Dag 16 en 17: Mbanza-Kongo

​​(English translation below)

Dag 16 en 17: Mbanza-Kongo
 
Ons is tot twee dae en drie nagte se laaglê gevonnis in Mbanza-Kongo. Hoe sit mens só lank stil as die onbekende wink? Heimlik weet ons (hoop ons) dat die geforseerde sit en wag ons sal help om in Afrika se tydsritme te kom.
 
Ons moet kontant en petrol kry, in daardie volgorde. Blykbaar is die kitsbank net om die draai. Ons eet ontbyt en stap uit in die strate. Dis vervalle. Alles hier spreek van 'n vervalle moedigheid. Geboue en karre en motorfietse en strate en kragkabels word met spreekwoordelike 'ductape en cable ties' aanmekaar gehou. In Pretoria is ons die enigste mense met 'n 1990 Rav4 wie ek ken - hier wemel dit van hulle. En ou Corollas. Geroes en afgeskuur en aanmekaargelap, maar hulle loop.
 
Die eerste kitsbank se kontant is op. Die sekuriteitsman beduie vriendelik waar die volgende een is. Die lang en geduldige tou mense, twee blokke verder, wys dat die volgende kitsbank wel nog kontant het - gelukkig is daar genoeg om vir ons ook iets uit te kan spoeg!
 
Nou petrol. Gister oppad grens toe was ons petrol al laag, maar een vulstasie was leeg, en by die ander een was daar 'n saamkloek van maklik 500 motorfietsies waarvoor ons nie toe kans gesien het nie.
 
Ons stop by Pumangol - die leë een. Die petroljoggie sê hulle petrol kom eers Dinsdag, en Sonangol is ook leeg vandag. Vandag is Sondag. Dinsdag vroeg wil ons al ry vir ons tweede probeerslag oor die DRC grens. Ons parkeer buite die winkeltjie (die quickshop soos ons dit in Suid-Afrika ken) en bestel koffie om ons opsies te oorweeg. Ons het elkeen omtrent nog so 70km se petrol in ons tenks, reken ons. As ons die ses liter noodpetrol wat ons elkeen saamdra ingooi, kan ons dit dalk net-net maak tot by Matadi in die DRC. Mits ons stadig ry. En bid.
 
Skielik staan die petroljoggie hier by ons. Hy sê iets in Portugees en ons hoor die woord 'gasolina' en die intonasie van 'n vraagteken, en ons verstaan onmiddellik: Hulle gaan vir ons 'n bietjie petrol uittap. Special treament. Terwyl 'n ry karre al van gister af stil-geduldig in die straat staan en wag vir Dinsdag. Dit neem omtrent 'n halfuur om die pompe êrens van 'n sentrale punt af aangeskakel te kry, en dan, soos die weduwee se kruik, maak hulle albei motorfietse se tenks tot oorlopens toe vol. Ons gevoel is dadelik: wit bevoorregting. Maar  nie een van ons was op daardie stadium polities korrek genoeg om die aanbod te weier en vir drie dae agter in die ry te gaan staan nie.
 
Die res van die tyd in Mbanza-Kongo bestaan uit blog-skryf (ek) en lees (De Witt) en motorfietse diens en gesels. De Witt lees oor die geskiedenis van die dorp wat die koningklike sentrum vir 'n reuse gedeelte van die Kongo-basin was. Eeue gelede. Voordat die Portugese dit oorgeneem en vir 'n wyle Sao Salvador gedoop het.
 
Toe dit tyd raak om te ry besef ons ons het in drie dae nogal rustig geraak. Die hotelmense leer ken. Trouens, die kombuistannies het, as 'n afskeidsgebaar, vir ons 'n reuse hoendergereg voorberei die aand voor ons vertrek en gretig deur die luik geloer en lag toe hulle ons aangenaam-verbaasde gesigte sien!
 
Soms help dit om gedwing te word om stil te staan. 'n Plek te beleef. Afrika-tyd te waardeer.
 
Day 16 and 17: Mbanza-Kongo
 
We've been sentenced to two days and three nights of downtime in Mbanza-Kongo. How does one sit still for so long when the unknown is waiting? Secretly, we know (hope) that the forced waiting will help us get into Africa's rhythm of time.
 
We need cash and petrol, in that order. Apparently, the ATM is just around the corner. We have breakfast and step out into the streets. It's run-down. Everything here speaks of a dilapidated resilience. Buildings, cars, motorcycles, streets, and power cables are held together with proverbial 'duct tape and cable ties.' In Pretoria, we are the only people I know who still owns a 1990 Rav4. Here, they're everywhere. And old Corollas. Rusty and patched up, but they run.
 
The first ATM is out of cash. The security guard kindly points us to the next one. The long and patient queue of people, two blocks away, shows that the next ATM still has some cash - fortunately enough for us too!
 
Now petrol. Yesterday, on our way to the border, our petrol was already running low, but one station was empty, and the other one had a mass gathering of easily 500 motorcycles, jostling for petrol.
 
We stop at Pumangol - the empty one. The petrol attendant says their petrol won't arrive until Tuesday, and Sonangol is also empty today. Today is Sunday. We plan to leave early on Tuesday for our second attempt at crossing the DRC border. We park outside the shop (the quick shop as we know it in South Africa) and order coffee to consider our options. We reckon that we have about 70km of petrol left in our tanks. If we pour the six litres of emergency petrol we each carry, we might just make it to Matadi in the DRC. If we drive slowly. And pray.
 
Suddenly, the gas station attendant is with us. He says something in Portuguese, and we hear the word 'gasolina' and the tone of a question mark, and we immediately understand: They're going to siphon some petrol for us. Special treatment. While a line of cars has been patiently waiting in the street since yesterday for Tuesday. It takes about half an hour to get the pumps started from some central point somewhere, and then, like the widow's jar, they fill both motorcycle tanks to the brim. Our immediate feeling was: white privilege. But none of us were politically correct enough at that point to refuse the offer and wait for three days at the back of the line.
 
The rest of our time in Mbanza-Kongo consists of blogging (me) and reading (De Witt) and servicing motorcycles and chatting. De Witt reads about the history of the town, which was once the royal center for a large part of the Congo basin. Centuries ago. Before the Portuguese took it over and renamed it Sao Salvador for a while.
 
When it's time to leave, we realize we've actually slowed down in these three days. And we've gotten to know the hotel staff. In fact, the kitchen ladies, as a farewell gesture, prepared a huge chicken dish for us the evening before our departure, eagerly peeking and laughing through the hatch when they saw our pleasantly surprised faces!
 
Sometimes it helps to be forced to stand still. To experience a place. To appreciate Africa time.

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