The Trip to E.G. We’ve been living and working in Cameroon for a while when we decide to take a few days off and visit Equitorial Guinea—hereafter referred to as “E.G.”. E.G. is a former Spanish colony on the west coast of central Africa that comprises an island just off Cameroon’s coast, and a small rectangle of land sharing a land border with Cameroon to our south. It’s very undeveloped, and governments there have been brutal dictatorships—claims of cannibalism are not dismissed. A friend of ours here, Mike, is the Country Rep for Catholic Relief Services for E.G.—he lives in Cameroon because Cameroon is nicer and offers administrative support he can’t get in E.G. He has told me that E.G. is 781 years behind the western world. When I asked how he could be so specific, he told me that the Magna Carta was signed in 1215 and established the idea that government was for the people—E.G. still hasn’t acknowledged that so he figures they are at least 781 years behind. He also swears there are dinosaurs still living in the deep forests there. He’s been suggesting we visit, and there’s also an environmental project there that interests me, so we decide to drive down and check it out. We leave Yaounde at dawn on Friday. The trip starts on Cameroon’s best road for two hours (it leads to the President’s small home village, go figure). Then it’s mud and dirt roads for four more hours to the border. Some of the roads are VERY muddy and cars and trucks are getting stuck. We slide through. We get to the border: it’s a dirt road. The Cameroonian side is a thriving (that is, “crowded, dirty”) marketplace, the E.G. side is a few cement buildings. At the border itself there are two chains across the road, one for Cameroon and one for E.G., with about ten feet of unclaimed territory between them—a sort of DMZ. There are three padlocks on each chain—one for the Customs guy, one for the Gendarmes, one for the police. The border itself is a drainage culvert pipe with fetid swamps on both sides of the road with mounds of garbage heaped on them. The border has been tense lately because both Cameroon and E.G. have undemocratic, unresponsive, and kelptocratic governments that are paranoid everyone is plotting to overthrow them (the Kabila-Zaire thing has had a psychological impact across central Africa). The American Embassy in E.G. closed in 1993 due to budget cuts, so our Embassy in Cameroon covers both countries (so, presumably, I might be responsible for cultural and media contacts in E.G.—if there were any). We get to the border at about 1:00pm. I check-in with the Cameroonian gendarme. He writes down my passport information. We go to the chain together. He unlocks his padlock. The Customs guy unlocks his padlock. Uh-oh, no police guy in sight. Not a big deal yet because there are still the three locks on the E.G. side to deal with. We’re supposed to meet our friend (Mike) at the border, he’s been in E.G. all week. I figure it’s 50-50 this will actually happen; but a few minutes later I see him walking down the hill towards the border. He stops at the E.G. chain—if he crosses the border he’ll need to go through a bunch of formalities. (Meanwhile, note, that many Africans are simply walking back and forth between the two countries trading goods, chatting with friends, etcetera—it is only us and our car that need to go through all the formalities.) Mike tells me across the DMZ that he arrived an hour ago and has been trying to smooth our passage. He went to the Prefet (guy in charge) in E.G. and told him that two friends were coming from Yaounde to visit. The Prefet said “No. The border is closed.” Mike asked, “How long has the border been closed?” “30 days.” the Prefet answered. “Really? I crossed over seven days ago.” Mike said. “Would you let me do my job?!” the Prefet replied. End of discussion. When we arrive later, Mike tells the Prefet we’re diplomats and that our car has diplomatic license plates. The Prefet is more accommodating. I have a piece of paper with the name of some government officials in E.G. written on it with their phone numbers (I got this in Yaounde from our Political Officer). I give it and my business card to a local kid who walks them across the DMZ and gives them to Mike. Mike takes them to the Prefet—who is really helpful now, he comes down and unlocks his lock personally. Turns out one of the names on the paper was the top-ranking military guy on the mainland; and no one wants to draw attention from the military. Both other E.G. border guards unlock their locks. One lock to go. Where’s the Cameroonian police guy? We send Mike’s driver to look for him. He finds him in a bar and brings him to the border. He unlocks his lock. We drive across—and stop. Now we have to have our papers looked at and stamped in E.G. The "looking at" occurs at the border; we have to drive ten minutes to town to get the stamps in our passports. We go. The stamp guy is there, but the stamp is locked up in a safe and he doesn’t have the key; the Commissaire’s wife has the key. Where is she? Shopping—in Cameroon. Back to the border. The stamp guy goes searching for her. We wait. She comes back, with eggs, vegetables, etcetera. We driver her to her house. She gets the stamp. The Commissaire is there; he takes charge. He’s drunk, it’s a holiday—he’s mad because we arrived on a holiday. He goes into the house with our passports to stamp them. He comes back outside a few minutes later and gives me some German guy’s passport. I shake my head. He goes back in the house and finally returns with mine. We are on our way again—three hours spent on these formalities. We spend the first night with some Argentine missionaries that Mike knows. They build wells and repair things; they have been doing this for 15 or 20 years. They are routinely hassled by the government because they are competent and have a truck. We go to “Mount Allen” the next day—it’s an environmental research project/preserve run by the European Community; it’s also, nominally, our destination. It’s pretty, and pretty remote. There’s a nice lodge there run by the project. We’d been assured by embassy colleagues that the lodge is clean, nice, and quiet—and always available; which is good because there is no way to make advanced reservations, there are no working telephones; in fact, driving down is the fastest way to contact them. We arrive to find that the lodge is indeed clean, and nice, and quiet—and that there are no rooms available. There are no rooms because there are a bunch of Americans there from a mining company. They’re looking for gold. The clerk points to their helicopter parked in a clearing as explanation. The mining company’s local guide is there, he used to work for the American Embassy when we had one here. We chat. We negotiate. We get one room. There are two small gorillas here that the lodge has rescued from poachers. One of the gorillas is a tiny baby, he’s crying and makes a bee-line for Rachel as soon as he sees her. Rachel picks him up and he stops crying; but he won’t let go. Rachel walks around with him for awhile and he calms down. Mike walks around measuring clearings in paces; he is dreaming of building a bowling alley here. This is a new idea of his. He envisions rustic bowling alleys in the middle of nowhere—he thinks weary American travelers will dig this big. He’s from Minnesota. Five Hours with Pepito the Amazing We spend a relaxing day and a half hiking in the rain forest (yes, it rained) and hanging out napping at the lodge. On Monday, we leave Mount Allen before dawn; planning that, with luck, we’ll be back in Yaounde around sunset. We have mixed luck. About 10:30 we round a corner on a dirt road and hit a little bump. I hear a noise like someone threw a bowling ball at the passenger door. A few minutes later I downshift to climb a hill, the transmission feels odd. At the top of the hill I try for fifth gear—it won’t go into fifth gear. It seems to me that the whole transmission is canted over to one side—third gear feels like the fifth gear position, for example. I think I’m going crazy. We stop for fuel ten minutes later in one of the few towns with a petrol station—the border town just shy of Cameroon. While Mike is tanking up, I crawl under the Jeep. No fluid leaking. Hmm, isn’t the transmission plate supposed to be parallel to the ground? Hmmm, is the oil pan supposed to be resting on the frame of the car? I pop the hood and peer in between all the wires and crap attached to a modern engine. On the side, I see a hole with concentric grease and mud circles around it—like a bolt was there until very recently. I notice that the fan has been cutting into the fan shroud because it is no longer properly aligned. It dawns on me what I am looking at but I try not to believe it. I look at everything again. And again. Nothing has changed. I say to Rachel: “I think we broke a motor mount. I think this is a bad thing.” We study the engine some more. Indeed, we have broken a motor mount. In fact, we have sheared off all three bolts that hold the engine to the car on the passenger-side of the engine compartment. Consequently, the engine and transmission have fallen to one side and the only thing keeping them from falling completely out of the car is the driver-side motor mount and the frame and skidplates now supporting them. I irrationally consider whether we can make it the remaining six hours over bad roads to Yaounde with things as they are. I decide it’s not a good idea. We ask the fuel station guy if there is a mechanic in town. He directs us to a place with a bunch of kids and cars. Folks look at the engine. They shake their heads. Mike sees a colleague of his who lives in the town, this guy takes us to another mechanic: Pepito. We pull up outside Pepito’s house. He looks at the problem and says he thinks he can fix it. We sit down in the shade and wait. After some time, Mike says “You know what this place needs?” I answer: “A Jeep dealership.” He’s still thinking bowling alleys. We wait some more. I notice that Pepito is under the car and there are sparks falling on the ground and smoke rising from the engine compartment. The sun has moved so we follow the shade and wait some more—Africa has taught me patience (I know it’s hard to believe, go with it for the sake of the story). The first milestone comes when Pepito manages to remove the remnants of the sheared mounting bolts from the engine block. He does this by welding a blob of metal and a nut to the end of each bolt and then backing them out. I’m impressed with his ingenuity. I’m less impressed with Jeep—the motor mount bolts are about a quarter of an inch in diameter, roughly the size of a pencil. I would have thought something more substantial would be in order since their purpose is TO HOLD THE DAMN ENGINE IN THE CAR!! Now, we need to find three new motor mount bolts to take the places of the broken ones. I look around. We’re in a dusty little town on the Equatorial Guinean border. Nope, no Jeep dealership in sight (it occurs to me that the thing is still under warranty). Pepito decides to “fabricate” three bolts. He goes into his wood-shack storeroom and finds a box of bolts and assorted metal cylinders. He chooses three that are roughly the same diameter and begins to carve threads into them. He has a generator, calipers and Craftsman tools—I don’t know where he got this stuff. I’m pessimistic. We’re all looking at our watches. I’m thinking I can leave the car, walk across the border, take a bush taxi or three to Yaounde, have bolts sent from the U.S. and come back for the car in a month. We know the border closes at 6:00pm on the Cameroonian side—usually earlier on the E.G. side as the gendarmes and other keepers of keys and stamps drift off to beer parlours. There’s a ferry (that is, an old barge and a long cable) on a river in Cameroon in the middle of the forest that we have to cross. It closes when it gets dark. We’re worried we won’t make it. Just as I begin to long for a bowling alley, Pepito finishes fabricating the bolts. And...they fit! I’m impressed again. Things go quickly now. He finishes bolting everything on the car. We start it up; everything works—the transmission is back where it’s supposed to be, the fan’s okay, I can get 5th gear and reverse. He writes up the bill...40,000 francs CFA—about $70. We pay. He’s obviously pleased with his work. We tell him we’re very impressed. It’s stuff like this that makes me think maybe there is hope for Africa after all. We pack up, amazed that this has worked, and head for the border. It’s 4:30pm and we still have border crossing formalities and five hours of rough driving to get back to Yaounde. We slip Mike’s regular passport between our two diplomatic passports and go to see our friend the Prefet. The border crossing goes amazingly smoothly and quickly (about an hour). We make the ferry at dusk and get across the river. From there it’s only four hours in the dark to get out of the forest and back home. Pepito’s repair holds and the car seems as good as new. We finally get home about midnight. I’ll tell you about the armed soldiers that tried to detain me and the other dozen police and military "checkpoints" and bribe requests along the way some other time. +++++++++
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