30.01.2016 Bamenda, Cameroon (photos will appear later)

It is time to leave the hospitable Calabar. I went around Cross River National Park, passed Ikom and got to Ikok – the border crossing point. In just a few kilometers before the border control I stopped at obstacle – tremendous board with nails layed across the whole road. These things are not uncommon but they usually consist of two halves making it easy to drive between them incidentally waving to greet the authorities cooling off in the shade of a nearby tree. This time it was not possible to go around the obstacle, but what strained even more – a man without a uniform was approaching me. Long before that, when I crossed the border to Nigeria one of the guards gave me advice: never stop at checkpoints, if you can not see around people in appropriate dress.

Middle-aged nigerian man in camouflage pants approached me and asked for documents. As answer I asked him, with a smile, where his uniform is. He calmly pointed to his pants of army colors. No, I said, that is not working like this, a man at the border told me that I shall not give anything to anybody without epaulettes on a shoulder. He laughed and asked where such a smart person like me going to. To Cameroon, I said, but in general to South Africa. Man than again asked to see the documents. Again I asked to see the uniforms. We both laughed. Then he waved to some lad nearbuy and he pushed the nailed board to give me a ride. And thank goodness for that.

At the border, at Nigerian side there was no problem, even despite my concerns about the overstayed visa. Whether the attention is not paid, or the value is not given – good for me. On the contrary I was dragged out of waiting line, got some bananas and water and wish of good speed. Goodbye Nigeria and your good people!

I crossed the bridge over the river with a symbolic name Cross and got on the territory of Cameroon. Friendly and polite border officer asked in what place I was going and if I have friends there. It looked, however, not very much in greeting, and I was plagued by vague doubts that he was very worried about my fate, rather in the air there was a light veil of money. Fortunately for me, I remembered that in Burkina Faso my friend Moussa gave me the phone number of his friend named Anatol living in Douala and speaking in Russian. I asked for the phone to call Anatole. Next, speaking in Russian with Anatol I asked apology for being sudden out of the blue and told him the situation and asked to confirm that he is my friend. So he did. Bored border guard fumbled with papers and put a stamp of the entry.

Then I had to deal with documents on transport. Accordingly to instructions I went through dusty road to house on a side where I was registered and received a welcome. I then returned to the road and heard that somebody crying to me. Another checkpoint. Rope (improvised barrier) wasn’t raised, and oh, better if I did not stop. But acquaintance with a foreign country in violation of the order (particularly in Africa) is not a good idea, so I landed at person who yelled to me which was looking like proper official representative. He demanded the documents for the bike, and then said that the house behind him is the management of customs, and I need to stamp the carnet de passage there. Oh boy, there we go… nope, I said, I don’t have this piece of paper. And no, I do not need it in your country officially, it is only recommended. Pasavant, you know? Laisses Passer? TIP? That’s my way of travel, temporary import permit. The officer, being surprised told me to park and wait. He himself went to the customs house apparently looking for the advice from higher rank. I parked and looked around. Typical African border town. Nearby there is a parking lot with dilapidated station vagons of all kinds – shuttles run from the border to the nearest large settlements. A little further on the road I heard subwoofer pumping the air – most likely bar. All of this is stuffed with selling booths, shelves and street vendors huts. evening was approaching. My hopes to reach Mamfe slowly dissolved in customs procedures.

Officer who stopped me went out from a customs house with his colleague (probably a senior in rank). They headed toward me. Senior again asked me about carnet de passage. Again I said a bunch of incomprehensible words for him. He asked to see a sample. I rummaged in old papers and found a sample of Laissez Passer from Burkina Faso. He thoughtfully look at it and said that he would like to write a similar paper but he can’t. To my question – and what shall I do? – He said to wait. To wait for what? – I asked. He answered: – Until you see the main boss who is entitled to write such a paper. Which, of course, already gone and only appear in the morning.

No problem, – I said, – Where can I pitch my tent then? It appears that my answer was surprising them. Ha! Been there, done that! After spending the night at Mauritanian border nothing can scare me. After a little thought a senior said that if I wish I can spend the night in the customs house on the floor. Even better! Senior left, junior officer went back on duty at the checkpoint. I parked the bike back and lit a cigarette looking around. If I correctly assumed there is a bar further down the road which means beer. This is a border town so I can probably change here the Nigerian Naira to the Central African Franc. They will rip me off, of course, but at least the rest of the evening could be not that boring.

I pulled the bedding out of luggage and asked the junior customs officer at the entrance to the house if I can bring things and place them inside. He shook his head, but answered in the affirmative. I fell into a stupor. I asked again. He pulled the earphone from his ear and repeated that I can stay inside. Later I found out that a characteristic feature of this area – the gestures of agreement and disagreement are on the contrary. If you’re nodding – it means no. That’s funny. I pulled stuff inside the house picked cozy corner, opposite the entrance, and prepared a bed on the floor. Then went out on the street again and again appealed to the customs officer. Tell me, sir, do you have any hot spots in the area, where you can exchange money and also get a beer? He whistled to one of the shuttle drivers from the parking lot across the street. The rates were, of course, predatory.

The shuttle driver took my money and went back with local currency. I strike up a conversation. I can hear music down the road, – I said to him. Probably a bar with beers? He answered positivle and offered to accompany. As I guessed correctly before – music ran from the bar. While we were on the way there, I talked a little bit about myself and my trip. And after that all of a sudden I got free beer from him. Groovy! Moreover, he was a friend with the local customs so that upon return we pulled a few plastic chairs from the house and sat down with junior customs having a chat. Unhurried conversation ensued and somehow by itself I ceased to regret to the lost balance of the day. We sent local kids for more beer and then went to shuttle parking lot where I got acquainted with half of drivers and checked up the simple life of the local transport system. It looks like, of course, not as what the average person accustomed to seeing. In the night at the yard someone was sitting on the trunks, someone nearby sleeping on the ground, everyone waiting until the seven-seat car check in at least ten passengers going in the similar direction. Pricing principle is simple – one ride worth some money, which is shared among all passengers. The more passengers – the less to pay for each of them. I hung around for a while and went to sleep.

The next morning the long-awaited chief showed up and was even able to finish with me at about ten o’clock. The process itself took no more than five minutes and after all I was holding that significant piece of paper. Finally, without much hope (probably understanding that I showed up the day before and spend the night at the border) the boss asked if I would like to somehow help him in return for his help with the writing out of paper. The document being held in my hands so there was no interest to break a comedy. I shrugged and said that I am traveling without money. He wished a good day and I went out.

I was lucky with the road from Ikom. Just a few months ago the hard-working Chinese people completed a brand new two-lane highway. GPS was persistently trying to guide me along the old road having no idea about the new one. Sometimes a new road crossed the old one (the first was almost a straight line while the second was writhing in every possible way) and I shuddered inwardly. Clay, all over with ditches and tranches, billowing in the next steep slope, the old road left no doubt – it is a challenge. Another turn forced me to stop, get off the bike and rise up my head to the sky. Before me stretched giants were piercing the sky. Famous Cameroonian Rain Forests. The feel of it is difficult to convey in words – the gigantic trees that are so dense and widely grown, so you can see only the first line of them. After stopping the motorcycle engine you can hear the sound of Windows95 sound environment with the “jungle” theme. Subsequently I have repeatedly made such a stops unable to get used to this kind of picture.

In Bamenda I bought a local SIM card and then dined at an outdoor “cafe”. Aside from the fact that the road began to deteriorate all went well. People were friendly unobtrusive and spoke in English. Cameroon is officially bilingual country and Cameroonians are very prod about that (comparing themselves with, for example, Switzerland where the population speaks both French and German). In fact, the North of the country speaks in English and South speaks in French. It is rare to find someone who speaks both languages​at once.

I gradually moved south and streetsigns increasingly began to apeear in French and the area has become a become a very high hills. Well, or low mountains. It was similar before too but with the advent of the camping search time it became particularly noticeable. A more or less suitable piece of land that is different from the vertical was inhabited by people and therefore the question of the place for the tent became very urgent. After about an hour of unsuccessful searching, I turned on the promising path and stoped in front of a garden which looked abandoned in the middle of the jungle. The sun had set behind the horizon and being desperate to find something more suitable I dismount from the bike and walked toward nearby hut with intention to ask the owners about the possibility to camp the night in their territory.

The house looked deserted as well as garden. I knocked on the door, silence was an answer. I knocked again. Waited. Then I tried to slightly push the door and it opened being unlocked. I looked inside. The spectacle was gloomy. Remains of daylight illuminated randomly scattered garden tools, household items, cobwebs in the corners and a bonfire in the middle of the room. By all indications, it seemed that no one has been here for a long time. Shrugging, I went out and my eyes stumbled upon wicker bowl filled with berries. Berries were looked fresh as if freshly picked. Mystic. Anyway. I went back to the bike and examined once again the abandoned subtle garden and decided that this garden cannot be worse anyway. I stopped under a tree, had dinner, spread the sleeping bag between the furrows and stared at the stars. The air was full of smells and sounds of the night life, the sky looked at me with its distant suns and all that lulled me quickly so I went into the arms of Morpheus.

28.01.2016 Calabar, Nigeria

The morning was easy to wake up. Same monotone buzzing ceiling fan over my head reminded me of where I am. Clothes were almost dry. It’s time to go. Before leaving I went to a nearby gas station to buy cigarettes and on the way saw a picture, which can characterize typical traffic in Nigeria. The small minivan playing the role of taxi bus stopped for disembarkation on a side of pretty narrow street. The driver following this van was very impatient and started to hoot and blink not paying attention to the fact that the van stopped on a purpose. On the opposite side there was a small jam at traffic light, but as soon as there appeared a window an impatient driver broke through there driving off the oncoming traffic with his honks. He passed the bus, stopped, turned on the reverse gear… and with all his might hit poor van with his rear bumper. Then hastily retreated. Bus driver went out to check out damage and another jam started to gather behind him…

The next destination was the Calabar – reportedly the most “tourist” city of Nigeria. The distance of about 500 km was quite acceptable for the light of the day, the roads were normal until now, so full of hopes to reach it before dark I broke through the jams of Benin City and rolled out to the highway. Two lines of each direction, with dividing line inbetween, and digestible pavement – beautiful. It was called Expressway – make sense. I went to my cruising 110kmh swinging my head looking at the countryside. Unusual at first but familiar already plants were alternated by filling stations, most of which were abandoned. Nigeria – a country very rich in oil and sitting on its needle harder than Russia. Once experienced an oil boom which gradually faded away. Back in days each more or less organized person wanted to open his own gas station to get a sure path to prosperity. “Ohnguomo Ltd.”, “Kowori Brothers Corp.”, and otherslike each sought to immortalize his name. Nobody cared about any kind of joint brand. Now the faded and dilapidated buildings with signs burnt by the sun silently reminded of the past dawn.

Kilometers lazily passed under my wheels. The traffic was mostly faster than me and wasn’t numerous, which made it possible to relax in the right lane. Suddenly my attention was drawn by something om dividing line. Stella with a motorcycle mounted on top. An old Suzuki DR Big, not even looted apart, and signature on the plinth – “Explore Your Limits”. It was so unexpected and strange that I hung around for a few minutes impressed by the sudden coincidence – me, only God knows from how far away, and this pedestal like a source of vitality somehow telling to me: “you’re going in the right direction”. I looked around and laughed. No sign of anything related to that pedestal, nothing. Just Stella in the middle of the road. With the motorcycle. And the signature “Explore your limits”.

This sudden monument turned out, however, kinda prophetic. After some time path narrowed and broken sections of the road began to appear. Nigeria is full of old blacksmoking petrol huge trucks that braking hard at such places, creating waves of pitted asphalt mixed with the soil. Such places are usually equipped with police ambush. Police here is not respected at all – cars just did not stop in spite of the instructions, flying past, despite even the threat of a Kalashnikov and, sometimes, sticks. Therefore, such a places where everyone is forced to slow down to a minimum gives a chance for police to stop at least someone. I was ready to stop at the first request, but, surprisingly, there were no complaints to me. On several occasions I had the opportunity to see how local drivers, even at such places, ignored given direction to stop. Once, the angry policeman hit the car with his foot, and only then the driver has stopped… To start complain about the damage. In another case, the entire side of car was scratched with a rifle butt and driver reacted with burning out wheels, raising huge pile of dust to fly around. The situation with the traffic was weird. Looking ahead I could say that everybody being at the wheel behave wildly and aggressive, but as soon as the driver left his vehicle – he magically transformed into nicest person. Metamorphosis.

Continuing to move forward at one point I stopped at a pit. Not even the pit, a huge crater on the road. The size of a small house. It was possible to go around such unexpected obstacle by a thin path that led along the edge of the pit. Obviously local car drivers knew how to detour such an obstale but there was no sence to look out for them – who knows where another road will lead next. Local mopeds were scurrying back and forth on that thin path around the pit and I decided to take a chance. About a minute later I found myself in a very uncomfortable, and comical at the same time, situation – the left half of the bike almost hanging in the abyss, while right sidecase was touching the wall of the neighboring house. About half a minute I was on the brink of trying to find at least some stable position, while local moped drivers having fun out of unexpected show encouraging me with their honking. In the end I managed to gently shift the weight to the right side, lean hand on the wall to create a small gap between wall and sidecase, and playing with the clutch got myself out to a wider section. The sun was at its zenith, everything was surrounded by small walls enclosing areas of houses, not a single shadow around. So I had nothing to do but to move forward hoping to take a break later.

Broken areas began to appear more often and increased their length so I got in Calabar when it was already dark. There was no points of camping in my GPS. Again I tried to buy a local SIM card and again with zero result. Everybody were pointing to the mobile operator office which, of course, already been closed. After some driving back and forth in the center and asking locals I found an internet cafe and started looking for the coordinates of a campsite. Calabar was known as the best tourist city in Nigeria, and I was sure that there is a place to sleep. I was wrong. It seemed that everybody who visiting this city are millionaires and prefer a minimum of five stars with a maximum of luxury. After long minutes of the digging I stumbled upon a fragment of the book, sort of a guide, pointing to Crystal City Hotel which is very expencive in itself but have a place for camping. There was nothing else. Address pointed to one of the minor streets in the center of Calabar, without house number. I have reached the destination street but there was no any trace of the hotel. Probably just sign turned off for power saving and I just missed it. I turned around and drove slowly over the street with the same result.

For the third time I drove through the street and stopped in confusion trying to figure out what to do next. At this time I was approached by a local man who was walking down this street all the time while I scurried back and forth. He asked what had happened. I felt a little tense. Half-lit street, no one around, and only lazy person did not mention about the dangers of Nigeria before. I explained that I am looking for that damn Crystal City Hotel and all of a sudden the guy laughed and said I was a little too late – the hotel has been sold two years ago and converted into a private school. How about that. Evening becoming more and more interesting. I probably can find enough money for the cheapest hotel but what’s then? That was all the money I had. In the meantime, while I was thinking, Oddy (the name of this guy) told me that he lives nearby and can take me to another place, nearby, in the center, where I was guaranteed to be able to put up a tent. I agreed. Oddy came to his house, called his wife, and rolled out his car, an old Kia.

I followed the car, pushing through rough traffic, not forgetting to check the GPS to understand in which direction we are moving. After a few minutes we arrived to the building of the local municipal government. “Here you can put up a tent,” Oddy said to me, pointing to the field in front of the govermental building. No walls or fence was around. Just the meadow, between house and wide avenue. “Um,” I said, “but are you sure this is allowed, and it’s safe?”. “Absolutely!” – He replied, “Do you see these tough guys with guns?” – He pointed to the building guards. “This is the territory of the state, where anyone can put up a tent and be safe” – Oddy said. It was a quite realistic way to spend the night, but I vividly picture the next morning – crowd of locals huddled around the tent, watching me awakening and doing morning stuff, trying to catch every detail by their eyes. For them I sort of an alien from another planet and free tv-show. And I do not like too much attention.

I asked Oddy whether there is still any variants. He said that there is another option and we proceeded further. After a while we stopped in the parking lot at the yacht club. Oddy offered me to pitch a tent right on the park lawn. I was somewhat confused. Both options were not the best and I was thinking that I can just drive out of town and looking for a place to spend the night in the bush, away from prying eyes. Suddenly Oddy said – “Well, now when all the rituals done, can I finally offer you put up a tent in our yard?”. I smiled. “Rituals”, hehehe. After all, our world is amazingly diverse. We proceeded back to the street with non-existent hotel and I pitched a tent in the courtyard of a small condominium.

Oddy and Bright, his wife, were renting one of the condominium houses. When I finished messing around with a tent Oddy came out and said that the street will be wildly hot to sleep, so better idea would be if I spread out my sleeping bag in the house. Amazing people. Oddy was in search of work, and Bright had her own small shop of children’s goods. The next day, in the evening we went to look at the Bright’s store. Oddy then took us to the bar. Pretty place, consisting of a small private bar, and tables and chairs scattered under the trees here and there. Here I tried probably the best beer in Africa – Gulder. Refreshing, invigorating and full of life taste that I still remember to this day. At the same time Oddi ordered something that he called “Soy”. “You will like it,” he says. After some time, they brought us a plate. On a sheet of wrapping paper were laid out pieces of something resembling meat and smelling delicious. Hmm, soy, I thought. A taste like real meat. Interesting. Every day, we visited the bar, where Oddy never let me chance to pay telling that I am a guest in his country. It was like a sip of fresh air after struggling with dusty roads.

It was only on the third day, I learned that “Soy” is actually “Suya”, and is a name for real meat that is grilled with local spices. The taste just wonderful and it’s hard to imagine a better combination with beer.

One day I remembered that I had once heard about Bike Festival of Calabar and went to Google in search of local motorcyclists. This time my search succeeded and I found facebook girl named Aisha which is one of the organizers of the festival. We met and together with her and other friends-motorcyclists we rode around the city and visited the Street of Suya, which is a place where the meat is prepared for every taste and budget. We sat in front of rows of smoking meat talking about everything and my mood was great. Good to meet the “brothers”. Many thanks to Tinapa MC!

Unfortunately, I hadn’t much time. I’ve already overstayed my Nigerian visa for few days and visa for Cameroon was ready. It’s time to go further.

My special thanks to Oddy and Bright, the great people that broke the stereotype that Nigeria – terribly dangerous country. Maybe I was extremely lucky but everyone I met on the way were friendly and adequate and they proved that at their best. Here I agree with Victor Romantik, Nigeria – the pearl of Central Africa. And I would be happy to return here sometime again.

Congo-Brazzaville, Congo-Kinshasa…


Good news – I was able to run laptop. Bad news – half of the keyboard does not work. Need to buy an external keyboard..

Last visa for further advance has been recieved. Now I can go but at this point money ran out. Obtaining visas for both Congos cost me total of 300 euros, which was the last of my supplies.

19.01.2016 Benin-City, Nigeria

Little disclaimer: The humidity of this area killed my laptop. It was cheap and old but still a pity. And what is most important – I have no longer any possibility to write. This is the last text, written on it (thanks to good habit to keep it all in the Internet). Rest in peace, Acer.

… Cheap shitty hotel – there was no better description of this place. Yellowish light, ragged walls, creaking ceiling fan, and some American thriller clattering of paunchy old TV in the upper right corner of which is directly on the glass of picture tube is scrawled “Usama Ivory Hotel” – funny stealing protection. I’m too tired to look for other place. Riding gear hangs at corners of the room for drying as I lay on the creaky bed sipping a Star – a local beer, Nigerian production. Looking around everywhere you can see traces of the colonial past. English wall sockets not suitable for standard plug, two taps in the sink (though useless, because the hot water was not here for a long time), toilet cistern with a typical rotary sswitc… I decided to finish off the battery of my notebook and engaged texts.

My acquaintance with Nigeria – a country inconsistencies – began respectively contradictory. On the border of Benin local Beninese border guards tried to get some money from me. For just to put a leaving stamp in my passport. I can understand the logic in the creation of barriers to entry into the country – after all if the traveler arrives at the border of the country, he is definitely interested in getting into it. But in the creation of obstacles to the exit … I behaved in the usual way. I stoodIleaning on the pillar staring at the border guard and smiled, showing that I have a ton of free time, so we can examine each other before the end of the world. Still hoping for something a border guard finally gave up when I bought a bottle of water from the passing trader, sipping with the undisguised pleasure. Recognition of his own defeat is not too impressed by him, so he found a compromise – “the next time”. While he stamped my passport, I nodded in agreement – yes, of course, the next time, definitely. Mentally prepared and gathered for a huge pile of impediments on the other side, I have entered the territory of Nigeria. And contrary to expectations – only 15 minutes passed four customs office. The customs on arrival, then complete the questionnaire, temperature measurement and demonstration of a certificate of vaccination (Ebola and yellow fever are not asleep), and departure. Severely-looking officers of different types with scarred faces greeted me, shook my hand and smiled. Welcome to Nigeria. English speaking country. I was glad that finally I can enjoy socializing in full, without building scanty phrases from my knowledge of French. At the exit of the customs, I was attacked by a pack of beggars, but it was not on their ability to catch up with the motorcycle.

I drove half of the border town and stopped to buy water and to exchange money. I had to change remains of the already familiar francs CFA, which ccompanied me since Senegal for naira – the local currency. I turned to the people sitting in the shade of a tree and was very kindly greeted. Money can only be exchanged at the border, they said to me, you have to go back. I really did not want to go back to a very insistent beggars and did a long sigh. Accurately guessing the cause of breath I was offered a seat on a bench in the shade, until one of this friends took my money and went on his moped to the border, to change. I did not resist. Even if this guy wanted to cheat me – the remains of francs is not too big loss. The second of his comrades brought me a bottle of cold water. I promised that when the money will be exchanged, I’ll pay for the water but he waved his hands and said, “Welcome to our country.” Soon the first man returned and brought the money for excbrought. I guessed to take any money for his help and he just refused. I sat on the bench with them, smoked, found out the road to detour Lagos to not participate in its wild traffic and hit the road. So began my acquaintance with Nigeria. Everywhere no matter where I was before, all around at the mention of Nigeria told that there are very dangerous and almost wild men. However, it turned out to be quite the opposite. Further about it.


I moved to Benin City. According to the original plan, I had to flypass Nigeria in two days. Fearing all sorts of rumors about the total rampant crime in this country I was planning to carry out two steps – to Benin City, and after spending the night there – to Calabar. Grab there visa for Cameroon and farewell to Nigeria. I go on the road and was immediately stopped at the checkpoint. I was prepared to attempts of corruption, however, contrary to expectations, the police checked my passport, and once they realized that I came on a motorcycle from Russia – began to ask permission to take a picture with me. Each got a smartphone and everybody for few minutes took the pictures of me on the background of a motorcycle.


Then they wished a happy journey and let me go. Absolutely the same situation was repeated three more times over three kilometers – apparently border traffic likes to carry contraband, so every kilometer there was a checkpoint. I was glad to talk with local people, but each such stop takes time, and counting the passage of the border, which has taken away a certain time, the chance to get to Benin City before dark melted with each checkpoint. I grumbled on this subject myself, but fortunately checpoints were over, and under the wheels finally run the unstoppable asphalt. The road was excellent which gave me confidence that I’ll get to my destination on time. I was told that I should not under any circumstances to drive in Nigeria by the dark, and … of course, I broke the rule.


The first reason was the weather. Somewhere in the middle of the road came the sandstorm – I was wondering how can there be dust when all around is overgrown by bushes and trees but the fact is a stubborn thing. Visibility was reduced to a few meters, and wind gusts rearranged on the road my bike very hard. Dust gets everywhere, grind the nose and mouth, even wearing a helmet, but there was no choice but to go on resisting elements. At one point, I asked myself, “Could it be worse?” And the answer came almost immediately – the dust replaced by the water. Water streams rained from the sky hitting hurt my hands without gloves, dust suddenly turned into mud. Down the road came rushing rivers. There was nothing to do with that, so I hid under a huge tree on the side of the road and waited. After around 20 minutes when I was already dripping wet someone’s invisible hand turn off the tap, and in just a moment the rain stopped. Later, rains caught up with me a few times but fortunately not as horrific scale.

The second reason was traffic. There is almost no traffic rules here instead of “bigger size” rule. Which means – the right one is with the vehicle of larger in size. And the motorcycle, respectively, on the lowest rung of the “food chain.” And when one truck from the opposite direction starts to overtake the other truck – he just does not care whether there is someone on the road if it is not another truck. When you encounter this multi-ton machine of buzzing and blinking with its high beams – there is nothing left but to catapult to the bush. The same goes in the same direction – if not to mark yourself by long horn overtaking someone – you’d be just ignored. After a couple of such cases enlightenment came to me, and I began to significantly slow down the speed if the situation is similar to that described above. What, after all, slowed me down as well.

I arrived at Benin-city after dark already deeply wildly tired. The original plan “to come before the dark, to buy a local SIM card for the internet, to find a suitable place for the night” failed miserably due to lack of strength. I just drove in a pair of cheap hotels near the track, identify local lower ceiling price (3,000 naira, 15 euro) and stayed at the next hotel. And here I am, in the company of a humming fan and grumbling TV, eating rice with spices and wash down by this ice-cold beer. Something which gave me some relaxation.

18.01.2016 Cotonou, Benin


New year in Ouagadougou. My first change of this calendar date on the road. New Year holidays itslef here are surprisingly calm and quiet. The air does not soar any NY fluids, it does not feels like preparation for something big. I’m accustomed to a like of pre-holiday fuss and followed by celebrating in a big way, and it was very unusual to celebrate the everydayness of the last and the first day of the year. In a fit of some kind I built a Christmas fir tree from the motorcycle.


On New Year itself we got out on the local main street, got some drinks greeted by fireworks at midnight and went home. Soul was asking for some party and it happened the next day. For some time before the new year, the Honorary Consul of the Russian Federation introduced me with a bored Russian comrade who was involved in a small business in Uaga and missed the New Year’s holiday. Moussa delivered both of us to his friends who are celebrate New Year in a big way, “non-traditional” for these places. We had quite of fun then! A porch of Moussa’s house, meanwhile, has turned into an art studio. Wonderful gizmos paintworked in Burkina:




I asked to send one to Anna. I think she will be happy.

Time was passing by,there was no response from the PM-Garage, and I was looking by myself for any way to get me the proper part for a motorcycle, this rear wheel bearing. I traveled around the city, asking, learned, but in vain. In desperation, I delved into the Internet, and at HorizonsUnlimited forum I stumbled upon one post. It was in the “Africa” sub​​division, in the “workshops all over the world” division. The post was about one of the motoservice mechanics in Ouagadougou. It was about a good guy, who knows his job and had some parts in stock, even a small array of bearings. Yes, it was written about the bearings separately. Coincidence? Thousands of them! The post was from 2008. 8 years ago! This was the only post related to motorcycle workshops in Burkina (while there was far more about other countries). Without much hope I wrote an email to the address which was left in post, and put it through the Google translator into French … and received a reply almost immediately! Issa was the name of mechanic, wrote that he was for many years not engaged in motorcycles, he switched to cars. But he will try to look for help. What, in general, for me, it meant the almost complete lack of hope – by myself I have visited all the bearing shops asking for my special one (as many as foon shops for whole city) and full of countless simple moto-autoshops. At the same time on the next day Andrej arrived to Ouagadougou from Bobo and I asked him to call Issa and find out the details, as my spoken French has developed rapidly, but still left much to be desired. Andrej called and said that it is best to go talk to the place. He was just heading to the same districts of the town to see his old friend, the chief of service centers. Can you guess? That’s right, we finally arrived at the same place. Further events have acquired quite an incredible turnover. In the service station (probably the most clean, neat and well-ordered one of those that I have seen in Africa) a small party was buzzing. One of the main mechanics had a birthday. On this occasion he was visited by his friend from Morocco. Who had other friend which had road accident driving R1100GS. And bearings from that GS the same as on my motorcycle. That is the case where the expression “stars have developed” fits perfectly.

The next day I spent with my GOOZ in this service station changing the bearing. However, the process itself … old parts had to drive out and new ones had to be placed. The proceplaced in a true African style. My bike, if he had the mind, must be horrified to the depths of his motor. Previous Bearing change was 60 000km back at the heart of BMW – Munich, all according to the canons, and now … Hehehe. But the deed was done, and I regained freedom. The next day I went to the immigration office of Ouagadougu and got Visa D’Entente, unified visa, which is suitable to the five countries – Burkina Faso, Ivory Coast, Niger, Togo and Benin. I was interested in the last two countries. All managed to crank out in one day (two photographs, 24 000 CFA, documents in the morning, visa at the evening), and there was nothing to limit me in the continuation of the path.

Therefore, I packed up and left in the direction of Togo. Not far from the border of Togo I drove near Pama National Park and stopped for the night at the Kompienga reservoir. In the morning, while folding the tent, I decided to look at the reservoir before crossing the border. I drove by the dam and observing the fence with barbed wire asked security guard without much hope if I could look at the dam and reservoir. Surprisingly he sent me to a man sitting in the shade nearby (the boss) and he suddenly gave the nod! I left the bike in the parking lot, we saddled moped and the guard drove me into territory. After five minutes we were there. We climb to the dam.

RservoiR on the right


And on the left the result of dam


I tried to take a pictureof the lake butlakere was not much sense in the photos – above the water there was morning mist. After we descended back to the power station and I do not even hoped to get inside, but suddenly I had opportunity to visit all three levels, which I admired in every corner of those gigantic constructions. It felt great curb the power of the river that turns the generator (at the secondary level the rotors could be seen) with incredible speed, trying to find its freedom on the other side of the dam. Gray, unpainted concrete walls and ceiling, white and yellow color of the machinery, constant rumble and shudder of suppressed nature. I was expecting just only look briefly at the reservoir, and this morning I got sudden gift which I received with great enthusiasm. Unfortunately, it was not allowed to take pictures, and I accepted it with understanding, though felt a little of regrets. Really very fascinating. And it was very hot inside.

We came back, I gave 500CFA to the guard to which he waved his hands and said that 200 would be enough. But I insisted on my proposal – I have looked at everything from all sides, including the monitoring and control room, and it was definitely worth much more. Both sides parted happy and smiling. And I quickly flew the remaining few kilometers to the border.

On the border happens small funny story. The border guard looking at my visa d’entente and suddenly told me that I could not enter the territory of Togo. I ask “why?” – He pointed to a mark Single Entry and the fact that the visa was issued in Ouagadougou. According to his logic, I have already moved into one of the countries, ie Visa has already been used. I suspected that the single entry may well not work for the whole area, and only applicable to entry to one of the countries, and after I had to go to Benin, where in extreme cases it was possible to buy a transit visa at the border. However, a joint visa can be obtained ONLY in the territory of one of the Commonwealth countries, ie border guard arguments were somewhat illogical. Available separately Burkina visa and my arguments doubted him, and he was smart enough to call his boss. Who finally explained everything, and without further delay I was admitted to the territory of Togo, filmed already familiar clay huts of Burkina for the last time.


On the other side of the border changes were striking. Togo is not the most developed country in Africa, but compared to Burkina contrast was enormous. Good roads, landscaped villages, signs, advertising … Sometimes I felt as if again in Europe



Sometimes on the famous island of Far Cry 3


Reaching the ocean


In Lome, capital of Togo I settled into a hotel and camping called Chez Alice, which was recommended to me by Mark and Edward, and where I suddenly met mototravelers, which I already met to Bamako. They traveled on the principle of one step at a time, that is, doing vacation travels on a motorcycle, then left them in Africa, and with the next release back to continue the journey. To put the tent under a coconut tree was worth only 1000CFA, and I spent two days discussing and talking about adventures with them and Walter Werner – awesome German, who lived on the islands of Polynesia. Several years ago he traveled 3,000 kilometers from Danau to Black Sea on the draisin. Not one that travels on rails but that one with wheels but without pedaling. You have to sit and push with your feet off the ground. Draisin itself was unusual – he built it out of wood and metal according to the old pattern! Read and see this here (in German): www.swr.de/archiv/regionen/draisinen-abenteuer/-/id=6758680/did=766052/nid=6758680/1p8sp8q/index.html

The next point of destination was the Cotonou – the largest city and unofficial capital of Benin. From the capital of Togo which was only 150 km. The road also was excellent (teeming with curious gendarmes at their posts) and on the border of Togo and Benin I met Gerald – German, who worked in the joint Benin-German state-owned enterprise. He said that in Cotonou he has a colleague who was also ride on a motorcycle, and will probably be happy to invite me to visit. Upon arrival in Cotonou I called the listed number and we met up with Toni. Toni nearly full of the same age to me (the difference between the birthdays of 11 days), pleasant to talk fellow with a lively mind so we immediately found a common language. We talked almost incessantly, about the world, about travels, about these or other situations, in general, discussing all that interesting for two people exploring the world. In his house I found the book called Why Nations Fail (authors Daron Acemoglu & James Robinson), which I red from time to time, and which also gave a lot of food for our conversations. The matter was nearing the weekend and Toni suggested a trip in Abomey, the capital of the kingdom of Dagomey once existed, one of the most famous places of voodoo. So we rolled out. The road there was excellent, and only upon arrival, I suddenly remembered that this segment of 150 kilometers from Abomey to Cotonou, Spaniard Jonathan (whom I met in Mali) called “hell”, after which he gave up and decided not to go further and look for a ship to Spain for himself and his motorcycle. It turned out that the road was finished to roll into the asphalt just before my arrival. Again a curious coincidence. Sometimes I tell myself that it seems all my journey – a never-ending chain of coincidences.

However, in Abomey, we were located in a nice guest house with the typical African “Mamo,” and went to a meeting with a French family, friends of Toni.



Tristan in the middle between father and mother. On the lefl is his wife and child and on the right is Toni.


Lovely lovely people! We spoke in English with accents of French, and I noted that my French continues to progress. Excellent!

After we visited the palaces of the last two kings of Dagomey (total number of kings was ten, and traditionally they were attaching their palaces to the palaces of the former kings), a kind of sacred place. The palace is a two courtyard, enclosed by walls, within which are the temple, the reception hall, a conference room and related pieces. Dagomey itself is quite an interesting story (for example, the only documented fact of “Amazons” presence in the army), and it was one of the rare moments when listening to the guide was not boring, but very, very interesting. TraditionsTof voodoo are still very strong here (as in Nigeria, for example), so that all potentially significant objects decorated with various signs of protection and threats. Unfortunately, after a vain attempt to photograph anything in the palaces of kings camera was discharged – it is strictly forbidden to photograph, so I had to try to somehow dodge, with the result of discharge because of the constant on-off attempting to take a hideous picture. People here believe in the magic of voodoo, and perhaps this was one of its manifestations (the guide seems to have noticed that something I’m trying to do) …

Still, one photo I managed to do.


On the left is the temple (the wall which you can see with the skulls of sacrificing cows), at right – treatment room king used to dominant warriors (eg, before the war). The cannons were traded for slaves from Portuguese. It is easy to note that the roof of the building is made in modern ages, but this is an interesting feature of the local attitude to relics – they do not tend to keep all intact, but keep everything as it was, rearranging if necessary, and maintaining the full functionality. Do they believe that the Kingdom will rise from the ashes, and the king will come back? .. Who knows.

Tomorrow I’m going to Nigeria, and the local stories and rumors about situation there makes me somehow restless. But we’ll see.