Free-ride that nearly killed a childhood dream of making round-the-world trip
I had always wanted to make a round-the-world trip to visit many countries, connect with other cultures, and perhaps even confirm that our planet (Earth) is indeed a globe – not flat as I once thought when I was a child. I wasn’t looking for doing anything grand like Christopher Columbus did, or making outlandish […]
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I had always wanted to make a round-the-world trip to visit many countries, connect with other cultures, and perhaps even confirm that our planet (Earth) is indeed a globe – not flat as I once thought when I was a child.
I wasn’t looking for doing anything grand like Christopher Columbus did, or making outlandish claims of discovering something ordinary people didn’t know, or bragging about travelling the world on foot or on a bicycle or a car or a canoe.
I just wanted to satisfy simple curiosity and fulfil a childhood dream: I once told my schoolteacher that I would love to travel around the world (and he wished me success). So, when an opportunity for that came in the name of attending academic conferences, I grabbed it with both hands.
I started from London – a city once considered the capital of the world when Britain was at the peak of its power as the dominant empire. Those days were, of course, long gone, but London is still a major global centre, and it is where I currently live and so the right place to start.
I had flown into the city after spending ten days in Nigeria on a work trip. Its usual hustle and bustle and offerings of ‘pleasurable things in life’ were in full swing. I ignored all and focused on completing my travel plans.
I had already done most of the preparation months ago: obtained visas of multiple countries, converted a significant amount of my money into US dollars (the so-called global currency) and booked numerous flights and hotel rooms – a round-the-world-trip is a major undertaking.
After completing the preparations, I headed to Heathrow Airport to take a British Airways plane to Singapore, a city state that has a good reputation of being a major connecting centre in Asia. It would offer me a chance to make a claim of covering that continent. At the airport, I had a smooth check-in and boarding but there was a slightly delayed take-off apparently due to many planes arriving or leaving around the time of our departure.
Onboard the aircraft, I looked around and realised that I was probably the only Black passenger in it. As a frequent flyer more familiar with the London-Abuja route, where my compatriots always occupy almost all the seats, this was the first surprise of the trip.
Either my people haven’t yet discovered this route, as much as they did European and American ones, or they prefer the Dubai route for a journey to Asia, or this is just a one-off case – I really don’t know. What I do know, however, is that the choice of this route wasn’t bad: the inflight entertainment and the food served throughout the journey seemed to be better than the ones offered in BA’s other routes. I thoroughly enjoyed the 14-hour flight, spending a part of it asleep.
We landed on a bright sunny morning and I felt refreshed as we walked into the arrival hall. It was a big airport, with many people arriving from other places and departing to other destinations in a more organised fashion than I usually witness in London and Abuja. Orderliness is probably the first thing you would notice when you arrive in Singapore. The other thing I quickly noticed was toilet innovation and cleanliness. All the ones I saw were superbly cleaned and well-equipped with gadgets to help maintain hygiene.
I didn’t stay long in Singapore before moving to Australia, where I spent nine days in two of its cities: Sydney and Gold Coast. I enjoyed the latter more, with its newer skyscrapers, daredevil surfers and warmer weather, but it was in the former that I had had greater cultural enrichment, visiting Sydney Opera House, Harbour Bridge, Aboriginal cultural sites and a lot more (space constraint won’t allow detailed descriptions).
From Sydney, I flew to the New Zealand’s city of Christchurch, where I spent five days enjoying the city and the hospitality of its people, and exploring its beautiful scenery.
Christchurch had witnessed a series of devastating earthquakes in the past and lost several beautiful buildings but many of them have been reconstructed and turned into earthquake-proof edifices. It has become a vibrant city again with excellent shopping centres, hotels and restaurants. I visited many during my stay marvelling at them and interacting with people in joyous mood. But it was when I was leaving the city that my trip took a different turn.
“Don’t move,” a tall and burly police officer snarled when his patrol team blocked our car on my way to airport. “Give me the key!” he shouted at the driver when we came out. The driver hesitated and looked at me. “Give him the key,” I told him. Resistance was pointless.
That was how the drama began to unfold in the middle of the night in the city centre. I was halfway into the round-the-world trip and had accepted a free ride to the Christchurch international airport when I ran into this cul-de-sac.
The free ride was offered by a doctoral researcher I met at an international conference I attended in the city. Mahmood was an energetic, inquisitive and sociable young man. He was introduced to me by his former schoolteacher on the last day of the conference. He had a car and volunteered to take me and his former teacher around the city for sightseeing.
We visited many places including one of the mosques that was attacked by Australian white supremacist Brenton Tarrant in March 2019. We arrived there a bit dark in the night and saw a monument erected in memory of the 51 Muslim worshipers Tarrant had killed during the attacks.
We ended the sightseeing there and headed to an Indian restaurant for dinner but found out that the food wouldn’t be ready in time. Mahmood’s former teacher had other commitments and asked us to take him to his hotel, which we did before heading to another restaurant. It was a nice Lebanese restaurant, off the city centre, which Mahmood was quite familiar with.
After the dinner, I asked Mahmood to take me back to my hotel, where I intended to spend a couple of hours before heading to airport. I have an early morning flight to Sydney, Australia, en route to Los Angeles in the United States.
Mahmood had earlier expressed his intention to drive me to the airport, but I told him that it would be inconvenient for him as I would be going there after midnight. He, however, insisted and I reluctantly accepted the offer.
We spent more time driving around the city, including visiting his university’s campus, before headed to my hotel. It was at this time that I first noticed a sign of a problem but dismissed it as insignificant.
Mahmood had missed a road he needed to take. He drove briefly on a wrong lane to get back to the right track. He blamed the light of an incoming vehicle for this. He then seemed to have difficulties in locating where my hotel was.
Crowne Plaza is Christchurch’s largest hotel and the second tallest building in the city. It is a very distinctive structure, located in the centre of the city and could hardly be missed by anyone familiar with the city. But then, we were driving in a dark wintry night and Mahmood had only spent a few months here.
He eventually found the right way and we arrived safely at the hotel. I told him to go home and sleep, and I would take an Uber taxi to the airport, but he refused. He said his home wasn’t far away from the airport (which is true), and that as he would drive himself home, anyway, it would be unreasonable to go without dropping me at the airport.
I relented and loaded my luggage in his car boot. We drove for only about two minutes when I heard a loud siren of police patrol vehicle. They flashed red lights and ordered us to stop. Mahmood was driving on a wrong lane. I didn’t really know but he did know.
He told me to allow him to handle the police. “Don’t worry, I will speak to them,” he said when we stopped and were waiting for the police officers to come. “It’s a mistake but we’ll be all right,” he assured me.
When the police came, he apologised and told them that he didn’t realise he was driving on a wrong lane until he heard their siren.
They stared at us intently and demanded to know where we were going. He told them. Apparently satisfied that we didn’t look drunk or resemble suspected criminals, they let us go but with a warning that Mahmood should drive more carefully.
We thanked them and drove carefully across to the right lane. Mahmood then confided in me that he didn’t have a New Zealand’s driving licence – which made me apprehensive. But he said he had applied for one and that the police in Christchurch are usually nice. They are, I concurred. Otherwise, they wouldn’t let us go.
But we didn’t go far. Less than half a mile from where we were stopped, Mahmood took another wrong turn. This time I saw it clearly with my own eyes. There was a huge ‘No-Left-Turn’ sign placed prominently on the road side. But Mahmood, for reasons still unknown to me, ignored it and turned left. I said: “Oh, Mahmood, that’s very wrong. You can’t take this turn. Look at the traffic sign there!”
Before he responded to me, police patrol sirens had already filled the air, with red light flashing furiously. They were chasing us – at high speed.
I told Mahmood to park carefully and wait for them. We were near a small narrow street, which later turned out to be a cul-de-sac. That was where he parked. The police parked their car directly behind ours to block us from getting out of the cul-de-sac.
I could hear their shouts even before we came out. “Give me the key!” the officer’s voice was rising as he came closer to Mahmood. He was almost twice Mahmood’s size and was hovering over him as he was also much taller. The other policeman (slightly shorter than his colleague but still a sort of a giant) was also approaching us.
They were the same officers who had stopped us for the earlier traffic infraction. They were understandably furious.
“We aren’t going to allow you to drive this car again,” muttered the shorter officer, who was apparently superior to the one who collected the car key. “You’d cause a bigger problem for us this night.”
That’s it, I told myself silently. They would impound the car and detain Mahmood. And I was partly to blame because if I hadn’t accepted his offer, he wouldn’t have been in this situation.
I apologised and pleaded with the officers to give us a last chance. They refused.
They asked about the time of my flight. I told them. I still had over four hours. Time wasn’t my problem; getting Mahmood out of trouble was.
They said I should look for an Uber taxi to take me to the airport. But I told them I wouldn’t want to leave Mahmood behind.
They spoke to each other for about a minute or so before I heard the senior officer telling the junior one to drive Mahmood’s car. He nodded and moved towards it. He then told us to enter Mahmood’s car as he opened the door and adjusted the driver’s seat to enable it to accommodate his bigger frame.
I thought they were taking us to a police station. I was wrong.
“I am driving you home,” he said. Which home? I asked silently. I didn’t have one here. But before I uttered the words loudly enough for them to hear, Mahmood sprang up another surprise.
“The car is not mine,” he told the officer. “It belongs to my friend.” I couldn’t believe my ears. I wanted to challenge his claim and say: “That wasn’t what you told me. You said it was your car”. But I refrained from doing so.
“I will drive it to the owner, and hand it over to him,” the officer said and demanded to know the person’s address.
Mahmood told him. “We live in the same flat,” he added.
“The car is registered in his name,” Mahmood continued apparently trying to modify the ownership claim. “I paid for the car but because I haven’t yet got a New Zealand’s driving licence, I registered it in his name,” he clarified. This was plausible to me. He had earlier told me about the licence issue.
The officer seemed unperturbed. He concentrated on his driving. His boss was following us with the police patrol car.
“We’re not going to charge you for anything,” he said. “We just want make sure that you’re safe – and you didn’t cause any problem.”
That was another huge surprise to me. I couldn’t believe it. Was it possible that what had happened wouldn’t attract any punishment? And taking over the driving from Mahmood was just a safeguarding measure? They must be the most caring police officers in the world, I told myself. But we had to wait and see.
As if he was reading my mind, the officer reassured us that he would hand over the car safely to the owner at the address Mahmood had given him. He told me that I would have no problem getting an Uber from that location to the airport.
He then warned Mahmood not to drive the car again until he learned how to drive well in Christchurch and got a driving licence.
As he drove us through the city, we became more relaxed and started chatting with him in friendlier tone. Because he already heard that I was working in London, he asked me about the weather in the UK as his wife was planning to visit Ireland in the coming month. I told him.
He also talked about his earlier visits to Britain and his plans for the next one. I told him about my on-going round-the-world trip and that I had already covered Singapore and Australia and was completing New Zealand when I ended up in his hands. He laughed.
When we reached Mahmood’s flat, he parked the car and held the key in his hand. His boss also parked the police car and joined us.
Mahmood called his friend and told him what had happened. His friend expressed sympathy and thanked the police.
The officer handed over the key to him and warned him against allowing Mahmood to drive the car again. He then took Mahmood’s ID card and recorded his detail to encourage compliance with his instructions. He gave us a broad smile and moved along with the other officer towards their car.
We all expressed our gratitude to them and waved them good-bye as they entered their car and zoomed off. It was the best form of policing I have ever witnessed.
We were all pleased that it ended positively. It was a huge relief to me that Mahmood was now free from any trouble and was back safely to his place.
His friend was a kind young man. He received me warmly and wanted to take me into their flat. But I told him I didn’t have much time left. I needed to take an Uber to airport right away. But he said there was no need for an Uber. He would drive me to the airport. “We’ll take you there quickly. It’s not far from here,” he added.
He produced his driving licence to re-assure me that there would be no problem for him to do so. I hesitated but he and Mahmood insisted.
I took another risk and entered the car.
Mahmood’s friend was a more careful driver. He drove slowly out of the narrow road in their neighbourhood and got on to the main road. There were virtually no other vehicles on the road as it was at the proverbial ungodly hour. We reached the airport in less than 15 minutes.
I saw Mahmood’s friend bringing out money for a parking ticket and tried to stop him. I told him I would pay for it, but he turned down the offer.
We drove to the parking area. I was apparently the first passenger to arrive as I didn’t see anyone else. The place looked deserted. If anyone had arrived earlier, they must have entered the departure hall.
We stood there for few minutes discussing about our experience in the night and laughing heartedly.
When I felt it was time to let them go home and rest, I told them so and I brought out some money to give them, but refused to take it.
I told them it wasn’t for the transport service or a refund for the cost they incurred. It was merely an exchange between a teacher and students as they are still students, but they still refused to take it. I had to force it into Mahmood’s pocket and moved away to prevent him from returning it.
I then waved them good-bye from afar as they entered their car and began to drive back to their flat. They were the nicest doctoral researchers I met in this trip.
I spent more than three hours at the Christchurch airport before boarding a Qantas Airways aircraft back to Sydney, where I would be taking an American Airlines plane to Los Angeles, United States.
When I was booking the flights a few weeks earlier, I had a choice of booking the one going via the New Zealand city of Auckland in South Island, or through the Australian city of Melbourne, or picking this one. I opted for this as it seemed more convenient.
It was a wrong choice. The plane arrived in Sydney late (due to poor weather conditions) and there were too many passengers scrambling to disembark and catch their connecting flights. I was one of them as I had very little time left for me to catch my American flight.
I had to rush through the airport and immigration checks, bypassing others and pleading for help, which they understood and offered.
I was huffing and puffing by the time I reached the airline’s departure desk. They wasted more of my time before giving me clearance to proceed. I was probably the last person to board the plane.
It was the biggest aircraft I have entered. I stood near the door and looked at rows upon rows of seats filled up with passengers – young and old, male and female – in long columns stretched seemingly without end.
Luckily, my executive membership allows me to choose a seat on the day I book a flight and so I had secured an excellent one for this trip and wouldn’t be squeezed in the crowd.
No sooner had I sat and put on my belt than the behemoth began to move. It took a while moving around the airport before taking-off to embark on one of the longest non-stop flights. The captain and crew were core professionals, giving us regular updates and serving us food and drinks.
I arrived in Los Angeles at the same time and the same day I left Christchurch. The one day that I gained in going to the Pacific from Europe has now been wiped off (and the spherical shape of the Earth confirmed).
I was quite pleased to have arrived LA safely, given the length of the journey. I was familiar with the city in my previous trips but this time it looked slightly more congested and rowdier.
I didn’t stay long before I took a SkyWest plane to Denver, Colorado, a lively American state with the weather that matches Nigeria’s.
I loved every bit of the city: the architectural designs of its buildings, the free bus rides offered in the first district I stayed, the delicious Mexican foods, the open-arms attitude of its residents, its museums, its parks, its universities – the list is endless. This, as with the other places I visited and the events witnessed, was just a tiny bit of what the journey has offered (detailed descriptions will fill a book).
I spent a week in Denver, partly attending a radio conference at the University of Denver (my host) and partly exploring the diverse cultural and social life of the city – before I reluctantly returned to London.
The round-the-world trip – of learning so much about the world and proving our planet’s shape as a globe – was now seemingly complete, but I felt it wasn’t as I didn’t visit any African country along the way.
So, a week later, I used an opportunity of an annual leave and flew to Nigeria. From there, I proceeded to the neighbouring Cameroon and spent six days in the northern city of Garoua enjoying its own rich cultural life and learning more about its connection to the Sokoto Caliphate (another long history).
I then returned to Nigeria again and drove to my birthplace Katsina, the home of hospitality. It’s here, in my biological roots, that I feel the journey has now been completed.