After our time relaxing at the
port we were understandably eager to hit the road and catch up with Rodders
before Simmons left (I’m not sure why). We left at 4am partly to try and get
within striking distance of the border with Congo-Brazzaville but also because
we wanted to get out of the city before the Police awoke from their drunken
slumbers and clocked on that we were rolling without insurance (no time to
purchase). We powered across the equator for (we hoped) the final time and on
to Lambarene, again. The Gabonese roads were smooth and so was Chopper – we
were purring along at 65mph, unattainable speeds in Rodders. Gabon is a beautiful and lush country with incredible
forest running right up to white sandy beaches, although judging by the number
of tree trunks we saw on lorries soon there won’t be much left of ‘Africa’s
last Eden’. After a good day’s driving mostly on good roads we managed to cross
the border into Congo-Brazzaville about 10 minutes before the border closed –
progress at last. We hadn’t lost our touch with border officials and were
pleased to hear that another ‘blanc’ had passed through a week previously in an
equally impressive looking vehicle – surely Rodders with Alf at the helm. We
drove on looking for a suitable spot to camp as darkness was falling rapidly.
No such spot turned up so we found a flat-ish spot at the side of the ‘road’,
which since being in the Congo had deteriorated drastically, and did what we
always did, relaxed with a warm and highly shaken beer – glorious. We then
followed protocol and ate some foul food from an enormous bowl, chucked up our
mozzie nets and fell asleep.
We woke early and cracked on immediately.
The first ten minutes behind the wheel were always pretty unpleasant - the
smell of unwashed bodies, clothes that have done nothing but soak up sweat for
a week, damp tents/sleeping bags and diesel was pretty unique. We drove through
what can only be described as Tellytubby land with strange hillocks dotted
about an otherwise flat landscape – very different to the thick forest of Gabon.
We were on decent dirt roads that didn’t look like they saw that much traffic
and there wasn’t a human in sight, perhaps because this area is known for a
rather unfriendly gang known as the ‘Ninja Rebels’. Unfortunately, we never met
any of the Ninja Rebels, which was a shame because we were all out of ice and
they sound like the sort of upstanding characters who would have sold us some
to chill our beers. Following our change in direction to head east inland to
find a suitable point to cross the Congo River, the going became painfully slow
due to the state of the road. Fortunately we had intelligence from our advance
party on a road under construction known to all as the ‘Chinois’. Driving on
this road was strictly ‘interdit’ but anything would be better than a day of
diversions. Road blocks on the Chinois were every few kilometres and so began a
game of blagging our way onto the Chinois by telling a pack of lies such as “we
have permission from the Chief” or faking illness/car problems or a similar
emergency, followed by being kicked off the road or almost driving over an
unfinished bridge and sliding along a few kilometres of diversion before
finally finding a way back onto the road again. The diversions were extremely
wet, muddy and slippery and a rudder would have been more useful than a
steering wheel. We also only had one operational windscreen wiper, which when
the waves of thick muddy water covered Chopper rendered the windscreen useless
and we were temporarily flying blind. All good fun. The going had been
extremely slow and we’d not made much ground. We called it a night and looked
for a relatively quiet spot by the side of the road to go through our usual
evening routine.
After another early start we came
to a village where we were stopped by some soldiers and we batted away the
usual negotiations for a ‘fee’ for looking at our passports. They then informed
us that we needed an official escort to protect us from the Ninja rebels who
plied their trade along the route so we waited for our convoy to leave
supremely confident in our new passenger’s ability to wield his AK47 with
devastating effect should we come under attack. In the meantime we introduced
our military friend to the likes of Fleetwood Mac and Phil Collins. Communication
was difficult due to the language barrier but I think he enjoyed it. He did
not, however, enjoy me asking if he could fire his gun. We thought with our new
official escort we would be immune to the Chinois check points but
unfortunately this faith turned out to be misplaced – there is always a bigger
Big Man. The Big Man was already turning over a local Congolese when he pulled
us over and we quickly realised that he had been on the booze and if I had to
guess his tipple, I would say that he had been mixing his spirits with dog shit
due to the smell of his breath. The local took the easy way out by paying him
off and advised us to do the same but that is not our way, even when in the
wrong, as was the case in this instance. Our papers were checked and after an
unusually lengthy period of aggressive threats and thinly veiled demands for a
bribe they decided to drive off with our passports. This was not ideal, and our
fearless warrior escort had turned into a jibbering wreck. We followed the Big
Man until they finally stopped and got out. After further arguing and threats
to call our embassy and speak to the Chief if they don’t give our passports
back they finally gave in. He was a complete bastard but we were pleased that
we hadn’t given him a penny. The road became better as we neared Kinkala and
turned south again towards Boko, and the border with the DRC, having made the
wise decision to not cross at the main Brazzaville-Kinshasa border crossing,
which by all accounts is like a warzone. We reached the border at mid afternoon
and spent an hour trying to find someone who could stamp our papers. When we
finally found someone we had to do some of our most charming border patter as
Will’s visa had expired the day before. Eventually we talked our way out of it
and they let us on our way. We crossed into the DRC with another astonishingly
smooth, if rather slow, border process and the road instantly disappeared. We
didn’t see another car until we reached Luozi the following morning and breaking
down was not an option as it was a long walk (~100km) to the nearest likely
mechanic. However, we were both excited to be in the country that we had heard
so many bad things about both in imperial and recent history. In the late
afternoon we hit a bit of a stumbling block, though this was not the usual one
of corrupt officials: it was bamboo. There was loads of the stuff and Putters was
getting visibly sexually aroused by the straight erect limbs surrounding us.
After working himself into a frenzy, I pulled over and allowed him to touch
some. He claims he wanted to make a cup out of it but I saw through this and
realised it was just an excuse to put it in his mouth. The sun was going down
so I tore him away from his new passion to find somewhere to sleep for the
night. We were passing through some beautiful country and we found the most
perfect camping spot yet. The king of camping spots. Not a single sign of man.
The warm sun was dropping down across the valleys with ourselves on a hilltop with
an unforgettable view. We had one of our best beers that evening, and after
strapping half the bamboo forest to the roof of Chopper (a compromise to get Puts
to leave) Put Put had something to amuse himself with as well. He worked up
quite a sweat working that bamboo that evening, I can tell you.
We woke up early (again) and
pressed on to reach the first ferry of the day at Labe. We met some extremely
friendly Congolese officials who not only cheerfully stamped our carnet for us,
but also showed us where we could change our money and buy some things. Aren’t
all these people supposed to be bloodthirsty thieves and vagrants? Strictly no
photographs allowed in the DRC which is a shame because we were crossing the
mighty Congo River on an extremely efficient (the ferry had an engine and
everything), if rather crowded ferry service with a policeman sitting on Chopper’s
roof. The thing I remember most about this milestone moment was not the majesty
of this river or the history that goes with it, but the lady next to us who had
woven a basket around a live chicken which functioned both as a cage and as a
handbag - extremely innovative. We pressed on south, hoping to reach a town
where we could restock our beer supply with some of the (no doubt) fine local
ales. However, no matter how fine they would have been, they cannot possibly be
worth what they were asking for them – daylight robbery. Things were getting desperate;
soon we would be drinking the coolant, and Chopper needed that more than we did
due to a presumed, but unidentified, leak. We hit tarmac and followed it for an
hour or two until we reached the Angolan border and another smooth border
crossing.
We were in Angola and this brought
with it our first police chase, although at the time we didn't know we were
being chased. We reached a police checkpoint and were pulled over by a police
woman who didn't speak a word of English (our Portuguese was a little rusty so
communication was clearly going to be a barrier) and via the medium of flailing
arms and raised voices she communicated that the police had been chasing us for
an hour or so since we passed the last town (I think). God knows why they
didn't catch us; we weren't exactly in a Ferrari. After a few more minutes a
Toyota pulled up and 6 heavily armed guys jumped out and demanded to see our
papers. They told us to report to the police station of every town we go
through. We said we will. This was a lie – don't they know we were in a damned hurry!
We headed west, towards the coast before heading south towards the capital,
Luanda. The sun dropped below the horizon and we decided to look for a spot to
sleep on the beach. This turned out to be a disaster, as trying to find
somewhere to sleep in the dark often is. The place stank of a combination of
dog shit and rotting fish and we couldn’t find any wood to start a fire. A dreadful campsite.
The next day we reached Luanda at
mid morning. We looked for a land rover garage as we wanted to get a few things
ironed out with Chopper: the main one being the hole in the exhaust which was
making a dreadful noise and had also been pumping exhaust fumes directly into
the cab for the past day or two resulting in a few light headed moments. Here
we met one of the world's good guys who really did us a huge favour. We pulled
into the official Land Rover garage, which hadn't historically been a happy
hunting ground for us (in Morocco they took one look at Rodders, or maybe it
was us, and told us to get lost). We asked to see the boss and a huge man with
a smile to match came over. He got his man to check over our car and listed a
few thousand dollars worth of work that needed to be done – tell us something
we don't know. We reply by saying that we can't afford to pay for a thing
beyond a few beers for the man that helps us. He chuckled and says he will do it
for free – TOP MAN! Out came the soldering iron and our exhaust was as good as
new(ish). We also get a few other bits done, like finding out where our coolant
was disappearing to (we needed a new radiator). The only bad point was that it took
the best part of the day and we were on a tight deadline. The Chief invited us to lunch with the 200 or
so mechanics that worked there, giving rise to 2 mysteries: i) what did we eat?
And ii) how did we not get the shits? Truly miraculous. We left late in the
afternoon and carried on along the coast until it got dark. Having had lunch we
decided we didn't need dinner and drove until midnight before pulling off the
road to sleep. No time for beer – the regime was becoming outrageously lean. We
decided tomorrow is going to be THE day and set our alarms accordingly. After a
couple of hours we woke up feeling like we had barely slept and hit the road.
The Tarmac roads were flawless and the diesel was so cheap that we take Chopper
to time-bending speeds. We drove and drove and drove. Angola is a big old
country with good infrastructure and we saw the scenery at quite a lick. We
reached the Namibian border at 5pm having already put in a decent 13 hour shift
behind the wheel. However we were feeling good vibes: we were in Namibia and
could smell the finish line. However, there was another scent in our nostrils –
KF-bloody-C. That's right - the first thing we saw in the Promised Land was the
Colonel and we wanted a taste of his secret blend of herbs and spices to fuel
us for the home straight towards Windhoek. We put away as much of our 9 pieces
of finger lickin’ chicken as we could and I felt like vomiting almost
immediately – it’s probably more calories in 10 minutes than we have had in the
previous 2 days. Within 30 mins of
entering Namibia it was pitch black so despite driving half the length of the
country we didn't see any of it. At about midnight, after another 7 hours of
driving since crossing the border and 20 hours straight behind the wheel that
day with minimal sleep for the previous 5 days I was flagging and actually
started to reason with myself that it would be good for all involved if I had a
few seconds of shut-eye. Unfortunately, I was behind the wheel at the time but in
the end I only nodded off on a few occasions with no major ramifications. We
were guided into Windhoek by the long lost Alfie. We had made it and were
feeling pretty pleased with ourselves. We roused Simmons for a celebratory beer
at 0200 and he was wearing some of the strangest underpants I have ever seen –
I think they had a picture of Danger Mouse on them.
No comments:
Post a Comment