By WD:
Libreville...
It is now Friday and the last few days have continued in a depressingly rhythmic pattern as follows: wake up sweating, curse there being a well equipped, if filthy, bathroom but without any running water; death-ride to the port in a taxi, wonder how many times it’s possible to cheat death in a 20 minute journey; talk to Getma, become irate at ineptitude; drink a coffee; talk to port authority, become irate at ineptitude; taxi back to town; kill a few hours and then head to the ‘Chef’ for the cheapest beers in town.
In the last few days there have been 2 incidents provoking emotions other than anger and frustration. The first was on Thursday being told by a well meaning, but moronic, gent at the port that we would be able to pick up Chopper the following day. High fives and fist pumps all round, fantastic news, still 2 weeks late but we’ll take what we can get at this stage. We race to the port to sort paperwork but are told by Getma that what we have been told is complete bollocks and the boat isn’t due until Samedi Soir. The earliest we can pick it up will be Monday. Bugger. We have gone from cloud nine to rock bottom in the space of an hour and our patience is now wafer thin.
This brings me to the second incident: we decide in classic British fashion that the only answer is to drink enough beer to forget that we are in the middle of an African bureaucratic vortex that we are valiantly struggling, but ultimately failing, to exit. Before we leave, my urine (akin to cooking oil in both colour and viscosity) tells me I am extremely dehydrated, alas we have no water. Beer seems the only substitute and we go hard on the 50p pints for the next few hours rolling back to the ‘hotel’ at midnight. This morning it feels as if a pig has shat in my head and i’m sluggish to say the least but we are continuing our fight and progress might be being made, however I have thought this before...
Libreville...
It is now Friday and the last few days have continued in a depressingly rhythmic pattern as follows: wake up sweating, curse there being a well equipped, if filthy, bathroom but without any running water; death-ride to the port in a taxi, wonder how many times it’s possible to cheat death in a 20 minute journey; talk to Getma, become irate at ineptitude; drink a coffee; talk to port authority, become irate at ineptitude; taxi back to town; kill a few hours and then head to the ‘Chef’ for the cheapest beers in town.
In the last few days there have been 2 incidents provoking emotions other than anger and frustration. The first was on Thursday being told by a well meaning, but moronic, gent at the port that we would be able to pick up Chopper the following day. High fives and fist pumps all round, fantastic news, still 2 weeks late but we’ll take what we can get at this stage. We race to the port to sort paperwork but are told by Getma that what we have been told is complete bollocks and the boat isn’t due until Samedi Soir. The earliest we can pick it up will be Monday. Bugger. We have gone from cloud nine to rock bottom in the space of an hour and our patience is now wafer thin.
This brings me to the second incident: we decide in classic British fashion that the only answer is to drink enough beer to forget that we are in the middle of an African bureaucratic vortex that we are valiantly struggling, but ultimately failing, to exit. Before we leave, my urine (akin to cooking oil in both colour and viscosity) tells me I am extremely dehydrated, alas we have no water. Beer seems the only substitute and we go hard on the 50p pints for the next few hours rolling back to the ‘hotel’ at midnight. This morning it feels as if a pig has shat in my head and i’m sluggish to say the least but we are continuing our fight and progress might be being made, however I have thought this before...
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