Central African Republic - part 2

I was dropped off at Sibut, a small town of low, brown-white houses set around a patch of red-earth mud, sleepy in the noon sun. Three ragged girls came to stare at me, the eldest, aged perhaps seven, clutching a large blunt knife. Their mother, arriving to chase them away, asked what I wanted and showed me the track to Mobaye. “You can wait here, the van will come soon,” she said, pointing to a welcome patch of shade under a broad tree.

Villagers at Sibut

To my surprise, the van did come soon, and passengers appeared as if summoned by a witchdoctor from the silent houses. The van itself was a small Toyota pickup of great antiquity designed to carry three people and perhaps a couple of goats in the back. There were more than twenty passengers in addition to the driver and his teenage son, so adding my rucksack to the great pile of luggage, I stood on the footplate at the back. There was little danger in this, for the Toyota could manage barely quicker than walking pace downhill. Uphill the younger men took turns to stroll to ease the load, and easily outpaced the van.

The Sibut bus service

 We had travelled maybe four miles of earthen road when something snapped inside the engine and we ground to a halt. Undisturbed, we dismounted while the driver and his son, after inspecting the damage, cut long strips of bark and set about tying back together whatever had broken. Someone plucked ripe wild avocados from plants growing near the track, and offered them around. I was the subject of many curious stares but no one ventured into conversation except to borrow my penknife for their avocado. It was very peaceful with barely even the hum of insects from the brushland through the hot, humid air to disturb the silence. The vast blue sky, the red-brown earth, the tall green of the plants, the battered Toyota a dazzling white in the vertical sun, the vivid costumes of the women: it was Africa painted by Van Gogh. Half an hour later we were on our way again, bumping sedately over the mud.

Perhaps five miles later, the engine gave out again, and we freewheeled downhill into a small village. There was more agitation this time, which was calmed only by the reappearance of the driver’s son with a villager holding a pair of two-litre plastic oil cans. They proved to contain not oil for the van but palm wine for the passengers. I was invited to join them, – “you have also paid your fare Monsieur” – rusted tins were handed round to drink from and a measure of thin yellow-white liquid poured into each.

The drink tasted largely of tin can  (I tried some elsewhere from a plastic cup and it still tasted metallic) but it was potent stuff; tongues were loosened enough to permit a detailed interrogation to begin. After some while we arrived at the inevitable “how much do you earn Monsieur?” I reduced the real figure by a factor of three, but it still brought envious looks. Of course I had to pay a great deal in taxes, probably more than half, I offered in mitigation of my unreasonable wealth. “Taxes are just theft by the government, to pay for guns and soldiers.” Maybe so in the Central African Republic, I agreed, but in England they pay for schools and unemployment benefit. This last concept fascinated them and I explained further under detailed questioning. There was much discussion in their native tongues before the follow up “what else do your taxes pay for?” I told them about the National Health Service, back home not necessarily a topic of great British pride. Out here it was a source of wonder. They listened, questioned, talked heatedly amongst themselves: was I really telling the truth? “C’est une vie sans peur!” – it is a life without fear -, cried one man in the end, convinced but amazed.

The van was mended, a state which lasted approximately five minutes, just far enough to be within pushing distance of the next village. The sound of women beating wooden pestles with giant wooden mortars pulsated through perfectly round mud-brick houses with straw roofs; coffee I was told on enquiry, grown further up in the hills. This time the passengers, sour with palm wine were less easily mollified. It was evening, we would have to stay in the village, our van driver should pay for our dinner. He was not in agreement, but twenty to one was difficult odds to overcome. Village children chased a pair of chickens down the track which, after much shouting and clucking, reappeared in our stew as night fell. After dinner we were shown to a pair of empty huts and fell rapidly into palm-wine induced stupor.

In the morning our van was, allegedly, mechanically sound once more, the driver and some villagers having worked all evening. It would not, however, start. The solution was apparently to roast the battery over a fire, which rather surprisingly did the trick. It stalled a couple more times on the way, and each time the lengthy roasting process resolved matters. About ten kilometres from Mobaye something else went wrong in the innards of the Toyota. We gave up and walked the rest of the way. A journey of twenty-five miles had taken twenty-eight hours.