Dag 33: Foumdan na Mayo-Darli

(English Translation Below)

​Dag 33: Foumdan na Mayo-Darli
 
Regs staan 'n vragmotor wat sukkel om deur die modder te kom. Agter hom 'n kar, 'n klein motorfietsie, en De Witt op sy motorfiets. Hulle beduie ek moet die lyn links verby hulle vat. Ek interpreteer die gebare verkeerd en gaan te ver links, heel aan die ander kant van die modderpoel. Toe ek reeds in is besef ek dit was 'n fout, maar ek hou die vet oop - hopende dat die momentum my sal deurdra. Maar die poel raak dieper en die fiets val om. Dadelik is De Witt en nog drie, vier mense by om te help. Hardloop die modderpoel in sonder omgee vir hulle klere. Ek is rooimodder sopnat van my onderdompeling.
 
Ons vind 'n plekkie onder 'n boom verder aan om te rus van die gestoei. Water te drink. 'n Man met mooi Moslem-klere aan ry op sy motorfietsie verby, sien ons staan en droogdrup, glimlag breed en roep: Welcome to Cameroon!
 
'n Entjie verder ry ek teen 'n wal uit om 'n modderpoel te vermy, die fiets verloor traksie, gly en ek beland onder hom. My enkel buig verkeerde kant toe. Weer dadelik mense by om te help. 'n Ou man, bekommerd omdat ek mank loop toe ek opstaan, vat my skouer, kyk reguit na my en vra of ek OK is.
 
Dit vat ons die heeldag om die 100km te voltooi, want ons ry in tweede rat, heen en weer oor die modderpad om die slaggate te vermy. Ek het nog 'n keer of wat omgeval, later tel mens nie meer nie. Elke val maak mens moeër, dan konsentreer mens nie ordentlik nie, dan val mens weer. Die enkel maak dat ek nie lekker kan ratte oorsit nie, kan staan en ry nie, kan op- en afklim nie.
 
Die wete dat môre die eintlike rillerpad is, kom lê oor my gemoed. Maar die onbeskryflike mooi landskap - oerwoud-bedekte berge op berge op berge - en die mense se oopheid en omgee, bied verligting.
 
Ons slaap in 'n half-klaar hotel buite die dorp, word ontvang deur vriendelike gashere wat sien hoe moeg ons is. Help afpak. 'n Jong man op 'n motorfietsie stuur om vir ons elkeen 'n bier te koop, en ons later in te neem dorp toe vir aandete. Hulle beduie vir ons 'n ander pad vir môre as die oorstroomde moddersloot wat ons gevrees het. Wie weet of hulle pad beter sal wees? Ten minste bied dit, vir vanaand, 'n welkome illusie.
 
In 'n vorige stuk het ek geskryf oor die kil agterdog wat ons ervaar het van die Cameroon elite, en dat dit ons laat onwelkom voel het. Vandag het ons die medemenslikheid en warmte van gewone mense hier ervaar.
 
Day 33: Foumdan to Mayo-Darli
 
To the right, there's a truck struggling to get through the mud. Behind it, a car, a small motorcycle, and De Witt on his bike. They signal that I should take the line towards the left side of the mud pool. I misinterpret the gestures and go too far left, all the way to the other side. When I'm already in, I realize it was a mistake, but I keep the throttle open - hoping that the momentum will carry me through. But the puddle gets deeper, and the bike falls over. Immediately, De Witt and three or four other people rush to help. They run through the muddy water without caring about their clothes. I'm completely drenched in red mud from my immersion.
 
We find a spot under a tree a little further on to rest from the struggle. Drink water. A man in beautiful Muslim attire rides by on his little motorcycle, sees us standing there, dripping, smiles widely, and shouts: Welcome to Cameroon!
 
A little further, I ride against a slope to avoid a deep mud puddle, lose traction, slip, and end up underneath the bike. My ankle twists. Again, immediately, people come to help. An old man, concerned because I'm limping when I get up, takes my shoulder, looks straight at me, and asks if I'm okay.
 
It takes us the whole day to complete the 100km because we're riding in second gear, criss-crossing the muddy road to avoid the potholes. I've fallen a few times more, later you don't even bother counting. Each fall makes you more tired, you can't concentrate properly, and you fall again. With the swollen ankle I can't switch gears properly, can't stand on the foot-pegs and ride, struggle to get on and off the bike.
 
The knowledge that tomorrow is the actual nightmare road hangs over my mood. But the indescribably beautiful landscape - forests covering mountains upon mountains - and the openness and care of the people, offer relief.
 
We sleep in a half-finished hotel outside the village, welcomed by friendly hosts who see how tired we are. They help us unpack. A young man on a motorcycle is sent to buy a beer for each of us and later take us into the village for dinner. They suggest another road for us tomorrow, instead of the flooded mud trench we feared. Who knows if their path will be better? At least, for tonight, it offers a welcome illusion.
 
In a previous piece, I wrote about the chilly suspicion we experienced from the Cameroonian elite, making us feel unwelcome. Today, we experienced the humanity and warmth of ordinary people here.

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