​​(English translation below)

Dag 20: Cabinda na Pointe Noire
 
Vandag gaan ons die Republiek van Kongo binne, oppad Pointe Noire toe. Die bande wat ons ten duurste van Suid-Afrika af laat courier het, is ook oppad soontoe. Die DHL-rekenaar sê die bande is 'in transit' - wat dit ookal mag beteken. Ons besluit om nie te begin bekommer of rondbel oor die bande voordat ons in Pointe Noire is nie.
 
Maar eers die grenspos oorsteek tussen Cabinda ('n enklawe wat aan Angola behoort) en die Republiek van Kongo. Dit sal ons agtste grenspos-poging wees.
 
Soos altyd, wanneer die grenspos naderkom, begin dit woel. Stalletjies en mense langs die pad. Reuse-slaggate wat jy nie almal kan vermy nie. Zoem-ponies heen en weer. Rye vragmotors. Mans in hulle dertigs met geldsakkies oor hulle skouers wat vinnig naderstap en 'n hand vol note wys.
 
Dan 'n sekuriteitshek wat oopgaan sodra die wag ons sien. Hy beduie waar ons moet parkeer. Een van die geldwissellaars het ons as syne toege-eien, en wys ons waarheen nou.
 
Die proses is altyd min of meer dieselfde. Eers met jou paspoort na Immigrasie. Dan met jou motorfietspapiere na Doane. Dan 'n laaste stempel by die Polisie, en dan is jy uit.
 
Hierdie keer wys hulle my eers Polisie toe. Die geboutjie is eintlik 'n murasie. Stukke pleister uit die mure uit. Die trappies mis happe sement. Vuil A4-kennisgewings teen die mure, hoeke omgekrul. Die konstabel beduie ek moet sit. Ek gee ons paspoorte aan en hy begin skryf.
 
S t a d i g .
 
L e t t e r  v i r  l e t t er . 
 
Eers op 'n stuk rofwerkpapier, en dan op die registerboek. Die bladsye vuil. Die hoeke bruin en omgekrul. Ek wonder hoekom niemand nog ooit een oggend gesê het 'Boys wat van ons was en verf die mure en maak die trappies reg', nie. En dan wonder ek of ek moet skuldig voel dat ek só dink.
 
In die kamertjie langsaan, op die vloer, staan 'n kastrol met verskillende snitte hoendervleis. Langs die kastrol 'n hoop piesangs. Vlieë oral. 'n Vrou in polisie-uniform is besig om middagete voor te berei. Dis bedompig-warm.
 
Toe ek uiteindelik weer by die motorfietse kom, staan De Witt en leer 'n handjievol seuntjies hoe om in Engels te tel. Hulle sê hulle is honger.
 
Paspoorte gestempel koes ons deur die Pointe Noire chaos tot by die see. Ons slaan kamp op op die stand, langs 'n Franse Suid-Afrikaanse gesin met drie klein kindertjies. Hulle toer nou al byna 'n jaar en 'n half deur Afrika. Daar is ook 'n Portugese paartjie wat nou al vir 'n meer as 'n jaar toer. Skielik voel ons drie-maande trip soos 'n gejaagde korttermyn-projek. Maar nou ja - mens doen wat jy kan met wat jy het.
 
Môre-oggend bel ons om te hoor waar trek ons bande.
 
 
Day 20: Cabinda to Pointe Noire
 
Today we're entering the Republic of Congo, heading towards Pointe Noire. The tires we had couriered, at great expense, from South Africa are also on their way. The DHL computer says the tires are 'in transit' - whatever that may mean. We decide not to worry or make calls about the tires until we're in Pointe Noire.
 
But first, we need to cross the border between Cabinda (an enclave belonging to Angola) and the Republic of Congo. This will be our eighth border crossing attempt.
 
As always, things start to bustle as the border approaches. Stalls and people along the road. Massive potholes, some of which you can't dodge. Zoom-ponies darting back and forth. Rows of trucks. Men in their thirties with money bags over their shoulders approach briskly, holding handfuls of notes.
 
Then a security gate opens as the guard sees us. He signals where we should park. One of the money changers claims us as his own and shows us the way.
 
The process is more or less the same every time. First, with your passport to Immigration. Then, with your motorcycle papers to Customs. Finally, a last stamp at the Police, and you're out.
 
This time, they first send us to the Police. The building is a ruin. Pieces of plaster missing from the walls. Stairs with chunks of cement gone. Dirty A4 notices on the walls, corners curled up. The constable says I must sit down.
 
I hand over our passports, and he starts writing.
 
S l o w l y.
 
L e t t e r  b y  l e t t e r.
 
First on a piece of rough paper, then in the register book. The pages are dirty. The corners brown and curled. I wonder why no one has ever said 'Hey everybody, let's paint the walls and fix the stairs'. And then I wonder whether I should feel guilty for thinking this way.
 
In the room next door, on the floor, there's a pot with different cuts of chicken. Next to the pot, a pile of bananas. Flies everywhere. A woman in police uniform is preparing lunch. It's stiflingly hot.
 
When I finally return to the motorcycles, De Witt is teaching a handful of little boys how to count in English. They say they're hungry.
 
With our passports stamped, we navigate through the Pointe Noire chaos until we reach the sea. We set up camp on the beach, next to a French South African family with three small children. They've been touring Africa for almost a year and a half now. There's also a Portuguese couple who have been touring for more than a year. Suddenly, our three-month trip feels like a rushed short-term project. But well, you do what you can with what you have.
 
Tomorrow morning, we'll call to find out where our tires are.

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

​​(English translation below)

Dag 19: Boma na Cabinda
 
Ons groet die Kongo-rivier en die reuseskepe wat in die Boma hawe vasgemeer is, en neem die pad uit die dorp uit in Cabinda se rigting. Die pad kronkel nuutgeteer tussen koppies en valleie. Enige motorfietsryer se droom. Die Ier waarmee ons 'n paar dae gelede oor die telefoon gepraat het, wat ook op sy motorfiets hierdeur is, moet verkeerd wees: hier's verseker nie sandpad nie!
 
Ons sluk ons woorde toe ons by Kitombe verby is. Die teerpad stop skielik en 'n netwerk van diksandpaaie neem oor. Gelukkig het ons tussen Ruacana en Xangango, in Suidelike Angola, ons diksand vuurdoop gehad, dink ons. Hierdie kan nie só erg wees nie. Maar hoe verder ons ry, hoe dikker word die sand en hoe deurmekaarder word die GPS. Geen kaart kan tred hou met waarheen hierdie paadjies oppad is nie!
 
Behalwe natuurlik die kaart in De Witt se kop. De Witt verdwaal nie. Hy kan aanvoel wanneer die GPS die pad byster raak nog lánk voor 'n gewone mens onraad sal merk. Ons volg De Witt se aanvoeling en die Franse gebare van die mense langs die pad en kronkel-en-slinger met horte se stote voort deur die diksand.
 
Skielik kom 'n volgelaaide Corolla voluit van voor af in die tweespoorpad. Hy wil sy momentum behou sodat hy nie vassit nie, so daar's geen genade vir wie ookal van voor af kom nie. Ek probeer oor die middelman na die regterspoor want ek sien die ou neig na links. Maar die middelmansand is nóg dikker en sagter en net toe die Corolla verbyskuur, verloor ek my balans en val om, die motorfiets op my voet. Skeefgedraai by die enkel op 'n manier wat my behoorlik vaspen. Dis te seer om te roer, maar ek weet niks is af nie. De Witt hardloop nader en lig die fiets sodat ek kan wegrol. 'n Bakkie vol mense stop. Help om die fiets op te tel. Wuif en ry verder. Ons blaas ons bande af om meer traksie in die sand te kry en ry nadenkend verder. Daar soveel wat verkeerd kan gaan op so 'n trip. Die stewels, en die Voorsienigheid, was aan ons kant.
 
Cabinda is 'n stukkie Angola ingeprop tussen die DRC en die Republiek van Kongo. Olie-politiek. Die grensoorstekery gaan oraait. Dit neem maar twee ure as mens gelukkig is.
 
In die dorp moet ons petrol kry en ons sien weer vulstasie ná vulstasie wat droog staan. Dan skielik weer een met 'n ellelange swetterjoel van zoem-ponies en ou karre wat wie weet hoe lank al staan en wag. 'n Wag wink ons vorentoe en beduie dat ons verby almal moet ry tot reg voor teenaan die pomp. Niemand kla of skel of beduie of gooi ons met goed nie. Trouens, daar word gewaai en fotos geneem en uitgevra. Een of twee zoem-ruiters wat kan Engels praat kom nader, vind uit oor die motorfietse, hoe vinnig hulle kan ry, hoe ver ons trip is, hoe lank dit ons gaan vat. Soos ons vertel word die nuus na agter versprei en nuwe vrae word weer vorentoe aangestuur. Groot opwinding en meelewing. Om Afrika te deurkruis gryp verbeeldings aan.
 
Die aand, na alles, toe ons vis eet en oor die dag gesels, wonder ons oor ons aanvanklike hipotese dat dit 'wit bevoorregting' is wat ons voorrang by die petrolpompe laat geniet. Sênou dis bloot net gasvryheid? Mense se gulhartigheid wat aan gaste, wat duidelik ver gereis het, die beste wil voorsit? Die risiko is dat ons onsself só blind kan staar teen ons eie lens van sin-maak uit wit en swart, en die ou-ou skuldgevoelens van ons Suid-Afrikaanse geskiedenis, dat ons die medemenslikheid en vrygewigheid van die mense hier reg rondom ons kan mis. So leer mens.
 
Day 19: Boma to Cabinda
 
We bid farewell to the Congo River and the giant ships anchored in the Boma harbour, and hit the road towards Cabinda. The road winds freshly-paved between hills and valleys. Every motorcyclist's dream. The Irishman we spoke to on the phone a few days ago, who has passed along this same route on his motorcycle, must be mistaken: There's definitely no sand road here!
 
We swallow our words as soon as we pass Kitombe. The asphalt road suddenly ends, and a network of sandy tracks takes over. Fortunately, we had our baptism by sand between Ruacana and Xangango in Southern Angola, we think. This can't be as bad. But the farther we go, the thicker the sand becomes, and the more confused the GPS gets. No map can keep up with where these paths are heading!
 
Except, of course, the map in De Witt's head. De Witt doesn't get lost. He can sense when the GPS is losing its way long before an ordinary person would notice anything. We follow De Witt's instincts, and the French hand gestures of the people along the road, and continue to squiggle through the thick sand.
 
Suddenly, a fully loaded Corolla charges down the two-track path from ahead. It wants to maintain its momentum so as not to get stuck, so there's no mercy for anyone in its way. I try to move to the right-hand track, over the middleman, because I see the Corolla veering left. But the middleman-sand is even thicker and softer, and just as the Corolla brushes by me, I lose my balance and fall, the motorcycle on my foot. Twisted at the ankle in a way that pins me down properly. It hurts too much to move, but I know nothing is broken. De Witt rushes over and lifts the bike so I can roll away. A pickup truck full of people stops. They help lift the bike. They wave and drive on. We deflate our tires to get more traction in the sand and continue in silence. Thinking. There's so much that can go wrong on such a trip. The boots, and providence, were on our side.
Cabinda is a piece of Angola sandwiched between the DRC and the Republic of Congo. Oil politics. Crossing the border is okay. We've learned now that it takes two hours if things go smooth.
 
In town, we need to get petrol, and again we see one petrol station after another standing dry. Then, suddenly, a petrol station with a long line of zoom-ponies and old cars, that have been waiting for who knows how long, appears. A guard waves us forward and signals us to drive past everyone right up to the pump. No one complains or curses or throws things at us. In fact, there are waves, photos taken, and inquiries. One or two moped riders who can speak English approach us, find out about the motorcycles, how fast they can go, the distance of our trip, how long it will take us. As we tell them, the news spreads to the back, and new questions are sent forward. Great excitement and empathy. Crossing Africa sparks imaginations.
 
That evening, after eating fish and talking about the day, we wonder about our initial hypothesis that it's "white privilege" that lets us have priority at the gas pumps. What if it's merely hospitality? People's generosity, wanting to offer the best to guests who have clearly travelled from afar? The risk is that we can become so fixated on our own lens of making meaning of black and white dynamics, tainted by the old-old guilt of our South African history, that we might miss the humanity and generosity right here, staring us in the face. And so we learn as we go.

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

​​(English translation below)

Dag 18: Chaos in Matadi
 
Om ons Matadi-belewenis te beskryf voel onmoontlik. Hoe kan mens in woorde iets vervat wat jyself nog nooit eers kon verbeel nie? Waarvoor jy geen bestaande kategorieë van sin-maak het nie?
 
Ek sal met 'n foto begin wat ek in my kop geneem het, dan uitzoom. Dis van jong man se gesig. Sopnat gesweet. 'n Wanhopige vasbyt in sy oë. Soos iemand wat niks meer krag ooorhet nie, maar weet daar is geen einde in sig nie. Slegs aanhou voortbeur. Hy bestuur 'n geel Keweseki drie-wiel vragmotorfietsie. Tot barstens toe gestapel met waterkanne. Vier goedhartiges wat loop en stoot van agter af. Die kronkelpas uit.
 
Nou bietjie uitzoom. Rondom die Keweseki is nog omtrent 'n duisend motorfietsies en Keweseki's. Met passasiers en goedere, van haarnaalde tot skeepsankers, en lewendige bokke en varke en hoenders met toue vasgebind vir later se maal. En drie 26-ton vragmotors, twee oppad op, en een oppad af. Een het gebreek, en toe die ander twee probeer verbyskuur, sit hulle vas tussen die rotswande langs die pad. Dis 42 grade celcius met 100% humiditeit.
 
Soos 'n geblokkeerde filter het die motorfietsies teen die vragmotormuur begin vasdruk in beide rigtings: een lot oppad bergop, die ander lot oppad af. Stywer en stywer teen mekaar ingewikkel totdat niemand links of regs of vorentoe of agtertoe kon beweeg nie. Ons was oppad af. Vir omtrent 'n uur het ons en ons mede vasgedruktes so gestaan en stoom en sweet.
 
Later het 'n man begin beheer neem. Die een vragmotor gekry om 'n duim vorentoe te beweeg die opdraende uit. Eers een, en toe nog 'n offisier met AK 47's het kom help. Die afdrukkende massa beveel om agteruit te beweeg sodat die vragmotor nog 'n duim vorentoe kan kom. Dis maklik: swaai 'n AK en mense beweeg teen die wette van swaartekrag. Ons swaar motorfietse kon nie agteruit nie. Maar die massa moet terug en helpende hande van voor en agter stoot en trek ons ysterkamele agtertoe. Deernis in hulle verstaan van ons tameletjie al is ons teenwoordigheid en reuse-fietse en pantserklere totaal onverstaanbaar.
 
Nou word almal van onder en bo in twee rye enkelgelid miere gekanaliseer sodat die spul kan vloei. Dis toe dat die outjie van voor se gesig my oog vang, en ek my denkbeeldige foto neem. Beseffende dat die armende drommel se Keweseki nie wil loop nie, maar hy móét vorentoe.
 
Nog meer uitzoom: Matadi lê teen die heuwels aan die Suidelike oewer van die Kongo-rivier. Naby genoeg aan die reuse riviermonding dat groot skepe hul vragte daar kan aflaai om per vragmotor na Kinshasha vervoer te word. Daar is ook 'n brug, die enigste brug vir honderde kilometer, oor die rivier, wat beteken die goedere kan ook aan die ander kant van die rivier na Brazzaville vervoer word.
 
En die hoofpad vir al die tonne en tonne twintig- en veertig-voet skeepshouers vol goedere en roumateriale wat die DRC met die res van die wêreld verbind, loop reg deur die middel van Matadi. 'n Pad so breed soos Pierneefstraat in Pretoria. Soms smaller, want daar is stalletjies van hout en plastiek en 'n wemeling van mense langs die pad. En die wegvreet van jare se verbrokkeling maak hom ál nouer.
 
Later, natgesweet en effens in skok, ry ons oor die brug en hou aan die ander kant stil om die eeue-oue rivier te waardeer. Die diepste ter wêreld. Sy pad deur die kontinent gekalwe soos wat die mense van Matadi hulle weg moet vind tussendeur vragmotors waarvoor daar eintlik 'n verbypad moes gewees het.
 
Nog een foto: 'n Dogtertjie, seker so tien jaar oud, met haar klein boetie aan die hand. Beide in netjiese skoolkleertjies oppad huistoe. Hulle skuur doodluiters by die drukkende chaos verby. Die vragmotorwiele meer as dubbel hulle hoogte.
 
 
Day 18: Chaos in Matadi
 
Describing our experience in Matadi feels impossible. How can one put into words something you've never even imagined? Something for which you have no existing sense-making categories?
 
I'll start with a mental image that I captured, then zoom out. It's of a young man's face. Drenched in sweat. Desperation in his eyes. Like someone who has no strength left but knows there's no end in sight. Only the relentless continuation. He's driving a yellow Keweseki three-wheel cargo motorcycle, loaded to the brim with water containers. Four kind-hearted souls pushing from behind. Upwards along the twisting mountain pass.
 
Now, let's zoom out a bit. Around the Keweseki, there are approximately a thousand motorcycles and Kewesekis. With passengers and goods, from hairpins to ship anchors, and live goats and pigs and chickens, tied up for dinner later. And three 26-ton trucks, two going up, and one coming down. One broke down, and when the other two tried to overtake it, they got stuck between the rocky walls along the road. It's 42 degrees Celsius with 100% humidity.
 
Like a clogged filter, the motorcycles started pressing up against the wall of trucks in both directions: one crowd going uphill, the other downhill. They pressed tighter and tighter against each other until no one could move left or right or forward or backward. We were going downhill. For about an hour, we and our fellow stuck ones, stood there, steaming and sweating.
 
Later, a man took control. He got one of the trucks to move an inch forward up the hill. First one, and then another officer with AK-47s came to help. The pressing mass was ordered to move backward so the truck could inch forward again. It's easy: swing an AK, and people move against the laws of gravity. Our heavy motorcycles couldn't move backward. But the mass had to move back, and helping hands from the front and rear pushed and pulled our packing camels backward. They understood our predicament, even though our presence and giant bikes and armoured clothing were utterly incomprehensible.
 
Now, everyone was channelled into two single-file rows from above and below, like ants, so things could flow. It was then that the face of the young man caught my eye, and I took my imaginary photo, realizing that the poor fellow's Keweseki had stopped running, but he had to move forward.
 
Zoom out even more: Matadi lies against the hills on the southern bank of the Congo River. Close enough to the massive river mouth that large ships can unload their cargo there, to be transported further to Kinshasa by truck. There's also a bridge over the river, the only bridge for hundreds of kilometers, which means goods can also be transported to Brazzaville on the other side of the river.
 
The main road connecting the DRC with the rest of the world for all the tons and tons of twenty- and forty-foot shipping containers full of goods and raw materials runs right through the middle of Matadi - a road as wide as Pierneef Street in Pretoria. Sometimes narrower because there are stalls made of wood and plastic and a throng of people along the road. And the erosion of years makes it even narrower.
 
Later, drenched in sweat and somewhat in shock, we drove across the bridge and stopped on the other side to appreciate the ancient river. The deepest in the world. Its path carved through the continent just as the people of Matadi have to find their way through the trucks that should have had a bypass.
 
One more photo: A little girl, maybe around ten years old, holding her little brother's hand. Both in neat school uniforms on their way home. They navigate the daily chaos in their stride. The truck wheels more than twice their height.

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

​​(English translation below)

Dag 16 en 17: Mbanza-Kongo
 
Ons is tot twee dae en drie nagte se laaglê gevonnis in Mbanza-Kongo. Hoe sit mens só lank stil as die onbekende wink? Heimlik weet ons (hoop ons) dat die geforseerde sit en wag ons sal help om in Afrika se tydsritme te kom.
 
Ons moet kontant en petrol kry, in daardie volgorde. Blykbaar is die kitsbank net om die draai. Ons eet ontbyt en stap uit in die strate. Dis vervalle. Alles hier spreek van 'n vervalle moedigheid. Geboue en karre en motorfietse en strate en kragkabels word met spreekwoordelike 'ductape en cable ties' aanmekaar gehou. In Pretoria is ons die enigste mense met 'n 1990 Rav4 wie ek ken - hier wemel dit van hulle. En ou Corollas. Geroes en afgeskuur en aanmekaargelap, maar hulle loop.
 
Die eerste kitsbank se kontant is op. Die sekuriteitsman beduie vriendelik waar die volgende een is. Die lang en geduldige tou mense, twee blokke verder, wys dat die volgende kitsbank wel nog kontant het - gelukkig is daar genoeg om vir ons ook iets uit te kan spoeg!
 
Nou petrol. Gister oppad grens toe was ons petrol al laag, maar een vulstasie was leeg, en by die ander een was daar 'n saamkloek van maklik 500 motorfietsies waarvoor ons nie toe kans gesien het nie.
 
Ons stop by Pumangol - die leë een. Die petroljoggie sê hulle petrol kom eers Dinsdag, en Sonangol is ook leeg vandag. Vandag is Sondag. Dinsdag vroeg wil ons al ry vir ons tweede probeerslag oor die DRC grens. Ons parkeer buite die winkeltjie (die quickshop soos ons dit in Suid-Afrika ken) en bestel koffie om ons opsies te oorweeg. Ons het elkeen omtrent nog so 70km se petrol in ons tenks, reken ons. As ons die ses liter noodpetrol wat ons elkeen saamdra ingooi, kan ons dit dalk net-net maak tot by Matadi in die DRC. Mits ons stadig ry. En bid.
 
Skielik staan die petroljoggie hier by ons. Hy sê iets in Portugees en ons hoor die woord 'gasolina' en die intonasie van 'n vraagteken, en ons verstaan onmiddellik: Hulle gaan vir ons 'n bietjie petrol uittap. Special treament. Terwyl 'n ry karre al van gister af stil-geduldig in die straat staan en wag vir Dinsdag. Dit neem omtrent 'n halfuur om die pompe êrens van 'n sentrale punt af aangeskakel te kry, en dan, soos die weduwee se kruik, maak hulle albei motorfietse se tenks tot oorlopens toe vol. Ons gevoel is dadelik: wit bevoorregting. Maar  nie een van ons was op daardie stadium polities korrek genoeg om die aanbod te weier en vir drie dae agter in die ry te gaan staan nie.
 
Die res van die tyd in Mbanza-Kongo bestaan uit blog-skryf (ek) en lees (De Witt) en motorfietse diens en gesels. De Witt lees oor die geskiedenis van die dorp wat die koningklike sentrum vir 'n reuse gedeelte van die Kongo-basin was. Eeue gelede. Voordat die Portugese dit oorgeneem en vir 'n wyle Sao Salvador gedoop het.
 
Toe dit tyd raak om te ry besef ons ons het in drie dae nogal rustig geraak. Die hotelmense leer ken. Trouens, die kombuistannies het, as 'n afskeidsgebaar, vir ons 'n reuse hoendergereg voorberei die aand voor ons vertrek en gretig deur die luik geloer en lag toe hulle ons aangenaam-verbaasde gesigte sien!
 
Soms help dit om gedwing te word om stil te staan. 'n Plek te beleef. Afrika-tyd te waardeer.
 
Day 16 and 17: Mbanza-Kongo
 
We've been sentenced to two days and three nights of downtime in Mbanza-Kongo. How does one sit still for so long when the unknown is waiting? Secretly, we know (hope) that the forced waiting will help us get into Africa's rhythm of time.
 
We need cash and petrol, in that order. Apparently, the ATM is just around the corner. We have breakfast and step out into the streets. It's run-down. Everything here speaks of a dilapidated resilience. Buildings, cars, motorcycles, streets, and power cables are held together with proverbial 'duct tape and cable ties.' In Pretoria, we are the only people I know who still owns a 1990 Rav4. Here, they're everywhere. And old Corollas. Rusty and patched up, but they run.
 
The first ATM is out of cash. The security guard kindly points us to the next one. The long and patient queue of people, two blocks away, shows that the next ATM still has some cash - fortunately enough for us too!
 
Now petrol. Yesterday, on our way to the border, our petrol was already running low, but one station was empty, and the other one had a mass gathering of easily 500 motorcycles, jostling for petrol.
 
We stop at Pumangol - the empty one. The petrol attendant says their petrol won't arrive until Tuesday, and Sonangol is also empty today. Today is Sunday. We plan to leave early on Tuesday for our second attempt at crossing the DRC border. We park outside the shop (the quick shop as we know it in South Africa) and order coffee to consider our options. We reckon that we have about 70km of petrol left in our tanks. If we pour the six litres of emergency petrol we each carry, we might just make it to Matadi in the DRC. If we drive slowly. And pray.
 
Suddenly, the gas station attendant is with us. He says something in Portuguese, and we hear the word 'gasolina' and the tone of a question mark, and we immediately understand: They're going to siphon some petrol for us. Special treatment. While a line of cars has been patiently waiting in the street since yesterday for Tuesday. It takes about half an hour to get the pumps started from some central point somewhere, and then, like the widow's jar, they fill both motorcycle tanks to the brim. Our immediate feeling was: white privilege. But none of us were politically correct enough at that point to refuse the offer and wait for three days at the back of the line.
 
The rest of our time in Mbanza-Kongo consists of blogging (me) and reading (De Witt) and servicing motorcycles and chatting. De Witt reads about the history of the town, which was once the royal center for a large part of the Congo basin. Centuries ago. Before the Portuguese took it over and renamed it Sao Salvador for a while.
 
When it's time to leave, we realize we've actually slowed down in these three days. And we've gotten to know the hotel staff. In fact, the kitchen ladies, as a farewell gesture, prepared a huge chicken dish for us the evening before our departure, eagerly peeking and laughing through the hatch when they saw our pleasantly surprised faces!
 
Sometimes it helps to be forced to stand still. To experience a place. To appreciate Africa time.

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

​​(English translation below)

Dag 15: DRC toe. Of nie...
 
Die vroeg-oggend reën het in 'n aangename motreëntjie verander teen die tyd dat ons uit Nzeto vertrek het. Ons moes eers petrol soek want die vorige middag was een petrolstasie droog, en die voor die ander een was 'n ellelange ry motorfietsies waarvoor ons nie kans gesien het nie. Gelukkig het alles mooi geloop vanoggend en is ons so teen tienuur met vol tenks petrol en elkeen 'n stuk ham-broodjie in die maag, en nóg een in die sak, daar weg.
 
Die plan: Ry tot by Mbanza-Kongo en besluit dan of ons wil deurdruk grens toe of nie.
 
Die teerpaaie is plek-plek só verweer van die slaggate dat mens tweede-rat-stadig daar moet deur. Die laaste ding wat ons wil hê is om 'n rim te buig!
 
Die landskap golf al hoe meer en die pad kronkel deur kliprantjies wat later heuwels word. Ons bereik Mbanza-Kongo (die plek van die Kongo-konings) teen middagete en besluit om die 60km grens toe wel aan te pak.
 
Omtrent elke vyf tot tien kilometer ry mens deur strepies modderhutte weerskante van die pad. Ma's met baba's wat vraend opkyk. 'n Paar mans op stoele en kratte in die koelte wat breed glimlag en waai. Maer honde wat skeef-skeef draf. Hoenders en bokke. Opgewonde kindertjies.
 
Skielik raak dit besig. Die klein motorfietsies raak meer, die stalletjies met vrugte en groente en vleis raak besiger. Taxi-bussies. Koes-koes vleg ons deur die malende mense. Kan ons al by die grens wees?
 
Ons sien 'n hek oor die pad en vind parkeerplek. Iemand beduie dat een van ons moet inkom met die paspoorte. Die ander een moet buite by die motorfietse wag. Ná omtrent 'n driekwartier is ons uit Angola gestempel. Die hekpoorte na die die DRC gaan oop, en ons ry ons vas in 'n muur van mense en taxis en motorfietsies en vragmotors. Sommige briesend aan't beduie dat hulle wil deurkom Angola se kant toe. Ander stamp en beur vorentoe en agtertoe en ons kan nie kop of stert van die chaos uitmaak nie. Daar is plastiek-skuilings en mense wat sit en lê en verkoop en smokkel en raas en skree langs die pad. Ons kruie maar vorentoe en sien wat kom.
 
"Dís nou niemandsland," sê De Witt oor ons valhelm-interkom. "Kyk hier wil jy nie slaap vanaand nie."
 
Verbeel jou mens kom deur die een land se grens en die ander land wil jou nie hê nie! 'n Koue rilling teen my ruggraat af.
 
Meteens 'n klein bruggie. Die stroom van mense en voertuie sleep ons oor en aan die ander kant 'n groot Kongolese man in uniform wat ons met 'n breë glimlag naderwink. Kan seker die skok en verwardheid op ons gesigte sien. Hy bekyk vlugtig ons paspoorte, geelkoorskaarte en motorfietspapiere terwyl 'n omie een of ander tuisgemaakte brousel aan my wil verkoop. Dan jaag hy die omie weg en chaperone ons reg deur die proses tot by die laaste stap waar ons nou net bietjie moet wag vir ons paspoorte om gestempel te word.
 
Ons sit en wag dat die sweet ons aftap. Hierdie is warm, bedompige wêreld.
 
Ons wag.
 
En ons wag.
 
Later kom 'n doeane-beampte en beduie ons moet hom volg die gebou in en die trappe op tot by die hoof se kantoor. Ons sit weer en wag. En sweet.
 
Uiteindelik word ons binnegenooi en 'n streng dog hoflike man, duidelik die baas, beduie dat ons moet sit. Hy hou beide ons paspoorte vas en vra wie's Jean? Hy sê my visum is reg en daar is geen probleem nie. Dan vra hy wie's Johann. De Witt sê dis hy en die man bekyk hom bo-oor sy brilraam aan. "With you there's a problem. Your visa is only valid from 3 October, which is three days from now. So you must go back to Angola and come again in three days. No problem."
 
Vir 'n oomblik probeer ek my verbeel hoe op dees aarde ons hierdie drukstroom oor die grens weer kan aandurf - en dít in tru-rat.
 
Ons smeek en soebat en hy vra dat ons buite sal wag sodat hy sy baas kan bel. Maar die gesprek hou te lank aan en toe hy ons terugroep en meedeel dat ons inderdaad vir drie dae sal moet wag, besef ons die kalf is in die put: ons sal moet terug. Dit vat lank om ons stempels weer om te keer en ons weet die Angola grens gaan toemaak. Skielik raak 'n nag in niemandsland 'n uiters moontlike werklikheid.
 
Maar gelukkig vergesel nóg 'n vriendelike doeane-man ons al die pad terug tot aan die Angola-kant om die situasie te verduidelik, en toe ons weer sien is ons terug in Angola, terug oppad Mbanza-Kongo toe, sonder dat ons teruggestempel is, want die doeane-manne in Angola was nie lus vir 'n onnodige ekstra gestempellery hier aan die einde van die dag nie.
 
In Mbanza-Kongo aangekom, stop ons by die leë petrolstasie (die ander een was 'n saamdrommende chaos) om koeldrank te koop en te dink aan slaapplek. Dit was al lankal donker. 'n Groepie vriende by 'n tafeltjie beskou die twee moeë wit vreemdelinge en koop terstond vir ons elkeen drie biere, twee vir dadelik en een vir saamvat, en beduie aan 'n jongeling om ná die lafenis voor ons uit te ry op sy zoem-ponie en ons te wys waar die Hotel Kongo is.
 
Wat 'n dag! Maar ons slaap vir R250 per persoon, elkeen op 'n bed, ná 'n warm stort en 'n bord vars vis en rys. Soveel om voor dankbaar te wees.
 
Day 15: To the DRC. (Or not...)
 
The early morning rain had turned into a pleasant drizzle by the time we left Nzeto. We had to find petrol first, because the previous afternoon one petrol station was dry, and the other one had a long line of motorcycles that we didn't want to deal with. Luckily, everything went smoothly, and by around ten o'clock we had full tanks of petrol, a ham sandwich in our stomachs and an extra one in our bags.
 
The plan: Drive to Mbanza-Kongo and then decide whether we want to push on to the border or not.
 
The paved roads are occasionally so worn by potholes that we have to drop down to second geart. The last thing we want is to bend a rim!
 
The landscape undulates, and the road winds through rocky outcrops that later become hills. We reach Mbanza-Kongo (the place of the Kongo kings) around lunchtime and decide to tackle the 60km to the border.
 
Every five to ten kilometers, we drive past rows of mud huts on both sides of the road. Mothers with babies look up inquisitively, a few men sit on chairs and crates in the shade, smiling and waving. Skinny dogs trot by, chickens and goats roam around. Excited children abound.
 
Suddenly, it gets busy. The small motorcycles become more numerous, and stalls selling fruits, vegetables, and meat are everywhere. Taxi vans crowd the road. We weave our way through the bustling crowd. Can we be close to the border already?
 
We see a gate across the road and find a place to park. Someone indicates that one of us should go in with the passports, while the other stays outside with the motorcycles. After about three-quarters of an hour, we get stamped out of Angola. The gate to the DRC opens, and we drive into a wall of people, taxis, motorcycles, and trucks. Some are angrily gesturing, wanting to cross back into Angola. Others push and shove, and the chaos is bewildering. There are plastic shelters and people sitting, lying down, selling, smuggling, shouting along the road. We forge ahead to see what awaits us.
 
"This is no man's land," De Witt says over our helmet intercom. "You don't want to sleep here tonight."
 
Imagine crossing one country's border and the other country not wanting you! A chill down my spine.
 
Suddenly, a small bridge. The stream of people and vehicles carries us across, and on the other side, a big Congolese man in uniform waves us over with a broad smile. He can probably see the shock and confusion on our faces. He quickly glances at our passports, yellow fever cards, and motorcycle papers while an old man tries to sell me some homemade concoction. Then he chases the old man away and chaperones us through the process to the last step, where we have to wait a bit for our passports to be stamped.
 
We sit and wait, the heat is oppressive in this humid world.
 
We wait.
 
And we wait.
 
Later, a customs officer signals us to follow him into the building and up the stairs to the 'headmasters' office. We sit and wait again, sweating.
 
Finally, we are invited in, and a stern but polite man, clearly in charge, tells us to sit down. He holds both our passports and asks who is Jean. I say it's me. He says there's no problem with my visa. Then he asks who is Johann. De Witt says it's him, and the man looks at him over his glasses. "With you, there's a problem. Your visa is only valid from October 3rd, which is three days from now. So you must go back to Angola and come again in three days. No problem."
 
For a moment, I try to imagine how on earth we can brave this busy border crossing again - and in the wrong direction!
 
We plead and beg and he asks us to wait outside while he calls his boss. But the conversation takes too long, and when he calls us back and informs us that we do indeed have to wait for three days, we realize the die is cast: we'll have to go back.
 
It takes a long time to get our stamps reversed, and we know the Angola border will close. Suddenly, spending the night in no man's land becomes a very real possibility.
 
But fortunately, another friendly customs officer accompanies us all the way back to the Angola side to explain the situation, and before we know it, we're back in Angola, on our way to Mbanza-Kongo, without being stamped back in because the Angolan immigration officials were not interested in extra stamping at the end of the day.
 
Upon arriving in Mbanza-Kongo, we stop at the empty petrol station (the other one was a crowded mess) to buy soft drinks and think about a place to sleep. It was already dark. A group of friends at a table saw the two tired white foreigners and immediately buys three beers for each of us, two for now and one to take with us. They signal a young man on a small motorcycle to lead us to the Hotel Kongo after our beers.
 
What a day! But we sleep for R250 per person, each on a bed, after a hot shower and a plate of fresh fish and rice. So much to be grateful for.


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

​​(English translation below)

Dag 14: Nzeto
  
Nzeto is 'n vis-plek. In die baai en op die strand lê honderde skuite. Mense krioel om hulle hande op die dag se vangs te kry. Dit ruik net vis en die klanke is dié van woelende vis-mark mense, kinders wat kruis-en-dwars die oor die strand hardloop, 'n swerm zoem-ponies wat heen en weer deur die sand swiep om mense en visse heen en weer te vervoer.
 
'n Paar koppe draai as ons twee swaargelaaide Europese ysterperde stadig en onvanpas arriveer, half-versigtig op die sand verby die geroesemoes hou, en dan so half eenkant, langs die twee skeepswrakke, parkeer. Twee maanmanne met valhelms en stewels en gepantserde klere. Hulle moet dink ons is óf gek, of heeltemal verdwaal. Behalwe vir die handjievol tieners wat die motorfietse kom bewonder, is die res té besig om hulle nog aan ons ook te steur.
 
Tóg hang daar 'n sweempie weemoed oor die baai. Die verslete wrakke. Die brawe voortbeur ten spyte van die daaglikse gesukkel. (Het ek genoem dat die klein motorfietsies buite die dorp kilometers lank staan en wag vir 'n bietjie petrol? Dat die enigste ander petrolstasie droog is? Dat die teerpaaie aan die wegbrokkel is?)
 
En hier staan ons twee. Vors en wit op die einste strand waar die Portugese destyds mense kom oplaai het. Ons neem fotos vir ons genot en kruie dan weer half-onvas die vismark verby dorpie toe. Verby die verslete huisies en kaalvoetkinders. Verby die pienk kasarm van 'n goewermentsgebou. Verby die plaaslike disko waar die reuse-luidsprekers deur ons derms doem-doem dat dit nou Vrydag is. Die naweek begin en die Cuka's word geknak om die skerpkante van eeue se onthou effe sagter te maak.
 
Ons hotelletjie se bo-stoep loer oor die huisies se dakke om die see te sien. Ons drink 'n bier en gesels oor die foon met 'n Ier wat tans byna in Cameroon trek op dieselfde roete as wat ons beplan. Hy verseker ons dat die paaie rybaar is en dat ons moet ophou bekommer oor die reen. Dit reen nie. Ons maak grappies oor die rugbywêreldbeker, sê totsiens en maak klaar om by 'n restaurantjie in die straat af vis te gaan eet. Bewus en dankbaar vir die voorreg wat ons het om iets van hierdie wêreld te beleef.
 
Die volgende oggend toe ons wakkerword, reën dit.
 
Day 14: Nzeto
 
Nzeto is a fishing place. Hundreds of boats in the bay and on the beach. People flocking to get their hands on the day's catch. It smells of fish and the sounds of bustling fish market people, children celebrating the beach and swarms of zoom ponies carrying people and fish back and forth fill the air.
 
A few heads turn when our two heavily laden European motorcycles arrive slowly and out-of-place, carefully balancing through the sand, past the hubbub, and then park half to the one side, next to the two shipwrecks. Two aliens with helmets and boots and armoured clothing. They must think we are either crazy, or completely lost. Apart from the handful of teenagers who come to admire the motorbikes, the rest are too busy to pay attention to us.
 
A hint of melancholy hovers over the bay. The worn wrecks. The courage despite the daily struggle. (Did I mention that the little motorbikes park for miles outside of town, waiting for gasoline? That the only other petrol station is dry? That the asphalt roads are crumbling?)
 
And here we stand. Tall and white on the very beach where the Portuguese once came to take loads of people away. We take photos for our enjoyment and then depart, half-steady on our big bikes, past the fish market towards the village. Past the shabby houses and barefoot children. Past the huge sore thumb of a government building. Past the local disco where the giant speakers boom-boom through our guts. It is Friday. The weekend begins and the Cuka's are cracked to soften the sharp edges of centuries of memories.
 
Our little hotel's upper veranda peeks over the houses' roofs to see the sea. We drink a beer and talk on the phone with an Irishman who is currently almost in Cameroon, on the same route as we are planning. He assures us that the roads are passable and that we should stop worrying about the rain. It's not raining. We joke about the rugby world cup, say goodbye and get ready to go eat fish at a restaurant down the street. Aware and grateful for the privilege to experience something of this world.
 
The next morning when we woke up, it was raining.

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

​​(English translation below)

​​Dag 12 en 13: Luanda

Die bande waavoor ons gehooop het in Luanda, is toe supersagte Enduro resiesbande wat nie 20km sal hou onder ons swaar fietse nie. Ná 'n rondgebellery en -geryery van bakboord na stuurboord, besluit ons om tóg ons bande uit Pretoria te laat courier. Point Noire toe. Point Noire is omtrent vyf of ses dae se ry, in die Republiek van die Kongo. Die slegte nuus? Dit kos R17000. En kan tussen 8 en 20 dae vat om daar aan te kom! Nietemin, ons is baie dankbaar vir Riaan en sy span by Trax Moto in Pretoria wat ons met raad en daad bystaan!
 
Elke rusdag word gebruik om die motorfietse te versorg. Ons het pre-lugfilters in ons motorfietse geïnstalleer ten einde die ergste stof uit te filtreer voordat die lug deur die eintlike lugfilters gaan. Sodoende hoop ons dat ons nooit die groot lugfilters hoef te vervang nie. Die pre-filters word uitgehaal, met paraffien en dan met seep gewas, buite gelos om droog te word, en dan met lugfilter-olie behandel voordat dit teruggesit word.
 
Ons is behoorlik getrakteer in Luanda deur kollegas van Fransie wat by die SA Ambassade werk. Hulle het ons voorgestel aan plaaslike kundiges op die gebied van watersuiwering, wie ons uitgenooi het om by die Luanda International School te gaan praat oor ons projek, asook om 'n omgekeerde osmose-fabriek buite Luanda te besoek. Wat 'n ervaring! Die skoolkinders is self by water-projekte in Luanda betrokke, en die fabriek, wat skoon water in die hele Luanda-gebied lewer, het ons koppe behoorlik aan die dink gesit. Een van hulle produkte is 'n 'Village Pump' wat water met sonkrag uit die rivier of put pomp, skoonmaak, en dan uittap in die hoeveelheid waarvoor mens betaal. Water verbind ons aan mekaar. En as ons die rojale gebruik daarvan as vanselfsprekend wil aanvaar, moet ons bereid wees om die gevolge te dra, of verlief neem met die feit dat ons kleinkinders ons gemors sal moet uitsorteer.
 
Nog een ding oor Luanda. Behalwe nou vir die Kaapstad-atmosfeer (beide die ryk Kaap en die arm Kaap), is die verkeer en die manier waarop mense ry iets wat nie in woorde besryf kan word nie. Dit vleg en toet en zoem en druk en swenk en slinger sonder dat iemand kwaad word. Toe die stomende maalkolk van metaal en teerpad ons uiteindelik lewendig uitspoeg aan die Noordekant van die stad, oppad Nzeto toe, moes ons stop om net seker te maak dis nog ons, in ons eie lywe, lewendig en in een stuk.
 
Luanda sal ons weer sien.
 
Day 12 and 13: Luanda
 
The tires we were hoping for in Luanda ended up being super-soft Enduro racing tires that wouldn't last 20km under our heavy bikes. After a lot of phoning and driving in a wild goose chase about town, we decided to have our tires couriered from Pretoria after all. To Point Noire. Point Noire is about five or six days' riding from Luanda, in the Republic of the Congo. The bad news? It costs R17000. And can take between 8 and 20 days to arrive! Nevertheless, we are very grateful to Riaan and his team at Trax Moto in Pretoria who assisted us with advice and action.
 
Every rest day is used to take care of the motorcycles. We had pre-air filters installed in our motorcycles to filter out the worst dust before the air passes through the actual air filters. In this way, we hope that we will never have to replace the large air filters. We took out the pre-filters, washed them with paraffin and then soap, left them outside to dry, and then treated them with air filter oil before putting them back in.
 
We were gracefully received in Luanda by colleagues of Fransie who work at the SA Embassy. They introduced us to local experts in the field of water purification, who invited us to speak at the Luanda International School about our project, as well as to visit a reverse osmosis factory outside Luanda. What an experience! The school children themselves are also involved in water projects in and around Luanda, and the factory, which supplies clean water to the entire Luanda area, really got our heads thinking. One of their products is a 'Village Pump' that pumps water with solar power from the river or well, cleans it, and then taps it out according to the amount one pays for. Water connects us to each other. And if we want to take its royal use for granted, we must be willing to bear the consequences, or accept the fact that our grandchildren will have to sort out our mess.
 
One more thing about Luanda. Apart from the Cape Town atmosphere (both the rich Cape and the poor Cape), the traffic and the way people drive is something that cannot be described in words. It weaves and honks and buzzes and pushes and swerves and swings without anyone getting angry. When the steaming maelstrom of metal and tar finally spit us out alive on the Northern side of the city, on the way to Nzeto, we had to stop to make sure it was still us, in our own bodies, alive and in one piece.
 
Luanda will see us again.

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

​​(English translation below)

Dag 11: Ons aankoms in Luanda
 
As wit, middelklas Suid-Afrikaners weet ons hoe om in paralelle wêrelde te leef en onsself blind te hou vir wat ons nie wil sien nie.
 
Hier in Angola is daar ook verskillende wêrelde wat reg langs mekaar loop. Daar is die lang slap SUV's met donker ruite wat verby jou jaag en die zoemponies wat swaargelaai maar gelate 'n bestaan probeer uitkerf. Daar is die vyfster-hotelle en die ingerygde hutte met maer honde en bokke en hoenders en kaalvoetkinders. Daar is die toeriste-uitkykpunte oor die Atlantiese oseaan reg waar die Weste destyds skeepsvragte vol mense opgelaai en as slawe weggevoer het.
 
Angola is 'n land van kontraste waarvan ons min geweet het, behalwe dat ons pa's se generasie destyds hier kom veg het.
 
Vroeër vandag, toe ons 'n blaaskans soek, het De Witt 'n klein paadjie gevind wat tot reg langs die see loop waar plaaslike vissers hulle nette regmaak en die vis op droograkke uitpak. Dit was 'n kortstondige ontmoeting met 'n wêreld wat al eeue bestaan, maar waarby mens gewoonlik net verbysnel op die hoofpad. Toe ons stop en afklim, sien 'n klompie tienerseuns die motorfietse en vra of hulle maar kan kyk, foto's neem, voel, oplim. 'n Oomblik om aan 'n konkrete artifak van 'n skynbaar onaantasbare wêreld te kan vat.
 
Hoe min weet ons nie van Afrika nie? Vir my was enigiets Noord van Namibië nog altyd net 'n dowwe begrip van donker, gevaarlike Afrika. Eers nou, met die onvermydelike ontmoeting van wêrelde wat ons ekspedisie ons bied, begin ons oë stadig oopgaan vir die polsende bestaan van kleure, klanke, geure en teksture van Afrika in Luanda, Angola. 'n Plek om weer en weer te kom besoek.
 
Day 11: Our arrival in Luanda
 
As white, middle-class South Africans, we know how to live in parallel universes and keep ourselves blind to what we don't want to see.
 
Here in Angola there are also different universes that run right next to each other. There are the long lanky SUVs with dark windows that rush past you, and the zoom-ponies that are heavily laden but eagerly trying to carve out a living. There are the five-star hotels and the shacks with skinny dogs and goats and chickens and barefoot children. There are the tourist lookouts over the Atlantic ocean, right where the West abducted shiploads of people as slaves.
 
Angola is a country of contrasts that we knew little about, except that our fathers' generation came here to fight.
 
Earlier today, when we were looking for a break, De Witt found a small path that runs right along the sea where local fishermen mend their nets and unpack the fish on drying racks. It was a brief encounter with a world that has existed for centuries, but which one usually only passes by on the main road. When we stopped and got off, a group of teenage boys saw the motorbikes and asked if they could look, take pictures, feel, mount. A moment to touch a concrete artifact of a seemingly untouchable world.
 
How little do we know about Africa? For me, anything North of Namibia has always been just a vague notion of dark, dangerous Africa. Only now, with the inevitable meeting of worlds that our expedition offers us, our eyes slowly begin to open to the pulsating existence of colours, sounds, flavours and textures of Africa in Luanda, Angola. A place to visit again and again.

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

​​(English translation below)
​
Dag 10: Die see
 
Ons was genadig met onsself vandag. Slegs 180km op mooi teerpad vanaf Lobito na Sumbe. Kusdorpe. Seelug. 'n Vakansiegevoel.
 
In Sumbe het ons by 'n restaurant reg langs die strand middagete gehad terwyl twee jong mans ons motorfietse gewas het. Die mense hier is vriendelik en gretig. Maar arm. Alhoewel ons ekspedisietjie nie juis 'n inspuiting vir die plaaslike ekonomie is nie, kan ons darem hier en daar aan iemand die geleentheid bied om ietsie ekstra te verdien.
 
Van geld gepraat. Om te betaal is moeilik in Angola. Ons kaarte werk op meeste betaalmasjiene nie. Beide Visa én Mastercard sukkel. Dan moet mens kontant trek, maar die kitsbanke het baiekeer óf nie kontant nie, óf hulle stelsel is af, óf hulle aanvaar nie internasionale kaarte nie. Die oord-bestuurder van die Marulho Resort waar ons oornag het, moes my na drie kitsbanke in die dorp neem om geld te probeer trek.
 
'n Kort rydag. 'n Koue bier. 'n Swembad. Dis lekker by die see. Ons geniet hierdie luukshede vir oulaas, wetende dat die Kongo en die oerwoud en die reën en die modderpaaie en die Malaria-muskiete vir ons lê en wag.
 
Ons het die motorfietse se lugfilters vervang, die kettings versorg en die bande gepomp. Mens en masjien beide verfris en reg vir die twee dae op Luanda toe.
 
Day 10: The sea
 
We were kind to ourselves today. Only 180km on a tarred road from Lobito to Sumbe. Coastal towns. Sea ​​air. A holiday feeling.
 
In Sumbe we had lunch at a restaurant right next to the beach, while two young men washed our motorbikes. The people here are friendly and eager. But poor. Although our little expedition is not exactly an injection for the local economy, we can at least offer someone here and there the opportunity to earn a little extra.
 
Speaking of money. Paying is difficult in Angola. Our cards don't work on most payment machines. Both Visa and Mastercards are struggling. Then you have to withdraw cash, but the ATMs often either don't have cash, or their systems are down, or they don't accept international cards. The resort manager of the Marulho Resort where we spent the night had to take me to three ATMs in town to try to withdraw money.
 
A short driving day. A cold beer. A swimming pool. It's 'lekker' at the sea. We enjoy these luxuries while they last, knowing that the Congo and the jungle and the rain and the mud roads and the Malaria mosquitoes are waiting for us.
 
We replaced the motorbikes' air filters, serviced the chains and pumped up the tyres. Man and machine both refreshed and ready for the two days North towards Luanda.

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

​​(English translation below)

Dag 9: Lubango na Lobito
 
'n Lang, warm dag. Ons moes eintlik gerus het vandag. In Lubango het ons eers die berg opgery tot by die reuse Jesus-standbeeld wat oor die stad waak. Hulle sê Lubango is die Kaap sonder 'n see. Dis seker waar, maar een nag op 'n plek is te min om werklik enige opinie te vorm.
 
Nadat ons voorrade by Shoprite gekoop en die klein zoemende motorfietsies (soms met drie mense op, soms 'n paar varke of hoenders, 'n deurkosyn, 'n sak meel, 'n rol sinkplaat) trotseer het, vat ons die pad Benguela toe. 'n Pad met reuse slaggate wat jou soms eerste-rat toe dwing net om deur die goed te kom.
 
Ná omtrent drie ure in die saal moet ons rus. Dis warm. Ons lywe is seer. Afrika is 'n groot stuk aarde en mens ry nie hoofweg nie (al ís dit die hoofweg). De Witt sien 'n boom langs die pad en ons trek af, maak ons kampstoeltjies los, en sit omtrent 'n uur en rus, eet droëwors en hot-cross-buns en drink baie water. 'n Klossie kindertjies met groot wit oë staan op 'n afstand en loer. Nuuskierig oor hierdie twee vreemdes se manier van wees hier onder húlle boom. Die nuuskierigheid is só groot mens kan skaars piepie, want draai jy jou rug skuifel die toeskouertjies na regs om te kan sién.
 
Hoe nader ons aan die kus beweeg, hoe meer verander die landskap. Wat eers karoo-veld was, word stadigaan kremetartboom-wêreld, en later tipiese Kaapse weskus-fynbos. Die oorbewyding laat dit kaal en wit lyk.
 
Ons stop om ons petrolsakke vol te maak want mens weet nie wanneer mens weer petrol kry nie. Dit word donker op die pad tussen Benguala en Lobito. Ons moenie weer in die donker ry nie. Nege ure op die pad gewees vandag.
 
Die kampplek wat ons aanbeveel is, is reg op die partytjiestrand van Lobito. Dit pomp! En die parkeerplek vir die motorfietse is reg in die wemelende straat. So ons gooi ons lywe soos moeë sakke mieliemeel oor die saals, en kruie tussen die zoemponies deur na die naaste hotel.
 
Betaal, afpak, stort, eet, slaap.
 
Môre sal ons die see kan sien. Ons is aan die Weskus van Afrika.
 
 
 
Day 9: Lubango to Lobito
 
A long, hot day. We should have rested today. In Lubango, we first drove up the mountain to the giant Jesus statue that watches over the city. They say Lubango is the Cape without a sea. That's probably true, but one night in a place is too short to really form any opinion.
 
After buying supplies at Shoprite and braving the little buzzing motorbikes (sometimes with three people on them, sometimes a couple of pigs or chickens, a door frame, a bag of cornmeal, a roll of corrugated iron), we hit the road to Benguela. A road with giant potholes that sometimes force you into first gear just to get through.
 
After about three hours in the saddle, we had to rest. It's hot. Our bodies hurt. Africa is a big piece of earth and you don't drive at highway speeds (even if it ís the highway). De Witt saw a tree by the side of the road and we pulled over, untied our camping chairs, and sat and rested for about an hour, eating droëwors (dry sausage) and hot-cross buns and drinking lots of water. A bunch of little children, with big white eyes, stood at a distance and peered. Curious about these two strangers' way of being here under their tree. The curiosity was so strong that you could barely pee, because if you turned your back, the spectators shuffled to the right to séé.
 
The closer we moved to the coast, the more the landscape changed. What was once Karoo veld slowly filled with baobabs, and later became typical Cape west coast fynbos. Bare and white from over-grazing.
 
We stopped to fill our gasoline bags, because you never know when you will get gasoline again. It was getting dark on the road between Benguela and Lobito. We mustn't drive in the dark again. Been on the road for nine hours today.
 
The campsite that had been recommended to us, was right on the party beach of Lobito. It pumped! But the motorbikes had to be parked right on the teeming street. So we threw our bodies like tired sacks of cornmeal over the saddles, and slogged among the zooming ponies to the nearest hotel.
 
Pay, unpack, shower, eat, sleep.
 
Tomorrow we will be able to see the sea. We are on the West Coast of Africa.

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