Got To Go to Togo

South-eastern Burkina Faso felt more alien. It was as though I'd drifted back into the edgier Islamic atmosphere I'd encountered in Morocco and Mauritania. I couldn't say I felt unwelcome but I had a greater sense of cultural distance between me and my surroundings.

So far, in Mali and Burkina, I'd struggled to understand how the surrounding environment had cultivated Islamist bogeymen. Here in the East the dots felt easier to join. A conservative, traditional culture and suspicion of the West (to the North) and Bantu Africa (to the South) hardening on the resource-starved earth and in the minds of opportunity-starved people.

I made my way towards the deep, red "do not travel" area on the French government travel advisory map of the region. It was more pragmatic than the Australian one which had lazily marked the whole country with the same degree of danger. Australia doesn't have the same incentive as France to develop a deep understanding of the geopolitics on the ground. The inhabitants of this red zone were still just men, women and children making their way in a world they didn't design like anywhere else on the planet but there was something extra-foreign about this pocket of existence. I was fascinated, but a little weary. I hadn't felt that as acutely for some time—a cultural threat rather than an individual, criminal one.

In theory, I wanted to spend more time there and expose myself to the novelty of cultural differences. In practice, I wanted to get through to the other side quickly. Omarou's incessant, pestering calls weren't helping. So far, I had always feared moving ahead and had to overcome that fear every time I set off for the next destination. For the first time, I was more motivated to press on than to hang around. I hankered for the comfort of chaotic, tropical sub-Saharan Africa and to be greeted with smiles instead of scowls.

At the border post with Togo I found the comfortable chaos I'd been looking for. It was buzzing with activity and characters from all walks of life. A military officer on a bike gestured for me to follow him and guided me to a tree in front of the customs building where I could park. I went inside to acquire my passavant—the temporary import permit required for my bike.

I knocked on the bullet-proof glass of the little customs window just as a heavy-set officer with exaggerated decorations of rank was handed his bowl of fou-fou and stew. He glared at me, gesturing with his bowl. The message was clear: "what the fuck do you think you're doing interrupting the hard-earned meal of a high-ranking officer?" I started shrinking away from the window apologetically. With much huffing, puffing and slamming of various desk items he made a show of making an exception and slid open the window, extending his hand. I handed over my documents, praying quietly that that was what he wanted (rather than money or something with which to season his fou-fou).

Though I was made to feel like an ungodly annoyance I did walk out of there with both parties satisfied. I had a passavant in hand and the officer had contributed to upholding the brand values of the Togolese Revenue & Customs Department.

Next, I got myself a Togolese SIM from a roaming vendor in a wheelchair and went about setting it up, which I found troublesome. The vendor's technical skills appeared to be disabled as well. An innocent bystander offered help. He was a man about my age in t-shirt, jeans and tasteful designer sneakers. He had the air of an assistant director who had just walked on to the set to tweak something before the next shot. His wardrobe didn't quite match that of the others in the scene and he lacked the light covering of red dust that everyone else seemed to have had applied. "Is it Togocel?" he asked in unstrained English. He had a mild accent like what you might expect from an immigrant who had been living in an English-speaking country for many years. The cadence and intonation were there, not just the grammar. His name was Sandro.

While my phone was being fiddled with, the customs officer finished his lunch, curing the apparent hypoglycaemia he'd been suffering during our previous interaction. His mood was greatly improved and he was borderline jovial as he trotted over to join the SIM-support group and offer his expertise. Unable to keep up with the English-language conversion between Sandro and me, the officer and the gentleman in the wheelchair both lost interest and faded back into their frustrated existences after making a few unsuccessful bids for our attention.

Sandro was a Togolese web developer visiting family in the border town of Sinkassé. We spent a while exploring common ground and quickly developing an unexpected friendship. I dusted off my work experience as a web designer and my interest in the programming side of the profession. It was as if Allah had heard my anxious prayers to make it through his territory unscathed and had arranged a welcome party on the other side.

I spent an hour or so chatting to Sandro discussing life, the universe and the latest in web development practices. We compared and explored similarities and differences from opposite ends of the earth. We exchanged details and promised to send each other book and course recommendations (which we still do). The problem with my SIM was forgotten if not solved.

There had been many distractions standing between me and my lunch that day and I now sympathised with the hypoglycaemic customs officer whose lunch I'd threatened to delay. In Sinkassé I found Café Resto Africain where I managed to restore my own receding good mood with a plate of couscous. The Togocel shop next door cured my SIM ailments and I was ready to resume my mission.

Although my feelings towards the road ahead were typically a cocktail of fear and dread I was mostly looking forward to making it to the capital, Lomé. Despite my affinity for arid environments, I craved a bit of the tropical, coastal climate that I expected to find there. I also planned a visit to Toni Togo-the only official KTM parts supplier between Morocco and Namibia at the time-who I'd hoped would be able to sort out a few issues my bike had developed. Most worrying was a slipping clutch which had been deteriorating since the desert crossing in Mauritania, despite my installing a new one before shipping the bike to the UK. I'd also developed a concerning leak from one of my fuel tanks.

My dawdling at the border post had eaten into the afternoon. Getting to Lomé-literally at the other end of this Portugal-sized country-before dusk was out of the question. Night-riding was reserved for real emergencies so it looked like an evening at the next town down the road for me. This was Dapaong, about 40 km away, a northern trade gateway with Burkina Faso, Niger and Chad and home of Foadam Dapaong who play in the second division of the Togolese Championnat League.

I picked Hôtel Elefants in the iOverlander app as my prospective refuge for the evening and cruised down the N16 to see if they would have me. The staff were friendly, relaxed and welcoming. At most hotels one will find a stereotypical young, presentable concierge or manager who generally speaks or is keen to practice English. These are prestigious jobs and attract ambitious and intelligent people who work and try hard. If you find yourself being treated poorly you're probably dealing with the establishment's owner.

My concierge in this instance was Christophe who showed me a room to see if it would be to my liking. I was pleased to find it clean and well appointed with not one but two slightly used toilet rolls placed on a rickety desk alongside complimentary condoms-a sign that the hotel catered to the needs of professional men (and women).

As usual I took advantage of the hotel's restaurant and bar. After dinner, I heard the rhythmic beating of drums nearby and felt my skin tingle with the distant memory of many nights of mesmerised dancing to the electronic equivalent of what I was hearing. Like a rat tapping his toe to the Pied Piper's tune I followed my ear slowly toward the hotel's gate. The ever attentive Christophe noticed my interest and encouraged me to take a closer look. "You like this music?" he asked. I nodded and he gestured for me to follow him down the dark dirt street towards the small crowd that the drumming emanated from.

A light at the centre of the crowd shone out towards us. Silhouetted torsos floated above frenetic, shaking legs. Stamping feet kicked up fine dust into a whirling cloud. The drums, fast paced and rolling like a speeding steam-train were accented with rhythmic, repetitive vocalisations. Over heavy bass drums the sound of shaken, seed-filed gourds was layered. Together, a continuous, resonant fog of sound was woven. I had discovered the ancestor of techno.

We stood in the shadows and watched the group circle the drummers like a merry-go-round. Cups were passed around to the dancers who paused their hypnotic shuffling to take healthy swigs. Christophe explained that I was watching a funeral celebration for a respected family member-a wake. I have always found the idea of a sombre funeral discordant. Should they not be the social celebration of a life well-lived and signify the end of grieving? It feels like for us Westerners the Protestants have ruined funerals just like they have spoiled sex.

Christophe nudged me with an elbow and nodded to the crowd, encouraging me to join in. I was shy, but he persisted gently and I took a step forward. As I started to mimic (poorly) the standard manoeuvre and find a gap in the throng, anonymous hands pulled and pushed me closer to the centre. The dorky white man was greeted with cheers and smiles. As I was swept along, a cup was filled and handed to me. Christophe gave me the thumbs-up and I took a tentative swig of what I later learned was tchoukoutou or la boisson, a home-made sorghum beer. Good stuff.

No amount of beer, energy or encouragement was enough for me to master the Togolese shuffle so once I'd run out of puff and my instructors had run out of patience I excused myself from the dance party and thanked my hosts as best I could. I went back to the hotel where I slept like a dead dog and greeted the next day in a better mood than I'd been in for weeks. I was ready for my trip south through skinny little Togo to my next homé in Lomé.