Into the Unknown

The omelet I was served at Hotel du la Lac in Mouila wasn't greasy. I couldn't remember the last time I'd seen an omelet this well-cooked. Maybe at that amazing hotel I'd been to in Djenne.

Wow. More reason to love the cook, the grandma who'd startled me last night with the offer of antelope.

I was slack about getting out of my hotel on time. The food was great, the wi-fi good. Who knew when I'd next have a reliable connection? Certainly I'd have no access for the next few days, as I rolled with the peanut butter and mud into Republic of Congo.

Still, in spite of meandering, I got to the rendezvous point for Ndende-bound transport by nine.

Plenty of time, I thought, to make the two-hour drive to Ndende—where I needed to be stamped out of Gabon—and be there by noon before the police left for their three-hour lunch break. But an hour is never enough leeway in this part of Africa. I should know that by now.

At a dusty roundabout in the center of Mouila, two kids motioned for me to put my bag into the back of the next available transport for Ndende, a white Mitsubishi pickup truck covered in drying orange mud. I wrapped my bag in a plastic cover that I carry around, and then searched the nearby Lebanese-owned shops for a garbage bag (double protection!) with no success.

South through Gabon

I stored my new jar of peanut butter carefully at the bottom of my bag. That's traveler's gold when you're about to embark on several long transportation days into the unknown. Yes, it's full of fat. But guess what? Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches don't go bad in your daypack the way most things do. And even squashed, they're still edible and don't make much of a mess, even when the jelly bleeds through the bread.

I was packing at six in the morning at the Libreville Guesthouse. Alace, one of the people who runs the guesthouse, had gifted me with the Jif and a squeeze bottle of Welch's. I was set for food on my journey south into Republic of Congo. Alace does not, of course, randomly hand out jars of peanut butter to every traveler who comes to the guesthouse. In fact, not every traveler is able to stay at the guesthouse—it's a great, comfortable place, cheap for Libreville at $38 a night including free wi-fi, but they only have three rooms and operate primarily as a service for staff and visitors to Bongolo Hospital. I was lucky enough that when I e-mailed, there was plenty of room for a stray backpacker.

One of the staff affiliated with Libreville Guesthouse and Bongolo—a kind of local fixer—had explained to me exactly what I had to do in the morning if I chose to try the Dolisie route through Congo. I had to go at 6:30 a.m. to the Mouila Transport office. These buses were modern, air-conditioned and not oversold. The bus would not leave that early, of course, but Libreville rush hour traffic was to be respected. If I left too late, I'd end up sitting in traffic for ages, trying to get to the bus.

Contemplating Ninjas

"Maybe I should have bought a donkey back in Mali," I thought, depressed as I stared at my map.

I couldn't decide which way to go to Brazzaville, in Republic of Congo. Travelers had been going via Franceville and Leconi, from Gabon's eastern border, hitching on trucks to the city of Oyo, then taking the regularly scheduled bus down a decent road to Brazzaville. But the costs between Leconi and Oyo were high, and I could end up waiting for a lift for days. On the plus side, I could take a reasonable Gabonese train as far as Franceville. But all bets were off from Leconi to Oyo. The traveler without a vehicle is completely at the mercy of any ride they can find, because there aren't enough trucks to give the traveler a decent negotiating position. I could easily spend a hundred dollars for that day-long journey over dreadful dirt tracks.

The southern route would take me into Congo via Doussala or Mbinda. My friend Peter had gone the Mbinda way many years ago and reported being able to catch a train from Mbinda to Dolisie, Congo, and he recalled the border guard nipping across country lines to get them all some fried rat. But that was a long time ago and I could find nothing online about that train. If there was no train, I'd be really screwed on the road front. Most of the roads in Congo are dreadful, and some of the major highways are just pitted truck ruts full of mud. And this wasn't a major road route. I'd probably end up having to backtrack.

Lazing Around Libreville

I'd been carrying around free sample single-serving sachets of Nescafe "gourmet" coffee for months. A team of sample hander-outers had shoved them at me at Penn Station. Or maybe they'd been shoved at Michael Kraiger. Either way, we were both always being confronted by free samples on the way to work, and kept each other abreast of what was being given away where. The instant oatmeal in my pack I'd purchased before leaving home, knowing I'd need it eventually.

I'd woken up in an actual house, the extremely reasonably priced Libreville Guesthouse. I was the only occupant on the floor, though I could see a dog and a security guard if I looked outside. I had a bedroom and a shared living room, dining room, porch, bathroom, and kitchen (complete with washing machine). But the other two bedrooms were empty. There was no one to share with.

The relief I felt at being in a homey, secluded situation was massive. I made my breakfast. I caught up on e-mail. I padded around in my pajamas. Heaven.

Long Way to Libreville

"I saw you a week ago on the ferry from Nigeria!"

Stunned, I took a minute to form a response to the man who owned the copy shop across the road from the police station in Bitam, Gabon. And when I did form one, it was lacking in articulateness.

"Wha...really?" 

"Yes, from Calabar." 

Damn, he was right. I started laughing. He laughed too, and then explained why the police had asked him to come across the street to translate for me.

"They want a copy of your visa. Here, I will take your passport and make it for you in my copy shop."

On to Gabon

"How do I get out of here?" I addressed a matronly woman sitting at the dining room table on the porch at the hotel/family home I'd checked into last night Ambam, Cameroon.

"You need a taxi?"

I nodded.

"Wait." She called her helper, who was the same college-age kid who'd checked me in last night. I'd guess this was her son, and her husband was the man who'd been sitting in the living room last night when I'd arrived. Helper-son disappeared through an opening in the wall of the yard. Minutes later, I heard a whirring. He showed up on the back of a motorcycle taxi he'd hailed.