Congo

	Having reached the border on a Sunday it took the most part of five hours to round up the officials on the Gabonese side before travelling the last remaining stretch of dirt road to Congo. After some relatively straight forward hut-hopping to get all the necessary stamps we took to the tiny dirt path that was the main road into Congo heading to Dolisie.

It was late now and after passing some major bush fires the light began to fade, so we pulled off the side of the road for our first wild camp in Congo with a beautiful sunset.

We made good time the next day up until we reached Kibangou. The people explained that ten kilometres down the road the bridge over the River Niari was closed because it was broken and being repaired, the alternative diversion was a round trip of eighty kilometres. We decided that it was worth investigation so we risked the 20km round trip to save 80km of diversion.

When we arrived it was a shockingly long bridge, built from concrete and stretching 100m, there was only one workman on site and having walked the length and satisfied myself that we could miss the major holes we slipped him a pound and he let us cross.

	After two days in Dolisie we turned east towards Brazzaville with the fear of ‘ninjas’ (bored Congolese militants with guns) in our blood. In fact we should have had fear of ‘road’ more than ‘ninjas’ because our only conversation for the first 100km was “this can’t be the only road to Brazzaville” and “he’s not a ninja”.

	So the road was bad, and since I had finally realised that the main reason the truck kept breaking was my driving, I slowed down and we made steady progress. In fact, we went so slow, the truck fell over...


			No I didn’t ‘roll’ the truck, it just lay down like an old tired dog. At a narrow stretch of particularly bad road we met a jeep coming the other way, I pulled over to the side, straddling a deep hole. After he passed, I edged forward and the horizon rotated slowly, accompanied by huge noises from Jools. Once we had come to rest I looked up to see Jools hanging from the door handle, somehow instantly I was able to twist myself round and catch her as she dropped into my arms. After a quick check over, Jools calmed down a little and we climbed out the passenger door. Everything had happened so slowly that the only injury was a bit of a bump on the head for Jools. What a feckin’ mess we were in now!

I climbed back inside and secured the important stuff, passports, wallets and camera, then moved into the back to see what carnage waited. Walking on the walls I couldn’t stop thinking about the ‘Poseidon Adventure’, but most stuff was in place, surprisingly.

I jumped out the roof hatch and started to figure out what next. Soon enough two Jeeps arrived full of blokes, and since we were totally blocking the road they were soon involved. Most attempts amounted to very little as the most useful equipment we needed was in the spare wheel housing, on the downside. After half an hour of fruitless activity, they hacked away the vegetation surrounding the truck to enable their vehicles to pass, but agreed to send help if they saw anyone.

	I had to get access to the Tirfor cable next to the spare wheel, so I manhandled the fridge (40kg) out of the roof hatch and axed my way through the inner wall of the truck. This I carried out like a man possessed (or my brother Steve when he’s lost his keys), but now we had at last some means of moving the truck. The only tree was back up the road, but it was a start, and when we were halfway through setting up a winching system, the cavalry arrived.

A group of road workers having been told of our plight, dropped tools (any excuse for road workers worldwide) and came to see. They were soon followed by the armoured division (a huge earth moving grader), and we were sure that things really were about to start moving.

The driver manoeuvred the grader with such precision and skill, sweeping away swathes of undergrowth and soil from next to the truck (I kept thinking ‘Uncle Martin would be in his element here’ and where we would be panicking, he’d just be laughing away). Finally, we hooked the Tirfor from the grader to our roof rack and plonked the vehicle back onto its feet.

	We thanked the crew and gave them a very generous donation before reloading and reorganising the truck. Then with a trail of white smoke to rival the Red Arrows we carried on towards Brazzaville.

On the final 60km into Brazzaville there was some major road construction going on so we made much quicker progress on the graded shale. We did have a couple of scary incidents of guys trying to get us to stop by throwing big logs into the road but as they didn’t have guns we just swerved round them.

Our first sight of the Congo River came on the outskirts of town but we were very wary of the warnings about photographing the river, so no shots to show, Its massive though. After checking out the port (no boats today for vehicles, only disabled badge holders!?!?!?) and inter-netting, we bumped into a French guy called Olivier who was running a Hotel with his wife Katrin called ‘Hippocampe’. Olivier has a soft spot for overlanders having toured parts of Africa on bicycle and was happy to let us park up free of charge.

	We repaid the hospitality by dining in their restaurant and had some rather spiffing Vietnamese soup (Katrin’s parents are originally Vietnamese).

When the truck tipped the roof rack had taken a bashing and so I hooked up the Tirfor to a tree to try and straighten it a little and with the help of one of Olivier’s guys got some welding done the next morning (also got a puncture fixed in the new Goodrich tyre, umpteenth nail).

AND SO TO THE BOAT! I am about to try to explain to you the full and utter frustration of African bureaucracy that can lead a man to breakdown:

Arriving in Brazzaville port by the back entrance we approach the office to see if there is a ferry and can we buy a ticket. ‘Yes there is a ferry but you need a piece of paper from the ‘taxiter’ first. This takes 20mins to explain, from a man who doesn’t want to talk to you at all and less so, because your French is crap.

I finally realise that the taxiter weighs up your vehicle so that the ticket officer can give you a price for crossing. I realise now I will need help, so I’m soon latched onto by a plain clothes member of the public who takes me to a large blank wall and says “wait there” and walks off with some large suitcases.

Another helpful guy then takes me to the main gate of the port and a bunch of over-weight geezers at the entrance tell me that to get a paper from the taxiter I need a receipt from them for ‘port duty’ for 10,800 CFA. I spend 30mins trying to work out if I’m being fleeced, flagging down important looking cars entering the port (you get a little paranoid after sometime travelling in Africa about ‘screw whitey’ and start believing there all in it together).

I am left with no other option than to pay the 10,800CFA and I’m rewarded with six individual receipts for 1800CFA just to further my suspicions.

After this, we go looking for the taxiter and I am led to a small tin/plank/chicken-wire shed which looks like it was imported from a Yorkshire allotment, but no taxiter.

I am then told that the taxiter is the other side of some large locked gates at the ferry-side and to “wait here”. Once he finally shows up he has no uniform or i.d. and for the unknowing is a random person demanding to see my ‘carnet de passage’. Strange request I think, as at this moment I only want to buy a ferry ticket.

Indignantly, he explains that I need the carnet and passports stamped before we can get a ticket. I try to explain that this would leave me officially outside the country if no ferry ticket or ferry was forthcoming, which he replied to in a tirade of abuse.

Off we go back to the other end of the ferry port, in through some more large locked gates (somehow my guide just wanders in and out with no problems, as seemingly does almost every other person. Except for the odd fellow with a sofa on his head who is being ushered in by one uniformed officer and pushed out by another).

Passports are stamped in the usual frame-by-frame, slow motion, westerner infuriating way, and we're off again. My guide is complaining that I am walking too fast and he is tired, but we enter an office in the customs building and he stamps his feet and stands to attention. I’m not sure if I’m supposed to do the same, as up to now I’ve no idea what this guy does.

Were soon turfed out of that office and into another with more stamping and standing to attention (just looks odd in a two piece tracksuit), but the carnet is duly stamped and we head off back to find the taxiter.

I’m a little stressed now and feel that if we don’t get on a ferry today the complications will just multiply. On the dockside the carnet is passed around several people and a debate ensues, the final result of which, is that we need a police stamp on the carnet also (unique to Congo this one). I am then carted to the police office and sat down in a room to wait further, my helper popping in and out occasionally whilst trying to locate an officer (plain clothed).

By the time I return to Jools I’m knackered and wound up, the helper has buggered off and so I return to check at the ticket office that the ferry is still running, “No, it is after 12pm, only disabled people go on the ferry's now!?!?!?!?”. Slowly losing the will to live, I rant just under boiling point, and the ticket officer now says to ‘follow him’. He leads me into an office where the taxiter is lounging in a chair doing feck all. He browses the carnet and passports and then says “OK, give me 46,000 CFA”. With this kind of way of doing things I just feel I’m being shafted, so I chuck the money at him and mouth something in English before storming back outside to Jools. I’m livid, I’m swearing and I punch a dent in the door of the truck. It’s time for Jools to take over.

She wanders into the offices and 5 minutes later comes out with tickets, papers, passports, carnet everything in order and a promise we will be on the next ferry.

If anyone hasn’t read ‘The twelve tasks of Asterix’, it is based on the Herculean legend. One of the tasks for Asterix was to collect a green form from the building of bureaucracy. Inside he is sent from one office to another “green form, first you need a red paper from the 6th floor”, eventually Asterix leaves empty handed, frustrated and defeated. So Obelix has a try. He walks up to the first official, picks him up by the scruff and slaps him senseless, leaving shortly after with the green form. I just had images of Jools doing the same in the ticket office.


					We were told that the ferry would leave at 2pm and which gate to enter, so we parked up opposite and 2pm came and went, eventually we saw some other car entering so we just hoofed up behind and squeezed ourselves into the sprawling mass of people on the quay. As we waited amongst the trucks still worried as to whether or not we would ever get on the ferry, I began to feel the strain and aching pains through my hands and shoulders. It was still interesting to watch the mass of humanity as the porters vied for loads coming off the incoming ferry. At one moment a bag got ripped open and a riot ensued for the contents. I wondered if import tax might be charged per bag as some of the loads were unfeasibly large, one bag of toilet rolls bigger than six king sized mattresses being carried by two men. This was our ferry though, it must be.

I kept starting the engine and easing forward hoping to get the nod from the fellow who seemed to be directing some of the chaos. When finally we reached the top of the loading ramp looking down on a mass of humanity crowding the deck, a final check of the papers and, whoa, wait, the tickets are for one man in a truck and one foot passenger. They wanted Jools to walk down separately to the ferry deck. I felt like shit now but managed to explain that that was unacceptable in her condition and so they agreed it would be ok if she rode in the back of the truck, !@?£$%&?!?

On the ferry I took my temperature and did a Malaria check but no fever and negative on the test. I took a couple of paracetamol and drank plenty of water. We were crossing The Congo, all the wonder dulled by a pounding headache and aching frustration.

On the far bank things went really quite smoothly but we were fleeced by the money-changer and lost about eight quid (We counted carefully the multiple stacks of 500CF and found he was three short, but only the next day did we see that one of the stacks contained twenty 100CF notes instead, which look very similar). We parked up that night at a Jesuit Mission in Kinshasa [Avenue de Justice, 'SERVICO' signpost, S04˚18.655’, E015˚17.096’] and we slept off one of the hardest days of the trip so far.