Thursday, February 02, 2006
The Providential Appearance of Alfred (Third Week of January 2006)
Walking down the hill from its summit, struggling to discern whether or not some enormously circular detour can be arranged, we hear the welcome noise of industrial machinery. Sean is cooking pasta behind the Stingray when an old school John Deer tractor pulls into sight with five or six village men hanging from its sides. They are offering to tract us to Oyo more than two hundred kilometers away. Our original plan had been to make our own way to Congo's border town and then to stash the car in the back of a powerful truck; but the delegates of the tractor assure us that we will get no further and that we will find no truck. Naturally, this is what any shrewd businessman would say; but we have just seen the impossible and just run half a marathon and we like the idea of being helped. We agree to pay about $170 for this service, which is less than what we were told to expect.
In convoy with Alfred, the tractor's captain, is yesterday's Caterpillar with a different driver and an eighteen wheel truck full of petrol that is also making its way towards Oyo. This truck is two wheel drive, piloted by a disagreeable vegetable and the total responsibility of Alfred. We do not know any of these things. It looks like this truck is with the powerful machine and Alfred does not mention his other yoke. Within seventy meters our only tow rope snaps in half where it was conjoined with the frayed metal chord of our deliverers. Alfred's strong desire to drive at top speed results in several sudden jerks to the Stingray that snap the cable another three times and bend the tow loop of our frame straight forward.
In the darkness, stressed out of our minds by the blind luck involved in being swung around slippery corners, over devastating rocks and into vegetation by a powerful speed freak, we arrive at the border of Congo, expecting a mountain of nonsense and hard to get stamps. The crossing guards are friendly and informal. Quickly enough, all in a lantern lit woven hut half the size of a one car garage, we have our personal and automotive papers properly and effortlessly processed. It is around 9pm by the time we cross this border, trailing behind the truck and its Caterpillar, destined for the sleeping spot of Lekety. After several hours we overtake the truck which has driven completely off the road and begun to jackknife itself. The Caterpillar has obviously been working hard to create new roads and facilitate the movement of the truck; but these efforts have not succeeded. We are uncabled and made to wait.
This is the same day that we woke in the dark and ran for miles. I ask Alfred if we will have time to cook ourselves some dinner. He says it will be just a few minutes, which estimate is incorrect by more than twenty-four hours. John Deere and the Caterpillar strain and toil over the idiot truck with increasing desperation. The tractor punches a hole in the trailer's stern and it is now leaking fuel that is being collected in a bucket. The driver of the Caterpillar gets vertigo and starts vomiting, Alfred tries pulling the trailer in a way that is likely to cause the whole thing to tip over, which would destroy the Stingray, which is senselessly parked in the middle of the commotion. I have stayed out of all of the nonsense up until this point; but nobody seems ready to stop and the driver of the Caterpillar is actually passed out in his driving chair.
After a few rounds of debate, it is settled that Alfred and the Caterpillar will travel with us to Lekety, where we will be deposited to wait for the truck and where they can possibly find a bulldozer to assist them. We arrive in Lekety around 7am; having traveled for twenty six hours straight; somewhere along the way the speedometer and odometer cease functioning. There is some formal chattering to be done with the village chief, who is Alfred's older brother, but I excuse myself and collapse into my tent until early afternoon.
Walking down the hill from its summit, struggling to discern whether or not some enormously circular detour can be arranged, we hear the welcome noise of industrial machinery. Sean is cooking pasta behind the Stingray when an old school John Deer tractor pulls into sight with five or six village men hanging from its sides. They are offering to tract us to Oyo more than two hundred kilometers away. Our original plan had been to make our own way to Congo's border town and then to stash the car in the back of a powerful truck; but the delegates of the tractor assure us that we will get no further and that we will find no truck. Naturally, this is what any shrewd businessman would say; but we have just seen the impossible and just run half a marathon and we like the idea of being helped. We agree to pay about $170 for this service, which is less than what we were told to expect.
In convoy with Alfred, the tractor's captain, is yesterday's Caterpillar with a different driver and an eighteen wheel truck full of petrol that is also making its way towards Oyo. This truck is two wheel drive, piloted by a disagreeable vegetable and the total responsibility of Alfred. We do not know any of these things. It looks like this truck is with the powerful machine and Alfred does not mention his other yoke. Within seventy meters our only tow rope snaps in half where it was conjoined with the frayed metal chord of our deliverers. Alfred's strong desire to drive at top speed results in several sudden jerks to the Stingray that snap the cable another three times and bend the tow loop of our frame straight forward.
In the darkness, stressed out of our minds by the blind luck involved in being swung around slippery corners, over devastating rocks and into vegetation by a powerful speed freak, we arrive at the border of Congo, expecting a mountain of nonsense and hard to get stamps. The crossing guards are friendly and informal. Quickly enough, all in a lantern lit woven hut half the size of a one car garage, we have our personal and automotive papers properly and effortlessly processed. It is around 9pm by the time we cross this border, trailing behind the truck and its Caterpillar, destined for the sleeping spot of Lekety. After several hours we overtake the truck which has driven completely off the road and begun to jackknife itself. The Caterpillar has obviously been working hard to create new roads and facilitate the movement of the truck; but these efforts have not succeeded. We are uncabled and made to wait.
This is the same day that we woke in the dark and ran for miles. I ask Alfred if we will have time to cook ourselves some dinner. He says it will be just a few minutes, which estimate is incorrect by more than twenty-four hours. John Deere and the Caterpillar strain and toil over the idiot truck with increasing desperation. The tractor punches a hole in the trailer's stern and it is now leaking fuel that is being collected in a bucket. The driver of the Caterpillar gets vertigo and starts vomiting, Alfred tries pulling the trailer in a way that is likely to cause the whole thing to tip over, which would destroy the Stingray, which is senselessly parked in the middle of the commotion. I have stayed out of all of the nonsense up until this point; but nobody seems ready to stop and the driver of the Caterpillar is actually passed out in his driving chair.
After a few rounds of debate, it is settled that Alfred and the Caterpillar will travel with us to Lekety, where we will be deposited to wait for the truck and where they can possibly find a bulldozer to assist them. We arrive in Lekety around 7am; having traveled for twenty six hours straight; somewhere along the way the speedometer and odometer cease functioning. There is some formal chattering to be done with the village chief, who is Alfred's older brother, but I excuse myself and collapse into my tent until early afternoon.
<< Home