Dag 20: Cabinda na Pointe Noire

​​(English translation below)

Dag 20: Cabinda na Pointe Noire
 
Vandag gaan ons die Republiek van Kongo binne, oppad Pointe Noire toe. Die bande wat ons ten duurste van Suid-Afrika af laat courier het, is ook oppad soontoe. Die DHL-rekenaar sê die bande is 'in transit' - wat dit ookal mag beteken. Ons besluit om nie te begin bekommer of rondbel oor die bande voordat ons in Pointe Noire is nie.
 
Maar eers die grenspos oorsteek tussen Cabinda ('n enklawe wat aan Angola behoort) en die Republiek van Kongo. Dit sal ons agtste grenspos-poging wees.
 
Soos altyd, wanneer die grenspos naderkom, begin dit woel. Stalletjies en mense langs die pad. Reuse-slaggate wat jy nie almal kan vermy nie. Zoem-ponies heen en weer. Rye vragmotors. Mans in hulle dertigs met geldsakkies oor hulle skouers wat vinnig naderstap en 'n hand vol note wys.
 
Dan 'n sekuriteitshek wat oopgaan sodra die wag ons sien. Hy beduie waar ons moet parkeer. Een van die geldwissellaars het ons as syne toege-eien, en wys ons waarheen nou.
 
Die proses is altyd min of meer dieselfde. Eers met jou paspoort na Immigrasie. Dan met jou motorfietspapiere na Doane. Dan 'n laaste stempel by die Polisie, en dan is jy uit.
 
Hierdie keer wys hulle my eers Polisie toe. Die geboutjie is eintlik 'n murasie. Stukke pleister uit die mure uit. Die trappies mis happe sement. Vuil A4-kennisgewings teen die mure, hoeke omgekrul. Die konstabel beduie ek moet sit. Ek gee ons paspoorte aan en hy begin skryf.
 
S t a d i g .
 
L e t t e r  v i r  l e t t er . 
 
Eers op 'n stuk rofwerkpapier, en dan op die registerboek. Die bladsye vuil. Die hoeke bruin en omgekrul. Ek wonder hoekom niemand nog ooit een oggend gesê het 'Boys wat van ons was en verf die mure en maak die trappies reg', nie. En dan wonder ek of ek moet skuldig voel dat ek só dink.
 
In die kamertjie langsaan, op die vloer, staan 'n kastrol met verskillende snitte hoendervleis. Langs die kastrol 'n hoop piesangs. Vlieë oral. 'n Vrou in polisie-uniform is besig om middagete voor te berei. Dis bedompig-warm.
 
Toe ek uiteindelik weer by die motorfietse kom, staan De Witt en leer 'n handjievol seuntjies hoe om in Engels te tel. Hulle sê hulle is honger.
 
Paspoorte gestempel koes ons deur die Pointe Noire chaos tot by die see. Ons slaan kamp op op die stand, langs 'n Franse Suid-Afrikaanse gesin met drie klein kindertjies. Hulle toer nou al byna 'n jaar en 'n half deur Afrika. Daar is ook 'n Portugese paartjie wat nou al vir 'n meer as 'n jaar toer. Skielik voel ons drie-maande trip soos 'n gejaagde korttermyn-projek. Maar nou ja - mens doen wat jy kan met wat jy het.
 
Môre-oggend bel ons om te hoor waar trek ons bande.
 
 
Day 20: Cabinda to Pointe Noire
 
Today we're entering the Republic of Congo, heading towards Pointe Noire. The tires we had couriered, at great expense, from South Africa are also on their way. The DHL computer says the tires are 'in transit' - whatever that may mean. We decide not to worry or make calls about the tires until we're in Pointe Noire.
 
But first, we need to cross the border between Cabinda (an enclave belonging to Angola) and the Republic of Congo. This will be our eighth border crossing attempt.
 
As always, things start to bustle as the border approaches. Stalls and people along the road. Massive potholes, some of which you can't dodge. Zoom-ponies darting back and forth. Rows of trucks. Men in their thirties with money bags over their shoulders approach briskly, holding handfuls of notes.
 
Then a security gate opens as the guard sees us. He signals where we should park. One of the money changers claims us as his own and shows us the way.
 
The process is more or less the same every time. First, with your passport to Immigration. Then, with your motorcycle papers to Customs. Finally, a last stamp at the Police, and you're out.
 
This time, they first send us to the Police. The building is a ruin. Pieces of plaster missing from the walls. Stairs with chunks of cement gone. Dirty A4 notices on the walls, corners curled up. The constable says I must sit down.
 
I hand over our passports, and he starts writing.
 
S l o w l y.
 
L e t t e r  b y  l e t t e r.
 
First on a piece of rough paper, then in the register book. The pages are dirty. The corners brown and curled. I wonder why no one has ever said 'Hey everybody, let's paint the walls and fix the stairs'. And then I wonder whether I should feel guilty for thinking this way.
 
In the room next door, on the floor, there's a pot with different cuts of chicken. Next to the pot, a pile of bananas. Flies everywhere. A woman in police uniform is preparing lunch. It's stiflingly hot.
 
When I finally return to the motorcycles, De Witt is teaching a handful of little boys how to count in English. They say they're hungry.
 
With our passports stamped, we navigate through the Pointe Noire chaos until we reach the sea. We set up camp on the beach, next to a French South African family with three small children. They've been touring Africa for almost a year and a half now. There's also a Portuguese couple who have been touring for more than a year. Suddenly, our three-month trip feels like a rushed short-term project. But well, you do what you can with what you have.
 
Tomorrow morning, we'll call to find out where our tires are.

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