Journey from hell, part 2: into the fire
We get to the bus station around 0930 and identify the beaten up vehicle going to Lagos. We wait for the two remaining passengers to turn up. This takes two hours.
Meanwhile we shelter from the sun on a bench owned by a general store shack and watch juggernauts and goats mingle on the highway.
The vehicle is a Toyota people carrier – fit for 14 at a push; we manage to cram in 19. Us three together with a seemingly old man (who could in fact be 45 or younger) were the last to turn up, so occupy the cheap seats on the back row. I find myself over the wheel arch, a fold down seat in front pins my knees near my chest leaving one of my feet toeing the air for somewhere to rest.
It’s a war of equal forces – my fists and knees against the back of the seat versus the lad in fronts’ body weight. I let my mind wander over the highs of the past few weeks; it’s the only way negate the pain.
Three hours into the battle and the chance to swap with the comparatively diminutive Youssef cannot be turned down. I manage to wedge a knee under the seat in front, the other invading Youssef’s space, but he forces a smile and a ‘No pfroblem’. Youssif’s got a strange habit of pronouncing all his ‘p’s as ‘f’s. It makes understanding him sometimes an impossible feat.
We continue for over five hours without a break, everyone hunkering down in the cabin, fumes from the open back door (our ruck-sacs more out than in) contributing to the general malaise. The driver weaves a route round potholes and seems to be playing a game of ‘smooth-road-chicken’ with the oncoming traffic, most of which is heavy road freight.
It becomes evident that our fellow back seat buddy has been conned into joining us: they told him we were going his way just to get his money. It’s a fine homecoming for someone who’s just returned from the arduous 1,500-mile pilgrimage to Mecca and back.
At dusk we come across a convoy of stationary vehicles – mostly tankers – a crowd of jumpy looking bystanders, and an incongruous cafe/shack doing swift trade in coffee and cigarettes.
There’s been an armed robbery a short distance up the road: nobody knows exactly where, but until traffic’s seen heading our way, we’re all going to sit it out. We still have camping equipment if needed and we contemplate an unplanned night under the stars. It’s an apt time for many to wash and pray, but we search the heavens instead with our GPS and plot our co-ordinates. It’ll be interesting and, who knows, potentially valuable to know where these robbers, allegedly from Chad, were hiding out.
After about 40 minutes there’s general clamour and adrenalin induced action, and it’s clear that we’re going to make a dash for it. Moonlit shapes and shadows are vapourised in the flood of lights, the sickly palour of the beams seeming a symptom of the asphyxiating fumes with which we are suddenly engulfed.
We weave again through the potholed road; bushfires in the distance and then close-by, add to the post-apocalyptic feel. “This must be what a gun-run through the steets of Baghdad must feel like”, I say to Ben handing him my digi cam and he shoots a great image of the fires reflected in the bus’s glass while leaning out the side window.
It’s not long till we reach the sanctuary of Jebba, and we’re grateful for the proximity of the hotel. We both spill out from the vehicle’s interior, staggering as muscles try to operate without blood. It’s been a ten-hour slog in severe discomfort through notorious bandit country, but we’ve made it. As we’re frequently reminded, whether prompted or not: “that’s Nigeria for you!”
Tags: Africa public transport, Africa travel, bandits, robbery, Travel
djnorwood