Cayenne, French Guiana

 With only 300,000 people scattered around French Guiana, a country the size of Indiana, and half of them concentrated in the capital of Cayenne, the towns are few and far between.  It wasn’t until I was fifty miles into the country that I came upon my first, and then another seventy-five miles to the next.  

I could have dropped in on a small town just after crossing the bridge over the Rio Oiapoque from Brasil, but it was several miles off the highway, and I had no need of supplies.  If I hadn’t changed money in Oiapoque I might have made the effort, as no one was changing money, officially or unofficially at the new bridge a couple miles from the two towns on either side of the river that until a year ago could only be crossed by ferry.  

It was fortunate that I made the effort to search out a bank in Oiapoque to change my rials into euros rather than waiting until the border.  The two banks in the town were closed on Saturday, but I found a cluster of money-changers along the river where the ferry had once been.  I am always wary dealing with them, as I have been tricked and short-changed in the past, but this time I found someone of integrity who gave me a rate almost ten per cent higher than the official rate.  It was so good, I was concerned about the validity of the euros he gave me, but they were all well worn and had different serial numbers.  Dealing with the customs officials on either side of the bridge was a breeze as well, so I could pedal along with a huge weight off my back.  

Though it was exhilarating to be back in France, as the first sign announced when I crossed the bridge, the miles didn’t come any easier than they had in much of Brasil, as the terrain was similarly sharply up and down, with signs regularly warning of a ten per cent grade.

Every kilometer was marked by a post, but not the yellow capped markers similar to a tombstone as in France, that Madagascar had also adopted, but with markers on an actual post.  They were French-themed with the highway number two on a red background, indicating it was a National Highway, as is done in France.  The secondary roads were indicated with the yellow background of a départemental road, further conveying the warmth of familiarity.  

Most familiar were the license plates identical to those in France with the right end of the plate giving the number of the département where the car was registered.  This was the first time I had seen a three-digit number—937.  France is divided into 96 départements, including two in Corsica, and five overseas.   I was quite surprised to see actual French license plates on some cars, evidently cars shipped over from France of people on extended work assignments, many no doubt working at the very active Space Center that launches more satellites into space than anywhere else in the world.  Many had the number 93 of a Paris département.  I even found a license plate along the road with the number 30 in the département slot, that of Le Gard where Craig and Onni live.

The drivers drove as they do in France, tailgating at high speeds when there were two together, undeterred by the regular reminders of crashed cars along the road that they ought to be mindful of their speed.

There was even a cluster of three that had yet to turn into a bundle of rust.

The vegetation had changed from the jungle of the last one hundred miles in Brasil to forest.  Though the sky remained overcast, the clouds didn’t hang low and threaten precipitation at any moment as they did through the jungle.  It was as if the jungle had been a self-perpetuating rain machine.  When the sun peeked out at one point, the first I’d seen of it in days, I stopped to lay my many damp clothes on the shoulder of the road to dry.  Everything in my panniers had taken on a dampness, even the tights I have yet to wear.  When I gathered up the clothes after half an hour many left a damp spot on the pavement.  They were wetter than I imagined.  

I fell nine miles short of reaching the first town of Regina before dark, but had adequate food and water not to be concerned. Finding a place to camp in the vast national forest couldn’t have been easier.  It was dark and quiet enough that I slept until eight, almost two hours later than I had been.  My body needed it, as it was still worn out from my three-days of riding on the rough dirt road. I ended the day famished and exhausted, barely eating enough before succumbing to sleep. 

Regina, a town of less than a thousand, was two miles off the main road.  My first destination was the boulangerie, not for a baguette, but for madeleines and whatever meat and cheese pastries it might offer.  I had been looking forward to this moment for miles, if not days, so my heart plummeted when I saw a sign on its door apologizing for being closed this day.  

The supermarket wasn’t open either, so I had to make do with food being dispensed from a van set up at a pavilion a block from the church.  It seemed to be a Sunday event catering to church-goers.  I had a hearty bowl of noodle soup with shrimp and a side of several fritters.  I lounged for a couple of hours, letting my legs recuperate, as I luxuriated in the buzz of French all around me punctuated by a chorus of “bon appetite’s” and “ça va’s” and “á bientot’s.”  It was music to my ears.

I knew I wouldn’t reach the next town before dark, so was in no hurry.  I stopped at the town cemetery on my way back to the highway to see if it upheld the French tradition of being a source of water.   It did, so I gave myself a dousing and also washed a little more of the residue of mud off my bike and panniers.  It is so engrained it will be a long time before it is all gone.

I had another fine ant-free night in the forest. I didn’t reach Cayenne until after noon.  Billboards advertising McDonald’s and KFC specials of six and seven euros began from five miles away.  The Carrefour supermarket had a competing deal.  I stopped at the Carrefour, which just like those in Senegal was a replica of those in France, the aisles packed with everything, other than the produce, shipped over from France.  I didn’t mind at all paying double for a liter of mint syrup and a kilo of madeleines and a can of cassoulet.

A French cyclist parked next to me confirmed that the cheapest hotel in town for forty euros was that recommended by Lonely Planet.  Since I was splurging on food, I wasn’t going to wince at the price of a hotel.  It was near the Suriname consulate which I had to visit in the morning to get a visa, the only one of the five countries on my itinerary that required one.