We departed Calabar early. From Calabar, we still had another 217k to go however, psychologically at least, we were almost there. The worst of Nigeria was behind us. No more sprawling, congested, garbage choked cities to navigate, no more roads gone wild, and hopefully, only a few more police and military roadblocks. Assuming our gearbox held together and we encountered no other snags, we’d be in Cameroon by midday.

The road to the border turned out to be even smoother than expected, giving us time to reflect on the past six days. We’d driven 849k through the heart of southern Nigeria. Our gearbox had caused us more than enough grief. The roads were shit, Nigeria’s cities, Calabar excluded, were the worst form of overpopulated sprawl, corruption was commonplace and watching fights break out and people being dragged out of their cars and beaten, was plenty to leave a bad taste in our mouths. Yet, on a positive note, the landscape was lush, green, and beautiful, most of the people we met were friendly and welcoming, and of the 123 police, military, drug enforcement, and immigrations roadblocks we passed through, we were only stopped and asked for money 78 times.

Shortly before noon, we arrived at the Nigerian border post, a sleepy backwater nestled in the middle of lush tropical rainforest along the banks of the Cross River. At the border we received a warm welcome from the border officials who processed our documents, chatted with us a bit, and sent us on our way. Just like that, we were through the control gate and driving over the Cross River. Nigeria was finally behind us. We were headed for Cameroon.

On the other side of the bridge, our focus quickly shifted to the road ahead. Reports from other overland travelers said that it was bad, very bad. Back in August, early in the wet season, Jeff Watts had tackled the road in two 80 series Land Cruisers like ours. He reported back that the road was very muddy and that he’d blown a tire. He made it through the worst stretch in one day. In September, we got word back from Fred Willems that the road had deteriorated considerably. Fred said that he’d worked for four days in the pouring rain, aided by three local villagers, to get through the worst 10k stretch and that they’d slept in the middle of the road each night and had suffered significant body damage. James Thomas, who arrived a couple of weeks later, echoed Fred’s comments and described a situation where he blew a tire in ruts so deep that there wasn’t room to change it. James also provided the name of a panel beater in Mamfe that could help us repair the inevitable damage to our truck.

When we arrived at the first control gate we inquired about the road ahead. The friendly official simply said “The road is very bad.” Further up the road we reached the main border post in Ekok, where we inquired again. The two officials processing our passports started to chuckle and then one turned and said “You will not make it in your 4x4.” I replied, “I know that the road is bad. We have friends that have driven this road recently in similar trucks and they made it. It will just take a lot of work.” The officials started to chuckle again and the other one said, “Your 4x4 won’t make it. I remember your friends. They were here over a month ago driving a dark blue 4x4 (James and Lee) like yours. And before that, there was another couple (Fred and Josephine) driving a white Land Cruiser, a little different than yours. The road was different then. When your friends were here, there were big Land Rovers running. They had generators and pumps. They would drive into the deep holes and drain out the water. Now the Land Rovers are gone. The water is too deep for them to operate. They’ve gone to Bafoussam. Nobody has been down this road in a month.” Not exactly the feedback we wanted to hear.

By this point, our arrival had drawn quite a bit of attention and the police commissioner summoned us to meet with him. He was very friendly and gave us a warm welcome. “What is your mission here?” he said. We explained that we were headed for Yaounde and later Gabon. He replied, “The problem is that the road is very bad. It is impassable.” We told him that we knew the road wasn’t good and that it would take a lot of work to get through but that we had a very good truck and all the right equipment. “Let me see your truck” he said. We showed him Betty. While giving it a once over he said “This is a strong 4x4. You have a monkey winch. That is very good.” He continued, “The problem is that it is still raining. Usually, the rain has stopped by now. I think the rains will stop soon. Perhaps you can wait here for two weeks and then the road will be better and you will be able to go.” We grilled the commissioner with questions about the condition of the road. “The road from here to Emunjock is good. You can make it in an hour.” After Emunjock the road is very bad. You will see. It is very bad. I think you should stay here for a couple of days to see if the rains stop. Then you can go to Emunjock and have a look.” Then the Commissioner pointed down the road to an area in which he said we could camp.

After chatting a little longer, we thanked the commissioner for his help and setoff down Ekok’s only dirt road. After talking things over, we decided that our plan was unchanged. Since the road was supposed to be good to Emunjock, we decided to head there so that we could have a look for ourselves. And this plan remained unchanged until we got about 500 meters outside of town and the “good” road turned to complete unimaginable shit. Worse than anything we’d seen anywhere in Africa. In front of us was a giant gapping mud hole that looked like a one way ticket into the bowels of hell. We stopped to have a look and immediately two teenage boys emerged from the bush and pointed us towards another track that had been cut through the rainforest. It was a deviation around the main road and these boys were the deviation’s toll keepers. If we wanted to use the deviation then we’d have to pay a toll. Seemed fair enough given the man eating orifice that stood directly in front of us however, we decided to have a chat with them about the road conditions before deciding whether or not to proceed. The picture wasn’t pretty. They explained that this was nothing. “Wait until you get to the bad road. It is very bad. You will see.” “And what about the road between here Emunjock?” we asked. The boys explained that there were two more deviations that went around bad sections of road that were much worse than this one. They went on to say that even the deviations were bad and would be difficult. The more we talked with them the worse the road sounded and the worse the road sounded the more we realized that they were validating what we’d already heard. More concerning however was the fact that everyone we’d met described the road we were currently on, in all it’s man eating glory, as the “good” road. If this was the good road, we dared imagine what the “bad” road must look like!

As we stared into the abyss in front of us, we discussed what to do. There seemed to be no clear path, certainly no good path. As we weighed our options we realized that it was getting late and we were unlikely to make it to Emunjock before dark. Not eager to spend the night camped in a deep mud hole, we decided the better option was to head back to Ekok and sort things out there.

Back in Ekok, we set up camp on the side of the road, just outside the town’s only lodging, a lovely affair with no running water or electricity, and a restaurant with no food. I’d love to say that this was an ideal spot in a quaint little African village surrounded by lush tropical rainforest. Unfortunately, other than the lush tropical rainforest, there was nothing ideal about it. Ekok’s a typical border town complete with all of the requisite moneychangers and shady Nigerian commerce. There’s no electricity and no running water, only one noisy dirt road that’s dotted with muddy potholes, and very little in the way of entertainment. It’s a fine place to get your passport stamped but not exactly the place you’d want to get stuck for a couple of weeks.

Rainforest Bush Camp - November 4-6, 2006
(Jim Writes) I won’t go into the details of the next few days as it was a time of pain and suffering I’d rather not relive. Rather, here’s the highline… our overnight stay in Ekok evolved into what seemed like an eternity, as Friday became Saturday, and then Sunday, and then Monday. During that time we sought refuge in our tent, not eager to come out as word had spread about the latest reality TV show, which was apparently taking place at our truck. By sunrise Saturday morning, half the village had gathered to watch our every move. Our only reprieve was inside the tent and even then, we had little peace as our audience quickly learned that they could climb a nearby ledge and peer inside. From sunrise well into the evening we’d hear calls outside from villagers yelling, “White man come down! White man come down!” Inside, we were working to sort out our plan. As we saw it, there were basically three options:

OPTION 1: Follow the original plan and push forward alone to Emunjock. Once there, survey the “bad” road and continue as soon as possible, aided by some local boys if necessary. This was our desired option however, there were some downsides. Most importantly, our damaged gearbox could easily decide to pack up for good in the middle of a mud hole and, alone, we’d have real problems getting it out.

OPTION 2: Stay for a few days to see if the rains stop. Other than the pain associated with spending time in Ekok, this seemed like a good idea since we were at the tail end of the rainy season and once the rains stopped for good, the hot Cameroon sun would quickly dry out the roads. The downside, I’m no meteorologist and the thought of spending more time in Ekok was objectionable.

OPTION 3: Hang out until other overland trucks arrive and then form a convoy to get through the bad road. The upside to this idea was that convoying with other trucks would be considerably less stressful and consequently more enjoyable. Moreover, with additional winches, sand plates, shovels, and other equipment, the going would be easier. The downside, we weren’t sure if/when anybody was coming. We did however have a good idea that Sharikay and Eric, our former travel partners, were in the area. We’d run into them a couple of times in Ghana and again in Benin. The last time we’d talked to them was a week ago and at that point they said they were heading for Nigeria and it sounded like they were about a week behind us. With the delays caused by our gearbox, we estimated they were probably now only a few days behind and would likely enter Cameroon through Ekok.

And so we sat inside the tent, weighing our options as the temperature climbed to unbearable levels and the locals watched intently from their perch outside. In the end, we decided to take a hybrid approach. We’d wait until Tuesday to give time for the rains to stop and other overland trucks to arrive. In the meantime, it would also give us time to talk with locals about arranging some boys to help with bucketing water and digging, should we decide to go it alone. And so that’s what we did. We waited. And while we waited, it rained and the church across the street sang and pounded on their tom tom drums day and night, and the same cars, trapped in Ekok by the bad road, drove noisily back and fourth down Ekok’s one road, and the villagers called out to us “White man come down!” And when we did come down, Sheri accidentally clocked me with the tailgate door, splitting my head open. That provided more excitement for the villagers who watched as Sheri produced a cotton ball to stop the blood that was gushing out of my head. A towel proved more suitable and Sheri did a fine job of irrigating the wound, pulling my skin together, and administering suture strips. And these are the days of our lives!

By Monday we were into our fourth day in Ekok and we were beyond restless. The beat of the tom tom drums and the endless barrage of visitors was starting to take its toll and our daily appeal to the gods to stop the rains was having little effect. On Saturday, we’d woken up to bright blue skies. Optimistic, we spent the day staring at a large mud puddle in hopes it would begin to recede. As we stared into the mocha colored water, we asked our visitors if they thought it would rain. “No. It will not rain today. The rains are over.” Saturday night the heavens opened up with such fury that a mini river formed around our truck. Ever hopeful that the worst was behind us, we woke up Sunday to another picture perfect day. The sun was intense, and again, we found ourselves staring out our tent window at the puddle. And again, we asked or visitors if they thought it would rain. They replied confidently, “No. It will not rain today.” By late afternoon inky black storm clouds began to gather above the rainforest and we asked our visitors if they wanted to rethink their decision. You could already hear the rumble of thunder in the distance, as one man looked up at the gathering clouds and confidently replied, “No. It will not rain today. I think the rains have passed.” Within an hour we were chased from our tent by intense lightning and strong winds, as yet another fierce storm rained down upon us. The rains were not over!

So as you can imagine, when we woke up Monday morning to another bright sunny day, we were less optimistic. The ground was still so saturated from the previous night that we had to mind our step to avoid an unplanned wallow in the mud. Good fun for the fifteen or so school children that had gathered for the morning show, but bad for us as we had no great means of washing our clothes. Since our plan for the day called for us to do nothing, we decided to sleep in. This would have been a delightful way to burn half the day had we actually been able to sleep. Unfortunately, our audience was growing restless. Apparently, watching us lay motionless in bed wasn’t what they’d come to see and they let us know it. “White man come down! White man come down!” And when we finally did come down, driven out by the scorching heat, they were delighted. We were like side show freaks at the circus as everyone gathered round, knowing that any minute one of us might slip in the mud or gash our head open.

Too deflated to put on much of a show, we went about the more mundane task of cooking a late breakfast. It was now nearly midday, as I stood beside the truck chatting with the kids about soccer and eating a bowl of oatmeal. That’s when our luck finally turned. In the middle of telling the village goalkeeper that if he worked really hard he might one day be able to play for Real Madrid, the police commissioner paid us a surprise visit. He said, “Your friends have arrived. They are at the border right now filling out paperwork. They will be here soon.” Skeptical, I quizzed him on what they looked like and he described them perfectly. Still not fully convinced, I stared down the road, eating my oatmeal. A short time later, three heavily equipped Toyota Land Cruisers appeared on the main (read only) road. In front was Eric and Sharikay’s red 80 series followed closely by two Troop Carriers. Watching the convoy slowly ramble through town was quite a site – the cavalry had arrived!

With everyone together, we did a quick meet and greet before getting down to the business at hand. With Sharikay and Eric were four Germans. Driving the white Troop Carrier was Martin Giersch and his long time girlfriend Christine Kroessel. Battle hardened Africa veterans, they’d run several previous expeditions and had dealt with their fair share of adversity, including nearly having their truck washed away during a river crossing in Angola. In the tan Troop Carrier was Rolf Kailweit and his attractive blond girlfriend of 17 years Heike Groppeitsch. An off road driving instructor back in Germany, Rolf was an imposing personality with the build of Herman Munster and the heart of the lion in the Wizard of Oz.

Once everyone was acquainted, Sheri and I briefed the group on our lovely weekend in Ekok and described the road ahead. Following the briefing, we all agreed that the best thing would be to saddle up and head for Emunjock, the start of the “bad” road. There, we’d have a look for ourselves and sort out our plan of attack. In preparation for departure, we went about inventorying our collective gear. All four trucks had mud tires, two had winches, one had tire chains, and everyone had front/center/rear diff. locks. And between us, we had eight sand plates, five shovels, 130 meters of recovery rope/cable, and enough snatch blocks, shackles, spare parts, and other gear to handle just about any off road situation. Our only weakness: Rolf’s truck didn’t have a snorkel, which would limit our options in some of the deeper water holes. To take advantage of our strengths, we organized the trucks so that Martin’s truck, which had the tire chains, was up front and the two winches were in the second and fourth positions.

With our plan organized, we pulled down our tent, repacked our gear, jumped our dead battery (which had been flat since Sunday afternoon, the local Catholic mission having refused our request for a jump), said goodbye to the local kids, offered Victor a ride, and set off in convoy for Emunjock.

And who’s Victor you ask? Victor was a local mechanic and bush taxi driver who made his living by carrying goods and people between Ekok and Mamfe in the dry season. Shortly before the rains started, his taxi’s engine seized up, putting him out of business. Knowing that the rains would end soon, Victor brought all of his savings to Ekok in search of a replacement engine. In Ekok, Victor met a Nigerian who said for 350,000 CFA ($700) he’d go across the border and bring back a new engine. Naively, Victor handed over all of his cash and, not surprisingly, the Nigerian disappeared across the border, never to be heard from again. Since we’d arrived the previous Friday, we’d watched as Victor sat quietly by the side of the road, in the same blue dress shirt and black dress pants, waiting in hopes that the Nigerian would turn up with his engine. Down on his luck, Victor was now in a pinch. Having handed over all of his savings, he was broke. Stuck in Ekok, he was living off the generosity of friends, with no business and no way to get home.

Just outside Ekok, we reached the same muddy trench Sheri and I had surveyed four days earlier. And once again, out popped the two teenage boys to collect their toll for the diversion. As we all stood staring down into the muddy abyss, we discussed our options. There was no doubt that it was one ugly stretch of road, however with our collective equipment and manpower we all agreed that it was doable, if not necessarily desirable. Having surveyed the trench, we asked the boys how much they wanted for the diversion. The requested 8,000 CFA for all four trucks. We knew from Victor that this was several times the going rate so we countered with 2,000 CFA, a more reasonable toll. They declined and after a brief negotiation didn’t produce the desired result, we changed tactics. We cut off negotiations and returned to the trucks where we went about readying our recovery gear, putting on Martin’s chains, and planning out our strategy for tackling the trench. As it turned out, our actions spoke louder than our words, and just as Martin was about to plunge nose first into the mud, the boys reconsidered their offer. 2,000 CFA it was! We were on our way!

On the other side of the diversion, the track carried us deep into lush tropical rainforest. And the deeper we went, the louder the call of the wild became. We were soon enveloped by a deafening symphony of screaming locusts, squawking birds, and croaking frogs. By now, the road had degraded to such a state that we found ourselves tackling one long deep and precariously uneven stretch of muddy track after another. At the start of each bad stretch, we’d get out to survey the road and develop our strategy. Each section seemed worse than the last and each time we’d shake our heads in disbelief as Victor would shake his head saying, “This is nothing. Wait ‘til we get to the “bad” road. You will see.”

By mid afternoon, the “good” road was starting to inflict its toll. First we came upon a giant, seemingly insurmountable stretch that consisted of a large water filled hole flanked by deep ditch like ruts on both sides. The only option was to carefully slip the left wheels into the left side rut in hopes of skirting around the hole. It was precarious at best, but there seemed to be no better option. Martin went in first and before he could get around the hole, his Land Cruiser tipped over on it’s left side, coming to rest at about a 50 degree angle against a wall of mud. The recovery was enough to make anyone squeamish as we used Rolf’s winch to drag Martin’s truck out backwards on it’s side. Eventually, as Rolf dragged Martin backwards, the rut became shallow enough that the truck righted itself. Listening to the side panels scrape over hidden logs and debris was painful and seeing the resulting body damage was worse still – and foreshadowing of what was to come.

Not long after, Eric went nose first into a seemingly shallow water hole. Just under the water however, was soft deep mud that sucked him in. Completely, bogged he locked down all the diffs. No luck. He was going nowhere. This time it was Betty’s turn to be the hero, and I pulled him out backwards with the winch.

Further down the track, Rolf got stuck in mud so deep he couldn’t open his doors. And when we stopped to recover him, Eric noticed that he’d blown his first (of several) tires. A quick inspection of the tire revealed that mud and shards of wood had wedged their way between the rim and the tire’s bead. It was flat. While Martin, Eric, and I were doing a quick tire change, Rolf was working himself into a fit of rage. My German is limited to about three words, however aided by Eric’s translation, I got the gist of his yelling. Basically, he was furious because we weren’t recovering him fast enough. So Martin and I dropped what we were doing to give him a hand. Ultimately, Martin used his truck to pull Rolf forward. Unfortunately, in Rolf’s mind, this was too little too late, and he let everyone, particularly Martin, hear about it. It was the first rumblings of trouble in paradise!

With Eric’s tire changed and Rolf back on the road, I soon fell prey to the “good” road. This time it was a completely washed out section of road. Getting to the other side required each truck to climb down a steep muddy bank into a hole about 4 meters deep and then back up the other side. To this point I’d still not shifted to low range as I was too afraid to touch our ailing transfer box. Stuck at the bottom of the hole I was forced to remove the block of wood and shift into low. Without momentum, low wasn’t enough to get up the steep slope and instead, I decided to use Rolf’s truck as an anchor for my winch, and performed a self-recovery.

Soon after, it was Rolph’s turn again. Similar to Martin’s earlier experience, we were faced by a horrible stretch of track that looked insurmountable. And again, the only option seemed to be skirting around the edge. This required each truck to follow a ditch on the right hand side until it reached the worst stretch. At that point, the ditch became flanked on the right by a steep bank and on the left by a long dirt ridge. The idea was to straddle the ditch by balancing the right wheels on the bank and the left wheels on the ridge. Again, Martin went first and made it, if just barely. After watching how close Martin had come to tipping over, Eric and I gave each other a look and cringed, knowing our turn was coming soon. Before we could go however, Rolf had to get through. Everyone watched as Rolf slipped into the ditch and slowly made his way towards the bad section. When he reached it, he climbed onto the bank and slowly continued forward. All seemed to be going well. Then, about a third of the way across, he stopped. And almost in slow motion, we all watched as his left tires slowly slipped down the ridge until his truck finally tipped over on it’s side, coming to rest against the ridge. Eric immediately started to scream at Rolf to shut off the engine for fear that the steep angle would drain out all the oil, causing the engine to seize. It was now late in the day, and the sun had already slipped below the rainforest canopy, as we discussed what our recovery options were. The best idea seemed to be to drag him out backwards in hopes that the truck would, like Martin’s had earlier, right itself once off the steep bank. So again, I moved Betty into position and set up a winch recovery. Slowly but surely, I winched Rolf backwards, stopping every meter or so to check the winch cable to make sure it was spooling correctly. And as this truck was slowly dragged backwards, you could hear the same horrible scraping noise that we’d heard earlier during Martin’s recovery. With a little finesse, we managed to get the truck off the bank, righted and back on the road. And other than the body damage, all was well. Well, that is except for the fact that Rolf, as well as Eric and I, was still on the wrong side of the hole. So as everyone half covered their eyes in anticipation of the worst, Rolf gave it another go. It wasn’t pretty, but he made it, followed soon after by Eric and eventually me. Relief!

A few more bad stretches and it was almost dark when we reached what was the worst patch of road we’d seen so far. A quick survey of the road revealed a giant chasm of mud and water deeper than our trucks. To the right of the chasm was a deviation which, upon examination, appeared to be nearly as bad as the obstacle it was built to avoid. As I continued to survey the route, Rolf, Eric and Martin started what quickly became a less than cordial discussion with the toll keeper. As it was explained to me later, the toll keeper wanted to gouge us so Rolf and Eric threatened to head back and get the police. It was a weak bluff at best and didn’t do the trick so we decided, since it was nearly dark, to turn around and drive until we were out of sight and set up camp in the middle of the road. We’d take up the argument again in the morning.

At our camp, we all gathered together to have dinner and reflect on the day’s events. The “good” road, which was supposed to take us an hour, had already taken a hard six and we were nowhere close to the end. This was nothing more than the prelude and yet we’d all been stuck countless times and had seen two trucks tip over. The left side of Martin’s truck was damaged. The left side of Rolf’s truck was damaged. Eric had torn off three fenders and a matching number of mudguards and had blown a tire. Somehow, Betty came out unscathed, however we had enough mud caked in our wheels that I’d be surprised if we had brake pads left by the time we reached Mamfe. And this, as Victor kept reminding us, was the “good” road.

Bakem - November 7, 2006
(Jim Writes) We woke up well before sunrise. It was 5am and the road and surrounding rainforest was shrouded in a thick fog [View Interview]. Eager to get a jump on the road, we quickly broke camp and headed off. Back at the chasm from the previously evening, Eric and Rolf picked up where they’d left off with the toll keeper and finally reached a deal. This however proved to be the easy part, as the diversion posed significant risks to our heavily loaded overland trucks. Most concerning was that the track was cut into the edge of the rainforest on the side of a steep hill and the muddy surface made it difficult to control the direction of our trucks. Should one of the trucks slide sideways off the track, it would surely roll over.

Martin took it first. As he struggled to keep control, the truck fishtailed to the left and then leaned over, dangerously close to rolling. Everyone jumped in, bracing it from below for support. Inch by inch he progressed until he finally made it through. Relief! Rolf was next. Following Martin’s lead, he inched forward while everyone braced from below. Precariously close to the edge, he managed to hold on and made it through safely. Knowing that my turn was yet to come, my stress level continued to grow as I watched how close to the edge they’d come, just barely skirting potential disaster.

With Rolf back on safe ground, Eric was up. This time however, things didn’t go to plan and his 80 slipped off the track and into a jumble of mud and cleared forest debris. He was dangerously close to going over and we decided it was better to winch him back and start over. I maneuvered Betty into position once again. After one failed attempt with the winch, we reset the cable. This time, Martin rigged a snatch block (picture a pulley) to a tree in the forest so that the winch pulled him back up the hill to the right rather than straight back. This did the trick and I managed to get him back onto the track. By now, Sharikay had seen enough and she handed her camcorder to Sheri, too nervous to film the action herself. On his second attempt, Eric slipped and slided his way down the track, propped up by as many hands as were available, and made it the rest of the way without incident [View Eric's Video]. Three down, one to go.

When my time finally came I was nervous. Perhaps the only thing worse than going first is going last, as you have the opportunity, and disadvantage of watching those ahead of you. And in this case, watching those that went ahead of me didn’t instill much confidence as all had come dangerously close to tipping over. Fortunately, I also had the opportunity to watch all three and was able to learn from their experiences. This made selecting the best line easier, and coached by Martin, I got Betty through unscathed.

The balance of the morning was a repeat of the previous afternoon. Lots of mud, lots of water, and lots of Victor saying over and over “This is nothing. Wait ‘til we get to the “bad” road. You will see.” By mid-day, we were just outside of Emunjock and only one obstacle remained. On the hill leading into the village was another diversion around a long water filled trench. Again, it was an ugly site, only made uglier by the argument that insued with a handful of boys guarding the diversion. It was an unnecessary shouting match that came to a climax when one of the boys erected a barrier and then spit on it, I believe in an attempt to cast some sort of hex [View Argument]. Getting nowhere, Martin and I decided to take the same strategy used on the first diversion the previous day. We surveyed the bad stretch. As bad as it looked, there was one thing working to our advantage. It was on a hill. All we had to do was knock a hole in the wall at the bottom end and channel all of the water out. Once dry, we could fill in the deep ruts with dry dirt from the top and we’d be in business. So, much to the surprise of the boys, that’s what we set about doing. Within half an hour or so, the trench was half-dry and we’d begun filling in the ruts. Similar to the first diversion, this seemed to lead to a sudden price reduction. By the time all four trucks had made it to the other side, everyone was happy again and Sheri and Sharikay were off with the toll keepers snapping photos and hanging out. And, more importantly, we were in Emunjock.

Shortly after arriving, we received a warm welcome from one of the village elders, who informed us that the “bad” road actually started in Bakum, a small village several kilometers away. Eager to get to Bakum, we topped off our jerry cans at the town well, grabbed some provisions, checked in with the local police, fixed Eric’s flat tires and grabbed a quick bite to eat before setting off again.

Compared with the road between Ekok and Emunjock, the track to Bakum was relatively good and we pulled into town around 4pm. Once in town, our convoy wasted no time heading for the other side, as everyone was eager to get a glimpse of the road ahead. As our armada of vehicles rumbled through the tiny village, children came running out from every direction singing, “Whites, whites, give me a present! Whites, whites, give me a present!” Just on the other side of town, our convoy came to an abrupt halt. Our “good” road had come to an unquestionable end. Snaking into the rainforest ahead of us was a gnarled patch of muddy earth so horrible, so unlike any road we’d ever seen, that it defied all description. It was as if the earth had thrown up all over itself. Within minutes, we’d all taken to calling it the “site” as it looked more like a construction site than a road. And when I turned to Victor and asked him if we’d finally reached the bad road, he replied “Yes. This is the bad road. But this is not so bad. It gets much worse ahead.”

With a couple of hours of daylight left, we decided to hike a short distance down the track. As bad as the road looked at the start, it looked much worse once down in the ruts. On both sides of the track was a wall of tall dense rainforest, which blocked out the sun. The road itself was a gnarl of thick slippery mud, with numerous overlapping sets of deep ruts running in various directions. And each time the ruts came together to form one track, the track led straight into a giant mud hole. Along the side of the road, was a tiny well-worn footpath used by local villagers to porter goods and supplies. As we walked along surveying the damage, villagers, balancing huge loads on their heads, stopped to welcome us and say “You see this! This is Cameroon! We are suffering here!” We continued along the road until we finally reached a long mud hole, which we immediately nicknamed the “Death Trap.” 30 meters long by 5 meters deep, the hole was filled with water and mud too deep to easily measure. To the left of the Death Trap was a diversion, which Martin said he remembered from 20 years earlier. Studying the diversion only made me feel worse. Flanked by high walls on both sides and filled with water, the track was too narrow for our 80’s and the ruts were far too deep. I turned to Victor again and asked him if this was the worst of it. “No.” he said. “This is bad but the worst is ahead. You will see.” I’m sure we would, but not yet. We’d seen enough. It was getting late and we still needed to find a place to camp.

Back in Bakum, Martin set out to find the chief, in hopes that he’d let us camp at an abandoned medical clinic just outside of town. The chief agreed, and we set off back down the road we’d come in on to find the medical clinic and make camp.

At dinner we all gathered around to discuss our plan. Having seen first hand what was reported to be the best part of the “Bad” road, there was no question that we were in for a real challenge. The question that remained was just how big was the challenge and, more importantly, how on earth would we tackle it. To answer that question, we all agreed that we needed to survey the entire length of the track before formulating a plan. Tomorrow we’d get up early and hike the road.

Our plan for the day was simple. Armed with shovels, Martin’s stangle (not sure about the spelling, but it’s German for a long telescoping pole we planned to use to measure the depth of the mud and water), a pad and pen, camcorder, digital camera, GPS, and some water, we planned to survey the road, taking notes, discussing strategies, and doing some light roadwork (digging drainage channels where possible to get rid of some of the standing water). Rolf and Heike agreed to stay behind to watch the trucks, while the rest of us set out on reconnaissance. Martin, Eric, and I were responsible for surveying, strategizing, and roadwork, while Sharikay was responsible for note taking and Sheri was responsible for taking photos/video. Christine was our utility person, marking GPS coordinates, measuring the depth of the mud/water holes, and assisting with roadwork, and Victor had turned up to accompany us too as sort of an unsolicited consultant.

As we slowly worked our way along, documenting and strategizing as we went, we were joined by an ever growing cast of free agents, all eager for work and all overly zealous about sharing their unsolicited opinions on how best to tackle the road. Also accompanying us was a never-ending stream of porters shuttling heavy loads between villages. In a place where the only road was impassable, they were the sole supply line and the only commerce link to the outside world. All were warm and welcoming and all communicated the same message, “You see this? This is Cameroon. We are suffering here!”

By midday, we’d made it to the tiny village of Tabo, located at roughly the halfway point. We were tired and hungry, having just spent the past half-hour trying to rap our heads around yet another seemingly insurmountable obstacle – the massive water filled mud hole just outside of town. While eating lunch at the village’s only restaurant, a tiny thatch roof open sided hut on the edge of the rainforest, we reflected on what we’d seen [View Restaurant]. There was nothing good about it. For starters, the ruts were too deep and the center track was often too wide for our trucks. This meant that even the easiest sections would cause groundout problems. The only solution was to break down the center track meter by meter and fill in the ruts. Moreover, the mud holes were too deep. Even the smaller ones had as much as a meter of water sitting on top of a thick layer of mud. And the bigger ones were another story all together. There were two between Bakum and Tabo and we hadn’t come up with an answer for either one yet. The first was the Death Trap we’d surveyed the previous day. A 30-meter long trench, 5 meters deep, filled with nearly 2 meters of water and mud. The second one was just outside of Tabo. Similar to the Death Trap, the “Tabo Hole” consisted of a long trench over 5 meters deep, filled with 2 meters of water and mud. And like the Death Trap, there was a diversion to the left of the hole. The diversion consisted of a long, 3 meter deep trench with deep muddy ruts at the bottom that eventually led you straight into a giant mud hole that, in my estimation, was nearly as bad as the main hole the diversion was built to circumvent.

In summary, the first half of the “bad” road presented a massive challenge. For the 4x4 enthusiast, it was Mecca, an unparalleled promise land of mud and water. For our heavily loaded expedition vehicles, it was a dangerous road with serious risks. The strain on our suspension and drive system would be immense and in the event something goes wrong, there’s no safety net. No AAA. No Toyota Land Cruiser Club to come bail us out. All we wanted to do was make it safely to the other side and, from what we’d seen so far, this would require significant perseverance, determination, hard work, and perhaps a little luck.

Rested and refueled, we setoff from Tabo to survey the rest of the road, now joined by Rolf and Heike who’d grown impatient guarding our trucks and had decided to come and have a look for themselves. Just as Victor had warned, the road from Tabo steadily went from bad to worse to unimaginable. The climax was a narrow, muddy, 4 meter deep trench than ran on for well over a kilometer. Once inside the trench, we were fully committed. With high mud walls so close together that you could hardly crack a door open, we’d be lucky to muster enough room to change a tire and we’d be even luckier to make it out the other end. And waiting for us at the other end was the grand daddy of all holes. A giant orifice filled with deep water and even deeper mud, located at the run-out point of yet another trench. Getting through the hole would be next to impossible and I’m guessing hadn’t been attempted in a very long time. The only other option was a diversion to the right of the hole. An infamous stretch of track that’s managed by an even more infamous extortion artist and troublemaker that Fred had warned us about named “Moonlight.” James reported that the one meter high mud walls were too narrow for his 80 series and by the looks of it, the ruts were now too deep as well. And on the other side of the diversion was another 400 meters of pain and suffering before the “bad” road finally gave way to a smooth graded dirt track. [View Interview]

On the long walk back to camp, everyone was dead quiet, too mentally and physically spent to even begin processing what we’d seen. By the time we reached camp it was late afternoon and we were all covered from head to toe in mud and in need of a little time to decompress. Unfortunately, decompression wasn’t on the menu. Just as everyone was settling into their camp chairs, Martin and Christine’s truck was swarmed by thousands of soldier ants. It was all Martin could do to get inside the truck and move it to safety. A few blasts from Sharikay’s highly toxic, almost certainly illegal-outside-of-Africa ant spray and Martin was able to fend off the attack. The ants had lost the battle, however unbeknownst to them, they’d started a war. Somehow, the ant attack had stirred Rolf into a fit and once again, he focused his anger on Martin. Apparently, in Rolf’s view of the world, Martin was responsible for our camp being overrun since it was his truck that attracted. For the next half-hour we were all subjected to Rolf's endless ranting as he went after Martin without mercy.

When Rolf was finally finished he retired to his truck, while Sheri and I sat down with Martin, Christine, Sharikay, and Eric to discuss the growing crack in our group’s fragile dynamic. The gist of the conversation was that this was no new crack. As Sharikay explained, traveling with Rolf was all about Rolf. If everything went exactly Rolf’s way, he was a likeable guy to have around. Unfortunately, for everything to go Rolf’s way meant that everyone else had to pay the price. And Sharikay, Eric, Martin, and Christine had been paying the price for far too long. Clearly, there was trouble in our little tropical paradise and clearly, this was not the time to bring everyone together to iron out our plan. Instead, we all agreed to defer our pow-wow until the following morning. The bad road would have to wait. .

The problem was, our options were limited. Other than going forward, our choices were to:

Option 1: Turn around and go back to Nigeria in hopes of shipping from Calabar.

Option 2: Setup camp in Bakum until the rains stopped and the roads dried out.

Option 3: Explore repairing an abandoned ferry which, rumor had it, was grounded several years ago, somewhere down stream.

Other than perhaps Rolf, nobody was keen on option 1. The thought of returning to Nigeria in hopes of finding a cargo ship was less than desirable. The fact that we’d have to back track down the same muddy road that we’d just taken the better part of two days to traverse made it a no-go.

Option 2 seemed more palatable, however, we only had 30-day visas and who knew when the rains would stop or how long it would take for the track to dry out.

And then there was option 3. The abandoned ferry. A local guy on a motorbike stopped by our camp to tell us that he knew of an abandoned ferry grounded somewhere in the rainforest, several kilometers down river. In that Joseph Conrad, “Heart of Darkness” sense, venturing deep into the rainforest in search of an abandoned ferry that could ultimately be our ticket to salvation seemed like a grand adventure. Unfortunately, the information we’d received was dodgy, even by African standards, and no one seemed to be able to tell us exactly where it was, what was wrong with it, why it was abandoned, or what the road was like on the other side. In the absence of good information, we let experience and common sense be our guide. And what we knew from experience was that all bad things in Africa seem to start with river-crossings and that anything that’s been abandoned in Africa was probably abandoned for good reason. We also deducted that, if the ferry had been stranded, as the locals claimed, for several years, then the road on the other side would’ve almost certainly been taken back by the rainforest. This was validated by, among other things, the fact that there was no road listed on the map or personal accounts of locals having seen or used the road. Strange considering the only other road was impassable.

After some discussion, each of these options was ruled out and we shifted our focus back to tackling the road ahead. Using our notes from the previous day, we sketched out a strategy for tackling the major obstacles. We knew that the deep ruts would have to be filled in and the center section of track broken down. We also knew that there was no way we’d get our trucks through the deep holes without bucketing out the water and, in some cases it would be easier to build new diversions instead. All of this was doable. The question was, how long would it take to get it done. And the unanimous answer? A very long time if we decided to go it alone. That said, we came up with a simple plan. We appointed Martin, with his many years of experience driving in Africa, as the lead driver. To assist with manual labor, we decided to hire five boys. I’d be responsible for managing their work and Eric would be responsible for paying them each day. To maintain control of our pace and decision making, we decided to offer 2,000 CFA/day (several times the average wage in Cameroon) plus a 500 CFA bonus/day to anyone that worked hard and stuck with us to the end. It seemed reasonable to us. All that remained was to go out and find our help.

The balance of the day was spent recruiting. First on our list was Victor, who quickly accepted the job and agreed to help us with finding some additional help. Second on our list was Kenneth, a friendly hard working guy we’d met the previous day who struck us as just what we were looking for. Kenneth also accepted our offer and agreed to join Victor on his talent search. Both agreed to return the following morning, with three move guys, ready to work.

With our plan set and our crew organized, everyone gathered together for an evening of story telling around the proverbial campfire. Always a fascinating way to spend an evening, the highlight on this occasion was Rolf’s account of a recent mid-night run in with some farmers in Guinea, who mistook them for cattle thieves and opened fire on their bush camp with flint fired rifles. We were now only hours away from diving headfirst into the “bad” road! It was time to execute our plan.

Rolf was at the heart of this digression. Suffering from a rare African strain of selective amnesia, he’d seemingly forgotten about the marathon planning session from the previous day in which we’d discussed ad nausium our options, hammered out a plan for tackling the bad road, and hired a team of local workers. Now, with our camp packed up and Kenneth, Victor, and three additional helpers assembled, Rolf decided that he wanted to revisit the entire discussion. Armed with no new information, Rolf was again pushing for the abandoned ferry and within a few short moments, he managed to completely derail all preparations for departure. When I looked down at my watch our 8am-departure time had long since passed, and there was no end in sight. We were hopelessly bogged in an endless debate, as everything that had already been discussed the previous day was discussed and debated and discussed again. And so the debate raged on, fueled by everyone’s willingness to engage in Rolf’s madness, until our original plan had all but completely unraveled and we were on the verge of mounting a full on snipe hunt in hopes of finding the abandoned ferry. Fortunately, some small amount of logic prevailed, and we ultimately all agreed to a hybrid plan in which we’d divide into two groups. Rolf, Eric and Heike would go in search of the ferry while Martin, Christine, Sheri, Sharikay, and I would push forward with preparing the road for our trucks. That way, the only thing wasted would be our effort should Rolf and Eric find the ferry and determine it to be a more viable option.

Finally ready to move forward, we discussed our modified plan with Kenneth, Victor and the others. This ushered in the start of problem number two. As promised, Kenneth and Victor had shown up at 8am sharp with three boys, all eager to get to work. Eager, except for the fact that they didn’t agree with what we were paying, weren’t willing to bring buckets or shovels, and weren’t available to work (at least not until tomorrow as there was a funeral processional and they’d agreed to help carry the body from Mamfe to Bakum). And if that wasn’t enough bad news, Kenneth and Victor added that they weren’t able to help either as they’d also agreed to assist with the funeral. In other words, we’d been successful in assembling a crew of five guys, but still had nobody to help us.

After Eric and I talked it over, we decided to stick with our original offer of 2,000 CFA/day plus a 500 CFA/day bonus for anyone that saw us through to the end. We also decided to stick with our requirement that each boy bring a bucket and shovel as we only had enough shovels for ourselves. We pitched our unchanged offer and let them know that if it didn’t work for them, there would be no hard feelings. Our speech was met with a significant amount of push back, but in the end, they agreed and said that they’d meet at 8am the following morning. In the meantime, we’d push forward alone.

By midday, the rubber had finally met the road. While Rolf and Eric went in search of the abandoned ferry, we dove hood first into the “bad” road. With Martin’s truck in the lead we tackled a long series of deep ruts before hitting our first hole. By “bad” road standards, it was a modest pit of mocha colored water about 1 ½ meters deep. After about an hour of prep work, Martin gave it a go, plunging in with a huge splash. The idea was for him to go in fast enough that momentum would carry him out the other side. It didn’t
[View Martin's Video]. Not long after Martin took the plunge, Eric and Rolf showed up, having already abandoned the abandoned ferry idea. Together, we set about laying sand plates and digging. Over and over we repeated the same process. We’d dig and set the sand plates and then Martin would backup as far as possible in order to get a running start up the other side. In the process, Martin’s wheels spun like a blender, mixing up the water and mud. This left his truck half submerged in a sort of mud pudding. By the time we’d excavated him, his truck was covered in pudding, we were covered in pudding, the villagers who’d come to watch were covered in pudding, and unfortunately, Martin’s sand plates were covered (read buried) in pudding. Now, I don’t know if you’ve ever tried to extract a pair of sand plates from a giant pool of mud pudding but I can assure you, it ain’t easy. Finding them was hard enough. Getting them free was next to impossible! In the end, we had to drag them out with Martin’s truck and even that wasn’t easy!

With Martin out, I plunged in, promptly getting stuck in a deep rut on the approach. A not so quick winch recovery and Betty was on the other side. With Betty through, Eric followed, and when Eric cleared, Rolf jumped in. Within a couple of hours, we were all safely on the other side. And so we marched on.

The balance of the day was more of the same. Deep ruts, mud holes, long trenches. When possible we’d cut around the worst sections, cutting new tracks along the edge of the forest. It was hard work and the going was exceedingly slow, as we fought tooth and nail for every meter.

By dark, we’d used every tool in the chest from winches to sand plates, to tow ropes, shovels, buckets, and machetes. We were exhausted. The trucks were brown with mud and worse off for the experience. Betty was missing a fender. Eric’s truck was missing all it’s fenders. Martin and Rolf’s trucks were no better off. In a long half-day, we’d clawed, pushed, dragged, and winched our way a total of 400 meters. As the locals told us, “You are going!”

Having gone as far as we could, we setup camp in the road, halfway down a long 1½ meter deep mud filled trench. It wasn’t a comfortable camp, but we were deep in the middle of beautiful rainforest, surrounded by the call of the wild. Tomorrow we march on [View Interview]!

Around 7:30am our crew arrived. Well, at least part of it arrived. We were supposed to be joined by a team of five guys including Kenneth and Victor. All were to have shovels and buckets. Of the five, only three showed up – none brought buckets, one brought a shovel, one brought a pick, and one came carrying a machete. Since the guy with the machete didn’t seem particularly well equipped to help us dig four heavy trucks out of the mud, we let him go, telling him he was welcome to come back if he could find a shovel. So that reduced our party of five to two – Kenneth and Victor.

Shortly after 8am we were underway, armed with the additional muscle of two strong, hard working, energetic men. By 8:15am, we were down to one strong, hard working, energetic man. The other was Victor. Victor seemed to be a better spectator than helper, as most of the time he stood around giving advice rather than working. If a large log needed to be pulled out of a rut, he’d stand there with a stick poking at it instead of jumping in with both hands and dragging it out. By contrast, Kenneth was a super star. Hard working, tireless, knowledgeable. He seemed to be everywhere at once. Doing everyone’s job at once.

By midday, we’d advanced approximately 100 meters. Slowly but surely, we were going. This however, was the easiest section of the “bad” road, and one thing had already become clear. Our five man crew had been reduced to a one man show. And strong as he may be, Kenneth needed some help if we were to get to Mamfe before Christmas. In a clearing on the side of the road, our team convened for a quick pow-wow to discuss the future of our one man crew. I’d love to tell you that it was an efficient, constructive meeting however, the reality was that the Rolf cancer had spread and before we could get down to the business at hand, our increasingly dysfunctional team had to air out its latest dirty laundry.

The laundry du jour, involved Rolf’s gripe with not receiving enough attention at the back (he was in the fourth position) and Martin’s frustration with Rolf’s persistent criticism of his driving. Translation: Rolf wanted to lead from the back, without any of the associated responsibility or risks. A long, ground shaking, argument ensued. The outcome was that Martin resigned his lead position, and Rolf was forced to the front. This was followed by a long group therapy session to help heal our group’s festering wounds.

Following group therapy, we discussed the fate of our crew. Basically, we all agreed that we needed more help unless we wanted to sit down to Thanksgiving dinner in a ditch. We also agreed that Kenneth was our super star and Victor was dead weight. That said, we decided to retool a bit. According to Kenneth and Victor the local cottage industry wasn’t keen on being paid by the day (which is why we were having trouble finding help). Instead, as Kenneth explained, a crew wants to negotiate a lump sum fee for the entire job. So, not wanting to fight Africa, we agreed to play by the house rules. We’d stop paying by the day. Since Victor wasn’t working out, we’d let him go and since Kenneth was our overachiever, we’d hire him as our foreman. The idea was that we’d negotiate a fee for the job and it would be Kenneth’s responsibility to find his crew, pay and manage them. After all, he was one of the locals and understood far better than us, what did and didn’t work. To ensure the crew didn’t ditch us, no money would be paid until we were safely on the other side.

With plan 6.4.5.12 Version 1732.a3 hot off the press, we sat down with Kenneth to review our proposal. We offered Kenneth 40,000 CFA for the job, told him we wanted a crew of five and that Victor would have to go. Kenneth liked the idea… only “there was a problem.” The problem was that we’d not factored in tribal politics. And in this case, Victor happened to be a more senior member of their tribe. That meant that Kenneth couldn’t supervise him, much less fire him. It was a nightmare turn of fate, which got much worse when Victor turned around and demanded 90,000 CFA for the job. Highway robbery! To us, it seemed clear that he was taking advantage of his position in the tribe and our position stuck in a ditch somewhere deep in the rainforests of Cameroon. Livid, Sheri and I let him know how disappointed we were that we’d done everything we could to help him out and this was his way of repaying us. He vehemently argued that the 90,000 wasn’t his idea. He was just relaying the message. Our response was, well, not so nice.

After significant back and forth, we settled on 60,000 CFA for the job. That bought us a crew of five, including Victor and Kenneth, to get us through to the end of the “bad” road. Our only requirements were that Kenneth be in charge of the others and that we make all of the driving and recovery decisions. Kenneth and Victor both agreed and Kenneth said that he’d come back soon with the others.

At 3:30pm, Kenneth returned accompanied by a rag tag crew of men armed with shovels, buckets, picks and machetes. In addition to Kenneth and Victor, our crew included a quiet guy of medium build dressed in an olive green army jacket, a she-man with long teased black hair, and an alpha male personality clad in a red and black number 8 soccer jersey, who we quickly dubbed “Number 8.”

Before the first spade stuck the dirt Number 8 was causing trouble, claiming that Kenneth was lying to them about our deal and trying to rip him off. Foreshadowing what was to come, he immediately left a bad taste in our mouths and most of the team wanted to send him packing. Kenneth strongly urged us to keep him on, arguing that Number 8 was a strong worker who wouldn’t cause us any trouble. Reluctantly, we took Kenneth’s advice as a show of support for his leadership.

With our ranks now at 13, wet set off again to do battle with the road. From the moment we stepped into the mud with our new crew it was obvious they were seasoned veterans and it was obvious that their approach favored brawn over brain. It was sort of an “act now, think later” strategy that placed a premium on problem solving rather than problem avoidance. And to solve the problem, they’d apply 10 parts brute force and one part common sense. Not a bad strategy as long as you don’t own the truck. Less attractive however when you do! Fortunately, we learned this lesson early on when Number 8 directed Rolf into a soft bottom ditch. A couple seconds later and Rolf’s truck rolled onto its side, which sent the crew clamoring to push it upright again. A situation that could have easily been avoided with a little pre-planning and one that ultimately required a winch to get him out. The lesson was quickly learned. The trick with managing our crew was keeping control of the show.

With all the added firepower, we made steady progress through the balance of the afternoon as part of the crew worked ahead preparing the road and part stayed back to recover the trucks. Again, we employed every weapon in our arsenal winching, towing, and laying sand plates as we inched forward, one truck at a time. [View Video]

By 6pm, we’d made it 1.6k and had reached our first major obstacle – the hole we called the Death Trap. With the sun already below the forest canopy, we setup camp while the crew started the long process of bucketing water out of the hole. By dark, the water had been drained to half it’s original level and we decided to call it a day. Tomorrow we are going!

A couple of hours of non-stop dredging later and the Death Trap had been reduced to a giant kiddy pool. We were ready to take the plunge. Our strategy called for Rolf, still in the lead, to go first. When he inevitably got stuck, we’d use his winch to drag him across to the other side. Once safely across, he’d be available to pull Eric and Martin across. I’d follow last, keeping Betty’s winch available for a reverse recovery should one be necessary.

At 9am Rolf cranked up an Elvis CD, shifted into low range, locked his diffs, hit the accelerator and plunged his troop carrier hood first into the Death Trap. At 9:00:03am all forward momentum had ceased and Rolf’s troop carrier was pronounced KIA. So out came the winch and fortunately, out came Rolf. With Rolf out, in went Eric and then Martin and finally Betty. Surprisingly, all went according to plan and by mid-morning, we were all safely on the other side. Aided by a significant amount of prep work, we’d traversed the first of the bad roads many great barriers to success. It was cause for celebration! And celebrate we did, until just down the road, we ran smack into the “Tabo Hole.”

Staring into the Tabo Hole, I couldn’t help but wonder how on earth we’d ever get to the other side. Aided by Martin’s stangle, we surveyed the hole and discussed our options. It wasn’t pretty! The trench itself seemed virtually impossible. A giant hole, similar to the Death Trap, the hole, had a couple of unique challenges. In addition to deep water that concealed an equally deep layer of thick mud, the hole was on a hill and the high side of the hole (the departure side) was extremely steep and uneven. Basically, that meant that, assuming we dredged the water, we’d still be faced with a huge problem. Once a truck was inside the hole, it almost certainly would get stuck in deep mud. Combine the suction created by the mud with the steep departure angle and we’d be lucky to get the truck out, winch or no winch. That meant that driving into the hole was nothing short of vehicular suicide.

To the left of the Tabo Hole was a diversion. This would’ve been good news had the diversion not come with two tiny little problems.

1.) The toll keeper was demanding 200 Euros for us to pass

2.) The diversion was only marginally better than the Tabo Hole

Effectively, that meant that we’d pay 200 Euros for the pleasure of taking a track that was guaranteed to require significant work to get through. For 200 euros, I’d expect a gold plated Caterpiller to porter my truck across. It wasn’t ideal. Particularly, when you know you’re being gouged! It’s sort of like highway robbery, only without the luxury of being robbed on pavement.

Not particularly happy with our options, we surveyed the area further. And then an idea occurred to us. To the right of the hole was a piece of land owned by one of the local villagers. At first glance, the land appeared to be anything but passable. But on further evaluation, we realized that, if we cleared away some vegetation and did some grading to level the surface, it might be doable, if only just barely. Doable however, was all we were looking for as our primary objective was to eliminate the toll keepers leverage. To do this, we pitched a little business proposal to the landowner. Simply put, in exchange for use of his land, we’d build him a diversion, which he could use to compete with the guy on the other side. Needless to say, he loved the idea and quickly agreed to our offer. And as much as he loved the idea, the toll keeper hated it even more and he quickly marked down the 200 euro toll to free.

As much as we’d have liked to build the diversion just to put a dent in the toll keeper’s coffers, we ultimately decided to use the original diversion instead. Our rationale was that the new diversion had some inherent risks that would be difficult to manage (most notably, the new track would be cut on a steep hill dangerously close to the edge of the Tabo Hole. One mistake and we’d be kissing the truck goodbye).

With our diversion issues solved, our problems shifted to labor relations. Number 8 was on the war path again as he ranted about how Kenneth was lying to them and ripping them off. To set the record straight, Eric and I confirmed Number 8’s understanding of our deal (Kenneth had given him the correct info) and pointed out that Kenneth was being more than fair since he was splitting the cash evenly between everyone, despite the fact that he had more responsibility. Our disclosure however, did little to squelch the argument, which continued until Number 8 et crew finally grew bored and and went back to work.

Back at the office, we tackled the monstrous task of getting through the diversion. There were two basic issues. First, diversion’s deep ruts and high mid section had to be broken down. Second, the large water hole at the end had to be dredged. Once dredged, we used a similar strategy to the Death Trap. The plan was for Rolf would go in first and when he got stuck, we’d winch him to the other side. Eric and Martin would follow, being pulled out by Rolf if necessary, and I’d bring up the rear. This time, the exercise was far more painful than the Death Trap, but in the end, the strategy worked. Rolf went in. Rolf got stuck. We winched him out. Eric followed with similar results. Then came Martin and finally Betty. All had problems, but all got through. We were going!

On the other side we entered the tiny village of Tabo, a town with the worst road running through it I’ve ever seen. Before moving on, we stopped for lunch at the same little open-air restaurant we’d eaten at a few days before. It was typical village fare – rice and sauce, fufu, boiled eggs, warm beer. When Martin asked for a fork, the restaurant’s owner looked around until she saw someone that had finished eating and grabbed the dirty fork off his plate and handed it to Martin.

After lunch, I asked around for directions to the local well. A man grabbed one of the kids from the village and told him to show me the way. The little boy led me down a small path that descended a hill into the rainforest. At the bottom of the hill was a tiny stream, the village’s only source of water. Meanwhile, Sheri was off making friends with the local children, a colorful lot that served as wonderful ambassadors for Cameroon. Together they sang and danced and enjoyed sharing the many differences that make our two cultures so unique from one another.
[View Tabo's Dancers]

After lunch, it was back to business. We were now on the other side of Tabo. The best was now behind us. The great trench was close at hand. The balance of the day was spent doing what we’d learned to do best – digging, winching, setting sand plates, cutting new tracks, and towing. It was hard work, but we were going, and the further we went and the more difficult the track became and the more our crew seemed to be sitting around. And the more they sat around, the harder Kenneth seemed to work. It was like Victor was spreading around some sort of infections virus and the only one that was immune was Kenneth. It was maddening and before long we found ourselves all riding Kenneth pretty hard to get control of his crew.

By dark we’d advanced another 2.4k (the furthest so far) and were all completely spent, utterly filthy, and ravenous. Nothing a long hot shower, comfortable club chair and medium rare filet couldn’t fix. Unfortunately, none of those luxuries were on offer at our little rainforest hideaway. What we did have was a nice bottle bath, a couple of well worn camp chairs, a pound of pasta, a can of tuna, and enough drama to give Tammy Fay Baker a migraine.

The digging had stopped for the day, but the drama was just starting to heat up, as Kenneth stopped by to inform us that his crew was threatening to walk off the job if we didn’t pony up some more cash by tomorrow night. As I saw it, this was Kenneth’s problem not ours. After all, if they breach our deal they don’t get paid. With that, I bid him good night. We’ll see what tomorrow brings.

Unfortunately, that wasn’t the end of the evening’s entertainment. No sooner had we slipped into our comfy Mac Sports Prestige camp chairs with dual cup holders and a vented canvass storage bag with shoulder strap, did the Rolf show begin. This time, Rolf was on a tirade because he was tired of being in the lead position (Quick reminder: The reason Rolf was in the lead was because he drove Martin crazy trying to lead from the back and Martin understandably refused to deal with it any longer). Instead of asking anyone else if they were interested in taking on the job, he went after me, arguing that I was to blame for not having led yet since I was the only one on the team that wanted to take this road in the first place. It was more than a bit annoying, however I simply reminded him that I’d volunteered for the job several times and, other than the fact that I felt he deserved to be there himself for being such a pain in the ass, would be happy to take over. He was welcome to return to his cowardly spot as a backseat driver. Ah, a relaxing end to another relaxing day in our little slice of tropical paradise!

Once assembled, we went into battle once again. For Sheri and I, it was day 11 and the end was still nowhere in sight. By mid morning our convoy had reached the start of the trench and in many regards the end of the line [View Road Prep]. I was now in the lead position and from the moment Betty entered the trench, the going seemed to become exponentially more difficult. If we thought we were moving slowly before, then now, we weren’t moving at all. Hemmed in and bogged down, with little room to work and no room to maneuver the trucks, the ruts were giving us a terrible fit and advancing a few meters seemed nearly impossible.

With our progress nearly at a standstill, Betty’s winch came into use so often that we stopped reeling it back in and the cable finally broke free of the spindle (which we repaired with a spare bolt Rolf had on hand). Concerned that the motor was going to burn up, I decided to give it a rest. And when the winch stopped turning, we stopped moving, as Kenneth’s brawn over brains attempts to muscle us forward were going nowhere. Our lack of forward motion did little to deter Kenneth and crew from sticking with their strategy, which in the past seven hours had gotten us nowhere. [View Betty - Stuck]

Frustrated after having tried unsuccessfully several times to implement a different strategy, Martin and I sent Kenneth and his crew off to have a late lunch so that we could work uninhibited. Our strategy was simple. All the digging, pushing, and rocking seemed unnecessary to us. Instead, we decided to use the eight sand plates we had between us to build a rolling bridge. The idea was to fill in the ruts and then lay four plates down on each side, just in front of the truck, drive to the end of the plates, pull the back two off and move them to the front, move forward and repeat. It was relatively quick and easy, and it worked. Within an hour, we’d moved our trucks further than our entire crew had managed in seven hours. It was a thing of beauty, which reminded us just how much we enjoyed working without all the extra distractions. We were moving!

The balance of the afternoon was more of the same as we utilized our rolling bridge to slowly crawl forward and, after winching and towing all four trucks through a challenging mud hole [View Mud Hole], we called it quits for the day.

On a side note, I’d like to offer a word of caution to anyone who’s considering building their next home in a trench. As I’m sure anyone familiar with World War I would agree, it’s not the glamorous living arrangement one might expect. For starters, it’s muddy and wet, which means you and everything you own is muddy and wet. And as I’m sure you already know, wet equals mosquites, which in these parts means malaria. Also, the narrow dirt walls don’t affort you a wealth of living space as they’re so close together that you can barely crack open the doors on your truck. Not ideal should you need to get inside the truck to grab say, anything you own. The ground isn’t exactly polished marble either. Tromping around in the pitch black of night in slick mud has a number of potential downsides, just one of which is when, unbeknownst to you, the legs on your camp chair slowly sink into the mud and then falls over with you in it. Not particularly fun when you’ve just taken a nice bucket bath and have just sat down, in your only semi clean pair of clothes, with your dinner in your lap, looking forward to a little relaxation. And it doesn’t help that the muddy bottom is about as level as a roller coaster and your truck is leaning forward and sideways at about a 15 degree angle and you have to use a rachet strap to keep from sliding out of the tent. And to top it off, there’s no easy way in or out of the trench which makes going to the “toilet” a bit of an adventure.

In any case, as we were setting up camp, I overheard Number 8 and crew arguing with Rolf. As it turned out, they decided to do exactly what we’d predicted. They threatened to stop all work unless we doubled the cash. So fixated on how to extort more cash out of us, Number 8 was banking on the fact that we had to have their help. And I’m sure he was completely convinced that the “white man” couldn’t get through without his crew and would pay anything to keep them on. What he failed to consider was the following:

1.) We hired them because we wanted some help to speed up our passage, NOT because we had to have it to get through

2.) We hadn’t paid them anything yet since our deal stated that we only paid at the end after they’d helped us get through

3.) Threatening us constituted a breach of contract (i.e. contract terminated)

4.) We were now over halfway through and still had the 60,000 CFA we’d planned to pay them, which we could now spend on a new crew to help us the last 500 meters

So, in a nutshell, we decided to fire Number 8 and the rest of them for breach of contract. Because they didn’t uphold the deal they’d get nothing. If Rolf and Martin wanted a new crew we could get one using some of the cash we’d just saved courtesy of Number 8 and his generous crew of helpful volunteers.

As I lay in bed listening to the rhythmic pounding of Tom Tom drums coming from some distant village, I couldn’t help but feel that we were so close to the end, only 500 meters in fact, and yet the light at the end of the tunnel was still so very far away. Tomorrow is another day. Tomorrow, we are going!

Rainforest Bush Camp - November 14, 2006
This morning started off exactly like we anticipated. As usual, Kenneth, Victor, Number 8 and the rest of the crew showed up for work, I’m sure believing that we’d meet their ransom demands and all would proceed as usual. What actually happened was a bit different. Shortly after everyone arrived, we called Kenneth over and communicated our decision. Basically, all that was said was that we had a deal for 60,000 CFA and that the deal called for five guys to work with us until we made it through. Number 8’s attempt to leverage us was a clear breach of our deal, and we weren’t going to put up with it. The deal was off. They were all fired! Our only concession was to offer Kenneth and Victor an opportunity to continue working under the terms of the original offer of 2,000 CFA per day. Take it or leave it.

At first, Number 8 and his boys seemed surprisingly calm. Then they realized that we weren’t paying them for the work they’d already put in and they all went ballistic. There was no point in reasoning with them, as logic holds no place in Number 8’s world. Rather, the majority of our team agreed that the best approach seemed to be to ignore them all together, focusing our attention on the road ahead. I’m sure, had we stuck to this strategy, they would have eventually grown tired of arguing with themselves and would have gone home. Unfortunately, our dysfunctional team was about as cohesive as two opposing magnets, and Rolf and Eric, ignoring everyone’s advice, got a charge by shouting right back. Needless to say, it did little to defuse the situation, and did a lot to distract us from the task at hand.

Meanwhile, we went about the monstrous task of dredging and filling in two massive mud holes that stood squarely in our path. Throughout the morning, we made slow but steady progress, aided for a short time by Kenneth who’d agreed to stay on under the original terms. Unfortunately, Kenneth’s help was short lived as Number 8 threatened to beat him up if he continued working. Still not getting anywhere Number 8 turned his sights on us, threatening to bury our trucks in the trench if we didn’t pay up. It was a lot to tune out and by midday, we’d had enough. To deal with our growing problem, Martin and Christine volunteered to go into the neighboring village to talk with the chief. They returned some time later, bearing good news. They’d explained our situation to the chief and he’d sided with us, condemning their actions and noting that Number 8 had a history of causing trouble. He went on to say that we had the full support of the village and he’d help us find a replacement crew.

Later in the day, we took a break from filling in dirt to discuss our plan. Eric and I had just come back from surveying the remaining 500 meters and felt that it was doable without additional help, although we acknowledged that it would be difficult and would likely take us at least another three days. Regardless, we were in support of going the distance alone. Martin and Rolf on the other hand were in a very different camp. Both were adamantly in favor of hiring some additional help and Rolf in particular was hell bent on getting out as soon as possible. He even went so far as to demand an additional head, to serve as his personal assistant. Neither seemed open to negotiation and to avoid any strife, Eric and I decided not to push our position.

With the decision made, Martin, Christine, Sheri, and Sharikay set off to see the chief and organize our new crew and Eric, Rolf and I headed back into the trenches to take a crack at getting Betty through another hole. Following a full day of work, the hole had been dredged and filled in with dry dirt. It was still soft however and so we laid down our rolling bridge and I gave it a go. Just as my front wheels made it to the other side, the rear right wheel started to sink into the soft ground and before I could make it to safety, Betty sank so deep into the soft dirt that even the winch couldn’t muster enough power to get her out. After resetting the winch, we gave it ago and dragged her out, just barely. It was the only forward progress our four trucks had made all day. With all of the commotion and the work required to fill in the hole, we’d managed a gain of 30 meters.

On the other side of the hole we pitched the tent again and spent our second straight night in the hole. An evening that was equally as enjoyable as the first.

Just as this reality was settling in, we received a major break. A local man from a nearby village came to let us know that a village a couple of kilometers on the other side of the “bad” road had called in a bulldozer to repair their badly damaged road. Skeptical, Martin and Eric hiked to the village to have a look, while the rest of us continued to grind away. A couple of hours later they returned, followed close behind by a giant Caterpillar. It was a glorious site, which turned out to be almost too good to be true, as the bulldozer operator nearly crapped his pants when he saw the road. Shaking his head, he said “It is impossible. To Dangerous. The bulldozer could be lost.” Not willing to take no for an answer we did a bit of begging, which prompted the operator to develop a new idea. Instead of repairing the main road, he’d cut a new track along the edge of the rainforest.

Within half an hour, the bulldozer was toppling trees and cutting a new track. It was an awesome sight and everyone was celebrating liberation day. And perhaps the best part… the bulldozer filled in Moonlight’s diversion and created a new track that the locals could use free of charge. The only hickup? Number 8 and his crew showed up and tried to stop the bulldozer by claiming that the operator was cutting the track on private land. Fortunately, the bulldozer driver knew the law and the law states that you can cut back the forest to 20 meters from a public road. We were going! And soon we were gone. Liberated at last, by a unexpected turn of fait.

By mid afternoon, we were through the worst of it, liberated from a seemingly endless jungle track that had taken nearly two weeks to traverse. We’d reached the end of the proverbial tunnel without ever having fully seen the light. On the other side was the rest of Africa. As our battered convoy slowly limped into the nearby village of Auyakaba, the realization that we were free began to sink in and with that realization came a wonderfully intoxicating sense of euphoria one gets after accomplishing a seemingly insurmountable task.

Auyakaba received us with a warm welcome, the chief inviting us to camp on the grounds of the village’s primary school. Once settled, I mustered enough energy for a trip down to a nearby river to fetch water for a much-needed bath (which I took before an audience of a half dozen school children). And that was as far as we got. The balance of the day was spent curled up in our camp chairs in a state of near coma, only finally coaxed out several hours later to crawl into the more comfortable confines of our tent. We were free at last.

The morning was spent tying up loose ends and undoing some of the damage inflicted on our trucks and equipment. Between driving back and forth over our sand plates to straighten them out and repairing our winch, everyone got together to settle up. This should have been, and I’m certain would have been, a painless affair had Rolf not been in the mix. Regrettably, Rolf had one last surprise for the group. When it came time to pony up for the bulldozer, Rolf refused to pay, arguing that nobody had consulted him before hiring it. Before anyone could hardly say a word, he jumped in his Land Cruiser with Heike and sped off (unbelievable considering less than 24 hours earlier he’d said he was willing to pay whatever it took to get out as soon as possible).

With Rolf gone, one problem was out of the way and one problem still remained. Number 8 and the rest of his crew showed up demanding their cash. This prompted another visit to the chief, who was unfortunately away when we arrived. Instead, we sat down with the village elders to plead our case once more. Again, the village sided with us and we walked away only paying a fraction of the agreed upon fee for their services. Number 8 et crew were furious and we were quickly on our way. Destination: Mamfe.

The relatively smooth dirt road leading to Mamfe started off easy enough. Then we realized that Eric and Sharikay were missing. Turned out their front left wheel came flying off. After turning back, we found their truck nose down in the dirt on the side of the road. The tire had bounced off the road and into a dense thicket of thorns.

In Mamfe, we found a wonderful little lodge on the banks of a picturesque river where we setup camp. The best part was that they had a little restaurant with cold beer and excellent fresh chicken and chips. The balance of the day, night, and next morning was spent, much to the dismay of the resident chickens, eating and drinking as much as we could stuff down our gullets. It was exactly what we needed. We were one big step closer to recovery.

Liberated from the mud, everyone was preparing to hit the road. Martin and Christine were headed for Bamenda while Sharikay, Eric, Jim and I were headed to Limbe and then on to Yaounde to sort out our gearbox. A former boss once told me that “All men are brothers when in foxholes together.” I think in Cameroon at least, this holds true, as we felt like we’d been through a lot together and it was hard to see Martin and Christine off. Before they hit the road, we all got together for one last meal. By most measures, it wasn’t anything special, just some African omelets and bread. It hit the spot however and gave everyone an excuse to hang out a little longer before going our separate ways.

Afterwards, we said our goodbyes to Martin and Christine and then Jim and Eric went about trying to free the brakes and trucks of mud. With thick mud caking the calipers, disks, hubs, wheels, and the entire underside of the trucks, it was a difficult, almost futile effort that only began to undue the damage done during the previous two weeks. In the process, they managed to work up quite an appetite and by midday, we found ourselves back at the restaurant gorging on chicken and fries once more.

With our stomachs full and smiles of satisfaction on our faces, we set off for Limbe, thrilled at the thought of trading in Cameroon’s rainforest mud for black volcanic sand beaches. The road down to Limbe was pretty slow-going. Lots of potholes, but thankfully only a manageable amount of mud! Having made it nowhere close to Limbe, we located a fairly hidden gravel pit just off the main road and setup camp for the night. Still surrounded by rainforest, it was a wonderful setting and we spent the night sipping cold beers and reminiscing about the past couple of weeks.

Every English speaking Cameroonian we met delivered the same message, “You see this! This is Cameroon. We are suffering here!” And this message usually served as a prelude to a long monologue describing how the small anglophone part of western Cameroon was being severely neglected by the country’s French-speaking government. The road from Ekok to Mamfe spoke volumes and as we headed further into English speaking territory, the story was more of the same. The roads were completely neglected and the general infrastructure appeared to be in a state of decay (a striking contrast to the well maintained paved roads we later found in francophone Cameroon). The message was clear. The English-speaking Cameroonians were unhappy and there was even talk of secession. An idea that was probably just talk, as it was hard to imagine tiny English speaking Cameroon waging a successful revolt. Only time will tell.

By the time we reached the paved road a few kilometers outside Limbe, we were exhausted and eager to find a suitable place to camp on the beach. Going on the advice of others, we setup camp at Mile 6 Beach, a stretch of black sand beach situated on a small cove at the foot of fog shrouded Mount Cameroon. It was a picturesque spot, only slightly spoiled by the brightly lit oil refinery just to the south and an endless processional of oil tankers off shore.

The following day was part R&R, part admin day. In between cleaning the mud out of our tent, truck and clothes, we hit the beach for a dip in Atlantic’s calm waters. I’d dreamt of taking a swim every day while we were digging out of the mud in the hot and sticky rainforest. The water was calm and the temperature just right. It was a delightful way to unwind and rejuvenate our worn out bodies.