Durbars and Guinness
Most people would avoid a country recovering from civil war. This had been our original intention but plans change. Visas for the Congo could not be organised in London, and we’d hoped to get them in Madrid. Spain was enjoying a Fiesta due to run for several days when we arrived in the capital and the Congolese Embassy’s doors remained shut. Too impatient to consider waiting for a few days on the off-chance of getting the visas we went on our way. Our budget covered living expenses for five weeks and a week hanging around Madrid would eat into our precious funds. Lagos had just made itself part of our itinerary being the only other town on our way south where we knew we could get a visa. We had studied our map of Africa to check the revised route and read ominously familiar place names. They were the stuff of news bulletins about the recent Biafran War. Getting to Lagos meant simply heading due south through the Sahara and onward on well-marked roads. But leaving the capital would take us through the South-Eastern part of Nigeria which is Biafra itself. Were we in the process of making a stupid mistake?
‘It should be okay,’ said Ross as I looked fearful, ‘the war’s been over for ten months, things will have settled down by now.’
I nodded, wanting him to be right. Any alternative on land would involve back-tracking for miles and using extra fuel which we couldn’t afford. There was one other option. The port of Lagos would have ships bound for the southern shores of Africa and we might buy a sea passage. We could keep a plan B in reserve to avoid the Congo but still take us to Zambia. We might yet get the chance to travel up from Cape Town as originally intended all those weeks ago. The decision could be made when we arrived in Lagos and more information became available.
Before we’d started to plan our trip, friends destined for the neighbouring Copperbelt town of Kitwe had set sail in July on the Union Castle mail ship with their two little girls. Dave and Sandra reported back on a fun-filled cruise followed by the drive of a lifetime up to Zambia in their new Ford Capri. They marvelled at the Garden Route along the southern coast of South Africa; raved about the hotels, wine and scenery; enthused over the game reserve Hwange, then called Wankie; and best of all Victoria Falls on the border between Rhodesia and Zambia had taken their breath away. We couldn’t wait, and we didn’t wait. Our impatience came at a high price and we’d missed a different trip of a lifetime.
In spite of the war a wave of anticipation swept over us as we entered Nigeria at Daura. This would be our first ex-British colony where we could drive on the left and speak English. Even the currency was still in pounds albeit the Nigerian pound or NGP, and I looked forward to feeling more connected and less alien.
Northern Nigeria, land of Emirs, the Fulani-Hausa tribe and dashing durbars crunched under our wheels. To get on to well-maintained roads again was sheer bliss. Being in the sub-Sahara now was what we considered the real Africa, and although we had imagined each country to become more exotic than the last, communication with the people seemed to be much easier and less alien, by virtue of speaking English.
The culture in the North has been Islamic since the late 15th century but women’s faces did not hide behind veils. We passed through Kano the capital of the region. The thriving sub-saharan city had been built up from trade in salt, slaves and grain. Long after the Atlantic slave trade had been cut off Kano had one of the last major slave societies in the 1850s, with an estimated fifty per cent in the population living mostly in slave villages.
The Emir of Kano hosts Durbars to celebrate the two annual Muslim festivals: -Eid-el-Fitr at the end of Ramadan and Eid-el-Adha, to mark the Hadji or Holy Pilgrimage. The Durbar culminates in a procession of elaborately dressed horsemen who pass through the city to the Emir’s palace. We were not lucky enough to coincide with either of these dates, but much later we enjoyed the experience.
Ashaka, Northern Nigeria Thirty Years Later
A long open-fronted marquee had been erected for the Durbar, and lines of every available chair in the staff accommodation had been mustered for this gathering of VIP’s. The most important dignitaries, the chiefs, were already installed, the men sprawling their considerable weight over plush upholstered Dralon armchairs. Their women sat alongside looking self-contained and well-fed in heavily embroidered gowns of vivid purple, orange or green, their stiff head-ties artfully arranged at odd angles.
We were honoured with front-row armchairs, although a fair few down from the elite in the middle, but still a good position for what was to come.
The location of choice for the Durbar was the golf course, but to Western eyes this was not obvious. The day before we had been playing up this fairway, the ninth, accompanied by caddies who toted our clubs and the small square of Astro-turf from which our shots were played. Fairway was not an appropriate name for the long strip of dust.
The Durbar festivities began with a trumpet fanfare and parade of horsemen. Chiefs had travelled from all over the Northern region for their teams to take part in the display, and each section was announced with a fresh cacophony of sound before the assembled crowd. The bandsmen’s tasselled instruments vied with a loudspeaker reminiscent of those in British railway stations which made barely comprehensible announcements throughout the event. We watched an exhibition of pageantry and pomp in all its glory with chiefs’ sons playing major roles in the dozen or so teams of paladins. Video cameras and loudspeakers apart, the scene was medieval and uncannily reminiscent of the jousting ceremonies in Walter Scott’s Ivanhoe.
The array of small Arabian mounts wore castellated cloths over their heads and backs, each bearing the distinguishing livery of their regional chief. The cloths were stitched into little tents around the horses’ ears, whether to protect them from the sun’s fierce rays or to muffle the alarming noises around them was unclear, and blinkers shielded their darting eyes from the terrifying proximity of other horses and riders as they charged at the crowd, with us at the forefront.
The horsemen were similarly attired in ancient battledress and threw themselves with enthusiasm into their warrior roles, waving guns and spears aloft as they spurred their mounts faster and faster. At the climax of the charge the warriors pulled sharply to rein in their mounts in front of us at the very last minute and the horses’ heads jerked painfully back. Their eyes rolled and foam from tortured mouths flew through the mêlée. The smell of manure, human perspiration and horse sweat mingled in the heavy air. After a charge threw up the dust so close we could taste it, our cries of dismay brought undisguised looks of glee to the daring equestrians. This was far more exciting and colourful than a game of golf, but lasted just as long. Any emerging blades of grass on the fairway had been thoroughly downtrodden by nightfall that day,
2nd November 1970
We drove on to Zaria, another major city like Kano on the A2, and on the outskirts of the town near a sharp bend a motorist waved us down. He stood in front of his written-off car, its front nearside corner mangled and steam wafting up to mingle with the damp jungly air. Trying to brake on the bend we’d just passed he had skidded off the road and found himself stranded but with only minor injuries. He didn’t want to leave his ruined car unattended because it would be stripped of anything useful within hours.
We asked what we could do to help and he gave us a note to take to a friend in the university. We eventually found the address in town, delivered the gratefully received note, and mission accomplished returned to the centre of Zaria to find some food. The Harmattan winds blew particles of dust carried from the Sahara, stinging our eyes as we searched for somewhere open late on a Sunday. An hour into our quest we heard music coming from the ‘Jamboree Club,’ and ventured in to make enquiries
‘It is too late for eating,’ Joseph, the manager replied to our enquiries. ‘The cook, he has gone home. We are only open for beer.’
Then he relented and organised some chicken with bread and butter for us. An errand boy was dispatched for provisions. He returned with two loaves of bread and two raw chickens. We had hoped to eat fairly soon and were relieved to see him sent straight back. Half an hour later he returned with a plate of cooked chicken pieces, bread and butter, and coffee.
It was already late when Joseph brought out his six-year old son to dance for us. Henry was blessed with a proud father and a wonderfully natural sense of rhythm so after twenty minutes of his show we applauded enthusiastically and still grinning broadly he went off to bed.
Our bill paid we sat with Joseph until one o’clock in the morning and long after everyone else had left. We listened to the jangle of Nigerian music which he proudly played on his record player.
‘Come with me to a night club now,’ said Joseph ‘then you can stay at my house for the night.’
We felt dead on our feet and refused, promising to send him a card from Zambia. He gave us a bottle of beer ‘for the road’ and we left to find our usual out-of-town parking spot.
3rd November
Excellent roads took us down to Kaduna, but new hazards in the form of reckless truck drivers emerged. The road in this area was pot-holed, sinuous and narrow, forcing us to go off track every time we met another vehicle. Some lorry drivers used the size of their truck to bully other drivers into pulling aside, and played ‘chicken’ when it came to crossing narrow bridges which could only accommodate one vehicle. Numerous wrecks at the roadside and in the ravines beneath bridges served as a warning and made us take our time preferring to be live chickens than dead winners. Giving way every time we met another vehicle was a small price to pay for our safety rather than challenging crazed truck drivers.
The heat and humidity made us crave a cool drink but none of the roadside stalls which had cropped up had anything to offer but beer or Guinness. These were a sign of our leaving the Moslem North. We gave in eventually, still optimistic about a hidden stash of cool lemonade, and stopped in a village at an open-fronted wooden shack with a hand-written sign proclaiming ‘Hotel’.
‘What drinks do you have?’ asked Ross of the cheery barman.
‘We have Guinness,’ came the reply
‘What else do you have?’
‘Just Guinness that is all we have.’
‘Is it cold?’
‘No, it is warm. Ha, ha, ha! We have no fridge or ice.’
‘Okay we’ll have one Guinness please.’
‘Buy me one too,’ he demanded grinning from ear to ear.
We laughed not really appreciating the joke while he still chuckled away to himself and took our money for one beer. Four onlookers emerged from behind the hut to witness this exchange with unusual customers, and we handed round cigarettes as a friendly gesture. Everyone took one. We soon discovered that only one of them smoked and he openly collected everyone else’s cigarettes to keep for himself later!
The label on the dusty bottle handed over the counter to Ross looked as though it had been through the bottling plant several times without renewal. He gave the rim a rub against his tee shirt then offered it to me. I sipped tentatively. Nigerian Guinness tastes of liquorice and being treacly doesn’t quench the thirst at all, its heavy strength making it more suitable for Northern climes. We had our suspicions about the authenticity of the product. Ross drank the lion’s share which he soon regretted as it heralded the return of his ‘runs’. Later I found myself sitting patiently looking the other way each time he stopped the car to rush off behind a bush.
Years later we discovered that Guinness didn’t travel well, which explained the vile taste of our experience. Production was subsequently set up in Nigeria, and allegedly the country soon boasted the second highest sales in the world after Ireland.
We found a restaurant among ‘safari bungalows’ at Kontagora and bought lemonade, sandwiches and coffee. Although we ached with tiredness, the food and cool evening air revived us enough to turn on to the A1 southwards and cover another hundred miles before stopping.