I’m not a gambling man. I’ve tried it but the uncertainty of a big race always seems to mean that only one thing is certain – failure. As I sit here in my tent in no man’s land officially in a Tom Hanks situation as per the film ‘The Terminal,’ my brain is telling my right hand to get ready to empty my trouser pocket of its betting slip and with the assistance of its opposite number, tear it up and throw the remains upwards like confetti. The reason for this is that like the horses that I’ve seemed to back we’ve fallen at the first. The 07:30 ‘I Need Some Steaks’ five furlong steeple chase was delayed until 08:30 on grounds of laziness but despite this we passed through what I suspect is a slightly Brazilish Cabinda. Cabinda is a province of Angola and those of you that may have accidently selected a news channel whilst hunting for Eastenders or caught a glimpse of the front page of a newspaper on the way to reading about what the stars had in for you on that day may have noticed that recently the Togan national football side was attacked and the coach driver killed while passing through during the very recent African Cup Of Nations football tournament.
That’s not an ‘Oh look at me I’m brave’ statement, it’s more an introduction into the country Angola and its separatist province of Cabinda. Formerly a Portuguese colony and now seemingly oil rich, Angola doesn’t seem keen on tourists, begrudgingly only offering five day ‘if you really must but hurry up’ transit visa. Somehow Mick and I were granted a double entry visa which gave us the now taken option to pass through Cabinda before making a short journey through Congo Kinshasa and then into Angola proper. That’s all fine but the five day visa in reality becomes only a four day visa as the clock starts ticking when in Cabinda, assuming that you make it all the way to the Angolan border on day one. Plus we've reports of the possibility of a $100 per day fine for slow goers. Things start well as despite the first use of our Carnets whilst entering Cabinda due to the Angolans being far more organised and switched on then their African counterparts probably due to American technology and investment (there’s plenty of oil here), we’re in and the clock’s ticking.
A couple of hours later at 14:30 having ridden across perfect new tarmac we reach the Congo Kinshasa border at Yema. It’s here where the old nag lays, with the blue Land Rover now approaching with the marksman/vet/stableman onboard checking that his rifle is loaded. Things appear to be terminal as a farcical situation has developed whereby not only are we the only people to have tried to use the border all day but we’re also told on arrival on the CK side by the dozen or so I don’t know what they’re actually doing and neither I suspect, do they, that their ‘chief’ is the only person that can stamp us in and he’s 28km away at home as his car isn’t working. So therefore, having been stamped (ushered?) out of Cabinda we have to wait in between countries until he arrives “maybe around eight tomorrow morning.” What a joke. Worse still though is that during a 3km walk with an immigration guy for some nonexistent water I’ve just seen what lays ahead on the 80km ‘improved road.’ Shocking. “And they’re screening off the fallen injured horse as we speak...”
That’s not an ‘Oh look at me I’m brave’ statement, it’s more an introduction into the country Angola and its separatist province of Cabinda. Formerly a Portuguese colony and now seemingly oil rich, Angola doesn’t seem keen on tourists, begrudgingly only offering five day ‘if you really must but hurry up’ transit visa. Somehow Mick and I were granted a double entry visa which gave us the now taken option to pass through Cabinda before making a short journey through Congo Kinshasa and then into Angola proper. That’s all fine but the five day visa in reality becomes only a four day visa as the clock starts ticking when in Cabinda, assuming that you make it all the way to the Angolan border on day one. Plus we've reports of the possibility of a $100 per day fine for slow goers. Things start well as despite the first use of our Carnets whilst entering Cabinda due to the Angolans being far more organised and switched on then their African counterparts probably due to American technology and investment (there’s plenty of oil here), we’re in and the clock’s ticking.
A couple of hours later at 14:30 having ridden across perfect new tarmac we reach the Congo Kinshasa border at Yema. It’s here where the old nag lays, with the blue Land Rover now approaching with the marksman/vet/stableman onboard checking that his rifle is loaded. Things appear to be terminal as a farcical situation has developed whereby not only are we the only people to have tried to use the border all day but we’re also told on arrival on the CK side by the dozen or so I don’t know what they’re actually doing and neither I suspect, do they, that their ‘chief’ is the only person that can stamp us in and he’s 28km away at home as his car isn’t working. So therefore, having been stamped (ushered?) out of Cabinda we have to wait in between countries until he arrives “maybe around eight tomorrow morning.” What a joke. Worse still though is that during a 3km walk with an immigration guy for some nonexistent water I’ve just seen what lays ahead on the 80km ‘improved road.’ Shocking. “And they’re screening off the fallen injured horse as we speak...”
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