Civilised Cotonou

While making my way to Morocco I'd been in touch with a German overlander, Maxi, on WhatsApp. We'd been planning to team up for the remote journey inland across the Mauritanian desert. Both of us were equally excited and intimidated by the idea of following the tracks of the iron ore train over the dunes to Atar: 550 km of desolation. But our schedules hadn't aligned for that part of the journey. I'd been too far behind by the time he left Nouakchott and by the time I arrived in Togo I'd overtaken him by taking the inland track through Mali and Burkina Faso while he'd cruised down the coast via Côte d'Ivoire and Ghana.

Maxi and I had stayed in touch and developed a cozy habit of sharing our geographical and emotional positions with each other. He seemed to be having a little more fun than me, leaning into the "one life, live it" motto I'd seen plastered to the back of his iconic, red Land Rover Defender. He'd also had a few friends from Europe join him for sections of the journey, North and coastal West Africa being well within reach of the holiday-hub that is Western Europe. I'd been a little envious of his photos sent from the tiki bars and surf beaches of Côte d'Ivoire or the rooftop bars atop the skyscrapers of Accra. But I was glad of my choice of route. Had I not taken it I'd have always wondered what adventures I'd left on the table in favour of a bit of fun.

As our paths converged again Maxi and I discussed the option of transferring our earlier convoy commitment to the upcoming crossing of Nigeria. We felt we could make use of some mutual reassurance for a leg of the journey we were both nervous about. This section of the West African overland route casts a shadow on the psyche of many a sleepless African overlander. The tales of chaos, corruption, kidnapping and banditry souring their sweaty dreams.

Fortune was favouring the fearful and my itinerary was lining up well with Maxi's. I was hopeful that we might be able to take Nigeria on as a team, though at the same time I'd almost regained the determination to go on alone. Because I only had a few days left before I had to enter Nigeria, I planned to go make a start on the journey on my own, hoping to meet up with Maxi in Lagos once he caught up. So while Maxi made his way from Accra in Ghana I would edge my way to Lagos through Benin.

Leaving Lomé, I'd said my goodbyes to Hervé, Gabin and Daniel and made unkeepable promises to remain friends. I had a slow but problem-free journey to Cotonou. The border crossing was smooth. The officials were professional and friendly.

In the preceding days I'd struggled to find anywhere to renew my mandatory "Brown Card" third party insurance now that the possibly counterfeit certificate I'd obtained in Rosso had expired. I'd need it for onward travel on my bike into Benin and Nigeria (both members of the Economic Community of West African States under which the scheme was administered). I decided to chance it at the border. It would only be a short ride back to paradise in Togo if I was refused entry to Benin. The PTSD from my Rosso experience flared up momentarily when the Beninoise customs chief insisted on summoning a local insurance broker, Marcian Agbo, when I turned up uninsured on his doorstep. But the lymbic system subsided once I met Marcian who was well presented, gracious and professional. Many photocopies, stamps, 15,000 Central African Francs and zero bribes later and I was on my way to Guest House Haie Vive.

Togo and Benin sit neatly beside one another on the sandy coastline between Ghana and Nigeria like a couple of skinny suburban blocks. The distance between their largest cities isn't much measured in miles but economically, politically and culturally they are strikingly different. Out in the sticks, much of African life is the same from one country to the next. National boundaries seem abstract and arbitrary. They are the faint traces of power games played in faraway places. Globalisation manifests mainly in the form of Nescafé, Coca-Cola and Indomie noodles but infrastructure and education have a harder time penetrating into the interior.

The African cities as a whole are also similar but it's in the urban centres not the traditional "tribal" areas where you see, taste and feel the differential influences of geography, democracy and colonialism (including internal varieties).

The urbanite Beninoise are proud, educated and high-minded. They are civilised. They keep their shoes clean and enunciate. Cotonou is a diplomatic hub and a jewel in the crown of Francophone West Africa. Accra in nearly neighbouring Ghana is the Anglophone counterexample. Of course, the bulk of the city is typical "African chique" but in the upmarket administrative zone of Haie Vive, with its clean streets and uncracked pavements, the chic is real.

Haie Vive's neat, low-rise buildings boast lush, manicured gardens. Nothing is flashy, new or gaudy like the typical pockets of new wealth you might see in other developing cities. The suburb screams (mentions) reserved and tasteful.

As I cruised along the main road into the city my hassle-free entry to Cotonou was juxtaposed against the confronting scene of a fellow rider who hadn't been so lucky. Close to the city centre I passed the accident. The remnants of a little "Jakarta" (a local bike) lay in one lane of the road, with debris scattered around it. The expressions of those gathered around a silent shape next to it, and the stillness of all the bodies, made it clear the rider had been killed. I continued slowly past the scene feeling the finality of the reality of two paths that could now never cross.

The guest house was large, two-storey residence set back from the street. It had a deep balcony shaded by a garden full of palms and Strelitzias. A healthy, neatly trimmed lawn lay between the mosaic-tiled facade of the square, seventies building and the modest boundary wall covered by a hedge. Guest House Haie Vive offered dormitory accommodation, basic rooms and "Luxury+" options on the second floor. I aimed for the middle and got a small room without ensuite. On a bike you're cursed with having to manage all your luggage and bulky riding gear which makes the usual backpacker-style accommodation impractical.

I was getting sick of being on the bike and having to contend with its size and awkwardness. There was no way to fit in or go with the flow. I couldn't hop on a bus, boat or moto-taxi and tag along with the next interesting person I met. Visiting local sights or scenes unencumbered was out of the question. It was like travelling with a two-year-old. The romanticism of travelling by motorbike and that of following one's fancy in faraway places cancelled each other out.

On the bike, I attracted too much attention. I was constantly tracking and fussing over my many possessions rather than feeling unencumbered and ready for anything.

It was probably the other guests at Haie Vive that made me self-conscious about my style of travel. This wasn't much of an overlander's haunt. It was populated mainly by NGO-tourists (which sounds like and possibly is a pejorative). The stereotypical guest was young and painfully enlightened. They were here to do a bit of casual world-saving while enjoying some immersion in the local culture and getting through a decent amount of locally-sourced, organic weed. They'd return home to their typical European city lives but with a bit of an edge in the status-race, honed during their weeks in West Africa.

Also staying at the guest house were Eiji and Chizu, an elderly Japanese couple who didn't come close to fitting the mould. I had expected to come across them at some point on my journey, having talked visas with them on WhatsApp for a few months by that stage. The tiny, birdlike people were slowly making their way north from South Africa in their Landcruiser camper. Eiji had the air of a doddery little lizard and he cast spells of gentle positivity wherever he went. Chizu spent most of her time sheltering out of the heat in the Troop Carrier. She did invite me in to visit, insisting that I remove my shoes: "This is my house. I am Japanese. This is a Japanese home" she ordered in a kind of Haiku.

Like me, Eiji and Chizu were weary. They were old and had endured a much longer (though much slower) journey than I had. They'd also already passed through all the places thought to be the toughest and scariest. They'd had enough and were a little downtrodden, as concerned about reversing my journey as I was theirs.

Amongst the younger, peppier subset of guests were two French mates Antoine and Fred who were here to save a few villagers lives with some recreational well-digging up north and—more importantly—to party.

The lads spent most of their days holding court (rolling joints) on the verandah where they riffed off each other and entertained/supervised the gaggle of other virtuous, young aid workers. But they were good fun and there were a couple of genuine gems in the small crowd as well. Bryce was one, an ECOWAS intern and engineer whose charitable cause was the electricity grid. There was Gildas, my favourite, a PhD student researching mosquitoes and the various diseases they transport.

Gildas was quirky to put it mildly. He'd have tea, bananas and nuts for breakfast every day and dressed like a 13 year-old boy from Miami. He'd been born in Benin but grew up in France. You could tell he wasn't quite at home at home, used to smooth roads and clean air unlike his Béninoise compatriots. His reason for being back in Benin was to apply for a Swiss visa so he could join a research program there with the WHO. For some reason this would involve a brief trip across the Nigerian border to Lagos. I wasn't clear on the exact diplomatic details despite Gildas's impeccable and information-dense mastery of English. He spoke with a unique cadence which likely came from having learned mostly through reading rather than speaking. He was intensely articulate.

Gildas and I spent quite a lot of time together chatting, shopping and cooking. He taught me how to make his signature tomato and sardine stew while patiently walking me through the many benefits of celibacy.

On the Friday evening there was something in the air other than the stifling heat. Antoine and Fred were riling everyone up to go out and we all capitulated (except Eiji and Chizu who hadn't poked so much as a crooked toe out of the Cruiser all day). Antoine and Fred donned the traditional Béninoise suits they'd just collected from a local tailor—bright, bold African fabrics carefully stitched together into a wearable Jazz festival. They took charge of the itinerary and the first stop was a trendy burger joint on the other side of the airport from Haie Vive. A few moto-taxis were summoned and we sped off (up to three per bike) for a hair-raising ride into the dark to Ouaga Doux Gouts (a pun which sounds like a city in Burkina Faso but translates to "sweet treats"). We sat outside the restaurant at a large, plastic dining table and inhaled the burgers (a strong eleven out of ten) and many, big bottles of beer-clearly too many for Gildas who appeared well out of his comfort zone.

After dinner we were back on the bikes to Jammin Bar. This was a roots/reggae/cocktail bar, straddling a number of uncomplementary aesthetic and cultural themes in its mission to capture as much as possible of the expat and local yuppie minority markets. Expats were there for an immersion in the local cultural scene but it needed to be a safe and palatable version. An opportunity to enjoy tasteful culinary and musical references to local culture away from the politics, poverty and problems. Locals were there to breathe in the cool, clean air of upper-middle class life, wanting a bit of bling, indulgence and a connection to the glamour of the West presented daily on their devices.

The proprietors of Jammin had done as well as they could with that brief. In a Western context it would be considered a laid-back, slightly dorky night spot. The kind of place you find in the suburbs or a smaller town, not quite cool or collected enough for the big city but imitating those that were. Here, it came with a bit of prestige. Going out to cocktail bars wasn't within reach for the average citizen who'd need a week's wages to pay for a couple of drinks at Jammin. In stark contrast with our affected, Western shame over global inequality I found little evidence of similar guilt in those at the pointy end of West African society.

By 3 am we thought we might have broken Gildas so we pulled the pint and retreated to the guest house once again shirking death on the flight home. At speeds breaching the upper theoretical limits hypothesised by the Indonesian engineers of their motorcycles, our pilots dodged ditches, debris, cars, bikes and creatures great and small as they flashed momentarily in and out of the dim, little auras of the headlights.