ladies and gentlemen, friends and foes
on your feet, on your toes
bring a glass, mug or cup
chose your liquor, fill it up
take a moment, spare a thought
for a traveler who himself has brought
to distant lands far away
and earned himself the right to say
it is here, it has come, eventually
the day I reached a full century
now raise that glass, proud and high
in the direction of the African sky
let the canons roar, fire and shoot
and fill the air with a great salute
take a moment, spare a thought
for a traveler who himself has brought
to distant lands far away
and earned himself the right to say
it is here, it has come, eventually
the day I reached a full century
down the drink, feel the heat
set your mind for me to meet
let it travel through time and space
and I will greet you with a happy face
take a moment, spare a thought
for a traveler who himself has brought
to distant lands far away
and earned himself the right to say
it is here, it has come, eventually
the day I reached a full century
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Ladies and gentlemen; on your feet, remove your hats, raise your glasses in the general direction of Africa and join me in a solemn salute to a special occasion. As I am waking up after my first night spent in Cameroon I can now add number one hundred to my list of visited countries.
It may be that one hundred only adds up to just over half of the worlds’ countries and I’m certainly not the first Swede to reach this milestone. I’m probably not even the first in my home town, perhaps not even on my home street, or even in my own apartment block. Doesn’t matter, you don’t need to be unique to achieve something special.
I have never had the aspiration of visiting every country on earth and I’m sure that I never will. That is not a goal for me. Neither have I chased number one hundred. I have not picked off countries to get here quicker. It just happened when the time came for it to happen. And now, that time has materialized, no sooner or no later than the course of natural circumstances.
Great achievements do not come easy, neither did this one. The border between Nigeria and Cameroon is officially closed and has been so for almost a year. The official reason for this is the current Ebola crisis in West Africa, which by the way is making good progress towards its' final stages. Lately I have read reports by travelers that have been allowed to cross the border at the town of Ekok but this has been to the mercy of a high ranking immigration officer at the far end of a phone call. I was far from sure that I would be let through.
When I first applied for a visa at the Cameroon High Commission in Abuja, the capital of Nigeria, I was blankly refused on the grounds that the border is closed. So it was with a nervous mind I made my way to the Cameroon consulate in Calabàr at the southeast corner of Nigeria. If I was refused a visa here as well I would be in a highly precarious situation. The consul in Abuja had in all seriousness told me to put my motorcycle on a plane and fly into Cameroon. It is so easy for them to say such things. It is not their problem and they just don't care. Putting a motorcycle on a plane is a major operation not to mention the steep cost, just because some bureaucrat has the empathy of an execution squad.
Naturally it was Friday. It seems that it is always Friday when I knock on an embassy or consulate door. A visa is seldom administered on the same day and weekends are non-working days for most bureaucrats. Therefore had I already set my mind at staying in Calabàr at least until Tuesday the following week, provided that my visa application was even to be considered. You must allow half a day for picking up a visa and I do not want to leave for a border crossing late in the day.
The consulate was located on an anonymous street in a suburb of Calabàr and when I stepped out of the taxi that had taken me there I was met with a closed gate without anyone in sight, such a small thing as posting opening times never occur to people around here. It was nine o'clock in the morning. I decided to wait until ten.
As I was sitting outside a small shop a man came out of the consulate and walked over to the shop to buy something. I asked him if he worked at the consulate and if it was open. Yes and yes. "Follow me," he said.
Half an hour later I exited the consulate premises with a fresh, three month, multiple entry visa in my passport. I also had about 95 € less in my pocket.
I had had all sorts of alternative strategies prepared for every eventuality but none of them was needed. The consulate man simply told me that, although the border is officially closed, they are letting tourists through at Ekok since about a month back. However, a visa doesn't automatically grant me access to a country. The final decision is made by the immigration officers at the border. I was a happy chap leaving the consulate. I had my visa and I didn't have to wait over the weekend but this was only one hurdle crossed. There was no room for celebration as long as I remained on this side of the border.
The next morning I set out early towards Ekok. It took me five hours to drive there along a mostly good road with one bad, pot-holed stretch. The landscape was beautifully lush with jungle vegetation and villages that seemed a little nicer than I've seen for quite some time. To me this was the best drive, through the best area of Nigeria. It promised good for what was on the other side of the border.
The crossing at Ekok consisted of a narrow bridge extended high over a river gently tucked into a deep green carpet of vegetation. I desperately wanted to be on the other side.
Even if I was reminded of the border being closed, the officials on the Nigerian side didn't seem surprised to see a foreigner and when I handed my passport over to the immigrations inspector he stamped it without much hesitation. This was a big step as I only had a single entry visa for Nigeria and in theory I was now stamped out of the country and could not return. But that is only in theory. I have been in the same situation before, being in no-man’s-land with a stamped out visa and being refused entry into the next country (Tajikistan). At that time I was stamped back into Kirgizstan, where I had come from, despite my visa being closed.
I crossed the bridge and stopped in front of two big gates at the other side. This was neither immigrations nor customs. At this checkpoint they scrutinized my passport and motorcycle registration document before they made a phone call. This was the phone call that would determine whether I would be let into Cameroon or not. The call didn't seem to go through. They phoned again. And again. I was asked to wait outside.
I sat down on a wooden bench, fingers crossed, waiting for the judgment. I only waited for about twenty minutes but those were very long minutes. I refrained from thinking about anything. I definitely didn't want to start thinking about Cameroon yet and thinking about what I would do if the verdict was negative was just too heavy to deal with.
Finally a man came out the door and gently handed me my passport. I looked up at him, probably with my face turned into a question mark. The man nodded towards the gate. I kept a straight face but inside I was jubilating. As I straddled my bike, put on my helmet and turned the ignition on, the gate slowly opened in front of me. I engaged first gear, let the clutch handle go and eased past the gate. I didn't look to see it close behind me, my face was just a big grin inside the helmet. I let out a scream of joy as I rode up the hill.
On top of the hill was the immigrations and customs building. A woman at immigrations put the much desired stamp in my passport as she told me that it was her they had called from down by the bridge. She in turned had called her boss who had given the permission to let me through.
So far I had not spent more than an hour at the border but it took another two hours at customs before a Passavant could be issued for my bike. I was told that the general procedure in Cameroon is to use a Carnet which I do not have. I was also told that issuing a Passavant was done as a special case for me but they had the document readily available and the procedure seemed straight forward to me. That the cost of 20 000 CFA (33 €) appeared a bit on the high side was easy to ignore. I just had to glance on the red entry stamp in my passport to forget any monetary issues. I changed money in a shop across the road from the immigrations building before I headed into Cameroon.
I had read a note on a motorcycle forum hinting at this road being horrible in the wet season. Ahead of me lay a brand new road with tarmac as black as charcoal. It cut straight through the dense jungle. The sun was shining on me through the heavy clouds in the sky. I immediately got a good feeling about the new country. I felt great, Cameroon was smiling at me and I was smiling back.
/AB
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