132.Hiking to the Border

132.

Dawn: the driver tells me in sign language that the transmission is broken. This is the end of the ride. I try to find out how far it is to the border and believe he “says” five miles—but we have serious difficulty communicating. The rest of the passengers seem very glum but I think I can backpack to the border by noon so I shoulder my big red friend (my backpack) and start hiking. Those remaining with the Rover give a cheer for the brave American and I wave a jaunty goodbye.

The land is flat. I walk all morning and see nothing. I meet another walker in the afternoon who gestures that the next village is perhaps five kilometers further but the border is another 35 kilometers beyond that. Now I see why the other passengers cheered the foolhardy American.

Anyway, there is no lack of water out here now! The muddy road is flanked by acres of marshy infusion, the murky African savannah “glowing with menace” where ape’s long metamorphosis into man began according to the book “African Genesis”; but one swallow of this primeval broth would no doubt send my highly evolved body to the hospital and there are no hospitals out here!

I build a campfire of dry twigs and boil some water to drink—there is no gasoline for my little stove. Black men wearing robes pass, stop, stare, salute and laugh! I laugh right back. This is such an odd place for a person like me to be that I fully appreciate the humor of the situation!

In spite of the heat I pull on double wool socks to protect my feet and trudge on. In the evening, I decide to walk as far as I can in the hours of darkness since the daytime is terribly hot.

Here is a long row of mired trucks leading up to a small mud and thatch village. Some soldiers I find in the village bar tell me that the road has been closed for eight days and no amount of money can buy a ride to the border. Looks like my transit visa will be expired.

At the edge of the village I make a rest pause under a tree. I am reading a rather petulant criticism of The United States called “America, Their America” by J. P. Clark. This black African writes of being wined and dined by America’s elite in Washington D.C.. which bores and angers him. It is an ironic book for me to be reading right now! The angel of Maiduguri gave it to me.

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