We hadn’t heard English spoken for a good few days, we didn’t know where we were, and our only means of communication was a bible which we used as a makeshift dictionary. It worked fine, sort of, if the person you were trying to communicate with had one in his own language. Having said that, we got many a blank stare. You could almost see it on their faces, “Your name is Moses, and you are going where?” Oh, and there was the sand, great for drawing pictures in to explain who you were and where you were going. So, what we found when we got to the missionary home in Mbuji-Mayi saw us grateful, to say the least.
How would he get us to the airport on that?
As we neared Mbuji-Mayi, we could see what looked like little factories perched on top of wide barge like boats floating on the river. It took us a while to figure out what they were. It suddenly dawned on us. “They are dredging the river – but why?” said Simon puzzled. “Dimonds! That’s what they are dredging for. Dimonds!” I yelled as Jean hooted his way past an old man creeping his way towards Mbuji-Mayi with a chicken under his arm.
It was at that moment that dread, fear and uncertainly started to filter back into our subconscious. It was something I had read while we were trying to plan our trip. “Simon, there is some region in Zaire, a diamond area, they don’t allow visitors into without a special pass. Are we maybe in that area?” I suggested, thinking back to how we were met on the station by the banker and his jeep, and how the soldiers at the gate had saluted and let us pass without the usual questions and bribe. Did we need some special pass to enter this area? If so, how were we going to explain ourselves if we get caught? These worrying thoughts started to overwhelm us.
The jeep started it precarious penetration of the town of Mbuji-Mayi. Jean seemed oblivious to the pedestrians on the road as he grappled the gears trying to remember the order in which he was to use them. Man and beast alike parted in front of us miraculously as the jeep followed the main road into town.
Road into Mbuji-Mayi
We could sense the ghosts of Zaire’s colonial past as we entered the town – the paint of 30 years ago still clung to the walls of the Belgian architecture in patches. The structures looked somewhat out of place, dressed up in the way of modern Africa. Old buildings competing for the pavement with little wooden stalls and vendors selling selling bush meat. Africa strangely unfamiliar to the two white South Africans in the jeep, the slim women with their brightly coloured clothes and hair braids, small thin men in sandals or on bicycle, the pulsing rhythm of north west and central African music. It certainly wasn’t the Africa we knew or expected to see. And we couldn’t understand a word!
We were starting to wonder if we were the only white people left on the planet as we pulled up to the missionary home, a well maintained colonial style house in what used to be a posh suburb. As we climbed out of the jeep, stretching our bruised limbs and trying to swallow what was left in our parched mouths, the door of the house opened and out came Jenny Bint.
“allo, want a cuppa tay?”.
The missionary home was like a welcome haven in a world of unfamiliar sounds and sights. It was occupied by a English couple and a Swedish couple. Sitting at the kitchen table, eating hamburgers with the missionaries was still a strange mix of cultures, but we could handle that, they spoke English, we could communicate at last! We poured out the events and concerns of the last couple of days.
Tord, the Swede, disappeared off on his moped to see about getting us to Kinshasa. He soon returned with news of a plane leaving that afternoon.
And were were off, perched precariously on the back of Godfrey’s Vespa and Tord’s moped, our rucksacks on our backs.
Yes, we were in the province of Kasai, and yes we did need a pass, we were told by Godfrey. “But don’t worry, this is Zaire” he reassured us, pushing his black rimmed glasses up on his nose, “let me do the talking.”.
Our first stop at the airport was a bare office on the first floor. A fat Official eating part of a chicken looked up from behind his empty desk as Godfrey knocked at his door. After an exchange of the customary greeting and an explanation of the problem, the man behind the desk stroked his throat. We found out later that this meant he was thirsty and that he needed some money to buy a few beers before he could accommodate us. Wiping his greasy hands down the front of his shirt he accepted Godfrey’s offering and stamped our passports.
We boarded the Air Zaire flight to Kinshasa along with a market of people and chickens. We heaved a sigh of relief as the over crowded Russian made plane left the tarmac and turned North West, anticipating the next part of our trip.
Photo of street by http://www.congovision.com
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As we neared Mbuji-Mayi we could see strange boat like contraptions on the river. “Aren’t they for dredging the river?” said Simon, nudging me in the ribs at the exact moment I was weightless, when the jeep left us suspended in mid air, and before being slammed back into the back seat as the next bump brought the jeep up to meet us. The pot holes had become progressively worse since Mwene Ditu to the point that we were no longer diving on the tar dodging the potholes, we were now driving in the pothole trying to avoid the tar.
“Looks like it” I replied, trying to land back in the jeep and not on top of the bicycle piled high with bags of charcoal we were overtaking. “But dredging for what?” And then it dawned on me!
Watch out for Jean's jeep!
The trip from Mwene Ditu had been eventful to say the least. We had left after breakfast with Jean and his mechanic. We soon understood why the man with the vise grip and screw driver had come along. The jeep started jerking and shuddering about 20km out of town. The gears grated as Jean tried to negotiate a lower gear to keep us going. No such luck as we free wheeled to a stop in the middle of “god knows where”!
Soon the mechanic was digging under the bonnet of the dilapidated jeep, trying to find the problem. Jean sat grinning at us, obviously confident that the little man dismantling the engine was going to get us going again. Simon and I, on the other hand, were contemplating the fact that we might never see civilization again. We watched another piece of the tired engine drop onto the side of the road.
We had no idea where we were. Our South African education during the apartheid years taught us that there was nothing further north than Biet Bridge! Not only did, “where ever we were in Zaire”, not appear on any map we had with us, but we couldn’t even ask, since we couldn’t speak French, Swahili, Lingala or whatever. Our fate was in the hands of a mechanic with a vise grip and a screw driver!
After what seemed ages the mechanic appeared from beneath the jeep to raise a greasy thumb into the air as a signal for Jean to start the engine. With a confident, “I told you so” look, he cranked the jeep into life. Our mouths dropped open as the jeep sprang into life – at least the jeep was running, even though petrol was spurting about a metre into the air from behind the open bonnet.
The little man covered in oil and grease pulled his finger across his throat and then Jean killed the engine. The fountain of petrol slowly subsided to a trickle. Panic once again filled our hearts as we watched the mechanic, both hands on his head, stare into the oily bowels of the engine compartment. Everything had been put back, so why the lake of fuel under the vehicle?
The mechanic and Jean started looking for something on the road. We had no idea what they were looking for but we decided to help in the search anyway as it seemed that the illusive “what ever it was” held the key to us reaching civilizational. We spent the next half hour staring at the road surface, wondering what we were looking for. And then I spotted something, a small washer! “Is this what you are looking for?” I asked hopefully. The gleeful reaction of the mechanic confirmed that it was, and very soon we were off on our way.
It seemed that most of Zaire, human and otherwise, had decided to travel the same road that day. So apart from avoiding the pot holes, Jean had to avoid people, goats, chickens, dogs, children and anything that crept the road, or near vicinity or the road.
And that is where a horn comes in handy. Instead of swerving to avoid a child, Jean would simply drive straight at the startled toddler hooting and waving frantically until it’s mother snatched it out of harms way. It soon became apparent that Jean was hooting at any living thing that was within twenty metres of the road. He would hoot until we were well and truly passed the unfortunate creature, just in time to start hooting at the next victim.
This continued until we were within about ten kilometres of Mbuji-Mayi. And then, for some unknown reason Jean started bobbing down beneath the dash board of the jeep. Each time he disappeared the jeep would sway and swerve dangerously across the road.
“What IS he up to?” I wailed to Simon as the jeep headed to wards the ditch.
Simon was sitting behind the mechanic and had a better view of the drivers antics and peered around his shoulder into the front of the jeep.
Did the jeep ever make it home?
Our fear turned to laughter as we realized what was happening. The horn button had started jumping off from the middle of the steering wheel because of the deterioration of the road. Jean would hoot frantically, hit a pothole, bob, muttering below the dashboard to retrieve the horn button, bounce up at the next rut with the thing triumphantly clutched in one hand, replace it, hoot, hit a rut and the whole process would start again. The more we laughed, the more irritated Jean became with the horn button, and, the more we laughed. By the time we reached Mbuji-Mayi tears of laughter had streaked our faces, and our sides ached.
Later, as we waved waved goodbye to a very grumpy Jean, we could see him gesticulating wildly to the mechanic and then to the horn button in the middle of the steering wheel. I wonder if the jeep ever made it home.
To be continued …..
Picture credits – African Child, Old jeep
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Every time he hooted the horn he ducked beneath the dashboard, while we swerved dangerously across the road! “What IS he doing?” I asked Simon, who was sitting next to me in the back of the jeep. Simon craned his neck to see past the mechanic sitting in the front passenger seat.
It had been an interesting trip from Johannesburg to Mwene Ditu in the DRC (or Zaire as it was at the time). And now we were on our way to the missionary home in Mbuji-Mayi, along the only stretch of tar road in the interior of Zaire.
We had arrived by train from Kamina, a 13 hour trip that should have taken about 4 hours.
The local banker met us on the station platform. Not only was the banker standing on the platform, but so was his jeep! It wouldn’t have been so bad if he knew how to drive! The back of the jeep bumped the side of the train as the banker let go the clutch as if it were just about to bite him. Grating the gears we lunged forward toward a tin kiosk – the shop owner dived for cover. The soldiers at the gate leading out of the station area saluted nervously as we lurched and spluttered out on to the road. “Je m’appel Jean” said the banker turning to look at us hanging on for dear life in the back seat. We both nodded enthusiastically not knowing what he had just said, just praying he would just look at the road ahead!
Jeep in the jungle
Jean took us to a little hotel next to the station. Gesturing wildly, he made us understand that we were to spend the night there and that he would come for us later. It was 4am and we wondered what the point was, and since we had no money, we would have rather have been on our way. But there was no way out, Jean just didn’t understand what we were trying to say.
The little hotel room was simple to say the least, one bed, a bucket of cold water and a French style toilet. We tossed a coin to see who was going to “sleep” on the bed. Soon we were both on the floor since the bed was infested with all manner of creatures, living and dead…
The next morning, three hours later, Jean came past to pick us up. We heard the jeep coming down the road, Jean had forgotten to take the jeep out of first gear and the engine was screaming like a banshee at the early morning traders setting up their stalls. Jean gestured to his mouth and we understood we were going to eat something – “Oh, please God, let it be edible!”
Egg on toast! Phew! But how were we gong to pay, our travelers cheques were useless – our host, the banker, had no clue what they were. We ate anyway, hoping the eggs were chicken eggs. Jean pulled a wad of Zaire notes our of his pocket, peeled off a few hundred thousand, letting us know with a wave of is hand that he was paying.
Soon were we back in the jeep, our knuckles hanging onto the sides, white with tension and rucksacks in the back. Jean had another passenger today – a skinny bug eyed man with buck teeth who sat in the front clutching a vise grip and a screw driver. “Mechanic” grinned Jean, seeing our puzzled stare.
And we were off! It dawned on us that the jeep was the only vehicle we had seen in town. “Jean must have run the others off the road” we mused as the jeep lurched into fourth from second and straight back to first.
End of part one …
Pic of jeep by Matoso http://www.sxc.hu/photo/439745
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