I MISS CEDOC

I know that I'm not in Gabon anymore and that I should be saying goodbye, if not to blogging, to this particular blog. I have already planned my last entry, and I promise you it will be as touching and inspiring as only my writing can be. Before it sees the light, however, I will still tell you a couple of stories.

The first one concerns our good old friend, the temple of African administrative hell, - have you guessed already? - yes, CEDOC! Do not get too excited, though. I have not (yet) received a call from Gabon telling me to give back the original of my carte de séjour, which I managed to smuggle out of the country. But I did lose an administrative battle today and, believe it or not, it made me remember CEDOC warmly. It turns out Polish bureaucratic world might even be worse than the Gabonese one. Judge for yourself.

Crucial information: in February Kasia and Jandro will be conquerring Brussels.

And now the story. It all started with an epiphanic moment of clarity:
"I won't have insurance in Belgium!", I exclaimed one beautiful morning.
"Do not be distressed, my daughter", replied my Father, "for you are in Europe, where life is easier and public offices less corrupt."
"You speak the truth", I said. "Let us google the Social Security webpage".

We thus googled. After a quick visit to the office in question (and I will not call it the SS Office due to my Polish prudence), I found out that all I had to do was register at the Employment Office (fill in registration form, show ID, university diploma, all contracts, and possibly several baby pictures), get the U2 form from them (and no, ladies who work at the Employment Office do not appreciate Bono jokes so you can stick them up the body part often displayed in the baby pictures), take the U2 form to the Social Security, fill in another form and show ID. You will get your insurance card in a day!

It all sounded extremely simple and I decided to follow the advice of the chirpy Social Security lady. First obstacle: the Office is about 700 kilometres away from my parents' place. Undeterred, I boarded a bus, the underground and another bus - the trip rounding up to an even hour and a half - only to find out that the number of people queuing was a charming 136. The security guard told me I had no chance of getting in that day. No worries, I'll come back tomorrow, I thanked him and trotted away to catch a bus, the underground and another bus home.

I'm tough. I'd defeated CEDOC. I'd defeated Trésor. I was ready to stand up against The Queue. I came back the next day, much earlier, at 8:30 am. There were 55 people ahead of me. I sat down and started reading. Do I have to tell you how depressing the Employment Office in Warsaw is? Sad, grey people, sit in apathy; they don't even bring anything to help them pass the hours they must spend there: no books, no mp3 players, only staring into space. The air is charged with frustration and, in some cases, with the stench of alcohol or unshowered male bodies. I felt blue ten minutes into the experience. Three and a half hours later, when my turn finally came, I was desperate to get out.

952! My number is finally called! I pick up my bag, I put a CEDOC/Trésor smile on my face and I enter the magical Room 9. I quickly localize the counter which called me and direct my CEDOC/Trésor smile accordingly. At this very moment Man sits on my chair, opposite my civil servant, who rudely informs me that Man was there before and was asked to come back. She thus blocks me, as no other lady will attend to my registration needs, because my number was already called. I have no choice but to wait for the monstrous Man to finish his buisness. He finishes. Nothing can stop me now! Courage!

Well? What happens next? It's Europe, n'est-ce pas?

Yes, it's Europe. Which, as of today, means absolutely nothing to me. You see, my conversation with the civil servant lady was full of contradictory statements, which left absolutely nothing clear, apart from the fact that I was not in the correct office altogether, as I was locally assigned to a different one.

Conclusions: I don't know if I should register. I don't know if I can get insurance free of charge. I don't know where I can get the U2 form. I don't know how to get to the correct Employment Office. More conclusions: administration works badly everywhere in the world. Only in some countries it's corrupt and/or messy enough for you to stand a chance.

And, while Jandro is trying to convince Galician authorities that he has indeed left Gabon and is now in Spain, there is only one thing I can say: I miss CEDOC.

The image comes from here.

BECAUSE ALL NORMAL PEOPLE HAVE A CONTAINER

Thursday, 13 January 2011, was the worst day of my life. At least that's what I thought at the time. Reasons... Moving? Leaving Gabon? Leaving the kids? Separating from Jandro for some time? No job? No flat? Wow, I could really get depressed, right? But no, it was not any of the above that made me sit down in the middle of my living room and cry like a baby. The monster that made me do it was the scariest one of all - and its name is Packing.

Let's face it, I had never been fond of packing. But this time was different. This time, the plan was daunting: to gather all of our earthly possessions and fit them into six suitcases, twenty-three kilogrammes (and God forbid half a kilo more!) each. We were to pack up our whole huge flat, give or throw away whatever we weren't taking with us, so that by the end of the day the big white flat were clean and tidy and big and white.

Right.

About three hours into packing, my crisis began. First, I felt anxious. I didn't know where to start from and I could not evisage the end of the whole process. It seemed to me that we would never leave Gabon, because we would simply not manage to pack.

Consequently, I decided it was time for some damage control. I thus sat down on the big white floor of the big white living room and gave way to the packer's rage. This having no effect on Jandro or the suitcase, which stubbornly refused to pack on its own, I moved on to the second stage: despair. A lot of crying followed, during which I requested a container (like all normal people... since when do I believe that all normal people are in a possession of a container anyway?). Finally, I stated firmly that I wasn't leaving. The statement was closely followed by stage three - resignation, or thoughless staring into the big white wall.

And then Jandro, the most peaceful, the most rational packer in the world (have you any idea how annoying this felt back then?), ignoring my blaming him for the lack of container that all normal people have, picked me up from the floor and took me out to buy an additional suitcase.

Slowly, the packing continued. By 5:30 pm we were nearly done and the world did not end. Six bags were filled with exactly 23 kilos of stuff each. The flat was as big and white as ever. That was it. We moved out.

And if I don't say it enough, here comes: my boyfriend rules! Totally.

IT'S EASIER TO LEAVE THAN TO BE LEFT BEHIND

At this very moment, I'm having hot tea with raspberry syrup. This can only mean one thing: I'm not in Africa anymore. This chapter of my life is slowly coming to its natural end. Clearly, so is this blog. But not just yet. I still have some things to tell, the last entries to write. I'm determined not to forget. You see, now I know - I have left a part of my soul in Africa. And, as it happens, a part of my heart in Arc En Ciel. So, one more time, please let me write about my boys.

It's easier to leave than to be left behind, people say. I desperately hope it's not true. I want the sadness to be all mine, so that the kids can only remember the good things. I want them to think about our trips to the beach, how we swam in the sea and how they kept diving to catch my legs, so that I would get indignant. I want them to remember the joy of opening the Christmas gifts, sitting on the sand in the shade of a huge badamier, wrapped in towels. Or how we made Christmas decorations. I prefer to believe that during the months (because they were only 4,5 months!) we spent together, they did not have enough time to get really attached. Because for me, giving up AEC was the hardest thing I had to do in Gabon. It's easier to leave than to be left behind... Is it really?

Only last Tuesday - although now it seems weeks away - the Arc En Ciel sisters organised a goodbye party for me. I provided drinks and biscuits, they took care of the entertainment bit. For the first time in my life, children sang and recited poems for me. I received a gift (a coconut bag), a copy of the poem and the most valuable present of all: a card where they all wrote their goodbyes. I hugged everybody several times and then... I left. They watched me go and they seemed sad. I was on the verge of crying. How do you leave someone for ever? I have yet to find an answer to this question.

I miss my boys. I want to keep seeing them. I want to help raise them. I want to discipline them. I want to teach them and play with them and put smiles on their faces. I want to know what's going to happen to them. And yes, I'm the one who's the most surprised by such a turn of events when it comes to my feelings.

Does this entry seem sad to you? Well, it shouldn't, really. I'm beyond happy to have met the Arc En Ciel lot. If you're still in Gabon, why don't you go and sign up as a volunteer? On my part, no regrets. Well, maybe one: that I hadn't started earlier.

FAREWELL DIARY

Saying goodbye is never easy. And neither is leaving. When I first came to Libreville it was full of strange, new places. With time, they have become familiar and comfortable, and, without even knowing when, I started feeling that I was really chez moi in Gabon. Sadly, the time has come to leave, to do everything for the last time, and, above all, to say au revoir to all the amazing people we've met.

Right about now you're thinking that I'm getting sentimental. That I will write a long whiny entry on how sad I am to leave. What great people I've met and how I'm going to miss them. But no, fear not! Even though I feel extremely whiny, I will stop myself from sharing - this is my great parting gift to you. Instead, I will tell you about the logistics of our last week in Gabon.

Behold, here comes the tight schedule of goodbying aka the Farewell Diary:

Friday, 7th January
- Prepare the Goodbye Gabon Party
- Host the Goodbye Gabon Party
- Make sure a certain Polish person gets to Ntoum (obscure as it seems, it is a secret message for those who actually got to attend the party!).

Saturday, 8th January
- Take the kids from Arc En Ciel to the beach for one last time
- Attend a galette de rois party hosted by E & J

Sunday, 9th January
- Go to the beach for one last time
- Play Scrabble
- Do nothing

Monday, 10th January
- Try to assess if our stuff enters our suitcases
- Face the obvious truth that our stuff does not enter our suitcases
- Decide how many extra suitcases we need and start throwing away some of our stuff
- Have dinner with M & G

Tuesday, 11th January
- Prepare the goodbye party at Jandro's office
- Have the goodbye party at Jandro's office
- Say goodbye to the cleaning lady
- Have a goodbye party at Arc En Ciel
- Have dinner with Jandro's colleagues

Wednesday, 12th January
- Have morning tea with N & C
- Have coffee with J
- Bye a gift for Kasia's parents
- Say goodbye to N's kids
- Have dinner with E & J and E & E

Thursday, 13th January
- Pack up the flat
- Get exasperated while packing up the flat
- Overcome the crisis
- Buy extra luggage
- Get a massage (yes, really!)
- Have dinner with N & G and S & T

Friday, 14th January
- Relax
- Take a walk at the beach
- Say goodbye to everyone yet again
- Catch a very big plane

As you can see, we are a tad busy. It is physically challenging, above all for our stomachs, because it seems that all we do is eat. However, I'm far from complaining. I am touched and greatful that I have so many fantastic people to say goodbye to. I guess what I'm really trying to say is thank you. Also for the great presents!

Oops, getting sentimental again. I'll go then. Let me just check what's next on my to-do list for Wednesday...

NOT SO HIGH FIDELITY

People often ask me about the cultural shocks I've suffered in Gabon. I must say, I always have trouble thinking of something shocking enough... I suppose we have a tendency not to notice certain little things and as we get used to them, they cease to be differences to our eyes. However, there is one cultural difference which I find hard to understand and impossible to accept: the Central African concept of fidelity.

In Europe, being faithful to your life partner is the essential condition for a relationship to work. In Africa, being faithful to your life partner is not an option. The general belief is that all men - no exceptions! - cheat on their wives. Sadly, the more I talk to my African friends and acquaintances, the more true to life it seems. Clearly, the social permission to have as many lovers as you want works only for men. Women are supposed to tolerate their spouses' behaviour, and forgive, of course. Forgiveness and tolerance form a solid ground for a relationship, the Gabonese law teaches us. If, however, all women remained faithful to their partners, and all men cheated on their wives, who would the cheaters cheat with? But that's just a reflection of a silly European.

How did I arrive at the horrifying conclusion that all men cheat, though? Do not doubt me, my friends, for I have sufficient proof to support my case! Let me introduce you to several of the men I've met during my stay in Gabon. Read and judge for yourselves.

Jean is nearly thirty years old. He is still looking for his one and only. For now, he regularly sees two girls, claiming that he's in a relationship with a still different one. When asked about his bizarre relationship status, he tells me that men need their options, variety is a good thing and no man was made for only one woman. Does he intend to continue in this way for a long time? Of course. That's what it means to be a man.

Patrick is recently separated and has two kids. He continues living with his wife but they are both seeing other people. He doesn't like the fact that his ex-wife has a boyfriend. He intimates that all men cheat, they just hide it better than he did. At first he stayed faithful but in the end he succumbed to the laws of nature. His wife should understand and forgive him, for this is what it means to be a man. He hopes to get back together with his spouse.

Monsieur Mba is closing up on the noble age of seventy. Children? Yes, he has children. How many? Oh, well... With my legitimate wife, I have eight children. These are my house children (les enfants de la maison). Now, outside of marriage, I have... well, it's seventeen in total, so it means I must have nine. These are the outside children (les enfants de dehors). He stopped counting his grandchildren some time ago. You think Monsieur Mba is an extremely active exception? Think again.

Landry is a young professional. He adores pubs, discos and dancing. He pays a lot of attention to his appearance and likes to look at his reflection in the mirror. He has no trouble attracting female attention in the disco, and often ends up with a pretty girl on his lap. At such moments, he's greatful that his religious girlfriend - with whom he's in a steady relationship - doesn't like going out as much as he does.

And what about the female point of view? Meet Julienne, Jean's official girlfriend. She will inform you that she knows perfectly well about his affairs, so don't you dare take her for an ignorant idiot! And you can leave your shocked face at home, she will tell you. Life is what it is, and I love my boyfriend. He cheats on me, yes, but I know he loves me, too. What if I break up with him, and find another man? He will also cheat on me - they all do; but he might not be as nice as this one. So I would be much worse off than with Jean, can't you see?

For more information on how to deal with unfaithful husbands, I refer you to Amina, a popular magazine for women. Let me quote the opinion of Valerie, who sees eye to eye with many African women:

Forgiveness is the cement of your home. Of course I'm ready to forgive my unfaithful spouse! Yes, it's difficult but not impossible. Actually, I've already done it, and I'm ready to do it again. Where can we find a faithful man? We should ask ourselves this: if we leave our man, will we be able to find a better one? I think not. It is thus better to stay with the one we already know, the one we have kids with, and not hope to find a faithful man, a rare bird. I try to communicate with my husband. I ask him what went wrong, why did he end up in his lover's arms. I ask him to promise that he won't do it again, even though in my heart I know he will. And the most important thing is that he uses protection, especially against AIDS, so that he doesn't pass it on to me (Amina, issue 484, p.22).

When I tell African men that my boyfriend is faithful to me, they laugh and wink at Jandro. Clearly, they think he's doing a fantastic job lying to me. And how trained I am to protect him, too! They seriously don't believe me. Instead, they offer Jandro to present him to their many female friends, if he ever feels lonely.

So, dear male readers of this blog, do be honest! Are you or are you not big huge cheaters to remain thus forever and ever? The time for answers has come. I am waiting.

PARADISE NEWS' GUIDEBOOK: MAYUMBA

A trip to Mayumba is not the easiest one to plan. Getting there from Libreville is complicated enough (although Mayumba airport is supposed to re-open soon), but organising activities which will let you see more than just the stunning Mayumba beach - that's a real challenge. There is no tourist base in the Park of Mayumba and you can only try contacting the park itself or WCS, who work within its grounds. We were lucky to have contacted the local boss of the latter, who was awfully nice and agreed to organise our stay. Here's what happened.

A day in Gabon profond
We arrived in Mayumba by taxi-brousse, which had left Tchibanga three hours before, making just one brief stop for palm wine, which we dutifully drank. We left our luggage in the Mbidia Kou-Kou hotel, which consists of bungalows located practically on the beach. The place is recommendable, in spite of the obnoxious receptionist, and so are the lobsters, a local specialty, cheap, delicious and abundant. We also took a turn around the town, which proved to be extremely calm. As we walked to the city centre, having been slighted by one of what seemed to be three town's taxi drivers, we felt as if we'd been transported to a different country. This was not the Gabon we knew, where even small towns like Fougamou aspired to something more than a village made up of wooden huts. Mayumba seemed more like São Tomé... peaceful, slow, with sheep trotting down the main street. This really was as far as you could get from Libreville.

Luxury camping
From the town of Mayumba, we were taken to the National Park in a boat belonging to one of the local guides, who works with WCS. In about two hours we reached our destination: a turtle-technicians' camp, consisting of a sleeping bungalow and a kitchen (with a gas stove!), set between a lagoon and the ocean. The bungalow was of course taken by the technicians themselves, but we boldly camped on their terrace, which gave us excellent protection in the case of rain. Having set up our humble abodes, we headed for the beach, the magnificent beach of Mayumba, which goes on and on for miles. Four people in the middle of nowhere, enormous waves and golden sand. Bliss.

Tourist's nightlife
Clearly, however, it was not for the beach that we came to Mayumba. We were after exciting hikes and that's exactly what we got, the excitement increased by the guide's rapid pace: it was so difficult to keep up with him that we were constantly wondering whether he was trying to lose us. Luckily, he did slow down after our third remark on how unbelievably fit African bodies move much faster than only humanly fit European ones.

During our first trip, in the afternoon, we marched - fast - through savanna, swamps, swamps and more swamps, and finally we stumbled upon the beach. Result: one sitatunga and a huge varan, who was peacefully devouring turtle eggs when we disturbed him and made him run away towards the sunset, taking a dip in the ocean. Romantic.

After dinner and attempted rest (too hot to sleep in the tent!), around midnight, we set off for our turtle trip. We walked along the beach for an hour or so and there it was, our first turtle! We saw a huge Maman luth digging her nest. Fascinated, we watched her in the moonlight, a stunning, graceful animal. Soon enough, three more turtles appeared nearby. We strolled from one animal to another, observing the whole process of laying eggs: the struggle when the tortoise leaves the ocean, the digging of the nest, the actual laying of eggs (50% real ones, 50% empty), the covering the nest with sand... the huge effort of reproduction, which takes about two hours. Accompanied by the turtle technicians, we even got to touch the turtles and let me just say that their skin is surprisingly soft.

Enchanted, we continued along the beach. We walked until around 3:30 am, and then we simply slept on the sand - something I'd never done before. Two hours later, at the break of dawn, our guide woke us up, pointing towards two buffaloes which were strolling at the beach, quite close to our improvised campsite. We followed them onto the savanna, where we saw the most beautiful sunrise ever. The walk back was exhausting, I admit. We'd had hardly any sleep and many kilometres ahead of us. But it was worth it, even though I might not have fully agreed at the time!

Back at the camp, we sunk onto our brand new inflatable mattresses and slept soundly for three hours, waking up just in time for our scheduled afternoon visit to the Senegalese village. We'd seen many of these before but here, thanks to the kindness of the village chief, we could take photos to our hearts' content.

At night, we were promised to go and see the crocodiles. That means hours of wading in knee-high waters, surrounded by the musty smell of swamps and complete darkness. The turtle technicians were kind enough to supply us with wellington boots - while our guide walked barefoot - but we soon found out that in each pair one boot had a big hole. Not at all discouraged, we continued, and were rewarded: after spotting a few pairs of eyes, which belonged to gazelles, hypnotized by the light of our torches, the guide told us to wait, only to emerge from the swamp a minute later holding a small crocodile. We got to touch it, photograph it and hold it, before we released it into the swamp. For a moment there I thought: very well then, we are now strolling through swamps full of crocodiles in the middle of the night. Instantly, I made the thought go away. From such silly considerations the road to a very real panic attack is short enough.

Balance sheet
Even though we only spent two nights in the park, the trip turned out to be full of things we'd never done before: We witnessed the actual process of luth egg laying and touched the turtles. We spent the whole night at the beach. We saw the sun rise over the savanna. We were shown the hallucinogenic iboga plant. We saw and held crocodiles. We walked in the jungle at night. We followed a varan. We nearly died of heat and exhaustion. We could not have asked for a better way to say goodbye to Gabon!

Pictures from Mayumba are here.

PEOPLE WITH PEOPLE SKILLS

As a rule, it is said that people from the capital are more haughty and mean and obnoxious - and about ten more negative adjectives - than your regular citizen. Being a capital-city girl myself, I always used to say that it was a big fat lie. Here in Gabon, however, this old superstition gains a new meaning. And I can only say that it is absolutely, utterly and completely... well, true.

Whenever we travelled outside of Libreville, we noticed that the people changed. They would smile, they would be cordial and helpful, and the racist comments where almost non-existent. While the usual librevillois response to Hello tends to be Mhm, the country people are very fond of talking to you. And this was the case in Tchibanga and Mayumba as well.

We had been warned by a Gabonese friend: People in the south are completely different. They are famous for their hospitality! And I must say that we were not disappointed. In Tchibanga, and above all in Mayumba, nearly every passer-by would say Bonjour. The Mauritanian hotel owner (we do recommend Hotel Golfe in Tchibanga) was adorable. Always smiling, he recommended an excellent restaurant and even offered to call and book us a table. To those of you who live in Europe, this might be the most natural behaviour in the case of a person who runs a hotel but do not be deceived - in Gabon in it extraordinary. We politely declined his offer to make the call but we did follow his suggestion and ended up in Les Palmiers (again, we recommend!) for a lovely dinner.

In the restaurant, we were confronted with even more surprises. Namely, the service was excellent. The waiter was quick, smiling and efficient. When we expressed the wish to change our order, he did not frown, he did not complain and just did what he was asked to do. When we were done with our meal, the chef himself appeared to have a chat with us, and he also called us a taxi (again, let me stress that very few people out here will spend their own money for somebody else's benefit). Finally, yet another person came to greet us. We were shocked to find out that we had just shaken hands with the governor of the province, who was dining in the same restaurant. Seeing a group of white people, he decided to welcome them to Nyanga.

We received the same warm treatment from the taxi driver who took us to Mayumba, and his bosses, based in Tchibanga, with whom we had a drink in the Consensus bar (Nous sommes ensemble jour et nuit) before leaving for Libreville. After only a short conversation we became intimate friends, which does not usually happen in the capital.

The only grumpy person we met throughout the trip was the lady who ran the hotel in Mayumba. She was almost caricaturally arrogant, which did not, however, prevent her from openly listening in on the conversation we had with the other hotel guests (she would actually stare and lean on a table to hear better). She was also kind enough to inform us that she had no idea whether there were any turtles in Mayumba, for she'd never went to see them. Here I must tell you that Mayumba is the third most popular place in the world for the majestic luth turtles, and everyone in Gabon knows that. Moreover, the hotel had a little area surrounded by a low fence, which, as we later found out, served as a little incubator for turtles (eggs from destroyed nests were transported there by eco-guards). How could the hotel lady have missed that?

But here I am, telling you about luth turtles... and that's a story for a completely different post. For now, let me just assure you that, if you decide to visit the Nyanga province, you will receive excellent treatment. Moreover, as long as you ask for permission, you may take as many photos as you please. The result of which you will find here (Tchibanga) and here (Mayumba). Enjoy!

TWO PEOPLE, THREE SEATS AND 600 KILOMETRES OR HOW WE WENT TO TCHIBANGA

The trip to Mayumba started a bit earlier than planned. Initially, we were going to fly to Tchibanga and continue to Mayumba by taxi. Our flight to Tchibanga was scheduled for Monday, 27th December, but on Christmas Eve La Nationale politely informed us that it had been cancelled but we were welcome to fly as early as Wednesday, 29th December. We had thus two options left: either looking for an alternative means of transport or staying home.

As far as an alternative means of transport was concerned, again we were presented with two appealing choices: 1) taxi-brousse (bush taxi) and 2) teleportation. Not being skilled teleporters (am I making up words again?), we opted for the former. Now the new plan was ready, all we had to do was to get our money back for the airlines, find out how the taxi-brousse business worked, get a phone number, book ourselves one of these babies, and we were all set! Lucky us that travelling is so simple in Gabon.

After a few phone-calls, we managed to lay our hands on the number of a transport company. We were assured that a comfortable pick-up truck would leave on Sunday, 26th December, at 7 am, heading for Tchibanga, and we were welcome to get on board. We booked our seats and tried not to think about the fact the trip would take ten to twelve hours - if everything went as planned, that is.

On Sunday, we left our house at 6:15 am. We took a taxi to PK8 (or Point kilométrique 8), where all the transport companies and a large number of pickpockets are based, and proceeded to find the man we'd spoken to on the phone. Needless to say, we were the only white people in the vicinity, carefully scrutinized by tens of curious eyes. We paid for our three seats and sat down, prepared for a long wait (of course we weren't going to leave at 7 sharp!).

Yes, you've read correctly and I did not make a mistake when I wrote that we'd paid for three seats. To find out why, you need to ask yourself a simple question: how many seats are there in a regular car? Let's see... The driver. The co-pilot. Three people in the back. Wrong! In Africa, the co-pilot's seat is deux places (yes, two people in the front!), while in the back you can easily squeeze four. There also additional places in the back of the truck, where you can stand holding on to the piles of luggage and get covered in dust and mud for twelve hours. Consequently, we bought three seats out of four, which ensured a comfortable trip not only for us, but also for the gentleman who bought the fourth place.

Now all that was left was to build up the incredible pyramid of luggage. The loading of everything from garlic and manioc sacks to our backpacks took an hour. Then, the six unlucky souls loaded themselves next to the luggage, while we took our luxury seats inside the air-conditioned truck. The third passenger positioned strategically between us (no seatbelt in the middle), we began our 12-hour long journey to Tchibanga.

It was more comfortable than expected. The air-conditioning turned out to be a blessing. We often stopped to stretch our legs. The driver knew the road inside out and drove surely, safely and quickly. Only two things stood between me and full happiness; one was the extremely loud African music that the driver would play incessantly during the whole trip (hits such as Chanter à Libreville and Doucement, vas-y doucement will stay in my mind forever); the other was a horrible cramp in my thigh, which would stay with me till the very next day.

Nevertheless, as I've already said, we were lucky to have many thigh-stretching stops. Some of them, however, were not a mere whim of the driver. During the twelve hours of our trip, the police stopped us around twelve times. Each and every time the driver had to pay a little bribe (between 1000 and 5000 CFA), in order to continue without problems. Otherwise, the policemen might stop us for as long as they pleased, controlling our papers, luggage, the state of the car, etc. If you want to arrive on time, pay up my friend! We were appalled.

We thus arrived in Tchibanga - backs hurting, thighs cramped, mouthing the lyrics of unknown songs - around 6:30 pm, exhausted but satisfied with the trip. The driver was nice enough to take us to our hotel, where we discovered that our bags sported distinct smells. Mine, which spent the whole trip on top a frozen smoked fish sack, was now wet and smelled of - can you guess? - frozen smoked fish. Jandro was even less fortunate, as his backpack had been placed upon a garlic sack. One smelly hotel room that was!

To wrap up, two pieces of advice: 1) Always buy an extra seat in a taxi-brousse! No European back is made for travelling the African way! 2) Put your backpack in a plastic bag if possible. I'm pretty sure my parents will recognise me by the smell of smoked fish when I land in Warsaw two weeks from now!

The first picture shows our Libreville - Tchibanga taxi. The second - the taxi we took to get from Mayumba back to Tchibanga.