(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.

(English translation below)

​Dag 31 en 32: Yaounde na Foumdan
 
Om in Yaounde te bestuur, nes Luanda en Brazzaville en Matadi en elke ander groterige dorp, bly 'n nagmerrie. Ek dink een van die grootste risiko's op 'n toer soos hierdie is om in die stadsverkeer 'n ongeluk te maak. 'n Splitsekonde van konsentrasie verloor, deur jou of een van die honderde toetende, drukkende, verbyglippende taxis en motorfietsies en busse en vragmotors rondom jou, en dis verby.
 
Ons vleg saam met die verkeer na die befaamde Didier se werkswinkel. Hy stel ons voor aan  'n lang man met arms so dik soos ons bene, wie ons bande gaan ruil. Toe alles klaar en reg is, sê Didier ons kan besluit wat ons wil betaal. Dis hoe hy werk. Ander reisigers kamp op sy jaart, en gebruik sy gereedskap en mannekrag, en betaal hom na die tyd wat hulle ookal dink regverdig is. Ons vind uit by Trax KTM in Pretoria wat hulle sou vra vir bande ruil, en betaal soveel.
 
Daardie aand gaan eet ons 'n hamburger by die Route 66 Burger Bar. Kos wat ons mage verstaan. En erken ruiterlik aan mekaar dat ons hierdie ruspose, en bietjie gerief, nodig gehad het. Ons is produkte van ons wêrelde, en die wêreld waaruit ons kom is nie naastenby so hard soos dié een nie.
 
Die volgende oggend, op die pad na Foumdan, sien ons vir die soveelste keer bos-vleis te koop. Gebraaide aap aan 'n stok tentoongestel. Hompe vark of bok opgehang met draad aan 'n houtstallasie, die vel nog aan die een kant, die vlieë aan die rooi kant. 'n Gaboen-adder! Reusagtig dik, dubbelgevou oor 'n stok, reg om gebraai (of gekook?) te word.
 
Oor twee dae tref ons die modderpad oor die Nigeriese grens. Die adrenalien pomp elke keer as ons daaraan dink. Ons kyk na die wolke en hoop dat die son sal uitkom en die meeste modder voor ons sal uitdroog. Ons kyk in die afdraaipaadjies af en sien hoe dik die modder lê. Nog een dag se teerpad, blykbaar een wat aan't verbrokkel is, en dan die pad deur die dik rooi modder.
 
Days 31 and 32: Yaounde to Foumdan
 
Driving in Yaounde, much like Luanda, Brazzaville, Matadi and every other sizable town, remains a nightmare. I think one of the greatest risks on a tour like this is having an accident in city traffic. Losing a split second of concentration, by you or any of the hundreds of honking, pushing, swerving taxis, zoom-ponies, buses, and trucks around you, and it's over.
 
We weave through traffic to reach the renowned Didier's workshop. He introduces us to a tall man with arms as thick as our legs, who will change our tires. When everything is done and ready, Didier tells us we can decide what we want to pay. That's how he operates. Other travelers camp out in his yard, using his tools and manpower, and pay him whatever they think is fair afterward. We find out from Trax KTM in Pretoria what they would charge for a tire change and pay them the equivalent in Central African Frank.
 
That evening, we eat a hamburger at the Route 66 Burger Bar. Food that our stomachs understand. And we acknowledge to ourselves that we needed this break and a bit of comfort. We are products of our worlds, and the world we come from is nowhere near as tough as this one.
 
The next morning, on the road to Foumdan, we see bushmeat for sale once again. Grilled monkey on a stick. Chunks of pork or antelope hung on a wooden stand, the skin still on one side, flies on the red side. A Gabon adder! Gigantically thick, folded over a stick, ready to be grilled (or cooked?).
 
In two days, we will hit the muddy road over the Nigerian border. The adrenaline rushes each time we think about it. We look at the clouds and hope the sun will come out and dry most of the mud in front of us. We look at the side roads and see how thick the mud lies.
 
One more day of asphalt, apparently crumbling, and then the road through the thick red mud.

(English translation below)

Dag 30: Sangmelina na Yaounde
 
Vanoggend hang daar onweerswolke, 'n soort onheilspellendheid, oor die landksap. En oor my gemoed. Ons is moeg. Alles is vuil. Ons mage wil nie bedaar nie.
 
Die plek waar ons geslaap het was vreemd. 'n Gesegde van Gadaffi teen die muur agter die ontvangsdame wat lui: Common enemy. Common destiny. Africa for Africans! Duur Mercedes- en Porsche sportsnutsvoertuie. Splinternuwe Land Cruisers. Die plaaslike adelstand kom hou hier naweek. Hulle groet nie. Lyk geirriteerd met ons teenwoordigheid. Net voor ons ry is daar 'n blinkgepoetste mannetjie wat 'n Immigration-kaartjie uitpluk en ons na ons kamers toe stuur om ons paspoorte te gaan haal. Om tien keer 'n dag jou pasboek te wys laat mens onwelkom voel. Dis hoe mense moes gevoel het tydens apartheid.
 
Nou ry ons deur sagte reen en probeer sin-maak van die kontras tussen ryk en arm hier in Cameroon, en hoekom ons juis hiér soveel meer onwelkom voel. Ek dink dis omdat hier nie 'n middelklas is nie. Jy's óf superryk met kontakte in die regering, óf jy dra 'n uniform wat aan jou darem 'n mate van mag gee, óf jy is deel van die brand-arm massa wat daagliks worstel om te bestaan. Ons teenwoordigheid as middelklasmense, met motorfietse en tyd om te toer, is moontlik 'n aanklag teen 'n stelsel wat faal om sy mense te laat floreer.
 
Hulle stop ons nog 'n paar keer voor Yaounde. Dit begin ons irriteer, maar daar is net één manier om dit te hanteer: gedwee en vriendelik. Die probleem is as mens moeg en dors en natgesweet en vuil is en nie lekker ruik nie, begin mens se vermoë om magsvertoon met 'n glimlag te verduur, dun raak.
 
Ons besef ons moet rus. Vanaand en môre-aand slaap ons in Yaounde sodat ons kan rugby kyk, bande ruil, kettings en lugfilters versorg, wasgoed was en ons gemoedere herlaai. Twee outjies met wakker oë ontvang ons vriendelik in ons hotel, help ons afpak, bring vir ons elkeen 'n bier.
 
Die Springbokke wen teen Frankryk! Ons vergeet van die riller-modderpad wat vir ons wag ná Yaounde. Van die ontvoerings in Nigerië se Suide en die bedreiging van Boko Haram in die Noorde.
 
Die Kaap is, vir 'n oomblik, weer Hollands.
 
Day 30: Sangmelina to Yaounde
 
This morning, there are ominous dark clouds, a kind of foreboding, over the landscape. And over my mood. We are tired. Everything is dirty. Our stomachs won't settle.
The place where we stayed was strange. A saying by Gaddafi against the wall behind the receptionist that reads: Common enemy. Common destiny. Africa for Africans! Expensive Mercedes and Porsche sports utility vehicles. Brand new Land Cruisers. The local elite's hang-out spot for the weekend. They don't greet back when we greet them. Irritated by our presence. Just before we leave, a well-groomed man flashes an Immigration Official card and sends us to our rooms to go get our passports. Showing your pass-book ten times a day makes you feel unwelcome. It's how people must have felt during apartheid.
 
Now we drive through light rain, trying to make sense of the contrast between the rich and poor here in Cameroon and why we feel so much more unwelcome here in particular. I think it's because there's no middle class. You're either super-rich with government contacts, or you wear a uniform that gives you some degree of power, or you're part of the extremely poor masses, struggling to survive daily. Our presence as middle-class individuals with motorcycles and time to tour might be an indictment of a system that fails to let its people flourish.
 
They stop us a few more times before Yaounde. It starts to irritate us, but there's only one way to handle it: With a smile. The problem is when you're tired, thirsty, drenched in sweat, dirty and smelling badly, your ability to uncritically bow down to authority, with a smile, thins out.
 
We realize we need to rest. Tonight and tomorrow night, we'll stay in Yaounde so we can watch rugby, change tires, attend to chains and air filters, do laundry, and recharge our moods. Two guys with bright eyes welcome us warmly at our hotel, help us unload, and bring each of us a beer.
 
The Springboks win against France! We momentarily forget about the muddy off-road path that awaits us after Yaounde. About the kidnappings in South Nigeria and the threat of Boko Haram in the North.
 
For a moment, all is well again.

(English translation below) 

Dag 29: Ntam na Sangmelima
 
Laasnag het die disko langs die motelletjie gepomp tot net na 3:00 toe die kragopwekker se diesel opgeraak het. Dit was Vrydagaand in Ntam, 'n piepklein plekkie (met reuse luidsprekers) op die Congo-Cameroon grens - en die naweek is behóórlik gevier. Ons voel oes en effens beneuk. Hoe durf hierdie mense ons slaap so bederf? Ons is op 'n reuse Afrika-avontuur, ons het betaal om hier te slaap en ons verdien dat die dorpie homself inhou oor 'n Vrydagaand! Wie is hulle om hulle week van stoei teen die armoede te probeer ontvlug as ons ons beauty sleep wil hê? (Jip. Ons het geglimlag oor ons selfgesentreerdheid.)
 
Die motel-opsigter, die jong outjie wie ons gister so vriendelik ontvang het, loop verby, groet, en begin 'n emmer uitkatrol uit die put hier langs ons. Water vir die dag. Die put is reg langs die longdrop.
 
Ons pak op, trek ons duur gepantserde klere aan en klim op ons volbloed-ysterperde. Nóg 'n dag van motorfietsry deur Afrika. Die wolke hang donker en swaar.
 
Ons ry-ritme word telkens gebreek deur gewapende wagte wat ons regmatigheid wil verifieer. En deur ons loopmae wat net nie tot bedaring wil kom nie. Die oerwoud duur voort en so-ook die klompies-klompies modderhuisies langs die pad. Nou en dan, eintlik al sedert Angola, 'n reuse nuwe gebou wat óf half-klaar gelos is, of in onbruik verval het. Hospitale, sekuriteitskomplekse, regeringspaleise. 'n Sportstadion! Bossies wat groei in die krake. Die oerwoud wat die wit olifante stadigaan insluk en verteer.
 
Om iets neer te plak op 'n plek werk nie. Maak nie saak hoe goed die bedoeling is nie. Dinge moet van onder af groei. En daarvoor moet daar 'n wíl wees. En harde werk. Oor jare. Van bínne gedryf. Nie in isolasie nie - natuurlik leen en leer mens van ander - maar die wil, wat die weg word, moet van binne kom.
 
Die eerste sagte druppels begin ons gesigte soos klein naaltjies steek omdat ons valhelms oop is. Die konflik: Gaan ons ons reenbaadjies aantrek en hoop die temperatuur daal van 30 na 20 grade? Of gaan ons soos laas maar natreen en hoop die temperatuur daal nié. Die druppels raak vetter. Ons stop, trek die reenbaadjies aan. Begin sweet en opwasem. Trek weg. Hoop die reen koel ons af. Later, toe dit ophou, en ons sopnat gesweet is, hou ons stil en trek die reenbaadjies uit. Asem en verligting!
 
Die kontraste en konflikte is orals. En moeilik om van sin te maak. Sien ons armoede of sien ons 'n aardse manier van bestaan? Sien ons nors wagte of jong mans wat agterdogtig is oor witmense se motiewe? Sien ons onvermoë om nuwe geboue te onderhou, of ongevraagde aalmoese en pretensieuse kasarms? Of 'n mengelmoes van al die bogenoemde?
 
Day 29: Ntam to Sangmelima
 
Last night the disco next to the motel pumped until just after 03:00, when the generator ran out of diesel. It was Friday night in Ntam, a tiny place (with giant loudspeakers) on the Congo-Cameroon border - and the weekend was properly celebrated. We feel red-eyed and slightly irritated. How dare these people spoil our sleep? We're on a huge African adventure, we've paid to sleep here and we deserve that the town must take it easy on a Friday night! Who are they to try to escape their week of struggling against poverty if we want our beauty sleep? (Yes, we chuckled at our entitlement...)
 
The motel caretaker, the young guy who received us so kindly yesterday, walks by, says hello, and begins to reel out a bucket from the well here next to us. Water for the day. The well is right next to the long-drop.
 
We pack up, put on our expensive armour and mount our thoroughbred iron horses. Another day of motorcycling through Africa. The clouds hang dark and heavy.
 
Our driving rhythm is repeatedly broken by armed guards who want to verify our legitimacy. And by our stomachs that just won't settle down. The jungle continues and so do the lines of mud houses along the road. Every now and then, actually since Angola, a huge new building that has either been left half-finished, or has fallen into disuse. Hospitals, security complexes, government palaces. A sports stadium! Weeds growing in the cracks. The jungle that slowly swallows and consumes the white elephants.
 
Copying and pasting buildings that resemble progress, doesn't work. No matter how good the intention. Things must grow from the bottom up. And for that there must be a will. And hard work. Over years. Driven from within. Not in isolation - of course one borrows and learns from others - but the will, which becomes the way, must come from within.
 
The first drops start to prick our faces like little needles because our helmets are open. The conflict: Are we going to put on our rain jackets and hope the temperature drops from 30 to 20 degrees? Or are we going to get wet like last time and hope the temperature doesn't drop? The drops get fatter. We stop, put on the rain jackets. Start sweating and steaming. Pull away. Hope the rain cools us down. Later, when it stopped, and we were drenched in sweat, we stopped and took off the rain jackets. Breath and relief!
 
The contrasts and conflicts are everywhere. And hard to make sense of. Do we see poverty or do we see an earthly way of existence? Do we see surly guards or young men suspicious of white people's motives? Do we see inability to maintain new buildings, or unsolicited alms and pretentious monstrocities? Or a mixture of all of the above?​

(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.

(English translation below)

Dag 27: Oor die ewenaar!
 
Die herbergie waar ons geslaap het is maar vuilerig. En die spinasie (as dit spinasie was) en straathoender (as dit hoender was) van gisteraand het my van vroeg af op. Ek stap in my slaapbroek uit om skoon water uit die motorfiets se kantsak te haal, en word begroet deur vol-uniform en blinkgestewelde Kongolese soldate wat hulle AK47's skoonmaak, laai, oorhaal, toets. Toe ek my woorde vind is al wat ek uitkry 'n teleurstellende Bonjour.
 
Ontbyt bestaan uit swart koffie, 'n malariapil en maagmedisyne. Ek herpak my bande-agter-op-die-motorfiets legkaart en ons kom 8:00 weg. Vandag gaan lank wees.
 
Die pad kronkel die grootste gedeelte van die dag deur oerwoud. Dis weereens 'n baie goeie teerpad. Ons mae wil werk, maar die plantegroei is só dig mens sal eers 'n spasietjie met 'n panga moet oopkap. Ons knyp. Dink aan iets anders.
 
Ons moet eet. Stop aan die kant van die pad en drink water. Weereens die stilte en die voëls. Hier's 'n rustigheid wat moeilik is om te beskryf.
 
Net ná 13:00 kom ons by die hoeveelste padblokkade. Dis 'n paar dromme in die pad met 'n tou oorgespan. Hulle laat ons deur sonder om uit die koelte op te staan, en ons gaan stop 'n entjie verder voor 'n winkeltjie om iets te ete te kry.
 
Skielik drie mans by ons. Polisie sonder uniform. Hulle wil ons paspoorte sien. De Witt vra hoe moet ons weet hulle is Polisie? Die een draai om en daar staan Immigration op sy rug. Hulle beduie een van ons moet saamstap, daar's 'n probleem met ons visums. Ek stap saam. Die leier sê ons visums het verval en beduie na 'n datum op die visum. Ek weet hy praat nonsens maar wonder hoe ek in Frans, sonder om die manne aanstoot te gee, vir hulle gaan verduidelik. Ek beduie dat ek na die visums wil kyk. Wys vir hom die vervaldatum (hy het na die datum van uitreiking gekyk.) O, sê hy. Hulle hou my vir 'n uur in 'n kamertjie op 'n hopie gebreekte plastiekstoele terwyl hy ons details. Noukeurig. Neer. Skryf.
 
Daarna kan ons eet. Die naaste aan kos wat ons kon kry is Coke en Red Bull en koekies en chips. Dis wárm. Ons ry.
 
Volgende stop is Makoua, waar die ewenaar deurloop. Daar móét ons petrol kry. Al die pompe tot nou toe was droog.
 
Die ewenaar is 'n tweespoor grondpaadjie tussen twee reuse goewermentsgeboue, die een meer verweer as die ander. Daar is 'n monumentjie met 'n aardbol en die Kongo se leuse op. Vrede. Werk en nog iets. Ons eet die res van ons koekies en chips. Drink water. Neem fotos. Soek petrol.
 
Makoua het nie petrol nie. 'n Jong man beduie hy kan vir ons 10 liter petrol, in bottels, kry. Hy sweer dis skoon maar ons het darem ons filters. Hy help ons ook om brood in die dorpie gekoop te kry. Ons het genoeg petrol vir 230km. Die volgende dorp is 200 km weg. Ons ry stadig verder.
 
Die woud word digter. De Witt se derm het bedaar maar myne kerm nog. Skielik sien ons drie klein gorillatjies en hulle ma oor die pad hardloop! Reg voor ons verby!
 
Ons kom 'n uur ná donker in Ouesso aan. Elf ure op die pad gewees vandag. Beide die motorfietse en ons lywe is op die laaste dampe petrol.
 
Om deur Afrika te ry is nie vakansie nie.
 
Day 27: Crossing the Equator!
 
The inn where we slept is quite filthy. And the spinach (if it was spinach) and street chicken (if it was chicken) from last night have had me up since early morning. I step out in my pyjamas to fetch clean water from the motorcycle's side pocket and am greeted by fully-uniformed and shiny-booted Congolese soldiers cleaning, loading, cocking, and testing their AK47s. When I finally find my words, all I can manage is a disappointing "Bonjour."
 
Breakfast consists of black coffee, a malaria pill, and stomach medicine. I repack my tire configuration on the back of the motorcycle, and we hit the road at 8:00. Today will be a long one.
 
The road winds through the jungle for most of the day. It's once again a very good asphalt road. Our stomachs want to work, but the vegetation is so dense that you'd need a machete to create a clear enough space. We hold out. Think about something else.
 
We need to eat. We stop on the side of the road and drink water. Again, the silence and the birds. There's a serenity here that's hard to describe.
 
Just after 13:00, we encounter yet another roadblock. There are a few barrels in the road with a rope strung across. They let us pass without getting up from the shade, and we stop a little further at a shop to get something to eat.
 
Suddenly, three men approach us. Police without uniforms. They want to see our passports. De Witt asks how we can be sure they're the police. One of them turns around, and Immigration is written on his back. They signal that one of us must walk with them; there's an issue with our visas. I walk with them. The leader says our visas have expired and points to a date on the visa. I know he's talking nonsense but wonder how I'm going to explain it to them in French without upsetting them. I gesture that I want to look at the visas and I show him the expiration date (he had looked at the date of issue). Oh, he says. They keep me in a room and make me sit on a stack of broken plastic chairs for an hour while they. Record. Our. Details. Precisely.
 
After that, we can eat. The closest thing to food we could find is Coke, Red Bull, cookies, and chips. It's hot. We continue riding.
 
The next stop is Makoua, on the equator. Here, we absolutely must get petrol. All the pumps we've encountered so far were dry.
The equator is a two-track dirt road between two government buildings, one more weathered than the other. There's a small monument with a globe and the Congo's motto on it. Peace. Work and something else. We eat the rest of our cookies and chips. Drink water. Take photos. Look for petrol.
 
Makoua doesn't have petrol. A young man gestures that he can get us 10 litres of petrol in bottles. He swears it's clean, but we still have our filters. He also helps us buy bread in the village. We have enough petrol for 230km. The next village is 200km away. We continue slowly.
 
The forest becomes denser. De Witt's stomach has settled, but mine is still churning. Suddenly, we see three little gorillas and their mother running across the road right in front of us!
 
We arrive in Ouesso an hour after dark. We've been on the road for eleven hours today. Both the motorcycles and our bodies are running on fumes.
 
To ride through Africa is no vacation.

​​(English translation below)
​
Dag 25 en 26: Brazzaville na Gamboma
 
De Witt vlieg Pointe Noire toe om die bande te gaan haal. Ek gebruik die tyd om vraestelle te merk vir 'n kursus wat ek by Tukkies aanbied.
 
By DHL in Pointe Noire verseker hulle hom dat die bande wel daar is, hy moet net bietjie wag. En, o ja, die doeanebelasting is 156 000 Central African Franc. Maar julle het dan gister oor die foon gesê dit gaan 120 000 wees? OK, no problem, you can pay 120 000. Cash it's OK. Hulle weier om 'n strokie te gee en sê De Witt moet net bietjie wag, so 'n uur of twee, terwyl hulle die 'formaliteite afhandel' om die pakkie in die stoor te gaan haal.
 
Vier ure later, toe die DHL kantoor toemaak, wink Patrick vir De Witt om saam met haar te kom. In haar kar te klim. 'n Ent in 'n steeg af te ry. Daar, op die natterige agtertrappies van 'n kroeg, staan 'n man langs die pakkie. Nou ja. Dis Afrika. En ons het die bande!
 
Daai aand lê ons albei en legkaart bou in ons kop soos wat ons verkillende permutasies van bande-vasmaak oorweeg. Ons het nog so 'n 1600km se teerpad voordat die grondpad-bande in Yaounde opgesit gaan word.
 
Die volgende oggend, bande en bagasie gelaai, vertrek ons. Stop eers by die Cameroon ambassade vir 'n plakker in De Witt se paspoort. Dan ry ons Noord. UIteindelik.
 
Dit sukkel in die verkeer met die pakkaas. Die motorfietse is nou erg ongebalanseerd, met omtrent geen gewig op die voorwiel nie. Ons sal moet gewoond raak, of herpak môre, want dit voel nie reg nie. Soos die Engelse sê: Be careful what you wish for!
 
Die dag se ry neem ons verby asemrowende gesigte. Eers oerwoud, en dan op na 'n plato waarvandaan ons na links en regs golwende groen heuwels sien tot waar hulle in die verte aan die wolke raak.
 
Die wolke. Hulle word stelselmatig donkerder. En dit word koeler. Gaan ons stop om ons reenbaadjies aan te trek? Ag nee wat ons gaan vinnig deur die storm wees, dan word ons weer droog in die Afrika-hitte. Slim vang sy baas. Dit réén. Die wind pluk. Sopnat en koud stop ons later onder 'n boom om effens beskut te wees terwyl ons ons reenjasse aantrek, onder ons baadjies, om ten minste die wind van ons lywe te hou en ons liggaamshitte binne te hou. Kort daarna klaar dit op en ons ry verder deur die skildery van 'n landskap tot in Gamboma, waar ons straatkos eet wat ons nie ken nie.
 
Later, voor ons in ons vuilerige herbergie gaan slaap, stamp De Witt sy kop teen 'n té lae sinkdak. Twee vlakkerige snye, darem nie baie bloed nie. Hy beduie wat ek moet doen om hom te dokter.
 
Môre ry ons verder Noord, Afrika in. Ons weet van nou af raak dit rowwer. Ons weet net nie hóé rof nie. Wat ons wel weet is dat ons ons reenbaadjies sal aantrek vóór ons natreen volgende keer.
 
 
Day 25 and 26: Brazzaville to Gamboma
 
De Witt flies to Pointe Noire to pick up the tires. I use the time to grade papers for a course I'm teaching at the University of Pretoria.
 
At DHL in Pointe Noire, they assure him that the tires are indeed there, he just needs to wait a bit. And, oh, the customs duty is 156,000 Central African Francs. But you said over the phone yesterday that it would be 120,000? OK, no problem, you can pay 120,000. Cash please. They refuse to provide a receipt and tell De Witt to wait for a while, about an hour or two, while they "handle the formalities" to retrieve the package from the warehouse.
 
Four hours later, when the DHL office closes, Patrick beckons for De Witt to join her. Get in her car. Drive down an alley. There, on the damp back steps of a pub, stands a man next to the package. Well, this is Africa. And we have the tires!
 
That evening, we both lie in bed, mentally piecing together different permutations of strapping the tires onto our bikes. We still have about 1600km of asphalt road before the off-road tires will be fitted in Yaounde.
 
The next morning, with tires and luggage loaded, we depart. First, we stop at the Cameroonian embassy to get a visa sticker in De Witt's passport. Then we head north. Finally!
 
The bikes struggle with the cargo. They are now severely unbalanced, with almost no weight on the front wheels. We'll have to get used to it or readjust tomorrow because it doesn't feel right. As they say: Be careful what you wish for!
 
The day's ride takes us past breath-taking views. First, through the jungle, and then up to a plateau from which we see rolling green hills to the left and right, stretching into the distance and touching the clouds.
 
The clouds. They gradually get darker. And it gets cooler. Should we stop and put on our rain jackets? Oh, well, we'll quickly pass through the storm, then we'll dry up again in the African heat. Mistake. It rains! The wind picks up. Later, soaking wet and cold, we stop under a tree to find some shelter while we put on our rain jackets, under our motorcycle jackets, to at least keep the wind off our bodies and retain our body heat. It doesn't work, but shortly after, the rain clears up, and we ride through the picturesque landscape to Gamboma, where we eat street food that we've never tried before.
 
Later, before going to sleep in our dirty inn, De Witt hits his head against a too-low zinc roof. Two shallow cuts, fortunately not much blood. He tells me what I should do to doctor him.
 
Tomorrow we will continue north, deeper into Africa. We know it's going to get rougher from here. We just don't know how rough. What we do know is that we'll put on our rain jackets before the next storm.

​https://www.backabuddy.co.za/expedition-h2o-back-to-basics

​​(English translation below)

Dag 24: Brazzaville
 
Dit sóús toe ons wakkerword. Welkom in die reënseisoen, bulder die wolke swart en dreigend. Buite stroom die water.
 
Ons drink koffie en kry die nuus oor Israel en Hamas. Maak kontak met mense wie ons ken en oor wie ons bekommerd is. Hou een oog op die horlosie, want 8:00 moet ons DHL bel om te hoor waar presies by die lughawe hulle is.
 
Dis 7:55. Sênou?
 
Ons wag. 7:58.
 
8:01. Hi, good morning, bonjour, is this Michelle? I got your number... Hy sê iets in Frans. Dan kliek hy. Slaan oor Engels toe. Die bande is vroeg vanoggend Pointe Noire toe. Per vliegtuig. Bel vir Patrick in Pointe Noire. You promised the tires would be kept in Brazzaville? Patrick bel vir Michelle om te hoor wat de ... Sy bel terug. Jammer maar iemand uit Suid-Afrika het gebel om seker te maak die bande kom so gou as moontlik in Pointe Noire!
 
(Jip, Michelle is 'n man en Patrick is 'n vrou.)
 
So graag as wat ons Afrika wil blameer vir die boggerop, besef ons dit was deels ons fout. Die bande is aanvanklik gestuur vanaf Courier Guy, via DHL, na Pointe Noire. Toe raak ons haastig en laat weet DHL dat ons sommer die bande in Brazzaville sal optel, dan spaar ons 'n paar dae. Maar ons vergeet om vir Courier Guy te laat weet. So een of ander flukse Courier Guy (of Girl) het op 'n Sondag begin worry oor ons pakkie so lank vat, en vuurgemaak onder DHL om die blêrrie ding nou bitter vinnig Pointe Noire toe te stuur - soos per die formele, gedokumenteerde reëling.
 
Om dinge erger te maak: die bande kan nie summier weer teruggestuur word Brazzaville toe, alvorens een van ons dit nie fisies by customs in ontvangs geneem en belasting daarop betaal het nie. Ons besluit dat De Witt die volgende oggend Pointe Noire toe sal vlieg om die bande te gaan haal.
 
Ons neem 'n taxi na die oewer van die Kongo-rivier om daar iets te ete te kry. Die storm van vroeër het bedaar en orals lê strepe meegesleurde modder en plastiek. Bome en plastiekbottels en 'n plakkie dryf in die Kongo verby toe ons daar aankom. Die rivier is omtrent 'n halwe kilometer breed en vloei met mening. Aan die oorkant lê Kinshasha en die DRC.
 
Die Demokratiese Republiek van Kongo en die Republiek van Kongo. Twee afsonderlike state soos deur die Franse en Belge beslis. Maar waar, veral in die DRC, die stof net nie wil gaan lê nie. Sedert 1996 is daar blykbaar al ses miljoen mense in die DRC dood weens die komplekse en aanhoudende onrus. Ses miljoen. 'n Getal wat my aan Israel laat dink. En hoe besluite deur wêreldmoondhede grense tot stand bring waarbinne en waartussen gewone mense 'n gedeelde bestaan moet uitkerf. En nuwe leiers koelkop, eerder as dogmaties, oplossings moet skep.

Day 24: Brazzaville
 
It pours when we wake up. Welcome to the rainy season, rumble the clouds. Outside, water gushing.
 
We have coffee learn of the news about Israel and Hamas. We contact people we know and care about.
 
We keep an eye on the clock, because at 8:00 we need to call DHL to find out exactly where they are at the airport.
 
It's 7:55. What if?
 
We wait. 7:58.
 
8:01. Hi, good morning, bonjour, is this Michelle? I got your number... The man says something in French. Then he clicks. Switches to English. The tires were sent early this morning. To Pointe Noire. Yes, by plane. We call Patrick in Pointe Noire. You promised the tires would be kept in Brazzaville? Patrick calls Michelle to find out what the... She calls back. Sorry, but someone from South Africa called to make sure the tires arrive in Pointe Noire as soon as possible!
 
(Yep, Michelle is a man, and Patrick is a woman.)
 
As much as we want to blame Africa for the mess, we realize it was partly our fault. The tires were originally sent from Courier Guy, via DHL, to Pointe Noire. Then we got impatient and told DHL directly that we would just pick up the tires in Brazzaville, saving us a few days. But we forgot to inform The Courier Guy. So some diligent Courier Guy (or Girl) started worrying on a Sunday about our package taking so long, and they fired off at DHL to send the package to Pointe Noire immediately - as per the formal, documented arrangement.
 
To make things worse: the tires cannot be sent back to Brazzaville without one of us physically receiving them at customs and paying taxes. We decide that De Witt will fly to Pointe Noire the next morning to pick up the tires.
 
We take a taxi to the banks of the Congo River to get something to eat. The earlier storm has subsided, and everywhere there are streaks of mud and plastic. Trees and plastic bottles and a flip-flop float by in the Congo as we arrive there. The river is about half a kilometre wide and flows fast. On the other side lies Kinshasa and the DRC.
 
The Democratic Republic of Congo and the Republic of Congo. Two separate states decided by the French and Belgians. But where, especially in the DRC, the dust just doesn't want to settle. Since 1996, apparently, six million people have died in the DRC due to the complex and ongoing unrest. Six million. A number that makes me think of Israel. And how decisions by world powers create borders within which and between which ordinary people must carve out a shared existence. And new leaders must create cool-headed, rather than dogmatic, solutions.

https://www.backabuddy.co.za/expedition-h2o-back-to-basics

​​(English translation below)

Dag 23: Dolisie na Brazzaville
 
Ons ry op die Kongo se N1, en net soos die pad van Pointe Noire af Dolisie toe, is hierdie 'n pragtige pad. Ons eerste vermoede is dat die heuwels sonder oerwoud is omdat hulle kaalgestroop is. Vir die eerste ent pad is dit tien teen een waar, want mens sien die kaalgeskeerde happe teen die koppe uit. En mens koes nou en dan verby 'n kruipende vragmotor wat beur onder 'n vrag reuse-boomstompe.
 
Maar dan, soos ons hoër klim, en dit al koeler word, besef ons dat ons nou op hulle hoëveld is. As jy na links kyk sien jy hoe Afrika golwend na die noordekant uitgestrek lê. Dis eintlik te veel om werklik ten diepste in te neem. 'n Knop wil-wil in my keel kom sit.
 
Ons het vroeg in die pad geval. Elk net 'n koppie swart koffie en broodrolletjie gehad vir ontbyt. So hier teen elfuur, twaalfuur is ons dun en effens gedehidreer. Ons stop om water te drink. En van die neute te eet wat Roses (my skoonsussies se besigheid) vir ons geborg het. Later 'n Red Bull by 'n Total wat nie petrol het nie.
 
Soos wat Brazzaville naderkom begin ons spoke opjaag: Sênou daai bande is nie daar nie. Dis Sondag vandag, so ons kan nie bel nie. Maar hulle het belówe die bande is in Brazzaville. Dit sál daar wees. Ons brand om weer Noord te ry. Brazzaville is omtrent reg Oos van Pointe Noire af. Ek wil die ewenaar oorsteek, maar nou ry ons hier parallel met die Kongo rivier heen en weer.
 
Môre staan ons vroeg op, pak, ry lughawe toe, kry die bande, maak hulle vas, en ry Noord. Al is dit net 'n uur of twee uit die stad uit.
 
Day 23: Dolisie to Brazzaville
 
We're driving on the Congo's N1, and just like the road from Pointe Noire to Dolisie, this road is beautiful. Our first suspicion is that the hills without jungle are because they've been stripped bare. For the first part of the road, this may be true, as we see the strips of shaved-off hill-tops with patches of forest in-between. And we occasionally pass a crawling cargo truck struggling under a load of huge tree stumps.
 
But then, as we climb higher and it gets cooler, we realize we are now on their high plateau. When you look to the left, you see Africa stretching out in waves to the north. It's actually too much to truly take in at its deepest level. A lump forms in my throat.
 
We left early. Each of us had a cup of black coffee and a bread roll for breakfast. So around eleven o'clock, noon, we are feeling thin and slightly dehydrated. We stop to drink water. And to eat some of the nuts that Roses (my sisters-in-law's business) sponsored us with. Later, a Red Bull at a Total station that has no petrol.
 
As Brazzaville approaches, we start worry: What if those tires aren't there. It's Sunday today, so we can't call. But they promised the tires are in Brazzaville. It will be there. We're eager to head north again. Brazzaville is more or less directly east of Pointe Noire. I want to cross the equator, but now we're driving parallel to the Congo River, back and forth.
Tomorrow, we'll wake up early, pack up, ride to the airport, get the tires, strap them to the bikes, and head north. Even if it's only for an hour or two out of the city.


https://www.backabuddy.co.za/expedition-h2o-back-to-basics

​​(English translation below)

Dag 21 en 22: Pointe Noire na Dolisie
 
Om op die strand te kamp klink meer idillies as wat dit is. Sand. Ook deel ons ons lappie sand met die restaurant se dans en 'boulles'  klubs. So ons kan eers tent opslaan 20:00 wanneer die dansers klaar is, en ons moet weer afgeslaan wees teen 9:00 die oggend vir 'boulles', maar dan is ons welkom om weer op te slaan.
 
Ons is vroeg op en ek gaan draf 'n ent op die strand om iets aan hierdie middeljarige sagtheid-om-die-middel te probeer doen. Dan begin ons The Courier Guy en DHL se lyne warm bel.
 
Die bande is 'in transit'. Dis in Brazzaville. Nee dis alreeds in Pointe Noire. Nee dis in Brazzaville. Dit sal nog 'n week vat om in Pointe Noire aan te kom. Ons besluit om die goed in Brazzaville te gaan haal. DHL belowe om dit daar vir ons te hou.
 
Ons sê koebaai vir die Portugese paartjie en die Franse Suid-Afrikaanses gesinnetjie. Hulle waarsku ons dat die Suidelike grens tussen Cameroon en Nigerië toe is vir toeriste. Ons moet verder Noord ingaan. En daardie pad is SLEG - ons móét die rowwer bande kry.
 
Die foon lui: Julle bande is hier in Pointe Noire! Kom haal dit gerus. Ons ry soontoe. Niks. Die bande is in Brazzaville. Ons vertrek na Brazzaville.
 
Die pad tussen Pointe Noire en Dolisie is 'n sprokie-kronkelpad, oor berge en dale, deur die Kongolese oerwoud. Nuutgeteer. As mens stop vir water hoor jy niks anders as die gesing van oerwoud-voëls nie. Nou en dan sien mens afgebreekte takkies met blare aan, en klippe, in die pad. Dit beteken êrens om die blinde draai staan 'n voertuig stil - pasop. Die kontras tussen nuutgeteer en aanmekaargelap is skril. En dis orals.
 
Die aand slaap ons in 'n aangename klein herbergie in Dolisie. Die sekuriteitswag gaan wys ons waar om saam met die locals te eet. Ons nooi hom saam. Drie hooggepakte borde hoender, straatgebraai, met rys, en drie groot Ngok-biere kos R185. Afrika-musiek en plastiekstoeltjies op die straat. Die manne ná werk se afsaalplek. Afrika is lekker.
 
Die volgende dag rus ons in Dolisie. Versorg die lugfilters en kettings. Skryf blog en lees oor die Kongo. De Witt beduie dat die Kongo verdeel is tussen die DRC en die Republiek van Kongo toe die konings van België en Frankryk in 1885 só besluit het. Koning Leopold van België het die DRC (toe Zaïre) sommer as sy eie privaat eiendom verklaar en die hoofstad Leopoldville gedoop!
 
Ons maak ons reg vir môre se lang pad Brazzaville toe. Waar die bande (hopelik!) vir ons wag. En êrens binne ons begin iets te roer van die invloed van wêreldmagte op plaaslike kulture. Vooruitgang en agteruitgang en 'n soort van sakkende ewewig tussenin wat tevrede is met grenspos-kantoortjies se vuil mure, blinkswart Land Cruisers met donker vensters, vuil water en lang Ngok-biere.
 
Die sakkende ewewig maak my bang. Veral hier rondom my middel.
 
Day 21 and 22: Pointe Noire to Dolisie
 
Camping on the beach sounds more idyllic than it is. Sand. We also share our patch of sand with the restaurant's dance and 'boulles' clubs. So, we can only set up our tents at 20:00 when the dancers are done, and we have to pack up again at 9:00 in the morning for 'boulles,' but then we're welcome to set up again.
 
We're up early, and I go for a run on the beach to try and do something about this middle-aged softness around the waist. Then we start calling The Courier Guy and DHL.
 
The tires are 'in transit.' No, they're in Brazzaville. No, they're already in Pointe Noire. No, they're actually really in Brazzaville. It will take a week for them to arrive in Pointe Noire. We decide to go to Brazzaville to pick up the tires. DHL promises to keep it there.
 
We bid farewell to the Portuguese couple and the French South African family. They warn us that the southern border between Cameroon and Nigeria is closed for tourists. We have to go further north. And that road is BAD - we must get the off-road tires.
 
The phone rings: Your tires are here in Pointe Noire! Come pick them up. We ride there. Nothing. The tires are in Brazzaville. We depart for Brazzaville.
 
The road between Pointe Noire and Dolisie is a winding fairy-tale, over hills and valleys, through the Congolese jungle. Freshly paved. When you stop for water, all you hear is the singing of jungle birds. Now and then you see broken branches with leaves and rocks in the road. This means a vehicle is standing somewhere around the blind bend - be cautious. The contrast between freshly-paved and patched-up is stark. And it's everywhere.
 
That night we sleep in a pleasant little inn in Dolisie. The security guard shows us where to eat with the locals. We invite him along. Three heavily loaded plates of street-grilled chicken with rice, and three big Ngok beers cost R185. African music and plastic chairs on the street. No women. Clearly the spot where the guys hang out after work. Africa is lekker.
 
The next day, we rest in Dolisie. Take care of the air filters and chains. Write the blog and read about the Congo. De Witt points out that the Congo was split between the DRC and the Republic of Congo when the kings of Belgium and France decided so in 1885. King Leopold of Belgium even declared the DRC (then Zaire) as his private property and renamed the capital Leopoldville!
 
We prepare for the long journey to Brazzaville tomorrow, where the tires (hopefully!) await us. Somewhere inside us something starts to stir about the influence of world powers on local cultures. Progress and deterioration and a kind of sagging equilibrium in-between, content with the dirty walls of border post offices, glossy black Land Cruisers with dark windows, dirty water, and long Ngok beers.
 
The sagging equilibrium scares me. Especially here around my waist.

https://www.backabuddy.co.za/expedition-h2o-back-to-basics