The Congo - The Lions on the Road: Cycling London to Cape Town - page 190

I was amazed at my reaction for I too saw the funny side to it all and I began to laugh with
them. Then I shot all the kids…just kidding.
I walked my bike onto dry land and checked to see that I didn't lose anything. I re-
sumed cycling and reached the top of the next hill where I stopped at my first Congolese
policecheckpoint.Theofficerstampedmypassportandgavemeafreshpineapplereadyto
eat. I sat down next to him and we chatted. He mentioned that the roads were in excellent
condition all the way to Brazzaville. This sparked my excitement for I was keen to see it
for myself.
Almost immediately I noticed the uniqueness of the Congo as I progressed deeper
into the country. The homes themselves were very clean, colourful and orderly with well-
maintained gardens and all the livestock fenced in. It almost looked like a picture that an
older child would draw, full of colour with everything in its place. Even the people seemed
different. As I passed villages (one almost every 5 kilometres), the adults were louder than
the screaming children when they ran to the road to greet me.
Within the first few hours of cycling I met a fellow traveler. Approaching from the
rear, I heard the sound of a motorcycle and just as I looked over my shoulder, he pulled up
beside me. He was an Australian who crossed the Sahara Desert by loading his motorbike
in a truck which was part of a convoy. We traveled together for less than 3 kilometres but
I must admit the conversation was near impossible due to the noise of his bike and I didn't
welcome the fumes from it either. He was heading to Zaïre and was quite excited when I
told him that I was too. He asked me for the latest update on the political situation in Zaïre
and was stunned when I responded, “What political situation?”
“What!!! You plan to cycle through Zaïre and you don't know about the problems
there?” he snapped.
I responded by simply stating that if I arrived in Brazzaville and the Zaïrian Em-
bassy refused to issue me a visa, then that would be a sign for me not to go into Zaïre and I
would have to make Plan C. He shook his head in disbelief.
We reached the douane together in a village not marked on my map. The officials
were kind and in a couple of minutes they stamped our passports. The Australian sped off
and I stayed back to chat with one of the officials. He told me that there was a Catholic
mission just before the Nyanga River.
When I arrived at the river, I met the Polish priest, Father Marion who welcomed
me immediately and permitted me to stay in a vacant classroom. Mass was about to start
so I went into the church to get a seat. Afterwards, we went to the market to buy some
food and returned to eat it in his kitchen. I enjoyed our conversation which focussed on the
politics of Poland, the Congo and how the Gulf War affected both. It was time for bed so
he gave me a lamp, showed me how to safely extinguish it and I went into the darkness to
my classroom to sleep.