Hitchhiking to Gabon
I have yet to have a hitchhiking experience as surreal as this one.
Chinese are on a mission to cover every inch of Congolese dirt roads with asphalt. They are doing their job, and they are doing it well. Nevertheless, it is an ambitious endeavor; so it will take decades before the country is truly accessible and void of adventure. If not for those roads, the mud and the bugs, we would have never really seen Congo. Every time our bus broke or got stuck in the mud, we had to come out and push with the rest of the passengers; sit on the curb and sneak in a shot or two of the local children; and, finally, when the road got so bad that the minibus could not go through, be dropped on the side of the road watching the mud dry on our feet and sorting through the dwarf-crocodiles and lung-fish wondering "is this what I'm going to have for dinner tonight?"
We finally made it to Boundji, the next village on the map, well after sunset. I didn't care if we were going to find a late night ride, or a place to sleep. All I wanted was to get some food and to pee without an audience. I was looking for just that, when a man in sweatpants and an undershirt cut in front of me, stood there for a second with a stone face, his hands plastered at his sides, then saluted, and in the same mechanical way gestured to somewhere in the village. We pretended not to understand, went around him, and kept walking. He cut in front of us again blocking our way. We veered again, and so it continued until a man in an all white dress joined robocop and demanded our passports. We mimed that we'll only show our passports to someone in uniform, but the only reason we protested was probably just because we were tired and cranky.
A crowd was gathering. Wherever we went - they went. There were so many of them it was difficult to see where we were going, and virtually impossible to find what we needed. I tried to ignore them. When they got too close I would spin sharply, as if to see where Shurik and Vova were, sending my backpack's unbuckled straps with the hard plastic clasps flying and striking those standing closest. This made the front lines retreat a few steps, pushing the rest away as well, and I could then enjoy up to three minutes of fresh air. They weren't dangerous, just curious, but that didn't make them less annoying.
Robocop and the man in white argued at length. They sent messengers in all directions; and, finally, those returned with one man dressed for a military parade and another that was supposed to know English. It turned out they were extremely worried about us, and insisted we go to the police station where they can protect us. You could even sleep there, they said. We gave in. It was late and the police shooed away the spectators whose main attraction that night was to watch us eat fried chicken and some eggplant-like vegetables.
In early morning Boundji seemed abandoned. Except for a few bleating goats and the random morning person, there was nobody on the sandy muddy dirt road, and we gained a spring in our step as we headed out and towards the Gabonese border. On the village outskirts people were up earlier. "Where are you going?" they asked in bewilderment. "Okoyo," we replied. "By foot?!" they exclaimed. "Yes. We have no car." It was strange for these villagers to see white people - the epitome of wealth in their eyes, without a proper mode of transport and carrying their own heavy bags. They stood in silence, at their fences, holding their hands together. It looked like they were sending us off to war. After the shock wore off, they sent their children to follow us. The kids would fall back eventually, running back home to report we did indeed hobbled off into the distance.
We walked, and the sun got hotter and hotter. There was nothing to catch a ride on - not even a donkey. Sometimes, the odd local would pass by on a bike - working hard not get stuck in the mud, but besides that our little caravan was all alone under the painfully bright blue sky.
Finally, we did stumble upon a truck. It wasn't running and facing the wrong way, but we still exchanged greetings with the driver and his friends who were having breakfast in the shade. They asked where we were from. We replied "Russia". That seemed to make them warm-up to us. They said they were Muslim. "Salam Alaykum" I greeted them with the few words I know in Arabic. "Oh!" rejoiced the driver, "the madam knows what she is talking about!"
We kept going. A kilometer or two, then a rest in a shade of a leafy tree, brush off the ants and sand, and keep on going again. We knew we wouldn't get far like this, but we couldn't just stay in the same place, and let the sun fry us either. As it got hotter, we began hearing things. Wishful thinking sent us sounds of approaching engines via wind and sand against thin grass blades, termite mounds, and tree trunks.
We've been fooled by the wind, and got our hopes up so many times before, that we didn't even turn to see a truck with our Muslim friends catch up with us. They smiled and gestured for us to hop into the back.
The truck bed was empty except for a few tires, canisters, and tarps. It was a sort of a cage with a half a wall solid at the bottom and bars at the top and the roof. We squeezed ourselves and our backpacks through the rails and held on for dear life - this was going to be one bumpy ride. Trying to keep the constant jerking of the car from sending us flying all over the cab and breaking every bone in our bodies, we held on to the bars and felt like animals being transported to the zoo. When we passed villages, the locals pointed, shouted "La blanc!", chased the truck, and waved. The drive was rough, but short. The driver did his best, however, the constant pools of mud and sludge finally won, and the truck got stuck indefinitely.
Leaving yet another vehicle behind, and swearing if we ever get back here it would be during dry season, we continued on our own. Luckily enough, we encountered old friends. Well, not exactly them, but their countrymen - the Chinese. Well, not exactly the Chinese, but their bulldozers who were more than happy to give a lift to a stranded drifter or three.
Five or so bulldozers later, and we were finally at the border town. Immigration officers and police were so shocked to see us on their doorstep, they duplicated our passport information three times, in three different places. "Where are you going now?" asked the officers when they were done with the paperwork. He wasn't kidding. "Gabon..." we replied. "On foot?!" - "Yes". From our research the border should have been only a kilometer away, but the officers said it was more like eighty. Ah, distance - just another bump in the road.
We were left to the mercy of our feet yet again. The animals were let out of the cage and now were trudging free. And we were on the prowl too - hunger crept by silently, except for a few gurgling sounds that came from my stomach, and I suddenly realized I was not beyond catching my own food. Luckily, this area, the name of which I can only express in GPS coordinates, was thick with little villages.
I always find this odd-dog-out celebrity most amusing. I strolled through the village humming "Woo-hoo, I'm an alien. I'm a little alien..." and watched people look at us as if we have indeed fallen out of the sky. Maybe we should have met with the village chief and assured him that we come in peace.
We were like a traveling circus. Well, more like a freak show. Wherever we dropped our bags to take a little rest - people gathered and watched the freaks sit, talk, eat, scratch... This was surely fascinating for both sides.
In one village I spotted a two-year-old pitch-black pantless child holding a lime-green orange the size of her head. I stopped, towering over the little girl with all my whiteness and a mighty big red backpack behind my shoulders, but the brave baby didn't budge - she just stood there, clutching at her orange, and studied the monster before her. A man approached carefully, but didn't even try to snatch the child from under my gaze. I took off my backpack, sending a murmur through the crowd that already gathered, and pointed to the orange. The man understood, shouted something in the local language to an older boy, and in no time three big green oranges were laid out before us. Chairs appeared behind our backs, and a basin with water was put before us. To everyone's delight, I performed a "this is how I peel an orange" act by piercing the thick skin with my nail and peeling it away in one long even swirl. When the peel hit the ground everybody gasped. People kept bringing oranges until we could not have any more. They accepted a payment for them and brought us an avocado.
In another village, we gathered such a crowd of children, all piled on the fence next to where we had been sitting, that the fence simply crumbled under their weight.
We kept walking. Between the short dinner-theater stops we were left to the mercy of the sun. Ask me three years ago, when I was standing there in Harvard square in heels and makeup, product in my hair and polish on my nails, how do I feel about taking a hike to nowhere, in the scorching sun, with a thirty pound backpack holding all my wardrobe for the year, for an undetermined amount of kilometers (in Africa!) - I would have laughed in your face. What nonsense? I have a life, a path... right? Now though, I follow no one but the road, and that too, only if it's going in my direction.
Finally, the sun begun to set, but the road remained empty. We decided to camp and were about to set up the old tent when an engine moaned heavily in the distance. It was our Muslim friends again. They were muddy, but we didn't care - they were willing to give us a ride.
As soon as I hit the truck floor, I clocked out. A damp yellow tarp I found myself on, seemed like the most comfortable bed I've ever had, and covered by one of my sarongs I tumbled off to dreamland. My sleep was disturbed only a half dozen times by groggy policemen in Obama T-shirts. So consistent was this attire, that one could think it was a uniform recruitment. They searched the truck, found stowaways, and made them (us) hand over the passports and sit there for half an hour at a time while they copied the information in triplicate.
When we at last did enter Gabon it was three in the morning. We had to say goodbye to our Muslim friends, because we had been detained until the morning waiting for the immigration chief. The floor in the immigration office seemed less heavenly than the tarp in the truck, but I didn't care anymore. Another three hours later a Gabonese immigration officer woke us up to stamp our passports and copy down our information. He copied it only once. I like this country already.
Chinese are on a mission to cover every inch of Congolese dirt roads with asphalt. They are doing their job, and they are doing it well. Nevertheless, it is an ambitious endeavor; so it will take decades before the country is truly accessible and void of adventure. If not for those roads, the mud and the bugs, we would have never really seen Congo. Every time our bus broke or got stuck in the mud, we had to come out and push with the rest of the passengers; sit on the curb and sneak in a shot or two of the local children; and, finally, when the road got so bad that the minibus could not go through, be dropped on the side of the road watching the mud dry on our feet and sorting through the dwarf-crocodiles and lung-fish wondering "is this what I'm going to have for dinner tonight?"
We finally made it to Boundji, the next village on the map, well after sunset. I didn't care if we were going to find a late night ride, or a place to sleep. All I wanted was to get some food and to pee without an audience. I was looking for just that, when a man in sweatpants and an undershirt cut in front of me, stood there for a second with a stone face, his hands plastered at his sides, then saluted, and in the same mechanical way gestured to somewhere in the village. We pretended not to understand, went around him, and kept walking. He cut in front of us again blocking our way. We veered again, and so it continued until a man in an all white dress joined robocop and demanded our passports. We mimed that we'll only show our passports to someone in uniform, but the only reason we protested was probably just because we were tired and cranky.
A crowd was gathering. Wherever we went - they went. There were so many of them it was difficult to see where we were going, and virtually impossible to find what we needed. I tried to ignore them. When they got too close I would spin sharply, as if to see where Shurik and Vova were, sending my backpack's unbuckled straps with the hard plastic clasps flying and striking those standing closest. This made the front lines retreat a few steps, pushing the rest away as well, and I could then enjoy up to three minutes of fresh air. They weren't dangerous, just curious, but that didn't make them less annoying.
Robocop and the man in white argued at length. They sent messengers in all directions; and, finally, those returned with one man dressed for a military parade and another that was supposed to know English. It turned out they were extremely worried about us, and insisted we go to the police station where they can protect us. You could even sleep there, they said. We gave in. It was late and the police shooed away the spectators whose main attraction that night was to watch us eat fried chicken and some eggplant-like vegetables.
In early morning Boundji seemed abandoned. Except for a few bleating goats and the random morning person, there was nobody on the sandy muddy dirt road, and we gained a spring in our step as we headed out and towards the Gabonese border. On the village outskirts people were up earlier. "Where are you going?" they asked in bewilderment. "Okoyo," we replied. "By foot?!" they exclaimed. "Yes. We have no car." It was strange for these villagers to see white people - the epitome of wealth in their eyes, without a proper mode of transport and carrying their own heavy bags. They stood in silence, at their fences, holding their hands together. It looked like they were sending us off to war. After the shock wore off, they sent their children to follow us. The kids would fall back eventually, running back home to report we did indeed hobbled off into the distance.
We walked, and the sun got hotter and hotter. There was nothing to catch a ride on - not even a donkey. Sometimes, the odd local would pass by on a bike - working hard not get stuck in the mud, but besides that our little caravan was all alone under the painfully bright blue sky.
Finally, we did stumble upon a truck. It wasn't running and facing the wrong way, but we still exchanged greetings with the driver and his friends who were having breakfast in the shade. They asked where we were from. We replied "Russia". That seemed to make them warm-up to us. They said they were Muslim. "Salam Alaykum" I greeted them with the few words I know in Arabic. "Oh!" rejoiced the driver, "the madam knows what she is talking about!"
We kept going. A kilometer or two, then a rest in a shade of a leafy tree, brush off the ants and sand, and keep on going again. We knew we wouldn't get far like this, but we couldn't just stay in the same place, and let the sun fry us either. As it got hotter, we began hearing things. Wishful thinking sent us sounds of approaching engines via wind and sand against thin grass blades, termite mounds, and tree trunks.
We've been fooled by the wind, and got our hopes up so many times before, that we didn't even turn to see a truck with our Muslim friends catch up with us. They smiled and gestured for us to hop into the back.
The truck bed was empty except for a few tires, canisters, and tarps. It was a sort of a cage with a half a wall solid at the bottom and bars at the top and the roof. We squeezed ourselves and our backpacks through the rails and held on for dear life - this was going to be one bumpy ride. Trying to keep the constant jerking of the car from sending us flying all over the cab and breaking every bone in our bodies, we held on to the bars and felt like animals being transported to the zoo. When we passed villages, the locals pointed, shouted "La blanc!", chased the truck, and waved. The drive was rough, but short. The driver did his best, however, the constant pools of mud and sludge finally won, and the truck got stuck indefinitely.
Leaving yet another vehicle behind, and swearing if we ever get back here it would be during dry season, we continued on our own. Luckily enough, we encountered old friends. Well, not exactly them, but their countrymen - the Chinese. Well, not exactly the Chinese, but their bulldozers who were more than happy to give a lift to a stranded drifter or three.
Five or so bulldozers later, and we were finally at the border town. Immigration officers and police were so shocked to see us on their doorstep, they duplicated our passport information three times, in three different places. "Where are you going now?" asked the officers when they were done with the paperwork. He wasn't kidding. "Gabon..." we replied. "On foot?!" - "Yes". From our research the border should have been only a kilometer away, but the officers said it was more like eighty. Ah, distance - just another bump in the road.
We were left to the mercy of our feet yet again. The animals were let out of the cage and now were trudging free. And we were on the prowl too - hunger crept by silently, except for a few gurgling sounds that came from my stomach, and I suddenly realized I was not beyond catching my own food. Luckily, this area, the name of which I can only express in GPS coordinates, was thick with little villages.
I always find this odd-dog-out celebrity most amusing. I strolled through the village humming "Woo-hoo, I'm an alien. I'm a little alien..." and watched people look at us as if we have indeed fallen out of the sky. Maybe we should have met with the village chief and assured him that we come in peace.
We were like a traveling circus. Well, more like a freak show. Wherever we dropped our bags to take a little rest - people gathered and watched the freaks sit, talk, eat, scratch... This was surely fascinating for both sides.
In one village I spotted a two-year-old pitch-black pantless child holding a lime-green orange the size of her head. I stopped, towering over the little girl with all my whiteness and a mighty big red backpack behind my shoulders, but the brave baby didn't budge - she just stood there, clutching at her orange, and studied the monster before her. A man approached carefully, but didn't even try to snatch the child from under my gaze. I took off my backpack, sending a murmur through the crowd that already gathered, and pointed to the orange. The man understood, shouted something in the local language to an older boy, and in no time three big green oranges were laid out before us. Chairs appeared behind our backs, and a basin with water was put before us. To everyone's delight, I performed a "this is how I peel an orange" act by piercing the thick skin with my nail and peeling it away in one long even swirl. When the peel hit the ground everybody gasped. People kept bringing oranges until we could not have any more. They accepted a payment for them and brought us an avocado.
In another village, we gathered such a crowd of children, all piled on the fence next to where we had been sitting, that the fence simply crumbled under their weight.
We kept walking. Between the short dinner-theater stops we were left to the mercy of the sun. Ask me three years ago, when I was standing there in Harvard square in heels and makeup, product in my hair and polish on my nails, how do I feel about taking a hike to nowhere, in the scorching sun, with a thirty pound backpack holding all my wardrobe for the year, for an undetermined amount of kilometers (in Africa!) - I would have laughed in your face. What nonsense? I have a life, a path... right? Now though, I follow no one but the road, and that too, only if it's going in my direction.
Finally, the sun begun to set, but the road remained empty. We decided to camp and were about to set up the old tent when an engine moaned heavily in the distance. It was our Muslim friends again. They were muddy, but we didn't care - they were willing to give us a ride.
As soon as I hit the truck floor, I clocked out. A damp yellow tarp I found myself on, seemed like the most comfortable bed I've ever had, and covered by one of my sarongs I tumbled off to dreamland. My sleep was disturbed only a half dozen times by groggy policemen in Obama T-shirts. So consistent was this attire, that one could think it was a uniform recruitment. They searched the truck, found stowaways, and made them (us) hand over the passports and sit there for half an hour at a time while they copied the information in triplicate.
When we at last did enter Gabon it was three in the morning. We had to say goodbye to our Muslim friends, because we had been detained until the morning waiting for the immigration chief. The floor in the immigration office seemed less heavenly than the tarp in the truck, but I didn't care anymore. Another three hours later a Gabonese immigration officer woke us up to stamp our passports and copy down our information. He copied it only once. I like this country already.