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 
Where they did an excellent job of leaving the rest of us able to argue that the Boks were the worst team ever to win the World Cup!
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Ha! Scored more than 30 points in every match bar the final, where we were happy to play risk-free rugby and let England huff, puff and stwp into touch on attack.
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*step. Although stwp probably sums up their attacking ambition better.
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Deebs
I like your comments – but aren’t you sticking your head quite high above the parapet?
concerned
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Unless Craigs is actually Owen Farrell, my head should survive the onslaught.
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“but aren’t you sticking your head quite high above the parapet?”
No, he’s stwping.
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So that must be his arse you can see.
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yuk
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I know it’s talking, but there we are.
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OT – you buy a banana and get a free coffee. Doesn’t sound like much of a life hack said like that.
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CMW, also needed some “luck” to win in ’95. And the 2019 one is tainted by losing a group game and Faf’s speedos.
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Yup, better strike those three out. Just leaves them with the two they pretend they would have won.
Hope Faf gets his speedos back.
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“Luck” in ’95? Anyone who’s ever had food poisoning will tell you that you don’t play 100 minutes plus of World Cup rugby at altitude, nog al, and be toe to toe the whole way. A bullshit story.
Having flattened World Cup Holders Australia – reckoned to cruise past us in the opening match – the Boks were destined to go far. If there was any luck it was France conceding to play the semi in a rice paddy when they could’ve won by default. An act of great sportsmanship.
2019? Lost to the ABs in the opening match with brain fart rugby either side of half time. Easy peasy from there on in, other than the bloody Welsh giving us a tough time in the semi. The Favourites in the Final seemed to think Manifest Destiny was the wind in their sails. Until the first scrum.
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“I didn’t get an email.”I
I hope his manager checked his junk mail folder or it may be the sporting tragedy of the decade.
CMW – cheeky! Only Bulls supporters think we’d have won in 87 and 91. We’d have been in the mix, no more, no less. Possibly 87 more so, smarting for revenge after the bloody Welshman robbed us in 81.
How am I doing so far?
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Bollocks! Work out the above fer yersel’s
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Cmw – I’ve bever played rugby whilst going commando but he’s had a few games for Sale so should be used to it
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Bever?
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Words Deebs.
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I heard that Bill and Melinda are getting divorced.
Apparently she is keeping the house but he can take the Windows with him.
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“Bever?”
I think it’s Belvoir, but don’t be too hard on yourself, Lagos was once the capital of Nigeria etc.
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Morning all!
That is all.
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England fan favourite Daly set for the lionz! Let the speculation reach fever pitch!
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If gats is wanting versatility he needs to take Scott Steele. he’s played wing, flanker and srum half at international level.
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War with France it is then: https://www.theguardian.com/uk-news/2021/may/06/uk-sends-gunboats-jersey-french-vessels-st-helier-brexit-fishing-rights
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It’s only logical.
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global britain can jolly well start any wars it likes.
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Are the French going to send gun boats too? I feel like we should block the mouth of the Seine or something. Maybe send some Danes to sack Paris.
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Danes aren’t much into sacking and pillaging these days.
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Are we defending Belgium?
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Thought I’d look into the Danes and their sacking. This is what came up:
https://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=danish%20sack
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Still pillaging apparently:
https://independencedaily.co.uk/danes-demand-continued-pillage-of-british-waters/
https://praguepig.com/2014/02/danepocalypse-nigh-drunken-scandinavian-teens-rape-pillage-prague/
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Pretty serious stuff that second story.
“So far, however, some of our Danish guests haven’t got the message, and continued to live up to the colloquial Czech expression “opilý jako Dán” (“as drunk as a Dane”).
During a sweep of city centre bars and restaurants last night (February 10th), for instance, Prague police discovered 18 drunk Danes who weren’t carrying IDs.”
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As a partial Swede, any Dane bashing is fair game.
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I take it back. 18 ID-less drunk Danes. It’s like the Viking raiding parties are back.
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Never realised beer in Prague was so cheap. No wonder TomP has spent so much time there.
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Tbh, what’s the point in being able to issue licences if you can’t be a dick about it?
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going to be a bit of impact on his wallet now he’s gone all D4.
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What time is the big announcement?
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By be a dick, I mean upset someone. Having licences always upsets someone and apparently the new requirements were in place from January.
Also, threatening to cut off a small island is a bit of a dick move in itself. I think we all know who the bad guys are here.
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@Deebee
The teams for Embra vs Glasgow are announced at mid day.
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We’re delivering an ultimatum in the next hour and a state of war will exist from midnight if they don’t back down.
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Not even a D4 issue, Chimpie. Nationwide.
And, yes, beer is v.v.v.. cheap in the Czechlands. The Czech way is always to know where they serve the best and the cheapest Pilsner Urquell. Best normally beats cheapest but cheapest is important.
Top Prague travel tip: Don’t drink Staropramen at any price.
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So we have crucial local government elections today in the UK. Any linkage to the sudden sabre rattling from Number 10 over Jersey fishing rights?
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Have to decide whether or not to vote for a Police and Crime Commissioner. I’m thinking it’s a ludicrous thing to be doing.
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Tomp – what if it’s 1999 and you are in a pub in Kingston and you find yourself drinking 4 pints an hour and your mates decide to smash the glasses in a huge pile in the corner and the bar staff only notice when you leave? Is it OK to drink Staropramen then?
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@Craigs – Did you have ID?
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Cmw – no. They thought I was a student.
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If the sky was all purple and people were running everywhere then I think it was probably OK.
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That Danish invasion was a regular thing. They would always interview the Danish ambassador and demand answers.
It was the smashing up of the hotels that most upset people – and the stabbings as well but that was generally Danish on Danish.
The problem is Prague’s nice and all that but the centre of the town was full of shitfaced foreigners making noise, puking and riding those ridiculous beer cycle things
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