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I was a suck. I changed out of my cycling clothes and joined the chief for dinner. When I
returned to my place, I fell asleep immediately.
At the crack of dawn, I was ready to move on. One of the chief's wives prepared
fufu with tomatoes. It was amazing. I filtered some water for the day and before I was off,
I thanked the chief and gave him and those with him a priceless Canadian pin.
After an initial descent, I began to gradually regain the lost elevation. There was
quiteabitofsandandpuddlesbutnotoncedidIneedtodismountfromthebike.Iavoided
every puddle that I came across to keep my tires as dry as possible. The sun was out for
mostofthedaybutIhadareprievefor3hoursunderanovercastsky.Idecidednottowear
my sunglasses for they made it difficult for me to judge the depth of the sand due to the
shade ofthetrees. However,itwashardwithout them forwhenthewindblew,itpicked up
the fine white sand and blew it into my eyes. Next time I should have brought clear lenses
for the glasses.
It was on this road that I had a most bizarre experience. Perhaps at the time I did
not realize the seriousness of the situation for I mentioned it in my journal only in passing.
As I plodded along this quiet, tree-lined road, a group of armed men emerged from behind
the trees. They spoke Portuguese and had far darker skin than any Africans I met thus far.
The leader, I presumed, shouted in French, “Arrêt!” (Stop!)… which I did. I de-
duced that these were Angolan rebels coming into Zaïre to pillage for their faction. They
wore bullet belts across their shoulders and their guns were hanging from their necks. A
fewhadthemstrappedtotheirbacks.IthankedGodthatnoneofthesegunswerepointedat
me. The French-speaking leader, quite unexpectedly asked me a simple question to which
I was afraid to answer.
“Est-ce que vous êtes un touriste?” (Are you a tourist?) How the hell was I sup-
posed to answer? If I responded 'yes' could I go? If I responded 'no' could I go? I didn't
wanttodelayfortoolongsoItooktheplungeandsaid'yes'.Hethentoldmetobecareful
as I went down the hill for at the bend of the road there was a bridge that was unsafe to
cross.
Without hesitating, I thanked him and his men and slowly cycled down the hill.
'Slowly' because (a) I had no choice for my tires were in such poor condition and (b) I
didn't want to seem too eager to raise suspicion as if I was running away. In that short dis-
tance between where I left the rebels and the bend of the road took less than 50 seconds.
Within that time frame, I truly believed that I was going to be shot in the back. With my
eyes squinted in anticipation of a piercing bullet, I repeatedly prayed the Hail Mary in
French under my breath as I coasted down to the bridge. This was the second time I almost
wet myself. To my great relief, I wasn't shot at and true to his word, I came upon an ex-
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