Wallis On Wheels Big Bicycle Adventure

After realising there’s no ferry the only option is to walk through, this sounds like an easy option but not knowing how deep the puddle would be meant the bicycle needed carrying across. Having to make several crossings; First, after removing shoes, unclip and carry the front panniers across, then back for the rear panniers, then back for the bike. Panniers clipped back on. Here’s now where I wish I had some flip-flops. Trying to clean your feet in a muddy puddle is not easy, especially if the edge of the puddle is muddy with nowhere to sit down. A few times I had no choice but to ride bare-foot until a small, cleanish, puddle or stream could be found. With rainy season just ending and the route being what is was the puddles would be inevitable, but still proved a real headache.

The first few days didn’t seem too bad, but the route started to get worse and after the daily distance being knocked down to 40-45 miles (64 - 72km) my planned over-night stop-points for the entire route to Brazzaville would soon fall apart. I was concerned about the measly 15 day visa expiring, and with my passport running seriously low on blank pages the last thing I wanted to do was to use more on visa extensions, I could just hear the South African border official “sorry sir, entry is denied as there’s no where for our stamp in your passport”

Riding each day became hard work and monotonous, cycling with eyes fixed on each new approaching metre, looking out for stones, bumps and gulley’s. I looked forward to reaching the town of Dolosie that was on the main road and would prove easier. This route really was starting to test me, I felt trapped, claustrophobic, but as ever, in true British style, chin up and carry on, I had no other choice. In the intense heat of the day most sections were ‘dry as a bone’ but were still partially dried puddles of muddy boggy sections. One morning I came to a section about ½ km long, looking ok’ish to cycle I headed along where vehicles tyre tracks had been, being slightly easier but soon enough the clay-like mud started to cling to the tyres, then the mud-guards, then the brake callipers, the rims. I hate seeing my bike filthy like this, the panniers covered in dirt, everything. My shoes now caked. I just had to carry on, I couldn’t use the brakes in there condition as this damages the rims, almost like rubbing them with coarse sandpaper. Fortunately the next village had a water pump and was able to clean the bike, and myself, up slightly.

On the up-side accommodation at the small villages was never a problem, normally always offered a bed by the village chief, just once having to use the tent. The friendliness seemed even more-so than Gabon.


One night I was offered a bed (foam mattress) in some sort of storage shed, after wheeling the bike in I noticed something next to me on the inside of the low thatched grass / reed roof, a quick scan with the torch revealed more of them by their reflective beady eyes. I could just imagine being woke at night as one dropped down onto the sleeping bag. I’m not scared of [U.K.] spiders, but these were big, and possibly poisonous, so the safest option was set the tent up on-top of the mattress. (Remember all pictures are clickable for full size)




Leaving panniers on the far side of the long puddles always caused a certain worry for me, thinking if a vehicle passed in the same direction that I was travelling it would be easy for anyone to stop and pick-up my now distant luggage and drive away.


The map showed a few scenic ‘green’ sections, almost a total change to what I had been riding through, rolling hills and greenery, villages non existent, although my eyes had to pay most attention to the route, trying to ‘sniff’ the best way, always looking like the ‘grass was greener’ on the other side of the trail, crossing over to find it was just as bad, bump, bump, bump.

The town of Dolosie eventually turned up and felt great to hit tarmac, I could ride at 12mph (20kmph) and my bike thanked me. I was so surprised over the past four day’s not to have had any spokes break or any problems elsewhere from the bike. Stocking up on a few food essentials in the town I asked directions for the main road, east, to Brazzaville. Heading back up the route to a turning I had somehow missed where my ‘tarmac smile’ soon turned into a frown.

One day I managed a whopping 12 miles (18km). The night before I stopped at a village with the boggiest road to date. The entire route was undergoing an update, the Chinese road-work teams were on a four year contract, first a make-over to improve the route and then to tarmac end – end, this couldn’t come any sooner. The next day I was led by a village local around the mammoth boggy section. A lady in the village looked at me with eyes that said everything about the section ahead, her face was a look of real concern and could see she felt sorry for me, this made me feel even lower, shoulders drooped I smile and carry on.

Many of the big puddles and boggy sections had paths at the side that locals had created. These were fine for walking but while also pushing a [wide] bicycle proved difficult. The paths undulating over mounds of mud and small puddles and occasionally just lead back to the main boggy route half-way down it’s length.

Luckily someone halfway down this particular path helped guide me through some village trails. With the bike tyres wet from the puddles, dry mud from within the village areas started sticking to the tyres and soon jammed the wheels. Pushing the bike the front wheel just skidded along and I had to stop to clear the mud using one of my spare spokes I carried. Achieving just 3 miles in 2 hours the village of Loutet turned up. Here I spent about 2 hours cleaning the bike. Locals said the route from here-on to Brazzaville was tarmac, and the map showed this so things were looking better. An hour or so out of Loutet the tarmac petered out into broken sections, eventually fading back to the norm, so much for the local knowledge of ‘tarmac all the way to Brazzaville’.

The following day I came across another whopping puddle. By now I found the best way of dealing with these was take a deep sigh to calm myself, prop the bike, unclip panniers, shoes off and just smile. Just about to commence my procedure a pick-up truck came around the bend and stopped by me, he was one of the Chinese road workers taking lunch to a nearby crew, seeing my problem he offered me a lift across. So with bike and panniers in the back off we go, we drove about 5km until his stop point, and anyone else’s for that fact as the road was blocked by a side-rolled lorry. Here a bull-dozer was being used to improve the section with fresh mounds of clay and soil.


As the route goes on and on with little change I’ll wrap things up….
Staying at a village 10km before the town of Kinkala I’m promised by a local there is definitely tarmac from there all the way to Brazzaville. That night I stay in the village hospital, quite ironic as the following morning I get ‘bowel’ problems (!) and hardly have enough energy to pump my water and the only option was a day off, wasting one of my ‘limited’ 15 days on the visa. There had also been a thunder storm that night, the last thing the [now sandy] route needed. Again, I felt like I was being ‘tried’ by the powers that be, another little punishment for actually succeeding in passing this far. The next day Ill or not I had to go. The day off at least gave chance for the 40’c heat to partially dry the now sodden route, but once again the next night the heavens opened big time, I really was being ‘tried’! The following morning I felt better and headed of. Just 1km into the last 10km of hell I come across the day’s first puddle / boggy section, making use of some young locals to help carry my panniers across.




 With the miles now ticking by at what seemed like an extortionate rate Brazzaville was closing in, but a bit too far to reach this day. I would need a village, or somewhere safe to camp. Running low on water was a concern as none of the villages appeared to have water pumps. Two vehicles pass and stop up-ahead, as I pass by a lady shouts “I want to help you, what can I do?” I ask her for water and she willingly fills one of my litre bottles, and then her driver pulls away. Someone in a road-side house across the road now shouts over to me. I cross to see what he wants and am now offered ‘palm wine’. Made from sugar cane it has a strange taste, initially disgusting yet more-ish after a few mouthfuls. It’s the smell that is off-putting.






Gladan seemed like a descent chap and quite excited to have me there, so I take the opportunity to see if I could camp the night, he jumps at the chance! Also one big benefit for me was he didn’t have chickens or cockerels so no 4:00 alarm call!


 
Accommodation in Brazzaville was to be the Hippocampe Hotel. Fred, the motor biker from Cape Town, had informed of this place. Over-landers are allowed to camp for free in the car-park. Camping always keeps cost’s down but camping for free things didn’t get any better…or did it?? Olivier, the hotel’s proprietor had previously completed a two year bicycle tour from France to Senegal, then South America, China, Asia. He understood the needs of a tourer and let me pitch the tent inside the function room behind the bar and wouldn’t let me pay for a thing, from breakfast, lunch dinner, beers and cokes. This definitely helped in re-charging my batteries. Brazzaville turned out to be a relatively stress-free and calm capital city, with a population of 800,000. I stayed here for three days whilst I arranged the visa for DRC. Of which the consular even issued the same day due to my Congo visa expiring the following day, I really felt I’d played things ‘close’ on that visa!



As I Cycle down to the port gates I’m hollowed at by the street-side money changers and touts, dollars and Congolese francs frantically waved at me. As I pass through the gates a ‘fixer’ approaches me, of whom helps guiding me through the manic place from the ‘shed’ where I get stamped out of Congo, then onto the ticket seller, obviously being charged extra by the fixer for the ticket to include his ‘tax’, and later still having to pay him for the whole privilege. Again, not speaking French gives me little choice in using my ‘new buddy’. The recently docked ferry is unloaded, men having sacks, far too heavy for their own good, lifted by four other men onto their back/ shoulders, eyes bulging, sweat pouring as they walk up the steep, wooden decked, wet, slippy, hole riddled, jetty. Others at the same time, bringing goods down to the ferry for the next crossing. Pushing, shoving, flared tempers, the early morning heat adding to the cocktail. A lorry pulls up at the key-side over laden with the [standard] yellow 5 gallon containers, filled with an unknown liquid. Like an army of soldier-ants, order and chaos, harmony and carnage, an interesting sight for a tourist. As deck space is eventually cleared my ‘new buddy’ calls me over. Wheeling the bike through the line of ants I find a spot that looks ok, but then I’m snarled at to move. Giving what I get I shout back with equal aggression and eventually moved to a better spot, pinned in with my back against the cabin I’m now surrounded by the 100% madness. Similar to the ferry at Calabar (Nigeria) is this thing safe? No life jackets for sure. “Glug glug glug” shouts one of the water sellers as he walks by, others selling beer, peanuts, chocolate bars…. I never did see the one who sold life-jackets.

Several disabled people sit in wheel-chairs while those unable to afford one cling to the backs of their friends until placed on-top of a sack. (Congo and DRC have a high disability rate due to polio). Sacks are piled high, and close to the bike, too close as the bike is knocked and shoved “oi!!, mind my bloody bike!!” Now I’m joined by another passenger, hemmed in even closer and tighter, this ain’t no P&O ferry that’s for sure. I close my eyes and picture ‘my place of tranquillity’, somewhere I think of being when all around is chaos, and this was chaos, BLOODY CHAOS! The boats water-line drops even lower as more goods are loaded, not being a strong swimmer I estimate my chances of swimming across should the ferry go down, I drown! Blaring it’s horn Captain Pug-wash finally pulls away for the 12:00 departure, erm, my watch is running fast, it shows 12:42. Departing the country with such fine roads the ferry turns to face D.R.C’s capital, Kinshasa, the next big city, and new country.