Farming Life Starting in Africa

This road leads towards Uller. After leaving the port, head southwest along the highway. On both sides, the land is yellowish-brown with sparse vegetation, strong winds and sandstorms, and few wild animals remain.

Lawson kept his speed at around 60 km/h, covering a distance of over 100 kilometers. Normally, Lawson doesn't need to come personally for these deliveries, but this time there were a lot of appliances arriving.

The recent situation is not good, and Qian Bida is a little worried, fearing that something might go wrong on the way.

A dam is under construction in Uller. The entire western part of the town is a huge construction site, with workers from all over Africa crammed into makeshift houses and tents, doing all sorts of jobs.

These people have an alarmingly high demand for supplies. They can sell anything and exchange anything for money.

It's no secret that warlordism has been rampant in this area for a long time. Ethnic issues are deeply rooted, and centuries of grievances have accumulated to the point that no one can definitively say who is right and who is wrong.

Rosen gripped the steering wheel with one hand, and with the other, he pulled a cigarette from his pocket, lit it, and took two puffs before it lit.

He glanced in the rearview mirror; three trucks were following closely behind.

He silently planned that once he finished these two busy days, he would quickly get some powerful equipment ready. In case things really got out of hand, he wouldn't be able to manage without some good stuff.

Thinking of this, he subconsciously glanced at the messy things in the capsule space and felt a little more at ease.

The fear of insufficient firepower is ingrained in every Chinese man's bones; the equipment he carries now is enough for him to fight a small war.

The convoy encountered a problem about 20 kilometers from Uller.

Rosen sat in his ridiculously large monster truck, his field of vision almost the same as the truck behind him. It was precisely because of this height that he could see something was wrong from afar.

There were steep slopes on both sides, and a tree trunk as thick as a thigh blocked the middle of the not-so-wide road, completely blocking the way.

To get there, you either have to get out of the car and move it, or you have to take a detour. But a detour? This godforsaken place only has one road, with gravel and cracked mud on both sides. Trucks would easily get stuck.

Rosen stopped the car when he was still a hundred meters away from the tree trunk. He didn't turn off the engine, but shifted the gear to Park, put his hands on the steering wheel, and squinted as he looked ahead again.

The slopes on both sides aren't very high, and they're bare except for a few clumps of wilted shrubs; there isn't even a decent tree. This kind of terrain can't hide many people.

Besides, if there really were a large group of robbers, would they really block the road with just a tree trunk? They'd at least put a few cars across the road and set up a couple of machine guns; that would look more like a formidable force. This broken piece of wood—isn't that pathetic?

Rosen pondered for a few seconds, then picked up the walkie-talkie and pressed the button.

"All vehicles, reverse two hundred meters."

There was a crackling sound from the walkie-talkie, followed by Qian Bida's voice, tinged with tension: "What happened?"

"It's nothing! You guys back up first, don't crowd together."

In this godforsaken place, if something really happens, a bunch of cars huddled together are sitting ducks. One rocket could wipe them all out like a string of candied hawthorns. Spreading them out at least prevents them from being wiped out in one fell swoop.

Besides, he was quite confident in his Bigfoot pickup truck. Unless the enemy came with an RPG, he could hold out for at least a few minutes against regular AK fire.

Qian Bida spoke again over the walkie-talkie, "Don't try to tough it out if something's wrong. If all else fails, just pay up to avoid trouble."

"Got it, it's fine." Rosen glanced at the rearview mirror. The trucks behind had already started to slowly reverse. As the three beat-up trucks reversed, black smoke billowed from their exhaust pipes, like three giant chimneys. "If anything happens, just turn around and go back to the port. Don't wait for me."

In the rearview mirror, the three trucks receded further and further away, slowly turning into three blurry little dots.

Rosen then tossed the walkie-talkie onto the passenger seat, bent down, and pulled a canvas gun bag from under the passenger floor mat. The bag was camouflage, the outer canvas worn white, and a red string was tied to the zipper pull for easy unzipping. He unzipped it and pulled out an AK74.

Rosen checked the magazine, then pulled the bolt, and with a "click," a bullet was chambered.

He rolled down the car window halfway, then stuck the gun out, pointing it diagonally at the sky.

"Bang, bang, bang—"

Three shots fired in quick succession. The sound exploded across the empty wasteland, carrying far and wide.

Before the gunfire had completely subsided, Rosen was already shouting in Arabic, "Friends over there—listen up—we have twenty guns here—if you don't want trouble, get out of the way—"

After he finished shouting, he stood there, gun in hand, eyes squinting, staring at the two slopes. The car's air conditioning was still on, a cool breeze coming from the vents and creeping up his arm. But his eyes never left the patch of gray, grimy bushes.

After a while, there was finally movement on the right slope.

First, the bushes moved slightly, and then a head popped out from behind the embankment. It was an Arab man with a red headscarf wrapped around his head, and a rifle slung across his back. Judging from the outline, it looked like an AK47, with the muzzle pointing downwards.

"Don't shoot! Don't shoot!" the man yelled, his voice shrill, as if afraid Rosen wouldn't see him. He even raised his hands. "We'll move it right away, we'll move it right away!"

Rosen didn't say anything. His gaze lingered on the man for a second, then fixed on the person behind him, on the slope, where there was another person.

The man was hiding behind a bush, revealing half a shoulder and one hand. He was also holding an AK47, but his grip was very amateurish. The butt was tucked under his armpit, the muzzle was pointing upwards at a 45-degree angle, and his finger was on the trigger.

But Rosen didn't relax. Amateurs are the scary ones; professionals know what they should and shouldn't do, but amateurs don't. You never know what stupid thing an amateur might do next, like walking on fire or something.

He rolled up all the car windows, but who knows what other people might be out of his sight.

In this godforsaken place, highway robbery is commonplace. If you're alone, especially when leaving the city, you're basically running naked through a dark forest.

However, robbers are selective in their tactics. If you're Chinese, you're generally less likely to get into serious trouble.

After they've plundered all your money, they'll usually let you go. If they're short of cash, they might just kick you a couple more times.

It's not that they particularly like Chinese people, but rather that Chinese embassies and consulates have a lot of influence. If they really do something to a Chinese person, they can come back to their hometown.

But what if a local gets arrested? Tsk tsk. If they're lucky, they'll be sold into slavery, and after they're rendered unable to move, they'll be rewarded with a peanut.

If you're unlucky, you might as well go to the Bridge of Helplessness on the spot. Eighteen years later, you'll be a hero again—provided you get a better server when you're reincarnated in your next life.