36. People's Republic of Congo: Gabon border to N'kayi

The People’s Republic of the Congo was once again a very different country for us.  It was the first officially Marxist country that we had been in (according to Wikipedia Marxist-Leninist from 1970-1991). Once again our guide book had no information on traveling in the country and the author had never met anybody who had traveled there.  Then, as you will see, there was the odd situation of Cuban advisers but with a continued significant presence of French owning businesses such as hotels. 

Unfortunately no photos turned out from our trip down to N’kayi. 

We had not originally planned to travel through Gabon and the P.R. of Congo, but we did have the name of an Argentine man that worked in the sugar cane industry around N’Kayi.  He had been in charge of Bolivian sugar refineries in the 50’s and 60’s so that we had mutual friends that recommended him. We had written to him from Cameroon, once we had decided to travel this way, but could not assume that the letter had arrived.

Peoples' Republic of Congo with our route indicated in yellow.

Gabon border -  Kigamou, Congo, Friday, 4 March, 1983

(DAN) It was fairly clear sailing once we got in Congo. The first check was polite, quick, and efficient. It is very interesting to see the decorations on the walls, Marxist slogans, calls to greater production from the workers.  Lots of walls painted ochre with the slogans in large red letters.  Pictures of the apparently military president are common with the slogan Peace, Democracy, and Work.

The ride in general slowed down because we stopped in many villages to pick up or drop off passengers. This is the first milk run transport we’ve been on, but then it is unique in other ways as well. The very efficient conductor informed me there is a fleet of similar trucks owned by a French Capitaliste by the name of Barbier. The vehicles have truck bodies, but have wooden, bus cabins built on top, with fairly comfortable bus seats in them. Barbier’s fleet works in Gabon as well as Congo.

We really did not mind the stops in the villages because they have been fascinating. They are by far the neatest, cleanest villages on our trip, with visibly long-term landscaping on a village scale. We wonder how much is due to workers or citizen committees, how much is “voluntary” or how much is cultural.

The scenery has been incredible. As Helena mentioned, we had expected forest all the way to Brazzaville. However, starting at Mouila and continuing in Congo, the meadows got larger until there were isolated patches of rain forest in the lower, wetter areas. This is the rainy season so it is all green, green. A lot of the time you can’t see much because the grass is up 10 – 12 ft. But when the road would go along a ridge we could see for miles across the rolling landscape. The vegetation reminds me very much of the land around San Borja and Reyes (tropical forest savannah landscape in Eastern Bolivia). The humid, thick savannah is peppered with abrupt, isolated patches of thick forest (these do have bamboo), and the topography is much more abrupt.

The big difference is that in three days of driving through these incredible grasslands, we have not seen one cow. We have seen a few goats and sheep, but they were grazing in the villages. The Gabon side, granted, had virtually no population (30 - 40 km between small villages). But the Congo side was much more populated and we still have not seen any cattle. (It brings to mind all of those bony, starving things we saw in Nigeria and the Sahel with no grass in sight!) There is a lot of water as well as many established streams, and shade in the forests. Maybe more of Africa looked like this before man and his cattle came along. Gabon gets almost all of its meat from France.

The low point of the afternoon was reached at the village of Nyanga on the river of the same name. We were ordered to get down with our bags, the white travelers that is. One soldier told us to go into a shed, another soldier, drunk, forbade us to go into the shed. The first soldier went off to get his superior while we stood in the sun. When the superior returned he took our passports, but first insisted on seeing our carnets de passage, the papers needed to get vehicles around in the countries over here. I kept insisting we didn’t have a vehicle, and he kept implying we couldn’t understand his French and we would have to pay the 5,600 CFA here or in Loubomo. It must have been a scam, because when he saw we weren’t going to pay for the vehicle (actually he wanted us to fill out the form and pay taxes as if we were vehicles) he gave us back our passports without looking, and told us to put up our packs without looking. Ah yes, he was also well into his cups.

This stop was also noteworthy because we picked up two very drunk, very loud soldiers. One had obviously had some music training because he would solfear and direct a choir as he sang out loud. This actually turned out interesting because later we heard them using some Spanish phrases: quiere fumar? or yelling muchacha at the girls we passed. When I asked one where he’d learned the Spanish, he said “from the Cuban soldiers”. Are there a lot here? “Yes, very many.” Why? Because Cuba and Congo are “progressive countries”.  He was pleased we could speak Spanish and we talked some more. He said that Cuba could understand Congo’s problems because the US had done the same things to them that France had to Congo.

The vehicle was going all the way to Loubomo, but as it would be continuing in the night, we decided to get off at Kibangou and spend the night. When we got down, we had to check with the local chapter of the “Public Security”, and when the chief found that we wanted to spend the night there, he insisted on keeping our passports. The town is in a very beautiful valley with mountains rising out of the savannah. The mountains are also grassy, with forest in the ravines; and it is all green. We walked a fair way in the town until we found some vacant government housing. The back yard had a view of the mountains, so we asked the people around if we could camp there. By the time we had our tent up it was dark. I tried to light a fire but just did not have the right material. All the while there was a very large group of people watching, so much that I was forced to a hold a “press conference” (as Helena termed it) with the 20 or so youths.

View from Campsite Kibangou

All the while clouds were gathering and we could see flashes of lightning approaching. We battened things down, and when we got in the tent, the storm really hit us. Until about midnight it rained very hard, and though we had some problems with the tent, we were pleased with its performance under fire. The main problem is where the tent poles cross and hold up the rain fly, water collects and drips. From there it dripped down into one corner and collected. We simply put a couple of dirty sheets in those spots and that was it. By morning a little moisture had seeped into the bags, but on the whole the floor held very well considering there were streams of water running under two corners of the tent much of the time.

Kibangou -  Loubomo, Congo, 5 March, 1983

(HELENA) Several days ago, Dan and I did some figuring, and decided that if we fly back to the USA from South Africa on 20 August, then 5 March would be our halfway point. So, folks, here we are halfway through THE TRIP. I have a feeling these next five and a half months are going to go like nothing. I celebrated by wearing a nice, new, white pair of socks I’d been saving for some special occasion. (I’m probably the only person to ever backpack my way through Africa with a saved pair of socks.)  We took our time with the packing up, partly because we thought transport would be going through at 1000 and partly because it’s a mess to pack up a wet and sandy campsite.

We got our passports back just in time to catch a beer truck to Loubomo. Once again we were lucky to get such an immediate ride because that road is not traveled much at all. Yesterday we’d been fairly comfortable in a bus made from a truck, but our vision had been impaired by the wooden part between the cab and the back, and the windows which didn’t go very high (in English-speaking Africa, these bus-trucks are called mammy-wagons). Today we were perched at the very front of a truck full of bottles. What a view! We could see far and wide and it was scenery that was something else. Rolling green hills, much of it without any signs of habitation.

Niari River, P. R. Congo

We arrived in Loubomo (a trifle sore from sitting on top of the bottles) and had the driver drop us at the very nice Catholic Mission. Dan talked to an African priest who said it would be fine for us to pitch our tent there, but to first check with the nuns on whose yard we would be doing it. Dan found a nun, but she said he should check with the other priest. For some strange reason, this priest said something about the security and said we’d have to go elsewhere. Gulp, quite a disappointment.

I stayed with the packs while Dan went to check in at the local securité (they’re going to fill up our passports with all of the Congolese stamps) and look for the Protestant mission. He got the paperwork done, but we still had no place to stay. Rather than hang around more as though we expected them to change their minds, the two of us walked into town and found the Grand Hotel. It was full (not to mention the rooms cost $40), but they told Dan the owner might let us set up the tent on the grounds. The owner was out, so Dan went to look for other hotels. Same story, all full and all expensive. We were feeling pretty discouraged, but when Dan talked to the owner (manager?), he said we could pick a place in one of the gardens and we could use his house’s bathroom. Somehow it came out that his wife spoke Spanish (French with a Spanish grandmother), so we were all set up.

The Grand Hotel is a place which has obviously seen better days, and although there are some pretty garden patches out front, the place we chose at the back had long been relegated to the status of general dump for the hotel. The pool looked terribly inviting, but the Señora said it wasn’t usable because the cleaning machine was out of order. The tennis court was also in disuse. The scenery wasn’t great, but we had a nice, private, secure place to dry out our damp tent and set it up. Amazing how our things are drying better now that it is less humid again.

When Dan went to take his shower, the Señora (I wish we’d gotten her name because we chatted later on and she was most friendly) showed him to one of the hotel rooms. We thought we were using the room of someone who had left and they hadn’t had time to clean. Later we learned someone was still using the room, but was gone en brusse for the day. They even gave us towels and soap, but wouldn’t charge anything. Frankly I can’t imagine there are many hoteliéres that would be that kind to two dirty travelers. I think that once again our Spanish helped smooth the way.

Loubomo is another of these towns of indeterminate size which has a small-town air about it, but is quite spread out over the rolling green hills. After our much needed showers, we went out and walked around town. It has a small airport and the train from Pointe-Noire to Brazzaville goes through here. There isn’t much road transport although Congo’s two main roads cross here.

On our way back to the Grand Hotel (I have to keep using that name because I know we’ll never again stay at such an elegant place) we went by a movie theater and once more couldn’t resist the temptation. At tea time we had celebrated our halfway day by having an orange drink (overpriced) at the hotel bar, so we finished off the celebration by going to the 2030 double feature and eating the last three candies of a package we’d bought 2 1/2 months ago in Niamey. Such sentimental backpackers!

On our way back to the hotel (Grand Hotel), a group of militares stopped us and demanded our papers. They really keep track of people here, but then we so rarely go out on the streets after dark.

The manager and his wife have been running the hotel for 5 years now. Actually, he’s been here longer, but she came to live here then. They have at least three very fancy little dogs, but apparently no children. She told us this week she and a friend are flying directly from Brazzaville to South Africa for a 2-week vacation. Strange that a Marxist-Leninist country would have direct flights to Apartheid, when other, US aligned countries wouldn’t. We asked her about Cuban influence here, but she said none ever came to the hotel and she’d never met any. I’d say the Cubans and French do not care for each other.

Loubomo -  N’Kayi, Congo, Sunday, 6 March, 1983

(DAN) There is a railroad from Pointe-Noire to Brazzaville that runs through both Loubomo (formerly Dolissie) and N’Kayi, (formerly Kayes) but we were informed that there was only one train a day, and this train leaves Loubomo at 2300 and arrives in N’Kayi at 0500. We were not raring to go knocking on anybody’s door at that time, especially somebody who might or might not have heard of us, so we decided to get there by road. We were pretty philosophical about our departure and did not get out to the crossroads (several km out) until 0900.  We found a wonderful shady place to wait, found some manzano bananas for sale close by and settled in for a wait. About an hour later two soldiers came up “to help”. They insisted we would get no transport on the road but if we took a taxi back into town quickly, we could get the milk-run train. We were reluctant to change our plans, but they insisted.

We caught a very full urban bus back into town, only to find, according to one report, that the train had left at 0930 hrs. According to the station master there was still just one train a day, and at night. After a wait we caught the bus back out to the crossroads. However, it was overflowing when we got on, people grumbled at us and even yelled at us when we got on with our packs. One man behind me got mad for some reason and deliberately pulled down on the pack all the way out. One of the soldiers was still there. When we informed him his train had already left, he said, “that’s too bad, because road transportation has gone by here.”

Finally a Mercedes Benz jeep came by and Helena flagged it. They said they were only going 40 km (out of 80) but we were welcome to go. It turned out the patrón was a veterinarian who was educated in Cuba (for 9 years) and is married to a Cuban woman. He is in charge of the largest cattle ranch in the Congo, 12000 head on 25000 Ha of fenced land. He spoke excellent Spanish, e.g.  “Soy oriundo de esta región,” and we conversed the whole way. He says the extensive grasslands here are not grazed because it is simply not part of the culture and the French were not interested in introducing it[1]. They employ burning as a tool and he said they get most of their technology from a large Belgian company which works in Zaire.

He mentioned the roads are in good condition, partly because they have brought in a lot of Brazilian people to help in that area and in logging. He said the French simply could not keep the roads open. When I told him we were surprised to find much of the economy in foreign hands (French transportation, French-run hotels and movie theaters, Arabs in the stores, etc.), he said, “That is because we are not a totalitarian country.”

He did not appear to be totalitarian himself, pleasantly overweight in the passenger’s seat of a Mercedes Benz jeep. He had the driver drive 20 km out of their way to take us to a better waiting place, and explained they had nothing better to do as he was going to partridge hunting)  when he got home. He also mentioned he had various Bolivian compañeros in Cuba, mostly studying medicine.

He also made an interesting point. He said Ché Guevara toured “America” on a motorcycle, “just as you are doing,” before helping out in the Revolution. [2]In any case, he was most kind, informative, and generous. I would say he took a positive view of the revolution here. He did not offer his name, or to give us a whirl of the ranch. Oh well.

They dropped us off in the village of Loudima. We forced ourselves to have a cold orange drink and then set off for the edge of town. Unlike cowboys in the movies who never go to the bathroom, I was feeling overpowering urges. We were making a bee line down a tree-lined avenue and had relief in sight when we heard the blast of a whistle. We turned around and there was a joker in uniform waving a white card at us like a soccer ref with a red card. We had walked right by the Sureté Publique and had not stopped; wow!  Nothing we could do but go back and run through the “formalities”.

I shall not soon forget that police building. It had an air of humidity, deterioration and desperation. We walked in and found two barefoot soldiers crouched in a very dark hall eating out of a pot. The man who had flagged us was, of course, tipsy and, of course, not the chief.

We did have a mercifully short wait before the chief appeared to inform us that since we were just passing through we didn’t need a stamp and gave back our passports.

We got out to the edge of town, and had no sooner communed with nature, than a vehicle stopped and offered us a ride on in to N’Kayi. We were very fortunate as these were the only two vehicles we saw on this road all day. This ride was a Land Rover pickup filled with young men in blue uniforms, and green bananas. The light blue shirt, dark blue pants, and red neckerchief, it turns out, are the signs of the directors of the Youth Movement in Congo. This particular group was the leadership of the Loudima area going to observe the movement in another area.

One young man was very talkative and outlined what the movement was. “We take children when they are three years old until (he had to check with his comrade for the word) adolescence.” Another guy chipped in, “we form the youths physically, mentally, and politically.” At this moment we were stopped in a village and a group of barefoot children with bulging stomachs collected. They didn’t quite fit with the image they were trying to project and Mr. Unity (as I’ll call the first man) was taken aback when Helena asked if they were part of the movement. “I don’t know,” he said, “but in our region...”

Mr. Unity talked with us the rest of the way. It was windy and dusty and we couldn’t hear everything he said, but he got his meaning across. For a long time we talked about the presidency, how if he didn’t know the youth and the peasants, he was useless. But, and he gestured the thumbs-up sign, “If the youth and the peasants are one and the president knows them...”

He wanted to know if we had a youth movement in our country. We’d decided that in view of the company we should remain Bolivian, so I told him about how, at least until October, student movements were outlawed so we didn’t have any. He looked rather critical as if it were my fault we didn’t.  He looked so critical when I said we leaned towards pacifism, I thought I’d blown it. 

Sugar cane in the valley and savannah hillsides near N'Kayi

They dropped us at a hotel in N’Kayi and we began to search for the Laneyries. All we really had was his name (spelled two different ways) and address. The hotel receptionist did not know him, but directed me to the hotel which belongs to the sugar industry where he works. They knew him, but told me he lived 15 km out. They said we could reach him by phone however, so one guy went to call him. The second guy was drunk and wouldn’t let me by, so when the other guy got Mr. L. on the phone, he didn’t know what to say, and I couldn’t get to him. Two women came in, and when he started to abuse them, I slipped by and got to the phone. The connection was terrible. I finally got him to speak in Spanish, and then all I got across was we were Bolivian. He said he would come in an hour and a half.

He hadn’t gotten Mrs. Montes de Oca’s letter of introduction nor our own from Yaoundé, so it tooks some explaining.  He then invited us to stay with him “as many days as we liked,” even though his wife is in Argentina. We will at least get our clothes washed and get some more nights in a bed.

b

Right off he sat us down and told us “the situation” in a low voice, after first glancing around. Until 1970, the two sugar refineries belonged to the multinational company  Grandes Moulins de Paris. At that time he, Mr. Laneyrie or Don Rogelio, was in charge of them. The Congo nationalized them, but after nine years the production had dropped from “60,000 tons of sugar” to less than “10,000 tons”. So in 1979 the Congo government made an arrangement where engineers from Grandes Moulins would come as advisors to the industry. So he has no power as an advisor, and spends his time saying “why don’t you do this, or I would do that.”   We later learned during the nine years they had Cubans in advising and all of the present management studied in Cuba and can speak Spanish. But according to Don Roge1io, the Cubans just couldn’t hack it so they, the French, were invited back.

We piled into his old Suzuki jeep and drove out to his house which is near the other mill, Suco II (Soucrerie Congolaise). Don Rogelio talks a lot about how things have deteriorated since the old days. The autopista we drove down, bordered km upon km of sugarcane, was once divided by a belt of trees which has since all been cut for fire wood. His house, which is in a beautiful woods, had signs of some indiscriminately cut trees. He stopped a distance from his house so we could see the flock of birds he feeds in his driveway. At one time the wooded area housed 75 French families, whereas now there are only 7 advisers and the rest are occupied by “Africans”.

Don Rogelio's house and Susuki jeep.

He had been invited out to supper, so he showed us the ropes around the house and left us to our own devices. We bathed, supped, and wrote in the evening amidst such foreign conveniences as hot water, air conditioning, tables and chairs.

Don Rogelio is from Tucumán, Argentina, but of French parents, so holds both nationalities. In addition to several refineries in Bolivia, he has headed sugar refineries here, in Richard Toll, Senegal, and a couple of other places. He is the first person we have met who has been to Mauritania. He is 67 years old and still going like gangbusters, as far as we can tell. (HELENA) AND, he showed us all of his packed bags. Retirement comes in May and he’s not staying an extra minute.

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[1] I have a feeling that historically Congo and Gabon have been low and warm enough to be Tsetse fly areas, and therefore cattle and horses would not have thrived due to Trypanosomiasis (sleeping sickness in humans).

[2][2] This was the first we had heard of the “Motorcycle Diaries”.