I entered DRC with a certain amount of trepidation, and not only due to the angry purple swelling now warming my left ankle.
If the Western press and some of the more skittish tourists are to be believed, DRC is a country with danger lurking around every corner, a country of brutalised people where life is cheap and you are lucky if you don't receive a side order of being murdered with the inevitable robbery that is coming your way. Internet forums abound with complaints of police corruption, constant demands (from everyone) for money, and a dilapidated road network that is fighting a losing battle with the power of the jungle.
As I crossed the border, it seemed rumours about the roads might not have been exaggerated. Roads that looked more like dried up riverbeds made for slow progress, but the fact that it hadn't rained meant that I was able to get through to the border post without taking another fall. I found the border guards sitting under a tree sheltering from the already brutal sun, and when I told them about my ankle (and showed them) they insisted on finding me a chair and making me rest. This wasn't what I had been led to believe - surely they should be harassing me for money and aggressively searching through my stuff? As is so often the case, the rumours were somewhat exaggerated and the people were nothing but friendly. I soon had a bit of crowd, interested in seeing both pictures of my family (incomprehensibly small by African standards), and also what happens to white skin when it gets smashed up by a motorbike (a whole different colour scheme)
From the border village, it was 50km or so of dirt roads to the town of Luozi, where the ferry crosses the River Congo and where I get into southern Africa. Managing not to fall off, my confidence slowly came back, though when I got stuck on a steep hill and the clutch started slipping again I did have to hold my breath. I managed to get it moving again but this was a game of chicken I didn't want to keep playing.
After a night in the Catholic Mission in Luozi, I decided to pull the clutch apart and see what the problem was. Even to an amateur mechanic it was obvious - the little bastard in Brazzaville hadn't replaced the parts at all - he had just bodged it with the old parts! See you next Tuesday mate. A local mechanic confirmed that there were no parts for this bike here; the only place to find them would be Kinshasa, some 350km away. Off he went with the idea of being back the next day (Sunday), but it wasn't until Tuesday that I saw his smiling face again. It didn't do me any harm to rest my ankle for a few days, and my first bed in three weeks was sheer luxury (even if it was in an austere Catholic Mission with no electricity). I whiled away the day, fending off marriage proposals and scaring small children with my whiteness (both true), and as much fun as that was it was all eating up time; time that I didn't have that much of...
When the mechanic got back we fixed up the clutch ready for an early start the next morning. Things were going well to start with; I got on the first ferry of the day, made it down 100km of dirt road without any issues and was on track to get to the Angolan embassy to apply for the transit visa the same day when... crunch. There was a horrible, grinding metallic sound. My chain had snapped. Arghhh! I had a spare chain (two in fact, for reasons I won't go into here) but by the time I had fixed that and got into town the embassy was closed. Balls.
I was at the embassy bright and early the next morning and had all the paperwork done by 10.30, but computer problems in Luanda meant no visa for me. As it was a Friday, I wouldn't be going anywhere until Monday. Tick tock. I made the most of the weekend by getting an x-ray ($10, bargain! Nothing broken either which was also good...), and doing some other tedious chores. Monday morning I was back at the embassy and after 6 hours of sitting there I finally got the visa. By this time it was 4, and the border shuts at 5. Time to move...
I razzed over to the border post, just a few kilometres away, but by the time I had got through all of the DRC steps it was 17.15. The guard on the Angola side looked nonplussed - as far as he was concerned I was too late, but after a word with the boss he relented and they rushed me through. As a hint of the incredibly welcoming nature of the Angolan people, one of the policemen at the border took me to the police station in the next village and told me I could camp there for the night. They even brought me a mattress to sleep on!
As I crossed the border, it seemed rumours about the roads might not have been exaggerated. Roads that looked more like dried up riverbeds made for slow progress, but the fact that it hadn't rained meant that I was able to get through to the border post without taking another fall. I found the border guards sitting under a tree sheltering from the already brutal sun, and when I told them about my ankle (and showed them) they insisted on finding me a chair and making me rest. This wasn't what I had been led to believe - surely they should be harassing me for money and aggressively searching through my stuff? As is so often the case, the rumours were somewhat exaggerated and the people were nothing but friendly. I soon had a bit of crowd, interested in seeing both pictures of my family (incomprehensibly small by African standards), and also what happens to white skin when it gets smashed up by a motorbike (a whole different colour scheme)
From the border village, it was 50km or so of dirt roads to the town of Luozi, where the ferry crosses the River Congo and where I get into southern Africa. Managing not to fall off, my confidence slowly came back, though when I got stuck on a steep hill and the clutch started slipping again I did have to hold my breath. I managed to get it moving again but this was a game of chicken I didn't want to keep playing.
After a night in the Catholic Mission in Luozi, I decided to pull the clutch apart and see what the problem was. Even to an amateur mechanic it was obvious - the little bastard in Brazzaville hadn't replaced the parts at all - he had just bodged it with the old parts! See you next Tuesday mate. A local mechanic confirmed that there were no parts for this bike here; the only place to find them would be Kinshasa, some 350km away. Off he went with the idea of being back the next day (Sunday), but it wasn't until Tuesday that I saw his smiling face again. It didn't do me any harm to rest my ankle for a few days, and my first bed in three weeks was sheer luxury (even if it was in an austere Catholic Mission with no electricity). I whiled away the day, fending off marriage proposals and scaring small children with my whiteness (both true), and as much fun as that was it was all eating up time; time that I didn't have that much of...
When the mechanic got back we fixed up the clutch ready for an early start the next morning. Things were going well to start with; I got on the first ferry of the day, made it down 100km of dirt road without any issues and was on track to get to the Angolan embassy to apply for the transit visa the same day when... crunch. There was a horrible, grinding metallic sound. My chain had snapped. Arghhh! I had a spare chain (two in fact, for reasons I won't go into here) but by the time I had fixed that and got into town the embassy was closed. Balls.
I was at the embassy bright and early the next morning and had all the paperwork done by 10.30, but computer problems in Luanda meant no visa for me. As it was a Friday, I wouldn't be going anywhere until Monday. Tick tock. I made the most of the weekend by getting an x-ray ($10, bargain! Nothing broken either which was also good...), and doing some other tedious chores. Monday morning I was back at the embassy and after 6 hours of sitting there I finally got the visa. By this time it was 4, and the border shuts at 5. Time to move...
I razzed over to the border post, just a few kilometres away, but by the time I had got through all of the DRC steps it was 17.15. The guard on the Angola side looked nonplussed - as far as he was concerned I was too late, but after a word with the boss he relented and they rushed me through. As a hint of the incredibly welcoming nature of the Angolan people, one of the policemen at the border took me to the police station in the next village and told me I could camp there for the night. They even brought me a mattress to sleep on!
