You can check it out here on my new website: Helen’s Take On…

Dusty streets of Timbuktu

The Traveller

The day after arrival we wandered through the sandy streets to the northern edge of town. Here there are no streets. Extra sand though. And a hotel called ‘Sahara Passion’. On arrival, we sat on a mat inside the cool mud walls and drank tea (yes, that sickly sweet bitter tea) and talked with Shindouk and his Canadian wife. Shindouk is a traveller. All his life, since the age of 13, he has worked with the camel caravans crossing the desert, the Saharan sands; through Mauritania, Algeria and Niger. The desert of Mali he calls his backyard. A desert traveller he may be, but nothing will entice him back onto a plane after his one and only flight to Canada.

I think now I can understand that. The desert is space. Space gives you freedom – freedom to explore wild lands. Freedom also to delve into the depths of your mind – for the desert is also about discovery. How can someone who has no concept of boundaries (to Shindouk the country names he has visited are meaningless – it is all one and the same desert he has travelled) be confined to a seat in a small metal tube for hours. It’s cruelty. Like caging a wild bird.

Shindouk is a fountain of knowledge when discussing travel in the region. He knows anyone worth knowing. A good person to discuss our options for leaving Timbuktu. According to a man in Kourioume, the port on the river, we could take a pinasse on Friday. According to the Mali tourist office, it is too far into the dry season and the river is too low to travel by pinasse at all. Shindouk informs us that it is possible, but it could take from four days to four weeks to reach Gao downstream.

The Plan

We decide to attempt to get half-way. Pinasses travel the route, arriving in each village on their market day. We are going to market hop our way to Gourma-Rharous. There, we will try to find a 4×4 to take us south along a piste back to the main road. Shindouk informs us that there is a pinasse leaving on Saturday. Thursday is market day in Gourma. Market hopping, we should be in Gourma on Thursday.

In Timbuktu we were fortunate to be invited to stay at the family home of the amiable man who drove us in the 4×4. He’s a chauffeur. We called him ‘le chauffeur’. He grew up in Gourma-Rharous – it’s where his family live. He gives us a name, but we don’t expect to need it.

The Departure

Saturday arrives. We wait by the road to hitch to Kourioume on the river. Eventually, a 4×4 stops. Papa and his two friends say they will take us. In Kourioume they enquire about the pinasse. No pinasse was leaving Kourioume that day. We should try at Hombi-Bonga they say. Where? There’s no village by that name on my map. There is a village called Kabara just 7km downstream though. Yes, Kabara – that is Hombi-Bonga. Of course. Papa drives us there and again asks about transport downstream. Success.

We can go by public pinasse to Mandiakoy. Mandiakoy is half-way to Gourma-Rharous, which is half-way to Gao. The cost will be 2,000CFA each. The cost became 5,000CFA each when the pinasse owner saw we were white. We all agreed on 4,000CFA each and that racism was rife in Mali. He was not ashamed and we were not surprised.

The Pinasse

We sat on the sand, surrounded by locals. It was the end of market day in Kabara and stalls were slowly (for everything is done slowly under the hot desert sun) being cleared up. Eventually it was time to leave. We boarded along a long, slippery plank of wood with water and bread for the journey. Despite it being market day in Kabara, there was only bread to be bought for our on-board dinner and breakfast and however many more meals would be needed on our pinasse ride of indeterminable length.

The Pinasse Interior

Like our leaking pirogue from the Niger River paddle in Guinea, this pinasse also had a layer of filthy water settled in the bottom of the boat. Branches laid across the boat act as a raised, uneven platform. On top of these branches a mat was placed. This mat was our space for the journey. We were ahead of the women in the centre who gossiped and laughed and cooked over a large stove which sent eye-stinging wood-smoke through the pinasse insides. One underweight old man had the thankless task of periodically emptying excess water with a jerry can. I say thankless because he was never thanked for his efforts. I was very grateful for without him I would have awoken in the night lying in a rising pool of water, which is what happened to my bag. We were in front of the group of older men, Tuareg, who sat quietly wrapped in blue, sheathed swords lying nearby. One of these old men had a filthy habit of clearing his nostrils down the inner side of the pinasse. Occasionally this effluent would get carried by the wind. Occasionally I would feel small droplets fall on my arm. We were behind the younger men and the driver. They were regular passengers and had a good system of sacks and boxes on which to dryly rest.

Tuareg traveller

The pinasse chugged down the smooth river, away from the setting sun. Once dark, except for the stars, the engine was cut. Silence. Now was the time to sleep. Sleep as well as you can wedged between two branches just an inch above the leak-water.

Morning came, the sun rose, bodies rose, people prayed, the engine started. Further down the Niger we travelled. We stopped to collect passengers in small villages. Rice sacks piled high by the river meant we were to stop there. At each stop, the women on board left the boat with their bags, laid out goods on the sandy bank and so began the bartering and trading. A mobile market.

Mobile Market

We passed fertile green pastures with cattle grazing and horses resting. The river is a lifeline through this otherwise barren region.

Mandiakoy

Eventually the driver called to us, ‘Mandiakoy’. We looked over the side to a sandy bank. There was no village here. There were no boats here either. Unsure, not wanting to be stranded with no means of escape, we looked at the driver quizzically. He assured us this was the stop for Mandiakoy – the village was 2km away. We were in luck – Dr Sidi (a student medic) was going to his home in Mandiakoy. We followed Dr Sidi. Followed him north, against the wind, away from the river, away from our way out of this desolate place.

Mandiakoy was to be the end of our journey by river. The following day was market day in Mandiakoy. There would be transport leaving for Gourma-Rharous at the end of market day. We could travel by 4×4 with a friend of Dr Sidi.

We were in Mandiakoy for little more than 24hours. One hour ws enough to explore all of Mandiakoy – it’s two sandy streets, it’s under-stocked shop, the market that is like all other markets in Mali and the small river (an offshoot of the Big River) which must be crossed by all coming to market. I spent some time watching the people arriving – turbanned Tuareg, boys beating donkeys, light-skinned nomadic families of Berber origin.

Remaining time is spent in the compound of Dr Sidi. Sitting inside, shading. Sitting in the shade, reading. Occasionally talking. It’s too hot to do much more.

And then the frenzy began. We may have been sat all morning, waiting. But now that we are sat eating rice for lunch it is time to leave. For an unknown reason we must leave immediately. There is barely time to eat, collect our bags, say thank you and goodbye before being herded into the back of the 4×4. Once bundled in the 4×4 we sit waiting again. Eventually we leave town.

Gourma-Rharous

Driving over sand, alongside the river is much faster than travelling by boat. We reach Gourma-Rharous the same day. Days after leaving Timbuktu, Gourma-Rharous appears the height of modernity. There is electricity. There are street lights. There are shops. Lots of them.

The driver of the 4×4 stops in a side street and calls a man over. This is where we get off. This is the man we are visiting, we are told. We do as we are told and go with the man. He is a friend of the chaffeur in Timbuktu, who has informed him that ‘Deux Blanches’ would be arriving in Gourma by 4×4 from Mandiakoy and that since we were his friends, he was to help us. Mobile technology carries news faster than the wind, faster than camels and faster than we could travel.

The chauffeur’s friend has been tasked with feeding us, accommodating us and finding us onward transport to Gossi. He needs to go to Bamako and so will be joining us on whatever transport he can find. His need to go means we find a vehicle leaving that same night.

Under cover of darkness a group of people is assembled. All people wanting to get to the main road. A 4×4 has been cruising the streets of Gourma for a while. I know this because I was sat on a bench waiting and the 4×4 s distinguishable by it’s one working headlight. This 4×4 stops and we get in the back. We don’t get the option to pay extra and sit in the cabin. Instead, I crouch in the back, bolts in my back and bags under my feet.

It’s a full moon and it is dimly lighting up the desert through which we are travelling. I am unable to appreciate it though. The wind is strong and the dust plentiful. I put on a long top to keep warm, wrap my kaftan inelegantly round my head and put on my sunglasses in a vain attempt to keep dust from my eyes. Even then my eyes are too sore and I keep them closed until we reach Gossi.

Gossi – The Main Road

We arrive in Gossi in the middle of the night. We have made it back to the main road. We have made it out of Timbuktu. But now there is nowhere to go because it is the middle of the night.

We put the tent up behind a shack, among piles of rubbish, and sleep soundly until daybreak.

http://thetravelersnotebook.com/by-the-numbers/by-the-numbers-paddling-the-niger-river/

Shortly after this clip ends, when we’re just out of camera view, we run into the bushes and I fall out, losing my sunglasses and flip-flop in the process.

This is my first ever video upload and I don’t really know what I’m doing yet, so apologies for the lack of quality. I’m hoping that I will get chance to upload several more videos from the boat trip and also of me cycling – I’m gathering quite a collection – I’ll work on the quality as I go, but for now please be patient!

Of course, if you have any recommendations on the best way to compress and edit videos then please drop me a message. I’m recording using my canon compact camera which records .mov files.

Fast rapids – Boat unload – Stuck! – Decision to quit in Kouroussa

It was a successful start to the day, with calm open water which Joliba II glided over with considerable ease.

Boosted by our progress and steady rhythmic paddling, when we heard the distinctive white water ahead and then saw the rapids; fast water flowing in channels between the large, smooth rocks, we didn’t stop to check out what lay in store for us downstream. On our approach Lars had called back ‘Should we stop and check it out?’, to which I dismissively called back ‘Nah, F*@k it, let’s just go for it!’. So we did.

We sped between the rocks, dodged one here, one there, made a sharp turn, then another. A couple of times I thought we would hit a rock hard, but either the water was strong enough to carry us over unscathed or we took evasive action just in the nick of time. After some hair-raising action, the water slowed enough that we could direct the boat into calmer waters and pull over to the bank. I needed to catch my breath before we continued downstream.

This time we decided to take a look at the route. I’m glad we did. We weren’t going to be paddling the next rapid. Instead we began to walk it down with the ropes. But once again the current was too strong; the boat picked up speed and became impaled on a rock. The boat tilted and water rushed inboard, flowed down the hull of the boat and exited the front end which at this point was significantly lower than the back end.

Once again we found ourselves emptying the boat of our belongings as the water continued to flow through unabated. Boat empty, we were able to tilt it back enough to stop the flow and Lars set to work flushing out the remaining water with the scoop. With a forceful shove, we shifted the boat from the rock and it glided down the remaining rapid until we were able to drag it to safety where we could set about re-packing the boat in it’s entirety.

Lars emptying the boat

We dealt with this set-back surprisingly efficiently, losing perhaps only an hour of paddling. So safely down the rapids we took a short break and ate some more unappetizing biscuits.

Setting off again, we silently hoped for an equally successful afternoon. Alas, it wasn’t to be.

Barely round another bend and the river divided into more channels. We picked one and persevered but weren’t far gone before we were pushing the boat over shallow rocks. Only this time the boat got stuck. We couldn’t shift it forward or backward. We struggled for over an hour, using all our strength until finally, inch by inch, we managed to dislodge the boat and move it forward.

View from the rocks surveying the 'wrong' route

Just as we freed the boat, a local walked on over to us and proceeded to explain that we’d taken the wrong route. Now I know it might be impossible to get lost paddling down the Niger River, but it is definitely possible to go the wrong way. We went the wrong way many times. Now if only the local had come and told us this an hour earlier.

Finally back onto the wide main river, we paddled on tiredly some more – we were keeping track of our progress using my GPS and knew we still had a way to go if we were to get to Kouroussa before our food ran out.

Having discovered some of our pasta was mouldy, water having seeped into the packaging during the fourth day semi-submerge, we were already rationing our dinner. Five meals worth we were stretching to last six. I didn’t want to have to split it further because it was going to take longer than 16 days to reach Kouroussa – yesterday’s estimated arrival. Apart from powdered cereals and dry biscuits, our evening meal was the only meal we ate each day. I was starting to feel hungry a lot of the time.

In need of a rest

Late afternoon we pulled up onto the river bank and camped for the night. Over dinner I checked the GPS and it seemed likely that tomorrow, day 15 would be our last full day and would could arrive in Kouroussa late morning of the 16^th. This was a relief to know. I also started to get quite excited at the prospect of a hotel room, not being attacked by sand-flies and no having to get up in the morning and paddle and push.

We both agreed we would end the boat trip in Kouroussa, rather than continuing to Bamako. This first 350km section was turning out to take 16 days – significantly longer than the hoped-for 10-14 days initial estimate – and was considerably tougher that either of us imagined. We would have been cutting it fine to reach the Mali border before our visas ran out anyway, but at our actual pace, this would be a certainty if we continued to paddle. Besides, we both felt the previous two-weeks alone had been full enough of adventure and the 400km route from Kouroussa to Bamako would be all the hard paddling and pushing without the fun of any rapids or abundant wildlife.

In any case, I didn’t think my body could cope with much more paddling unless I took several days to rest and recover and bearing the visa situation in mind, there just wasn’t time for that.

Oh, and then there was poor Joliba II to think of. For the last few days, the boat had been gradually taking in more and more water throughout the day and we were spending more and more time removing the water with the plastic kettle, while silently hoping that she would stay in one piece long enough to reach Kouroussa. Would she get us to Bamako anyway? It was looking increasingly unlikely!

Day 15: 20^th Feb 2010

Too much sand – 1.. 2.. 3.. Heave – Estimated arrival – River crossing sighted – Sell boat – To Kouroussa!

We began the day enthusiastically. The end was finally in sight (figuratively speaking for now). Just one more big day…

Unfortunately, the river had other plans for us. Shallow water again. But this time there were no rocks, just sand. The whole frustrating morning we spent more time out of the boat than in it. Standing in ankle keep water while we mustered up the strength to inch the boat forward into a deeper channel. With repeated 1, 2, 3, heave… and now breathe manoeuvres, we gradually pushed the boat over the sands until we could get in the boat long enough to paddle a few strokes.

Too much sand

We were now stopping regularly. Getting exhausted soon after a break and getting hungrier too.

After lunch however, we finally came to a longish, deep section of river and we burst forward energetically. And then in the distance we spotted something unusual….

It looked man-made. It looked like a truck. Surely not. Apart from the chimpanzee sanctuary we hadn’t seen a single other building or vehicle in two weeks. We can’t already be at the river crossing?

We paddled harder and gradually got close enough to make out lots of people, pirogues on the river, dirt roads leading down to the river on each bank and even a stationary vehicle ferry.

Amazing. We’ve made it. The road on the left will take us into Kouroussa!

We paddle over to the bank and confirm with the locals that we really are at the road to Kouroussa.

It’s true. I am so happy!

But now what?! Everything then happens all rather suddenly….

We will need to unload to boat, reassemble the bikes and pack everything onto them so we can cycle the 12km into Kouroussa. But what should we do with the boat? Try and sell it of course.

So I walk over to the fishermen mending their nets and enquire as to whether anyone wants to buy our boat. They do. We sell it for small change – enough for a few beers in town – and once we’ve unpacked, leave it in the charge of a small boy who is going to paddle it to the other side.

Before we know it, we’re riding into Kouroussa, to a hotel and cracking open a celebratory beer!

We made it!!

I go to sleep that night in the comfort of a bed in the knowledge that I don’t have to paddle anywhere tomorrow. It’s a good feeling!

Don’t get me wrong, I loved the whole two weeks paddle down the Niger river, but by the time I reached Kouroussa my body and mind just weren’t capable of paddling another day.

Days 16 – Day 23: On to Bamako… by bike

After a much needed, and if I can say so myself deserved, rest day in Kouroussa we set off on the bikes for Bamako in Mali.

Unfortunately, by the end of the first day I was exhausted again and the next day I felt ill with a bloated stomach. When we stopped to camp, I had only enough energy to put up my tent and fall fast sleep, leaving Lars to cook dinner.

The third day I struggled the 25km into the next town, Siguiri, where we agreed to check into a hotel so I could rest for the remainder of the day.

The final days from Siguiri into Bamako, although on paved roads were gruelling for me. Ill and cycling in the intense heat of the sahel against the harmattan wind blowing constantly in our faces was most unpleasant. I had to spend long periods of the day, lying in the shade, trying to muster up enough energy and well-being to continue.

But we did finally make it to Bamako. We made it 23 days after leaving Faranah in the boat with only one full day of rest.

And now my body has had a chance to recover from the previous weeks’ exertions, I am feeling much better and am looking forward to hitting the road again… which is what I’m doing later today. It’s time to explore Mali.

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

Warthogs – Broken boat – Hippo encounter – Bush fire – Bat exodus – Uniformed and uninformed – Poacher or American?

A long, hard morning paddle – at least we were paddling and not pushing or dragging, but the wavelets on the river surface were tiresome. With the ripples lapping at the boats keel it felt like being at sea.

With rustling on the left bank, we looked over to see a family of warthogs darting away from the river, clearly startled by our presence.

Around one o’clock we came to a virtual dead end in the river. The river here is significantly wider than at Faranah, but the entire span seemed to be blocked by a wall of black rock. We pulled the boat over to take a closer look. We could see plenty of water on the other side and so there must be a channel through. Besides, we could hear that familiar rumbling sound.

Having seen the channel with water rushing through, we opted to lead the boat down on ropes – the slower but safer option – and as a precaution, take out our valuables bags and the food in case of a problem.

It should have been an easy enough manoeuvre – we had led the boat down far harder sections. But the flow here was just too strong. And 11 days into the trip, I was just too weak.

White water and into the calm

I couldn’t hold the back end. The rope ripped through my hands, the back end flipped round in the stream and crashed into a protruding rock. With some careful pushing and further guiding, we managed to pull the boat to safety in the bay below. The boat had taken quite a knock though and besides the wooden back support which had broken off, the bottom of the boat at the stern now had a long crack propagating along the panel length.

We paddled over to the nearby sandbank and Lars, using a rock, hammered in some spare nails we’d fortuitously brought with us. Safely on the other side, boat repaired, we could now appreciate the view in all it’s simplicity. The deep blue river, the golden sandy shores, the vivid green trees and the shining black rocks. Just four elementary colours. Sometimes the simple things are the best.

Paddling on, I spotted something hippo-like in the water ahead. For several days I had been seeing hippo-like things in the water, but they had only been rocks jutting out mid-stream. So rather than be mistaken again, I say to Lars, ‘That’s just a rock isn’t it?’. But then the rock’s ears twitched.

I’ve just seen my first hippo on the Niger. I’m elated!

Then pragmatically, I ask Lars which side we should pass by this hippo. ‘The side furthest from it,’ comes the matter-of-fact reply. So I steer us sharply towards the left bank and as I do, the hippo’s head sinks below the river surface. With determined paddling, we pass the point where we had seen the hippo. Then ten minutes after the first sighting, it resurfaces upstream of us – it is now exactly at the point we had been when it first disappeared. It’s as if it’s trying to catch us. It let’s out a resounding snort that resonates downstream before sinking once again.

I repeatedly look back over my shoulder to see if the hippo will surface again, but am soon distracted by the drama unfolding in the other direction, downstream. From the tree-lined left bank, hundreds of winged creatures are fleeing the trees and swarming in circles above the water. There is something not quite right about the scene… these animals are not behaving like birds, nor are they sounding like birds. Their motion through the air is uneven and the high-pitched screeching is unnerving.

From a distance, they look and sound strangely like bats. But what are nocturnal creatures doing flying in the middle of the hottest part of the day?

We then see smoke rising above the trees. Fire encroaching on their homes could indeed explain this mayhem.

Not wanting to be fatally bitten by a rabid bat, we change course for the right side bank, trying to give as much clearance between us and this horde of distressed animals. But then we see in the river ahead of us yet another hippo head peering out of the water.

Change of plan – we’d rather deal with rabid bats than an angry hippo! So we violently change direction yet again and this time head back to the left bank. As we’re paddling hard, I conjure up images of how I can more successfully (and unrealistically) fend off a bat attack with wild swings of my paddle like a baseball bat, sending the vicious winged mammals flying over the riverbank for a home run, rather than pitch my strength against a mighty hippo, that would surely crush my wooden paddle as if it were a tooth pick in it’s jaw and most likely crush me with it too.

By now we have passed the second hippo, which like the first had disappeared underwater shortly after sighting us, and are paddling downstream alongside the left bank. The bats (they are very definitely bats, which are so close we can now clearly see their individual faces; bat-ears, teeth and all) have ceased to circle wildly above the river and are now embarking on a mass exodus downstream, overhead of us, marginally faster than we are paddling.

But before we have a chance to calm ourselves to the presence of the bats than another hippo appears in the distance. This time, we choose to pass by on it’s right and so once again cross the river to give the widest clearance possible.

On reaching the far side, we hear a loud rustling coming from the trees (well at least it can’t be a hippo). Simultaneously we swing our heads round in the direction of the sound. And there we see it…

A huge, male chimpanzee, sitting in the tree having peeled back the leafy branches to get a better look at this passing peculiarity (two white people in a pirogue; us). For a few moments, he stares at us with intelligent curiosity and we smile right back in stupid wonder. As much as we would love to sit and observe this passive cousin (his calm reaction to us was in complete contrast to the destructive violence of the chimpanzees at the sanctuary), we were more concerned by the attention we were continuing to attract of the hippos.

So paddles in hand, we pushed on downstream where finally the wildlife of the Niger gave us some respite and we were able to stop for a short break.

The wildlife may have been content with us taking a break. A military officer approaching us in an inflatable, motorized dinghy, on the other hand, was not…

He wanted to know what we were doing, he wanted to know what we were transporting, he wanted to see our passports. His local guide during this inquisition had paddled over to the bank and in minutes we were being greeted by a Frenchman. It turned out we had stopped near the release site for the chimpanzees and some of the volunteers from the centre were in the area working.

The Frenchman, being considerably more fluent in French than me, explained that we were friends of the sanctuary, tourists travelling towards Kouroussa and clearly not poachers, which the military officer is tasked with searching out and stopping. Now, if this officer seriously thought that the typical poacher looked like we do, he’s clearly not being very successful at his job. Even I know that the poachers of antelope are none other than locals with a gun trying the only way they know to feed their family. They are definitely not the infrequent white, English-speaking novices paddling slowly down the river with bicycles strapped into the boat… I suspect more white men have set foot on the moon than have paddled the Niger River between Faranah and Kouroussa.

Not entirely convinced by our story, the officer spends an inordinate amount of time staring at the front cover of our passports before recklessly searching through the pages, while me and Lars casually chat to the Frenchman about the work he’s doing. Eventually our passports are handed back and the officer then directs a barrage of questions concerning us at the Frenchman. ‘Are we American?’, he wants to know.

Now I’m sorry, but which part of our passports did he actually bother to read? Eventually, out-numbered, he gets bored and says it’s ok for us to continue. (I’ve no idea how he planned to stop us.) So without a chance to even sit down, we get back into the boat and paddle off downstream before this small-minded man in love with his camouflage uniform and shiny black boots changes his mind.

A rare moment of calm clear water

By the time we get to take a break, it’s time to stop for the day. Now we can relax.

Day 12: 17^th Feb 2010

Sound in the night – one lady and her dogs – Joliba II suffering – more wildlife – sand-flies continue to attack

After the long, eventful previous day, I was quick to fall asleep in my tent once I’d eaten and the stars were clearly visible.

However, I was rudely awoken in the early, dark hours of the morning to a strange call. We were camped up on the river bank in the bush. It was not a fish, crocodile, hippo or chimpanzee – all sounds I was by now familiar with. It couldn’t be a wild cat could it? Estelle’s (the director of the chimpanzee sanctuary) comment that the guards on patrol locally had heard a lion recently was ringing loudly in my mind.

My mind alert, I opened my eyes and to my horror, realised that I had fallen asleep without putting up the outer cover of my tent. If indeed there was a lion (or any other predatory animal) on the prowl, it would be able to see straight through my mesh inner to my small body lying on the forest floor. Oh crap. I lay there motionless, glancing from left to right to see if I could see any movement in the shadows nearby. Nothing. I remained frozen, feeling my heart pounding in my chest. Some rustling. And then silence.

I continued to lay there without a sound. I wasn’t even going to ask Lars if he had heard something. After a peaceful period had passed, I unzipped the tent, hastily put on the outer cover and retreated back into relative safety. Ok, so it probably wasn’t a lion, but I vowed I would never forget to put up my outer again. Of course, when I asked Lars if he’d heard anything in the morning, the answer as usual was no. Ignorance really is bliss or at least leads to a good night’s sleep.

With daybreak, our camp was visited by four dogs and a friendly local woman. Although we spoke no common language, it didn’t stop us exchanging warm greetings and bidding a good day. She was the only person we were to see that day.

Nothing of specific note happened during the day’s paddle. It was really hard though with lots of pushing and dragging the boat. Poor Joliba II is really suffering from the voyage and continuous pounding against rocks and now long pieces of material that were proofing the seams of the wooden panel joins are trailing uselessly in the water.

A maze of waterways

We do see plenty of wildlife; waddling guinea-fowl, tiny duikers (small antelope), several vervet monkeys and lots of large fish flicking their tailfins out of the river surface.

I continue to be plagued by sandflies. My attempts to thwart their attacks on my legs by wearing trousers resulted in them attacking my arms. In wearing long sleeves, they now mercilessly cause the backs of my hands and neck to bleed. With two hands on the paddle and no gloves or neckscarf to wear (which would be unbearable in the heat anyway), they are definitely winning the war. Simply put – I’m outnumbered.

Day 13: 18^th Feb 2010

More hippos – tent rest – camp on 3 rocks in river – hippo call

Yet more hippos today.

In the distance, surrounding a large rock in the middle of the river were four pairs of pinkish-grey ears twitching above the surface. Three heads in front of the rock, one behind. We circle wide. Then further downstream, another two. We tried to go wide left, but got stuck on some rocks in shallow water. While we were getting out of the boat to free it up, the hippos had silently bowed down and were now causing concern due to their prolonged absence from view. Just as we freed the boat and got back in to paddle, one of the hippos momentarily re-surfaced, not far ahead of us. I told Lars to paddle hard and soon enough I had steered us clear to the other side of the river. Twice more the hippo’s head emerged from the river, it snorting loudly as we increased our distance.

We then had to get round the bend, but didn’t know where the other hippo was. Seeing a clearing that looked like a hippo access point to the river on the bank, we decided to cut across to the other side again. At mid-point between the inner bank and outer bend, we saw a series of bubbles rise from underwater and burst on the surface just a paddle length away. We paddled away fast. Very fast. If only we could have paddled that fast ever since Faranah, we would be in Bamako by now.

After nearly two weeks on the river with only a half day of rest, the long days with hard paddling and even tougher pushing and dragging, are taking their toll. That’s not to mention the mental strain of constantly watching out for potential wildlife threats and figuring out navigable routes through the myriad of streams and channels of shallow waters between rocks. We decide to take an extended lunch break and put up the tent for a hour’s rest where we can’t be bothered by sand-flies or tsetse flies. Of course, lunch by now is nothing more substantial than the bland imported glucose biscuits that we eat throughout the day; having only brought bread for five days (it was stale long before those five days were up) and finished the last of the oranges several days ago. The rest is much need and much appreciated by my fatigued body.

Three Rock Camp Spot

With rocky sections becoming larger but less frequent, we decide to camp when we see three flatish rocks in the middle of the river. They are just large enough for the tents. The rock to the left is for Lars, I take the far right one and the central one we use as a kitchen and build a small fire having collected wood from the riverbank earlier.

We enjoy yet another beautiful sunset and retire to our separate tents once it is dark. Lars reads and I just lay there, drifting slowly to sleep.

Cloudy reflection at sunset on the Niger River

A thunderous splash and accompanying snort rips me from sleep and back to reality on the Niger. That was the unmistakeable sound of a hippo – like the sound of a stallion flaring it’s nostrils in the air at he scent of a mare on heat and snorting wildly mixed with that of a whale spurting a tall jet of water skywards as it surfaces. Hippopotamus translates in many languages as ‘water horse’ and that is exactly what it sounded like.

No need to ask Lars is he heard that. No need to ask Lars what the noise was. Instead, awestruck with a hint of fear, I shout from my tent ‘F@*king hell! That was loud!’. And all Lars can bring himself to say with a gulp is, ‘Yes’.

Neither of us have the foolish courage to get out of our tents to see the hippo up close. Instead, we each lie in our separate cocoons perched on our rocks and listen as the hippo snorts a couple more times, enjoying bathing in the cool evening air, before it leaves our space on the river. As relative silence descends (there is always the constant crickets and croaking frogs and occasional chirping or beeping of birds), I again drift off to sleep.

Ou tu vas comme ca? – Bee island – Frogs and splashes

Nearly a week into the trip, about 100km downstream of Faranah, getting close to the National Park and the number of people we are seeing has diminished – just the occasional onlooker from a riverbank and lone fishing boats. We exchange the bare essential greetings of ‘bonjour’ or ‘ca va’ but people here know no other French and so after that we usually pass by in silence. One young man stood on the shore today however shouted out, ‘Ou tu vas comme ca?’. A fair question! We’re going to Bamako we reply, we hope. But we are not progressing as fast as expected and neither of us are sure if we’re going to make it. Let’s reach Kouroussa first – that’s still some way downstream!

The day passes uneventfully which makes a surprising change and consequently we cover our longest distance for a day yet.

As the evening draws in, we spot a small, grassy island in the river.

This idyllic, isolated island is not as peaceful as it appears from a distance. As we pull up, we hearing buzzing and seeing hundreds of bees flying above the ground. There have been no rocks or clearings on the river banks for miles though so we decide to camp where we can, on pastures green.

Tents are hastily erected and a fire lit to cook on. Dinner is eaten in the confines of the tent, while the bees become fascinated by Lars’ shoes outside.

Fortunately, the buzzing quickly fades when the bees disappear as the night draws on and the stars appear in the sky. It is about this time though that the croaking of frogs begins. The first deep croak seems to come from near our island, following shortly by another croak in another key and many more, rhythmically returned upstream and echoed back down. But just as suddenly as the cacophony of croaking erupted, the frog-orchestra sounds it’s final note and the silence is filled with the background noise of crickets. The prelude over, it’s time for the main ensemble and once again the croaking fills the darkness.

Occasionally, when the frogs are silent, a loud splash resounds like a large applause. Just a fish we hope, not a crocodile. And it’s with this music of the river in my ears that I drift off to sleep each evening.

Little Voice - Frog Choir on the Niger

Day 8: 13^th Feb 2010

Monkey rock coffee – Hippo tracks – No early camp – Fishermen’s warning – Path of least resistance – Fish supper

As the sun comes up, the bees return, so we make a hasty departure and stop for morning coffee further downstream. As we paddle over to an expansive rocky outcrop on the riverbank, we see a small troupe of vervet monkeys scamper off into the bush. Where there’s less people, you find more wildlife. With some relief, we get to enjoy our coffee on this relatively insect-free rock.

By lunchtime it’s getting hot even though the sky is clouded. The air is oppressive, heavy and silent. We reach a section of river that seems to divide around large islands of sand and boulders. We go left, but it’s a dead-end. We walk over to take a look on the other side and come across clear signs that hippos have been here – huge footprints leading to and from the water. We look around carefully but the boulders really are inanimate. We see the main route through and so paddle the boat back around cautiously, on the lookout for hippos. The silence is eerie. The calm before the storm?

For once, there is no storm. No hippos either.

I have to admit I’m mildly disappointed. While I don’t want a close encounter with a hippo (I have a well-founded respect for these creatures, since they are known to kill more people in Africa each year than any other large animal), I would still love to see them from a safe distance. It’s only a matter of time I expect.

We decide to camp early, having had a successful day. But as is so often the case when cycling, at the point you want to camp, people suddenly appear. And so it was today – we want to camp and no sooner do we round the bend and we come across a fishing camp. We paddle on a short distance and pull over to check out some flatish rocks. While Lars explores, I take a couple of photos and unbeknown to us, two young men from the fishing camp are paddling towards us.

The come and say hello and ask where we are going. They explain that downriver it is difficult to pass. In their sparse French and some hand-signalling, it seems that we may need to push the boat through or carry our gear on land. They say they will accompany us and help. So much for camping early.

The two pirogues slowly make their way downstream, until the young men pull over and we do the same. We can hear the white-water already. Walking over to assess the route, it is clear we are going to have to walk the boat down and steer it from on top of the rocks. The young men seem less concerned about helping though than in having a cigarette. They reluctantly take some rope when I pass it to them, but we haven’t walked far with the boat before they are explaining they have to return to fish. They retreat to a safe distance and watch us struggle alone with the boat through the rapids. We make it through though.

Fishermen watching us negotiate the rapids from a distance

Ahead though, it seems the river has recently forged a new route downstream, cutting off the tightly looped bend. Our route is blocked by a fallen tree. On closer inspection, it seems someone has already cut back enough branches to make a small path. With Lars clearing more branches with the machete and me pulling loose the caught-up driftwood and debris, we at last have a space big enough for our boat to get through.

And now, finally, we can camp and cook the fish we bought from a local fisherman earlier that day.

Day 9: Feb 14^th 2010

My birthday – Half day – Snake escape – Stock check – Beer

It’s my birthday today! Although it was business as usual on the river. Morning coffee followed by a good morning paddle. We covered plenty of ground and so agreed to take the afternoon off to rest – our first break since we left Faranah. My body, at least, was beginning to get tired earlier with each passing day.

I slept under the shade of some trees on the riverbank in my tent, safe from sand-flies and tsetse flies.

Later I collected some wood ready for a fire and then retreated back to my tent. Having squashed the numerous sand-flies that had entered the tent with me (and so covering my tent roof with another spattering of blood – mostly mine I believe), I set to work on the tsetse fly.

The tsetse flies are rather more resilient however and I was well into round 3 of giving this bothersome fly a pounding when I hear a shout from Lars, ‘Helen! Look out – Snake!’. Distracted by the tsetse fly which is now leaving a thick trail of blood on my tent floor, I look up to see a snake slithering with exceptional speed in the direction of my tent, the rustling as it moves through the dead-leaf-covered ground reaching my ears a split second later. Lars has disturbed it when he picks up the food sack which it must have crawled under.

My attention is now rapidly focussed on trying to zip up my tent before the snake reaches me. But as I grab at the zip, the snake is already here. It slithers under my tent. ‘Helen! Don’t move!’ Lars screams. I freeze, pinned to the spot. Motionless, like the sandfly remains on my tent roof. Lars is worried I may accidently stand on the snake and then who knows what it may do. But just as quickly as it arrived, it leaves – disappearing into the forest behind.

I don’t know who was more scared. Me, Lars or the snake.

I do know that my heart is now pounding, double time, from some new location in my chest cavity to where it jumped when Lars shouted out the word ‘snake’!

Once calm has returned, I provide the knock-out blow to the tsetse fly and we (me and Lars that is, the tsetse fly is dead) do a stock check to see how much food we have left. It’s more or less what we expected. We have food for another six dinners. Then we need to be in Kouroussa. It’s going to be close.

At the end of the day, while sitting by the fire as dinner cooks, we open those two beers we’ve saved. Wow – beer has never tasted so good. If only we had more….

Day 10: 15^th Feb 2010

Chimpanzee rehabilitation centre / Bee-sting / Antelope

We’ve been paddling barely half an hour when I see on the top of the river banks a couple of large buildings with corrugated roofs. These are the first man-made structures (besides pirogues) that we have seen since leaving Faranah. But these were local homes as you would find in a typical rural Guinea village. We paddled over to investigate.

Niger River bend at Somoria

It turns out that after nine days of saying, ‘Do you think we’ll reach the National Park today?’, we are finally within the park and are at the chimpanzee rehabilitation centre of Somoria, which is run by the dedicated Estelle Raballand (www.projectprimate.org). We are invited to see the chimpanzees at feeding time at noon. In the meantime, we have look round the centre and chat with the volunteers. Of the seven volunteers, two of them have also cycled to Guinea, on a tandem! Amazing.

Estelle has been running the centre for ten years and recently released a group of chimpanzees back into the wild, some 35km along the river. The first group release of it’s kind. They keep track of the chimpanzees and all seem to have adapted to their new environments well.

Come feeding time, the dinner bell rings and the local workers carry the chimps lunch round in wheelbarrows. The chimps know the sound and are causing an expectant racket.

We observe the chimpanzees from a distance as Estelle and the others hand the food through the cage bars. The chimps however, clearly aware of our unfamiliar presence, are on edge and putting on a bit of a show. The males in the group, beating the bars in a show of machismo and chase off the smaller chimps from the food.

Chimpanzee waiting for lunch

I don’t recall ever seeing chimpanzees before (maybe when a child on a zoo visit) but these animals were huge (much larger than me), incredibly strong and intimidating and I was glad there were strong metal bars between us. It certainly made me apprehensive about potential encounters in the wild.

We left the chimpanzees to eat in peace and walked back to the main hut with Estelle. She provided us with some useful advice:

• - We should only camp on the left bank of the river from now on since it is illegal to camp within the Park, which includes the right bank
• - When passing the chimpanzee release site, keep away from the banks and rock – otherwise the chimpanzees if they see us may come on over and try to climb on the boat
• - Be aware of hippos – it’s probably best to paddle down the middle of the river (a hippo could charge us to get to the river if we are too close to the bank) and where the river is deep (so that a hippo can’t rear up and trample us or the boat)

After lunch and a book exchange we get back to our boat and start paddling again. But not before I am stung by one of the many bees that have become fascinated with the contents of our boat, especially my shoes.

It’s a solid afternoon with steady progress and we end the day camped on rocks, having startled away some antelope drinking by the river’s edge.

In the next update…

Hippo encounters, bats gone crazy and officious Guinean military… could I really be mistaken for a poacher?

See this post for photos of our visit to the chimpanzee sanctuary

Quiet morning – shallow maze – near-disaster – crocodile island

Following a quiet morning on the river where progress was slow but steady, the afternoon brought with it a maze of rocks and shallow waters that slowed progress drastically. We would stop paddling and stand up to get a better view downstream, but this only occasionally helped. It seemed whichever path we took, we would still hit shallow water, the boat would become impaled on a rock and we would have to get out and push and drag and re-route the boat until we found a deeper section. We would have barely got in the boat and caught our breath again when we would again become steadfast in what was beginning to seem an unnavigable river. Perhaps we had left our departure too late, too far through the dry season. We need water to paddle a pirogue and there just didn’t seem to be enough of it.

Eventually the rocks subsided, the river deepened and we could once again paddle uninterrupted. The river was still, barely a ripple on the surface save for the wake of our boat and the circular splashes from our paddles. There was silence between the walls of the deep, vivid green tree-lined banks. Nothing but us going up or down the river. Serene. Surreal. Our boat glided with ease along the surface.

But it wasn’t to last.

Out of the silence came a faint rumble. Wind? A distant bush-fire? Rapids? The sun was scorching, but the air was motionless and there was no smoke over the horizon. The river was straight and flat and calm. If the rumbling was distant rapids, then the water must be gushing over rocks and creating frightening amounts of white water.

We paddled on. The rumbling grew. Silently, nerves crept over us and engulfed the boat. Then we saw a wall of rocks ahead. We got more nervous.

When we finally reached the rocks, we pulled the boat over and took a closer look from a sure-footed, elevated position. The river here was making a 90 degree change of direction and a significant drop in water level. The noise was considerable.

We clambered over the rocks and began to investigate a route through. The sandy crevices between the rocks were covered in footprints and trails – crocodile tracks – but we were too pre-occupied with finding a water route, urged on by the rumbling river whose sound was drowning out all other thoughts.

There were four places where the water flowed between the wall of rocks. The largest volume of water rushed through on the left; a huge deep channel guided between boulders. This route seemed possible, but only as a last resort – the ‘rapids’ we had successfully negotiated prior to this were mere drips – here the tap was open full. The next section along, the water flowed with equal power, but there were boulders in direct line of the main flow and we would have surely smashed the boat on them. The other two routes flowed out into a wide, calm bay. The problem here was that they flowed over a steep precipice which was impossible to paddle over. We could have led it down on ropes, but the front end would have hovered over the edge until the balance tipped and it plunged head-first into the pool below. Who knows if it would surface again. It seems the last resort would be the only resort. And with the light beginning to fade on another day, we decided to bite the bullet and attack this rapid before dark.

Having pushed the boat out into the middle of the river, we began paddling towards uncertainty. The boat sped up, I stopped paddling and put all my strength and determination into steering to avoid the boulders. One boulder passed…. two…. three…. and the water slowed enough that we could pull into the side and rest before attempting the next part. My heart was pounding, my body full of adrenalin. That wasn’t so bad!

But the next bit didn’t look so simple. We chose to lead the boat down on ropes from the rocks. So while Lars guided the front end, I pulled back as hard as I could from behind to slow it down.

But the boat was at an angle to the flow and the flow was too fast and the back end was beginning to rotate. I pulled and strained, but the rope just burned through my hands. There was nothing we could do. The front end jammed on a rock and the back end swung round until it too was pinned against another rock. Water rushed in.

We both leapt into the river and lifted the sinking side out of the water enough to stop the flow and without a word we rapidly began untying our ‘valuables’ bags (the ones we were to save first in the event of a capsize). These were soon safely on dry land and we were busy scooping out water from the semi-submerged boat.

Getting out of this situation was going to be tricky.

Stuck

We decided to pull the stern backwards and hopefully free the front end so we could guide it between the rocks. All that happened was that the front end wedged itself on another rock and the back end swung to an even greater angle to the flow and stuck solidly. Water now gushed over the side and rushed through the boat before exiting over the bows. We leapt and grasped for loose items as one paddle disappeared out of sight. No point trying to empty the boat of water, but we could empty the boat entirely of our belongings. We untied bags and bikes and carried them dripping to the safety of the shore.

Helped on by the adrenalin, we managed to right the boat enough to stop the inflow of water and set about draining the boat with the use of the plastic kettle (the yellow scoop must have drifted off).

There was now only one course of action left to take – push the boat forward over the rocks and let go. Just let it go with the flow. With one final show of adrenalin-fuelled strength the boat slowly shifted, cleared the rocks and rushed round the bend, loose ropes trailing in the water.

I ran over the crocodile-track-covered sandy island and looked out for our boat, which by now had come to a standstill, still floating, in the bay below. Phew!! Putting thoughts of reptiles out of my mind, I waded into the river up to my neck and retrieved the boat so we could paddle it to safety.

With the sun setting, I rushed to put up tents while Lars laid out the sodden food, we cooked dinner and retired to bed as darkness fell upon us. We didn’t want a crocodile encounter after the day we’d just had!

Day 5: 10^th Feb 2010

Aches and pains – Fishing attempt – Lars uses the machete – Rapids and adrenalin – Important lesson

I awoke early in the morning and inspected the damage: The boat wass still parked and afloat where we left it, the food drying in the morning sun hadn’t been eaten by any wildlife and the rest of our gear has survived surprising intact and dry. It seemed the only things lost were a towel, a water bottle and the plastic scoop (the paddle we found again).

Boat still afloat and moored on crocodile island

Me on the other hand, didn’t feel quite so lucky. I made a short note of my aches and pains:

• Legs covered in hundreds of itchy sand-fly bites
• Ends of toes are cut from wading through river in flip-flops
• Hands stiff and feel as though ridden by arthritis due to constant grasping of paddle
• Fingers sore from rope burns
• Bruised ankle from when I slipped on a rock while leading the boat by rope
• Bruised shin when it got wedged between the boat and a rock

Fortunately, the morning was peaceful, with easy paddling and good progress. At lunchtime, Lars took some time out to try a little fishing. Although we could see plenty of small colourful fish, they seem uninterested in our hook and line.

Unfortunately the afternoon wasn’t so smooth. Once again we came to some rapids. There is one fast flowing channel but I think I can see a calmer route that flanks the right bank and so we proceed. There being a wall of low-lying branches, we wade alongside the boat and guide it downstream. Where the channel flows beneath the branches, Lars hacks out a clear route using his machete. We make it through the branches, down the narrow fast-flowing section and into the calm waters. As we round the bend however, we realise our path is blocked. A dead-end.

Lars - the machete wielding pro

With nowhere to go but the way we’ve come, with some effort we push the boat back upstream and re-assess the situation. After walking over all the rocks, which show signs of crocodile attacks on the nesting egrets, we finally conclude that we’re going to have to attempt the gauntlet – the only clear route is also the most direct and the fastest. Having discussed and agreed the route we’re going to take and the rocks we’ll be attempting to avoid, we nervously get in the boat and start paddling. And then I stop paddling and turn my attention to steering the rapidly accelerating boat. We speed downriver, jettisoned down the flume and soon emerge at the other end unscathed. Phew! What an adrenalin rush! Now that was fun!

We both finally calm down, just as the river has done and can now assess how we handled that section. We conclude that from now on we should always check potential routes out fully until we can see a clear river ahead and not just assume it will look the same round the bend.

Day 6: 11^th Feb 2010

Makeshift sail – more rapids – woman overboard – lost sunglasses and flip-flop

The morning’s progress was hindered by numerous sections of shallow water and rocks. We followed our rule of checking the entirety of any route before we proceeded. It meant that we rarely got stuck, but we did spend most of the morning out of the boat checking routes, rather than just paddling and hoping and pushing is necessary.

When the river was wide and deep and clear, our progress was hindered by the wind, which made paddling on the choppy water tough and energy-sapping.

At lunchtime, we thought perhaps we could harness the power of the wind by making a sail – we had several large 100 litre sacks and so went about constructing a sail with them, some cut-to-length branches and rope. With the heat of the midday sun beginning to beat down on us however we stored the partially assembled sail in the bottom of the boat and chose to paddle on through. The sail needed more work – at the moment it was more Heath Robinson than Robinson Crusoe!

Makeshift sail - not very Robinson Crusoe

Once again we came to more rapids. Having assessed all viable routes, based on our rapidly increasing knowledge and experience of them, we opt for the fastest most direct route through. It’s the same scenario repeated – paddle nervously, speed up, steer agressively, adrenalin rush, a couple of close shaves with rocks and we’re through.

Only this time we set up a camera to film it.

Only this time I don’t manage to turn sharp enough round the last bend and the current takes us side-on into some bushes. I manage to grab a branch as I am catapulted from the stern and instantly submerged in the torrent. I am clinging to my left flip-flop with the end of my toes and so try to reach down with my spare hand to grab it before it is lost in the undercurrent. Meanwhile I am conscious that I am about to lose my sunglasses from my head. I daren’t let go of the branch though. Somewhere in the decision-making process going on in my submerged head about whether to save the flip-flop or the sunglasses – a flip is no use without it’s flop but I’ve lost too many sunglasses to rivers in previous water-induced escapades to lose yet another pair – it dawns on me that just maybe I should save myself first. At this stage there is just my right arm, from forearm to fingertips, that is clear of the water and the only thing saving me from being dragged downstream.

With sudden clarity of mind, I give up the flip-flop-or-shades debate and reach my left arm out of the water and grab for another branch. With considerable effort I manage to heave myself up and as my head clears the surface I take a much needed gasp of air.

My flip-flop and my sunglasses are gone though.

In the next update…

After nearly a week on the river, we seem to finally be mastering the boat and the water. Perhaps life on the river will calm down a little now.

But our experiences so far don’t help when it comes to animal encounters….

Departure – 3 beers – Boh’s helping hand – will we make it to Bamako?

It’s Saturday in Faranah; our boat is built and afloat on the river, our belongings have been wrapped and packaged in plastic bags ready for the trip, we have cycled into town for breakfast and bought last minute goods (including lots of packets of pocket tissues since there’s no toilet roll in the whole town – being a ‘luxury’ imported good, it has to be bought in the capital, Conakry, some 400km away, apparently). There’s nothing else to be done. With a small degree of trepidation, we begin carrying out our large sacks of belongings and slowly clear out our hotel room that had been home for the previous week.

On seeing us struggling with the oversized sacks, Boh the helpful manager of the hotel comes to lend a hand. On seeing the three of us struggling down the path from the hotel to the river, a number of local kids follow on behind. Before long, Boh has instructed the kids to carry our sacks to the river and we are left with the easier task of wheeling the bikes. While we go about loading the bags into the boat and dismantling the bikes so that they too will fit, a small crowd gathers on the river bank and looks on curiously.

Eventually, everything is secure in the boat and after a few photos to capture our imminent departure, we are as ready as we’ll ever be to climb aboard and start paddling. And then I remember something – we haven’t got any beer! This situation must be rectified before we leave! I’m going to be spending my birthday on the river in just over a week’s time and there’s no way I’m celebrating the occasion without an alcoholic beverage. With this, I ask Boh if we can buy some beers from the hotel. ‘Of course,’ he says, ‘but there’s only three left’. Oh no! But it’s too late to go into town now, so we’ll just have to manage with three beers. One of the staff runs back to the hotel to fetch them.

All packed and ready to paddle!

During the short wait, Boh explains that he will accompany us for the first short leg of the journey, round the first couple of bends since there are some tricky waters to navigate apparently. We are grateful for this.

Minutes later, the boat is fully loaded, now including the three beers and so we wave good-bye to the onlookers, clamber aboard The Joliba II and push off from the bank.

The paddle on the Niger has begun!

The first ‘tricky’ section we get through with the help of Boh. We get stuck on a couple of rocks and have to get out and push to release the boat. Once released however, the boat moves freely in the flowing river as myself and Boh guide it between the exposed rocks. Lars at this point concerning himself with his flip-flop which has come off and is gradually getting left behind. With some splashing and crashing in the waist-deep water, he eventually catches up enough to reach out and grasp for the back of the boat and is inelegantly dragged through the water, until the rocks disappear, the river widens out and the flow slows enough that we can all climb aboard again. No sooner are we all in the boat again, than more rocks appear. As the bow rises over a rock and gets stuck, the stern with me in it swings round. Now I’m at the front and Boh is at the back. Boh takes charge of the steering while I sit facing upstream, helpless. Boh takes the next section in his stride and soon he is pulling over to the bank and jumping out of the boat.

As Boh walks over the bank we shout our thanks and ask if he thinks we’ll make it to Bamako. Boh’s last word before disappearing into the bush was a definitive, resounding ‘NO!’

And then we’re alone.

It’s now mid-afternoon and we haven’t eaten since breakfast. So we pull up on the next sandy bank round the next bend and ravenously devour a mayo sandwich and share, while it’s still fairly cold, one of the three beers (the other two we’re going to try to save for my birthday on the 14^th).

Day 2: 7^th Feb 2010

Use of a plastic kettle – Lost and found paddle – Aussie encounter – Beer surprise – Man overboard

Not long into the day’s paddle we come to some minor rapids. It wouldn’t even be noteworthy were we in an inflatable raft or modern kayak or canoe – but we’re in a heavy, fully-laden, locally-built wooden pirogue that is for navigating and fishing on still, calm waters. The pirogue picks up speed and I use all my strength to steer the boat round the rocks.

I make it round the first few rocks, but can’t make the final sharp bend. The front jams against the rock, the back end swings round in the white waters and it too hits a rock. The boat is now wedged between a rock and a hard place leaning at an angle. Oh no! – there’s water coming in over the side. I leap out of the boat, hoping the reduced weight will lift the boat out of the water enough to stop the inflow. As I do so, I scream at Lars to get out too. Lars doesn’t really hear what I say, but from the sounds of my voice knows something’s up – startled, he jumps round to face me and effectively falls out of the boat.

Fortunately, with both of us quickly in the river, the boat rises and the inflow ceases. Now we can calm down and go about emptying the boat of the excess water. Suddenly it becomes clear what the yellow plastic and green plastic kettle that was in the boat when we received it is for -Obviously a plastic kettle is no good for boiling water. It is however, well-designed (albeit unintentionally) for scooping out water from flooded pirogues!

Waist-deep water removal technique

Disaster averted, we climb back aboard to continue our journey. But where’s my paddle? In the confusion, I had let go and it must have floated off downstream. Good job we brought spares – but better be more careful from now on! Fortunately though, a couple of bends downstream and I was able to retrieve the original paddle, which was floating in some still water.

We are enjoying some quiet, uneventful paddling when we hear laughter from further down the river. Soon we see three little figures on the riverside, which grow as we near them. But these aren’t local fishermen – they are white. I have seen three white people in Guinea in over a month and now, unexpectedly, we see three more on the remote banks of the Niger river. We paddle over to say hello; somewhat intrigued. It turns out that Shaun the Austrailian, the Belorussian and the Ukrainian are ex-pats working at the nearby mines. They are equally surprised to see us and are quick to hand us their last two beers in their cool-box which we thirstily gulp down. But if we are to make it to Bamako we must continue paddling and they now have no more beer. So with that, we continue on our journey down river and they get in their 4×4 and drive off.

Unexpected encounter - beer supply

Barely back in the rhythm of paddling and we come to another rocky section. The river narrows and divides round the rocks and the boat again picks up speed. But I just can’t turn the boat quick enough round the bend and in seconds the boat is headed into the low overhanging branches of the riverside trees. Lars being in the front, is helpless to avoid the branches and in an instant is being forced, back-side first, over the edge of the boat. I don’t have time to either laugh at Lars’ unfortunate situation or even worry that he may have been hurt, for I too am rapidly heading for a similar fate as the back end is swinging round. I decide to leap out before I am forced out. Once again we are both up to our waists in water.

This time as we gather our composure to continue onwards, it is Lars who realises he has lost his paddle. But once again we are lucky and are reunited with it downstream.

Day 3: 8^th Feb 2010

Sand-flies – Fishermen – Following the flotilla

I am awake earlier than usual today. I just can’t sleep. The reason is simple – I am itching. A lot. No, it’s not mosquitoes that are a problem, but tiny little black flies, otherwise known as sand-flies. I first became aware of these little pests when I was paddling that first afternoon and looked down at my legs. To my horror, I saw I was bleeding. My legs were covered in scores of pin-pricks of my blood. I was being eaten by sand-flies! Ever since, I had done my best to kill them before they got a chance to feast, but simply put, there’s just too many of them. These innocuous little pin-prick sized marks soon become incredibly itchy. So itchy, you just have to scratch them. So itchy, you can’t ignore it; you struggle to get to sleep in an evening and in the night you unconsciously go about scratching at your legs with such intensity that you wake yourself up.

After the usual morning coffee that I make while Lars peacefully sleeps on, we packed the boat and started paddling once again. It was a relatively easy morning, with some periods of silky smooth river and only occasionally did we get stuck on a partially exposed rock or on the sand in particularly shallow sections, where we would have to get out of the boat and push. We continued to pass several fishermen and made the usual exchange of a wave and ‘bonjour, ca va?’

Going nowhere fast - Shallow Waters

In the afternoon, the river widened and became rocky. I found it difficult to navigate through, unable to pick out the deepest water and regularly we got stuck on rocks. Each time we’d have to get out and drag the boat over.

As we were struggling on yet more rocks, we were overtaken by local fishermen who were proficiently poling their way through the maze – they know the river, they know the deep channels, they don’t get stuck. Soon another pirogue with fishermen passes us…. and another. We look upstream to see a flotilla of boats making their way towards us. With some help from of the locals, we are soon afloat again and we pick up the pace. I am eager to keep up with them for as long as possible, so I can follow their path.

I am envious of the way the fishermen move through the water with such ease and speed. One stands at the back and using a long pole, 2-3 times their height, places it on the riverbed and pushes backwards. In doing so, the boat propels forward in a long burst of speed. My experience of punting on the river Cam back in England is insufficient against these professionals though and we find that the more traditional paddling as though in a canoe is more effective for us, although significantly more energy-intensive.

That afternoon we covered a lot of ground though and rarely ran aground either.

In the next update…

Now you may be thinking, that three days into the journey, we are starting to get the hang of paddling and that things would get easier from here….

That’s what we thought anyway.

How wrong can you be?!

The photo slideshow includes a photo of every spot we stayed, except one night when I forgot to get my camera out. That night, we camping up on the bank of the river in the bush, under trees – you would never have known we were near a river that night!

I’ve also updated the route map to include the route cycled to my current location, Bamako in Mali. I’ve marked on (in white) where I have been camping each night, including for the 15 days while paddling down the Niger River between Faranah and Kouroussa.