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 
Ready and Willing tour, BB, Glasgow Apollo
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Fucking hell!
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Ford has been very good
That pass was terrific
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Mon Ulster, grandstand finish
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Super stuff – Deebee. I always pass your traveller’s tales on to my wife – she spent a couple of VSO years in Tanzania and enjoys how you recreate the atmosphere of Africa….
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Game of two halfs right enough
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Why do I fucking watch rugby? Grr.
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That is a very good second half performance
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French refs apparently don’t call squint line-out throws. That’s the second I’ve seen, and I haven’t been paying that much attention.
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All right, I’m just having a whinge.
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Well done Tiggers. Cracking second half performance. Key decision appears to have been replacing the aged front row and bringing Ben Youngs on. Who’d have thought
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Your team just lost after leading Thaum – I think you’re allowed a whinge or two.
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Can I have five?
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I wouldn’t mind losing to other teams.
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(So much.)
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Coverdale’s OK when sings lower and bluesy. He’s rubbish when he tries to sing higher and do the screamy stuff. That’s why I prefer the early Whitesnake to the latter stuff. Christ he had Lord, Paice, Murray, Moody and Marsden in the band at one point – that was a helluva lineup.
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I think Plant’s point was that he was ripping off Led Zep.
Not that LZ didn’t ‘borrow’ from other musicians….
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However, I don’t think anyone would argue that Whitesnake were groundbreaking.
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I’d argue that in terms of musicianship, strength of songs, performance, artistry and general impact, Glen Campbell is a colossus compared to any or all of Whitesnake
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That’s a bold statement, Ticht, but as I am blissfully unaware of the Campbell oeuvre, I’m inclined to agree.
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And don’t bother posting any links; I won’t listen. ;-)
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I think it’s fair to say that Here I Go Again fulfils all my Whitesnake needs. I’m aware I may be missing out if they did anything funnier, but although it always amuses me I don’t need to hear it that often. The album with it on in maybe 1987(?) was one of the first my brother bought so I must have heard whatever else was on that, but can’t remember any of them. I’ve never knowingly heard anything else of theirs. An old flatmate of mine bought one of their LPs once because it had a really silly cover, but he had no intention of actually listening to it and to my knowledge never did. I think he bought the Roger Daltrey solo album with the picture of him as a centaur on the front the same day, we might have got stoned enough to listen to a song off of that.
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It’s impossible not to know at least one Glen Campbell song even if you don’t know it’s him.
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Here I go again was originally recorded in ’82 and revamped and made worse for the 1987 album.
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Bought a copy of Live…. in the Heart of the City the other day too. Amazed it hasn’t been cancelled.
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Thaum – you’ve never heard Wichita Lineman? By The Time I Get To Phoenix? Rhinestone Cowboy? Both Sides Now? Galveston? Gentle On My Mind? You are missing out on some brilliant pop songs, never mind calling them country. And one from his later albums, Ghost on the Canvas? Utterly brilliant. Go on Thaum, I dare you, give it a listen! Nowhere near country, just a beautiful song with very poignant lyrics.
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Favourite recent purchase is this album tho. Vinyl version bought from BBC radio Essex LP clearance in the late 90s, and sitting in a dusty box in a shed in Surrey along with the Garrard BBC turntable.
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Thaum, it’s as much as he played on stuff by Frank Sinatra, Jan and Dean, Elvis, Beach Boys, Righteous Brothers etc etc
Couldn’t read a note, but he was one of the best guitarists you’ll ever hear.
I love his own stuff, but I’d wager that everyone will love several songs he’s played on.
I like him a lot
It might be obvious
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Ye dogs, that song is 10 years old!
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“Ye dogs, that song is 10 years old!”
And Willie Dixon doesn’t sound a day over 90 on it.
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BT Sport doing their fantasy Lions picks, with 2 Englishmen (one of them being Lol), an Irishman and a Welshman.
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I can think of quite a few pubs where the Glen Campbell songs would be close to being the ones played most often on the jukeboxes. Might say more about the places I’m prepared to drink in and the towns I’ve lived in than anything else of course. Mrs CMW tells me this would go for pretty much any of the pubs in Campbeltown back in the day though Kenny Rogers would apparently be top of the pile by quite a distance.
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I switched that of when George North got picked.
I’m a big fan of GN, but it’s obviously out of date now.
I think the squad gets announced in a couple of week’s time, is that right?
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CMW, that’s my kind of pub.
The jukebox in our local had equal shares of Patsy Cline, Billy Jo Speirs, Don Williams, Johnny Cash, Dolly and Clash, My Bloody Valentine, Souxsie, Bauhaus, Motorhead
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Islands in the Stream
Stone cold pub classic sing along, even among the punx
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The Kenny Rogers thing was true of some of the pubs I drank in myself too. There was one place where he would definitely have been top if it weren’t for the fact that the landlord sang on a microphone if nobody put anything on. This meant that The Man With No Nose who drank in there would go around giving people money to put in the jukebox to stop it happening as long as they put on something long. There was a version of Shine On You Crazy Diamond that I reckon was top as a result though there’s an argument that it didn’t really count as it was split across two tracks so you had to pay twice for it and quite often that meant only half of it was played.
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Me at our local, singing Kenny
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Ticht – it was obviously recorded a while ago (and they put up a message saying players were available at the time of filming). Strangely there were loads of Scots left on the board, while the 5th place England team had almost everybody picked. I know it was a bit of ‘fun’ by by Christ there were some awful picks being made.
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Pick is next Thursday (May 6th).
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Pub I and my mate mostly went to was a rock and metal pub in Gala (this was the early 80s). Great times.
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Reading back, I find there are many pubs to be avoided.
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@Thaum – In York at least those sorts of pubs have a great propensity for turning into flats.
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In Campbeltown where time runs backwards the pub closest to my in-laws actually turned into a laundrette.
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Don’t think that one had a jukebox though. The ones that did are sometimes open and sometimes boarded up.
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Not that it’s always easy to tell which. The pubs on Maryhill Road in Glasgow near Mrs CMW’s old flat seemed to be both open and boarded up most of the time, not that I dared go in them. The actual nearest pub to her flat (definitely West End not Maryhill…) which is the one used for Begbie throwing the glass in Trainspotting has been turned into some sort of restaurant.
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The place with the ‘singing’ landlord is now flats for students. It’s not far from a travellers’ site and there were some choice fights in there with bottles being thrown around and people flying out of doorways etc. There were also some street drinker types who would go in there sometimes. One of them would try to bully people like me into playing pool against him for money during the course of which he’d tell about how he once stuck a knife in someone and cut them right across their belly. The other one would try to sell you whatever he’d come by (cardboard boxes full of teabags etc) and then at some point show you the scar across his belly where someone cut him with a knife.
There was a classier joint a bit further up the road that had strippers on a Sunday lunchtime.
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Some friends of mine saved a couple of backstreet edge-of-town pubs from being flat-tened a few years ago and were doing very well with one of them and just about OK with the other I think. Hoping they make it through Covid. No point in them opening them yet, but I’m worried that the less successful one which is closer to where I live might struggle.
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Excellent Deebee. The place really comes alive through your words. Won’t be offended by the link you make between France and Byia as it’s obvious. Some say its the lesser of two evils. I doubt it. Corruption is rife and lack of fundamental rights a serious problem but Cameroon’s GNP is about 60% of the total GNP of what was French Africa. No wonder France keeps a hand there.
As for country music in a pub, that’s a definite no for me. I’d rather drink sitting on an outside bench under the rain.
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” I’d rather drink sitting on an outside bench under the rain.”
What about sitting drinking on an outside bench as North Atlantic gales drive icy rain horizontally into your face?
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Mrs CMW retains a strong scepticism towards English people’s quaint notions about rain ‘falling down’ and the sense in sheltering under open structures just because they have a roof. I still sometimes have to argue that it really will be drier ‘under there’ and she’s been here nearly fifteen years.
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