Dag 37: Bali na Makurdi

(English Translation Below)

Dag 37: Bali na Makurdi
 
Ons het ons voorneme verbreek om na elke drie dae te rus. Dis vandag die agtste dag in 'n ry wat ons op die pad is. Of meer akkuraat: ons was vir drie van die agt dae nie op die pad nie, maar in modder en erosieslote oor onmoontlike berge.
 
Ons lywe is seer. Het 7:30 weggekom, sonder ontbyt. Dis nou 14:00, 39 grade, bedompig. Ons stop onder 'n skadutjie vir rus, sweet en warmgebakte water. Nog so 'n uur tot by die Katsina Ala rivier. Dan nog twee of drie ure tot by Makurdi waar die plaaslike motorfietsklub vir ons wag. 
 
Die pad is 'n sif van al die slaggate. Dan skielik weer mooi. Dan weer sleg. Die landskap 'n wydgestrekte vallei wat heldergroen tot in die verte in lê, al langs die berge. Palmbome. Grashutte. Kinders wat in die rivierstrome langs die pad baljaar. Vroue wat klere was.
 
Padblokkade. Can you give us something? Your gloves please. Nothing? OK. You are free to go. Ons ry.
 
Skielik 'n trop beeste wat uit die ruigtes oor die pad bars. Ek mis hulle net-net, maar die klein motorfietsie agter my, wat twee vroue-passassiers dra, word omgestamp. Ek hoor 'n aaklige skraapgeluid agter my. Stemme wat skreeu. Ons draai om, stop. Help om 'n handsak en ander sakke uit die pad te dra. Niemand het ernstig seergeky nie. Net skraapplekke. Die mense dra nie valhelms nie en ry met T-hemde en plakkies, so 'n val beteken gewoonlik veelvuldige beserings. 'n Paar ooggetuies hardloop agter die beeswagter aan die veld in - hy moet les opsê vir sy onvermoë om sy beeste in toom te hou. Dis beter dat ons nou ry.
 
Ons kom by die rivier. Chaos!! 'n Vloedwal van mense stroom oor ons. Skreeu bedrae. Begin die motorfietse stoot en trek na die water toe. Weereens 'n houtboot met 'n twyfelagtige plankie waarteen die motorfietse uitgestoot moet word. Een kantel! Hande wat gryp! Dan is die fiets weer regop en op die boot. Aan die ander kant weer die gedruk en stoom van mense sodat ek en De Witt nie kan praat nie. Almal wil geld hê maar ons het reeds die ou betaal met wie De Witt gereel het. 'n Ouerige man kom rustig tot reg langs my. Go. You are free to go. You paid. Now just go.
 
Net buite Makurdi wag David vir ons. Dan kom Benedict by. Twee groot BMW fietse. Hulle neem ons na nóg 'n motorfietsman se hotel in die dorp. Ons was agt of nege ure op die pad en mens kan dit sien. Die hotelmense help ons afpak, kry vir ons 'n bier, was ons motorfietse, kry ons wasgoed om gewas te word. Wat 'n lafenis!
 
David word as Mr. President aangesprek. Hy's in beheer van Makurdi se motorfietsklub. Hy is 'n chemiese inginieur en besit 'n fabriek wat verf maak. Hy neem ons uit vir die lekkerste vis wat ek nog ooit geëet het: Baber in rissiesous. Hulle noem dit Pepper Fish. Jy eet hom met jou hande van die graat af. Daar's 'n bakkie om in hande te was na die tyd. Ons oë traan van die brandsous. Vanaand slaap ons soos klippe en môre bly ons net hier om tot verhaal te kom.
 
Day 37: Bali to Makurdi
 
We've broken our resolution to rest every three days. Today marks the eighth consecutive day on the road. Or more accurately: For three of those eight days, we weren't on the road, but rather struggling through mud and eroded mountain ditches.
 
Our bodies are aching. We left at 7:30 AM without breakfast. It's 2:00 PM now, and the temperature is 39 degrees Celsius. Oppressively hot and humid. We stop in the shade to rest, drink some warm water, and to sweat. Another hour to the Katsina Ala River. Then two or three more hours to Makurdi, where the local motorcycle club will be waiting for us.
 
The road is a sieve of potholes. Then, suddenly, it's smooth. And bad again. The landscape is a vast valley, lush and green, stretching as far as the eye can see along the mountains. Palm trees. Thatch huts. Children playing in the river streams beside the road. Women washing clothes.
 
Roadblock. Can you give us something? Your gloves, please. Nothing? OK, you are free to go. We ride on.
 
Suddenly, a herd of cattle bursts out of the bush across the road. I barely miss them, but the small motorcycle behind me, carrying two women passengers, is knocked over. I hear a terrible scraping sound behind me. Shouts. We turn around, stop, and help remove a handbag and other bags from the road. No one is seriously injured, just scratches. The people aren't wearing helmets and ride in T-shirts and flip-flops, so a fall usually results in multiple injuries. A few eyewitnesses chase after the cattle herder to give him a hiding for his inability to control his cattle. It's better that we leave now.
 
We reach the river. Chaos!! A flood of people rushes toward us, shouting out Nira amounts. The motorcycles are being pushed and pulled towards the water. Another wooden boat with a dubious plank onto which the motorcycles must be pushed. One bike topples slightly! Hands reaching out! Then the bike is upright and on the boat. On the other side, more pushing and shoving from people. De Witt and I can't even hear each other. Everyone wants money, but we've already paid the guy whom De Witt has arranged with. An elderly man steps up beside me. "Go. You are free to go. You paid. Now just go."
 
Just outside Makurdi, David is waiting for us. Then Benedict joins. Two large BMW motorcycles. They take us to a hotel owned by another motorcyclist in town. We were on the road for eight or nine hours, and it shows. The hotel staff help us unpack, get us a beer, wash our motorcycles, and take our laundry to be washed. What a relief!
 
David is addressed as "Mr. President." He is in charge of Makurdi's motorcycle club. He's a chemical engineer and owns a factory that produces paint. He takes us out for the most delicious fish I've ever eaten: Catfish in chili sauce. They call it Pepper Fish. You eat it with your hands, picking the flesh off the bones. There's a bucket to wash your hands afterward. Our eyes are watering from the spicy sauce.
 
Tonight, we'll sleep like rocks, and tomorrow we're just staying here to catch our breath and rest.

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