Escape from Yaoundé

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On Monday, the day before we had planned to leave, we received a slightly worrying SMS from Julien, our Canadian friend, who was in Douala, the other big city in Cameroon. We were planning to meet him in Kribi, but he explained that Douala was at a standstill, no taxis, no buses, no traffic, so he was stuck. Apparently the transport strikes were about the price of fuel and various basic food essentials. The strikes had turned to violent protests and the military had even been called in to try and rectify the situation. Fortunately things were calm in Yaoundé and we packed up ready to head to the beach the next morning.

We hit the road shortly after 9 and headed for the city limits, past the huge Brasseries du Cameroun (brewery) buildings and out towards the highway. It didn’t seem especially busy and we were glad to be out of Yaoundé after the visa game we’d been playing for over a week. We passed a military vehicle with two soldiers who nodded as we passed but failed to warn us about the crowd blocking the road a few hundred metres ahead, beyond our line of sight. I slowed a little as the crowd came into view, checking for Linz’s position and trying to assess what was going on. There was another crowd to my right, off the road, shouting loudly and more than a few people on the street. In my mirrors I could see Linz executing a prompt U-turn. I opted to follow suit and a few people close to me were bellowing loudly and gesticulating that a U-turn might be high up the priority list right now.

Back with the soldiers we asked for the route to Kribi, they pointed us back in the direction of the mob and then drove off in their pickup, thanks fellas. A friendly local pointed us towards an alternative route which we followed, but before long it became clear that this would lead to a similar fate, lots of traffic turning in the road and people waving and shouting.

We headed back to the guest house through increasingly busy traffic and a few more shouty people. It seemed safe to assume that Yaoundé was following the example set in Douala. The miserable proprietress at the guest house advised us to take a room rather than camp, for our safety, and gave us a discount, only 5000CFA instead of 6000CFA for two beds in the dormitory room. Not such a great deal, actually the same price as the private double room, but the double room was occupied by Sven and Nadine. The day passed slowly and we talked with some folk about the possibility of it going sour and it seemed that Yaoundé was far more civil than Douala and it would blow over before morning.

Indeed it was calm again the next morning, we stood outside the Boulangerie Centrale feasting on chocolate pastries and I chatted to an interested onlooker. Linz’s spidey-sense was tingling though and she was worried about the taxis mounting the pavement, dumping passengers and driving around with their hazard lights flashing. I reassured her that it was just her imagination (people get in and out of taxis all the time) and continued stuffing my face and nodding occasionally while Mr. How-many-kilometres-a-day-do-you-travel went through the routine. Eventually, having finished my breakfast, Linz was agitated enough for me to take notice and it did seem like things had gone pear shaped. We jumped on the bikes and made a run for it before the roads could be blocked again. Today was different though, the mood was tense, the streets full of empty taxis, a lot of people on foot, everybody was in a rush. We didn’t even get to the brewery buildings before we could see the crowd blocking the road, though this time they were mobile and heading towards us, so we quickly headed back to the guest house for yet another night. The ride back was fraught with traffic jams, angry people, lots of arm waving, shouting and general unpleasantness.

This time the old sow at the guest house wanted us inside, so nobody could see she was harbouring dangerously wealthy white folk. The bikes were hidden round the side of the place, covered up and out of sight. A minion was sent to purchase bread and water in bulk and it seemed we would have to make preparations for a holocaust. We sat with Sven and Nadine, playing various dice and card games, listening for scraps of information on the radio news and watching time pass at a crawl. That evening the president addressed the nation with a vague and solutionless speech about how civil unrest wouldn’t achieve anything and he would open a can of whoop-ass if his people continued to protest.

We sat on the porch after sunset, talking with some other guests, when gunfire rang out, close enough to make the night watchman jump. Obviously the presidents words had gone down well. We were ushered inside and told to stay there. A Ghanian guest offered wise words, “The people are angry”. No shit Sherlock.

We resumed the dice/card/radio routine and exchanged nervous looks and laughs with each other. We soon retired to our dorm, where the constant whine of mosquitoes was punctuated by occasional gunfire and passing helicopters. Sleep didn’t come easy. Thursday brought a strange calm, there was no more shouting or gunfire and only the occasional helicopter. Sven and Nadine went food shopping and brought reports of huge queues and people panic buying vast quantities of bread and water. By the afternoon everywhere was closed and the city was quiet, a unannounced curfew apparently in effect.

It all seemed rosier on Friday, shops were open, the traffic was back and some taxis were on the streets, this time carrying passengers. The British High Commission still advised against travel and the local vibe seemed to agree. There was a government/union meeting planned for 10 the following morning, so there was a good chance of calm, at least until after the meeting. We made a plan to hit the road at sunrise and be at the border before anybody could decide if the meeting was a success or not. We called home and told of our plans, bought some supplies and spent the day saying, “Third time lucky”.

Sven and Nadine were also making an early start and the four of us loaded up before sunrise. Third time was indeed lucky, the roads were quiet as we rode through the city at 06:30 and we reached the Cameroon border post before 11. Sven and Nadine would take a few days to cover the distance on their bicycles, but the South of the country seemed much calmer than the capital, so their slower pace would not be a hindrance.

At the final exit post, the border guard said that Linz should stay with him in Cameroon, his justification was that he had lots of food, plantain and mangoes no less. Tempting offer, but Linz resisted and we crossed the bridge to speak with the Gabonese officials about getting into their country.

All border posts have a bloke with a stamp, this bloke has to stamp your passport with his special stamp. If stamp or bloke are not present, you must wait. As it happened, neither stamp nor bloke were present, just a delightful bulldog of a woman who had clearly missed the last couple of years at finishing school. We filled in some paperwork, she took our passports and told us to wait, indicating a grandstand like building with bleachers for seating. We joined 3 others waiting for the stamp.

Hours passed, a lot of hours passed, various people went to ask the bulldog if stamp or bloke were likely to appear today. All were told the same, “Il arrive”, which I think means “He’s coming”. Now he’s either somewhere enjoying himself, or he’s on his way, it’s difficult to tell. Five hours after we arrived the bulldog started reading out names, the 3 guys who had arrived first (apparently at 06:30 that morining) looked happy. I approached the kennel to collect our passports but they were still unstamped. Apparently the passports of the first 3 had been sent to town in a taxi, 2 hours before. I asked why ours had not been sent and the explanation was, “I’m sending yours now”, yes, but why didn’t you… but.. we’ve been here for 5 hours.. and only now!? Whatever.

So knowing the taxi turnaround is 2 hours and having already done a 5 stretch, we returned to the bleachers and figured at least it was better than our last 4 days in Yaoundé. The area surrounding the border post was picturesque, we could have done much worse. Shortly after 7 that evening we left the border post with our stamped passports and found a place to sleep in Bitam, a small town about 30km south. We were offered freshly prepared wildboar from the restaurant, which tasted good, even though it was a little cold. After a good night’s sleep we had a lazy morning, though not too lazy, it appeared the wildboar might not have been so fresh as it was in a hurry to get out again. Linz hadn’t been too hungry the night before and I’d eaten most of our two plates, so she was spared the worst of it.

After Bitam we had a short ride to Oyem where we spent a night with the nuns at the Catholic Mission, camped in the sports hall to avoid the storm that lashed the place for most of the afternoon. A beautiful, twisty tarmac road runs from Oyem all the way to the Equator, the same road everybody uses to reach the Equator sign where we stopped for the obligatory photo opportunity.

Once in the Southern hemisphere the road turned bad and we stopped for a night in Ndjole before riding east towards Lopé National Park. A stoney but reasonable piste took us 120km to the Lopé Hotel, an upmarket place for those with fat wallets and smart suits. We decided to treat ourselves, 50 pounds a night might be the price of a Travelodge back home, but here in Gabon you get an air conditioned safari bungalow, a proper comfortable bed, hot shower, satellite TV and an amazing view of the Ogooué river that runs through the national park. For an overlander though, 50 pounds for one night is ridiculous, more than 10 times what we normally pay for the chance to pitch our tent in some vermin infested shit hole, so we did spend a little while justifying the whole thing. A walk along the white sandy river shore after a 3 course lunch and a cold beer soon had our minds satisfied that we’d done the right thing.

Paradise was tainted slightly the next morning as heavy rains had started at 3am and showed no signs of giving up. By the time we were ready to ride the rains had slowed to a steady drizzle, but we were a touch anxious about our route for the day, 200km piste through Gabonese rainforest. So that’s why it’s called a rainforest.

As luck would have it, the first 150km was a blissfully smooth, well maintained earth road, not a piste at all. Cool banked corners allowed us to make great progress until we hit the muddy stuff about 50km from Lastoursville. It wasn’t too deep, just extremely slippy, clay like stuff that stuck to the bottom of our boots. We slithered around and I ended up leaving the bike, and making a conscious effort not to faceplant or break any bones I landed on my head. Okay, maybe my head and neck weren’t the best choice for impact absorption but Linz says it’s the closest thing I’ve got to an air bag.. she loves me, you can tell.

Back on the tar road in Lastoursville Linz needed fuel, but the town was dry and no delivery was due for at least 2 days. We were instructed that nearby Koulamoutou always had fuel, so we shared what we had left and trundled off. The place did have fuel and an interesting place called Hotel Residence Paul Ndama. It was beyond the normal overlander budget at 16,000CFA per night, but hey, we’d blown 42,000CFA the night before so this was nothing! The whole place was immaculate, the recepionist was extremely friendly and polite, the well-stocked bar sold beer at overlander prices but had comfy leather chairs and polished glass tables. We asked for the cheapest room, but it was huge, with a private patio looking out over rolling green hills. There was a surgically clean bathroom with hot shower, clean towels and bath robe. Everything had the hotel name embroidered, etched or otherwise tattooed on it. We looked at the key, room no. 13… is somebody having a laugh here, what’s the catch? There was no catch, if you ever take an overland trip through Gabon, go to Koulamoutou, go to Hotel Residence Paul Ndama. The food was great (they have python and cobra on the menu, and they’re not beers), the drinks were cold, the prices were right. After crawling around in the mud it was what I needed.

It took some willpower to stay just the one night, but it’s always best to leave before you see the cracks appearing, although I’m still convinced the place has none. An uneventful run the next day brought us to Franceville, a pleasant town surrounded by soft green hills. It’s also just 120km or so from the border with Congo, our next stop, which Linz is looking forward to, because it’s a sandy road.

Next time I’ll let you know if Linz’s mental wellbeing and our relationship survives the sand.

(Photos to follow when the net connection uses wires instead of smoke signals)

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