go to touch. They go wide, botch it but regather and force a 5m scrum.
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And then my internet drops, leaving you all gagging and gasping for the sweet oxygen of informed commentary. As soon as I find some, I’ll direct you to it.
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We’re back! And the Highlanders lead 14-7. Reds have it in midfield, but going nowhere so hoof it downfield. Landers break and the ref misses a pretty obvious forward pass. Aaron Smith bundled into touch and for the 2nd time tries to go quickly when it’s not his ball. The goofy grinning suggests it’s deliberate and slightly sneaky.
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