136.
Speaking halting French, my benefactor says his name is Azarak Byriam and he is from Miriam, Cameroon.
He wishes me a good day and rides away.
In a daze, I drink the milk and eat the food, and soon feel marvelously refreshed.
I have just finished the snack when a Land Rover pulls up going my way. Would I like a lift to the border? No payment. For free.
Saved in the very nick of time by these two miraculous occurrences, I accept the ride but am damn near overcome with emotion.
I ride into the border town, gulp three bottlers of orange soda pop and walk across the border. I am two days late on my transit visa but am the first person to cross in the weeks since the floods closed the roads west. The understanding border police let me cross with no argument.
...
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