But that's the glory of foreign travel, as far as I am concerned. I don't want to know what people are talking about. I can't think of anything that excites a greater sense of childlike wonder than to be in a country where you are ignorant of almost everything. Suddenly you are five years old again. You can't read anything, you have only the most rudimentary sense of how things work, you can't even reliably cross a street without endangering your life. Your whole existence becomes a series of interesting guesses. - Bill Bryson

29-30 June 2019, Soyo
Hotel Bravo 10,000Kz (R445)

We were surprised late morning, when we bought data for our phones, to receive a series of WhatsApps from Blanca saying she had not been allowed to board and was back at the hotel sleeping.
A higher-up SME officer had told her at the port that tourists were simply not allowed on the boats as it was too dangerous, and that we would have to send the bikes by boat and take a plane to Cabinda. Usually the planes are too small for bikes, but on occasion a bigger plane might ply the route between Soyo and Cabinda. At first Blanca was told the flights were fully booked until Thursday; then she was told there was a big plane at the airport that could take us and the bikes this afternoon.
We checked out of the Bravo, paying half price for our late stay, went to the airport, to discover, of course, there was no large and conveniently empty plane awaiting us. Instead we were told to return the following morning early and go on standby without knowing whether the bikes would be able to fly with us or not.
So back to the Bravo for another night, and out to the airport, luckily just blocks away, by 07:30. At the last minute, Blanca was given a seat on the 30th flight, and we “guaranteed” two seats on the following day, July 1. The timing was too tight for Blanca to get her bike to the port, so we agreed to deal with it while she hurriedly packed what she would need for a night in Cabinda and off she went.
We had to hire a vehicle to carry us and the three bikes back to Kimbumba, easily achieved as one of the men working at the airport had an open vehicle and was willing to take us. At the port, a new SME official, dressed in slip slops, shorts and T-shirt, introduced us to an agent and captain, who agreed to take all three bikes and our excess luggage, five bags in all, to Cabinda on the morning of July 1, saying we could collect at around 12:00 on the 1st. There was no official system or process, no forms to complete, no labelling of goods, nothing. This did not inspire confidence, but (a) we had no choice and (b) we knew that goods are delivered between Soyo and Cabinda every day, and that therefore there is in fact a system, an informal one incomprehensible to us.
Both the agent and the captain spoke a little English, thank goodness. I wrote their names and numbers on a piece of paper, added “3 bicycles; 5 baggage” and asked the captain to sign beside my signature, which he did. But what struck a cord for them, what resonated and brought out the smiles, was when I mimed a woman rocking a baby and asked them to treat the bikes and panniers like “bébés”.