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Finally, he handed me my passport and the charade began.
“Il fait chaud aujourd-hui, n'est çe pas?” he stated. (It's hot today, isn't it?)
“ Oui, c'est vrais,” I replied. (Yes, it's true.)
“J'ai soif,” he blurted out. (I am thirsty.)
“I don't give a shit,” I thought.
Then the truth came out. He demanded, “Achtez-moi une bière.” (Buy me a beer.)
“For what?” I thought, “Delaying my departure to allow my lunch to digest?” At
that point, I played stupid and pretended that I didn't understand French and threw the odd
English in the sentence to really piss them off.
“'Une bière?' What is 'une bière'?...Merci!”
“Non! Une bière, un boisson!” (No! A beer, a drink!)
Instead, his 'assistant' seeing that I was not understanding, rubbed his fingers to-
gether to show me the international sign for wanting money. I looked at him and said, “I
don't understand” in English and shaking my head up and down repeating, “Merci”. This
really exasperated them. Thank God they didn't speak English. I was willing to go all day
likethisforIrefusedtopayanybribes.Iwouldmuchratherdonatethemoneytoamission
or a charity. My motto was: No gun pointed at me= no money given.
Anyway, I was tired of the entertainment and wanted to leave. I grabbed my bike
andinhorriblypronouncedFrench,Isaid,“bonajournée.”(Haveagoodday.)Ileftwaving
like a buffoon. I had a good laugh even though I wasted almost an hour with them. It was
soon 12:00 noon and I still had 75 kilometres to go.
The journey was quite tough at first. With no breeze and my slow pace due to the
numerous potholes, I continuously felt the oppressive heat without reprieve. I came across
two successive long climbs which eventually opened to some stunning views. There were
otherbenefitstogainingelevation, besidestheviews.Thetemperature significantly dimin-
ished and I began to enjoy the cooler air. It actually invigorated me. The cooler air also
meant that I was less prone to heat exhaustion, water consumption and as an added bonus,
a reduction in the number of insects.
The short flat parts and some of the descents were a minefield of potholes with one
section littered with sharp rocks. I decided to walk at that point to save myself a flat tire.
Periodically, I asked the locals how far the village was and they kept saying 45 kilometres.
Even though the road markers and my map said 10 kilometres, your guess was as good as
mine. In the past my map, the road markers and the people were all wrong!
Afterbuyingapineapplefor500,000zaïres,Icycledanother2kilometresandcame
across a beautiful Catholic mission run by the Italians from the Pères du St-Sacrement or-
der. The village was called Mayamba and I was 35 kilometres from Kenge. The property
was vast and had a large waterwheel to generate electricity and a barn where they taught
auto mechanics. They welcomed me with open arms. When I asked them for some water,
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