Dag 28: Ouesso na Ntam, Cameroon

(English translation below)

Dag 28: Ouesso na Ntam, Cameroon
 
Ek word 4:00 wakker met loopmaag. Hierdie stadsmagies is besig om ingelyf te word.  Ons kaart beweer dat dit 350km is tot by die Cameroon grens. Grondpad. Hoe gaan mens grondpad ry in die reen as mens pap is van die loopmaag? En motorfiets-stewels-en-broek is nie gemaak vir skielike noodgevalle van hierdie aard nie.
 
Nodeloos om te sê, kom ons later weg as wat ons wou, en soos die oggend aanstap raak my maag beter en De Witt s'n erger. Weereens is die woud só dig teenaan een bo-oor die pad dat dit onmoontlik is om 'n pitstop te maak. 'n Winkeleienaar langs die pad neem vir De Witt na sy huis-toilet toe. Ek sit onder 'n afdak saam met groepies mense rondom tafeltjies wat koeldrank en bier drink. En vir my kyk. Toe De Witt weer verskyn verklap die blink lagie sweet oor sy voorarms dat dit nie maklik was nie. Ons is nie meer in die wêreld van spoeltoilette nie en ons besef weereens hoeveel luukshede ons as totaal vanselfsprekend aanvaar.
 
Op 'n ander noot: Die pad is toe nooit grondpad nie! Dis weereens 'n pragtige teerpad wat deur die woud se heuwels en valleie kronkel. Ons ry met ons valhelms se venstertjies oop, met ons sonbrille aan, omdat ons nie vinniger as 90km/uur ry nie, so die wind pla mens nie. Só kan mens die bos ruik. Vars van die reën en soel van die ewenaarshitte. Soms, as die bos ekstra hoog oor die pad vou, voel mens duidelik die koeligheid teen mens se vel. 'n Naaldekoker vlieg haarself teen my sonbril te pletter. Ek stop. Verwyder haar oorblyfsels uit my valhelm. Vee my sonbril skoon. Dis soos Pirsig sê in Zen and the art of motorcycle maintenance: As jy in 'n kar ry, sien jy die prentjie rondom jou. As jy motorfietsry, is jy ín die prentjie.
 
Ons kom net voor donker in Ntam aan, ná twee ure by die grenspos. Slaap by 'n motelletjie. Die nuus van ons daar-wees moes vinnig versprei het, want 'n jong vrou met min klere aan, ons vermoed sy's familie van die twee manlike opsigters, verskyn om haar dienste aan te bied. Die mense is arm hier. En desperaat. Al drie van hulle lyk bek-af toe ons dom speel en gaan slaap. Ons sluit ons deure van binne. Let wel: Deure. Meervoud. Want in Cameroon mag twee mans nie 'n kamer deel nie.
 
Day 28: Ouesso to Ntam, Cameroon
 
I wake up at 4:00 with a runny tummy. These city-bellies are being initiated. Our map says it's 350km to the Cameroon border. Dirt road. How does one ride a dirt road in the rain when you're depleted from diarrhoea? And motorcycle boots-and-pants are not made for sudden emergencies of this kind...
 
Needless to say, we leave later than we wanted to, and as the morning progresses, my stomach feels better while De Witt's worsens. Once again, the forest is so dense, right up against and over the road, that it's impossible to make a pit stop. A shop owner in a small village takes De Witt to his home toilet. I sit under an awning with groups of people around tables, drinking soft drinks and beer. And watching me. When De Witt reappears, the shiny layer of sweat on his forearms betrays that it wasn't easy. We are no longer in the world of flush toilets, and we once again realize how many luxuries we take for granted.
 
On another note: The road wasn't dirt after all! It's once again a beautiful asphalt road winding through the hills and valleys of the forest. We ride with the visors of our helmets open, wearing sunglasses because we're not going faster than 90 km/h, so the wind doesn't bother us. This way, you can smell the forest. Fresh from the rain and warm from the equatorial heat. Sometimes, when the forest folds extra high over the road, you can distinctly feel the coolness against your skin. A dragonfly smashes itself against my sunglasses. I stop. Remove her remains from my helmet. Wipe my sunglasses clean. As Pirsig says in Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, when you're in a car, you see the picture around you. But when you're on a motorcycle, you're part of the picture.
 
We arrive in Ntam just before dark after spending two hours at the border post. We sleep at a small motel. The news of our arrival must have spread quickly because a young woman with skimpy clothes, probably related to the two male caretakers, arrives to offer us her services. The people are poor here. And desperate. All three of them look dejected when we play dumb and go to sleep. We lock our doors from the inside. Note: Doors. Plural. Because in Cameroon, two men cannot share a room.

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