Jungles
...and fields of 6 foot tall, razor sharp "cut grass".
Cameroon: Limbe - Kribi - Limbe - Kribi (15 days); Gabon: Lopé - Lambarene - Mouilla (4.5 days); Congo, Angola, & DRC: Ngongo - Pointe Noire - Cabinda - Matadi (9 days); Angola: M’Banza Congo - N’Zeto - Ambriz - Porto Ambroin - Lubango - Namibe - Lubango (10 days).
Our little splinter group made landfall near Limbe, a surprisingly charming and sleepy little coastal town bordered by lava flows and nestled in the jungles of Cameroon. While the sight of oil rigs within swimmable distance of the shore was somewhat disconcerting, we spent some enjoyable time away from life on the truck.
The proximity to the Nigerian border meant we heard of regular raids into Cameroon by Boko Haram, including the news (blaring from a minibus radio in which we were so crammed I only had half a butt cheek bouncing on a hard, flat bench and an arm hanging out of a window) of a family of four kidnapped just north of where we were staying. While we never felt unsafe in Cameroon, we felt the vulnerability of finding ourselves just a handful of people instead of a couple dozen.
Our little splinter group made landfall near Limbe, a surprisingly charming and sleepy little coastal town bordered by lava flows and nestled in the jungles of Cameroon. While the sight of oil rigs within swimmable distance of the shore was somewhat disconcerting, we spent some enjoyable time away from life on the truck.
The proximity to the Nigerian border meant we heard of regular raids into Cameroon by Boko Haram, including the news (blaring from a minibus radio in which we were so crammed I only had half a butt cheek bouncing on a hard, flat bench and an arm hanging out of a window) of a family of four kidnapped just north of where we were staying. While we never felt unsafe in Cameroon, we felt the vulnerability of finding ourselves just a handful of people instead of a couple dozen.
When the truck returned and we found them after complicated meetup plans involving some tediously long back-and-forth travel, we’d found something had changed. Something happened in the mountains, and no one wanted to talk about it. There were also new cases of malaria, including our tour leader, which was bound to put strain on our (too) tight travel schedule. A couple passengers decided to leave; they’d had enough.
The humidity skyrocketed; back in the heavy, mouldy canvas tents, I spent many sleepless nights trying to feel even the tiniest breeze, anything to help take my mind off the rivulets of sweat and condensation soaking me and the inside of my tent. |
I learned, in Cameroon, that the sound of chainsaws translates to “adding value to the land”. The Mbenga, one of the Pygmy tribes still living in the remote jungles of the interior, have outposts along the rivers outside cities. Visiting them was one of the most heart-wrenching parts of the trip. An elder sat waiting with glazed eyes for pirogues and speedboats with tourists to come and pay him—usually in booze and cigarettes—to come and stare. Our pushy guide couldn’t speak his language and knew nothing of his culture; another obliged, translating that the people know they have little time left with their traditional ways—what with the increasing speed of development—and that it pains them greatly to be losing their identity by being forced into society. This outpost was not the village I was promised; none of the cost of the trip went to support the tribe. We were offered to be taken days upriver to a real village where people had rarely seen white skin. We firmly declined. It was a learning experience; I regret having supported the destruction of the culture, but I now know how to avoid making the same sort of mistake in the future. Had I known what was in store, I would have looked for a local initiative to help support the Mbenga and given them my cash rather than spending it on a boat ride to meet them.
For a memorable experience without the guilt of adding to the decimation of a culture, try journeying by minibus. Traveling anywhere by minibus demands a high degree of patience and a very flexible personal space bubble, but it is well worth the experience. Our first bus left on schedule but we were not so fortunate on the return trip, waiting hours in Douala for the bus to be full (and a bus is only full when it is well above capacity). Minibuses are colourful, with painted slogans (the most accurate of which was “No Time Is Late”), and though the ride may be bumpy and comes with a high likelihood of breaking down on the way (twenty children came running up and pushed us until the motor caught), they are always an interesting experience and a good way to make friends.
We carried on through dense jungle towards Gabon, coming across a familiar obstacle: a pickup stuck in a ditch, blocking the narrow road. This time, however, it was facing the wrong way; we couldn’t tow it out. Instead, we were instructed to fill the ditch on the opposite side, hoping our giant truck could squeeze through. Many villagers came down to help us.
Everyone watched as our truck inched by, two giant wheels hovering off the ground, the massive hardwood boards we’d borrowed from the village’s main entrance steps getting pulverized under its weight. It made it. Apologizing to the villagers for ruining their wood, I prepared to help dig out the ditch; I assumed that we’d take the extra ten minutes to tow the pickup out, if anything as a repayment for destroying two or three trees worth of solid wood. |
Instead, we were ushered into the truck to be on our way; I protested, wondering why we wouldn’t help finish the job, especially since it was such a small thing for us and such a big favor for them. I was met with anger and frustration, the temperamental driver snapping obscenities which boiled down to “it’s not our problem”. Turning to the tour leader, he echoed the driver’s words, and told me to hurry up and get on so we could leave.
Now, I don’t tend to get angry easily, but looking back at the dismayed villagers, their help unrepayed, I felt my blood boil. Why couldn’t we have taken the extra few minutes to help? They may have to wait another year until a truck comes along strong enough to get the pickup out, and it’s an obstacle that could block important shipments in the area or hinder getting someone to the closest hospital. What will they think next time they encounter foreigners? I felt ashamed.
I started withdrawing into myself more; getting lost in books more often than looking out the window at the wall of green tangles. The knot in my stomach was somewhat relieved by seeing some of the last of the world’s forest elephants in Gabon, by the frequent hard work of tearing back mounds of cutgrass in an attempt at leveling a small square for my tent, night after night, and by helping replace the truck’s giant suspension, twice snapped by the uneven roads, but by this point I, too, had had enough of this group and started thinking about making my own way south.
Now, I don’t tend to get angry easily, but looking back at the dismayed villagers, their help unrepayed, I felt my blood boil. Why couldn’t we have taken the extra few minutes to help? They may have to wait another year until a truck comes along strong enough to get the pickup out, and it’s an obstacle that could block important shipments in the area or hinder getting someone to the closest hospital. What will they think next time they encounter foreigners? I felt ashamed.
I started withdrawing into myself more; getting lost in books more often than looking out the window at the wall of green tangles. The knot in my stomach was somewhat relieved by seeing some of the last of the world’s forest elephants in Gabon, by the frequent hard work of tearing back mounds of cutgrass in an attempt at leveling a small square for my tent, night after night, and by helping replace the truck’s giant suspension, twice snapped by the uneven roads, but by this point I, too, had had enough of this group and started thinking about making my own way south.
Our arms and legs were criss-crossed with little slices; a few wounds started getting infected, and I caught some hungry little stomach parasites. Storms with strong winds and rain—one of which almost flung my tent, with me inside, down a steep hill (wind now wakes me up immediately when camping)—became frequent, though brief. Heading south into Congo, reactions to our presence shifted; everyone demanded gifts, and men (little boys, too) often made sexual gestures at us (pants pulled down and such shenanigans). Interesting, again, how an arbitrary border can make such a difference.
It’s illegal to take any photos in DRC, and police are known to watch with binoculars and extort large bribes from travelers who sneak shots. Our first night bushcamping was punctuated by eerie orange glows from natural gas burning off of the countless oil wells strewn throughout the jungle.
It’s illegal to take any photos in DRC, and police are known to watch with binoculars and extort large bribes from travelers who sneak shots. Our first night bushcamping was punctuated by eerie orange glows from natural gas burning off of the countless oil wells strewn throughout the jungle.
Still recovering from recent war, we were told to expect broken down tanks and destroyed cars on the side of the roads and never to wander off too far as landmines were still commonplace in Angola. The roads would be the worst yet, and as we expected not to make the Namibian border in ten days, we were ready to pay a fine for each day we would be forced to overstay our visas. In the four years since our guide and driver had visited, a lot had changed; most of the war debris had been cleared, many of the landmines, and a new superhighway had been built, linking the northern and southern border (we would make it in 10 days after all).
Though Portuguese is the official language in Angola, children and adults alike would call out “nihao!” as they spotted us. As we drove along, we spotted entire gated communities, mini-cities within the cities for Chinese workers and investors. Luanda, one of the most expensive capitals in the world, is surrounded by some of the world’s largest slums; around it, rows of identical apartment buildings were springing into view, stretching to the horizon. I wondered how much the intense development would benefit Angolans; still, one can’t argue with building roads and clearing landmines. Angola, like many of its neighbours, is rich in mineral resources.
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Economy aside, the scenery was stunning, progressing from sub-tropical forests in the north to a semi-arid, red earthed plateau farther south. Standing on the cliff edges looking over the marvelous landscape at the Miradouro da Lua, I contemplated the fact that everything in front of me was once under the ocean; along the plateau edges, layers of clay held clues to the past, preserving long-gone sea life as fossils.
Speaking not a word of Portuguese (or French, English, Spanish, Chinese), the Mumuhuela girls we kept bumping into in Lubango were shy at first but eventually started smiling at me and ventured so far as to lightly brush my arm and hair, so different to theirs. They must have been between 12 and 14; they, like many others, spent their time wandering the city begging for food. They had little choice; uneducated, at least by city standards, they couldn’t communicate. Their culture, like so many others, is no longer afforded a place in the modern world. The land is too valuable for resources or development; their crafts not as sturdy as mass-produced plastics. Still, they held their chins high, showing off their thick clay necklaces and the colourful strings of beads adorning their bare chest.
I took advantage of the truck’s round trip trajectory to spend a bit of extra time in Lubango and along the scenic route leading to the ocean to visit more of Angola’s colourful tribes. A hired taxi shuttled us around to various spots before dropping us back off in Lubango to await the truck’s return, bringing with it another negative mood shift. By now, our truck family was broken into solid, toxic cliques; the company representatives would start excluding passengers they did not personally like, taking their frustration out on them, a trend that would only get worse as the truck wound its way along the southern tip of the continent and back up the east coast. I was not impressed, and resolved to make my own way, slowly, to my final destination, as soon as possible.
I took advantage of the truck’s round trip trajectory to spend a bit of extra time in Lubango and along the scenic route leading to the ocean to visit more of Angola’s colourful tribes. A hired taxi shuttled us around to various spots before dropping us back off in Lubango to await the truck’s return, bringing with it another negative mood shift. By now, our truck family was broken into solid, toxic cliques; the company representatives would start excluding passengers they did not personally like, taking their frustration out on them, a trend that would only get worse as the truck wound its way along the southern tip of the continent and back up the east coast. I was not impressed, and resolved to make my own way, slowly, to my final destination, as soon as possible.