The Welbodi Partnership

‘Welbodi’, meaning ‘health’ in Krio

In Sierra Leone, more than one in four children die before their fifth birthday, mainly from preventable illness or disease such as malaria, diarrhoea, pneumonia or malnutrition.

The Welbodi Partnership is working at the Ola During Children’s Hospital along with the Ministry of Health and Sanitation with the aim of developing a centre of excellence in paediatric care and training.

My route from the UK to Cape Town has brought me to Sierra Leone and I am delighted to have been able to visit the hospital and meet the volunteers at the Welbodi Partnership and the Sierra Leonean doctors and nurses working to care for and treat those children who pass through the doors.

My hope is that you will agree that the long term objectives of the Welbodi Partnership are worth pursuing and will ultimately result in a national healthcare plan that is run successfully by the Sierra Leone government and local healthcare professionals for the benefit of the country’s children.
If you do, you can show your support, by donating through my justgiving page.

Why the Welbodi Partnership?

Way back when I was planning this Take On Africa cycle, I spent countless hours debating and researching whether to cycle in aid of a charity and if so, which charity. Initially, of course I wanted raise money for charity, but the more I researched the more disillusioned I became with the whole aid and development sector (or should I say industry?). Eventually, I realised that although there are many short-coming and problems with some charities, there are others who are doing truly great work – I just had to find one.

Meanwhile, a highly dedicated and motivated friend of mine from university was in the process of setting up a new charity – Dr Matthew Clark, who while training as a medical student spent three months working at the Children’s Hospital in Freetown and although working at the under-resourced hospital was challenging, he was convinced he could help improve the situation in the long term. Together with Tom Cairnes, they set up the Welbodi Partnership.

The Welbodi Partnership may be young, but it’s a charity whose aims are long term and focussed on local ownership.

And finally….the final part of the journey, from No Man’s Land to Sierra Leone’s capital, Freetown.

Noises in the Night

Camped in No Man’s Land, I woke numerous times in the night to a rattling sound coming from underneath the tent, which seemed to come from the left of my head one moment and then further to the right a moment later. Every time I turned over, this rapid drumming sound would start up again. When I left the tent to go to the toilet, the rattling sound seemed to follow my footsteps. At first I was somewhat concerned but I found the source of the noise…. tiny ants which beat their backsides on leaves in rhythmic vibrations, the tap-tapping a warning signal to others. Nothing to worry about then, except lack of sleep perhaps.

Spider Crisis

For those who know me, you’ll know I’m generally a rational, logical person – except when it comes to spiders. I have a completely irrational fear of them, even the harmless little ones you get in the UK. So when I was folding up my tent and saw the huge body and eight legs lying on the groundsheet, you can imagine my reaction. I leapt back, my heart skipping a beat and then instantly my resting heart-rate doubled. And there I stood, sweating, fixated on this huge arachnid. At this stage, it was lying in such a way I was convinced it was dead – trampled when I had erected the tent the evening prior. My reaction would have been magnified greatly if I thought it was alive.

Spider Alive!

Even dead spiders I hate. So I reached for a long stick and went about flicking the carcass off my tent so I could put it away. And as I poked the spider, the seemingly dead carcass sprang into life, body perched atop the eight hairy legs in a crouched, ready to leap stance. ‘Oh CRAP!!! It’s alive,’ I shouted loudly, but with only the surrounding trees hearing me. ‘I hate spiders,’ I whined as I realised I was going to have to deal with this one myself, without the aid of a hoover which is my preferred method of removal back home! First things first though, I removed my flip-flops and put on my slightly more protective trainers and then I dug out my camera for a photo. It didn’t look like much in pixels, so I decided to put something next to it to show it was nearly half the size of my foot and with that threw my flip-flop nearby. I then went found a five foot long branch, but when I returned, the spider was gone. Great. Out of sight, out of mind, I tried to convince myself.

I was about to pick up my flip-flops, when the thought occurred to me that just perhaps, the spider had crawled underneath them. So with the end of the five-foot long branch, I flipped over my flip-flops. Ahhh! Found the spider again, now clinging tightly on top of the left flip-flop. Have I mentioned, I really hate spiders. With an urge of annoyance that I was letting a spider take up so much of my time and the fear turning into hatred, I poked the spider and it jumped of away from me. I poked again and it leapt in response, scurried a few feet and stopped. We repeated these poke and leap manoeuvres until I realised it was heading for my bike, but I managed to usher it away until eventually I lost sight of it in the undergrowth of fallen leaves.

I wasted no time after this, packing up my remaining things and getting back to the relative safety of the dirt road, to cycle to the Sierra Leone border thinking I would rather encounter a rebel than another arachnid…

Another Bag Search

I arrived at the immigration control post and was greeted by a friendly officer, who eagerly stamped my passport and proceeded with an exuberant inquisition when I mentioned I had cycled from England. Soon, he was shouting out to his colleagues and friends about me – this girl, she cycled from England, it took 6 months… 6months!!! I was being asked a whole array of questions from other people and was wondering if I’d ever get across the border into Sierra Leone. Fortunately the officer noticed my slight fidgeting as I glanced over repeatedly at my bike, searching for an exit strategy and he told everyone to shut up and let me get on my way to Freetown.

With my escape facilitated, I wheeled my bike around the barrier and was about to pedal off when I heard a loud, authoritative, ‘You, Where are you going? Come here.’ I turned around and saw a policeman pointing me toward a small, wooden hut. It seemed I had missed the police control. I slowly followed the policeman into the small hut, who then painstakingly filled my details into a notebook. He then insisted on checking my bags. Not another bribe demand I thought. I’m not sure if this policeman was after a bribe though. His comments, ‘I LOVE your bike’ (yes, me too) and ‘I LOVE this book’ (yes, it’s a good book – one called War of the World, which I did think could cause more of a problem) seemed like subtle hints that he wanted them. Eventually he got bored of the contents of my bags and let me leave though. And so I cycled into Sierra Leone.

Bike, Sweat and Tantrums

The ‘road’ through No Man’s Land and into Sierra Leone was in a significantly worse state than the Guinea side. The track was narrow in places, sometimes cycling over slick slabs of rock and other times guiding the bike carefully over and around the large rocks protruding haphazardly. Occasionally, the road would smooth out enough to gather a reasonable pace on the downhill sections, but would soon end in yet another incline where I regularly had to get off the bike and push.

Rough Riding in No Man's Land

This northern region of Sierra Leone is primarily tropical forest. The scenery makes for interesting cycling, but the associated humidity levels (around 90%) certainly do not. Within half an hour of cycling, I was covered from head to toe in a grimy layer of sweat and my clothes were totally drenched through. I know I sweat a lot, but this was impressive. Wringing out my shorts was effective until ten minutes more of cycling meant they were dripping again. I looked a right state.

Eventually, I came to the sign for the Otamba-Kilimi National Park. Myself and Lars had originally planned to visit the park. But our enthusiasm for the detour had dwindled somewhat when we had heard that the last remaining elephant herd had been wiped out by poachers only a month or two previously. There’s plenty of other wildlife there though and so we decided we would see how we felt when we arrived. Me, I was tired, had no local currency and almost no food so had earlier decided I would skip the National Park and continue to Kamakwe – the first sizeable village – where I could get money and therefore food.

Lars was ahead of me by a couple of hours – I was being regularly updated by locals I passed on his progress – but I didn’t know whether he had decided to make the detour. But as I came to the National Park sign, I saw on a scrap of notepaper – HELEN!!! I slammed on the breaks and screeched to a halt. The note was clearly from Lars (I recognised the paper and handwriting), but what did this exclamation mean? I eventually concluded that since he had stuck the paper on the sign next to the arrow pointing in the direction of the park headquarters 3.7miles away, he must have made the detour.

I then made the decision to go and meet up with him – he wouldn’t be visiting the park unless he had money and food, so I wouldn’t need to worry about that. And so, extremely fatigued, I set off on the even smaller, bumpier track. This track was over the toughest terrain yet and on almost every up-hill, I was forced to get off and drag the bike up due to the steep incline. Not even 4×4’s can take this route.

I finally arrived at the park headquarters – with no energy left or strength remaining in my arms – and enquired after Lars. The warden looked at me bemused – Another cyclist? A white person? A tourist? There was nobody except him, me and a guide in the vicinity. I found a chair, sank down into it in my sweat-laden shorts and laid my head on my hands. Quietly I hoped that when I looked up again I’d be sitting in a cafe in Kamakwe. But no, I was sat next to a small circular hut overlooking the river – scenic yes, but I wasn’t in a mood to appreciate it.

Misty Morning in northern Sierra Leone

I contemplated staying the night, but with no food and not many other people to talk to, it didn’t seem a very appealing option. I wasn’t sure I had the energy to drag my bike back to the ‘main’ road either. But I wasn’t going to have more energy the next day if I didn’t eat anything either. With that, I ate the last remnants of my food and set off back along the track I’d just come. At the bottom of the steepest hill, I got off my bike and just stood there, with no strength in my arms I was contemplating unloading the bike and hauling the bags up separately. A teenager carrying a large load on his head came along and waited. I told him to go first – I was going to take a while. But he refused and just stood there waiting for me. Eventually I bit the bullet and with all the force I could muster, began pushing the bike upwards. I pushed the bike with surprising ease and speed and wondered how this could be physically possible and then I looked behind – there was the teenager, one hand holding the carefully balanced load on his head, the other hand firmly gripping the back of my bike and pushing equally hard. I don’t know how he managed it, but I was certainly thankful!

Three hours after seeing Lars’ sign, I finally returned to it, having made a completely pointless 12km detour. Now why had Lars put a sign up pointing me in the direction of the park, where he clearly hadn’t gone himself? Perhaps, it then occurred to me, he had written a message on the back of the note… I wonder why I didn’t think to check earlier? I set off in the direction of Kamakwe, but immediately turned around – I was curious, I went back to the note still taped to the sign. I looked closely – there appeared to be something showing through from the underside. I peeled up the corner of the note and saw it – writing on the back. I tore the paper off the sign:
‘Hi Helen! I made it here – I got arrested at the border but they let me go after 10mins! NOT going to the park. Cycling down to the ferry and on to Kamakwe.’
I AM SUCH AN IDIOT. A rage against my own stupidity came over me and I ripped the note into little pieces, threw them at the floor and kicked the sign for good measure. Somewhat surprised at my own outburst, I looked up to see a local woman watching me with wonder. But then a wave of calm came over me and I wearily got back on the bike and set off down to the ferry and on towards Kamakwe.

Ripped-Off at the River

I arrived at the river and the realisation dawned that I still didn’t have any local currency. Body and mind exhausted, I reluctantly asked the price to be paddled across in a pirogue (25,000Le) and asked if I could pay in Guinea Francs or CFA. I was so caught up in the shocking exchange rates they were offering I failed to cotton on to the fact that 25,000Le was an extortionate cost for such a short river hop. Having finally agreed an acceptable rate of exchange for my Guinea Francs, I handed over the cash and so unwittingly paid for an expensive crossing. It was only later on in the day, when I was recalculating the maths that I realised I had been done for.

Crawling into Kamakwe

The final seven miles into Kamakwe, I wasn’t sure I would make. My legs gave out on the up-hills and forced me to push. My arms could barely manage to haul the bike up. I would stop at regular intervals. One hill got the better of me and I decided I would have to stop and camp. It was getting late and I figured I could manage without food for one evening and then cycle the final couple of miles to Kamakwe in the morning for breakfast. But the verge was steep and despite all my efforts I couldn’t lift the bike over it and into the field. Unloading the bags seemed like a mammoth task and I knew I wouldn’t be able to get off the road quick enough without people seeing me. So I resigned myself to carry on pushing and cycling.

Eventually I made it to Kamakwe and after much enquiring, eventually found someone willing to change my cash for local currency. Finally, I could buy food. Much to my despair I was unable to find a restaurant and so had to make do with snacks from a shop. Fortunately I found a large shop with plenty of goods – not like the shops in Guinea! My stomach ruling my decisions, I bought bread and cheese triangles (I hadn’t seen these since the Sahara!), biscuits and nuts and oranges and coke and fanta.

I cycled cautiously out of town in darkness, barely able to make out the gravel road. At the first opportunity, I pulled my bike off the road and set up the tent in the midst of thick undergrowth. I lay down, staring up at the stars. The end of a long day. I drank the coke and made a sandwich but was unable to eat much – my stomach was not enjoying the food. I nibbled instead at the nuts and soon enough fell asleep, only to awaken a few hours later with a rumbling stomach.

I unzipped the tent and reached for my shoes. Eww! They’re alive! I threw them from the tent and shone the torch… they were infested by termites, so many of them my trainers looked like a writhing black mass. My stomach rumbled again and with increased urgency I started searching for my flip-flops. I had been reluctant to venture out in flip-flops in the thick grass; the morning’s spider encounter still fresh in my mind; but the grumbling that was rising from the depth of my guts was urging me into action.

Tired of these tracks

The next morning I woke as the sun shone onto my tent. I was still tired, but felt I had enough in my legs to cycle a bit. So I donned my sweat-drenched cycling clothes, which hadn’t dried a bit overnight and packed up. When I lifted the bike off the ground however, I noticed I had a flat tyre. Great - Just what I needed. Changing a flat tyre should be an easy process. It’s not so easy when you realise the two spare inner tubes you’ve just bought in Kindia, and the only spares you have, don’t fit the bike and you don’t have much water to try and find the puncture in the original tube. An hour of removing, fiddling, fixing and re-fitting, I finally had the tyre fully inflated and was able to set off again.

Fortunately, after Kamakwe, the gravel road is kept in good condition and regularly smoothed out. So although I was tired, the cycling was relatively easy – there were a lot less hills too. After 10km I was cycling through a large village when I heard, ‘HELEN!!!’ I braked and looked around. Who was calling my name? And then I saw Lars’ face peer out of a nearby wooden shack. ‘I’m just having breakfast.’ he called out. Coffee; good idea I thought and went to join him to catch up on our solo adventures of the last few days. I was very jealous that while I had camped, wet and hungry and tired; he had been invited to stay at a missionary, where he ate a belated Christmas dinner, washed his clothes and slept on a mattress.

‘White’ By Any Other Name

The cycle together towards Makeni was relatively uneventful. We passed numerous villages where screaming children would run towards us shouting ‘Oporto! Oporto!’ (White!), which soon became as tiresome as being called ‘Toubab’ in Senegal. There was even a young child, still being carried on his mother’s back, who when he saw us pointed and said ‘Oporto’. Incredible – I think it may have been his first word!

Hearing ‘Oporto’ may have been tiring, but I was called enough other names while cycling through the villages of Sierra Leone to break the monotony - ‘British Lady’, ‘Strong woman’, ‘White girl I like your style’ and the less accurate, rather bemusing, call of ‘Chinese Man’!

No Money, Just Palm Wine

My reaction at reaching the tarmac road near Makeni was one of relief. It felt like I’d made it to the other side. We cycled into Makeni and onwards in the direction of Freetown with surprising speed and ease. Cycling seemed enjoyable again. The kilometres seemed to fly by and village by village we neared ever closer to the Freetown peninsula.

The only real problem that arose, was a lack of money – Lars had lost (or had stolen) most of his Leones and therefore we had barely £2.50 in local currency between us. Rather than the hassle of hustling over exchange rates on the black market, we decided we could make Freetown on our small change.

We ate frugally during the day and were looking forward to a huge meal of pasta in the evening – our only remaining food of an real substance. Alas, it was not to be. With only 50km to Freetown, the frequency of villages and towns was increasing and finding a secluded, stealthy place to camp was became impossible. As we entered the village of Kwama, Lars spotted a school and suggested we ask if we can camp there for the night. A genius idea. After a brief enquiry with one of the teachers, we were given space in a large, roofed quadrangle to pitch our tents and supplied with fresh water (which we had been struggling to find since at all the wells we passed the pumps had broken). The downside of camping in the school was that we were unable to cook dinner and so had to make do with cold mash potato. Not exactly appetizing, or filling.

Later in the evening, the school teacher invited us to drink palm wine with him. A kind offer, but one we declined – a sip of this potent alcoholic beverage would have been disastrous on my empty, ill stomach and so I retired for an early night.

This was the second time that day I had been offered palm wine… while asking in a town where I could get some drinking water, a man pointed at a half-full jerry can and said to help myself. I confirmed that the contents were OK for drinking and then a young lad came over to assist me with filling my water bottle. He began pouring, but it wasn’t water that came out of the can but a slightly murky, frothy liquid. I commented that this surely wasn’t safe water to drink. The lad just laughed… ‘No water… Wine! You still want?’ Er, no thank you. It wasn’t exactly the rehydrating refreshment I was hoping for. I explained I needed water again and soon enough I had what I was after. The whole time, the man who had pointed me to the jerry can just sat there laughing and swaying. I think he’d already drunk the first half of the jerry can.

Freetown!

The following morning we road with determination through Waterloo, Hastings and on into the suburbs and shanties of the east side of Freetown. A stop for a full English fry-up in the centre, followed by a quick pumping up of my flat back tyre (again) and a further 3km ride along the busy streets and we arrived at Jay’s Guesthouse (our place of residence for the last 10days).

We made it!

Freetown is great. The people friendly. The food good. I don’t want to leave yet! But continue on the road I must…. it’s back into Guinea next.

There is so much to write about Freetown. I hope I get a chance to tell you about it, but that will have to wait for another update.

The Reason

One thing of real interest for me, was visiting the Ola During Children’s Hospital – the hospital the Welbodi Partnership is working at – the charity I am fundraising for using my justgiving page… that’s in the next update.

After 6months on the road, I have finally get to see the hard work that going on, and how the money you have donated in supporting me, is being used.

If you haven’t already done so, you can subscribe to future updates by email here

I’m hoping to do a podcast interview with Brian in the coming months, but for now the internet connections in this part of West Africa are too slow.

So, for now, I’ve answered a few of his questions here over at his Korean World blog.

Below is a copy of the interview….

1. What is principle reason you have chosen a bicycle as a means of raising awareness for your charitable foundation?

• I doubt I’d write a reference-style book about Adventure Cycling and writing a book about some big adventure seems a little clichéd and the market is quite saturated already. That said, I would like to expand on what I have written in my blog, making use of all the additional notes I have taken – it would be great for me to have a full detailed account to read in the future and reminisce about! But that is more a personal aim and a long way from a published book.
• I never intended to write a book, but it’s a question I’m regularly asked and it’s got me thinking… if I could come up with a novel way to write about the trip, then definitely maybe.

This second part of the journey from Labe to Freetown, takes me from Kindia to the border with Sierra Leone, where I camped the night in No Man’s Land.
The final part of the journey, from the border to Freetown, I’ll post in a third update.
Sorry it’s taking so long – there are too many distractions in Freetown!

Fear of Leaving in Kindia

Two days in Kindia wasn’t enough of a rest for me and so I decided to stay one more night. Lars on the other hand, who also wasn’t feeling 100%, wanted to ride out of town to relax in the relative peace of the bush. And so with that, we went our separate ways with the intention of meeting again in Freetown.

Once Lars had left, I went back to the Senegalese restaurant, where by now I was a well-recognised regular. It was there that I met Ward, a Belgium NGO worker who has been working in Kindia for a few years. We exchanged stories and he then proceeded to tell me that cycling over the border into Sierra Leone was a very dangerous thing to do alone given the current situation. I was well aware that tensions in this part of the Guinea, so close to Conakry, are running high ever since the military opened fire on people at a pro-democracy protest, killing 150 people; and then with the recent assassination attempt on Captain Camara, who has been running the country since he took over power in a coup earlier in the year. Ward however proceeded to warn me about rebels from Sierra Leone and Liberia, amassing at the border and mercenaries from South Africa who are waiting in a town near Conakry for a coup d’etat. He then proceeded to explain that the road to Makeni in Sierra Leone is in terrible condition and dangerous to travel along, and as if for proof he pointed out that it was on this road that he hit rocks on his motorbike and fell off resulting in a broken arm.

It’s true to say, by the time I had finished my lunch, I was more than a little wary and concerned about leaving Kindia for the ride into Sierra Leone. At the back of my mind, I was sure there would be no problems – I’m used to cycling on bad roads and the point of stealth camping is that you don’t get found. On the other hand, what if I did bump into some unsavoury characters on the road? Making a quick getaway, when on a bike, is out of the question. What if fighting broke out in the border area? I’m well used to scare-stories from people who either don’t have all the facts, or have very little idea about the reality of cycling through the countryside, but this time I too was a bit worried. Probably for no other reason than for the first time in weeks, I was again alone. It’s true that travelling with someone else, you feel much safer; the reality is though that in the event of bumping into rebels with guns and you’re with someone else, it just means two of you are in trouble, not just one.

I left Kindia the day after Lars and cycled off on the smooth tarmac road, leaving the town behind. And as the noisy, busy streets gave way to small houses with the locals waving and smiling, I took a deep breath and felt my worries floating away. There’s something about the freedom of cycling with everything you need to be self-sufficient packed on the back of the bike. Life seems simple and I feel care-free.

Hitting Gravel Hard

The first 25km were on asphalt, free-wheeling fast along the winding hillside road through forest of tall trees which occasionally gave way to impressive panoramas of the hills and valleys beyond. I then took the gravel road towards the border village of Madina-Oula, which turned out to be the smoothest gravel-dirt road I have been on this entire trip. I’ve no idea how Ward had managed to fall off his bike; there was barely a rock bigger than my thumbnail to hit!

While taking a short break to eat biscuits and orange, a young man in a thick green overcoat walked past me pushing his bike up the hill. I offered him some food, which he gratefully took and continued on his way. Another young man soon followed, also pushing his bike. He was moments too late, as I had just finished the last of my snacks.

I got back on the bike and within minutes had caught the men up. We said hello again and continued the journey together. First one of the men would pedal hard to find a spot in front; but not wanting to be left behind, the other would, with a short burst of energy, race ahead, dodging the occasional ruts in the road. Slightly amused by this show of sorts, I just quietly pedalled along on the other side of the track. And it was while the man in the white shirt was making one of these overtaking manoeuvres that the man in the green padded overcoat (he must have been really hot) swerved slightly. And moments later, the two bikes were one large intertwined tangle of metal and the two men were slowly getting up from the ground they had hit hard,brushing gravel and dust off their clothes and inspecting their cuts and grazes.

I checked the two were OK, who were now arguing over who’s fault it was and so to diffuse the situation I commented that they were now as dusty-looking as me but it really wasn’t necessary to crash to get this desired look. Both men looked at me, clearly unimpressed, so I decided I may as well get on my way as there was nothing else I could do to help.

Oranges for Biscuits

I had one final river to cross in Guinea, before reaching the border. For this, there was a motorised chain ferry. I sat on the railing next to my bike while I waited for a couple of taxis overloaded with passengers to board and the ensuing arguments over costs to fade. I was the focus of all the children’s attention, who were all fascinated by my white skin and blonde hair. It was only when they kept trying to touch my hair that one of the mothers scolded them and told them to play elsewhere. This was not the first time in Guinea that I had seen parents actively disciplining children, but Guinea is the only country so far where I have seen this kind of disciplining. The people of Guinea seem to have a strong sense of self-respect and pride, unlike I have seen in other countries. Perhaps it is this discipline at an early age that has contributed.

Just before the ferry pulled off the bank, the man with the green overcoat pushed his bike on board. He waved hello and before I knew it, was passing me a couple of oranges he had just bought. I sucked the juice from the partially-peeled fruit, just as the locals do, just in time to have two hands free to wheel my bike onto the other bank.

Border Confusion and Cocaine

I arrived in Madina-Oula and cycled straight through to the barrier marking the border. I didn’t see the control post or indeed any official so I pushed my bike round the barrier and parked it outside a building that the locals were pointing me in the direction of. I went to the open door and knocked. No response. I slowly went in, the room was empty save for the desk and chair with some papers stacked on it. I went out again to look for someone in uniform.

At this point, a policeman came jogging over and ushered me back into the room. Here we went through the usual formalities and questioning before he then got up from the desk and told me to follow him. We went back to the Guinea side of the barrier and into another room where a stern-faced military man sat. There ensued the most confusing conversations as I tried to explain I was wanting to leave Guinea and not just arriving from Sierra Leone as it looked since I was on the other side of the barrier with my bike facing in the wrong direction. I suppose it did look a little confusing. He asked if I was carrying cocaine or guns in my bag, which I flatly denied. And he then stamped my passport and told me to pay and there would be no serious problems.
Pay?! ‘I’m not paying anything,’ I exclaimed standing over the desk. ‘But you must pay me. Then you will have no serious problems,’ he explained, firmly gripping my passport. ‘I’m not giving you any money,’ I repeated forcefully and sat back down in defiance, ready for a long wait. Eventually, he gave up on trying to obtain a bribe this way and said ‘Fine. I must check your bags. It could be serious.’ ‘Fine,’ I said and went to get my bike.

The next ten minutes were spent with me slowly opening one pannier at a time and with every item I removed, he would demand loudly ‘what’s this?’ and then ‘what’s it for’. Now this was really rather boring - my books were clearly books which are clearly meant for reading and a tent is obviously meant for sleeping in and a water carrier is non-too-surprisingly used for carrying water. And so it went on, until his heavily-built superior arrived and demanded to know what the problem was. I explained that he was searching my bags for cocaine (perhaps not the smartest response, but the whole saga seemed a bit farcical to me). The superior asked if I was carrying cocaine to which I replied, ‘of course not’ and he proceeded to shout at the military man doing the searching and took my passport off him. He then carefully handed it to me and in a sincere voice apologised for the behaviour of his officer. I said, ‘No problem’ and ‘Good evening’ and with that, got on my bike and pedalled around the barrier with the shouting from the the superior slowing dying away as I cycled into No Man’s Land.

Alone in No Man’s Land

With seven miles to the Sierra Leone border post and the light quickly fading, I decided to find a place to camp in No Man’s Land, somewhere I wouldn’t be found by any rebels that might be hiding out in the vicinity. And with that, I pulled off the track, pushed my bike through the bush and found a clearing under some large trees where I would be sufficiently well-concealed from view of the road, and settled down for the evening….

This is the first of two updates about the journey from Labe in Guinea to Freetown in Sierra Leone. This part takes me as far as Kindia, where I had a short rest before continuing across the border.

Leaving Labe

We left Labe late in the afternoon having gorged on a cheap lunch of rice and a surprisingly tasteless sauce in a dim and dirty shack that called itself a restaurant and was filled with flies, noisy chickens in the corner and several locals (they were sat at the table with us, not in the corner with the chickens).

Perhaps it was the over-sprinkling of crushed chillis I added to my bland bowlful, but my stomach certainly didn’t agree with something I had eaten. And so I barely managed to cycle 20km with my fit-to-burst bloated stomach.

Golden fields outside Labe

Fortunately we found a beautiful spot to camp just off the Labe-Pita tarmac road in the long, golden grasses beneath a black rocky outcrop overlooking the expansive, rolling hills and valleys. I was very nearly interrupted on one visit to my loo-with-a-view because I didn’t realise there was a footpath on the other side of the little bush, but although I saw the small procession of women returning home with baskets on their heads, they didn’t see me squatting in the undergrowth! We had left Labe well-prepared and it seems the numerous sachets of youpi-choco chocolate spread and red wine combination for dinner had the right effect on my stomach though. So by the next morning I was feeling fitter again and ready for a good day’s ride… that was until I actually got on the bike and realised my legs were still very tired from the previous weeks’ exertions.

Lost Again

After a pit-stop to re-fuel (coke) in Pita we turned off the tarmac and back onto the familiar dusty tracks, to take the lesser road to Kindia via Telimele. According to the guidebook, this road has lots of seemingly similar tracks and it can be hard to find the right one. We laughed at this as the route seemed very straightforward, especially after the network of paths we had been confronted with in Guinea-Bissau. It seems that there was some truth to what the guidebook said though… we only realised when we ended up in Timba Madina – a large village, not on the Telimele road, but one going back to Labe. The route to get back on track was particularly scenic, winding along hedgerows between grassy fields with the occasional cow grazing and over little bridges spanning gently flowing streams with beautiful violet wild flowers growing in abundance. In my weakened state however, I couldn’t fully appreciate this 20km detour.

After 65km I was completely devoid of any energy and wasn’t even up to drinking more than one glass of red wine to celebrate on New Year’s Eve. The next day I was still completely shattered and for the first time on this trip, it was Lars who was up and made me coffee in the morning.

Caught Out

In Donghol Touma we stopped to buy bread and once again I was short-changed – this time by a small boy, who unsubtly swapped two 1,000 Franc notes for 500 Franc ones. He shrank back, suitably ashamed, when I pointed out his ‘error’ and all his mates laughed at him for being caught out. We then went to fill up water at the village pump and as I walked over, the girl there fled at the sight of me. Once again, the boys burst out laughing at my effect on the locals, while the girl nervously peeked her head out from behind the door where she was hiding.

Turn On the Lights

Throughout the ride from Labe, I’d been looking forward to the 26km scenic stretch from Donghol Touma where, according to the guidebook, the only effort required would be of putting on the brakes. I was somewhat sceptical and there definitely were the occasional places where I had to pedal. But overall the route was downhill and certainly, it was incredibly scenic – winding through the green, forested hills, granite cliff rising formidably skywards.

Fields of Gold and Violet

We camped the night in pastures where the road flattened out near a small village, not far from what was presumably a sacred circle of trees. With the black night, the sounds from the village were amplified and I could hear the TV from one of the houses. The national power network hasn’t reached this region and so individuals who can afford it obtain power from noisy diesel generators Individuals who can afford it also buy satellite dishes it seems! Being connected to the electricity grid is not necessarily that helpful however. In one of the poorest countries in West Africa, even in the towns, power is not guaranteed and blackouts are common.

Indeed, even in Kindia, Guinea’s second ‘city’ to the capital, the hotel I stayed at in town only had electricity between the hours of around midnight and 6am when someone in Conakry decided to flick on the switch. The rest of the time, the room was lit by a lone candle and trips to the toilet were taken by torchlight. And so it was there I had yet more restless nights… once the power comes on, men can start work on all those jobs that require power – drilling and machining being only some of the sounds that drifted through the slatted window of my bare room. The locals are quite used to this it seems, although the look on the Senegalese restaurant owner’s face when the power cut while I was in the middle of eating my ‘rice gras’ was one of shame. They’re used to it and find ways to work around the inconveniences, but they don’t like it and wish things could be different.

This car didn't make the bend

Back in the Fouta Djalon however, we continued downhill for the start of a second day – now this was the Fouta Djalon I had imagined. Seemingly endless vistas of hills rising and falling, fading towards the hazy harmattan horizon. A ‘Lost World’ of untouched forest filled by tall plants and vines and creepers and palms. Cliffs and car-wrecks and colourful flora. Rivers and ravines and bright-red fruit on leafless trees. And the cycling was great fun on the rough, rocky terrain – it’s probably a good thing my bike was overloaded with gear and I don’t have a bike helmet since this curbed my desire to ‘bomb it’ down, recklessly, to the bottom. If I had been fully protected on my mountain bike, it seems unlikely I would have made it out of the region in one piece. Instead, I put my efforts into taking photographs at every turn, which slowed progress substantially!

Currency Confusion

The bottom of the hill brought with it another river crossing and once again I set my mind to a fight over the price. ‘10,000 each?’ I repeat incredulously when I’m told how much. That’s extortionate. And so I say we’ll pay 1,000 each. He laughs at me equally incredulously. I explain that we’ve taken plenty of river crossings and they only ever cost between 1,000 and 1,500 (in truth, one cost 2,500 but I wasn’t going to tell him that) so why should this crossing be so much more expensive.

River Crossing

I then ask the local how much he is paying; 10,000 he replies; but he has been listening to the argument from the start. I eventually say that we haven’t got 10,000 each, and with some further hard bargaining we agree to pay 5,000 for the both of us. With this, I go and stand, exhausted, next to Lars who has this whole time been leaning on the boat railing detached from the whole saga. It is only then, that Lars pipes up, ‘but 10,000 isn’t really that much’. I look at him a little confused. He then clarifies - we’re in Guinea-Conakry now and the currency is the Guinea Franc and all the other river crossings were in Guinea-Bissau where the currency is the CFA. With 10 CFA to the Franc, I quickly do the simple maths. It seems I’ve dealt us a real bargain! After the short crossing, I hand over the 5,000 Francs, slightly embarrassed and push my bike away from the river as quickly possible. I feel like I’ve robbed the guy.

It seems that when my legs are tired from the cycling, my brain switches off… I’m truly living up to my sun-bleached blonde appearance. Some who know me, may say this is nothing new and it would be only a matter of time before I showed my true colours.

Nature Smells

The point about ‘wild’ or ’stealth’ camping, is to find somewhere to pitch your tent where you won’t be found. So before we reached the Telimele-Kindia road, which we assumed would be busier, we decided to camp in a small wooded area by the dirt road. Once the road was clear of people, we sneaked into the wood and once it started to get dark, we stopped lazing around reading and went about putting up the tents. While tucked away in the tent, munching on a mayo sandwich, we heard some rustling of the undergrowth. We sat silently, waiting for the noise again… had we been found? ‘Children?’, Lars whispered. And then I smelt it… that unforgettable farmyard aroma. Cattle. Our camp-site had been invaded by two curious cows. Great. And while one cow crept over to Lars’ tent and with nose-to-canvas, snorted loudly; the other one crashed over to my spot just to take a shit. Unbelievable! That steaming cow-pat really ponged… and really put me off my already unappetizing mayo sandwich. C’est la vie.

Morning coffee?

The following morning, the cows had cleared our camp-spot and we departed also. We cycled the 5km to the junction and saw some men sat round a table on which sat three large Thermos flasks, the tell-tale sign that we could get our morning coffee fix. ‘Good morning, how are you? Do you have coffee?’. Yes, was the definitive response. So having found out the price of a coffee, a feat in itself (that’s a coffee only, no mayo, no bread, just a plain simple cafe-au-lait), we too took our place on the wooden bench. Now, did we want Nescafe? Yes, since there was definitely no espresso machine nearby. Did we want milk with our coffee? Yes, that would be what the ‘lait’ part of cafe-au-lait meant. Ok, is that sweetened, condensed milk or powdered milk? Really, I don’t care. But apparently, whichever milk we want, we have to go to the shop next-door and buy it ourselves. A morning coffee should not be this complicated. We tell the owner to buy the milk himself and so he leaves the table and eventually comes back with a tin of the condensed, sweetened variety. Good. But then he realises that he doesn’t have any Nescafe either. Now, when you said you had coffee, what exactly did you mean? That if we waited long enough, you could buy everything you needed, by which time the hot water in the Thermos would be cold to make an average, understrength, oversweet dark coloured drink? We continue sitting quietly on the bench, outwardly patient, inwardly reaching boiling point. So the man sends a younger guy to buy some Nescafe. He comes back five minutes later with one sachet. Err… we asked for two coffees and that sachet will barely make one drink. Another five minutes pass and the guy returns again from the shop empty-handed – they’ve run out of Nescafe. Help me, please! With this, the man leaves the table again and gets on his motorbike and with dust rising, he disappears in the direction of Telimele, 15km away. That’s it, morning coffee is off. We get up from the wooden bench, get on our bikes and with dust rising, disappear in the opposite direction, towards Kindia. Perhaps we can get coffee in the next village.

Afternoon coffee?

It was lunch-time when we reached the next sizeable village and finally we found a small cafe where we could get a coffee. By now we were hungry enough, to want the more normal coffee-mayo-bread combo. The carefully chosen quiet cafe, soon filled up when the locals spotted the white tourists. An unusual sight in this region, especially at this current time of political instability in the country when foreign governments are advising all people to leave Guinea immediately for fear of a military coup and potential for a civil war. I can happily say, that I experienced no problems while I was in the country and the fears, as yet, remain unfounded. And so, in this dark, now crowded cafe, we finally got to enjoy the caffeine hit, with a small horde of young boys in fake, faded yellow, Brazil football shirts, peering intently through the gaps in the wooden panelling.

Wild-fire

That evening, we found a place to camp in the bush and having collected some wood, set about making a sumptuous (well, high-carb) dinner of pasta. And it was while the pasta was cooking that we heard crackling of the undergrowth nearby.

Imposing cliffs in the Fouta Djalon

I know that sound, now what is it? It’s not cows at least. And then we saw the smoke. And the flames. There’s a bush-fire and it’s spreading. And it’s spreading in the direction of our camp-spot. Lars thinks we have time to eat dinner, but that’s his stomach talking. I suggest, clearly more concerned about being fried alive, that perhaps we should at least pack everything up ready to make a dash for it to the road. We had just enough time to finish cooking the dinner, before I decided we should evacuate. So with bowl of pasta in one hand, I pushed my bike to the relative safety of the road, Lars following reluctantly, and scoffed the dinner. By now it was dark, save for the fiery orange flames which lit the immediate area and enabled us to push our bikes along the road without the need for torches until we could find a safe, fire-free, place to camp for the night. We found a previously-burnt patch of land near a village, which although we risked being spotted by the locals, it at least meant we wouldn’t be smothered by smoke while sleeping. And so we pitched our tents on the blackened, ash-laden land and slept peacefully until daylight.

The iPod Generation

The 10km cycle to the village of Bangouya turned out to be 2km, which I certainly wasn’t complaining about. Anything that would get me to Kindia quicker, for a rest in a hotel, was a good thing. The slow cycling on the dusty, bumpy, rocky tracks requiring constant concentration to avert crashing on the downhill sections and the even slower uphill sections that required pushing with laboured breathing were taking their toll on my body again.

In Bangouya, we found a shack for our morning coffee and were served by the enthusiastic, charismatic young lad who ran the one-man-show. So while we enjoyed a pleasant coffee in peace without interruptions, the local schoolchildren, girls in pale pink and white checked knee-length dresses and boys in matching khaki short-sleeve shirts and shorts, bought there breakfast through the kiosk window and went on their way to school. A small group of boys sat outside and patiently waited while one of their friends, armed with a small razor blade, carefully trimmed their hair to the latest style, before they too departed for the classroom. At this point the cafe-shack-owner reached for a cassette, placed it carefully in the tape player (do you remember what a cassette tape is? The lad may be the age of the iPod generation, but living in rural Guinea, he is exempt from this classification) and pressed play, and with that, soft reggae music crackled through the old speakers and brightened up the little room. This little shack may have only been six square foot of bare earth enclosed by four haphazardously-constructed walls of wood with a corrugated iron roof, with a bench and small table and rickety shelves, but the young guy running the show clearly had a lot of pride for the place. It was clean and well-ordered and he was definitely doing good business.

Up and Down, Up and Down

After another 40km of up, then down, then up and up some more of dusty roads we finally hit tarmac. Oh so smooth and fast. It would have been even smoother for me, were my front wheel not slightly misshapen with the net effect being that I bob up and down in rapid staccato like a needle on a sewing machine in time with the elliptical revolutions. I really must get it fixed – it’s been like it since St. Louis in Senegal, but since I’ve been mostly off-road riding, I’ve not noticed the uneven ride, because the roads themselves are far more uneven.

Dreaming of a Hot Shower

Since leaving Labe, we had been dreaming about splashing out in a nice, clean hotel with hot shower and tv. We were therefore more than a little disappointed and dejected when we discovered our choice hotel was several kilometres from town. Instead, we settled for a cheap and not even cheerful hotel in the centre, with a bucket shower and filthy shared toilet.

The hotel may not have been much, but Kindia itself I enjoyed. I found my corner of town – a place for morning coffee, a Senegalese restaurant for tasty lunch and dinners, an internet cafe for connecting with the rest of the world and a bar for a relaxing beer while watching life on the streets pass me by. And that was exactly what I needed – a couple of days break before continuing on the road to Freetown…

I’ve been on the road now for 6 months (I can hardly believe it!), so I thought it was time for a little update in numbers.

Total distance cycled: 9219 km
Days since leaving UK: 178
Countries visited: 10

Longest distance cycled in a day: 178 km (in Western Sahara)
Average daily distance: 52 km (incl. rest days)
Average daily distance: 84 km (cycling days only)

Pints/bottles of beer drunk: 202
Glasses of wine consumed: 112

Km per Beer (or glass of wine): 29 kpb

Nights in Africa: 128
Nights wild camping in Africa: 52
Nights in paid accommodation in Africa: 42

8,953* times I have been called ‘Toubab’, ‘Branco’ or ‘Oporto’
1,622* mosquito bites
400 grams of chocolate eaten since arriving in Freetown
71* mayo sandwiches eaten
43* times I have been given the wrong change
15 days - longest time without a shower (bucket wash in dirty hotel doesn’t count!)
12 days - longest time wearing same bike shorts without washing them
11 river crossings (by boat)
10* - most number of times I have had to pump up my bike tyre in a day
9 different currencies I currently have (pound, dollar, euro, rand, CFA, Guinea Franc, Leone, Ouguiya, Dalasi)
8 - number of books I am travelling with
7 snakes or scorpions seen (alive)
6 times I have crossed into or out of Guinea (legally or otherwise)
5 other cycle tourers met in Africa
4 times I have locked the bike in Africa
3 marriage proposals
2 dead people seen (bike accident in Morocco, hit and run in Sierra Leone)
2 accidents caused (local people on bikes crashing)
1 termite embedded in my leg
1 time I have fallen off the bike
0 bribes paid (2 demanded)

Bananas eaten: lost count!
Roadkill: lost count!

* approximate numbers

The ride from Labe through the heart of the Fouta Djalon hills towards Kindia in the south of Guinea was simply stunning. The photos don’t really do the place justice unfortunately, but perhaps they give an idea of what it was like. The journey took longer than expected, primarily because one day we ended up on the wrong road, another day I had a continuous saga with my rear tyre deflating and my pannier breaking and then just because I have had dodgy guts for the week which has made me even weaker and made the hills even harder to climb / drag my bike up.

Anyway, I’ll post a full update of the adventures when I reach Freetown and have time to write more. Enjoy.

Here’s a selection of photos from the last few weeks cycling through the Gambia, Senegal, Guinea Bissau and Guinea.

Unfortunately electricity and internet connection are in short supply in this part of the world and so I haven’t been able to add titles or descriptions. Hopefully I’ll get chance at a later date.

3 weeks, 4 countries, 7 boat rides, 1200km cycled.

There have been good days and bad days, the best days and worst ones. At times it’s been tough and tiring, and yes there have even been tears. At times it’s been thrilling and exciting, and I’ve thought I must be the luckiest person alive. All times equally memorable in their own right….

Part 2 – A Big Tour in a little Country

The start of the tour began, not with cycling, but with a boat trip across the Rio Geba – we were crammed into a small motorised boat with about 150 other people and their various goods. Not usually very safety-conscious, I was this time thankful for and actually used the life-jacket that was handed to me. It seemed especially prudent considering every other passenger was wearing one too. I wouldn’t be surprised if these boats up-turn occasionally mid-crossing with fatal consequences.

We safely made it to Enxude on the other side and set off cycling immediately when we were asked for money for transporting the bikes – just a scam to try and get money from the white tourists, since no locals were asked for any Francs.

Having left Bissau, we had left behind the tarmac and so progress was slower on the dusty tracks that pass as roads throughout the rest of the country. Moving south, with the midday sun beating down on our backs and the humidity of the tropical forests, we sweated our way towards Jemberem. The bright blue sky, vivid orange earth roads and saturated greens of the palms, grasses and dense forest we passed through tired the eyes with the intensity of the colours – or perhaps it was partly due to the dust that gets deposited everywhere.

We passed the animal corridor, the sign implying this is used by elephants although they departed this region a long time ago. We did spot a chimpanzee falling out of one of the taller palm trees though. To our surprise, a tarmac road appeared, seemingly from nowhere – but the pot-holes made progress even slower than the dirt tracks – and then more surprisingly, we came to crossroads. Strange – there were no crossroads marked on the map – where did this smooth, uncharted road go? The answer – not very far! For this neatly laid tarmac was a disused airstrip. When the best laid road for miles isn’t even a road, you have to wonder at the country’s priorities.

We continued on to the Rio Cumbija, where we employed the help of a local who slowly but surely paddled us with proficiency in a pirogue for an hour to get to the track on the other side of the river so we could continue the journey. Cycling on the overgrown footpaths between the villages, we arrived in Jemberem in time for lunch. Lunch however took three hours to arrive and so should really be called dinner. We devoured the fish and rice in much less time. It was tasty, but not really worth the wait and certainly not the chicken and chips we’d asked for!

Food fancies

It is amazing just how many times I have been asked what I would like to eat, only for something totally different to be served…. The menu may suggest that you can get a chicken dish, so you ask for chicken and you may just get chicken but will just as likely get some indeterminable meat or fish. Of course if you want chips with the ‘chicken’ dish you have to ask for chips which the waiter will duly note. But perhaps they don’t have chips so the ‘chef’ will fill you plate with an ‘alternative’. The very same restaurant may have a rice dish, but it would never occur that you could serve rice from the rice dish with the ‘chicken’ you’ve ordered, so when a plate covered mainly with peas arrives there is little to do but sigh and ask for something to eat the delectable dish with.

Food during the last couple of weeks has been somewhat repetitive and breakfast and lunch has tended to be mayonnaise sandwiches – egg mayo, onion mayo, spicy mayo or just plain mayo. So perhaps you can guess what I had for my Christmas dinner feast! I am as sick of mayo sandwiches as I usually am of turkey by the time it comes round to the Christmas dinner on the 25th December. And that is where the resemblances to the usual Christmas affair end.

Termite projectile

After the disappointment of Jemberem, where we’d planned to spend the afternoon walking through the forest trails in search of wildlife rather than idly waiting for food, we cycled a short distance and set up camp in the forest undergrowth.

As I pushed my bike back onto the road the following morning, I trod on the end of a branch which flipped up and hit the back of my leg. Ouch. But the pain was a strange lingering pain which increased every time I took a step. I looked down, expecting to see a graze, maybe some blood, but was somewhat horrified when out of my calf was an insect body squirming and writhing with legs helplessly wriggling mid-air. Gross. And get that think out of me! Fortunately Lars came to the rescue of my call of ‘What the F*#k is that?!’ (surprisingly without a camera to document the incident) and removed the wriggling legs. Now I had just half an insect embedded in my leg. With some nifty tweezer surgery, the head half was successfully abstracted and while Lars tried to identify the insect, I once again set about cleaning up the blood that was slowly trickling down my leg. Turns out it was a termite. When I woke up that morning, I can’t say I ever expected to have a termite catapulted into my leg. But I suppose that’s nothing compared to the shock the termite had of being propelled head-first into a human leg only to be decapitated shortly after.

Any Which Way… But Lost

We finally left the main roads behind shortly after Quebo, and had one of the best day’s biking of the trip, towards little-visited Boe. This is what back home would be called off-road biking. The tracks overgrown and little wider than footpaths that would branch in several directions only to meet again later further along.

At some point after lunch by the ‘road’-side (where we inadvertently scared away some local children just by being there and being white) and filling up water (in a small village where we were treated like celebrities and had to shake the hands of every villager before leaving), I began to wonder whether my earlier theory - that any which way was the right way – was holding true. It seemed like we were going south into the sun but should really be heading east or north-east. At that very moment Lars asks ‘Are we going the right way? We seem to be going south – if we’re not careful we could end up in Guinea-Conakry!’ ‘Same thing was crossing my mind’ – I replied with a laugh and took a look at the GPS which I’d barely used until this point. Err… Yes – that would be Guinea-Conakry we were in. After a short attempt to cross back into the right country across country (down even smaller overgrown paths), we decided it would be prudent to turn around and find the correct path before any armed military on patrol found us.

Perfect End to a Perfect Day

That evening we had a filling meal cooked over a campfire, with the stars and sounds from the bush the only things penetrating the darkness. I suspected I might regret sitting out so late but even so was surprised to see quite so many bites covering my legs the following morning. It was a restless night with unknown sounds disturbing my dreams – we really were in the wild at this point and I wondered if the nearby calls could be wild animals. With one howl, I called out to Lars ‘What the hell was that?’ but his response was one of rhythmic snoring, so I dismissed any danger and tried to go back to sleep.

A Hard Day

The following day was hard for me – I was tired, feeling a little ill and some things were just too much to cope with… so when it came to buying food at a little shop in Che Che before bartering the price to be taken across another river, I truly did despair. The cost of the food 2,300 CFA. I handed over 3,000 CFA. I received back 200 CFA. I waited for the rest of the change…. but the shopkeeper just stared at me. I then politely asked for the rest of the change. The shopkeeper then proceeded to methodically, with pen and paper, go through the cost of every item and add it up. No, I wasn’t disputing the price, just the short-change. But according to him, I had all the change to be expected from the transaction. I explain that 3,000 minus 2,300 is actually 700 and that I need another 500 CFA. No, he was adamant his maths was correct. The lady at the shop overhears the debate arising, says she understands me (thank God) – and with that, takes the 200 CFA from my hand and replaces it with 500 CFA. NO! I sigh. I need 700 CFA - that’s the 200 CFA plus the 500 CFA. I now have the pen and paper in my hand and am slowly repeating the calculation but even this is not helping. They finally agree that the change should be 700 CFA but are convinced they have already given me this change. True, they had, throughout the process given me 700 worth of CFA, but had forgotten that the lady had also taken 200 CFA back off me.

This is all the more farcical considering 700 CFA is roughly equivalent to a pound. In the time it took to resolve this mathematical conundrum, I suspect the insubstantial savings in my bank account would have accrued more money in interest, even at the current shockingly low rates the bank offers!

By the time I made it across the river, I was in serious need of energy and proceeded to eat what I had just bought (devoured much quicker than it had taken to buy).

Hotel Horror

After a week of hard cycling and camping on the trails, we decided to treat ourselves to a bed in Gabu. Our choice of hotel however, one attached to a discotheque, was unwise. Even the seven beers we each consumed that evening was insufficient to send me to sleep even after the club closed in the wee hours due to the snoring night watchmen laying outside, the baying donkey across the street and the incessant itching of my bite-infested legs. At light, exhausted and red-eyed, we drank coffee, packed up our bikes and hit the road again for Guinea-Conakry (intentionally this time).

Into Guinea

The serious military at the Foula-Mori, Guinea border and the uninspiring village that lacked the atmosphere or warm welcome of other border towns I’ve passed through on this trip didn’t bode well for Guinea… but that soon changed.

From the border, we cycled towards the town of Koumbia, along a pleasant yet dusty dirt road, passing small villages of round thatched huts. It was market day in one of these villages and for miles in each direction we passed men, women and children walking or cycling to the market. Everyone seemed to be smartly dressed with not a speck of dirt to be seen (unlike my dust-encrusted bike shorts, orange-tainted panniers and rust-coloured bike) and it amazes me to see how they walk so elegantly and with ease with a large bowl or fruit or vegetables balanced precariously atop their head.

And then into view came the imposing cliff-faces marking our arrival in the Fouta Djalon region.

Our ‘Drogba’ Guide

On arrival in the town of Koumbia, we were greeted by a man in a black ‘Drogba’ football shirt who kindly showed us the best place to eat. He waited outside while we devoured our plate of rice d’arachida (a peanut sauce) and filled up the tupperware container for a further serving for the evening’s dinner. He then guided us through town as we bought supplies and when we asked where the water pump was, he hopped on his bike and took us the few kilometres out of town to the effective Saudi Arabian sponsored pump and then guided us to the right road to send us on our way towards Labe. ‘Drogba’ guide was only too happy to help – when I said he really didn’t need to and that we could surely find our way, he replied with ‘c’est la vie’. And it’s true – this is part of life here. You help others where and how you can. It is encounters with kind people like ‘Drogba’ that ensure I don’t get too cynical while travelling – not everyone sees the white tourist as a source of money to be extorted.

The Fouta Djalon

From Koumbia, the road began winding round and up and down further into the Fouta Djalon hills along increasingly poor roads. The map says one road is dangerous and difficult and the other may be impassable in the rainy season. Fortunately it’s not the rainy season, but the going was still tough. The scenery was lovely, although the views somewhat shielded by the haze brought by the harmattan winds that blow fine Saharan sands through the air at this time of year. Enjoying the scenery is difficult while cycling as the poor roads require all eyes on the floor in order to avoid the potholes, divots, rocks and sand, any of which will result in a crash if your attention momentarily lapses. It was loose gravel and sand that resulted in Lar’s exiting the left side of his bike and it was potholes and huge truck tracks that caused panniers to fall off a number of times.

Christmas Day and we levelled out onto a windswept plateau and fought the headwind into Tianguel-Bori for a coffee-bread-mayo breakfast. The entrance to the town was barred by blue rags roped across the road, which signals a military or police checkpoint. Passports checked, we were allowed to pass into what looked like a Wild-West frontier town with the wind blowing down the wide dusty street lined with low wooden buildings.

Tired in Labe

We finally made it into Labe, the main town in the Fouta Djalon, on Boxing Day after two weeks cycling without a break. The roads had been hard with tired legs towards the end. Apart from the cycling, most of the days are taken up with buying food, filling up with water, finding a suitable camping spot and that’s before you begin to put up the tent and try to wash a little before collecting wood with which to make a fire to cook on. I love all of this, but it does take it’s toll on the body and mind, as does spending 24hours every day with just one other person – a couple of times, tensions frayed when seemingly innocuous situations blew out of proportion.

It truly has been a great couple of weeks, but I think I have learnt a valuable lesson which is – it’s better to have a break after a week of cycling. And by a break, I don’t mean one sleepless night next to a discotheque.

I’ve spent the last four days in Labe, cleaning and fixing everything ready for the ride through the Fouta Djalon into Sierra Leone for Freetown.

I seem to be aching more now having slept in a bed for four nights in a row, than at any other time in the previous month since St. Louis when apart from four other nights, I’ve slept on a deflated thermorest in my tent. So we leave later today and I look forward to a night camping although I’m not sure if my body is fully recovered from the last few week’s exertions so I may be taking another day off very shortly.