We may sit in our library and yet be in all quarters of the earth. - John Lubbock

17 July 2019, Mila Mila to Kibangou, 36.6km
Auberge 2,000CFA (R50)

A review on the app, iOverlander, had warned that Auberge le Memling in Kibangou smells of rat and bat poop; in fact it reeks. The auberge is the first building on the south side of town. When we arrived there, though the door stood open, no-one was home. We sat outside for awhile, happy to rest ourselves on the shaded porch, but after some time, during which, from outside and in a strong breeze we were uncomfortably conscious of the unhealthy stench, we decided to investigate the Catholic Mission instead. Pushing our bikes, we encountered a young woman with a smattering of English and asked where the church was or if there was another auberge in town. She said there was another auberge and began to walk us toward it when a policeman came across and told us to stay at Le Memling. He and she had a slightly heated discussion in which it became clear, though we could not understand a word, that he was vetoing her alternative option. Neither Charl nor I are enamoured with mindless bureaucracy or petty authoritarianism, and decided to ignore his advice and seek out the alternative on our own, the young woman having wandered off home. And so it was we came to a bar offering barbecued pork on skewers, which we consumed with fresh bread sold from a wheelbarrow, and an unnamed and unmarked auberge. We inquired first about rooms at the church, but were told these were closed as the “padre” was in Dolisie, so opted for the rather rough-looking alternative. It was not entirely odour-free, nor entirely clean, but it was sufficient for our needs, only the public pit toilet* outside being really questionable, its door unlockable, its hinges unstable. We were able to bathe from a bucket in a doorless room off the passage, glad there were no other guests then, though two or three additional rooms were filled later in the day. In fact, our hostess did a pretty brisk trade in the evening at her bar, her music loud and exuberant.
* In response to a WhatsApp friend’s comment on our accommodation, I wrote this: “Not brave. Having chosen to cycle Africa, we knew it would be tough in many ways. But in the end, it's just a dirty loo, that's all. I would not want to live like this, but millions, who have no choice, do. It makes me appreciate home. And in truth, unlike other travellers, we can afford often to separate ourselves from the "real" Africa, and do so often.”
In the last two days, two minor disasters: a screw holding Charl’s right-hand pannier secure, pulled loose; and I lost my rearview mirror. We resolved the former by tying the pannier to the bike rack with a piece of rope Charl had picked up on a road in Namibia (ever so chuffed he is with his magpie find), and the latter by Charl replacing my mirror with his (kind man).
Today’s road, in addition to fine dust and loose stones and tortoiseshell clay, offered enough corrugations to make us seasick. OK, that’s an exaggeration, but certainly enough to slow our progress and clack our teeth. But it travelled through lovely scenery, all grassy knolls and palm trees.
We met a man named MyGlory, who ostensibly stopped us to give us directions, but who in fact just wanted to chat for while. And a shopkeeper, affectionate with his three daughters, who told us things are tough in the Congo. And heard children shouting “turist, turist” as we passed through their villages. And saw a car loaded to the gills, including its boot which stood open resting on the goods it carried within, creating a V-shape between back window and boot lid. On top of the boot, backs on the rear window, bums in the join, legs stretched atop the lid, rode three men. And encountered trucks (camions) transporting people and goods, ingeniously adapted to carry more than they should: good and women in the truck bed, men on open seating on a frame above, like a double-decker bus, without the standard outer shell and windows.
Just beyond the wide Kouilou River, which drains much of the Republic of Congo, and which we crossed via a single-lane bridge, we met two off-road motorbikers from Austria doing west Africa in sections, a month at a time. They began their adventure in Vienna five years ago, had also met Blanca on the road, and, we later heard, left their bikes in Luanda this time and will be back for them next year.
We think we keep running into the same logger drivers. Easier, of course, for them to remember us, but their friendly waves are tinged with familiarity.
What I’m wearing on the bike: Shoes from Randburg Runner, cycle pants from Linden Cycle, shirt from Big n Tall men's shop. Have been wearing the same peak for maybe 15 years, but now my hair is too thin to protect my scalp from the sun so in Springbok I bought a straw hat from Mr Price, cut off the brim, and superglued the crown to the peak. My Easter bonnet look.
For dinner, we heated the two cans of food gifted to us by the Chinese travellers in the pink car. Whatever it was we ate, was too sweet for dinner and not in the least appealing. Ah, well…

For today's route see below photos
For overview route, click on ROUTE tab above…