One Month in Nigeria: The Roadblocks, the Risks, the Rewards

Traversing the most infamous of all West African countries

If I could skip one country while traversing the west coast of Africa, it would be Nigeria. Overlanders speak of Nigeria only in whispers, and they don’t often have encouraging things to say. Big, fast, loud and more than a little unpredictable, Nigeria is not on many bucket lists. I have recently heard a few reports of attacks on the roads involving fake police roadblocks and spike strips. Speaking of police roadblocks, Nigeria is famous for theirs, both in number and in unfriendliness and bribery; Nigeria apparently holds the record.

Skirting Nigeria by land is currently impossible, as it means driving north around Lake Chad through Niger, Chad and Northern Cameroon—all of which are seriously off-limits due to Boko Haram. If I am to traverse the west coast of Africa, I must drive the width of Nigeria. It is as simple as that.

With safety as the number one priority, I plan to drive as far as possible each day, and I will always stay in hotels. Preferably the hotels will have high fences and armed guards. I also want to avoid lingering in the Niger Delta if possible—it’s the current kidnapping hotspot due to the ease of which a getaway can be made in the maze of swampy channels there. So the plan is set and my Benin visa is expiring. I can delay no more. It’s time to dive in.

“SOON AFTER LEAVING CUSTOMS AND IMMIGRATION I AM WAVED DOWN BY A GROUP OF MEN ON THE SIDE OF THE BADLY CRUMBLING ROAD. I HAVE BEEN WARNED NUMEROUS TIMES OF FAKE STOPS THAT CAN TURN VIOLENT, SO I LOOK CAREFULLY AND TRY TO DECIDE IF THESE GUYS ARE LEGIT.”

Diving In

Nigeria’s currency is the Naira, and because of severe inflation there, it has a thriving black-market exchange rate 50 percent better than official. After a lot of back and forth at the border, I exchange all my Central African Francs, and receive around 300,000 Naira in a huge stack of small, grubby bills.

Inside Nigerian Immigration I meet three men, and it’s quickly clear that the largest is the boss and he is not to be trifled with. His shirt is blotchy and untucked, though it’s difficult to see behind the wall of medals on display. After some pleasantries—which, I must say, are amazingly easy in English—the large man begins to examine my visa very closely.

The Nigerian tourist visa is notoriously hard to get, currently the hardest on the whole west coast of Africa. Typically, a one month visa is issued, with a permitted three months from the date of issue, to enter Nigeria. I got my visa back in Mali, and am nearing the end of the three-month window. For no apparent reason, I was issued a two-month visa, something that is very unusual.

Immediately, the large man points to my two months and exclaims that it’s just not right. After throwing my passport down and complaining loudly, he demands to know where the visa was issued and makes it very clear it is not acceptable. Purely by luck, I have the ambassador’s card from Mali, and when I hand it over he is not a happy man, apparently trying to bluff me. After some arguing and my explanation that it’s simply what I was issued, he finally seems satisfied and tosses my passport to one of the lesser men to enter into the giant ledger.

He does make it clear, however, that he will only grant me entry for one month, because that’s what it should have been in the first place. I secretly only wanted one month anyway, but I’m happy to let him think he won this round. After an eternity of waiting for no clear reason, my passport is stamped, all paperwork is complete and all ledgers are dutifully updated. The rotund man leans back with a huge grin and says, “So, what did you bring for me?”

With an equally large grin I say, “A smile all the way from Australia,” which I quickly follow with, “Let’s trade. You give me something, and I’ll give you something.”

Smiling, eventually, he hands my passport back. “Enjoy your stay in Nigeria. Safe journey.”

At customs, I hit a snag when I ask for a Temporary Import Permit (TIP). Without a Carnet de Passage, I need a TIP to make the transit legally in my Jeep. The head of customs assures me repeatedly, I simply don’t need one. The Laissez-Passer (as it is called in French Africa) is only for vehicles returning to the same border. It’s not required because I’m driving through to Cameroon. I ask repeatedly to be issued one in the hopes of avoiding bribery, though after the tenth time he says no, I give up. He is shocked I think there will be bribery attempts, and assures me that is not the case. I’m not sure I believe him.

I walk away from customs empty handed with the realization I must drive through Nigeria without any official customs paperwork. This will be a first for me after driving through more than 28 foreign countries in my two Jeeps. I don’t like it at all.

Military Roadblocks

Soon after leaving customs and immigration, I am waved down by a group of men on the side of the badly crumbling road. I have been warned numerous times of fake stops that can turn violent, so I look carefully and try to decide if these guys are legit. They’re only wearing shorts and undershirts, and I see one hastily buttoning up a shirt. It clearly says “Police” in large block letters. Also, they’re all carrying automatic weapons, so I stop.

The men turn out to be extremely friendly, forward and very, very loud. They speak very fast in some form of pigeon English I can’t quite clearly understand. After figuring out I am a tourist, checking my passport and writing down details, they are happy to send me on. “Welcome to Nigeria. Safe journey.”

A mile or so further, the scene is repeated, though these men look even less legit. I slow and see automatic weapons being produced and official-looking shirts, so I stop in the middle of the road and leave the engine running, feeling uncertain. Again, the men turn out to be very friendly and welcoming, and are excited to hear I am a tourist in Nigeria. They insist I step out and take photos with them, which takes a long time to get a copy on everyone’s phone. I get the feeling they’re bored, and just want to hear a good story.

The first hours in Nigeria continue in much the same fashion. Guys at roadblocks rise from shady spots, flag me down and then write my details into enormous ledgers. Each roadblock is friendly, with lots of handshakes and warm welcomes. At many roadblocks, the officers sheepishly ask, “What did you bring for me?” I reply by saying that they need to give me something too, “We will trade.” Often I ask for their hat or uniform shirt, which I know they will never give me. I get a huge smile and a nod of the head before I am waived through.

In the afternoon, I navigate horribly broken roads and traffic jams in a large and modern nameless city complete with skyscrapers and a functioning train. This does not look at all like the West Africa I have come to know.

I find my way onto one of Nigeria’s massive expressways, a four-lane highway where traffic moves at breakneck speeds, despite the rough and broken surface. The road is littered with slow trucks and military and police roadblocks. The pace is fast and furious, and I concentrate hard to maintain 65 mph to keep up with traffic. The odd Mercedes or luxury 4×4 blasts past going much, much faster.

After a few hours, I am exhausted, and just before the sun hits the horizon I find a grimy truck-stop town clustered around the expressway. I spot a hotel with a sufficiently high wall and armed security, and $15 is cheap enough for a run-down room. The town, hotel and room resemble The Developed World—working showers and toilets, air conditioning and occasionally even hot water—although everything is severely neglected and coated with a thick layer of grime.

After a mountain of famous Nigerian Jollof rice, I drag the desk in front of the locked door of my room and eventually drift off to a restless sleep listening to the sound of the bone-rattling generator directly outside my window.

“AMID THE STORIES OF BRIBERY AND BAD ROADS, OVERLANDERS NEGLECT TO MENTION THE GENUINE WARMTH OF THE PEOPLE,  THE DELICIOUSLY SPICY JOLLOF RICE AND HOW BEAUTIFUL THE LANDSCAPE OF NIGERIA CAN BE.”

Frantic Pace

I sleep in fits and spurts, half of me happy for the air conditioning, the other half hating the world’s loudest generator which keeps it running. Immediately on the expressway the frantic pace and reckless driving resume.

I stop to buy gas, and the young lady manning the pump is extremely chatty. I ask to take a photo and she is quickly posing and flirting. The lady holds an enormous stack of cash, she clearly has no concern in the world of theft. Gas is half the price of diesel, and with my black market exchange rate I pay $1 USD per gallon, by far the cheapest of the trip.

Before midday I see a partially clothed man in the ditch as I whip by at speed. My brain takes a snapshot and then spends the next ten seconds analyzing it. He is face down and lying very awkwardly. A pool of blood surrounds his head, and his upper body is badly swollen. It dawns on me I have just seen a dead body. Other vehicles can surely see him also, and they all speed on without so much as slowing. I ponder that for many hours.

Police, immigration, military and vehicle safety officers set up roadblocks on the expressway wherever they see fit. They always set up just over the crest of a hill or around a blind corner, causing me to slam on the brakes a couple of times. Massively overloaded trucks drift between lanes, which means going around is always a gamble—I can only hope they don’t move into my lane. I’m always on the lookout for broken down trucks and potholes bigger than the tires on the Jeep, all while ripping along at over 60 mph.

I stop to buy fried plantain chips on the side of the expressway, which turns out to be a blessing in disguise. Not only are they a deliciously salty road snack, they are the perfect gift to offer at the endless roadblocks. When the armed men ask what I brought for them, I immediately produce the bag of plantain with a smile. They clearly detest the stuff and immediately turn it down. I explain it’s all I will be eating for lunch, and they are welcome to share with me. With no reply, the officers wave me through with empty hands.

The military and police are different than anything I have seen before, and I soon learn the knack to the roadblocks. No matter what happens: talk first, talk fast, keep smiling, and keep talking. After that, keep talking. “I’m a tourist. I’m visiting Nigeria. I’m coming from here. I’m going to there. I love Nigeria. People are friendly. I feel safe. It’s a beautiful place. I love Africa. I’m having a great time. It’s beautiful here. People are friendly in Nigeria. Is this the way to there? Wow, I love it here. I’m from Australia. I’m driving a Jeep. It’s really fantastic here. Thanks for having me in your country. Yes, people are very friendly. Oh, it’s really great. I’m a tourist. I love it here. I feel safe. Nigerians are very friendly.” Three minutes like that, and I’m waived through.

Blur

I push on and on, laying down the miles at breakneck pace. In the early afternoon, I cross a huge bridge near the mouth of the mighty Niger River. This is the kidnapping hotspot of the Delta Region, and I’m very conscious of the need to keep moving. The bridge is heavily fortified with massive artillery, and crossing is no problem. Immediately after I come to a complete stop, stuck in traffic with hundreds of other vehicles due to enormous construction.

Crawling around the city through endless traffic jams I encounter small town police who are much less friendly and very demanding. At first they yell, but eventually mellow out and let me continue when I don’t have any paperwork they understand. I just repeatedly give them my registration and insurance while smiling and assuring them it’s correct, and eventually they simply give up and stop asking.

After a night in another secure hotel, I’m up at dawn again the next day. Everything starts to blur together, so I drink more coffee and eat more fried plantain chips, which only makes things worse. Eventually the expressway becomes narrow and windy, and four lanes turn to two. If anything, the pace only increases. Police and military roadblocks are now sandbags blocking the road and are much more heavily armed with light tanks and large mounted guns visible. I gather I’m now in Cross River State, one of the problem areas of Nigeria.

Cresting a hill, I see many slow vehicles and assume another military stop, though I soon realize that is not the case. A mini-van has rolled into the ditch, and judging by the scene and number of stopped cars, it occurred only a few minutes earlier. Onlookers are frantically dragging bleeding people from the van, and I see four badly injured people loaded in a pickup. The consequences of this insane driving are all too clear, though nobody seems to care and we push on as frantic as ever.

After two and half days, I arrive in the famous town of Ikom, only 16 miles from the border of Cameroon. I have crossed the country without a single issue. I turn south, aiming for the city of Calabar where I must apply for a Cameroon visa. The road quickly deteriorates into severely broken pavement, littered with monster potholes, and the sixty miles take the rest of the day.

“POLICE AND MILITARY ROADBLOCKS ARE NOW SANDBAGS BLOCKING THE ROAD AND ARE MUCH MORE HEAVILY ARMED WITH LIGHT TANKS AND LARGE MOUNTED GUNS VISIBLE.”

Into The Jungle

After successfully obtaining my Cameroon visa, I move North, passing through familiar military and police roadblocks. Most of the men remember me, which causes some to immediately wave me through, while others are more insistent that I should give them a gift.

Passing through small rural towns, I encounter men stopping traffic who are obviously not police or official in any way. They are representing some kind of ‘community fund’ and are demanding transport trucks pay to drive through their town. The men are always in their late teens or early twenties, and often look like they are up to no good. Happily keeping a smile on my face and shaking a lot of hands always wins through. Chains are lowered and homemade spike strips are pulled back to allow me to continue.

The afternoon drags on, bumping along broken roads and passing through small towns. When the road is pavement, I wish it was not. The potholes are so large and continuous, the going would be much faster and easier on dirt and mud. Over the course of the day I drive into the Afi mountains, deep in the jungle. I begin to pass enormous trees choked with vines, and the mountains in the far distance are decorated with low-hanging fog. Just as I switch on my headlights, I turn into the driveway of the Drill Ranch, a very narrow dirt track cut into the thick jungle. I set up camp in a small clearing in the jungle, and fall asleep to the loud chorus of the jungle and chimpanzees screeching loudly. I can tell they are very close.

Drill Ranch

The Drill Ranch sanctuary for endangered drill monkeys was founded by Americans Liza and Peter in 1991. The site is nestled among mountains and carved out of the thick jungle, which is constantly trying to reclaim every square centimeter. Rescued drill monkeys and chimpanzees live in enormous electrified enclosures and are fed every day. I can’t help but test the fence, which is disappointingly not very strong. After taking off my rubber-soled shoes and standing barefoot on the damp ground, I get a shock strong enough to make me jump. I won’t be doing that again.

Watching the chimps from just a few meters away is a once-in-a-lifetime experience. Many stand up on their hind legs and hold out their hands for food, making them look exactly like toddlers. The chimps seem content to also watch me, and I honestly think they get used to me over the course of the three days I return. Each animal has its own unique personality, and I get to know a couple well. The handlers explain they are extremely strong and can be dangerous, and so contact is strictly forbidden. Around the world, chimp handlers have been injured and even killed by escapees.

In an attempt to capitalize on the success of Drill Ranch, the Nigerian government built a massive Canopy Walk in the treetops nearby. In West Africa, I often feel as if I have stepped into Jurassic Park, and it has never been truer than on this canopy walk. The aluminum boardwalk and rope handrails are severely overgrown with fungus and moss, the trees look prehistoric and the views are spectacular. Standing on the platform, I fully expect to see a dinosaur walk past, and I catch myself keeping an eye out just in case.

Nigeria ends

Nigeria has been everything I expected and so much more. Big, fast, loud and unpredictable, yes, but also extremely friendly and inviting. Amid the stories of bribery and bad roads, overlanders neglect to mention the genuine warmth of the people, the deliciously spicy Jollof rice and how beautiful the landscape of Nigeria can be.

As notorious as the country may be, it’s also clear the recent crack-down on corruption has had a huge impact, with officers only sometimes politely asking for a gift and never pushing their luck. Maybe Nigeria has turned an excitingexciting new leaf with regards to bribery and corruption, and the roadblocks won’t be something to dread in the future.

At the hundreds of police and military roadblocks I passed through, I never paid a single bribe; “Welcome to Nigeria” and “Safe journey” became very familiar phrases. Even in the blistering heat and humidity, the men always managed a thumb’s up and huge smiles, the lasting image I have to remember my time in Nigeria. Crossing Nigeria is an experience not to be missed, a unique highlight on the West African traverse.

NIGERIA QUICK FACTS

Capital City: Lagos

Population: 200 million (estimated)

Size: 357,000 square miles (bigger than Texas)

Official Language: English

Languages Spoken: over 520

Currency: Naira

Independence from England: October 1, 1960