From the moment we crossed the border into Cameroon we knew we were in a different country. What is about these countries that makes each one so individual and different? Most certainly the peoples' features, their facial markings, their dress, their architecture and style of houses and compounds, their markets and produce, their farming. But there is more than the immediately visible and tangible; it is the atmosphere that changes when you 'sign out of' one country, drive through that patch of No Man's Land, have your papers scrutinised and stamped and that boom across the dirt track is lifted to let you into the new country.
The second last day in Nigeria started with a magical sunrise over the bushcamp and the ubiquitous groups of people coming to stand and stare. There were two little groups; the first consisting of a gang of teenaged boys all dressed in Polo shirts or dress shirts with collar and cuffs, ironed and looking quite expensive and new, and a second little group consisting of a mother and five children – all looking like they were no more than ten months apart. They were dressed differently too – a very colourful mish-mash of wraps and scarves and bits and pieces of colourful fabric – more Arabic than African and my impression was that the boys were the older sons probably of wives no 1 and 2 whilst the second little motley bunch was wife no 4 with her offspring. When I approached her to ask if she would allow me to take photographs of her and her children, she greeted me with a big warm smile. So warmly did she envelop me with that beautiful smile that it took me quite some time to notice her face had been terribly mutilated. Several cuts over her eye and down to her mouth had been crudely sutured, the eye malformed as result of the cuts, ugly scars left in their wake. I would have assumed it must have been a car or some other accident long ago – but those scars were from some time back, and now the rest of her face was also swollen from very recent injuries – the one eye puffy and bruised, her lips cut and showing severe bruising as well. My first impression that she was wife no 4 and she and her children of no import in her family compound seemed affirmed; if ever there was a battered woman, I was in her presence. When I took our leftover breakfast to her, the eldest of the smartly dressed boys dashed over to us and tried to grab the food from me before I could give it to the woman. I held onto it and told him that the food had not been offered to him but to her. He was not pleased. I indicated to the woman to eat the food then and there with her children and she had tears in her eyes thanking me. Whether this gesture was going to cause another beating, I cannot know, but I hope not. Just to be on the safe side, and as a placating gesture, I took some food over the boys as well... We might be far removed from the big city here in the bush, but domestic violence is not bound by geographic boundaries.
During that last night in Nigeria we were woken by a thunderstorm – thunder claps and flashes of lightning like you only see in Africa and huge drops pelting down. The result was that in the morning the air was crystal clear, crisp and clean and as we drove towards the border, all along the Mandara mountains -- way in the distance, it looked as if the sky was a glass dome white with condensation and someone had rubbed the bottom of the pane to reveal a jagged edged shape of a majestic mountain range. We started climbing, the countryside very rocky, outcrops of boulders everywhere with the mud huts and their funny peak thatch hats nestling in amongst the rocks. The order and precise design of these mud villages are amazing. Some of these villages must consist of at least a few hundred family compounds – each compound with its main hut, the wives' huts, the granaries and storage huts, hen houses, central courtyard swept and neat, the family's brightly colourful washing flapping joyfully in the morning breeze. It was clearly the time for seeding in this region and wherever you looked there were entire families in the fields – the man going ahead, bent over double as he turned the earth over with a 'hand plough' -- in straight lines, his wives coming behind and sewing the seeds and covering the seeds with their feet – an easy, smooth rhythm, systematic and surprisingly fast. It is mainly the women who do the ploughing, but seems that the man condescends to come help during seeding! It astounded me that none of these people use donkeys or oxen to pull the plough. They all use this hand plough which forces a person to be completely bent double to turn over the sods. Later, in Cameroon we saw one or two farms where an ox was used or a donkey, but these were the exception. With the backdrop of the rocky hills, the beautifully ploughed fields, the scene was so serene and pastoral.
Our first night in Cameroon was spent in just such a field and this was where we had an experience which probably shows just how much we, as westeners, have to learn if ever there were ever to be an entente cordiale of any kind to be reached between Africa and the rest of the world. The chief of the area came around, as they sometimes do, and asked for a fee for the use of his tribe's land. A deal was made between Mark and the chief and he left, only to return half an hour later and request more money. Instead of leaving Mark to handle the situation, a number of the group decided to step into the discussion and before too long it resulted in a ridiculous argument between the two sides. The preconceived opinions, total ignorance of the required protocol in any such situation when in someone else's territory, the lack of respect for the authority and position of the chief, the mere lack of knowledge and understanding of other's culture and customs all came to the fore and I have to say I was ashamed of my little group's behaviour. We let ourselves and our race down horribly and I felt despair that even after all these months of travelling through this continent, we have learned so little about the people of Africa, about their traditions, their social structure, their very basic values and mores. My dream would have been that a trip like this would improve the communication and consequently the understanding of the diversity and difference – and the tolerance of the different peoples of this continent. I fear that this may never happen – and we, like every other European who has ever colonised or just visited Africa, will go back to where we come from with no more understanding than we had before we came – only more of the same prejudiced opinions.
In a way this nasty little incident probably underlines the phenomenon -- and misconception of the “cadeau”. Most places we drive through, the children, and often the adults, ask for a 'cadeau' – a gift. In some places the children don't only shout 'cadeau' but specify what they want: “ballon” (ball), “cahiers” (writing books), “stylo” or “bic” (pens). One morning our local 'audience' were two men from the nearest village – where drinking and partying had been going on all night, with the result that both were slightly drunk. As per usual everyone simply ignored them but then the one approached me (perhaps my 'silverback' - "mamma" status makes me the likely candidate to lend a friendly ear) and asked for clothes – old shirts, jackets, trousers. This was in one of the regions that looked positively poorer than any other region we had gone through – judging by the state of the villages and the lack of flourishing fields, so the request for clothing was probably not a surprise. I responded by saying that we don't have any clothing to give away – we are all travelling with very little – only what we need ourselves. The man then said: “Don't say that. White people always have more clothes than they need” and his response really brought me up short. It made me realise how these people – and I generalise from my own experience – perceive us; we, the white man, comes to Africa with gifts – we drive through Africa and we dish out food, clothes, exercise books, pens and pencils, soccer balls. That is what we have been doing since the end of the colonies and the beginning of us wanting to atone for our sins in Africa. We have taught them, in effect, to expect something for nothing from us whenever we pass through their land. We have made them beggars. No wonder then that the corruption in almost every country is endemic in the African governments, that the presidents line their coffers with gold and accumulate their chateaux in Europe and flaunt their platinum credit cards.
Later we arrived in Yaounde where we quite smoothly obtained our Gabon visas. After the super-unfriendly and unhelpful consul official in Lome who would not even give us the application forms for visas (“We take tourism very seriously, you understand! We don't issue visas to just anyone!”) the man at the Gabon embassy in Yaounde could not be more helpful and friendly and withing 24 hours we had our visas.
Yaounde is a prosperous looking city spread over many many hills. There are wide boulevards and many trees and big, imposing looking buildings – and ah! The smell of freshly baked bread coming from the patisseries! There seemed to be a bakery on every one of the hills and the aroma of fresh pastries and baking wafting over the city had your mouth watering all the time. We camped in the grounds of the Foyer International Presbyterian – once again in a church compound where there are more rules than hot water, but it was a good camp site to enjoy Suzanne's birthday party – the famous ABC (Anything But Clothes) party, and kick off Tony's birthday as well on the day we left. Everyone appreciated having some time on the internet and catching up with correspondence, friends and family, I managed to see another doctor about the bug munching away at my arm – and finally got medication that stopped the onslaught (from a doctor that was the exact double of Will Smith, who consults in his small bedroom -- from his bed, and where a patient lies outside in the corridor singing opera areas at the top of his voice! -- if no one has ever written a humorous account of African hospital experiences, I think I should seriously consider doing so!) and now I am happy to announce that I will live, the wound has cleared up quite remarkably and the scar should not be quite as bad as I had feared it would be.
Sadly Kyle decided to leave the group and he left us on our last day in Yaounde to return to South Africa – yet another bout of malaria and general bad health, as well as the lure of a paying photographic commission back in SA made his mind up for him – we'll miss our 'homeless, hopeless – but amaaaaaaaaaazing! boykie'. Hamba kahle Kyle – we will see you in Namibia!
It was also in Yaounde that the 'Dutchies' caught up with us again – and we loved seeing Erik and Frits and spending some time with them. They have now taken a different route to ours -- will probably cut through to Ruanda (where Erik was born) and Burundi and then head south again. We are going to miss you two as well! Perhaps Cape Town?
And it is always fascinating chatting to fellow travellers -- in Yaounde it was Karen and Vincent who pitched up in the camp site one evening -- they are doing the same trip as us but in the opposite direction and had lots of stories to tell us about the route that we have yet to cover. Mark is always keen to hear about roads and their condition, border crossings and other information that can only -- and ONLY be obtained from people who have travelled the road themselves. So much of what we need to know to get through this wild and unknown terrain is not to be found in any Lonely Planet or other guide book. If books were printed every week it would still not be often enough to stay updated with the crucial information one needs about passable roads, washed-away bridges and recalcitrant border officials. And then there too was Gonzales, a young Portuguese man who had been working in Angola for four years and was now on his way back home – on a BMW motorbike. He has been travelling for ten months – zig-zagging across Africa and now on the home stretch and ready to reach his destination. Happy – and safe travels to all of you!
And us? Our motley little group? I find it all going far too fast now. I always had a visual image of going downhill when I am travelling south – and now more so than ever. Once we rounded the corner of the bulge of Africa in Cameroon it is really as if we are going downhill. Too fast! I want to spend more time in these countries that I have only every read about and dreamed about. Cameroon... Gabon... Congo-Brazzaville... Zaire...(I know – The Democratic Republic of Congo – but Zaire sounds so much more like the country I dreamed about). Unfortunately we do not linger in these countries but travel straight through – on the only passable roads available. As wonderful as these countries could be for tourism with their indescribable scenery, remote and unspoilt nature, fauna and flora, they have been so torn by wars since the beginning of time that there seems never have been enough time to stop and plan for something else. There are no facilities for visitors – no roads, no towns and cities even, and if there is a game reserve for instance, it is not managed, there is no one there to oversee or show it off, nothing there. The one reserve in Gabon – where the hippos surf the waves on the beach – so we are told – can only be reached by plane and has only accommodation for someone who is willing to pay several thousand dollars per night. The sad result is that we have been bushcamping all the way, not even going near the few big cities – Libreville, Brazzaville, Kinshasa – these will remain far-off lovely sounding enigmas to me.
Gabon was a dream though – green green green lush forests – in the mist looking like the jungles from Jungle book. Beautiful flowering trees, exquisite birds – bright red and black birds darting from tree to tree as we drive past, dark purple and bright yellow parrots, dark blue and bright pink swifts, giant eagles floating on the thermals, kingfishers flashing turquoise and black – and so many more. Friendly people – oh, such friendly people! In Gabon we did visit Lambarene -- and I had to smile when I discovered that I was the only one on the truck who had ever heard of the place -- and of Albert Schweitzer! I do admit it is many moons ago when I was a little girl in school where we learned about this remarkable Nobel Laureate -- when it was every child's goal to one day go work in the jungles of Africa like him and do good deeds. The next generation has different goals and dreams, I suppose. Yet I am pleased that they did at least see the hospital on the river's edge -- a beautiful setting and if nothing else, a very peaceful and serene pause in our very bumpy and dusty journey through the beautiful Gabon.
And believe me -- bumpy and dusty it is! The roads -- which are literally the only passable roads in the entire country, are all, after the rainy season, in an abominable state. Mark sometimes never exceeds 30-40 kph and the going is painfully slow. At the end of the day we all feel quite exhausted and mangled and every muscle in one's body is aching from trying to keep balanced and seated. And the dust? Well -- if you have never seen African dust -- it is talcum powder -- sometimes bright red, sometimes ochre yellow, two-three inches thick on the earth's surface and able to stay suspended in the atmosphere for a long time. It sticks to every surface, it creeps into every crevice and fold and wrinkle, it turns white hair red and black hair brown. Everything is covered in this powder. Nothing escapes.
All too soon Gabon was behind us and we had entered into the Congo – the rain forests opening up on the plateau into savannas stretching to the horizon, soft rolling green hills, fast flowing rivers where we stop and slide down the muddy river bank and frolic like a bunch of children in the clear water, washing our hair, ourselves and loving feeling clean again after the many days of bushcamping and dusty roads. In Gabon but even more so here, we feel sad when we see the massive logging trucks speeding over the impossibly bad dust roads with their loads of giant logs – seeing hundreds and hundreds year old trees going off somewhere to be shipped to Malaysia or Korea or the Philippines. (The logging here in Congo is all done by them). It sometimes seems almost impossible to believe when you see a logging truck -- huge, massive trucks, with one single log on it -- one single log because that tree is so huge that there is no room for a second log... What are we allowing to happen to our planet? Will my grandchildren ever see trees this size -- or believe us when we tell them about these beautiful giants that once existed?
Then, a few days ago, we drove in a dust cloud to Dolasie where we had hoped to apply for our Angola visas; a strange kind of town – scarred and burnt and limping still from the '97 war, but also proud and neat and vibrant. This is in effect the only other town in the Congo after Brazzaville and Pointe Noire – 7000 souls but for some reason the home of quite a few government departments – and of course the Angolan consulate. But – the staff of the consulate were all away in Luanda at a meeting and we were told that if we wanted to wait until next week some time, they will be back and we would get our visas.
We decided to continue on our way to Pointe Noire and the Angolan Embassy there – and that was the best decision ever – for, the 200 kilometre trip from Dolasie to Pointe Noire must surely be one of the highlights of our journey so far – well, a funny sort of highlight, as it was also one of the most thought provoking and disturbing days on my African journey. Let me explain why:
The road was a surprise even to Mark as it did not exist last year when he brought the truck through these parts. It is the brand new road that the Chinese are building from Pointe Noire to Brazzaville. There used to be a track – really no more than a track, and then they came and "broke the mountain" - as the young Congolese police -- special forces -- man to whom we gave a lift, explains. The engineering of this road must be a feat of note; they are literally breaking open a road through the mountains -- through the primeval forests, the ancient gorges and massive trees, the undergrowth that probably has been guarding secrets for thousands of years. According to this young man, the workers on this road -- all very young -- teenaged -- boys, get paid 1000CFA per day -- that is less than 2 Euros per day -- and the day is 12-14 -- sometimes even more hours, for the Chinese 'boss' brings them to the site and comes to fetch them at the end of the day. If they want to eat, they 'place their order' with the 'boss' and has to pay him 500CFA (half their day's wage) -- the boss then goes off to get their food and sometimes comes back with much less than the value of what they were given, sometimes does not even come back at all. The workers did demonstrate in February against the Chinese, but the government ordered the special forces to shoot them -- which they refused to do. The government tells them to listen to the Chinese and be good to them as they are visitors to their country -- and of course it is because the government is making a huge amount of money from the contracts with the Chinese. And what really riles is the fact that during these road works, the Chinese are exploring and finding huge deposits of gold and other minerals and what they find they keep. They are mining in the mountains in areas that had never been explored by people at all and they pay the locals -- or bring in the Zairians and paying them to keep the location of the mines secret.
It was quite an interesting chat I had to this young policeman -- and quite disturbing for me to see what is happening to their country. I said thought-provoking: I still ponder the problem -- I see the Chinese coming into these countries and repeating everything that the world said should never happen again -- colonisation (is the Chinese -- and the Malaysians and Koreans coming in and raping the country, taking all its natural resources and shipping it back to their countries, not leaving anything in return -- other than lining the pockets of the government, , slavery ('the president 'selling' his young men as slave labour to the Chinese -- is that much different to the Assanti or the Beninois King selling his people to the Portuguese and the British slave traders?) and I wonder once again why it is that the world can have such double standards when it comes to Africa and not be held accountable...
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