BootsnAll Travel Network



Bangui-Boubari rip-off?

RCA, March 1984
My backpack was still too heavy when Siggi and I finally left Bangui on the 9th of April. We headed out to a checkpoint at the outskirts where every vehicle had to stop. A small settlement had shot up around the barrier and there were ramshackle restaurants, stalls and coffeshops. We made ouselves comfortable by the roadside, ate ice-cream and jumped up every now and then when a car pulled up. I had hitchhiked under more strenuous conditions.

Not that we got a lift. Eventually, a yellow minivan with “Venus” painted onto the bonnet in red letters pulled up. Mountains of luggage were tied onto the roof, around a leaking fuel barrel. It seemed to be the local transport. It also looked like our only option. The tickets to Boubari were 4500 CFA each. While Siggi and I debated the cost, the driver took an impatient last drag on his cigarette, tossed it away and glanced at his watch. I turned to him: “7000 CFA for us both?”
“OK. Hop on.”
Whoa! I should have haggled.

Despite my protest, two young men heaved my rucksack up next to the fuel barrel and we squeezed into the packed van. Somebody had written: “28 seats” next to the dashboard. I could not fathom why they had thought up the number 28. We were only 23, including children, and there wasn’t room to twitch in. The two young men hung out of the door but soon gave up and settled on the roof.

As we stopped for a rest at another barrier, the conductor walked around collecting money for the tickets. “6000 CFA”, he said. Pleased to safe some money, I gave him the cash and he handed over a ticket: “Bangui-Sibut 2 Pers. 6000 Francs.”
“We are going to Boubrai,” I said: “and we agreed a price of 7000 francs for both of us.”
“Impossible,” he retorted: “The price for two to Boubari is 9000 franc. Everybody pays it. How are you any different?”
The difference was that we did not intend to pay any more than the agreed fare.
“Go ask the dtiver!” I shouted. The driver came over and as I glowered at him just said :”OK,OK, d’accord!”.
On we went. For a quarter of an hour, nothing happened.

At the next barrier, the conductor handed another ticket through the window on which was written: “Bangui-Boubari 2 Pers. 9000 Francs.” I drew a breath to start arguing but the chauffeur signalled to me. I handed him the ticket. He scrunched it up and tossed it aside. Our problem appeared to be solved.

The van rattled over the potholed track into the night. The driver switched on the lights and I started to enjoy the particular thrill of a night drive in tropical Africa. Around a bend there suddenly was blackness like a gaping abyss. The driver braked and we edged forward to find it was just a little dip in the road. The trees at the roadside threw shadows like gnarly claws ready to draw us into the forest. Potholes turned into craters, pebbles into boulders.
With the darkness, the sounds of animals appeared to come from directly above: the chirping of grasshoppers, the hooting of birds or monkeys. However, after few hours of this the experience lost its charm. I was aching all over. Thankfully we only had ten kilometres to go.

Then we had an accident.

It was hard to believe, judging from the amount of traffic on the road to Boubari, but there was a second minivan ahead of us. Our driver flashed his lights and blew the horn, then pushed down the accelerator at the same moment as the driver of the other minivan jumped on the brakes.
Our own brakes did not work too well. Whenever we came to a stop, the two baggage handlers placed stones both in front of and behind the wheels so the van would not roll away. Our driver was left with no option but to veer to the side. We scraped the other van. Glass shattered. When we finally came to a halt, I saw that the reason for the braking maneuvre: a cyclist who had not managed to get off the road quickly enough. Thankfully he was alright.

We waited for an hour until the people returned from reporting the incident to the police and another half an hour at the barrier at the entrance to Boubari. By the time we arrived in town it was 3 am. Everything was dark.

The conductor stepped up to me. “I am lacking 3000 CFA,” he said.
“You are lacking 1000,” I confirmed and was about to continue when he cut in: “I am lacking 3000. If you do not pay the full price, your rucksack stays on the roof.”
In contrast to Siggi’s, my ruckdsack was still up there. I had climbed onto the roof during an earlier stop to take out a few things and had found that the upper pocket was open, spilling out my toiletteries. Everything was soaked in fuel from the leaking barrel. I had found my camera under a pile of wooden planks and had taken it with me. It might have rolled underneath or it might have been hidden there, but what was happening now amounted to theft in my eyes. I shouted to Siggi who shinned up the ladder, grabbed one of the baggage handlers who had set off after him around the leg and put my other hand onto my knife. Then I shouted at the conductor to get the driver.
“The driver does not set the price!” he shouted back, but they left Siggi alone. He off-loaded my rucksack and looked for some of the stuff that had spilled from the pocket. When he could not find any more, I climbed onto the roof myself to look for the remaining things. I did this repeatedly. Eventually, the conductor, to whom I had given the 1000 CFA, followed me up with a torch.

“Look at the mess,” I wailed: “and you want me to pay for this!”
When he saw what had happened the conductor was very helpful. However, my bag with the sleeping bag, jogging pants and sweater had vanished.
I gathered the rest of my belongings and sat down on a towel (in a puddle of fuel) to spend the rest of the night reading a book. The conductor, who had joined me and to whom I was whingeing that I could not understand his country, it had been so different in the Sudan and why were people not more helpful, offered me some bread. We made our peace.

(Note: Now I am sure that I was in the wrong. 9000 CFA may seem atrocious, even now, but it seemed to have been the going rate. However, I was scared about making my money last, it was a long way to Capetown. And I had a lot to learn about backpacking.)

Tags: ,



Comments are closed.