I didn’t hear the bang, but Heidi had. It was only when the pickup lurched to one side, swerving on the mud track that I realised something was wrong. We came to an abrupt halt and climbed out. Through a palm-wine haze I gazed at the blown-out tyre as the darkness closed in and I started to question the circumstances that had brought us here. Somehow we had ended up stuck in the middle of a dirt road, in the middle of the night, in the middle of the Central African Republic.
The journey had started as all good holidays in CAR do: with the driver being arrested. We waited in the rain in the car park of the hotel in Bangui, the capital, for 8 hours before the battered Nissan pickup with Nestor at the wheel skidded into the gravel park to commence our journey. Two of his friends were also catching a ride; there is not a lot a traffic traversing the route we had planned and they wanted to visit family. And so we were off, leaving the tiny city behind us which was a shame as Bangui had a real charm; old French colonial buildings lining the potholed tarmac street running through the town centre, many dilapidated or derelict, but still oozing French character with little verandas and balconies for sipping a coffee overlooking the bustle of the street ‘back in the day’. Now the streets bustled with carts pulled by cachectic donkeys, all colours and shapes of fruit bursting from the home-made rope straps that bound them in. Down at the market food choices ranged from huge fresh or smoked fish pulled from the brown stained waters of the Oubangui River that separates Bangui from the Democratic Republic of Congo, duiker (a small deer) or smoked monkey, shot or snared in the forests to the West. Even fruit bat was for sale, stacked in piles of six, bound tightly with cords of tree bark. We settled for the roasted ‘meat’ (of unknown origin) cooking over coals in a courtyard surrounded by the noise of the stalls and bustle of people doing their daily shop. Later we would sit by the banks of the Oubangui with a ‘33’ (say it in French and you have it right) beer, and a chunk of oily barbeque fish pulled fresh from the slow-flowing waters below. The French would have been proud of some of the legacy left behind for on every corner you could find young men selling bags full of baguette for the equivalent of a few pence a stick, and a single coffee shop rising like a beacon amongst the muddy streets and broken buildings serving hot strong espresso and the best croissants this side of the Eiffel Tower.
Back on the road the journey was going well. As we left the outskirts of the city the small mud villages started to appear amongst the bright green trees of the jungle. The rain was easing and we pulled over at one of collections of thatched huts. Similar to elsewhere on the road there were big 25 litre plastic cans by the road side, and it was one of these that was interesting our travelling companions. One of the guys climbed out, whipped out a knife from his trouser pocket and started to half an empty 2 litre water bottle, the cap still on. This was to be his drinking cup, and soon it was filled with the milky liquid from the can: palm wine. This stuff is fermented from the sap of a type of palm tree. The top of the tree is cut and the canisters hoisted into the branches and left over night to allow the tree to bleed into it. The full container is collected the next day and left to ferment, the longer it is left, the stronger the wine. And it was with a few litres of this boozy white nectar that our drive continued, and as the eyes began to blur, and the night set in the music started to get louder on the car cassette deck. Congolese beats were the sound track to this journey into the unknown, made all the more surreal as the whole of one song was a beat mixed with a baby crying played louder than the real thing. Painful and bizarre.
Stop one - puncture (considering the palm wine consumed they did a pretty swift if not particularly safe job)We met precious few other cars on the road, though even calling it a road is a compliment to great for the narrow pitted mud track that was winding through thicker and thicker forest. One lone cyclist passed us in the gloom as we replaced the useless wheel. He greeted us in Sangha and his voice seemed to be swallowed up in the thick black air of the jungle. Then he was gone and we were alone.
We drove through the night, stopping for meat and beer at a club in a small town buried in the forest. The journey was constantly interrupted by endless military road blocks, manned by uniformed men with glazed eyes wielding an automatic rifle in one hand and the ubiquitous milky liquor in a halved plastic bottle in the other. The scowling faces that stared through the cracked windscreen glass at us as we approached soon softened as it turned out that at least one of our travelling colleagues knew them, and invariably palm wine was shared out, backs were slapped, small ‘gifts’ of money exchanged and then we were off, peeling the nervous smiles glued to our faces.
As the night deepened we drew to a halt behind a huge truck stuck in the mud surrounded by people digging, sitting and drinking. The whole road was blocked, thick set trees guarding the peripheries. A few hours later a narrow path to the side of the truck was cleared and we continued on our way, the sky blanching as the dawn approached.
appealing at 3am) you must really commit.... or this happens
(another hour digging him out followed)
Drifting in and out of sleep, a headache creeping into the back of my head (could it be the lack of sleep, or could it be the palm wine) we finally drew to a halt in Bayanga, a town nestled in far western corner of CAR bordering the Democratic Republic of Congo and the Republic of Congo. As we climbed out of the car we were immediately surrounded by tiny people. My first thought was that I had the DT’s and thought briefly about sucking the leftover booze swilling around in my footwell but then I realised who they were: we had arrived in a pygmy village and were about to head into the forest to live with them and their families.
And there I will leave it.
After a couple of weeks in the forest and a rather hairy trip through the Republic of Congo we are finally home. The return has been eased by a wonderful couple of weeks with our friends Julia and JP in Stellenbosch, Matt and Halska in Plet and Ant and Beni in the ‘berg but all these stories must wait for a pint and a proper catch up. Same phone numbers, same address.
Hugs.
chopping up cocoa leaves for dinner (no meat tonight)
top layer of earth to remove to decrease the crawlies
going so there is always to tea)
the tree down and get that sugar high
escape after the shock of the fall
generally paying off debt (booze and cigarettes) they acrue whilst living in the village. The baby
monkey clings to her mothers corpse because she doesn't know what else to do.
