Gabon Part 1
The Gabon immigration official sat in a hut that looked rather like an open sided garden shed, his uniform struggling to contain his corpulent torso whilst his eyes were hidden behind a pair of designer sunglasses. Despite a singular lack of clients, ‘Mr Big’ tried hard to give the impression of a man snowed under by work and didn’t respond to our cheerful greeting; then with a sigh he turned his face towards us and a large hand enclosed our passports. After we had filled in some forms that he had thrown at us, he made it clear that he could not stamp our passports and that this could only be done at the ‘bureau’; our passports plus forms were put into a well used large envelope. Handing the envelope to a man who had been lounging in the shade of the hut, Mr Big turned to us and explained that the cost of this bureaucratic necessity was 10,000 CFA.
As we were digesting this piece of unexpected and unwelcome information, a motorbike spluttered into action and our passports were heading down the road in a pall of dust. We were concerned at being separated from our passports, but assumed that the ‘bureau’ was just up the road so went back and sat in Boris to await their return. Concern turned to alarm when thirty minutes or so had passed with no sign of a returning motorbike; Peter was feeling very uneasy by now and went over to Mr Big and asked where our passports were and why the delay. The response was a stream of racist invective and it became clear our passports were on their way to Bitam. How ridiculous, Bitam was about 25 miles away on the only road that ran from the border and where we intended to spend the night; we could have taken the passports ourselves! 2 hours and 10,000 CFA later, our passports returned and after another tirade from Mr Big, we left for Bitam. We later discovered from our companions, who had passed through the previous day, that they had met the same official but carried on to Bitam to get their passports stamped. We had obviously been the subject of a scam.
With the sun slipping towards the horizon we passed through our first Gabon villages. The area was peopled by the same Fang tribe that were across the other side of the border in Cameroun. This one time cannibal ethnic group are dominant in Gabon and initially their villages appeared to be no different from those in Cameroon. Then differences begin to emerge; the huts were no longer of mud, the walls now consisted of rough cut wooden planks and the roofs were increasingly made from corrugated tin sheeting. In front or in between the huts were large, elaborately decorated graves; presumably of a close relative and, being close to the family home, meeting some spiritual need for contact or remembrance.
Hotel EscaleThe tar road to the small town of Bitam was new and we made good time arriving at the Hotel Escale before nightfall. The hotel’s reception was unmanned, ringing the bell produced a patter of feet and a breathless young man, who became known to us as Dopey Dick and spoke in such soft, hushed tones that Peter had the greatest difficulty in understanding his French. Having shown us our room, he took us to the restaurant, where, after a largely fruitless dialogue of the deaf and the near inaudible, it became clear that, as we were the only guests, there was a take or leave it menu consisting of bicycle chicken and rice. Against our better judgement we booked ourselves a meal and an early breakfast; then, having successfully negotiated a reduction in the room price, we went back to our room feeling rather pleased with ourselves. An hour later we returned to the restaurant; it was pitch black, as was the kitchen. After spending some time flat hand tapping on the walls to find the light switch, there in the baleful glare of the strip light was ... nothing! We made our way to reception which was once again unmanned, several rings on the bell produced no reaction so, leaving this Marie Celeste of a hotel, we went out in the dark main street and eventually found somewhere else to eat.
The following morning, Sunday 29 June, there was no Dopey Dick nor was there any breakfast. To top it all, as we were tucking into a breakfast of stale bread and coffee at the rear of Boris on a very damp morning, the owner appeared and told us that Dopey Dick was new to the job and didn’t have the authority to agree a rate reduction, so we would have to pay the full price!
Under a grey sky and with a distinct chill in the air, we drove south to the town of Oyem for most of the morning; passing through rolling, misty, green rain forest on a good, Sunday quiet, road. As we had hoped there was a market in Oyem selling fruit and vegetables; having stocked up, we then carried on to the junction where we would leave the main road. We had decided to attempt a 250 mile piste through the rain forest; the piste skirted around southern Equatorial Guinea eventually joining the main road close to the capital of Gabon, Libreville. At the junction we were greeted by a sign directing us to another member of the family, Sam! We turned off and headed towards him along a narrow, reddish brown mud track; it was such a beautiful route, just everything we hoped it would be through untouched rain forest. The hilltops, when there were gaps in the forest beside the track, gave us spectacular views over a green undulating sea that stretched for mile upon mile in every direction.
Sunday in the Gabon Rain ForestGabon is the same size as the UK, but with a population of only 1.2 million, 80% of which is urbanised, so the rural areas and in particular the rain forests are almost deserted. We had the enthralling and uplifting feeling of being all alone in this vast green equatorial wilderness. It was a feeling that stayed with us even when we came across the occasional roadside village; constructed from rain forest materials, they were part and parcel of the natural landscape, seemingly growing out of it. These isolated hamlets had none of the trappings of modern urban life; with no power, no sanitation and no water supply other than the nearby stream, they were stuck in a time warp, with their inhabitants still totally reliant upon the rain forest for their food and shelter. Some wooden huts were painted in bright colours giving an impression of some sort of affluence, but most of the villagers looked poor and malnourished; even their livestock and dogs were a pitiful sight.
In one village we stopped outside a little church, a longer and larger hut than the rest; called the ‘Mission de Sainte Agnes’, we saw the congregation swaying and clapping rhythmically to the beat of some drums as they sang their hymns. The walls were almost vibrating! It was quite wonderful and moving to hear these dirt poor people, the very heart of the Christian credo, singing in such an unrestrained and joyous way.
In another village we saw a group of women leaving their church, a dilapidated hut, dressed in bright red from top to toe. Intrigued, we stopped to chat to them; they were very amused by us, laughing and giggling when we tried to question them using a mix of French and sign language. Feeling quite uplifted yet humbled by our Sunday morning experiences, we drove on. The track grew narrower and narrower as the lush vegetation pressed ever closer.
As we were digesting this piece of unexpected and unwelcome information, a motorbike spluttered into action and our passports were heading down the road in a pall of dust. We were concerned at being separated from our passports, but assumed that the ‘bureau’ was just up the road so went back and sat in Boris to await their return. Concern turned to alarm when thirty minutes or so had passed with no sign of a returning motorbike; Peter was feeling very uneasy by now and went over to Mr Big and asked where our passports were and why the delay. The response was a stream of racist invective and it became clear our passports were on their way to Bitam. How ridiculous, Bitam was about 25 miles away on the only road that ran from the border and where we intended to spend the night; we could have taken the passports ourselves! 2 hours and 10,000 CFA later, our passports returned and after another tirade from Mr Big, we left for Bitam. We later discovered from our companions, who had passed through the previous day, that they had met the same official but carried on to Bitam to get their passports stamped. We had obviously been the subject of a scam.
With the sun slipping towards the horizon we passed through our first Gabon villages. The area was peopled by the same Fang tribe that were across the other side of the border in Cameroun. This one time cannibal ethnic group are dominant in Gabon and initially their villages appeared to be no different from those in Cameroon. Then differences begin to emerge; the huts were no longer of mud, the walls now consisted of rough cut wooden planks and the roofs were increasingly made from corrugated tin sheeting. In front or in between the huts were large, elaborately decorated graves; presumably of a close relative and, being close to the family home, meeting some spiritual need for contact or remembrance.
Hotel EscaleThe tar road to the small town of Bitam was new and we made good time arriving at the Hotel Escale before nightfall. The hotel’s reception was unmanned, ringing the bell produced a patter of feet and a breathless young man, who became known to us as Dopey Dick and spoke in such soft, hushed tones that Peter had the greatest difficulty in understanding his French. Having shown us our room, he took us to the restaurant, where, after a largely fruitless dialogue of the deaf and the near inaudible, it became clear that, as we were the only guests, there was a take or leave it menu consisting of bicycle chicken and rice. Against our better judgement we booked ourselves a meal and an early breakfast; then, having successfully negotiated a reduction in the room price, we went back to our room feeling rather pleased with ourselves. An hour later we returned to the restaurant; it was pitch black, as was the kitchen. After spending some time flat hand tapping on the walls to find the light switch, there in the baleful glare of the strip light was ... nothing! We made our way to reception which was once again unmanned, several rings on the bell produced no reaction so, leaving this Marie Celeste of a hotel, we went out in the dark main street and eventually found somewhere else to eat.
The following morning, Sunday 29 June, there was no Dopey Dick nor was there any breakfast. To top it all, as we were tucking into a breakfast of stale bread and coffee at the rear of Boris on a very damp morning, the owner appeared and told us that Dopey Dick was new to the job and didn’t have the authority to agree a rate reduction, so we would have to pay the full price!
Under a grey sky and with a distinct chill in the air, we drove south to the town of Oyem for most of the morning; passing through rolling, misty, green rain forest on a good, Sunday quiet, road. As we had hoped there was a market in Oyem selling fruit and vegetables; having stocked up, we then carried on to the junction where we would leave the main road. We had decided to attempt a 250 mile piste through the rain forest; the piste skirted around southern Equatorial Guinea eventually joining the main road close to the capital of Gabon, Libreville. At the junction we were greeted by a sign directing us to another member of the family, Sam! We turned off and headed towards him along a narrow, reddish brown mud track; it was such a beautiful route, just everything we hoped it would be through untouched rain forest. The hilltops, when there were gaps in the forest beside the track, gave us spectacular views over a green undulating sea that stretched for mile upon mile in every direction.
Sunday in the Gabon Rain ForestGabon is the same size as the UK, but with a population of only 1.2 million, 80% of which is urbanised, so the rural areas and in particular the rain forests are almost deserted. We had the enthralling and uplifting feeling of being all alone in this vast green equatorial wilderness. It was a feeling that stayed with us even when we came across the occasional roadside village; constructed from rain forest materials, they were part and parcel of the natural landscape, seemingly growing out of it. These isolated hamlets had none of the trappings of modern urban life; with no power, no sanitation and no water supply other than the nearby stream, they were stuck in a time warp, with their inhabitants still totally reliant upon the rain forest for their food and shelter. Some wooden huts were painted in bright colours giving an impression of some sort of affluence, but most of the villagers looked poor and malnourished; even their livestock and dogs were a pitiful sight.
In one village we stopped outside a little church, a longer and larger hut than the rest; called the ‘Mission de Sainte Agnes’, we saw the congregation swaying and clapping rhythmically to the beat of some drums as they sang their hymns. The walls were almost vibrating! It was quite wonderful and moving to hear these dirt poor people, the very heart of the Christian credo, singing in such an unrestrained and joyous way.
In another village we saw a group of women leaving their church, a dilapidated hut, dressed in bright red from top to toe. Intrigued, we stopped to chat to them; they were very amused by us, laughing and giggling when we tried to question them using a mix of French and sign language. Feeling quite uplifted yet humbled by our Sunday morning experiences, we drove on. The track grew narrower and narrower as the lush vegetation pressed ever closer.
Unexpectedly the sun began to break through the uniformly grey blanket of cloud above us. Unexpectedly, because it was the dry season in Gabon and all the guide books described the season as one of wall to wall cloud and no sun. Looking for a place to have lunch and turning a corner in the track who should we see parked up and having their lunch by a stream, but Ralf, Philippe and Susanne! It was not entirely unexpected; Philippe and Peter had been keeping in touch, texting one another from time to time. We knew they too had decided to try this route, but had not expected to come across them this soon. It was great to see our friends again and after lunch we continued on together, stopping every so often as one or another of us took photos of the magnificent spectacle that nature was laying out before us.
Sam and the Police
When we reached the shanty town of Sam, the road was deliberately blocked in front of the small dilapidated police station, forcing us to follow a well used detour past the steps of the building. As we feared, the duty policeman immediately appeared and indicated that we should stop. He then asked us to bring our passports into his office ‘to be checked’. Peter, Susanne and Ralf disappeared into a stark unpainted room, with gaping holes where windows might once have been and devoid of any furniture apart from one table with three wooden legs, the fourth a pile of assorted bricks, and three chairs. The officer flicked through the passports and then looked up with a serious expression on his face; we had not paid the road maintenance fee he said. The chorus of refusals to pay was led by Peter who, having been ‘had’ at the border was not, ‘lock me up and throw away the key’, not going to pay anything. Faced by a united refusal and our preparedness to make some tea and sit it out, the policeman backed down and we were on our way again. So, Sammy, we will remember Sam but for all the wrong reasons!
As we left Sam, Ralf gave a lift to a storekeeper in the next village. On arrival he insisted we met his family of two wives and fifteen children! We sat with him in his roadside canteen, sipping cold Fantas and Cokes. Bliss!
No-Seeums Later laughing at these events over supper, the whole evening was cut short by the arrival of hordes of no-seeums (almost invisibly small gnats); we were after all deep in the Gabon rain forest. Liz’s fashion sense took a dive as she sought to cover every part of her body with clothing. Even when we had retired to our roof tent, some got through the fine mesh in the windows; cue manic flapping at the tent walls! Philippe and Susanne were their prime target and suffered most dreadfully; we were bitten but not nearly as badly, we could only put it down to the leather like composition of our old skin – not nearly as tasty! We had though, perhaps sensibly, been taking a daily vitamin B12 tablet, so that may have been the real reason.
Ants
The following day was a mix of warm drizzle and mist under laden grey skies. Liz found the damp and claggy atmosphere oppressive and uncomfortable, but the beauty of the rain forest with opaque bands of mist weaving in and out of the trees and huge graceful stands of bamboo lining parts of the undulating route soon put her in a more positive frame of mind. Columns, huge unending columns, of forest ants would sometimes lie across the road like an oil slick. It was an extraordinary sight, thousands of large ants clung together to form a protective tunnel across the road, through which the other smaller ants moved. We got out and photographed one of these columns, only for Peter to discover as we drove off that some had climbed up his trouser legs and were biting like mad! We screeched to a halt, Peter leapt from Boris thrashing at his legs and hopping from one foot to the other. When this didn’t work, he lowered his trousers and picked them off one by one. Oh boy, they were huge and did they hurt and what a funny sight too, with Peter and his trousers down!
This was an area we loved. We were enveloped by the sound of silence, broken only by the calls of forest birds; on the rough, remote piste we never saw another vehicle and the villagers we did meet only used the track to move in and out of the rain forest, invariably pushing wheel barrows carrying the fruits of their labour. For a while we drove right along the border, with just the dripping trees separating us from Equatorial Guinea.
Logging and Bushmeat
The piste became wider and better maintained, rickety bridges giving way to more substantial affairs made of boards set on massive tree trunks; we had entered the logging area. There was no wholesale destruction of the forest on the scale we had seen in Washington State and Alaska, indeed we never saw a logging truck, however here and there were isolated, massive trees of no commercial value standing tall as stark, infinitely sad reminders of the glories of nature that had once surrounded them.
The number of roadside villages increased and we came across the odd bush taxi; a spin off from the improvement to the rain forest tracks demanded (and largely paid for) by the logging companies was the movement of whole villages from the hinterland to the roadside. However much a western eyewitness may bemoan this nationwide movement of population and the associated desertification of the forest, the insipient growth of a dependency culture, the loss of traditional life skills and the consequent over hunting of areas near to the road, the new villages are in a location that affords the chance to sell goods to the intermittent passing traffic and the possibility of travel to other villages, markets and centres of employment.
It was here that we regularly came across bush meat for sale on the side of the road. We all found it traumatic to see, amongst others, small antelope, monkey and civet strung up from a piece of wood; hearing our vehicles approaching, the men (hunting was a male activity and this was the only time that men became involved in roadside selling) would run out of the nearby hut anticipating a sale.
Monts de CristalIt was late afternoon and by now we were high up in the Monts de Cristal; we turned off the main track onto a feeder logging track, a narrow sea of mud and ruts, which led to a lake that would be a good place for bush camping. We soon came to a grinding halt; the track was blocked by a massive mudslide. As there was no other way to the lake, we decided we would have to camp right there on the narrow road.
We got a great fire going and Ralf, a brilliant cook, created a barbecued feast for us. Forced by the dreaded noseeums to retire early, we then spent a restful night lulled to sleep by the sound of dripping rain. In the morning we discovered that it wasn’t rain; we were in thick rain forest mist and it was dripping from the trees above and around us onto the leaves on the forest floor. It was continuous and everywhere was just so wet; wherever we walked we picked up red sticky mud that got onto our clothing and even our bedding, what a disgusting sight we looked. Everything felt so damp, the early morning no-seeums were out in force and our bodies itched incessantly from insect bites; ah, the delights of true rain forest living!
LibrevilleWe drove out of the mist, returning to the main track and descended towards Libreville and the Atlantic Ocean. Leaving the last vestiges of rain forest behind, the track became dry and dusty, which with the increased traffic created a near permanent and dangerous, choking pea soup fog of all enveloping dust that only lifted when we turned onto a tarred surface and entered the outskirts of Libreville. We had been surprised at seeing so much abject poverty in Gabon, an oil rich country, and the grim outskirts of Libreville were no exception. Once in the centre, the ostentatious displays of the petrodollar affluence of the very few gave a stark and disturbing contrast to what we had encountered up to then, the abject poverty of the many.
We had arrived in Libreville on 1st June, at the start of an annual international cultural festival and it seemed all the affordable hotels were fully booked; we were fast running out of hope and options. Then a stroke of luck, or serendipity as Peter insists on calling it; at the Eclipse Hotel the owner apologetically said that all she had left was a 2 bed roomed, self catering apartment. The price seemed too good to be true and a minute later we were viewing it and within 5 minutes we, along with Susanne and Philippe, were settling in, whilst Ralf, who always stays in his purpose built van, was setting up in the hotel car park. The location was fantastic; in the heart of the Quartier Louis, a renowned funky, bohemian area that was full of small restaurants and bars and on a hill overlooking the Atlantic Ocean.
Perhaps we shouldn’t have, but we enjoyed Libreville and probably for all the wrong reasons; wide boulevards, great shops and restaurants, very French supermarkets, plenty of French ex pats ... a little bit of Paris by the sea. We spent four nights at the apartment, all the while marvelling at our luck; views over the city and the Ocean, markets and a boulangerie a couple of minutes away: fresh croissants for breakfast and splendid dinners prepared in our own little kitchen, washed down with French red wine. And to top it all, we discovered that we could piggy-back on the wifi system of a nearby internet office; free internet 24/7! Between Skype calls to the family, Peter got Boris checked over and given a major service at Toyota Gabon and when he tried to pay the £180 bill, was told by the French workshop manager, an ex overlander, that it was free and courtesy of Toyota! Yet more serendipity!
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