Made our final trip into Bangui, where I changed money at the bank and wrote a letter to the Douglas family to accompany their jar of truck-made marmalade, telling them about our relatively uneventful trip from Kousseri.
Down to the ferry port for border paperwork then a sandy beach walk to the river’s edge. Quick visit to a baby chimpanzee at Hotel Rock. The chimp was chained to a tree and rushed us to perform somersaults, crawl up me and bite me playfully before dashing back to his piece of foam and relative security. Cheeky little mite and very frisky, not at all in the mood for cuddles.
Then it was onto the ferry, from which we watched a mob of naked boys doing bombs and belly flops into the river. A very quick crossing landed us on softish sand that had us fearing we would have to sand mat into Zaire. But Stanley powered through to laidback and friendly and desperately slow entry proceedings at customs and immigration at a tiny mud hut with the currency declaration man in the back office and two Service Sanitaire Douane officers sitting at two tiny wooden desks on the veranda. Had to fill in money declaration forms and provide normal entry information but also list on the back every country we’ve been through so far and where we're heading. We then had to count our money in front of the chief, who promptly offered to change Vicki’s CFAs at the black-market rate and gave her a new form to fill in to hide the amount.
While we waited, Vicki and I lunched overlooking hundreds of squealing black children splashing about in the river and churning through the water doing freestyle and butterfly.
Finally, the truck was thoroughly searched, with lockers emptied and upended, Tom’s mineral rocks smashed and Nikki’s temper frayed. A Time magazine with Gaddafi on the cover caused consternation but the chief couldn’t read English and when we gifted him Chinese vitamin C and Andrews Liver Salts he gave the magazine back. Finally, after what seemed like forever, we were through!
Needed to change money so headed to the bank, where four air-conditioners were pumping cold air our wide-open windows. The sweat poured down my legs as I waited for the paperwork to be completed. Bank staff - one dressed in a bright orange lab coat and green gumboots - passed the final paper hand-to-hand around the office to the desk of a gentleman who totally ignored it. I then got handed a massive wad of Zaire notes.
I resisted the temptation to approach an adolescent chimpanzee chained up opposite the bank because I had seen locals teasing the animal and wasn't sure how calm it would be by another visitor.
Finally, we were on our way - and the changes were dramatic and rapid.
Here were tall trees with long straight grey trunks topped with umbrellas of rich green and others with wide buttressed roots; ginger plants, mango and pawpaw trees, banana and coconut palms, and flowering shrubs grew thickly on both sides of the road. We crossed a creek hidden by jungle, the trees draped with vines, the heavy canopy blocking the late sun. And the smell - a humid, heady aroma of leaf mould. Everything is a welcome relief from the dust and sand and dry air of the trip so far.
Passed many villages where we got the same warm greetings we were used to before our journey through the Central African Republic. Some were restrained, almost shy, but others were downright excited. Let’s hope we have left the aggro and unfriendliness behind.
I climbed into the crows' nest for the short drive out of the town of Zongo to the roadside gravel pit - what would be the first of many - surrounded by paw paw trees lade with ripe fruit. There is firewood in abundance and the air buzzing. As the light faded the background music became a crescendo of insect noises. Then, as we started cooking, we heard drumbeats and singing. Even hanging out of Stanley didn't block out the noise we were making, so I walked into the darkness to listen. Per and Adri decided to go over so I followed, using just enough torch beam to find the road, across which we could see the pale glow from a fire and two palm trees, looking grey in the strange light.
What followed was one of the most wonderful experiences of the trip. Dancing figures were writhing to the primitive rhythms of three drums producing different tones and pitches, one drummer's arms pounding up and down so quickly they were almost a blur in the firelight. We stood watching from the relative dark of the road and even though I'm sure they knew we were there ignored us, Per remarked that our quiet observance was like there’s when they come to see the truck.
We went back to camp for dinner but returned to the village afterwards, where several other passengers swelled our group to an obvious audience. For a while they appeared more aware of us than the celebration of their grand-mere’s funeral - as a villager explained - but the women continued their shuffling dance around the fire and drummers. As we sat quietly on the dusty road, we became aware of different things almost hidden by the dim light: some of the girls wore half skirts of grass tied over their buttocks which they swung and jerked to the beat; one drummer bought his drum over to the fire where he moistened it with spit and heated the skin until the pitch increased again, testing the sound with a stick (look at paper diary for a picture of the drum). After each song and dance the villagers talked amongst themselves, probably deciding what to do next. Suddenly, several younger men pulled palm fronds from one of the trees and bound the leaves around their heads and waists, creating bird-like caricatures. They joined in what became almost a frenzy of wailing, singing, screeching and ooloolooing in a tight ring around the fire and musicians, shifting and stamping their feet and shrouding the figures in haze turned orange by the firelight. I felt the frantic primitive sounds in my body, my heart seeming to beat in time, and I expect that is exactly what the villages feel. Music is part of life here from when you are in the womb so it's no wonder that they seem to move with such sensual, passionate rhythm, the music an integral part of their bodies.
Sadly, the young men started to dance more for us than in celebration and one asked for a cigarette, so we retreated back to camp. The night was briefly quiet; then erupted in a cacophony of frenetic drumming, voices and pounding feet. I was tempted to go back but didn't want to distract them again so I closed my eyes and pictured them in the firelight. Writing this comes nowhere near describing what I felt watching and listening to them.
What a welcome to Zaire.
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