Bangassou
RCA, March 1984
At least my luggage problems were solved, the rucksack was now about the right weight and there was ample room for all my stuff.
We had two exellent cups of coffee by the roadside, followed by one of the German Army rations which were so vile that they had not been touched in the desert. Then I repaired my rucksack. After a while, the “Venus” van passed us on its way back to Bangui and the driver nodded and smiled a friendly greeting.
It was a Saturday and there was no traffic to speak off. We sat by the road for a long time until a white Toyota pick-up van stopped at last. The driver was reluctant to take hitch-hikers and it took all my charm to persuade him to make an exception in our case. In the end I fluttered my eyelids, smiled sweetly and asked him what difference it would make if we sat in the back whereas it would be a great help to us. He relented.
I found a seat on a sturdy box and immediately had to grab hold as we hurtled down the track. The landscape was very beautiful. The softly rolling hills were green after the recent rain. A shining white chapel stood amid meadows on a small hill. We could have been somewhere in England were it not that occassionally we passed patches of tropical forest furrowed by clear streams.
I had changed place and soon felt a burning sensation between my legs. Looking down I saw that the fuel barrel I now sat on was leaking and the liquid was burning my skin. It hurt. When we stopped for a rest in a small village, I pulled out some spare clothes and after some hesitation approached a group of Muslims sitting in the shade under a straw roof. I asked whether I could change in a room and tried to explain what had happened but they did not seem to understand. With a sigh I pointed at my wet trousers.
“Ah oui, le gasoline!” one of the men said, eyebrows raised and they all fell about laughing.
I swallowed my pride and went to one of the toilets the men indicated to change.
About 115 km from Bangassou our chauffeur stopped in a small town to deal with his errands. When he returned he asked whether I was aware that the “fare” to Bangassou would be 5000 CFA.
“5000 CFA?!” I cried. I was not yet fazed, we had expected to pay for the trip and I was ready to haggle.
“That is the normal price. But for you 4500 CFA”.
I looked desolate and said that I would have to get off as I did not have much money. 3000 CFA perhaps, but any more…
It took a good two minutes to convince the driver that not all tourists were rich.
“3500”, he said.
“3000”, I said.
“3500. Come get on, we have to start.”
I climbed into the cabin.
“3000 francs,” I complained, ” is a lot of money!”
The driver did not say anything further. On the way he stopped to pick up a couple of chatting women who climbed into the back with their children and a basket full of chickens. The place next to mine was taken up by a young mother and after she got out and I hoped to stretch a little, by the fattest bloke I had seen in the whole of Africa so far. Apparently the driver had overcome his reluctance to offer lifts and turned the vehicle into an unofficial bus service. Most people were only in for a short ride. After a soldier with a gun had jumped off, only the fat bloke, the driver and we remained. I was squeezed in between the two, envying Siggi in the back. The driver and the fat man sang hymns and chewed cola nuts. At a rest stop, the driver bought me some oranges. We arrived in Bangassou in the early evening.
After a stop for coffee and a pipe we went to the police station to ask for the catholic mission. The cops were nice which made a refreshing change and offered us to stay in the station if there was no space at the mission. Two of them escorted us to the mission.
The missions are popular with travelers, especially in areas where there are no hostels or camping places but understandably some missionaires are irritated by the onslought whereas others have started to run small-scale hostelries. The one in Bangassou was of the latter type and I was hoping to meet other travelers there but we were on our own. The upside was that the padres were glad to see us as they had grown bored and were keen to hear our tales.
I realised with a start that the next day was a Sunday, but thankfully the padres did not enquire about our faith. Besides, Siggi was now wearing a miniature Koran as a necklace.
When we arrived, the padres were at dinner, served by a little black boy and we waited outside until they had finished. They were an international bunch of Dutch, Italian and French monks. Some of them even spoke a little German. After we had introduced ourselves one of them called another boy to show us the way to the rooms and handed him the key which the child took with a submissive gesture. Somewhat irritated at this, we followed him to acouple of rather nice rooms complete with showes. We showered and changed then returned to talk to our hosts and listen to hymns on the record player. Before long the padres got up and told us that the lights would go out in 15 minutes when the generator stopped running.
We rushed back and it took me all of fifteen minutes to get ready and check the matress where a giant cockroach was lurking, seemingly staring up at me. I slept on the floor. Later I realised that that probably wasn’t wise.
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Denni