With a trip such as this I suspect that everyone reaches a point whereby they just want to, if not ‘pass the post’ then at least get near it and end the suffering. If I’m totally honest I reckon that for me that point was reached as far back as Senegal (week two!) but for Mick I think that even he’s now finally joined me in becoming tired of the constants: police check points, feeling filthy, being hungry, being thirsty, being tired and of course the mosquitoes. Actually, a quick word on the old mossies...despite me getting eaten alive in the Gambia I seem to have benefitted from the times that I’ve shared a room or just been around Mick as he must be the only person alive (or dead) that they seem to go for rather than me! Right now he looks like a chicken pox/measles and any other spotty disease that I can’t think of sufferer rolled into one! I shouldn’t laugh...OK, just a bit then. The other thing that he’s finally joined me in being tired of is the explaining who we are, where we’ve come from, where we’re going etc etc etc etc. It wouldn’t be so bad if the people that we talk to understand the geography of their continent, but they don’t. For a long time now while Mick has liked to ‘play with the kids’ (a pastime in Denmark I understand) I’ve preferred to just chat with the shop keeper in my best and improving French. Feeling update complete and the Congo Brazzaville was up next. So called ‘Brazzaville’ as there’s actually two Congo’s with the other’s capital being ‘Kinshasa’ and hence, Congo Kinshasa, The DRC, or formerly Zaire if you’re of a certain age.
The ‘Earth Road.’ Oh dear. Despite me looking at the map and telling myself that cooler, happier times aren’t far ahead now it may well be true if my companion was riding something similar to the motorcycling equivalent of a Sherman Tank as I am instead of a sports tourer on road tyres.
Frustration is the only word that comes close. On what was a five day ride of about 400km, like on the ‘improved road’ in western Nigeria, I rode a bit and waited, waited and waited. Frustrating, as despite a pretty painful border crossing I suspect that me and Des could’ve got to the intended border town of Pointe Noir in half that time.
And as I mentioned, tired of the constants I just want(ed) to press on. At the 200km mark Mick’s rear puncture and sheared sub frame bolts along with a Laurel and Hardyesque following day attempt at borrowing the village drill in order to repair the damage didn’t help at all.
The second 200km saw more Chinese expertise on the huge PN to Brazzaville project help slightly although the loose surface still meant for two days averaging 20kph!
Finally we rolled into Pointe Noir too late to enter Cabinda as with only a five day transit visa, every hour really will count once the passport is stamped. The half day in Pointe Noir was spent getting clean, prepping the bikes for the five day blast of 2900km and eating/drinking on the street and actually quite enjoying the cooler temperature and relaxed feel of the place.
On the far west of Europe lies a small country called Poortugal. Nope, I didn’t spell it wrong it’s just that the current name hasn’t been updated yet. What is it about the former great empires? I mean OK the UK and France whilst today not holding a fraction of their previous colonies at least have some standing in the world. But Portugal? Mateus Rose, Ronaldo and Nandos are all that they seem to have offered the world along with a bloody difficult language to understand. Someone who sat far nearer the front of their history lessons than I did will need to tell me why they chose Angola of all places to colonise as like many things that tend to go on the ‘I’ll have to look it up’ list I’ll forget/won’t be bothered. So how is this newly oil rich parent of Cabinda with its perfect new roads? To use the phrase that my Granddad had used in describing how a very young Ian and his cousin Paul had behaved during a trip into London to see Star Trek...”Bloody awful.”
First up is the extreme poverty level of which we’d not seen thus far coupled with the children repeatedly shouting the only English word they know at us, it being “money money money.” I very much doubt that they’re abba fans, more likely they’ve been told the myth of some white traveller who passed through the land in ancient times leaving money in his trail. The other thing that isses me off is when they slap their belly, then mouth and then finally put their hands in the air, in sort of like a heads, shoulders, knees and toes with a ‘Y’ from the YMCA a dance. Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not totally heartless (only almost) but I really hope that one day when they’re hungry and there’s no white traveller to beg to/blame they’ll ask the parents why it is that they have to share a meal with their nine siblings. This country either has a very low life expectancy level or is going to have serious problems in the future years. When passing through the small villages the amount of children they contain is staggering. During a stop for a drink I asked the French speaking shop keeper how many children per family is normal and he replied ten and he was right. Catholicism, that’s what else the Portuguese have offered the world.
Fearing that this is starting to sound like an advert for the BNP I’ll move onto...the roads. Oh dear. We’d both heard reports that the brilliant road building Chinese had been called in a few years ago and so to that effect we really were hoping that finally, finally us and our bikes could end the battering we’d been taking since what now feels like forever. Wrong. The route down from the frontier slum of Noqui was hardcore. The 180km single lane track was by far the worse we’d had to endure. Sand, gravel, wet mud, deep water puddles and steep rocky gradients were of course very slow going with more waiting for Mick on his totally inappropriate bike.
Several times it went over, once in a huge puddle which made water enter his starter motor and delayed us further until we finally managed to get going again. In truth, this like many of the bad roads could’ve been completed in half the time were it not for all the waiting but my mood has changed into more of a Dunkirk spirit now and despite the waiting, hunger and extreme need for a wash I’m actually quite happy as we approach Luanda at the end of our five day visa allowance. As for Mick well, he seems to think that for every day the traveller overstays in Angola above the five day entitlement an increasingly large ‘toy’ is inserted er, somewhere and apparently any overstays of more than three days result in the supersize ‘toy’ having to be unlocked from the cabinet in the immigration office by the director as he’s the only one with the key...
