Dag 53: Bouaké na Man

(English Translation Below)

Dag 53: Bouaké na Man
 
Dis die nimmereindige onbekende wat mens moeg maak. Nie soseer die ontvouing van die onbekende hier reg voor jou nie, maar eerder die onbekende wat agter die horison lê en wag. Die bobbejaan agter die bult.
 
Sê-nou Guinea se grens is toe wel gesluit as ons daar aankom? Sê-nou die grens is oop, maar hulle aanvaar nie ons eVisums nie omdat die datum daarop reeds verstryk het? Sê-nou ons sê vir hulle die Guinea ambassade in Accra het ons verseker daardie datum maak nie saak nie, maar hulle luister nie? Sê-nou ons maak dit tot in Guinea en die paaie is weer so sleg soos tussen Kameroen en Nigerië? Sê-nou ons bande hou ons nie tot in Dakar nie? Of Wes-Sahara maak dit vir ons onmoontlik om in die res van Morocco in te gaan?
 
Die teerpad vandag is 'n satynlint wat tussen heuwels en oor vleie vleg. Landerye dadelbome langs die pad. In die vleie klein eilandjies met grasdakkies. Dit lyk of die mense dit gebruik om vanaf vis of krappe of iets te vang. Ons herinner mekaar om die oomblik te geniet. Die teengif teen 'sê-nou' is eenword met die 'hier-en-nou.' Ons bou ook roetine-tjies in ons dag in om darem 'n bietjie voorspelbaarheid te bring: Vyfuur staan ons op. Ek skryf die vorige dag se blog. Dan slaapsak oprol, kleresak pak, malariapil drink. Koffie. Toilet toe gaan. Ry-onderklere aantrek. Battery-laaiers en rekenaar wegpak. Ontbyt eet as daar is. Sonbrandroom smeer. Sakke vasmaak op motorfiets. Ry-pak en stewels aantrek. Valhelm, sonbril, handskoene - in daardie volgorde. Opklim. Wegtrek. Klein sekerhede aan die begin en einde van elke dag om die onsekere ontvouing tussenin te omarm.
 
Ons saal af op 'n plek wat 'n kerk-kampterrein of iets moet wees. Dis aan die rant van die dorpie. Rustig. Tortelduiwe wat my aan Pretoria laat dink. 'n Reuse-skerpioen en geitjie wat mekaar ál sirkelende aangluur. Dan blits die geitjie weg. 'n Brulpadda hier langs ons in die gras. Die olifante in Ivoorkus is blykbaar omtrent heeltemal uitgewis. Die internasionale honger vir ivoor was nét té groot. Maar hier waar ons ons daaglike post-rit biertjie sit en drink, léwe dit.
 
Môre-oggend petrol ingooi. Dan Guinea toe.
 
 
Day 53: Bouaké to Man
 
It's the never-ending unknown that wears you out. Not so much the unfolding of the unknown right in front of you, but rather the unknown that lies behind the horizon and waits.
 
What if Guinea's border is indeed closed when we get there? What if the border is open, but they don't accept our eVisas because the expiration date has passed? What if we tell them that the Guinea embassy in Accra assured us the date doesn't matter, but they don't listen? What if we make it to Guinea and the roads are as bad as between Cameroon and Nigeria? What if our tires don't hold up until Dakar? Or Western Sahara makes it impossible for us to enter the rest of Morocco?
 
Today's tar road is a satin ribbon weaving between hills and over plains. Orchards of date palms line the road. In the wetlands, small islands with grass-thatched huts. It looks like people use them to catch fish or crabs or something. We remind each other to enjoy the moment. The antidote to 'what if' is being in the 'here and now.' We also build routines into our day to bring a bit of predictability: At five, we wake up. I write the previous day's blog. Then roll up the sleeping bag, pack my clothes bag, take a malaria pill. Coffee. Go to the toilet. Put on my riding underwear. Pack away battery chargers and computer. Eat breakfast if there is any. Apply sunscreen. Secure bags on the motorcycle. Put on riding suit and boots. Helmet, sunglasses, gloves—in that order. Mount. Take off. Small certainties at the beginning and end of each day to hold the unfolding of the unknown in-between.
 
We camp at a place that must be a church campsite or something. It's on the edge of the village. Peaceful. Turtle doves that remind us of Pretoria. A giant scorpion and a little gecko circling each other, weapons drawn. Then the gecko dashes away. A bullfrog here beside us in the grass. The elephants in Ivory Coast have apparently been almost entirely wiped out. The international hunger for ivory was just too great. But here, where we sit and drink our daily post-ride beer, life abounds.
 
Tomorrow morning we'll refuel. Then off to Guinea.

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