Dag 19: Boma na Cabinda

​​(English translation below)

Dag 19: Boma na Cabinda
 
Ons groet die Kongo-rivier en die reuseskepe wat in die Boma hawe vasgemeer is, en neem die pad uit die dorp uit in Cabinda se rigting. Die pad kronkel nuutgeteer tussen koppies en valleie. Enige motorfietsryer se droom. Die Ier waarmee ons 'n paar dae gelede oor die telefoon gepraat het, wat ook op sy motorfiets hierdeur is, moet verkeerd wees: hier's verseker nie sandpad nie!
 
Ons sluk ons woorde toe ons by Kitombe verby is. Die teerpad stop skielik en 'n netwerk van diksandpaaie neem oor. Gelukkig het ons tussen Ruacana en Xangango, in Suidelike Angola, ons diksand vuurdoop gehad, dink ons. Hierdie kan nie só erg wees nie. Maar hoe verder ons ry, hoe dikker word die sand en hoe deurmekaarder word die GPS. Geen kaart kan tred hou met waarheen hierdie paadjies oppad is nie!
 
Behalwe natuurlik die kaart in De Witt se kop. De Witt verdwaal nie. Hy kan aanvoel wanneer die GPS die pad byster raak nog lánk voor 'n gewone mens onraad sal merk. Ons volg De Witt se aanvoeling en die Franse gebare van die mense langs die pad en kronkel-en-slinger met horte se stote voort deur die diksand.
 
Skielik kom 'n volgelaaide Corolla voluit van voor af in die tweespoorpad. Hy wil sy momentum behou sodat hy nie vassit nie, so daar's geen genade vir wie ookal van voor af kom nie. Ek probeer oor die middelman na die regterspoor want ek sien die ou neig na links. Maar die middelmansand is nóg dikker en sagter en net toe die Corolla verbyskuur, verloor ek my balans en val om, die motorfiets op my voet. Skeefgedraai by die enkel op 'n manier wat my behoorlik vaspen. Dis te seer om te roer, maar ek weet niks is af nie. De Witt hardloop nader en lig die fiets sodat ek kan wegrol. 'n Bakkie vol mense stop. Help om die fiets op te tel. Wuif en ry verder. Ons blaas ons bande af om meer traksie in die sand te kry en ry nadenkend verder. Daar soveel wat verkeerd kan gaan op so 'n trip. Die stewels, en die Voorsienigheid, was aan ons kant.
 
Cabinda is 'n stukkie Angola ingeprop tussen die DRC en die Republiek van Kongo. Olie-politiek. Die grensoorstekery gaan oraait. Dit neem maar twee ure as mens gelukkig is.
 
In die dorp moet ons petrol kry en ons sien weer vulstasie ná vulstasie wat droog staan. Dan skielik weer een met 'n ellelange swetterjoel van zoem-ponies en ou karre wat wie weet hoe lank al staan en wag. 'n Wag wink ons vorentoe en beduie dat ons verby almal moet ry tot reg voor teenaan die pomp. Niemand kla of skel of beduie of gooi ons met goed nie. Trouens, daar word gewaai en fotos geneem en uitgevra. Een of twee zoem-ruiters wat kan Engels praat kom nader, vind uit oor die motorfietse, hoe vinnig hulle kan ry, hoe ver ons trip is, hoe lank dit ons gaan vat. Soos ons vertel word die nuus na agter versprei en nuwe vrae word weer vorentoe aangestuur. Groot opwinding en meelewing. Om Afrika te deurkruis gryp verbeeldings aan.
 
Die aand, na alles, toe ons vis eet en oor die dag gesels, wonder ons oor ons aanvanklike hipotese dat dit 'wit bevoorregting' is wat ons voorrang by die petrolpompe laat geniet. Sênou dis bloot net gasvryheid? Mense se gulhartigheid wat aan gaste, wat duidelik ver gereis het, die beste wil voorsit? Die risiko is dat ons onsself só blind kan staar teen ons eie lens van sin-maak uit wit en swart, en die ou-ou skuldgevoelens van ons Suid-Afrikaanse geskiedenis, dat ons die medemenslikheid en vrygewigheid van die mense hier reg rondom ons kan mis. So leer mens.
 
Day 19: Boma to Cabinda
 
We bid farewell to the Congo River and the giant ships anchored in the Boma harbour, and hit the road towards Cabinda. The road winds freshly-paved between hills and valleys. Every motorcyclist's dream. The Irishman we spoke to on the phone a few days ago, who has passed along this same route on his motorcycle, must be mistaken: There's definitely no sand road here!
 
We swallow our words as soon as we pass Kitombe. The asphalt road suddenly ends, and a network of sandy tracks takes over. Fortunately, we had our baptism by sand between Ruacana and Xangango in Southern Angola, we think. This can't be as bad. But the farther we go, the thicker the sand becomes, and the more confused the GPS gets. No map can keep up with where these paths are heading!
 
Except, of course, the map in De Witt's head. De Witt doesn't get lost. He can sense when the GPS is losing its way long before an ordinary person would notice anything. We follow De Witt's instincts, and the French hand gestures of the people along the road, and continue to squiggle through the thick sand.
 
Suddenly, a fully loaded Corolla charges down the two-track path from ahead. It wants to maintain its momentum so as not to get stuck, so there's no mercy for anyone in its way. I try to move to the right-hand track, over the middleman, because I see the Corolla veering left. But the middleman-sand is even thicker and softer, and just as the Corolla brushes by me, I lose my balance and fall, the motorcycle on my foot. Twisted at the ankle in a way that pins me down properly. It hurts too much to move, but I know nothing is broken. De Witt rushes over and lifts the bike so I can roll away. A pickup truck full of people stops. They help lift the bike. They wave and drive on. We deflate our tires to get more traction in the sand and continue in silence. Thinking. There's so much that can go wrong on such a trip. The boots, and providence, were on our side.
Cabinda is a piece of Angola sandwiched between the DRC and the Republic of Congo. Oil politics. Crossing the border is okay. We've learned now that it takes two hours if things go smooth.
 
In town, we need to get petrol, and again we see one petrol station after another standing dry. Then, suddenly, a petrol station with a long line of zoom-ponies and old cars, that have been waiting for who knows how long, appears. A guard waves us forward and signals us to drive past everyone right up to the pump. No one complains or curses or throws things at us. In fact, there are waves, photos taken, and inquiries. One or two moped riders who can speak English approach us, find out about the motorcycles, how fast they can go, the distance of our trip, how long it will take us. As we tell them, the news spreads to the back, and new questions are sent forward. Great excitement and empathy. Crossing Africa sparks imaginations.
 
That evening, after eating fish and talking about the day, we wonder about our initial hypothesis that it's "white privilege" that lets us have priority at the gas pumps. What if it's merely hospitality? People's generosity, wanting to offer the best to guests who have clearly travelled from afar? The risk is that we can become so fixated on our own lens of making meaning of black and white dynamics, tainted by the old-old guilt of our South African history, that we might miss the humanity and generosity right here, staring us in the face. And so we learn as we go.

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