Equatorial Guinea 4 The Engine Sputtered

Acalayong consisted of thirty huts huddled on the shore of a broad estuary.  At the shallow water's edge was beached   a flotilla, of hollowed-out log canoes; some sporting outboard motors. After intense bargaining, one of the owners agreed to take me across the estuary to Gabon. Soon, we were under way, skimming over the water which occasionally surged over the prow of the low sitting canoe.

We must have travelled a good three hours before the engine sputtered to a halt. The estuary had widened considerably at this point and the change in water colour indicated that we were geographically in the Atlantic Ocean. Apart from a few nearby islets, land appeared to be very far away indeed. I was, therefore, greatly relieved when the current carried us to one of these islets, rather than out to sea.

To be truthful, when we landed, I really was surprised.

David W. Bennett 

(to be continued) 

Equatorial Guinea 3 Lone white man

Nor did I find it that strange to enter the building and find a well-stocked bar and about one hundred dancing patrons, eighty of whom were young women. I am sure the most bizarre event to occur that day was the entrance of a lone white man, with a bag strapped to his back.

In any case, I settled down to enjoy a few beers, answer curious questions and gather more information. Amidst many offers of overnight accommodation, I was able to ascertain that a vehicle would be making its weekly journey to Acalayong, the southernmost town, the very next day

The next morning, a decrepit pickup truck did, indeed, turn up. I thankfully scrambled into the back with sacks of grain, baskets of live chickens and about fifteen other passengers. Apart from one small village, there was very little to see during the eight hour journey. The road was in deplorable condition, practically swallowed up by the dense jungle which closed in tightly on both sides. By the time the truck wheezed into Acalayong, I was alone, my fellow passengers having disappeared into the bush along the way.

David W. Bennett 

(to be continued) 

Equatorial Guinea 2 Ghost Town

Bushmeat for sale outside Bata, Equatorial Guinea

During his 10 year rule, many people disappeared, the country's economy collapsed, and half the population was forced to flee. This information didn't fully prepare me for what I found. The centre of Bata was a virtual ghost town. The handsome Spanish colonial buildings were boarded up, and the well maintained streets were empty of both people and vehicles. I surmised that the refugees had little reason to return here from the relative prosperity of Cameroon or Gabon.

This conclusion did nothing to alleviate my present predicament, however. Knowing there to be no flights, I resigned myself to the possibility to having to walk to Gabon. After about half an hour, I was surprised to come upon an apparently well-populated thatched suburb. I say surprised, but after travelling in Africa for a while, nothing seems that surprising. I, therefore, did not find it strange to hear the sound of a fifteen year old Beatles recording blaring from a large thatched building.

David W. Bennett 

(to be continued) 

Lipica

Predjama

Bled

 

Congo 4: My heart sank

I awoke the next morning with a crushing headache. It eased as the day became a repeat of the day before. We visited several villages and covered 100 kilometres by nightfall. Unfortunately, I was still not at my destination as 50 of those kilometres had been side-trips to villages off the main road.

Once again, Pierre took me to visit his wife and children. “I suppose you have a wife in Makabana, to,” I said jokingly. “How did you know that?” said Pierre, surprised. Then a glint of recognition came to his face. “You've been talking to Jurgen, haven't you? He must have told you.”

Now that I understood Pierre's timetable, I awoke the next morning confident of reaching my destination. We travelled quickly until, outside a large town called Kibangou, we were stopped at a police checkpoint. A stern-faced officer perused my passport. “You didn't get your passport stamped in Lobo.” he said, referring to a forgettable village 80 kilometres back down the road. “You will have to return there to get it stamped.”

My heart sank.

David Bennett 
(to be continued)