A shared van showed up right on time. It’s quite a remarkable system that we’ve experienced in Guyana, Suriname and now French Guiana. These drivers pick up passengers at their homes, hotels, etc and drop them back off as well – there’s no main terminal like a bus company.
We rode from Cayenne to St. George’s (French border). The only other passenger was a Polish guy who spoke no English but recited all the countries where he has traveled in the world. The list was exceptionally long. He only possessed a tiny, half full backpack that could hardly hold another set of clothes his body odor confirming such a thought.
The shoulder-less roads were windy and the ground undulating with the rise and fall of the jungle. Wild banana and papaya trees lined the road, as well as an occasional rusted, burnt out car with its tires missing. Do they not have means to remove them or this is a public service announcement? It did give me pause nonetheless.
Our French and Portuguese speaking driver whizzed along breaking for the one lane bridges that sprang up forcing the cooperation of drivers in both directions.
At the border we thought we’d cross the Oyapock River by boat but we signaled the need for a passport stamp, confusing the driver. He drove us to the police station just before the entrance of the Franco-Brazilian Binational Bridge.
This bridge was finished in 2011 but sat unused for 6 years, citing problems on the Brazilian side. It was finally opened due to pressure from French Guiana. It’s the first bridge between French Guiana and a neighboring country. Since Brazil has not built a customs facility the bridge is only for personal vehicles- no commerce. It’s only open for 4 hours in the morning and 4 hours in the afternoon and closed on weekends.
The police at the French Guiana border waved his hand in the air when he realized we were only going into Brazil for hours, signaling that we didn’t need a passport stamp. He kindly called us a taxi and we were on our way.
The immigration office on the Brazilian side was in downtown Oiapoque. When we explained that we’d only be there for hours the English speaking immigration officer laughed and said he’d stamp our passport as a souvenir.
With his suggestion for the best restaurant we parted ways with our Polish world traveling friend and headed for lunch. The sleepy little town didn’t offer much so we filled our bellies and strolled.
Fishermen in all these countries net fish from boats on the big rivers and ocean. Some hang their nets in the river and check them every 5-6 hours. Some boats go to sea for 14 days and only have ice to preserve their catch – no refrigeration.
Oiapoque sits on the edge of the Amazon basin, and looks like a thousand other small river towns all the west to Peru – one story wooden buildings, dusty dirt streets, mostly indigenous people, folksy crafts for sale and all the action is along the river
The low tide renders the boats useless in the brackish waters at the river’s edge. Several fishermen were working on their nets while others were just hanging out.
Per Wikipedia: At the beginning of the 20th century, the village of Oiapoque hosted a political and criminal concentration camp called Clevelândia. In 1922 an agricultural outpost called the Núcleo Colonial Cleveland was transformed into a camp. Many Brazilian anarchist militants were sentenced to hard labour here. Of the 946 prisoners interned at Clevelândia between 1924 and 1927, 491 died. Many of the survivors returned to São Paulo and Rio de Janeiro sickened with malaria
Leaving Oiapoque we crossed the border at the river’s edge since immigration wasn’t an issue. One of the passengers in our boat was a local English speaking lawyer/musician who relayed stories about the area.
Silver dollar pancake sized raindrops pelted us for a time on our ride back to Cayenne – alternating between deluges and sunshine.