Cameroon: route of survival

Canoe, paddles, equipment, photo and video apparatuses - neither more nor less than 65 kg. The plane leaves in 2.5 hours. The flight to Brussels, then 6 hours by another flight to Douala, the industrial capital of Cameroon. The sun is evenly flooding the Sheremetievo runway with limpid light. The same way it shone ten year ago, and will shine a month later… "I was absolutely sure that I would be back. When starting off to such places, one shouldn't have even a shadow of doubt in successful outcome of the journey. Otherwise, it can become the last". This journey was being prepared during six months. In particular, there were two routes, and the both were planned as pioneering: either down the Jar River, or the Mpomp River, the confluent of Congo River. The final choice Vladimir decided to make at site.

The plane landed in Douala airport at 18.30 local time, the plane door opened, and that was it… The sun heated air up to 30°С, and the heat made itself felt due to damp sea climate. It was already getting dark. The airport was swarming with a black faceless mass. Suddenly, a smiling face of the porter, making his way to Feoktistov, came forth from the background. "Can I help you with your luggage?" - such was the meaning of his words pronounced in bad English. "No", Vladimir answered hastily, and immediately he was surrounded by the dense ring of local residents: porters, beggars, airport officers, and who knows who else. It occured that they all needed 100$, neither more no less. Money is an international word. The ring was slowly but inexorably contracting. Police didn't show themselve. "What to do?" - the question was tossing about in Vladimir's mind like a bird in the cage. Feoktistov new nothing about local customs and habits, nothing at all. What would come next? But there was no time to wait. In one vigorous motion Vladimir pushed the nearest, the most cheeky, hard fellow and, having knoked him off by his rucksack, rushed through the opened gap to the pickup transporting passengers. In a second, the car was encircled by a crowd of bellicose vagabonds, who, having screwed up their cheek, started grabbing Vladimir's clothes with their hands. At that moment, Vladimit for the first time thought wether it was worth coming here and if he would be back alive and well. But that thought took only a moment - in the next, Feoktistov was already throwing a handful of coins outside. And the mad crowd dashed after them so that fairly good rugby players could envy them… Suddenly, it became empty around. At that moment, a man in pocile uniform appeared. He ran up to the pickup window: "How much did you give them?". Now answer followed: a few seconds later the car was already going out of the airport.

That was the beginning of Vladimir Feoktistov's first visit to this strange world, alien and branded with poverty, but warmed with the same sun and washed with the same wind… With this country covered with a fog of mystery, where people live by current moment and are happy when not starving... Where to be reach means to have three onions left somewhere in the clay hut, and a bucket of peanuts is standing in the corner. Where children in the street can freely shoot from small-calibre rifle at birds and nobody would think of going out alone after sunset... Where, if electric cables, airplanes, and cars are taken away, it is impossible to say in what century you are.

Next day, Vladimir went by taxi to Yaunde, an administrative centre of Cameroon, situated 250 km towards Douala. It was necessary to get visa to Congo, as in Moscow the consul shocked with such a request said to Vladimir "no". Besides, it was necessary to choose the route. The only place where Feoktistov could get assistance was the Russian embassy. There, Vladimir was received very hearty and provided with everithing they could. The name of the young Cameroonian who was ordered to help Vladimir was Usmanu. Thanks to that person, who took upon himself everything as to organization of the trips over the country and talks with the natives, Feoktistov was able to travel all over the North of Cameroon and visit the Republic of Chad, chose the route of rafting and hire the guide. It happened as follows. When the Congo visa issues were fixed up, Vladimir understood that he had a chance to visit the North of Cameroon and Chad, as well as the lake of the same name, which borders upon four countries. That journey took about two weeks and was, as we learned later, "a relaxation before the battle". On coming back to Duala, Vladimir with all equipment and prepared provisions together with Usmanu set off to a small town of Among-Mbang. Aliens in the town, according to local superstition, is a sign from above promising a good fortune. That is why, the strangers were welcomed with open arms and invited to festivities on the occasion of birth of a child in some family. The guests were so much welcome that they were offered to eat everything on the table or, at least, to taste each dish. On the table, there was almost everything that flies, runs, crawls and grows. And everything was very tasty. Well, it's good to fortify oneself before a hike. When the local administration got to know the purpose of the white man's visit, the town's council of patriarchs was called. At the council, Vladimir was provided with the most comprehensive information on the places planned to be reached, and, in addition, a guide. Everything would have been fine, but this information had been inaccurate…

Next day, Feoktistov, suspecting nothing, set off with the guide and Usmanu further in the village where they hired the porters and then set out towards the river. The journey to the river took one and a half days. They spent the night in a wayside hut, the last sign of human being in the area. Further, for hundreds of kilometres there are only woods. A thought about strangeness of the place started to creep into Feoktistov's mind already when they were approaching the riverhead, but only on the very bank it finally became clear that the patriarchs were wrong. The running into green bush river filled with all kinds of vegetation with the riverbed as narrow as six meters in fact appeared to be virtually unsuitable to rafting. But the way back had been cut off, as, to all appearances, the next truck was going to be there in a month at best, and it would have been a walk of about 150 km to the nearest main road. Feoktistov understood that the rafting would be not for pleasure but for stamina. He still had not recognized that the route would be the one of survival…

Eleven days of struggle without a chance to turn back. The crowns of the trees closed above and almost completely hid the sky forming the endless green corridor running away to nowhere as a winding snake. Sometimes, the sun came through the leafage, and then Vladimir could descry the eyes of the taciturn guide. In them shone the fear. Eleven days that passed in continuous overcoming the obstacles. At times, they had to cut their way through the brushwood of reed and heaps of trees, At times, there was nothing left but to take the canoe and carry it over along the bank. 50 meters, 100… One could get off to the bank - then, it was an obvious thing.

The sixth night, the rafters were going to get an unpleasant acquaintance. Very unpleasant. The most dangerous thing in those places is considered malaria. Every year, thousands of local residents die of it. An if you are going to tropics not having got vaccinated beforehand, then you have little chance to come back alive. But besides the killing malaria mosquito the African rainforests are full of giant ants up to 15 mm long roaming in columns, which are up to 250 meters long. They look like pitch-dark anty 5-6 cm wide bands zigzag moving in the forest searching for the food. They are very strong and bite horribly painfully. They are extremely difficult to tear away from skin or crush. Just imagine, you are crushing them with your finger, but they wriggle out and manage to bite it. Such a mass of ants is capable to gnaw an animal or a man that is restricted in movements to the bones. Than night, Vladimir saw as a black mass was making its way on the log over the river. The guide did not even pay attention to this, showing that the phenomena like this is not dangerous at all. For some time, there was a quiet. Vladimir, worrying about nothing, was sitting near the fire exchanging scarce phrases with the guide. Nearby, there was the rucksack standing reclined against a tree. Suddenly, Vladimir noticed that the equipment is lousy with the insects. He tried to shake them off, - but at this moment the whole mass started crawling to him. Immediately sprung to his feet, Vladimir began to through the burning firebrands around him. And then, having fenced himself from the column of ants, started settling scores with them by one. This time everything finished well.

The eighth day. The arms are wound to the blood, the palms are all black and blue. At last, the rafters reached the open water of the river, but what a strange area was that? Over hundreds of meters to the both sides from the fairway there was an impassable swamp, sometimes ankle, sometimes neck deep. Even if somewhere there could be seen the bank, it was inaccessible due to the endless mash around. Three days passed in exhausting moving forward through this engulfing surface, in finding the way through mighty trunks of the tropical vegetation. Pushing off the bottom with the oars, clutching at the trees to pull up at least a couple meters ahead, blunting the machete against the entwisting the canoe gigantic lianas and the fallen trees. According to the mapping data, the near-bank swamps are spread dozens kilometres downstream. There were still no place to reach the bank and the rafting were going to be an endless drifting within several hundred miles from a human habitation and without any hope to feel a solid ground under feet.

That was the way Vladimir Feoktistov was thinking of the situation then, and nobody knows what would have been the actual end if there had not been a coincidence. Some intuition directed Vladimir to tie down at some small shelter. There, the swamp appeared to be not as impassable as in the rest of the area, and the rafters soon found the path coming to the very edge of the swamp. And what is more, several moments later a couple of natives carrying the baskets with provision turned up from over the turn. The guide explained them the situation. The natives immediately dropped down their luggage and, having heaped a part of Vladimir's things on their shoulders, set off together with the travellers towards the nearest village, having changed their route. It took them some twelve hours to reach the village. The guide stayed in that village, while Vladimir, after taking a rest, reached a main road and two hours later was already rushing in a truck towards Congo, and the hot African wind was breathing into his tanned and happy face. "Then, I understood: there are not coincidences. It's we who create the circumstances around us".

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