With Tom’s Land Rover still stuck at sea and Jez due in Kinshasa imminently we decided that we would have to split up. The prospect of several days of solo driving wasn’t particularly attractive but having misguidedly put our faith in an Italian shipping company and an African port we had no other options. The DRC has enough problems without having to put up with a bored Jez. And so, on Monday evening we divided our kit and I headed south while the others continued the painful waiting game in Librevelle.
Within the first hour the mechanical problems began. This time it was the clutch that decided to start playing hard to get. I debated turning back but couldn’t face the prospect of such and early defeat. Three hours and no more than about four gear changes later I finally arrived in Lambarene and headed for the now familiar Pere Paul. The Catholic church of Gabon deserves a special mention here. Between us we've spent at least seven nights camping at various monasteries and missions. On every occasion we were welcomed and then left alone and for that we are very grateful.
The next morning the local mechanic took one look at the clutch and said that I would be lucky to find any spare parts in Gabon. All that could be done would be to top up the fluid regularly and hope for the best. At least with four different fluids now leaking it shouldn't be difficult for the others to follow my tracks.
A long day of driving then took me over the border to Congo Brazzaville. Rather disconcertingly all the officials on the Gabonese side warned that to cross Congo alone would be 'très dangereux'. First impressions suggested otherwise. After a comparatively simple entry process I was invited to camp in between the customs hut and the immigration hut. However, the roads were as bad as the hospitality was good and it took the best part of another day to cover the 150 miles to Dolisie.
There are few things more frustrating that driving at 20mph along an awful road within sight of the shiny smooth and yet to be completed highway. This was the prospect that faced me for the 200 miles from Dolisie to Kinkala. Well, it was until I made the fortuitous choice to pick up a road labourer hitchhiking to work. The new road, known simply as the 'Chinois' was, it seems, not entirely closed. Three more hitchhikers took me 80 miles further on this empty, smooth haven. After that it was simply a case of trying to bluff access including, on one occasion, claiming to be Chinese. This worked until I actually bumped into the 'Chef, whose military escort quickly ejected me from the road.
After three days on my own I was happy to offer a friendly man called Jean a lift at the DRC border. I was even happier when I discovered he was a friend of the immigration officer and all my paperwork was completed in 10 minutes. He seemed to question his own decision when, an hour later, the rear left brake pads literally fell off. Being two hours from the nearest town neither of us had much choice but to proceed cautiously.
By this point both me and the Land Rover were falling apart. The only thing that was unclear was who would brake first. In an attempt to make myself feel better I decided to list all the parts of Ramrod that weren't broken. This proved to be a rather short game and, such was my state of heightened paranoia, that it made me worry even more.
Approaching Luozi I was pulled over at one of the ubiquitous police check points. I immediately went into the familiar routine of firm handshakes, lots of eye contact and am attempt to bombard them with questions and documents. This worked for me but I noticed that Jean had paid up. Afterwards I asked what this was for and was told that they had asked and his life would be made difficult if he didn't comply. It was a good illustration that, although we complain about corruption and attempts to extort money, in reality we are in an extremely privileged position. We can, and have, simply refused to pay any bribes to the police. For most people that is not an option.
When I left Jean in Luozi he asked for me mobile number because he wanted to come to the UK. I reached the final digit and then hesitated. Eventually I entered it correctly, although probably only did so because I knew that it wouldn't come to anything.
After disconnecting the offending brake my final task in Luozi was to have my carnet stamped before I could catch the boat across the Congo river. Fortunately I found another well connected hitch hiker which ensured that the customs officer was up at 7am with stamp in hand.
At Kimpese I finally hit the tarmac. However, on the first hill I noticed the engine was losing power and the exhaust had ceased the puff out reassuring black smoke. With a receding clutch and defective brakes it seems that the accelerator had decided to go down in sympathy.
Matadi doesn't have much to commend me but when I eventually rolled in and was greeted by Jez and a beer it seemed like the promised land. It had taken nearly 45 hours of driving to cover 1000 miles over 5 days. On truly awful roads in remote areas of the Congo with a disintegrating Land Rover it hadn't been the ideal stretch to do solo. Thankfully I received nothing but assistance from people I met along the way and Ramrod lived up to its reputation of 'always sick, never dead'.
A lonely road
The new and the old
I've been cleaner
A relic from the past
The first view of the river Congo (and Jean's first experience with a camera)
Within the first hour the mechanical problems began. This time it was the clutch that decided to start playing hard to get. I debated turning back but couldn’t face the prospect of such and early defeat. Three hours and no more than about four gear changes later I finally arrived in Lambarene and headed for the now familiar Pere Paul. The Catholic church of Gabon deserves a special mention here. Between us we've spent at least seven nights camping at various monasteries and missions. On every occasion we were welcomed and then left alone and for that we are very grateful.
The next morning the local mechanic took one look at the clutch and said that I would be lucky to find any spare parts in Gabon. All that could be done would be to top up the fluid regularly and hope for the best. At least with four different fluids now leaking it shouldn't be difficult for the others to follow my tracks.
A long day of driving then took me over the border to Congo Brazzaville. Rather disconcertingly all the officials on the Gabonese side warned that to cross Congo alone would be 'très dangereux'. First impressions suggested otherwise. After a comparatively simple entry process I was invited to camp in between the customs hut and the immigration hut. However, the roads were as bad as the hospitality was good and it took the best part of another day to cover the 150 miles to Dolisie.
There are few things more frustrating that driving at 20mph along an awful road within sight of the shiny smooth and yet to be completed highway. This was the prospect that faced me for the 200 miles from Dolisie to Kinkala. Well, it was until I made the fortuitous choice to pick up a road labourer hitchhiking to work. The new road, known simply as the 'Chinois' was, it seems, not entirely closed. Three more hitchhikers took me 80 miles further on this empty, smooth haven. After that it was simply a case of trying to bluff access including, on one occasion, claiming to be Chinese. This worked until I actually bumped into the 'Chef, whose military escort quickly ejected me from the road.
After three days on my own I was happy to offer a friendly man called Jean a lift at the DRC border. I was even happier when I discovered he was a friend of the immigration officer and all my paperwork was completed in 10 minutes. He seemed to question his own decision when, an hour later, the rear left brake pads literally fell off. Being two hours from the nearest town neither of us had much choice but to proceed cautiously.
By this point both me and the Land Rover were falling apart. The only thing that was unclear was who would brake first. In an attempt to make myself feel better I decided to list all the parts of Ramrod that weren't broken. This proved to be a rather short game and, such was my state of heightened paranoia, that it made me worry even more.
Approaching Luozi I was pulled over at one of the ubiquitous police check points. I immediately went into the familiar routine of firm handshakes, lots of eye contact and am attempt to bombard them with questions and documents. This worked for me but I noticed that Jean had paid up. Afterwards I asked what this was for and was told that they had asked and his life would be made difficult if he didn't comply. It was a good illustration that, although we complain about corruption and attempts to extort money, in reality we are in an extremely privileged position. We can, and have, simply refused to pay any bribes to the police. For most people that is not an option.
When I left Jean in Luozi he asked for me mobile number because he wanted to come to the UK. I reached the final digit and then hesitated. Eventually I entered it correctly, although probably only did so because I knew that it wouldn't come to anything.
After disconnecting the offending brake my final task in Luozi was to have my carnet stamped before I could catch the boat across the Congo river. Fortunately I found another well connected hitch hiker which ensured that the customs officer was up at 7am with stamp in hand.
At Kimpese I finally hit the tarmac. However, on the first hill I noticed the engine was losing power and the exhaust had ceased the puff out reassuring black smoke. With a receding clutch and defective brakes it seems that the accelerator had decided to go down in sympathy.
Matadi doesn't have much to commend me but when I eventually rolled in and was greeted by Jez and a beer it seemed like the promised land. It had taken nearly 45 hours of driving to cover 1000 miles over 5 days. On truly awful roads in remote areas of the Congo with a disintegrating Land Rover it hadn't been the ideal stretch to do solo. Thankfully I received nothing but assistance from people I met along the way and Ramrod lived up to its reputation of 'always sick, never dead'.
A lonely road
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