​Dag 50: Cape Coast na Aboisso, Ivoorkus

(English Translation Below) 

​Dag 50: Cape Coast na Aboisso, Ivoorkus
 
Ek sukkel om wakker te bly. Voor my die polisiebakkie en die manne met die AK47's wat ons deur Ghana begelei. Agter my De Witt. Dis sieldodend om so agter 'n voertuig aan te ry. Jy moet naby genoeg ry sodat ander karre en motorfietsies nie tussen jou en die begeleidings-voertuig indruk nie. En die vet weet jy moenie agter in die ding vasry nie. So ek kan nie links of regs na die omgewing en gewoel langs die pad kyk nie, want die pad is vol slaggate en aggressiewe spoedhobbels. Dan stop die bakkie skielik omtrent dood in sy spore en kruip deur die gat of oor die hobbel sodat die manne agterop hulleself nie stukkendwip nie.
 
Die verveling van die situasie-agter-die-bakkie, die dieseldampe, die ongelooflike hitte, die bedompigheid, my draaiende maag en die dors van baie sweet en min water drink begin my vang. (En my sonbril irriteer my!) Uiteindelik stop ons. Koop yskoue koeldrank. Drink die botteltjie met een sluk leeg. Dan nog een. Verligting!
 
Ná omtrent vyf ure se ry kom ons by die grenspos aan. Stop net eers om met ons Laaste Ghanese Cedi's petrol in te gooi. Ons konsentreer nie en gooi meer petrol in as waarvoor ons Cedi's het. Nee hulle vat nie kaarte nie. Ook nie Sentraal-Afrika Franke nie. Een van ons polisievriende leun nader en hou 'n noot uit. Ons betaal, gaan soek 'n kistbank, trek 100 Cedi's om vir hom terug te gee. Dan groet hulle ons. Van nou af is ons weer op ons eie. Ons sien uit om te kan ry soos ons wil en stop waar ons wil. Maar ons weet ook ons sal dit mis om soos lords onaantasbaar deur die padblokkades en die verkeer te kan ry.
 
Die twee grensposte neem ons vier ure. Eers omtrent 'n uur om uit Ghana gestempel te word. Dan tref ons die Ivoorkus-grens. Trotse nuwe tegnologie om mens tjop-tjop biometries te skandeer. Net jammer niemand het ooit vir die mense gewys hoe werk dit nie. En die rekenaarnetwerk opgedateer nie. Dit neem min of meer die gebruiklike uur om die motorfietse tydelik ingevoer te kry, en dan nog twee ure om die paspoorte te stempel omdat hulle eers kan stempel as ons klaar futuristies ingeskandeer is.
 
Dis byna 17:00 toe ons klaar is. Die son sak 18:00. Ons het nog 60km om te ry tot by Aboisso. As die pad sleg is gaan die donker ons vang. Ons verlaat die grenspos uitgemergel en dun van die honger. Begin spoed optel want die pad is mooi. Dan skielik 'n polisieman in die pad. Hy keer ons voor. Die polisie op die grenspos van flussies het hom gebel en gesê ons moet teruggaan soontoe. Ons het nie by die polisielessenaar gaan sit sodat ons invoerpermitte, wat ons in die kantoor langsaan gekry het, op hulle stelsel ingelees kan word nie. Protesteer help nie. Ons draai om. Spring deur die hoepels. Ry weer. Sestig kilometer se gladde teerpad wat die skemer inkronkel deur die woud. Hier en daar nog vars reen op die pad. Alles ruik skoon.
 
Dis tien ure sedert ons weggetrek het in Cape Coast vanoggend, iets geëet het. Ons strompel soos twee gedehidreerde soldate die hotelletjie binne. Die ontvangsdames verstaan nie Engels nie, maar bygryp dadelik ons behofte aan 'n yskoue bier.
 
 
Day 50: Cape Coast to Aboisso, Ivory Coast
 
I'm struggling to stay awake. In front of me, the police pickup truck and the men with AK47s escorting us through Ghana. Behind me, De Witt. It's mind-numbing to ride behind a vehicle. You must ride close enough so that other cars and motorcycles don't squeeze in between you and the escort vehicle. And you certainly shouldn't crash into it! This means I can't look left or right at the scenery and the hustle along the road because the road is full of potholes and aggressive speed bumps. Every now and then the police truck suddenly stops to creep through a pothole or over a speed bump. Preventing the men at the back from being bumped to pieces.
 
The boredom of the situation-behind-the-truck, the diesel fumes, the incredible heat, the humidity, my churning stomach, and the thirst from sweating and drinking too little water start to get to me. (And my sunglasses are annoying me!) Finally, we stop. We buy ice-cold soft drinks. I gulp down one bottle. Then another. Relief!
 
After about five hours of riding, we arrive at the border post. We stop to fill our petrol tanks with our last Ghanaian Cedis. But we weren't paying attention and we put in more petrol than we have Cedis for. No, they don't accept cards. Also not Central African Francs. One of our police friends leans closer and holds out a note. We pay, find an ATM, withdraw 100 Cedis to give to him. Then they bid us farewell. From now on, we're on our own again. We look forward to being able to ride as we please and stop where we want. But we also know we'll miss being able to ride through roadblocks and traffic like lords, untouchable.
 
The two border posts take us four hours. First, about an hour to get stamped out of Ghana. Then we reach the Ivory Coast border. Proud new technology to quickly scan you biometrically. Unfortunately, nobody has ever shown the staff how it works. And the computer network hasn't been updated. It takes roughly the usual hour to temporarily import the motorcycles, but then another two hours to get our passports stamped because they can only stamp us out after we've been scanned into this futuristic new machinery.
 
It's almost 5:00 PM when we're done. The sun sets at 6:00 PM. We still have 60 km to go to Aboisso. If the road is bad, the dark will catch us. We leave the border, emaciated and starving. We start picking up speed because the road is good. Then suddenly, a policeman in the road. He stops us. The police at the border post called him and told him we had to go back. We didn't stop at the police desk so they could capture our import permits, which we got in the office next door, into their system. Protesting doesn't help. We turn around. Jump through the hoops again. Ride on. Sixty kilometers of smooth tarmac winding through the forest twilight. Here and there, fresh rain on the road. Everything smells clean.
 
It's been ten hours since we left Cape Coast this morning, where we last ate something. We stumble into the little hotel like two dehydrated soldiers. The receptionists don't understand English, but they immediately grasp our need for a cold beer.

BackaBuddy