Unfortunately we made it only about 10 minutes from Arlit.
Although the road was reasonable, it was apparently necessary to weave from
side to size to take advantage of the smoothest patches of tarmac. The weaving
had to be synchronised carefully with any over-taking. Since the road was long
and straight, these manoeuvres had to be synchronised further with the light
traffic coming in the opposite direction. And under no circumstances must any
driver ever be thought a wimpy girl’s blouse and give way to any other driver.
I was fortunate that I was in the back seat, well-wedged
into my space between my neighbours, and also that I was watching the traffic
at the time and could brace myself. As we hit another taxi coming the opposite
way a violent glancing blow, span around, and came to a juddering halt, some of
my fellow passengers were less lucky. I fetched out my roll of bandages and
antiseptic cream, and patched up cuts and grazes as best I could. One man of
about my own age had a huge gash in his hand, which I suspect had gone through
the windscreen. Elastoplast and Germolene were wholly inadequate – it certainly
needed several stitches at the very least – but probably the best medical care
available for several hundred miles.
Someone gave us a lift back to Arlit. “Did I still want to
travel tonight monsieur?” The alternative was to remain in Arlit for
another 24 hours: yes I certainly did. “You can go with this guy.” A huge fat man
in long white robes sat behind the wheel of a battered estate. He had
just purchased it from one of the Saharan traders, and was taking it to sell in
Nigeria. He would get me to Niamey. There were no other passengers, and I could
have the entire passenger seat to myself (almost – the car was crammed full of
random items presumably for later sale alongside the vehicle) for only double
the standard fare. I climbed in, shook hands and paid, and we set off instantly at very
high speed.
24 more hours in Arlit?
After a few minutes we passed the accident, still surrounded by milling passengers. I realised that my water bottle was still in there. Although now dark, it was still extremely hot and dry. My driver spoke only occasionally in mono-syllabic French. Fortunately one of his few words was the command “drink” and I was able to eke out the remains of a small bottle of water for the rest of the journey. Travel-health guides are invariably full of advice to only drink mineral water from bottles where you have broken the seal yourself; this is all well and good.
I was offered a kola nut to the command of “eat”. These are
chewed throughout West Africa as a mild stimulant, and give you a high similar
to a strong cup of coffee, red stained teeth, and mouth-cancer. They are bitter
and foul. Chewing them does not mix well with an inadequate supply of brackish
water and an already dry mouth. They do, however, help to keep car-drivers
alert during long journeys on extremely dark nights.
The road was empty, we seemed to pass only through the edge
of the occasional small settlements, and the main events were the police
checkpoints outside the entrance and exit of every town, at every province border,
and at every other possible place where a checkpoint could possibly generate
enough bribes to pay the occupants’ keep. My driver was well-prepared.
Presumably he made the journey regularly, for he certainly seemed to have the
right gift ready for each gendarme, carefully extracted from the various
merchandise in the back of the car. Although I occasionally had to produce my
passport for inspection, there was extraordinarily little hassle, and
remarkably I was never asked for a “fee”. Evidently the double-fare also
included any necessary contributions. The checkpoints at least broke up the
monotony of the empty road and silent driver. It occurred to me much later that
he was possibly Nigerian and might well therefore speak English, but at the
time I simply thought his lack of French and my lack of Hausa made
communication well-nigh impossible.
At dawn we stopped suddenly at a roadside village and I was
abruptly “handed on”. I eventually came to realise that this was quite standard
practice. The driver was going south to Nigeria, I was going west to Niamey,
but a fare had been agreed on a handshake for the full journey. My luggage and
I were transferred into another shared taxi, the fat man paid a fare to the new
driver, and on we went again. (Should you ever want to experience this “handing
on” process at its very best, I recommend a long journey on the delightful
minibuses of Lesotho. Not only are the crews extremely helpful about handing
you on to the right bus and double-checking your destination, but they
invariably assisted with my wife and kids’ rucksacks, made sure the traffic was
clear for us crossing the road, charged us the correct fare without asking, and
generally gave lessons in customer-service best-practice that I can heartily
recommend to any customer-manager looking for an unusual team-building trip).
Plastic bags filled with cool-ish water were being sold at
the roadside. I was by now extremely thirsty and past caring about prim
instructions to only drink from sealed mineral water bottles. I bought a round
for the whole car, receiving in exchange a small piece of breakfast cake. I
have no memories of the rest of the journey. After the rigours of the Sahara
followed by a 15 hour journey including an accident, we arrived in Niamey where
I found a small hotel mentioned in my guidebook as possessing both flushing
toilets and occasional hot water in its rooms, enjoyed the delights of both,
and fell asleep.
