Diary & Travel Reports from the saddle

Bangui, Centrafrique - 28th November 2004

Everything turns the colour of mud. Both shock absorbers break. One pannier box smacks a hidden tree stump catapulting me face first into a mud pool. 10 minutes later I find it to be infested with giant biting brown ants. A camera goes swimming. My boots disintegrate. Snakes uncoil to attention then dart into the undergrowth. Multi-coloured lizards scurry after them.

A brief visit to Congo Zaire (DRC or whatever name you want to use) briongs me close to the Sudan border. A 10 year old boy appears in front of me, complete with AK47 rifle and cigarette. His father lounges in a camp to one side where I pull up and lean the bike against a tree. I announce what I'm doing and where I'm going, say goodbye without waiting for a response and get back on the bike. Someone laughs. I don't look back and ride off.

Confusion greets my arrival at Bazi in South Sudan, the last tourists to come through being a Swedish couple on a motorbike in 2001. Drying all my gear after playing submarines on the waterlogged track brings back memories of Siberia. I am amazed at the amount of stuff I have and throw some. I add the spare suspension spring to the left side after a breakage, a first class bodge lasting all the way to Bangui.

I spend two nights in Yei, dismayed at the level of bureaucracy needed to pass through this fledgling country. Peace talks now take place in Kenya and hopes are high for a settlement. I take one or two photos, someone tells the army which nearly panics. In Maridi Public Security officials search my bike and read my diary, suspicious of the Arab named captain of the ship Aziza in Tanzania. They tell me they went for independence when Kartoum banned Christianity. Despite southern Sudanese oil, there are no western troops and the war is 22 years old. One puts my Argentina patch in his pocket which sends me over the edge and I swear at him. The boss accuses me of disrespect for which the penalty is flogging and hanging. I apologise for the misunderstanding, blue, white and yellow patch safely back in my custody, although I am in theirs'. Every official and army personnel demands money, I pay nothing and let them steal not a stitch. The war has turned everyone hostile and aggressive, including me. I try not to hold it against them. It takes a day to go 50km. I stop at a hospital and they dress a deep elbow wound spirting blood - it was from the ant infested mud bath. My own medical kit is waterlogged. The Sudanese border town of Source Yubu near CAR is a relief. Angelo the town chief gives me a rat infested room for sleeping and something to eat - I like to think it was chicken. He remembers Nick from a year or two previously, a London biker I had met in Dar Es Salaam. Nick, with a warped sense of humour, originally told me there was a route through here.

They point out the road to Sudan, leading into thick bush! Close examination reveals barely a footpath. I head out. Shortly I come to two locals pointing 90 degrees to the left, wow thanks God. David a missionary in Kampala warned me about missing a crucial left turn somewhere around here and I had prayed. I come to the first staircase, a 45 degree rocky incline. I carry my big red bag up. I climb back down, get on, take some deep breaths, fix my eyes at the top, rev the engine, dump the clutch, the roaring Rotax flies, we fall at the top. I should have fixed my eyes past the top! I relearn many lessons from Siberia. I crash up and down many such staircases. My 300kg loaded bike is amazingly strong. I'm amazingly exhausted each day, usually well before midday. I fall off in thick mud sometimes for no apparent reason. The track often disappears so I continue straight and it reappears. Many bridges are made of simply a steel girder. I get paralysed with fear at one, before a local walks through the river showing it is only thigh deep. I could kiss him, but give him a squashed banana instead.

CAR will always mean oranges. Delicious and plentiful at this time of year, and more of a pleasure than using the Kakadyn filter with brown river water as the ceramic filter clogs too fast. The people have not suffered under a war. It is a pleasure to try some more French! But CAR will also always mean corrupt officials. Without fail the gendarmerie and the commissariats expect money and you meet their barriers at town entry and exits. I calmly explain what I am doing saying that I've no "argent suplementaire" for them. If they persist then the dialogue becomes ugly and I shout about this sort of terrorism. I can usually hide my smile but occasionally it gets to me. I wonder what all this is doing to me inside. I avoid by an inch one semi independent militia’s unmarked unlit barrier of metal spikes and stop to berate them over this appalling danger. One amusing incident comes at Grimari after my polite refusal to pay up was accepted. I use the opportunity to do a repair on the second broken shock absorber. Three gendarmes help, one calls me his "bon frere" and offers me his daughters! Later in the day a pregnant woman with a tattoed face invites me to sleep with her.

Mboki is a unique Eastern CAR trading town of mainly of Sudanese refugees, but also nomadic cattlemen from Chad to the north and other Muslims from Darfur, along with traders and refugees from Zaire. It is also the field HQ of Medecins Sans Frontieres where Spaniards Antonio and Piluca put me up, feed me, give me some fuel and told me about what is going on in this country. Later on in Zemio, Frank of MSF had me stay over for two nights since one day was rained out. MSF here battles malaria and sleeping sickness which is caused by bites from the giant tetsi fly whose bite sure is big! They tell me of the new malaria vaccine developed with Bill Gates funding. This is great news for Africa where malaria is the biggest killer, but a further 10 years of testing is needed.

MSF tells me that the present government was brought to power with the help of the military. The army was then barracked in the north near Chad. The soldiers are unhappy and still have guns. They have started to rape and steal. MSF intends to go into this area with services, knowing that in these situations the people suffer worst. Now, I call that brave. MSF are the true heroes of our age, people who give up a decent wage to go to risky front lines and serve innocent victims. I take my helmet off to them and question what I am doing with my own life, swanning around the world on a motorbike. I ask MSF for advice about promoting motorcycle use in delivering basic health services in rural CAR with the health ministry. “Come back in 5 or 10 years” they say.

The Catholic missions, also heavily involved in health issues, provide free lodging and other practical help. The Latin influence is unmistakable with Spanish, Argentine and Mexican missionaries relegating my Frenish to Franish!

My next countries are Cameroun then Nigeria, which compete each year for having the worst corruption in the world. Could it get any worse than CAR? We shall see.

On the subject of money, the vast majority of the USD112,000 raised for charity on this initiative has already been sent to Health for All and MSF, so we have not lost too much because of the recent USD nose dive. I shall have to make a change to Euro at future fundraising events. Perhaps I should not feel so bad about giving these corrupt officials a dollar after all! It is amazing how money news gets out to the African jungle isn't it?

Simon

Simon Milward, on the road
simonrtw@hotmail.com
www.millennium-ride.com
A solo fundraising round the world ride on a handmade motorcycle.
Supporting Doctors Without Borders, Motorcycle Outreach and democracy.

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