My Homé in Lomé

A higher force had dragged me from the depths in Dakar and flung me across two landlocked countries of the West African interior. It deposited me on the shoreline in Lomé as if offering me back to the ocean in its final act. The exhilaration of that journey evaporated on impact leaving only a faint feeling of quiet, male desperation.

While the days dripped by in Togo's capital it felt as though the same cruel master was slowly turning up gravity. With every humid hour it took more effort to move, breathe, think or contemplate leaving. I spent my days dragging my feet between my beach shack, the outdoor bar, the picturesque pergolas facing the ocean and the shallows of politely lapping waves. My footprints traced a solemn trench in the moat of sand surrounding my shack.

Now and then I was drawn out by obligations and temptations, from the basics of eating, drinking, shitting and smoking to the greater challenges of visa applications and bike repairs. I still couldn't come to terms with the overall strategic vision for the trip but at least I could put some ticks on the local to-do list.

While on an expedition to the pergola to sip on a fine Flag beer I found myself the target of a couple of local lads who'd been scouting along the beach. Like a downwind deer I felt a spritz of adrenaline as soon as I'd been made their mark. The young men swaggered up and made themselves comfortable, sitting on the bench across the table from me. "Francais, Español, English?" the game began. I chose English.

Despite my bracing for an attempt to have cash or opportunity extracted from me it never came. Slowly, I thawed. I smiled. I relaxed. I laughed. One of the pair spoke English well. It was a language promising access to the global opportunities which French had failed to deliver. To this pair of Togolese globalists I offered a chance to practice on a live subject. This was the reason I'd been approached.

I came to know the one with good English as Hervé (I forgot the friend's name as quickly as he'd forgotten his English lessons). Hervé was charming and thoughtful. He was educated: qualified as a Caterpillar operator but had struggled to find work. He was thinking about starting up a driving school if he could save enough to get it started. The plan was to borrow a car from an uncle and share in any profits.

Globally-minded Hervé was openly scathing of the government and political situation. He lamented the opportunities he'd been robbed of and the hardship he saw those closest to him endure. They were faceless victims lost in a perfect storm of corruption, incompetence—and the brutal arrogance of "the regime".

But Hervé also felt oppressed by the attitude of his peers and people: an African short-sightedness that constrained flourishing and prosperity. I was more sympathetic: if there is no certainty in the future what point is there in investing in it?

Perhaps Hervé's attitude represented a hopeful glimmer in the stormy fate of Africa. Were his frustrations the product of his feeling more certainty about the future than the generations before him? Those who had experienced the worst of the wars, famines and brutal dictatorships were no longer here to infect the youth with their well-earned pessimism. As the West remained obsessed with the stain of colonialism, to modern Africans like Hervé it was pre-historical. Maybe the attitudes of the elders, fatalistic and beholden to the past, were fading on this continent with a median age of just 20.

We came up for air from our deep dive into the state of the world and Hervé indicated to his wingman that it was time to go. Wingman had been on a side mission, fruitlessly harassing the ladies in the pergola next to ours. Hervé shouted the (what would've been highly overpriced) beers and promised to return the next day at 4pm for a follow-up. I promised to shout the next round.

Cheered by the reward of a new friendship I tore into some life and literal admin the following day. I had visits to pay at a couple of embassies and the condition of my bike's clutch was deteriorating rapidly. I'd also noticed it doing some unauthorised revving as I'd arrived in Lomé and didn't like the implications (mainly because I didn't understand them). I would need to visit the renowned TONI-TOGO, West Africa's only vaguely legitimate connection to the KTM factory back in Mattighofen, Austria.

At TONI-TOGO I missed out on meeting the founding father Toni himself but was greeted by Didier and Daryl. Didier was the head mechanic, a Frenchman who knew very little English, and Daryl was the son of ex-pat Toni (and fluent). Daryl was "big in" and probably personally underwriting the local motocross and enduro scenes and seemed to be a man who stood confidently with one foot in Africa and the other in Europe. His feet were of mixed heritage—his mother was Togolese.

Daryl, Didier and I stood amongst the 44 gallon drums of Motorex lubricants and went through my bike's ailments. Didier gave slow, knowing nods and the occasional glance to prompt clarification from Daryl as I spoke. I left the bike with its trusted guardians.

As I strolled a back towards Coco Beach along the verge of the busy N2 that separated the city from the sea I ignored the regular toots of moto-taxis vying for my business. I smiled to myself as I took in the perfect weather and mild chaos. I stopped in at a restó to enjoy some foo-foo with meat and sauce. The ladies running the operations were very nice and made me feel a welcome equal rather than simply a curiosity (as their inland equivalents had). In Lomé I tended to hear the more formal "bon arrivée" and "bonsoir" used rather than the more brash "ça va" I'd become used to. I reciprocated diligently.

Just as I was finishing my meal I remembered that I'd left a significant stash of cash on my bike and had forgotten to extract it before separating myself from my machine. I'd hidden a thousand US dollars under a panel on the left fuel tank, and a thousand Euro on the right. I consider myself as having above average faith in humanity but thought such a sum might test the honesty of even the most honourable apprentice mechanic. I paid my lunch bill and hurried back to the workshop. Work hadn't started on my bike yet. Relieved, I borrowed a screwdriver and tried to surreptitiously remove the panels and sneak the money into my backpack. I wasn't as worried about it being stolen as I was afraid of being outed as a neurotic.

I got the Euro out OK but the dollars proved a challenge thanks to one of the screws having suffered damage in an earlier altercation with the road surface. Applying more pressure my hand slipped and I idiotically poked myself in the cheek with the tip of the screwdriver—about a centimetre south of my left eye. While a warm tear of blood trickled down my cheek I fiddled the rest of the screws and money out. I sheepishly returned Didier's screwdriver and asked if he could show me where I could wash the blood from my face. He pointed, eyebrows raised.

I'd been told to return to collect my bike from TONI-TOGO on my third day in town. I walked up the sandy lane from Coco Beach to the N2 and accepted the first moto-taxi offer I received, but added in a bit of bargaining as Daniel had shown me. My pilot was Alex who had a second job as a radio presenter. At TONI-TOGO I found everything in order but there was bad news about the clutch and the erratic revving—the fault of a worn throttle position sensor.

The clutch springs had lost most of their tension (Karmic punishment for choosing a cheap replacement before I left home) and the sensor was worn. Neither part was available locally and it would be a question of weeks if not months to source them from Europe. Luckily I'd brought a spare sensor with me so I committed to install that at the next opportunity. As to the clutch, Didier had temporarily shimmed the springs with some washers but it was unlikely to last the distance. I'd have to figure something out as I limped south. I wouldn't be able to hang around in Lomé waiting for parts. I had no option but to keep moving as my Nigerian entry date loomed.

Despite the problems the bike was good, and Didier complimented me on the preparation I'd done. I wandered off to find an ATM and returned with a wad of local currency to settle the very reasonable bill. Parts were a little expensive but labour was about a fifth of what I was used to paying in Australia for frankly less professional work.

The day still had some light and energy left in it so decided to accept an invitation from Hervé to visit him at home and meet his family. This included being introduced to the newest members: his sister's twins who lay in matching outfits in the cool shade of the veranda under a fly net—like a pair of freshly baked muffins.

I had two visas to get my hands on in Lomé and the contrasting experiences highlighted how much difference there is between the patches of the African quilt. Gabon and the Republic of the Congo are neighbours, separated by the ragged stitches of small rivers, valleys and mountains. But what separates them in sharper relief is their level of development. Both have a similar colonial history, and similar post-colonial ones, featuring the typical dictatorships, perpetual one-party presidents and occasional tussles between the military and the politicians (or people). But Gabon had found better fortunes in independence and boasted five times the GDP per-capita that the Republic of the Congo could muster.

Nowhere was the contrast more obvious than in the level of investment each nation had made in the facilities at their embassies in Togo. The Gabonese version was a standalone building with a high wall, double steel and glass doors and ample, professional security. Behind the wall there was a swimming pool, crystal-clear (possibly a remnant of the building's previous life as a high-end residence). Beyond the unused pool was the entrance to the lobby where staff, dressed neatly in corporate attire busied themselves according to well-documented processes and procedures. The only hint of Africanness came as I left when one of the security guards tried to recruit me as a customer of his limousine service. I declined, but took his business card.

Correlating with GDP, the Gabonese embassy certainly felt more than five times as well-endowed as that of the Republic of the Congo. The latter was in a less swanky (relatively) part of town. It could be found (not easily) in a three-storey building, down a maze of dirt lanes and next to the remnants of a recently demolished residential block.

I entered through a garage around the back of the building and went up a narrow set of stairs coated in a film of red dust. On the second floor I found a small office where a few young men in casual clothes (soccer jerseys of course) were milling around a large desk at which one of the men (boys) sat. At first I was unsure whether they were the embassy officials or just there to ransack the building. The gentlemen turned out to be wonderfully friendly—much more so than their rigid Gabonese counterparts. We chatted away as best we could about the usual details a rich white man on a motorbike must divulge. They complimented me on my French and were impressed (or flattering me) that I had not been taught in school. It was a feat to have "demanded" it all by myself. One of the three accompanied me to a nearby corner store to get some documents copied on the village photocopier. He even paid.

Back at Coco Beach I settled in for a few beers with a fellow guest and overlander, Daniel. His trip made mine look as ambitious as a mobility-scooter ride around the local Walmart. He was cycling from Czechoslovakia to Namibia.

We had recognised the same "Overlander's Glint" in each other's eyes. It wasn't a glint of excitement, though the feeling did include that. It was a combination of fear, loneliness, apprehension and achievement. We knew we were doing something that nobody else in our lives would do, yet we didn't really know how we were doing it. We didn't know whether it would end in tragedy or triumph. It was one of those things best not looked at too closely, so we stayed silent on the topic that bonded us the most and focused on chit-chat and dirty jokes.

Daniel and I kept each other company for the few days we were in Lomé together. I lent him my pants for a visa interview (no shorts allowed) and he kept me sane in return. We walked along the beach, exploring colonial relics and waving off the many "rastas" that buzzed around looking for gullible curio buyers. One of them eventually charmed us and led us to an art stall in the Grand Marché where I bought a miniature painting small enough to stash in one of my panniers all the way to Cape Town. I wasn't keen to post anything home after the first, expensive attempt in Morocco.

We celebrated Daniel's birthday at the bar at Coco Beach the following evening by raising a few too many Flags. We welcomed each other's company but there was still a distance between us. We reminded each other of our own vulnerability and the closer we got the more we were reminded of it. If we became too close we might get comfortable enough to think thoughts that couldn't be unthunk. Ignoring apprehensions was crucial to completing our journeys onward through Nigeria, DRC, Angola and all the possibilities in between.

My homé in Lomé had become a comfortable one. The little details had added up to something of a life—a resurrection. The idyllic, quiet and surprisingly clean surrounds; the polite, gentle people; my new friends Hervé and Daniel; Gabel dutifully doing my laundry for me and of course Fatim sending me photos of herself in underwear and yearning to have my babies. Life was not so bad.