This is the sixth instalment of a four-month trans-Africa trip from Johannesburg to London that I did with Exodus Expeditions in 1980, travelling by ex-army truck and camping. We were not sightseeing, though we did see some incredible sights. Our goal was to see and experience Africa from south to north by whatever route was open. Four months. Twelve people. One truck. Fifteen countries. 18,000 kilometres. Links to the earlier posts are listed at the end of this one.


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It’s the RSGs that save us; reinforced steel girders. We find four of them almost buried under months of fast growing tropical grasses, off to the side of the road. Without them we’d probably not have been able to build a bridge to get the truck over the river. Without them we’d have been well and truly hooped. But by now we’ve been through so much that looking at a river without a bridge is hardly enough to daunt us; we have become a tight-knit group, because we have to be, and work together to face challenges; even a river without a bridge.

Among all the information issued by Exodus Expeditions about the trans-Africa route there’s this little gem that really says everything: It is essential to be mentally prepared for an African expedition, and part of that preparation consists of the realisation that once out in the depths of Africa there is no such thing as an itinerary or a schedule. There is only an objective – to get to your destination by whatever route is open. It is traversing Central African Republic that this becomes real. Very real. It is traversing CAR that we find ourselves well and truly in the depths of Africa, and it is here we understand more than ever that the journey itself is the destination.

It starts almost as soon as we cross the border from Sudan into CAR, and gets progressively worse the further we travel, the further we are engulfed by the central African jungle. To this day there is only one east-west road across CAR. There are several north-south routes from Bangui, the capital, but first we have to get there. From the border with Sudan travelling west to Bangui it is 1300 kilometres (808 miles). We are travelling just after the end of the rainy season. Most of those 1300 kilometres look like this.





We follow (Route Nationale) RN2 from the border. For the first 600 kilometres (370 miles) it runs more or less parallel to the Mbomou River which forms the border with Zaire, now the ironically named Democratic Republic of Congo. Every photo that follows is of the road; not a small river, not some back-woods track, but the main, and only, east-west artery across the country. We are lucky if we cover 150 km in a day.

















Central African Republic is a landlocked country, right in the heart of the continent. Formerly colonised by the French, it has failed to thrive after being granted independence in 1960. Since then it has been ruled by a series of autocratic leaders, and there have been decades of violence and instability, including six coups. In 1979 the self-styled Emperor Jean-Bédel Bokassa was overthrown in a coup. The former president, David Dacko, was restored to power, but he also was overthrown in a coup in September 1981. Once again, in a country that has known very little rest, with colonisers, world politics, and religions all playing a part in creating internal chaos and conflict, we are lucky enough to be there in a rare moment of peace. As with Sudan, in 1980 things are relatively quiet.

We are less than 200 km from the border with Sudan when we come to the river with no bridge.





We can see the old broken bridge tangled up where it has been swept downstream. We all start scouting around looking for possible materials to build one – rocks, logs, anything that might be useful, and then someone finds the RSGs! We guessed they’d been transported in to build a new bridge, but then the roads had become impassable so they lay abandoned in the grass.

We lug rocks up from the river bed, and use ropes to haul a couple of big logs to the river. With the logs and the rocks we build a berm on either side to support the steel girders. Then we haul the girders into place.





Brett and Craig make sure they are at the exact width of the truck’s wheel base, with one girder on one side, and on the other side two next to each other with the sand mats strapped on top of them.








Then, as Brett guides him, Craig starts driving slowly across.





Stop! Back up! It’s clear that the single girder will not take the weight of the truck. So the fourth girder is strapped on top of it to double the strength.

Craig tries again. Slowly slowly an inch at a time, Brett constantly watching.





And then it is done. The truck is across the river! Victory!





We leave the RSGs in place but of course take our sand mats and ropes, then head to the nearby village to celebrate,





and, in an unusual move, set up camp there for the night. We don’t usually camp in villages, but it’s clear there will be no more traveling on this day. Probably Craig has paid the chief to let us camp there and ensure we are safe.

Some time later a couple of policemen come through in their 4×4 and drive onto the bridge without checking the width of their wheel base. Straight into the drink! So next morning we go back to the river to tow them out.

We have conquered the bridge-less river. Onward!

It’s not that there’s no bridge, it’s just that it’s, um, questionable.





The guys do some makeshift repairs,





the truck starts over, and we all hold our breath. Victory again!





If it’s not bridges, or walls of mud, or stuck trucks that we help on their way so we can get on our way, or a road that looks like a river, it’s ferries. And we are thankful for them being there, and for being functional. There are several ferry crossings on the road to Bangui. Most of them are a simple wooden platform on pontoons.








We drag the ramps into place. Craig or Brett drives the truck on, and a couple of locals pole us across while we hang out on the pontoons.





And as the truck lumps and bumps along the road sometimes we walk, and sometimes we sit in the back talking and laughing, continuing to discover each other, and this challenging jungle world.

Every day I marvel at the insects. I’ve never seen so many, or such variety, in every shape and colour you could possibly imagine; one hovers right in front of my face, a perfect pointed oval, the front half red, the rear half white, an exact line separating the two. But it’s not just flying insects. One night Dawn walks a couple of yards away from the centre of camp to clean her teeth. Suddenly she starts screaming. I’ve never seen anyone get their pants off so quickly. In the dark she’s accidentally stepped onto an ants’ nest.

It is here in the central African jungle that I first hear of Dire Straits, but it is not some Brit rock band that is our night music. Every night I marvel at the noises that rise up from the jungle that surrounds us; monkeys howling, crickets chirping, birds whooping and whistling. There are few we can identify, but it’s this constant cacophony that lulls us to sleep.

We wild camp whenever possible, but occasionally camp in a village. There’s a huge storm. It rains as only it can in the tropics; a sheet of water that drowns everything, makes the trees quiver, the leaves shiver, the lush grasses bend to the ground soaking up what they can, and turns all else to mud. That night we camp in a village, the only place to find some flat ground. Next morning we have enough dry wood at least for a cup of tea.





We camp in the grounds of the Polish Catholic mission at Rafaï, and are grateful for the respite from pushing through the mud.





We pass many villages,








and villagers.








They are unfailingly curious and friendly. They stare and smile and wave, the children running after us for a bit when the road allows it. We stop briefly in the village markets selling veggies and peanuts and kitenges (printed cotton fabric similar to a sarong).

Eventually at Bangassou the Mbomou River joins the great Ubangi River and we get our first glimpse of it.





From Bangassou we follow RN2 as it heads west for a little, and then north to Bambari, west to Sibut, and then south to Bangui, right by the Ubangi River, which forms the border with Zaire to the south. But first we have to get there . . . . . .

It’s a long way to get to Bangui
It’s a long way to go
It’s a long way to get to Bangui
To the sweetest town I know
Good-bye Nairobi, farewell Yambio
It’s a long long way to get to Bangui
But we’ll make it I know.

It’s a hard road to get to Bangui
All the bridges are down
It’s a hard road to get to Bangui
Mud and pot-holes all around
All the rivers are swollen, jungle closing in
It’s a hard hard road to get to Bangui
But in the end we will win.

All the good things are there in Bangui
French pastries and cheese
All the good things are there in Bangui
A shower if you please
Dinner in a restaurant, candies cakes and wine
All the good good things are there in Bangui
And we’ll get there in time.





Next post: The ten-hour bog, dancing with villagers, a warm waterfall wash, and an urgent quest for help in Bangui. Oh yeah, and the fight I mentioned in post 4.

Disclosure:
1. I’ve changed the names of everyone involved for privacy
2. Obviously any photo with me in it was taken by another member of the group, but I’ve no idea who. We all swapped photos when we got to London.

Previous posts:
1. The Drums Of Africa
2. Tanzania Mania
3. Wildlife And Tribal Life In Kenya
4. The Opposite Of Glamping
5. Turn left At Sudan






All words and images by Alison Louise Armstrong unless otherwise noted
© Alison Louise Armstrong and Adventures in Wonderland – a pilgrimage of the heart, 2010-2024.