Congo, Brazzaville

CONGO-BRAZZAVILLE

We arrive from Kinshasa with plenty of time to clear Immigration and Customs, which we anticipate will be closing at 1700. However ...

For whatever reason the ferry Captain (the Big Boat is really just a barge with accompanying tug) cannot, despite multiple attempts, find the angle needed to get us onto shore. We jig, we jag, we veer, we reverse, we float sideways past unattached to the tug while it manoeuvres around, we move with purpose only to get wedged in between other boats moored along the banks ... The attempts are numerous, but the humour of it all begins to fade as quickly as the light as the minutes turn into 60 then to 90 – we could almost spit into Immigration from the ferry but it’s almost certainly closed by now and in any regard there seems to be no chance the Captain will find the right moves to actually get us ashore.

FIIIIIIIIINALLY we crash up against the shore, still 5 feet off dry land but – all crew decide - close enough to launch the truck off the ramp. The space between the ferry ramp and land ramp is a jagged pile of broken cinder blocks and other concrete detritus and I’m less than happy to have to launch across it but have little choice and get into low and go, splashing across the gap of Congo and shore, bumping wildly side to side across the tire-shredding shore and then, getting purchase but with little in the way of control or power, up and onto the steep ramp. And then stall. The diff has slipped out and I’m revving nothing but air, and lose about 5 feet of hard-gained ramp until I can get the emergency brake locked. With a shout I’ve gangs of helpers piling rocks behind the back wheels within seconds and, diff engaged properly this time, am up and over the top to cheers from the masses gathered in the gloom to watch the spectacle.

The Carnet is quickly stamped but I am then told Immigration is not at this location and I am to follow a ‘helper’ – or so I think as I try and follow the rapid-fire French. Off out of the terminal I am led, leaving Clare behind. Not good. Immigration turns out to be about 3 blocks away at what I expect is the true Beach, we having arrived at some side-option. Immigration is - of course - closed and this presents a bit of an issue: we had been lead to believe Visas were issued on the boat. They may be – but not on ours. I am told to come back tomorrow and so we move off into Brazzaville without clearance (“is no problem” I am assured. Surrrrrrrrrre it’ll be no problem ... ).

We move into the ‘famous’ Hotel L’Hippocampe, apparently the overlanders mecca, and set up camp – for free, which is outstanding - in the parking lot. It’s fine, with friendly if not over-accommodating or interested young French owners – maybe a mecca previously, but now seems primarily more restaurant than hotel – but still, I think the only option in town and good enough. Also close by the Embassies and we submit for Gabon first thing before heading back to the Beach to sort the visas.

Round One: disbelief at our having arrived – and subsequently left – without a visa last night. Much discussion. A decision is reached – no penalty is to be meted out, but we are only eligible for a 3 day Transit Visa. I explain – numerous times – that we have submitted our passports for the Gabon visa, it’s Thursday, Sunday is the 50th Anniversary of Independence celebrations which means Monday will be a holiday (if not Friday and Tuesday as well) and we’ve then still got to get up north to the border. There is no way we can do this all in 3 days (and with the clock already ticking ...). Nothing he can do, but we can talk to The Chief. Standing stiffly to attention, I explain the situation in emphatic, if halting, French. The Chief is unmoved – utterly, impassibly, unblinkingly unmoved, like he’s heard not a word (or, quite possibly, understood not a word ...) and, with a sigh (very Gallic ...) stops me mid-stream: “You have two choices: take the 3 day Transit Visa, or get on the next ferry back to Kinshasa. Tell me right now.” One hundred USD slides easily into his pocket and a 3 day Transit Visa it is then ...

Once the transaction is completed he softens completely and tells me it will be no problem: due to the holiday nobody will care if we get to the border over deadline and as it’s his signature in our passport nobody will (dare) question the issue. Sounds all very self-inflating and I am completely unsold but, left with little (read: no) choice , cross-fingers and go.

Gabon delivers the next day, so we head to the Cameroon Embassy to try our luck on a two-fer. We are met by Jean-James, head of the Visa section who speaks perfect English and is very interested to hear of our travels. A quick 102,000 CFA later and we’re submitted, with the promise of a Monday return. Later that afternoon, as I am returning from the bar at Hippocampe, I am met by Jean-James: “There is a problem Mr Bullen, so I have come here to discuss it with you.” Crap, I think: they’ve lost our passports – it’s got to be serious if there’s a personal effort made to discuss directly. Turns out to be quite the opposite: Jean-James was concerned about the upcoming holidays so went into the Ambassadors office on our behalf, got the visas issued in a two hour turnaround, and has brought them here to us. We spend the next 2 hours talking about Cameroon over a beer, with promises to visit his hometown when we are there. Outstanding guy.

Down with hundreds of thousands of our closest, sweatiest friends to the Independence Day parade Sunday, which is an incredible spectacle with military participation from across the continent as well as from the French. Full pomp and circumstance; great show. There is one very odd interaction though: on arrival we are stopped by a flank of Police in full riot gear and frisked. In my thigh pocket I’ve a pen and (stupidly) a small folding knife. So my pen is confiscated; but not the knife (despite ‘Clare Can Tell No Lie’ pointing out helpfully that I should be careful as I’ve also a knife in my pocket they may confiscate. Thanks for that, very helpful ...). No pens allowed I am sternly admonished, and shown the gutter, which is full of snapped pens. But I can get mine back when I leave. Sure I can ... But, hours later as we move through the huge crowds departing the parade I am stopped by a hand wielded by a huge figure in black Kevlar – bit of a search-about through multiple pockets and lo if he doesn’t produce my pen to return it to me! Bizarre - pen obviously mightier than the sword and all that I guess ...

Few more days of faffing about – it’s a decent town to wander about in; with a small but good market for trinkets, nice waterfront and cafes serving decent coffee and mixed-culture foods on offer - and also to meet up with Clare’s friend Ron, who divides his time between Pointe Noire and Brazzaville so provides some good local colour and we’re off – now 3 days past visa expiry and with a long hard slog ahead. And a hard slog it is, roads a mess of deep sand we punch through in second for hours on end, dragging the diff through and furrowing a third track.

The Carnet passes without question and is duly stamped at a small wayside shack passing for the official Customs outpost, though the ‘agent’ does follow me out after and starts asking at the truck to know exactly what electronics we’re carrying, how many cameras, how we guide (“map or gps?”) – all of which is a line of questioning that could easily veer from idle interaction and/or curiosity to serious interference all too soon but gladly passes without incident through the magic of bold-faced lying (one small digital camera and a paper map are put to display – the box clearly stencilled ‘Electronics’ and Clare’s huge DSLR smoke-and-mirrored out of the agents line of sight - and we’re off without too much delay. Then we move on down the road a few kilometres and stop at Immigration (not easily spotted but recognizable from experience as a roadblock manned by a sleepy figure lolling under a tree idly waving at the truck to stop and pointing to the shack-with-flag behind ...).

I know I’m in for a hard time here and take the 10 paces to steel myself for a few tough – and possibly very expensive rounds of questioning ... All is going fine and the stamp is poised until, with a frown, the Chief stops mid-downswing and fires off a question to one of the gathered minions. I catch an emphasis on today’s date and some quick maths. He looks up and so begins multiple rounds of (roughly translated) “why (the hell) are you in the country after your visa expired 5 days ago?? This is a very serious matter!” My initial volley of supplication mixed with humour (“I know! Isn’t this a crazy thing, but I was told it would be no problem because of applying for visas and the holidays blahblahblah”) is quickly batted away. Not god enough. I ramp up my next offering with full agreeability but some intractability on who is to blame. Not good enough – what must be done, this is a very serious matter! So I go for broke and bring on the Righteous Indignation, repeatedly – with full palm-slapping-thigh emphasis – directing the issue to the Chief having told me it would be no problem and taking “plus plus de dollar” (turns out on further review he actually took the correct amount for 2 Transit Visas – even if he did pocket it – but I went with stoking greed and envy at the outpost for the wonton actions of those who are afforded the opportunities gained working at the Beach and not being lost out here in the hinterland). This (magically) works – and thank god for that because I knew as I listened to myself blazing on that I had gone well, well past the right side of Working Effectively With African Officialdom, where arguing angrily gets you very quickly in the opposite direction you were aiming for ...

Negotiations commence.

Finally – after many, many rounds and back and forths until we settle on what is considered by all to be “fair” – we’re off, exit stamps in place, and at 15,000 CFA for less in the end than the true cost of a 7 day visa. Score! And actually – in the end, as we’re allowed to leave, I’m not in jail nor being flogged out back for insubordination and my wallet’s not nearly as empty as it could have been - quite a fun interaction overall ...

More grinding through the thick dust and road-less roads leading north until suddenly – like a mirage – a clean strip of tarmac magically appears out of the scrub and with a gentle bump then a happily-surprising smoothness after so many hours of crazed driving we’re up and into Gabon ...