I broke my arm in Niger, didn’t expect that. We had been traveling with Big Dan, Ed & Chris, life was good and then we had to sit tight for 7 weeks until my arm fixed. Back on the road we reached Brazzaville, Congo and found we could reasonably go no further, didn’t expect that.

We were a little frustrated, we wanted to see Angola, but it wasn’t to be and eventually we landed back in the UK and set about raising some cash for another venture.

Yesterday I accepted a contract to work in Luanda, Angola, certainly didn’t expect that. Had it not been for the broken arm and the Brazzaville situation, it’s unlikely things would have worked out this way… but who knows?

Since we’re away from the nest again, I thought I might kick this blog into life. We hope there will be chance for us to visit Namibia, South Africa, Mozambique and a few other places that will be accessible thanks to our base in Angola. I hope to be back here soon, writing from African shores.

Once the haze of St. Patrick’s day had cleared, we needed to get our heads together and work out exactly what we were going to do. Most of the overland truck folk had gone, leaving me, Linz, Simon, Brian and Tony the truck driver. Tony and Brian were heading out to Point Noire to stick the truck on a boat before flying themselves to Cape Town and Simon was waiting for his flight back to England.

We knew there was an outside chance of an Angolan visa in Point Noire, if we bought plane tickets to Luanda, then got them refunded after we had the visa in our hands. We’d heard this had worked for a Japanese guy, but hadn’t heard about his experiences of getting into Angola with his bike. The only clear option was to fly our two bike convoy to Windhoek, Namibia and then follow the tar road south to Cape Town.

The Namibia route made sense, but we never set out to just reach Cape Town, our aim was to travel the world. However, a recent chat with the bank and a short journey back to reality had clipped our plans for world travel and left us heading for New Zealand to work once we left Africa. After some discussion we had resolved to head back to the UK for a few months, sell the bikes (another story) and head out to New Zealand in July.

Windhoek to Capetown was just 1500km and, with empty pockets, it didn’t look like we would be able to experience much of what Namibia and South Africa had to offer. So we decided to call it a day in Brazzaville, just a few days less than a year on the road and a little over 22000 miles since we left home. We figured that Angola, Namibia and South Africa would still be there in a few years time and we had already hatched a plan for a run down the East side of Africa when we’ve raised some cash.

We set the ball rolling at the SDV freight office at Brazzaville Airport. They seemed organised, if a little expensive, but promised to ship our bikes to Paris with Air France. The first task was to build a box for the bikes and SDV had a warehouse in the city centre where this took place. Linz and I removed the front wheels and handlebars from the bikes to make them as small as possible, the freight cost was dependant on the box size, so every centimetre saved would be money saved.

Easter weekend delayed us and the SDV office was closed until the Tuesday after, but we were on their doorstep early in the morning to get the bikes and the box off to the airport. At the SDV office at Maya Maya Airport we handed over wads of cash and signed various bits of paper and were promised a Friday departure for the bikes. We headed off back to town to organise our own flights for Monday.

The rest of the week was spent exploring Brazzaville’s fine restaurants and enjoying the intermittent water and electricity supply at the cheap hotel we called home. On Friday we returned to the airport to finalise the customs paperwork and confirm the departure, all went well despite customs trying to charge us to stamp the papers! On Monday we were stood at the airport waiting to checkin and the reality of the situation started to dawn on us. This was it, the trip was over, the bikes were already in Paris and we weren’t far behind… it was confusing, we were happy to be moving again, depressed to not be on the bikes and we were heading North instead of South. We spent the rest of the day in a plane trying to make sense of our feelings and wondering what it would be like to touch ground in Europe.

We arrived close to midnight and took a taxi to a hotel, all the while marvelling at the relative splendour of Paris after 3 weeks in Brazzaville. The next morning, Tuesday, was strange, Paris seemed like a different planet and we slowly began to realise how much we had settled into riding through Africa. The day didn’t bring good news though, it soon became apparent that our bikes had never left Brazzaville, it was April Fool’s Day and we thought it might be a sick joke, but it wasn’t.

By Wednesday afternoon, after several confusing phone calls, we had arranged to get our bikes moving with a different freight carrier, they would arrive in Paris the following Tuesday, April 8th. We could ill afford the week in Paris, but decided to stick around and ride the bikes home to give our family and friends a big surprise. There’s plenty to do in Paris and we took in a tour of the Louvre Museum, Champs d’Elysees and various other tourist spots. It helped to pass the time and was a reasonable way to help us get back into European society, it was difficult at first, but the days became easier.

Tuesday 8th arrived, but our bikes didn’t…  we tried in vain to get useful information from the Brazzaville connection, but they were next to useless. We did some internet research and found numbers for our freight company in Belgium and after a a little effort we were talking to a helpful lady in Paris who informed us our bikes would arrive in Amsterdam on April 14th and would be moved to Paris, by truck, shortly after. Although this was later than expected and nobody had mentioned a truck, at least we had some useful info.

We’d had enough of Paris, so we hired a car and drove through the night to get home to North West England. We decided to see Linz’s brother first, knocked on his door at 7 in the morning and laughed at his look of utter confusion! We spent the next 2 days driving around and surprising folk and explaining what the hell we were doing back home. It’s good to see some familiar faces, but it still feels wrong to not be riding the bikes every day, I guess that will get better as the weeks trundle by.

So that’s it, we’re back in the UK for the rest of the year to earn some dough. In the New Year we are off to New Zealand to see what that brings, and at some point in the next few years we’ll be back on two wheels, going somewhere else, perhaps East Africa, or maybe somewhere else.. one thing is for certain though, next time we’ll get Linz a bike where she can touch the floor!

Thanks for the comments and emails over the last year, they helped to keep us smiling and it’s good to know we’ve raised a smile or two. Our blog has been intentionally non-technical and perhaps not so useful to other travellers, but if you’re planning a trip and want to pick our brains, feel free to drop us an email.

Thanks, Dan and Linz

A couple of nights in Franceville gave us time to get a few jobs done, a blog update, an overdue bike wash and a few other glamorous traveller tasks. Originally we had planned to go straight across the Congo border from Franceville, but at the last minute we decided to have one last night in Gabon. Leconi, the Gabonese border town, is home to a circular red rock canyon, the Cirque de Leconi, and we decided to stop for a visit before finally crossing the border. There was perhaps an ulterior motive for the side trip, since we knew the track to the canyon was sandy, I thought it might be a good idea for Linz to reacquaint herself with the joy of sand riding before having to deal with a full day of it once into Congo.

Leconi is barely 100km from Franceville and the customs/police/border control is just West of the town, giving us chance to get the Gabon bureaucracy sorted in advance of our departure the next day. Linz guarded the bikes as always while I ducked into the police post, but she was suffering in the heat, it wasn’t long after midday and the sun was fierce. At the customs post there wasn’t anybody in sight, so I checked out the house behind the official building and found the customs officer’s family. His son spoke reasonable English and kept us entertained until his dad arrived back from the market.

When dad returned, Linz joined me with the paperwork to get some respite from the heat. We left the boy outside and went in the office to get some stamping done. It was the usual painstaking affair, African officials are the slowest writers I have ever seen, but he was friendly and we were in no rush. Once finished we resumed our chat with the lad outside and donated an English book that we were carrying, a story about motorcycle travel in Africa funnily enough, figuring it would help with his continuing studies. It was only that evening we realised he’d already helped himself to some of our luggage, from my tankbag he’d taken a headtorch, disclock, Leatherman multitool (sorry Ants, borrowed it from you and lost it!) and the big red pen we use to draw on our map.

We never leave the bikes unguarded, ever. Even when they are in line of sight we always remove the tankbags, but this day, through complacency, or whatever it was, we left the bikes fully loaded. They were visible through the window of the customs office, but we had our backs to it most of the time. Fortunately the little turd had left my digital camera, extra lens and a few other handy items. He may have had his hands in Linz’s tank bag too, but came away empty handed, obviously he wasn’t in need of moisturiser, handwash gel, lipstick, aspirin and various other girl’s handbag things! We soon got over the initial disappointment, we’ve come a long way with everything intact and it was all stuff that could be replaced. Lesson learned though, leave Linz to burn in the sun… I’ll not forget that one in a hurry.

The first 10km from Leconi was shiny new Chinese tar, then a sharp right took us into some fairly easy, hard packed sand. It wasn’t long before this became a little more tricky and Linz started to lose her temper, eventually stopping, leaving me to carry on and see how much further it was to the canyon. It wasn’t far, but with the light failing, as it always is whenever we do these things, I decided to take some photos as I figured Linz wouldn’t make the trip. Whilst I was running around with a camera Linz had dug in and made it to the canyon on her own, so in the end we both got to enjoy the start of the sunset at the canyon edge.

We were on the road, well sand, early the next day knowing we had a tricky time ahead. The sand ran for about 50km before we reached the village of Mbie, first stop in the Congo. No real problems apart from the police officer trying to convince me that I had committed an immigration offence by arriving without a hotel reservation for the capital, Brazzaville. My fine was 10,000CFA, just over 10 quid, as with all fines it was a nice round number, potentially negotiable and no receipt would be given. I explained that we wouldn’t be staying in Brazzaville, but he repeatedly tapped the cover of his rulebook, the fine must be paid. He never actually opened the magic rule book to show me the small print on hotel reservations, possibly under the same section as brown shoe tax and dirty fingernail surcharge. I decided to bring out the big guns, “Sorry I don’t understand what you’re saying, I’m English”, in the Queens best. It wasn’t long before I was allowed entry to Congo with 10,000CFA still safely in my pocket.

It was a tough day, the sand ran for around 200km, some was easy, some was tricky, some was downright miserable. Linz enjoyed it all equally and reminded me frequently how glad she was we had come on the trip, how character building it was to ride sand and how much of a shit I am. Late in the day I suggested we would blag a lift in the next town, stick her bike on a truck and have an easy ride the rest of the way. This went down a treat, Linz politely declined my offer and said she would manage just fine. I forget the exact words she used, but I gave her a wide berth for a while! We made it to Boundji by late afternoon with Linz smiling again, so after an arduous day we found the best hotel in town. At 6 quid it was good value, the rats in our room agreed, as did the cockroaches swarming over my feet as I stood to pee, I must remember my boots next time.

There was only another 50km of sand the next day and it was mostly pretty solid, so Linz was in a good mood and we hit the tar well before 10 o’clock. 450km stood between us and Brazzaville, the capital of Congo, and we weren’t sure if it was possible in a day, given the unpredictable nature of travel out here, but decided to have a go. There was a brief hold up in Oyo, a town big enough to have a fuel station, but obviously no fuel. We found the local trader who had bought all the fuel and emptied the station. He was only too willing to top up our tanks for a good percentage above the pump price. Progress was good throughout the day until we were on the outskirts of Ngo, near the Lefini National Park. The road was potholed and I was following a taxi who was swerving maniacally around the broken tar surface. In my mirrors I could see Linz following suit and we continued for a short way until the taxi driver jumped on the brakes and I had to squeeze hard to stop from hitting the back of him. As I stopped I could hear somebody shouting behind me and it was getting louder, quite quickly, then BANG! My bike jolted forward and I turned around to see Linz on the floor, she hadn’t seen the taxi’s brake lights and being unable to stop in time had hit the back of my bike, but not with much speed. The bikes were fine, but Linz was a little shaken, this was the first time she’d fallen on a tar road. Fortunately she was only doing around 3mph, so there were no injuries.. she had only fallen over because through heavy braking the rear of the bike had risen up to the point she could no longer reach the floor! Linz’s frustration with small legs/big bike continues.

We made it to Brazzaville and with the help of a friendly chap called Yannick, found a hotel for the night. We were only here for one evening, tomorrow we would be on the ferry to Kinshasa, the capital of the other Congo (DRC). A hot shower and a good nights sleep in a hotel were in order before the 7 day run through DRC and Angola. Yannick returned later in the evening with his sister and English speaking older brother, Yvan. We explained our trip and chatted about Congo, life in Brazzaville and the ferry we would be taking the next morning. The brothers promised to arrive early the next morning to help us negotiate the infamous Brazzaville port, we were too tired to argue and figured it wouldn’t harm to have a helper or two and they seemed like genuine people.

They were true to their word on Tuesday morning and the four of us were at the port before 09:00. I left Linz to entertain the hobos, bums, touts, potential husbands and drunken officials while I went off with Yvan and Yannick to arrange safe passage to DRC. Passports were eventually stamped and I found the customs office on my own and got the bikes sorted. Final job was tickets, wildly varying prices were quoted but I ended paying 22800CFA all in for me, Linz and the two bikes, I’ve no idea if this is good or bad but it seemed fair enough. Yvan and Yannick were a little bemused, they had no idea how much hassle we receive as tourists in a place like Brazzaville port. They were kind hearted but a little naive to the myriad of hustlers all vying for the last few CFA I had to spend. We loaded onto the ferry, down a conveniently wet, metal ramp, including a small flight of stairs.. obviously they have bikes down this way all the time. Linz didn’t struggle though, five blokes carried her bike and allowed her to walk on the ferry safely, the same five that watched me struggle single-handedly. Fairly soon we were chugging across the brown and fast flowing River Congo to our 15th country and the single most feared destination on our trip. DRC has a pretty grim reputation, but many had trodden our route before and we would only be hanging around for a couple of days, “Linz, it’ll be fine”, as I’m fond of saying.

By chance I had spent the crossing befriending another Brazzavillois chap who offered to help me in the DRC port. Yvan and Yannick hadn’t hassled us for money and my new acquaintance seemed equally genuine. He took me to all the right places to get the right stamps and soon we were just waiting on the bloke at immigration to hand back our passports. The bloke in question was about Linz’s height, bespectacled and dressed in a Pierre Cardin suit, he’d left the label on the sleeve so I could see and be impressed by his high quality attire. I wasn’t actually that impressed as I sat sweating the last few millilitres of fluid in my body onto the white plastic garden chair in his shitty little office. We were approaching the 2 hour mark, which is nothing compared to the Gabonese border, but the heat was stretching the day already. Linz was once again outside baking in the sun and I was sat watching a self-important official spell my name incorrectly on yet another worthless sheet of immigration kindling. Pierre Cardin eventually stood up and beckoned me to follow him, we seemed to be heading out towards the bikes, so I asked him if everything was okay. I could see that Linz had been joined by a rather well built security bloke and Pierre was heading in his direction. Once the four of us were together Pierre said, “You cannot continue, you have no visa for Angola. You must return to Brazzaville. Go now”. I’m thinking, whoa there, back pedal a little there Pierre, you can’t just turf us out of the place with such a feeble excuse. Angolan visas are only available in DRC, at a town called Matadi, close to the Angolan border. Forcing us back to Brazzaville would achieve nothing, they will just tell us to go to Matadi. Pierre was putting us in a deadlock, we needed to be in his country to get an Angolan visa, but he said the lack of the visa was the reason our entry was refused.

At Pierre’s command, muscle bloke started to drag Linz’s bike to the ferry but he hadn’t reckoned on Linz and she bored holes in his face with her eye lasers, shouted at him and then laughed in his face as he tried to move the bike whilst it was still in gear. He wouldn’t allow Linz to touch the bike, and it wouldn’t move because he didn’t understand how to change the gear and get it rolling. Linz continued to laugh and point, obviously helping the situation, while Popeye beckoned a colleague to operate the infernal machine and I pleaded with Pierre for more information, but the more we dug in, the more aggressive they became. I tried to call the embassy but they threatened to forcibly take my phone should I continue and within a few minutes we were unceremoniously rammed onto the ferry and were trundling back to Brazzaville, unable to comprehend what had just happened.

I was angry and Linz was still red in the face, but it later turned out that 2 hours in the midday sun had left her quite badly sunburnt! We managed to get our passport exit stamp annulled by the immigration guys in Brazzaville and the same for our bike paperwork, they all seemed very sympathetic and unruffled by our deportation. We dropped the bikes and luggage back at the hotel and headed to a net cafe to find out about the Angolan embassy in Brazzaville. We noticed a post on one of the Africa forums at www.horizonsunlimited.com enquiring about Angolan visas and added a comment about our recent experience. After a meal and a beer or two, we returned to the internet cafe to send some emails and by chance paid another visit to the forum. Another user had left a message for us explaining that there were a couple of overland trucks in Brazzaville, one of which had suffered the same fate as us in Kinshasa. A phone number was included and before long we had met Tony and Dianna, running one of the trucks and after a few questions we realised the other truck was the one we had seen in Yaoundé. Tony explained that the real reason we’d been denied entry to DRC was due to violent clashes between police and a religious group in the Bas Congo region, exactly the region through which we needed to travel. The Angolan visa story given by Pierre Cardin was just an excuse to get us out of the place so they could continue dealing with the situation.

The next day we moved out of the hotel and joined the two trucks who were camped in the grounds of a local church school. It was good to meet up with the crew on the truck from Yaoundé and many beers were consumed over the coming days as we all hatched plans to cope with the apparently closed border, at least for tourists, of DRC. The DRC embassy were a bit cagey about the whole situation and unwilling to provide much detail, initially suggesting we try for an Angolan visa, or come back in a few days, or next week, or anything so that we would just stop asking questions.

Today things are a little different, the clashes in DRC have been reported on www.bbcnews.com and the DRC embassy are much more open about the situation. The border remains closed to tourists and will do so until the trouble has subsided and the area is once again safe. The ambassador obviously didn’t know how long the problems would last, but said there wouldn’t be much point hanging around in Brazzaville, it would be wise to find an alternative route. The truck passengers have found various flights to get them around DRC and Angola, since the Angolan visas are still unobtainable anywhere other than DRC. Half of them have gone, the other half will be leaving in the next few days.  We are trying to organise freight for the bikes to Namibia and flights for ourselves, but it’s slow going here and we will likely be in Brazzaville for a week or two.

 We aren’t too bothered about missing out on DRC, but being denied access to Angola is frustrating. Although it’s a frustration that will disappear into the bottom of a beer glass today as we are all intending to enjoy St. Patrick’s today in the traditional manner!

We’ll get back here once we’ve organised some flights and freight for the bikes, or perhaps once we land in Namibia.

PS We’ve uploaded a fresh bunch of photos and stuck some of them in the Escape From Yaoundé post too.

On Monday, the day before we had planned to leave, we received a slightly worrying SMS from Julien, our Canadian friend, who was in Douala, the other big city in Cameroon. We were planning to meet him in Kribi, but he explained that Douala was at a standstill, no taxis, no buses, no traffic, so he was stuck. Apparently the transport strikes were about the price of fuel and various basic food essentials. The strikes had turned to violent protests and the military had even been called in to try and rectify the situation. Fortunately things were calm in Yaoundé and we packed up ready to head to the beach the next morning.

We hit the road shortly after 9 and headed for the city limits, past the huge Brasseries du Cameroun (brewery) buildings and out towards the highway. It didn’t seem especially busy and we were glad to be out of Yaoundé after the visa game we’d been playing for over a week. We passed a military vehicle with two soldiers who nodded as we passed but failed to warn us about the crowd blocking the road a few hundred metres ahead, beyond our line of sight. I slowed a little as the crowd came into view, checking for Linz’s position and trying to assess what was going on. There was another crowd to my right, off the road, shouting loudly and more than a few people on the street. In my mirrors I could see Linz executing a prompt U-turn. I opted to follow suit and a few people close to me were bellowing loudly and gesticulating that a U-turn might be high up the priority list right now.

Back with the soldiers we asked for the route to Kribi, they pointed us back in the direction of the mob and then drove off in their pickup, thanks fellas. A friendly local pointed us towards an alternative route which we followed, but before long it became clear that this would lead to a similar fate, lots of traffic turning in the road and people waving and shouting.

We headed back to the guest house through increasingly busy traffic and a few more shouty people. It seemed safe to assume that Yaoundé was following the example set in Douala. The miserable proprietress at the guest house advised us to take a room rather than camp, for our safety, and gave us a discount, only 5000CFA instead of 6000CFA for two beds in the dormitory room. Not such a great deal, actually the same price as the private double room, but the double room was occupied by Sven and Nadine. The day passed slowly and we talked with some folk about the possibility of it going sour and it seemed that Yaoundé was far more civil than Douala and it would blow over before morning.

Indeed it was calm again the next morning, we stood outside the Boulangerie Centrale feasting on chocolate pastries and I chatted to an interested onlooker. Linz’s spidey-sense was tingling though and she was worried about the taxis mounting the pavement, dumping passengers and driving around with their hazard lights flashing. I reassured her that it was just her imagination (people get in and out of taxis all the time) and continued stuffing my face and nodding occasionally while Mr. How-many-kilometres-a-day-do-you-travel went through the routine. Eventually, having finished my breakfast, Linz was agitated enough for me to take notice and it did seem like things had gone pear shaped. We jumped on the bikes and made a run for it before the roads could be blocked again. Today was different though, the mood was tense, the streets full of empty taxis, a lot of people on foot, everybody was in a rush. We didn’t even get to the brewery buildings before we could see the crowd blocking the road, though this time they were mobile and heading towards us, so we quickly headed back to the guest house for yet another night. The ride back was fraught with traffic jams, angry people, lots of arm waving, shouting and general unpleasantness.

This time the old sow at the guest house wanted us inside, so nobody could see she was harbouring dangerously wealthy white folk. The bikes were hidden round the side of the place, covered up and out of sight. A minion was sent to purchase bread and water in bulk and it seemed we would have to make preparations for a holocaust. We sat with Sven and Nadine, playing various dice and card games, listening for scraps of information on the radio news and watching time pass at a crawl. That evening the president addressed the nation with a vague and solutionless speech about how civil unrest wouldn’t achieve anything and he would open a can of whoop-ass if his people continued to protest.

We sat on the porch after sunset, talking with some other guests, when gunfire rang out, close enough to make the night watchman jump. Obviously the presidents words had gone down well. We were ushered inside and told to stay there. A Ghanian guest offered wise words, “The people are angry”. No shit Sherlock.

We resumed the dice/card/radio routine and exchanged nervous looks and laughs with each other. We soon retired to our dorm, where the constant whine of mosquitoes was punctuated by occasional gunfire and passing helicopters. Sleep didn’t come easy. Thursday brought a strange calm, there was no more shouting or gunfire and only the occasional helicopter. Sven and Nadine went food shopping and brought reports of huge queues and people panic buying vast quantities of bread and water. By the afternoon everywhere was closed and the city was quiet, a unannounced curfew apparently in effect.

It all seemed rosier on Friday, shops were open, the traffic was back and some taxis were on the streets, this time carrying passengers. The British High Commission still advised against travel and the local vibe seemed to agree. There was a government/union meeting planned for 10 the following morning, so there was a good chance of calm, at least until after the meeting. We made a plan to hit the road at sunrise and be at the border before anybody could decide if the meeting was a success or not. We called home and told of our plans, bought some supplies and spent the day saying, “Third time lucky”.

Sven and Nadine were also making an early start and the four of us loaded up before sunrise. Third time was indeed lucky, the roads were quiet as we rode through the city at 06:30 and we reached the Cameroon border post before 11. Sven and Nadine would take a few days to cover the distance on their bicycles, but the South of the country seemed much calmer than the capital, so their slower pace would not be a hindrance.

At the final exit post, the border guard said that Linz should stay with him in Cameroon, his justification was that he had lots of food, plantain and mangoes no less. Tempting offer, but Linz resisted and we crossed the bridge to speak with the Gabonese officials about getting into their country.

All border posts have a bloke with a stamp, this bloke has to stamp your passport with his special stamp. If stamp or bloke are not present, you must wait. As it happened, neither stamp nor bloke were present, just a delightful bulldog of a woman who had clearly missed the last couple of years at finishing school. We filled in some paperwork, she took our passports and told us to wait, indicating a grandstand like building with bleachers for seating. We joined 3 others waiting for the stamp.

Hours passed, a lot of hours passed, various people went to ask the bulldog if stamp or bloke were likely to appear today. All were told the same, “Il arrive”, which I think means “He’s coming”. Now he’s either somewhere enjoying himself, or he’s on his way, it’s difficult to tell. Five hours after we arrived the bulldog started reading out names, the 3 guys who had arrived first (apparently at 06:30 that morining) looked happy. I approached the kennel to collect our passports but they were still unstamped. Apparently the passports of the first 3 had been sent to town in a taxi, 2 hours before. I asked why ours had not been sent and the explanation was, “I’m sending yours now”, yes, but why didn’t you… but.. we’ve been here for 5 hours.. and only now!? Whatever.

So knowing the taxi turnaround is 2 hours and having already done a 5 stretch, we returned to the bleachers and figured at least it was better than our last 4 days in Yaoundé. The area surrounding the border post was picturesque, we could have done much worse. Shortly after 7 that evening we left the border post with our stamped passports and found a place to sleep in Bitam, a small town about 30km south. We were offered freshly prepared wildboar from the restaurant, which tasted good, even though it was a little cold. After a good night’s sleep we had a lazy morning, though not too lazy, it appeared the wildboar might not have been so fresh as it was in a hurry to get out again. Linz hadn’t been too hungry the night before and I’d eaten most of our two plates, so she was spared the worst of it.

After Bitam we had a short ride to Oyem where we spent a night with the nuns at the Catholic Mission, camped in the sports hall to avoid the storm that lashed the place for most of the afternoon. A beautiful, twisty tarmac road runs from Oyem all the way to the Equator, the same road everybody uses to reach the Equator sign where we stopped for the obligatory photo opportunity.

Once in the Southern hemisphere the road turned bad and we stopped for a night in Ndjole before riding east towards Lopé National Park. A stoney but reasonable piste took us 120km to the Lopé Hotel, an upmarket place for those with fat wallets and smart suits. We decided to treat ourselves, 50 pounds a night might be the price of a Travelodge back home, but here in Gabon you get an air conditioned safari bungalow, a proper comfortable bed, hot shower, satellite TV and an amazing view of the Ogooué river that runs through the national park. For an overlander though, 50 pounds for one night is ridiculous, more than 10 times what we normally pay for the chance to pitch our tent in some vermin infested shit hole, so we did spend a little while justifying the whole thing. A walk along the white sandy river shore after a 3 course lunch and a cold beer soon had our minds satisfied that we’d done the right thing.

Paradise was tainted slightly the next morning as heavy rains had started at 3am and showed no signs of giving up. By the time we were ready to ride the rains had slowed to a steady drizzle, but we were a touch anxious about our route for the day, 200km piste through Gabonese rainforest. So that’s why it’s called a rainforest.

As luck would have it, the first 150km was a blissfully smooth, well maintained earth road, not a piste at all. Cool banked corners allowed us to make great progress until we hit the muddy stuff about 50km from Lastoursville. It wasn’t too deep, just extremely slippy, clay like stuff that stuck to the bottom of our boots. We slithered around and I ended up leaving the bike, and making a conscious effort not to faceplant or break any bones I landed on my head. Okay, maybe my head and neck weren’t the best choice for impact absorption but Linz says it’s the closest thing I’ve got to an air bag.. she loves me, you can tell.

Back on the tar road in Lastoursville Linz needed fuel, but the town was dry and no delivery was due for at least 2 days. We were instructed that nearby Koulamoutou always had fuel, so we shared what we had left and trundled off. The place did have fuel and an interesting place called Hotel Residence Paul Ndama. It was beyond the normal overlander budget at 16,000CFA per night, but hey, we’d blown 42,000CFA the night before so this was nothing! The whole place was immaculate, the recepionist was extremely friendly and polite, the well-stocked bar sold beer at overlander prices but had comfy leather chairs and polished glass tables. We asked for the cheapest room, but it was huge, with a private patio looking out over rolling green hills. There was a surgically clean bathroom with hot shower, clean towels and bath robe. Everything had the hotel name embroidered, etched or otherwise tattooed on it. We looked at the key, room no. 13… is somebody having a laugh here, what’s the catch? There was no catch, if you ever take an overland trip through Gabon, go to Koulamoutou, go to Hotel Residence Paul Ndama. The food was great (they have python and cobra on the menu, and they’re not beers), the drinks were cold, the prices were right. After crawling around in the mud it was what I needed.

It took some willpower to stay just the one night, but it’s always best to leave before you see the cracks appearing, although I’m still convinced the place has none. An uneventful run the next day brought us to Franceville, a pleasant town surrounded by soft green hills. It’s also just 120km or so from the border with Congo, our next stop, which Linz is looking forward to, because it’s a sandy road.

Next time I’ll let you know if Linz’s mental wellbeing and our relationship survives the sand.

(Photos to follow when the net connection uses wires instead of smoke signals)

Sober and rested, we opted for a clockwise journey on the ring road around Mount Oku… well sort of opted, we didn’t find the road for the anticlockwise route. We threaded through the traffic out of Bamenda and followed good twisty roads north, past rainforesty looking scenery.

The first stop was at Metchum Falls, a small but quite beautiful waterfall about 20km south of Wum. We were hassled by a 12 year old claiming to be the guardian of the viewing place and soon left to pick up the journey north to Lake Nyos, our intended stop over for the night. After Wum was the village of We and the track began to deteriorate but progress was still reasonable. The dense population of the area around Bamenda had dwindled leaving just the occasional small village, much easier going with less people and traffic around.

We stopped at the bottom of a steep hill to contemplate a safe path through the badly washed out tracks, loose stones, and sheer drop to the righthand side. I decided to have a go, lots of throttle and manly intentions got me to the halfway corner where I realised the track got even steeper. Close to the unguarded edge I had to slow down, Linz has strictly forbidden me from breaking myself again, but I was soon on the floor, then heaving the bike upright again and waving to Linz that everything was ok. However, the hill was so steep that gravity was keen to deny me the chance to continue, Linz clambered up the hill and acted as a handy chock to keep the bike from sliding any further. I couldn’t get on the bike without it sliding backwards so just started the engine and walked beside it the rest of the way, significantly easier to say than do. Abandoning my bike at the top we returned to Linz’s steed for more of the same.

Linz was keen to have a go and got as far as I did before choosing to lay the bike on the floor before riding into a big gulley on the leftside of the track, well away from the right edge I’d chosen. We had the same slidey fun as we had with my bike but I managed to sit on the bike this time and abuse it to the top of the hill, leaving Linz to walk. Once we were all together again we discussed how lucky we were to be so fit, sitting red faced, dripping in sweat and wondering how soon we would be able to move again. Imagine how difficult that could have been if we didn’t look after ourselves so well… food for thought, heh.

A little more time in the saddle got us to Lake Nyos, a crater lake of some infamy. In the late 1980’s there was a gas leak here that killed almost 2000 residents, the source of the gas is disputed, but many locals suspect evil doing. The lake was a tricky ride from the main piste but comparatively easy after our previous hill encounter. Once at the lake we stopped, took two photos and then dealt with the guy in a football shirt who worked for the military and protected the area with his friends. Okayyyyyy…. I followed him to his hut where he took our passports into a secret room to put the details on his ‘komputor’ and then explained the 5000CFA per person charge we had to pay to stay the night. We decided it was too expensive and said we would be going somewhere else, suddenly the fee became voluntary and actually we didn’t have to pay anything if we didn’t want, but perhaps we could give him some food. Whether it was the long day or the haze obscuring views of the lake, I’m not sure, but we decided to find somewhere more appealing with less military presence.

Next place of note along the way would be Kimbi Game Reserve, good spot for a bush camp and there may even be a campsite there. Unfortunately a rather confusing sign brought us to the village of Buabua where we were greeted like a close encounter. Four or five mask wearing folk were dancing around a fire which looked cool, but for the villagers we were more interesting. Through the mob appeared Oliver who helped us get to the local health centre, a good place to pitch the tent. The chief of the place studied our passports for close on 20 minutes before deciding we were allowed to camp there, maybe this was a bribe window but we missed it. We later donated some of our anti-malarial medication to the clinic personnel who seemed happy. They explained that 65% of patients at the clinic have malaria, so they need the drugs more than we do.

We were up at sunrise for a tour of the village and to fix the slow puncture I had acquired the previous day. Bidding farewell to the good folk of Buabua we followed the right track to Kimbi Game reserve and were treated to some of the most technical terrain we’ve yet seen. Lots of washed out tracks, big rocks, bare rock faces, all good stuff and Linz managed it all without my intervention. We had to pick up her bike on 3 or 4 occasions, but no damage was done to bike or rider and Linz now has a keen interest in trials riding, especially as trials bikes are smaller and lighter than hers! There was a big hole in the track at one point, similar to the one in Niger that attracted me, but you’ll be glad to know I avoided it with great skill and dashing good looks, or something.

As we dropped down the east side of the mountain the track returned to typical dusty Cameroon fun and had us hoping for some respite soon. It came in the form of another puncture, just in time for lunch. On the outskirts of Jakiri we had the old tuna/baguette combo and I headed into town to get the puncture fixed since all our patches have been used. I left Linz to gather an audience and we were all formally introduced when I returned. Back on the road to Bamenda we passed through Ndop, Bambui and more amazing tropical scenery. Unfortunately the descending haze ruined any decent photo opportunities and we were back at our digs just in time for the last half of the Africa Nations Cup Final of Cameroon vs Egypt.

Monday came and Cameroon mourned its loss to Egypt the previous evening, we were asked on several occasions if we were Egyptian, but the right answer spared us a beating. We wondered how many red-heads with freckles there are in Egypt. Another day of rest, but we found a garage selling chain lube so the bikes would be in for a treat. I got a little carried away and lubricated almost every moving part on the bikes, good therapy after the ‘chain de oil’ fiasco of Nigeria.

Next on our list of fun things to do was a climb up Mount Cameroon. Whilst waiting in Niger, I had the idea that we could scale Mt Everest and attempting Mt Cameroon would be a good warm up. Linz didn’t share my confidence/ignorance but I was excited and she gives me enough rope most of the time. We had no cash or fuel and needed to visit an ATM before leaving Bamenda, unfortunately both of Bamenda’s ATMs were out of cash and we opted for some other plan involving money changing but we were weak on the details and ended up riding out of town, penniless.

As luck would have it, I got another puncture just 2km from town and with our spare tubes holed and the repair kit empty I would have to return to town. We stopped in the grounds of the Ministry for Secondary Education in Bamenda and were attended to by many interested civil servant types. One guy in particular was Paul Ndanga, division head of Sport and Physical Education in Bamenda, previously assistant coach for the national football team in Cameroon, who insisted on driving me into town and helping me to get what I needed. I was glad of the help, but already suspected that we wouldn’t be going far today. Surprisingly Paul found a shiny new Michelin place hidden away who had fancy European patches and glue, just what we needed. Our tubes were repaired whilst I was shown the offices for Sport and Physical Education in Bamenda and by the time I got back to Linz and had the bike roadworthy it was 2pm. Paul Ndanga was a very generous and educated chap though and we had an interesting chat during our lunchtime trip. However we were left with insufficient time to get to Buea and although we could have ridden for a while we still had no money or fuel.

We stayed another night in Bamenda and on Wednesday, flush with currency from the restocked ATM and with fully inflated tyres, we rode out towards the coast. Buea is the starting point for most of the Mt Cameroon tracks and we picked out yet another Presbyterian Guest House for our stay. Sitting outside on a tree stump was Julian, a 21 year old guy from Quebec, Canada. We quickly became a trio and thanks to Julian’s excellent command of English had plenty to talk about. He was here for the mountain too, having just spent 2 months in Sri Lanka as part of a 3 month holiday.

We arranged a guide for the climb, a couple of porters for our gear and stocked up on food and water. We asked the lady at the market for some salt, only a pinch since we were to be cooking a single meal, she seemed confused when we turned down her kilo bag, despite Julian’s native French she couldn’t understand why anyone would want less than a kilo of salt. Maybe she knew something we didn’t but we agreed on a half kilo and she was placated, we needed some for the rest of our trip (life) anyway.

That afternoon the three of us took the bikes to Limbé on the coast and explored the Limbé Wildlife Centre, a safe haven for rescued and endangered animals. There were a few volunteers from England and Canada who spent time explaining the priorities of the centre and of course all about the cute baby gorilla, chimps and drill. Linz has another career change in mind! A cheeseburger later and we were back in Buea to meet Georg and Aleksandra, a friendly Swiss couple who had travelled Mongolia, China and a whole lot more of Asia on motorbikes a few years ago. We would have loved to stay and talk to them for longer but we needed an early night for our climb the next day, let’s hope we meet them again.

Friday morning we were on the mountain about 7:30am and it didn’t seem too bad, rainforest scenery and interesting tracks, but it was pretty steep. Within a couple of hours Linz was tiring and our guide Samuel suggested Linz would not make the summit and should stay at one of the huts while Julian and I continued. I bluntly explained that we do the summit as Dan and Linz or we don’t do it at all, so if Linz needs to take a rest we take a rest. He was still adamant we would reach the summit in one day, but none of us were so optimistic. The 3rd and 4th hours were not kind to me and I was the one taking frequent breaks, Linz was spurred on by Samuel’s indifferent attitude, red rag/bull thing going on.

The three of us agreed to spend the night at Hut 2, a rat infested hovel 2800m up the mountain and 4 hours or so from the 4095m summit. Samuel was initially disappointed but later seemed content and said we would leave at 4am for the summit. It didn’t sound too bad, but our legs were dead, I could have amputated and eaten them for dinner without incurring much more discomfort. Julian slept like a baby while Linz and I fended off the rats who were keen on our food supplies.

At 4am we were on our way, but within 30 minutes we knew that only Julian would be reaching the summit. The biting cold air, our somewhat questionable fitness and years of alcohol and tobacco abuse all made it obvious that my dreams of scaling Mt Everest may need a little more thought. Dejected we returned to have breakfast with the rats and get some more sleep. By mid-morning Julian and Samuel were back, Samuel had allowed Julian a single 5 minute break during their 5 hour round trip! We all headed back down to Buea and the descent was a killer. Although disappointed we hadn’t made the summit, we realised that we would never have made it down in one stint if we’d carried on at 4am as planned. Maybe a 3 day climb would have suited us better than the shortest possible 1 and a half day Guinness route.

On the way down we met Michael, a German guy on a 6 week trip from Niger to Gabon who had been in touch via email but we kept missing each other by a day or so. We agreed to meet in Yaoundé in a few days time. That evening we consoled ourselves with good food, beer and a discussion about whether we could carry Julian and his luggage on our bikes to Yaoundé. Sunday morning was the Race of Hope, where proper athletes scale the mountain and get back to Buea all in just 5 hours… crazy fools! We loaded the bikes with our luggage and Julian’s, then Julian and I squeezed onto my bike and it all seemed like good fun.

The road was good, although the run from Douala to Yaoundé bore the scars of some horrific accidents and one so recent that people were still stuck in their cars. After several hours on the road we arrived at yet another Presbyterian Guest House, these places are everywhere! Julian and I had suffered a little on the one seat, but it was a laugh none the less and Linz hadn’t fallen off for a few days so decided to step off just as she was entering the garden of the guest house. That evening we met Jeff, son of the Guest House proprietress, and his friend Daniel, a dutch guy working for the UN. We sat on the steps of the guest house drinking beer until 2am getting acquainted with life in Yaoundé.

On Monday Michael arrived and we finally got to catch up and swap stories, it was a busy day at the guest house as we were joined by Sven and Nadine, who had cycled from Germany over the last 20 months, and an overland truck from the UK with a variety of different characters on board.

There’s a great bakery around the corner from here, with French pastries, cakes and Italian ice cream. We’ve spent a week eating too much and trying to obtain visas. Michael has left for Gabon, as has the overland truck, Julian is in Bamenda but we will probably meet him at Kribi beach for a couple of days before he leaves for Canada and we head to Gabon. Sven and Nadine are still in attendance, getting over a bout of malaria and will probably be leaving on Tuesday, as will we, assuming we’ve got all our visas by then.

After Cameroon we have surpisingly few days left before we hit Namibia, essentially the end of the adventurous part of the trip through Africa. We are in two minds about the idea of arriving somewhere with Western comforts, the adventure is fun, but a hot shower is also nice… as is running water and full time electricity, we’ll see.

Our last night in Nigeria, was at a secure location in Yola. We opted for easy hotel restaurant food and asked the waitress what was on offer. We were surprised when she first said, “You people don’t swallow food, do you?”. I know we look a little thinner than when we started this trip, but… maybe she suspected we were bulemic? Was the food here so bad that most visitors immediately spit it back out?

We couldn’t be sure exactly where the suspicion originated, but we convinced her we could swallow and digest food at will, and were hungry enough that anything on a plate would be consumed and kept down.

Next morning, we performed our miracle again with breakfast, all chewed and swallowed and everything. We were close to the Cameroon border crossing, shown as a road across a river on our map, but our previous travel companion, Mikey, informed us there were no such luxuries and pirogues/canoes were the order of the day.

At the Nigerian exit post, tucked away at the back of a village with sand streets, the operation of our pasty white bodies was once again called into question. This time it wasn’t digestion, but respiration, Linz was asked if the water packs we wear on our backs contained oxygen. We explained, that despite our crazy appearance, we could actually breathe the same atmosphere as the locals, the back pack and tube were purely for hydration.

There was a short delay stamping our paperwork at customs whilst the ‘boy’ was sent to moisten the long dead ink pad with water. The customs officer was a little disappointed I wasn’t carrying a spare ink pad, nor was I willing to give him cash for a new one, but he wished us well as we left.

We eventually reached the river banks, after following a few local mopeds through multiple twisty, dirt tracks, no signs here. Linz looked at the steep river bank and said, “You’re doing this”. I found a guy with a boat and arranged for our bikes to be transported to the other bank, then set about lowering the bike down the steep, sandy slope. Me and about 3 million other blokes manhandled bike into canoe and Linz was positioned atop the combo as it set sail. Linz’s nerves subsided a little as she realised the water wasn’t more than a meter deep and even she could have stood without drowning.

I left Linz and her bike on the far bank, so I could repeat the process with my bike, same slope, same 3 million blokes. It was only as we were slowly heading across the river for the second time that I noticed a much smoother, easier and well used ramp down to the water’s edge, about 200m from where I’d wrestled with our bikes. Hindsight is frankly a gloating pain in the ass.

With both bikes on the far bank and my boots full of water, I had to pay for the boat and the 3 million helpers, but managed to get the whole gig for just over a fiver. We carved a path through the deep, soft sand to the town and introduced ourselves to the Cameroon police and customs. Before long we were on an 80km piste heading for tarmac which would take us south. Once on the tar road the sun was getting low, so we stopped at a village and asked some smiley folk for a place to stay. There was folklore of a camp ground near the next village, though nobody had ever ventured far enough to confirm the rumour. At the next village we were pointed in the right direction and once again joined the piste in search of home for the night, or a good looking bush camp.

Linz was looking pretty orange by this time, having absorbed most of the dust spewing from my bike and her dreams of a hot shower were fading fast as the sun dropped below the treeline. Out of the blue a sign appeared for the Campement de Grand Capitaine… never a guarantee out here, but even if abandoned it would do for tonight. As our sheer luck would have it, Grand Capitaine turned out to be a beautiful, well maintained, riverside location with a well-stocked bar, top restaurant and immaculately kept rooms with hot showers! Conveniently placed, 50km of dirt track away from the tar road, the site seemed to have suffered none of the usual neglect and was exactly what we wanted… though didn’t really need, we’ve just gone a little soft from weeks of the Grand Hotel in Niger!

As the sun rose we spent an hour by the river, checking out the crocodiles and taking photos before heading back out to the tar. A quick look at the map and we realised the 50km piste to the tar ran straight through Bénoué National Park, one of many in Cameroon. Shortly after leaving the campement we crossed a bridge in the National Park and stopped to admire the view. We soon realised that the view included antelopes, baboons and hippos! Time for some more photos and a general feeling of well being at seeing wild animals without having to pay or be guided.

Back on the tar road there were a few more groups of roadside baboons, one unnecessary police checkpoint stop and pleasant mountain pass before we dropped into Ngaoundére for another over night stop and a trip to the ATM to stock up on local currency. The overnight in Ngaoundére was at a cheap auberge out of town, notable for the piles of ratshit in the bathroom, ratshit on the bed and ratshit in the small non-working fridge, so it wasn’t even cold ratshit… typical.

Our goal for the next few days was to reach Bamenda, 800km away, but we had no idea of road conditions or quality. We found the road dusty, hard and devoid of tarmac and it left me with a puncture 20km outside Ngaoundére. We made it to Tibati and stopped for the night before enjoying another day of similar conditions. Just beyond Banyo the road builders had been busy, stretches of pristine tar alternated with prepared piste and made a welcome change from the truck-sized holes and dust. Fun was had until things returned to their pre-Banyo state and we reached Foumban for another night of scrubbing orange dust from our skin. Finally we had just less than 200km to go, all tar, and arrived in Bamenda with plenty of the day left.

Bamenda provides a good starting point to follow the Ring Road around Mount Oku. It’s not exactly a road, mostly dusty or stoney tracks, with some short stretches of tar. We’d heard it was worth the effort for the scenery, so decided to take a couple of days in Bamenda to recover and give the bikes a quick check before having a go. The Africa Nations Cup football was at semi-final stage as we arrived and we spent an evening drinking too much with a couple of local guys, Vincent and Peter who bought us a drink when Cameroon won their semi game. The celebrations in Bamenda continued well into the early hours.

The next morning we should have been on the ring road, soaking up the terrain, but instead we were hungover and ate junk food. The ring road would have to wait until tomorrow.

Okay, so we didn’t report back in a week as promised, but you should be used to our lack of punctuality by now. I spent a week trying to build some strength into my crooked arm and replace the ‘bingo wing’ I’d developed in place of my previously rippling muscles. After a week of arm exercise and some bike repairs we decided to go for a test ride.

The plan was a steady ride out to Koure to see the last troop of wild giraffes in West Africa. We’d avoided them previously, thinking it was a zoo, but they really are wild. We weren’t sure how far it was to Koure, but we’d been told it was only 30 minutes, sounded ideal.

We headed out of Niamey and I was happy to be riding again, the arm seemed ok as did the bike. The Harmattan wind blows strong from the Sahara at this time of year, which strangely makes things a little cooler, but more noticably hides everything in a dusty haze leaving the scenery less striking than usual. After a 50 minute ride, we arrived at the guide post in Koure to purchase our obligatory and necessary guide. It was more expensive than the Lonely Planet had led us to believe, but it’s all in a good cause.

After handing over 18000CFA we were back on the road, with a guide riding pillion on my bike. We soon left the tarmac and followed a dusty track for a while, stopping occasionally so the guide could examine some giraffe poo and work out where they were hiding. At one point he asked if we would ride across a soft sandy plain, but I figured Linz wouldn’t be too happy and besides I was supposed to be taking it easy on my arm. We spoke to another guide in a 4×4 to ask him if he’d seen any promising poo, and following a lead we did eventually have to ride the sand for 2km or so before walking another 2km.

It was worth all the effort though, we were able to get really close to a group of 5 of the 150 strong giraffe troop. They are very timid for a 15ft tall animal, but we got some good pictures and it was amazing just to stand and watch them ambling around and munching on the trees. We started the 2km walk back to the bikes, through soft sand in full bike gear at our favourite 12 noon to 1pm slot. When we finally hit the tarmac again it became clear I had a puncture in the rear tyre, so we found a shady spot to stop and effect repairs.

A very large nail had made a small hole and a 3cm rip in the inner tube, just the kind of thing our cheap puncture repair kit is ineffective at fixing. After my failed repair attempt the guide suggested I try the nearby village. A local guy stitched the rip with needle and thread before applying a standard, African hot vulcanised repair. In no time we were back on the road, managing a full 10km before the repair gave up. As time wasn’t on our side we opted for our emergency repair aerosol, a can of pressurised air and glue. We had no faith in it, but the tyre inflated and remained so, much to our amazement.

One thing I hadn’t noticed was that I’d run out of fuel at the exact moment I’d pulled to the roadside to grimace at the puncture. For some reason Linz was carrying 5 litres of fuel in her spare tank, not something we’d done intentionally, just pure luck.. but it was good. I fuelled up the bike and then we crouched to look at the rear wheel and watch the emergency tyre repair glue spurt out of the hole in the tyre. After a minute the tyre was flat again and the guide estimated it was 3km back to Koure with a nice uphill gradient.

The day hadn’t been a very good test of my arm, the strong winds, dusty track, soft sand, pillion passenger and puncture repairs really didn’t have me in too much pain. Fortunately I had the chance to push the bike up a hill for 3km, that would do the trick! We arrived at the customs post in Koure and waited for a passing truck to take us home to Niamey. Before long, 15 helpers hurled my bike in the back of a truck driven by a helpful if expensive bloke. I jumped in the cab and Linz followed the truck on her bike. It was almost 8 o’clock when we arrived back in Niamey, a 10 hour day, slightly longer than expected. Tired and light of pocket thanks to our day out, we headed to the bar.

Our last night in Niamey was spent in the company of Frank and Anne-Kathrine, a young couple from Germany working in the city. We’d previously bumped into Frank in Mauritania and had since met them both a couple of times in Niamey. We drank too much and stayed out until midnight, just to simplify preparations for our first day back on the road. We’ll track you guys down for a beer in Germany!

If it had been good to be riding again on Saturday, Monday morning was heaven. We loaded up both bikes, waved goodbye to our adopted family at the Grand Hotel in Niger and finally got back to what we set out to do. First day back was nothing special, just a windy and dusty ride to Dogondoutchi, halfway stop-off before the Nigerian border.

Second day back was more interesting, the wind was even stronger, the dust thicker, the road surface grim in places and we were raced by 3 deranged coach drivers. We felt like we’d already done a full day by the time we reached Birnin Konni, the Niger border town. We were soon into Nigeria, happy to be in a new country after weeks of rotting in Niger, but not sure what to expect of the border officials, we’d read many conflicting reports.

Our first meeting was with the passport stamping and visa checking bloke, who told us our visas had expired, pointing at the date of issue and explaining to me how that date had passed. When he had stopped shouting I explained what ‘Date Of Issue’ means in English and he carried on with the our immigration. A little later he told me again that they had expired, but this time he explained that was because we’d now used them to get into Nigeria and couldn’t use them to enter the country again… okay, thanks for clarifying the concept of a ’single entry visa’.

Subsequent visits to the SSS (Special Security Service), FDEA (Federal Drug Enforcement Agency), Customs and the Yellow-Fever-Vaccination-Certificate-checking-man were friendly and hassle free. We had to give up our codeine based pain killers (all 4 tablets) because the poster in the FDEA office said so, but that was no trouble, you can buy them at pharmacies here anyway!

The FDEA guy told us where we could find some blackmarket money changers at the border town and we were soon flush with Nigerian Naira and ready to roll. We wanted to spend the night in Sokoto, the first big town after the border, about 90km south.

Most of the advice you can read about travel to volatile African nations, such as Nigeria, describes mobs of people blocking the road as a good reason for turning around and finding an alternative route. This advice was playing through my mind as I threaded through the second such unruly mob of chanting Nigerians. It seemed that there were local government elections looming and the gatherings were to rally support for potential local rulers. We didn’t encounter any hassle, but afterwards we did discuss the sanity of our strategy. But hey, hindsight is a wonderful thing.

In Sokoto we employed the services of an almond seller to escort us on a moped to the Sokoto Guest Inn. A dingy room decorated in 1984, white walls with black splats, had aircon, a fridge, TV, electric lights and running water… luxuries we didn’t want, but seemed impossible to avoid. We’d read that in Nigerian hotels most things don’t work, this place didn’t disappoint. Food was good though, jollof rice and beef is spicy rice with peppers and tomatoes, big hunks of beef and some fine chilli sauce.

In the morning we followed 400km of fine Nigerian tarmac to Zaria. Corruption in this country absorbs countless billions of dollars that should be spent on the people, but they do at least spend some on the roads, they are the best we’ve seen so far. The drivers make the most of it too, why confine yourself to yourside of the road, it’s understandably difficult to resist the temptation when the surface is so smooth. If you do decide to overtake, into oncoming traffic, just flash your lights so the people you are about to collide with are suitably dazzled and unable to see where they are going.

If the New Zaria Motel had dropped the ‘New’ prefix 20 years ago it would still have been stretching the truth, but it housed us for the night and provided omelette, fried plantain (banana) chips and chilli sauce for breakfast.

Thursday we arrived in Abuja, the new (since 1991 I think) capital of Nigeria. This place is weird, once you’ve ridden through the shanty towns and arrived in the city, there are wide, 4-lane, tree lined boulevards connecting plots of huge brand new buildings. To make it worse there is practically no litter, very little pollution, people actually cleaning the streets and pavements and yes they have pavements, not just dirt. The traffic is busy, but well behaved, nothing like Dakar, it was a nice break from Africa but it freaked us out a bit!

We found a cheap hotel and were greeted by a bunch of enthusiastic staff, full of questions about the trip, or mission as they call it here. The room was a bit dull but everything worked! We found the British High Commission as we are in need of some more pages in our passports, space is running out. Unfortunately the place is closed until further notice with just a phone number to ring for emergencies. Next on the list was a Cameroon visa, which we managed to acquire in just under 3 hours! We could have left on Saturday but we decided to stick around for the weekend to rest my arm and maybe try for an Angolan visa on Monday.

Saturday we were hunting two things, a new camera (we broke yet another) and an ATM that would take our Visa card. We found a camera but all the ATMs accepted Mastercard and not Visa. We finally ended up at the Sheraton Hotel where we met Gwen in the carpark, she and Nick are travelling Africa South to North on a bike and were camping at the back of the hotel, for free! The Sheraton ATM accepted our card, thankfully, and we spent the afternoon swapping travel stories with Gwen and Nick. We returned to our hotel with cash and a new camera and later headed back to the Sheraton for a few beers with our new friends.

Whilst in Abuja we were looking for some chain oil, but all we were offered was engine oil or grease. One guy said, “Yes I can chain de oil” and showed me two small Chinese spanners with which I assume he was going to loosen bolts on my bike until oil leaked out, at which point he could ‘chain’ it. We made do with some of our own engine oil to lubricate the chains, it’s difficult to buy maintenance equipment in places where maintenance involves fixing things after they have broken.

Monday morning we opted to try our luck at the Angolan embassy, despite all the tales of woe we’d heard from other travellers. We arrived at 9:30 just as the place was opening, waited outside for 20 minutes, passed through security, handed over our mobile phones lest we make any phone calls which are clearly illegal in the Angolan Embassy in Abuja, then were directed to a waiting area by the receptionist. Okay so far, we read the coffee table magazines, the Angolan tourist brochure from 2001 and watched as staff arrived for the day. The receptionist was busy too, busy picking her nose and reading magazines. After an hour she called us over, ready to meet the visa officer we assumed… not quite, ready to stand and watch her pick her nose in intimate detail whilst staring over our shoulders at the door. She asked us for our letter of invitation and residents permit, details that had slipped her mind an hour earlier. We knew this was coming and said we had neither, but explained how keen we were to spend more than a few days in Angola, despite the fact she continued to look for breakfast in her nostrils. We continued our attack until her entire hand had almost disappeared from view up her nose, at which point we retrieved our phones from the security guard and headed back to the hotel to gear up for the day’s ride.

The last few countries we’ve visited, Senegal, Mali, Burkina and Niger, all have populations around 12 million, Nigeria’s population is somewhere around 140 million. We couldn’t help but notice this increase, as we left Abuja, heading for Jos, we rarely rode for more than 5 minutes without encountering populated territory. The few places in between the people were filled with trees, lots of banana palms, colourful birds and slightly greener countryside than we’ve seen for a while.

Once we got to Jos it was bloody cold, for the first time in Africa we saw people in woolly hats and gloves, a far cry from the constant 35 degrees we’d enjoyed in Niamey. We first tried a religiously inclined guest house, but the place was full and a friendly bloke there directed us to another similar establishment, The Evangelical Church of West Africa (ECWA) Guest House. ECWA had just erected a new building at their plot in Jos, and we took a room with low expectations. To our great surprise the room was wonderful, new and matching carved wooden furniture, fresh bedding, carpet you would walk on in bare feet, light fittings with bulbs, hot running water.. paradise indeed. We intended to spend 2 nights in Jos, primarily to give my arm a rest, it was becoming increasingly painful with each day on the bike. On our day off we took a walk in Jos and met our friendly bloke from the previous day. Turns out he works at one of the banks and took us inside to show us his office, give us free drinks, talk about his family and our journey and really just be the most kind and generous soul we had met in a long time.

After a lot of persuasion I managed to prise Linz from the comfortable bed at the ECWA Guest House and get her on the bike and pointed in the direction of the Yankari Game Reserve. We hadn’t heard great things about the place, but it was on our route to Cameroon and seemed as good a place to stop as any. Previous visitors had seen few animals and the staff and facilities were not preceded by glowing reputations, on the other hand everybody seemed to enjoy the Wiki Spring, a crystal clear geo-thermal spring at a constant temperature of 31 degrees.

We arrived about 14:00 and were told camping was N1600 (6 quid) compared to the cheapest room at N2300 (9 quid). There were no facilities for the campers and the place was inhabited by kleptomaniac baboons, so a room seemed like a good idea, what with the ensuite bathroom and electricity. The safari was N7000 (28 quid) per vehicle, with the cost split between all passengers and there was a group due to leave in 5 minutes. We rushed back to the bikes, were shown a room which looked rough but we didn’t take much notice, just dumped our gear and jumped on the safari jeep.

Despite what we’d heard, the safari was a great success, we saw scores of antelopes and warthogs within minutes of leaving the basecamp, but our guide was on the trail of elephants. Using the poo-tracking method we’d seen before with giraffes, we hunted down the elephants, but along the way saw crocodiles, tantalus monkeys, more antelope derivatives and plenty of baboons. We found the elephants lurking in the bush, a large herd of all ages and close by there were a few out in the open. The ground around the watering hole in Yankari is salt rich and a couple of elephants had dug huge holes to get to the salt. Our driver was a little over zealous and, on more than one occasion, a great photo opportunity was lost to the roar of the diesel engine in our open top Landcruiser. As we made our way back to basecamp there were lots more elephants to be seen as well as a herd of African buffalo, a rare treat apparently. We even saw lions, well, lion’s poo.. the lions were elsewhere but we were assured the crumbly white turds belonged to lions, looked like dog crap I remember as a kid, but hey I’m no zoologist or poologist for that matter.

Once back at basecamp it turned out our room was the worst we had ever seen, we think it could be the room they use to deter visitors from taking the cheapest rooms. The carpet looked like it was stained with whatever was causing the smell in the bathroom, which was a law unto itself. There was a hole in the wall for ‘air conditioning’, the electricity was piped into our hut in wires that ran along the ground outside, then across the road, just twisted together, not clipped, not hidden just right there on the ground! The bathroom sink was where it should be, but most of the porcelain was missing along with any useful tap components. The shower was there, but didn’t work. The toilet cistern contained all the right pieces, but none were connected and the whole lot was just a jumble of parts along with a plastic teapot that together did not form a useful whole.A dustbin of water at least provided us the ability to wash in the sinkette. How lucky were we that we hadn’t camped where there were no facilties? We had food and drinks from the bar/restaurant and chatted with a trio of swiss folk with whom we’d shared the safari costs. Ernest had lived in Nigeria for over 30 years and was entertaining his sister and brother-in-law for a couple of weeks. They were interested to hear of our trip and we were equally curious about Ernest’s experiences in Nigeria and his sister’s impressions of her first 2 weeks in Africa, without the benefit of the slow introduction we have had.

There are definitely better accommodation options at Yankari, if you want a room, don’t go for the cheap ones, you’re better off camping. There was certainly a lot of building work underway and it looked good. The swiss trio were staying in a new hut which was apparently immaculate, the sooner Yankari stop offering the shithole we stayed in, the better.

We had one more full day in Nigeria, a 420km run would take us to Yola, the last significant town before Cameroonian soil. It was a tiring day, the tarmac started good but slowly degraded throughout the journey to dirt track by the time we reached Yola. I asked a guy on a bike where we could find a place to stay, he turned out to be a pastor and was keen to take us to a ’secure’ hotel. He reiterated the security issue on numerous occasions as we followed him through traffic to his chosen place. Once checked into our room, we couldn’t help but notice that security was a theme of the hotel. The TV was secured in a metal cage, as was the air conditioner and the fridge was welded to a palette which was bolted to the floor. We went downstairs for a drink at the bar, but the bar was a tiny hole in the wall with vertical metal bars, at which you ordered a drink. Vincent the bartender was happy to talk with us and said he couldn’t wait to get home to tell his parents that he had been talking with ‘the white man’. We were glad to brighten his evening without threatening the security of the place.

We securely locked up the bikes and went to bed ready for a short trip to the Cameroon border in the morning.

Happy day today, the good people at Clinic Gamkalley finally removed the plaster cast from my arm. It’s only been 6 weeks, but it feels like a hell of a lot longer since I acquired the plaster accessory.

During those 6 weeks I gained a wonderful layer of leathery, yellow skin which I began scraping off almost immediately. Following an x-ray, the doctor said it all looked good, but I should be careful for a while to get some strength and movement back into the joint. A fair point, since my wrist is particularly flaccid at the moment and has very limited movement.

We hope that a week or so will be sufficient to get my arm to a point where I can ride the bike again, then we can hit the road. Linz is preparing a gruelling exercise regime to get me fit quick, it’s amazing how easy it is to unearth the drill sergeant in her. I’m sure there’s a good portion of punishment for past wrongs in the exercise plan!

We’ll report back here in a week with good news hopefully. Ta ta for now.

Thanks for all the well wishes, comments, emails and SMS messages over the last month, they kept us smiling while we wrangled with African bureaucracy and our insurance company. Although we can receive SMS messages, we still cannot send, so don’t be troubled when there’s no reply.

We’ve finally decided to sit down and fill in the gaps in our story, the last useful blog entry had us camped in Ouagadougou, Burkina Faso and we’ve been a bit sparse with the detail since then. The story of these missing days is probably more useful to us, but we did take some cool pictures, so even if you don’t read the drivel, you can click on the pictures and look at the rest on our Flickr page.

We left Ouaga on the Tuesday and rode north intending to stay in Gorom Gorom for the night, there was a famous market there on Thursdays but we would probably not stick around until then, our visas for Nigeria were running out and we needed to make haste.

The route north runs through Bani, home to some impressive mudbrick mosques, definitely worth a photo stop since we’d previously missed out on the trip to Djenne in Mali, the location of a famous mud mosque. Not that we’ve an obsession with mosques or mud, but the buildings provide a dramatic change to the normal village skylines, of which we’ve seen hundreds. Beyond Bani, we reached Dori, the last place of relative civilisation, the last of the tarmac and the gateway to a couple of destinations on cool (for Dan) or arduous (for Linz) trails.

We stopped to ask directions, took on fuel, water and biscuits, then rode out to the track for Gorom Gorom. It was pretty smooth, a few corrugations, frequent narrow concrete sections to deal with water, but mostly a damn good blast for 50km or so. We all enjoyed ourselves, Linz a bit too much, her suspension had been bottoming, causing some minor damage to chainguard and rear tyre, she promised to control herself on the return journey. Rolling into Gorom Gorom the trail became increasingly sandy, right into the village centre where it briefly got the better of other-Dan but he was soon on his feet. We asked around, rode around and ended up at Auberge Tandikoura (or something like that).

We had a walk out that evening, got some cheap eats and a couple of beers then strolled back to camp and happened upon an interesting little boutique selling mighty cheap booze. Among the treats on offer were a litre bottle of Eperon (tempting, quickly go blind, fall down juice) for under 2 quid, but we opted for the 10p sachets of Festa scotch whiskey, distilled in China, of course to some traditional chemical formula, erm… I mean recipe. None of us had ever drunk whiskey from small plastic bags, but we enjoyed the experience and vowed it wouldn’t be our last.

Next morning we planned to cross the border into Niger, we’d seen a line on the map through the villages of Seytenga, Burkina Faso and Tera, Niger. Our map showed it as a good road, Chris’s map was slightly less optimistic and our GPS maps showed a line near enough to where we figured it should be, that was all the encouragement we needed. We made our way back to Dori, I stopped to fix a puncture about 1km before the tarmac, we took on more fuel, water and food then headed out in search of the road to Seytenga.

We spent a good hour circling Dori and taking various wrong turns before following a bloke on a Yamaha 80 Townmate out to a dusty track. His directions were, go up here and go left and you’ll reach Seytenga in 2 hours. We did our best and the GPS kind of agreed with our choice of route, as long as we squinted really hard at the screen. The left turn took us onto a sandy track that seemed to point in the right direction, but was not accompanied by any indication that it would take us to the Niger border. Linz had reservations about the whole thing, not helped by the presence of sand, her least favourite surface.

After a little persuasion, Linz settled into the idea that we were doing the right thing, or to use her words “resigned herself to her fate”! We rode a short way and, as the sun was doing its best to take the paint off the bikes, decided to find some shade, have a rest and take on some calories for the rest of the day. Tera, our destination in Niger, was around 95km away and we figured on arriving there sometime late afternoon. Early progress was pretty good, the untouched scenery was wonderful, not a soul in sight apart from one or two Chinese mopeds and, thankfully for Linz, there wasn’t much sand.

This definitely wasn’t the beaten track, we passed a few straw-topped-mud-hut villages and the reaction was refreshing. Nobody asked us for gifts or money, they were just amazed to see us and stood close enough to touch us and study intently our ridiculous machinery, clothing and pallid complexions. There was poverty, but happiness too, they had food and shelter but access to medical care would be tricky, as would raising the money to pay for it. It left us with mixed feelings, it’s wonderful to see these remote villages and our Western preconceptions of poverty didn’t fit what we saw.

As we neared Seytenga, the sand patches were getting deeper and more frequent, making life a little difficult for Linz and other-Dan. A few of us ended up on the floor, but bikes and bodies survived and we could see that the border was getting close. Eventually we reached the village of Seytenga and stumbled across the Police Commisariat, the place we needed for yet more stamps in our passports. It was nearly 4 in the afternoon and we were all pretty tired, the policeman told us that the route to Tera, another 50km or so, was very sandy and would take 5 hours. We all agreed to spend the night right there and deal with the rest tomorrow.

In the absence of any formal tourist industry, we took the policeman’s offer of pitching our tents in the village square. This was great fun, we had a large audience that regarded our camp ritual as if we had arrived at their village flying a tamed meteor. Nothing we did seemed normal and it was fun to imagine the folklore that may have preceded us. Once sorted, we were guided to a local drinking hole for a bottle of Guinness Foreign Extra and then it was off to the ‘cafe’ for rice and sauce, typical cheap food in this part of the world.. damn cheap too, the meal was 20p each! They even catered for other-Dan’s vegetarian needs by avoiding the pieces of ‘meat’ in the big pot of sauce when serving his plate!

The village square was fitted with public toilets too, not the kind of place you’d squat with a crossword, but they helped to keep our faces white and allowed us to laugh at each other some more.  We could while away our time in the facilities playing “Chase-the-cockroaches-with-your-headtorch”, truly entertaining.

The next morning we were up early and the crowd was gathering before we were out of our tents. The kids were much more forward than the previous day and wandered around the tents, getting into as many photographs as possible and generally ensuring our personal space remained at a normal African level. We saddled up, thanked the policeman, headed around the corner to the customs post to sort out the bike papers and continued on through more sand towards Niger.

Linz had managed to avoid falling the previous day, but soon made up for it. The sand was persistent and deeper, making progress slow for Linz and other-Dan. Those with more off-road experience found it easier, but unfortunately this was of no use or inspiration to those having less fun. Everybody did more than their fair share of lifting fallen bikes throughout the day. More remote villages brought more amazed faces, more beautiful scenery and the occasional camel.

One particular village included a 30m sandpit hidden around a corner that made life interesting, everybody managed to get through and once we reached the other side the population of the village came running, screaming and laughing with arms waving wildly. We stopped to take in the spectacle and await our fate, failing to notice that Chris wasn’t with us. Linz removed her goggles and scarf causing uproar with the women of the village. They jumped up and down, clapping, whooping with laughter and pointing at Linz.. maybe amazed at the possibility that a woman could do such a thing… or that the smallest man of the group looked just like a woman.

It turned out that Chris had fallen a few minutes earlier and in all the commotion we hadn’t noticed. I made a quick run back to find him and we were soon back together again and on our way to Tera. We hadn’t acquired much water whilst in Seytenga and our supplies were running low, but, as luck would have it, our route took us past a brand new well funded by The Islamic Foundation of Niger. The local inhabitants were more than happy to provide us with as much water as we needed. With our spirits lifted by the safety net of clean water, we battled on through the sand and arrived in Tera well before sunset. My favourite part of the day was seeing Chris drop his bike in the deep sand in Tera, deciding to help him and then immediately falling over and learning that Linz was just beyond my line of sight, also on the floor… Chris was in stitches! Other-Dan and Ed kept their gargantuan Africa Twins upright, but we all know that was a fluke… come on big Dan, admit it, you love our toy bikes, just because your bike has Africa in the name.. it means nothing!

At the customs post in Tera we were greeted by a unusual and rather exuberant bloke who performed some strange semi-salute and heel clicking pirouette each time he walked away from us. He took away our passports and paperwork and brought them back unstamped, I soon found a real customs bloke who attended to the task in hand. Mr. Exuberant insisted on escorting us to the local camp ground and shouting orders at various folk along the way. At the entrance to the campsite he performed a half forward roll which he then carried into some vague martial arts hand pointing thing before rising to his feet once more to continue talking loudly. It became clear that he was a few bribes short of an African official and discussions with others later confirmed our suspicions.

We ordered food and Mr Exuberant bought us all a drink before wandering off to shout and spray spittle at some other people. Later he returned with some spicy mutton in a piece of grease proof paper and motioned for us all to tuck in. During his absence his drink had acquired a dead insect, a cigarette end and a bottle cap, the latter was his own doing. He was unperturbed by these extra condiments and continued to drink the concoction whilst smearing his hands and mouth with mutton fat. At one point the nutter reached new heights, spitting a piece of bone at Chris (which is funny because Chris’s surname is Bone) and then helping himself to a swig from Chris’s bottle of Coke, leaving a coating of mutton fat around the bottle neck.

Finally our ordered meal arrived and our deranged host, who had run dry of greasy mutton, was keen to join us. He decided he liked the look of Linz’s food the most, so walked to her side and dug his greasy paws straight into the middle of Linz’s plate before cramming the bounty in his mouth. I could see Linz was ready to go toe-to-toe with the eejit and tried to placate her with the offer of my food, but her appetite was gone and she was best left to sit quietly whilst the rage slowly ebbed away. After a long, hard day battling with the sand she was hungry and the last thing she wanted was the hands of the local idiot stirring her food. Still it makes for a good story and besides a girl needs to stay trim!

The morning brought an extortionate bill and two punctures, one for Linz and one for Ed. We managed to get the bill reduced, though it was still ludicrous, fix both punctures and get out of Tera on a tar road… the first we had seen for 2 days and Linz was smiling all the way. Niger seemed a little more African than previous countries, at least that was the best way we could describe it to each other. It wasn’t something tangible, more a feeling about the terrain, the people, the traffic and the look of the villages.  It wasn’t long before we noticed both puncture repairs had failed and we stopped to have a snack and another go at the punctures. I can’t remember when sharing a tin of very warm and therefore runny corned beef and a tin of fruit salad became an acceptable snack, but that’s what it was.

The road was taking us to Niamey, the capital of Niger and a fork in the road gave us the option of a piste or a river crossing followed by more tar. The majority vote was for the ferry and we soon arrived at the banks of the Niger River to await transport. A particularly persistent beggar with a carpet tied to his head provided the entertainment whilst we waited, even the locals sent him packing, clearly frustrated by his beligerence. Before long we were on the ferry and buying penny boiled sweets from a kid carrying a tray full of goodies. Once at the other bank we were rolling on the tar again, getting close to Niamey.. but not before a diversion took us back to the dusty trail again. We briefly stopped to introduce ourselves to Kelly, an American bloke living in Niamey, who caught our eye because he was riding a clean looking Honda Africa Twin!

The diversion took us through some straggling villages and as we passed a school I was riding at the front with Chris, the others just a little way behind. After avoiding a large hole at the side of the track I glanced back to see where Chris was, turning back to the road I saw another hole, previously hidden by the incline in the road… this second hole was less than a metre from my front wheel, so in no time at all I was in it with the bike, thinking about my sore arm!

Chris was immediately at my side, lifting the bike off me, then Linz arrived and helped me out of the hole. A huge crowd had gathered and I was looking up the sleeve of my jacket to see if the broken bones had stayed inside, fortunately they had and although I was shocked, there was a sense of relief about the severity of the injury. Other-Dan offered pain killers, which I took and a car appeared with an offer of a lift to a local clinic.. I’m not sure where the car came from, but it was a welcome sight. Linz gathered paperwork and other stuff, Chris forced money in her hand, other-Dan handed over his entire wallet, Ed recovered the bikes abandoned by Chris and Linz and I sat in the back of this car wondering what the hell had happened.

Once at the clinic I managed to remove my bike jacket without having to cut the sleeve and was ferried around in a wheel chair and crashed into several doors and doorframes, each collision caused me to groan in pain but did nothing to temper the drivers enthusiasm for battering the clinic paintwork. All this caused Linz great amusement and she struggled to stifle her laughter, thanks for the sympathy sweetheart. Within a couple of hours I was enjoying those drugs they give you before general anaesthetic and that night I slept in a haze of codeine and paracetamol. Linz got to spend her first night ever in hospital, although not as a patient!

Linz, Other-Dan, Ed and Chris recovered the bikes the next day and by Sunday Linz was in a hotel ready for my homecoming on Monday.

After numerous phone calls to the insurers and a hotel move we are now resident in a one room bungalow, which is our home until January 21st. We cover our own living expenses, but the insurers are paying for the roof over our head. This situation allows us to wait here in Niamey until my arm is fixed before carrying on south, we are both very happy with the outcome as we came dangerously close to being flown home on more than one occasion.

Moving hotels was fun, Linz rode her bike out of the hotel carpark following me and the luggage in a taxi, only to be stopped 100m up the road by a policeman for the first time in her life! no, really, the first time in her life! This was also the first time she had ridden in Africa without following me, who thinks these two things are related? Fortunately I spotted her being pulled over and returned to produce all the necessary documentation. Linz thinks the policeman was placated by the fact she had a nice responsible man accompanying her.

At the new hotel we dropped off the luggage and set about trying to find a helpful soul that would ferry my bike from the old hotel. A group of old guys sat around outside the hotel, the “official” hotel taxi drivers, suggested various solutions to our predicament. Linz’s favourite was to push the bike up the steep 1 km hill between the hotels, a suggestion that works well with a broken arm. The owner of a Toyota Tercel came up with the idea we had been looking for, a pick up with some blokes in it. The Grand Marche was our destination, you can buy anything there, even genuine Ronex watches. There were three suitable vehicles awaiting hire, a fairly new, shiny red Chinese pick up and two rather sorry looking Peugeot 404 hacks. The cab driver insisted on doing the talking and came back with a cheap Peugeot deal. Our little convoy drove to the old hotel, collected the bike and delivered it to its new home next to Engie (Linz’s bike) and settled down to life in Niger for the next 6 weeks or so.

Hello everyone… hope you’ve all had fun over Christmas, yes we’re still alive, still in Niamey and my broken arm is still encased in plaster. The insurance company are helping us to keep the bank manager happy until I am fit to ride again. If all goes well I will be out of plaster on the 11th and working hard to get my arm back to strength.

Our ‘friendly’ insurers are helping us stay out here until the 21st, at least they pay for accomodation, but every little helps. We have been close to insanity, unexpected confinement after months of travelling is difficult to deal with! We met a couple of other bikers through www.horizonsunlimited.com (thanks Tim C!) who joined us for Christmas along with a Brit couple hooning across Africa in an old Landcruiser.

For Christmas day we all had tasty barbecue, plenty of booze and those that had fully working limbs were thrown in the pool, including Ester the Swiss girl who we’d only just met.

Thanks to Jason for buying the water pistols that started the pool dunking, Karin for drinking the gin, Orrin for throwing everyone in the pool and Torsten for letting us watch movies on his laptop… hope you all have a safe journey.

There’s not much else to report, next time we’re here we will fill in the gap between Burkina Faso and me crashing in Niger, hopefully with some more pictures (cybercafes here give out Prozac to keep you smiling while you wait).

Happy New Year to all our families, friends, like-minded fools we’ve met on the road and anyone else that ends up reading this. Hope 2008 is good to you.

Dan and Linz