Dag 15: DRC toe. Of nie...

​​(English translation below)

Dag 15: DRC toe. Of nie...
 
Die vroeg-oggend reën het in 'n aangename motreëntjie verander teen die tyd dat ons uit Nzeto vertrek het. Ons moes eers petrol soek want die vorige middag was een petrolstasie droog, en die voor die ander een was 'n ellelange ry motorfietsies waarvoor ons nie kans gesien het nie. Gelukkig het alles mooi geloop vanoggend en is ons so teen tienuur met vol tenks petrol en elkeen 'n stuk ham-broodjie in die maag, en nóg een in die sak, daar weg.
 
Die plan: Ry tot by Mbanza-Kongo en besluit dan of ons wil deurdruk grens toe of nie.
 
Die teerpaaie is plek-plek só verweer van die slaggate dat mens tweede-rat-stadig daar moet deur. Die laaste ding wat ons wil hê is om 'n rim te buig!
 
Die landskap golf al hoe meer en die pad kronkel deur kliprantjies wat later heuwels word. Ons bereik Mbanza-Kongo (die plek van die Kongo-konings) teen middagete en besluit om die 60km grens toe wel aan te pak.
 
Omtrent elke vyf tot tien kilometer ry mens deur strepies modderhutte weerskante van die pad. Ma's met baba's wat vraend opkyk. 'n Paar mans op stoele en kratte in die koelte wat breed glimlag en waai. Maer honde wat skeef-skeef draf. Hoenders en bokke. Opgewonde kindertjies.
 
Skielik raak dit besig. Die klein motorfietsies raak meer, die stalletjies met vrugte en groente en vleis raak besiger. Taxi-bussies. Koes-koes vleg ons deur die malende mense. Kan ons al by die grens wees?
 
Ons sien 'n hek oor die pad en vind parkeerplek. Iemand beduie dat een van ons moet inkom met die paspoorte. Die ander een moet buite by die motorfietse wag. Ná omtrent 'n driekwartier is ons uit Angola gestempel. Die hekpoorte na die die DRC gaan oop, en ons ry ons vas in 'n muur van mense en taxis en motorfietsies en vragmotors. Sommige briesend aan't beduie dat hulle wil deurkom Angola se kant toe. Ander stamp en beur vorentoe en agtertoe en ons kan nie kop of stert van die chaos uitmaak nie. Daar is plastiek-skuilings en mense wat sit en lê en verkoop en smokkel en raas en skree langs die pad. Ons kruie maar vorentoe en sien wat kom.
 
"Dís nou niemandsland," sê De Witt oor ons valhelm-interkom. "Kyk hier wil jy nie slaap vanaand nie."
 
Verbeel jou mens kom deur die een land se grens en die ander land wil jou nie hê nie! 'n Koue rilling teen my ruggraat af.
 
Meteens 'n klein bruggie. Die stroom van mense en voertuie sleep ons oor en aan die ander kant 'n groot Kongolese man in uniform wat ons met 'n breë glimlag naderwink. Kan seker die skok en verwardheid op ons gesigte sien. Hy bekyk vlugtig ons paspoorte, geelkoorskaarte en motorfietspapiere terwyl 'n omie een of ander tuisgemaakte brousel aan my wil verkoop. Dan jaag hy die omie weg en chaperone ons reg deur die proses tot by die laaste stap waar ons nou net bietjie moet wag vir ons paspoorte om gestempel te word.
 
Ons sit en wag dat die sweet ons aftap. Hierdie is warm, bedompige wêreld.
 
Ons wag.
 
En ons wag.
 
Later kom 'n doeane-beampte en beduie ons moet hom volg die gebou in en die trappe op tot by die hoof se kantoor. Ons sit weer en wag. En sweet.
 
Uiteindelik word ons binnegenooi en 'n streng dog hoflike man, duidelik die baas, beduie dat ons moet sit. Hy hou beide ons paspoorte vas en vra wie's Jean? Hy sê my visum is reg en daar is geen probleem nie. Dan vra hy wie's Johann. De Witt sê dis hy en die man bekyk hom bo-oor sy brilraam aan. "With you there's a problem. Your visa is only valid from 3 October, which is three days from now. So you must go back to Angola and come again in three days. No problem."
 
Vir 'n oomblik probeer ek my verbeel hoe op dees aarde ons hierdie drukstroom oor die grens weer kan aandurf - en dít in tru-rat.
 
Ons smeek en soebat en hy vra dat ons buite sal wag sodat hy sy baas kan bel. Maar die gesprek hou te lank aan en toe hy ons terugroep en meedeel dat ons inderdaad vir drie dae sal moet wag, besef ons die kalf is in die put: ons sal moet terug. Dit vat lank om ons stempels weer om te keer en ons weet die Angola grens gaan toemaak. Skielik raak 'n nag in niemandsland 'n uiters moontlike werklikheid.
 
Maar gelukkig vergesel nóg 'n vriendelike doeane-man ons al die pad terug tot aan die Angola-kant om die situasie te verduidelik, en toe ons weer sien is ons terug in Angola, terug oppad Mbanza-Kongo toe, sonder dat ons teruggestempel is, want die doeane-manne in Angola was nie lus vir 'n onnodige ekstra gestempellery hier aan die einde van die dag nie.
 
In Mbanza-Kongo aangekom, stop ons by die leë petrolstasie (die ander een was 'n saamdrommende chaos) om koeldrank te koop en te dink aan slaapplek. Dit was al lankal donker. 'n Groepie vriende by 'n tafeltjie beskou die twee moeë wit vreemdelinge en koop terstond vir ons elkeen drie biere, twee vir dadelik en een vir saamvat, en beduie aan 'n jongeling om ná die lafenis voor ons uit te ry op sy zoem-ponie en ons te wys waar die Hotel Kongo is.
 
Wat 'n dag! Maar ons slaap vir R250 per persoon, elkeen op 'n bed, ná 'n warm stort en 'n bord vars vis en rys. Soveel om voor dankbaar te wees.
 
Day 15: To the DRC. (Or not...)
 
The early morning rain had turned into a pleasant drizzle by the time we left Nzeto. We had to find petrol first, because the previous afternoon one petrol station was dry, and the other one had a long line of motorcycles that we didn't want to deal with. Luckily, everything went smoothly, and by around ten o'clock we had full tanks of petrol, a ham sandwich in our stomachs and an extra one in our bags.
 
The plan: Drive to Mbanza-Kongo and then decide whether we want to push on to the border or not.
 
The paved roads are occasionally so worn by potholes that we have to drop down to second geart. The last thing we want is to bend a rim!
 
The landscape undulates, and the road winds through rocky outcrops that later become hills. We reach Mbanza-Kongo (the place of the Kongo kings) around lunchtime and decide to tackle the 60km to the border.
 
Every five to ten kilometers, we drive past rows of mud huts on both sides of the road. Mothers with babies look up inquisitively, a few men sit on chairs and crates in the shade, smiling and waving. Skinny dogs trot by, chickens and goats roam around. Excited children abound.
 
Suddenly, it gets busy. The small motorcycles become more numerous, and stalls selling fruits, vegetables, and meat are everywhere. Taxi vans crowd the road. We weave our way through the bustling crowd. Can we be close to the border already?
 
We see a gate across the road and find a place to park. Someone indicates that one of us should go in with the passports, while the other stays outside with the motorcycles. After about three-quarters of an hour, we get stamped out of Angola. The gate to the DRC opens, and we drive into a wall of people, taxis, motorcycles, and trucks. Some are angrily gesturing, wanting to cross back into Angola. Others push and shove, and the chaos is bewildering. There are plastic shelters and people sitting, lying down, selling, smuggling, shouting along the road. We forge ahead to see what awaits us.
 
"This is no man's land," De Witt says over our helmet intercom. "You don't want to sleep here tonight."
 
Imagine crossing one country's border and the other country not wanting you! A chill down my spine.
 
Suddenly, a small bridge. The stream of people and vehicles carries us across, and on the other side, a big Congolese man in uniform waves us over with a broad smile. He can probably see the shock and confusion on our faces. He quickly glances at our passports, yellow fever cards, and motorcycle papers while an old man tries to sell me some homemade concoction. Then he chases the old man away and chaperones us through the process to the last step, where we have to wait a bit for our passports to be stamped.
 
We sit and wait, the heat is oppressive in this humid world.
 
We wait.
 
And we wait.
 
Later, a customs officer signals us to follow him into the building and up the stairs to the 'headmasters' office. We sit and wait again, sweating.
 
Finally, we are invited in, and a stern but polite man, clearly in charge, tells us to sit down. He holds both our passports and asks who is Jean. I say it's me. He says there's no problem with my visa. Then he asks who is Johann. De Witt says it's him, and the man looks at him over his glasses. "With you, there's a problem. Your visa is only valid from October 3rd, which is three days from now. So you must go back to Angola and come again in three days. No problem."
 
For a moment, I try to imagine how on earth we can brave this busy border crossing again - and in the wrong direction!
 
We plead and beg and he asks us to wait outside while he calls his boss. But the conversation takes too long, and when he calls us back and informs us that we do indeed have to wait for three days, we realize the die is cast: we'll have to go back.
 
It takes a long time to get our stamps reversed, and we know the Angola border will close. Suddenly, spending the night in no man's land becomes a very real possibility.
 
But fortunately, another friendly customs officer accompanies us all the way back to the Angola side to explain the situation, and before we know it, we're back in Angola, on our way to Mbanza-Kongo, without being stamped back in because the Angolan immigration officials were not interested in extra stamping at the end of the day.
 
Upon arriving in Mbanza-Kongo, we stop at the empty petrol station (the other one was a crowded mess) to buy soft drinks and think about a place to sleep. It was already dark. A group of friends at a table saw the two tired white foreigners and immediately buys three beers for each of us, two for now and one to take with us. They signal a young man on a small motorcycle to lead us to the Hotel Kongo after our beers.
 
What a day! But we sleep for R250 per person, each on a bed, after a hot shower and a plate of fresh fish and rice. So much to be grateful for.


​https://www.backabuddy.co.za/expedition-h2o-back-to-basics