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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.

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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?!

Travels down the Niger River – 350km, Faranah to Kouroussa (Guinea)

6^th – 22^nd February 2010

The Idea

The idea of a boat trip came about during discussions with Lars, way back in the early days of cycling through the Western Sahara. Several long days riding in the desert, gave me plenty of time to convince myself that paddling down one of the rivers somewhere in West Africa was do-able. Indeed, it’s as the saying goes... ‘it is those who dream by the day who are dangerous, for they are the ones who turn those dreams into reality‘. All I had to do, was do some research and choose the best river.

There is one river in West Africa that is as famous as the Nile or the Congo, and that river, being the third longest in Africa, is the Niger river.

My original route for cycling through West Africa was to include passing through Faranah in Guinea, just 150km from the river’s source, and then travelling the section of road following the Niger river from Kouroussa in Guinea to Bamako in Mali. Perhaps it would be possible to swap the pedals for some paddles for this part of the journey?

While recuperating in Nouadhibou, after crossing the Sahara by bike, I had plenty of time to do some research and yes, it looked like it would be possible to buy or have built a pirogue (the typical style of wooden boat used by locals is this region) in Faranah, which I could then paddle down the mighty river into Mali. I mentioned this to Lars and it wasn’t long before he was changing his plan of paddling on the Moa River in Sierra Leone to join me.

Three more months of adventure from the bike saddle; passing through the arid acacia-dotted sahel and mangrove swamps of Senegal, along the Gambia river, detouring through little known Guinea-Bissau, on through the green highlands of Guinea’s Fouta Djalon and down into the humid, tropical forests of Sierra Leone; and we arrived in Faranah.

For those three months, the dream of paddling down the Niger river was alive, but always in the hazy future, further down the road. And then we were in Faranah – looking across the Niger River from the bridge as you enter the town. Yes; this is possible, I thought – so close to the source, the river at Faranah is only about 20m wide with a gentle, barely visible current.

The River and Mungo Park

The year prior to leaving England on the bike, I had read lots of literature on Africa; it’s history, geography and people, including several accounts from early European explorers to the continent. One of those explorers was Mungo Park and his book, ‘Travels in the Interior of West Africa’, is based on his diary.

Mungo Park, a Scottish physician, offered his services to the African Association, who were looking for someone to discover the course Niger River. On his second expedition to the Niger River, on arrival in 1805 he converted two canoes into a 40 foot long boat and set sail downstream from Segou (in present day Mali) in his boat, christened ‘Joliba’ after the local name for the Niger River.

The section of river that Mungo Park travelled was significantly further downstream than the part I was planning to paddle. I also hoped that I wouldn’t meet the same fatal end to my expedition, to hostile tribes along the river.

Not seriously worried about hostile tribes, I was however somewhat apprehensive about a number of potential problems. For 350km between Faranah and Kouroussa, we would need to be entirely self-sufficient – no villages or roads nearby in case of a problem.

We would have to make sure we didn’t capsize and lose food, sink the boat or get seriously injured – we would have to cope with an emergency ourselves, evacuation could take days and could soon become a life-or-death scenario in the event of a serious problem. We would be paddling through the Haut Niger National Park of Guinea, uninhabited except by abundant wildlife. Not only would we have to be on the lookout for snakes and spiders, but also crocodiles and more worringly, hippos. Contrary to popular belief, hippos are dangerous animals and kill far more people each year than lions, elephants or any other large animal in Africa.

But before I need worry further about a more detailed assessment of risks involved or indeed my mental health, we first would need a boat…

The Boat

After some enquiring in town as to where we could purchase a boat or indeed speak to someone who could build one for us, the manager, Boh, of the Hotel Firya situated by the river, arranged a meeting with a local fisherman for the following morning.

The following morning, back at the hotel, we met fisherman Daman Camara. After much discussion, which took an inordinate amount of time due to the need to translate from Fula through to French and then into English for full clarification (which is not always clear, much being lost in translation), we agreed that Daman would build our boat.

The boat – a wooden pirogue – similar in style to those used by the local fishermen, was to be six metres in length and flat-bottomed since this is more stable than the dug-out varierty. This, Daman assured us, would be big enough for the two of us, our bikes, luggage and food for a couple of weeks. We also made sure that paddles and a long pole were included and most importantly that there were a least a couple of spares. We didn’t want to be stranded up the Niger without a paddle!

With further negiotiations, we agreed a price and more importantly a date that our boat would be completed… in five days time, on Saturday.

Five days gave us plenty of time to buy provisions and think up a name for the boat….

Our Supplies

So what exactly were we going to need for the trip?

It mentioned in our guidebook that the 350km stretch between Faranah and the next town, Kouroussa, should take between 10-14 days. We reckoned, since we were fit and willing to paddle hard, it would take nearer 10 days. We asked the locals at the hotel and they reckoned it would take one and a half days, maybe two! Boh, the manager was a little more conservative, and said that if we took it gently with time to enjoy the scenery and take photographs, it may take up to four days….

To be on the safe side, we bought food for 15 days, plus some extra pasta for good measure.

Next we conjured up a shopping list, based loosely on what we wanted and refined it considerably to contain foodstuffs we could actually purchase in this part of Guinea.

Below is a list of all the food we took with us:

• 4 kg Pasta (9 meals plus 1kg extra)

• 1 kg Rice (3 meals)

• 2 kg Potatoes (2 meals)

• 10 bread (baguettes)

• 3 kg mayonnaise

• 30x50g cereal (powdered)

• 4 tins sardines (125g each)

• 4 tins canned meat (320g each)

• 16 cheese triangles (240g total)

• 40 onions

• 10 carrots

• 10 tomatoes

• 15 oranges

• 6 limes

• 1 coconut

• 6 tins tomato puree (70g each)

• salt, garlic, dried chillis, stock cubes, spice sachets

• 30 sachets jolly juice (powdered fruit drink flavouring)

• 50g coffee

• 800g drinking chocolate powder

• 800g milk powder

• 1kg sweetened milk concentrate

• 300g sugar

• 30 packs glucose biscuits

• 3 packs bran biscuits

• 4 packs other biscuits

• 100 lollipops

• 100 youpi choco (sachets of chocolate spread)

• 1 kg peanuts

• 6 bottles soft drinks (500ml each)

• 1 bottle red wine

• 3 bottles beer (Guiluxe)

Besides food, there were a number of other items we thought we would need / should take / might be nice to have etc. These included:

• Ropes – for tying everything into the boat

• Plastic bags – for waterproofing everything we didn’t want to get wet

• Stove – a cheap metal one the locals use, in case we needed to cook in the boat

• Charcoal – fuel for cooking with the stove when open fires weren’t possible

• Nails – for repairs to the boat

• Hook and line – for fishing

• Batteries – for torches

• Jerry cans – for carrying water (used river water but this needed purifying before drinking)

• Plastic bowl – for washing

• Toilet Paper – fairly obvious

• Mosquito repellant

• Water purification

Of course we would have with us everything that we normally carry on our bikes too, including important things such as suncream, hat, flip-flops and sunglasses; pen knife, torch, tent etc…

Five Days in Faranah

Monday

Our first meeting with Daman Camara, who agreed to build the boat. By evening, we are told that Daman has bought wood for the boat and will begin work tomorrow.

Tuesday

Today we moved to Hotel Firya to be near river, ready for departure day. We visit Daman’s house, a modest group of round thatch huts situated between the river and the town centre, where the boat is being made. At this stage, our boat is little more than two shaped planks of wood nailed together lying on the floor. Two of Daman’s helpers, one considerably more skilful and careful than the other, are slowly carving out the shape for the side panelling. We are surrounded by the families children as we inspect the work, clueless about whether this is good work or not. What we lack for in knowledge, we make up for in interest and ask if we can return the next day to see how it’s progressing. We continue into town and begin buying some provisions.

Wednesday

We return to Daman’s house, where the men are busy at work inspecting and repairing their nets which are strewn about the house compound. They are preparing to a big fishing trips it seems.To our surprise, the pile of wooden planks has been transformed into a boat-looking structure. It doesn’t seem like there’s much more work needed.

Daman calls on a local with a camera to come and immortalise his work for these two slightly crazy white tourists. Using a 35mm SLR, the likes of which I only see in second hand shops and rarely now used in the UK, the local took some photos of me, Lars, Daman and the boat, together with the 15 or so eager children who cheered loudly and grinned widely every time the camera clicked and flashed.

Thursday

At the hotel we are told the boat is finished. This is great news! We go to Daman’s house to take a look. Led by the children, we walk down a narrow footpath to the river. Looking down the steep bank we see, for the first time, our boat; our very own water-borne boat…

Rather than excitement and enthusiasm however, a slight disappointment comes over me.- I see our unassuming, unimposing boat, looking quite pathetic and small, floating on the large body of the Niger River being clambered upon by the bathing kids with a non insignificant amount of water sloshing within the boat’s breeches. Is this really the boat that is supposed to take us down the Niger River?

Within minutes however, the children are scarpering and one girl is left to empty the boat of water using a plastic scoop. Led by Boh we climb aboard our pirogue and Daman paddles us proficiently upstream towards the hotel. Once there, we suggest we have a go at paddling. So with careful manoeuvring within the seemingly unstable boat (I’m very glad we didn’t get a dugout canoe), Lars crawls to the back and takes to the helm.

Paddle firmly in hand, Lars cautiously places it in the water and slowly drags it through the still water. Nothing happens. He repeats this manoeuvre several times and we don’t go very far or very straight. In fact, I think we may have been going in a circle, drifting slightly downstream when we were trying to get upstream. Lars, at the back end of the boat, seems unaware, smiling obliviously like a child with a new toy. Me, at the front end facing him, trying to conceal my concerns, am seriously worried – What have I gotten myself into?! We have what appears to be a leaking boat and we can’t steer it let alone propel it forward.

Before Lars has completed an unintended 360-degree turn, Boh takes over and paddles us back to the hotel. At this point I suggest I should have a go. Far from being an expert (more than 350km in fact), having been canoeing a couple of times previously and with some experience punting on the river Cam during my inebriated university years, I suggest I have a go at paddling – somehow we have to figure out how to get this boat down the river and there’s no time like the present. Fortunately, my meagre experience is sufficient to make me look as though I know what I’m doing – I even manage to go in a straightish line up and downstream and steer us to the bank near the hotel. Now that was a huge relief!

My attention then turns to the increasing volume of water inside the boat. I mention this to Boh, who proceeds to explain that this is normal. Hmm. Sceptical, I repeat my concerns. Boh then efficiently scoops the water out of the boat and inspects the seams. There does appear to be a couple of places where the water is slowly flowing in, but once again Boh explains this is normal for this style of boat. I decide I let this issue rest – we can check that the boat is still floating the next day.

With that, we retire to the hotel for a celebratory beer – one step closer.

We are convinced it is only Wednesday and so think we may be able to leave early. We could buy the remaining provisions and have a practise paddle tomorrow and then leave on Friday. Now that would be great!

Friday

We go to take a look at state of the boat. Strangely, it’s not where we left it. Perhaps Daman has taken it back for some reason (maybe minimise the leaking). We go to Daman’s house, but it is deserted except for the youngest children and the women. The men are gone, the older boys are absent, the fishing nets have disappeared. We decide to go down the footpath to the river bank – no boat there either. Oh dear. Where’s our boat? A leaking boat is better than no boat at all.

Nothing to be done, so we go into town to buy the remaining supplies, except of course perishables which we intend to buy last minute before we leave. While in town we notice the large number of people leaving the mosque in their Friday-best. This gets us thinking that maybe we have our day’s confused – it’s not Thursday, but Friday. Oh well, not to worry, looks like the boat will still be ready on the day expected – which in Africa is almost unheard of. When Daman had originally said the boat would be ready on Saturday, we fully expected it to be more-or-less ready on Sunday so we may be able to depart the following Monday.

We return to the hotel in the evening and Daman is there waiting for us. He has finished making our paddles and poles. Great. We ask where the boat is (hopefully not sunk already). Boh apparently had moved it upstream, away from playful children. Everything finally ready, we pay Daman for his work and go to our littered room to wrap and pack our belongings in numerous plastic bags in an attempt to waterproof everything.

We leave tomorrow.

One Last Thing…

We still had to name the boat. It seemed only right that, seeing as it was Mungo Park who had inspired my interest in the Niger river, that we name our boat after his. And so, our boat was to be The Joliba II.

For photos of the boat-building, see this post

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I will of course be writing a full update, but for now, here are some pictures from the two weeks…

We had arrived in Freetown on the bustling streets of Kissy Road in the East End lined with stalls selling everything from second-hand shoes to fake Sony radios; and had navigated our way through the commercial district centred around the towering cotton tree, down along Congo Road and across the poor shanty district of Kroo Bay where fishermen from Liberia reside and onto the relatively prosperous Aberdeen West End of town with it’s large, Lebanese-run supermarkets selling expensive imported foods and numerous white Toyota Landcruisers owned by any one of the multitude of aid agencies speeding down Wilkinson Road.

Having relaxed and recuperated in Freetown, it was time to hit the road again. Next stop, Faranah; over the border in Guinea. And so, two weeks later and we were once again navigating our way back through the town’s congested roads that weave around the hilly peninsula to get to the Kissy Shell station east of town where we could find a taxi to take us to Makeni – the prospect of retracing three days worth of road was not appealing. The plan was to taxi to Makeni and then continue by bike from there.

Taxi from the Kissy Shell

Not surprisingly, finding a willing taxi-driver wasn’t difficult. Surprisingly, finding a willing taxi-driver for a reasonable price without too many hustlers and onlookers wasn’t difficult either. In fact, it happened something like this… we arrived, asked where the taxi rank was but this brought with it unwanted attention from poor twenty- and thirty-some-things seeing white tourists as cash so we went and found a small stall where we could sit and have a cold coke (it had been a hot, sweaty, dirty cycle weaving through the black-smoke-emitting traffic, with the combined effect of the vehicles negating any progress towards a carbon-free economy back home), half-way through the refreshing drink Lars commented that it would be so simple if we could just make a call to order a taxi and have it pull up right where we were waiting, but before we had finished the coke a people-carrier pulled up and the driver came over to ask if we wanted a lift (no call necessary), he said he could take us to Makeni, we asked the price, he said 200,000 Leones, we said 100,000 Leones and soon enough he agreed. Before long, bikes were secured with a net in the back with the boot open and we were in the back seat, being driven away from Freetown along familiar roads at a speed significantly faster than we had arrived two weeks prior.

Back the way we came

In just three hours, rather than three days, we had passed the historically English named towns of Wellington, Hastings and Waterloo on the peninsula, out into the green lowlands and up into the drier north of the country. After a late lunch in Makeni we cycled out of town, continuing on the asphalt through Panlap and Binkoni before trying to find somewhere to camp. Finding somewhere to camp wasn’t so easy though. Wherever there was a potential spot there were people and whenever there was no-one else around the dry grass was too tall and too thick to leave the road. Eventually we found a small path and it led to raised, rocky ground overlooking the road.

BANG – A Long, Sleepless Night

I had a terrible night’s sleep – waking up to rustling in the grass nearby. Perhaps it was a person. Bleary-eyed, I looked out through my tent but I couldn’t see anyone. Silence. I check the clock – midnight. I roll over and start to drift off to sleep. And then, that rustling sound again. Closer. Louder. Then silence. I’m fully awake now. I hold my breath, listening for the sound. There it is. Rustling. And then silence. It sounds too loud to be a rodent or bird. Whatever it is, it sounds like it’s taking a few steps closer, then stopping and then a few more steps. But there were no cattle or goats nearby. Lying in the darkness, my imagination takes over – could it be a wild animal? I can feel my heart beating faster. Pounding. It couldn’t be a lion could it? Rustling. ‘Lars, did you hear that?’ I whister. Silence – no rustling, no response. Mind alert, I now vaguely recall something I had read earlier – in 2001 a local hunter shot a male lion in Sinkunia (north of where we were camping) with the help of supernatural powers, no less!. It was the first lion reportedly seen in Sierra Leone for 50 years. Now, if the only lion seen in 50 years was killed, it seems unlikely there was another one on the prowl outside my tent. The rational part of my brain kicking in, I decide it’s probably nothing to worry about, zip up the tent outer and try to go back to sleep. Dozing off…. and then, ‘BANG’ in the distance. ‘BANG… BANG. BANG… BANG. BANG’. What was that? Wide awake, mind alert again, trying to determine the source of the noise in the ensuing silence. Sounded like a shotgun. Strange – can’t imagine anyone hunting in the middle of the dark night. And then, another series of ‘BANG’s – a bit closer this time. Hmmm, my mind wanderz back to the warnings of Ward in Kindia about rebels in the border areas and a possible civil war brewing. Surely if there was trouble we would have heard something in town? More ‘BANG’s, but down the road past where we’re camping. Silence. Am I going crazy? And then yet more ‘BANG’s, nearer still, from the other side of the road. ‘Lars, did you hear that?’ Silence – no more bangs, no response either. I must be going crazy. If Lars can sleep through the night in blissful ignorance, then I am going to try and do the same. I roll over and try not to listen. Dozing off. How long have I been awake? I wonder….. and then I hear it – the faint sound of a cockerel crowing in the distance, followed by dogs barking, which sets off more dogs barking in surrounding villages and more cockerels crowing. Must be about 4am then. Great. I eventually drift off to sleep, only to wake with the morning light on my tent at six. No point trying to sleep now. I move outside, settle on the rock with my book and read until Lars emerges a couple of hours later, looking relatively (compared to me) well-rested and awake (and Lars is not a morning person by any stretch of my, clearly overactive, imagination!).

Bothered by Bees

The day’s cycle towards Kabala felt harder than it should. Initially the gentle ride winding between the rocky hills and massifs reaching skyward round every bend made for a scenic, enjoyable ride. Soon enough the road started snaking up the hills and soon enough I was on foot pushing. It’s not that the road was steep, but my legs just had nothing to give – a combination of being ill in Freetown and lack of sleep had totally sapped my energy.

Early in the afternoon we came to a bridge across a river. Unusually, there were no people washing there. The reason soon became clear when we tried to find a way down to the river’s edge; the banks were just too steep. It did look like a lovely spot to camp though and I certainly wasn’t going to complain about stopping early. Upstream we could see another, abandoned, bridge and we looked for a path to it through the overgrown roadside. It wasn’t long before a local passed through and we decided that this may not be an ideal place to rest – there were rather a lot of ants about. I started packing my things away and found my trainers to be the surrounding by a small swarm of bees. I picked the shoes up and put them on the floor while I packed away my clothes. But the bees then decided that I was far more interesting than my trainers. Lars, only a few feet away meanwhile complained about one pesky fly. Trying my hardest to ignore the buzzing around my head and arms, I hastily shoved my remaining gear in the panniers. But I couldn’t do it quick enough, and the ever increasing number of bees persisted to bother me. OUCH! Stung. That was it – I was out of there like a shot, forcing my bike through the undergrowth, regardless of the thorns, back to the bridge. Lars emerged a few minutes later. ‘There were quite a lot of bees weren’t there?’ Really?!

And off we cycled to find another place to camp, free of ants and bees. An hour later, getting desperate and tired, we eventually found somewhere, in a small clearing under some trees on the outskirts of a village. By now, the pain from the sting had subsided and an itch was intensifying as my forearm began to swell. I don’t know what it is with me and insects – they all seem to love me: mosquitoes, ants, termites, bees, spiders (the list of encounters is increasing) – the feeling is definitely not mutual.

Despite an itching arm, I slept well that night and woke up feeling strong. And from then on the cycling was enjoyable again. After Kabala, the tarmac ended and the road got rougher. But the rough roads make for fun cycling, especially when you’ve got lots of energy.

Guinea Re-Visited – Home Sweet Home

The border at Gberia Fotombu, on the Sierra Leone side was a hive of activity. By the time we emerged with our exit stamp, we had a large, and growing, entourage of locals following behind us up the road to the border. The police officer, garbling in an unidentifiable language, let us through and pointed us towards the middle of a field. We had asked where the Guinea control point was, but he clearly didn’t understand us. In the middle of the field was a small circle of concrete – this, apparently, marked the actual border. Fascinating! So off we cycled, 10km to the first Guinean village, Heremankono. Almost immediately, you could catch a faint sniff of that familiar smell of burning grass. And rather than tall grasses blocking the view from the road, you could see beyond, into the cut grass fields for grazing cattle, the occasional hut and rickety fencing marking property boundaries. It seems that the Guineans do a lot more with the land than their Sierra Leonean neighbours.

Heremankono, literally means, ‘Home Sweet Home’. And Home is exactly what it felt like. Back in familiar Guinea, with it’s quiet, kind, friendly people. It’s not that the Sierra Leoneans weren’t friendly, far from it, but children screaming ‘oporto’ (white) at you as you pass each village and half the adult villagers surrounding you and talking loudly about you and the bikes while you’re trying to have a quiet morning coffee can get rather tiring.

Women’s Rights

At the far side of Heremankono, there was one military officer in charge at the barrier, who with a commanding voice and firm handshake sent us to get our passports stamped. The commissar was a lady – it’s good to see women in positions of responsibility in regions where traditionally the women’s role has been in the home and fields. I had seen several women in police uniform in Sierra Leone also and Guinean women in military uniform also. Many of the control points in Sierra Leone had posters campaigning for women’s rights. ‘A woman has rights, a woman has a right to own property’, was one slogan, and below that someone had handwritten in ‘Really, it’s true’, as if to try and convince non-believers.

Over the Niger River and Into Faranah

Officially in Guinea, we didn’t have to cycle far to find somewhere to camp, which was a relief after the previous few nights. We were even able to cook for the first time and have a camp coffee in the morning before setting off on the final leg to Faranah.

It was an easy, mostly downhill cycle to the main tarmac road and then 14km/17km (depending on whether you chose the map or road marker distance) into town. I narrowly avoided running over a chameleon as I sped down the road, which was a relief for me seeing as I’d already managed to inadvertantly kill one in Morocco a few months ago, and they really are fascinating creatures.

On arrival in Faranah, we passed over the Niger River – my first glimspe of Africa’s third longest river (after the Nile and Congo), at 4030km. Being relatively close to the source, the river here is barely 30m wide and in places you can see the rocky bottom, now that it is well into the dry season. I can however confirm that it flows west to east as Scottish explorer Mungo Park discovered in 1796.

We asked four old men for directions to a good hotel and they pointed us up to Hotel Babylon. After checking in, a shower and a beer, we headed into town to make some enquiries….

Did anyone know where we could buy a boat, or someone who could build one for us?

The appeal of the Niger river is just too tempting and it’s time to swap pedals for paddles….

Boat Building

So, although there’s nothing for the tourist in Faranah, it’s a friendly town, with a sizeable market, a large variety of excellent street food and there’s even the occasional internet connection too. Which is good news, because we’re here for the rest of the week while Daman Camara, a local fisherman, gets busy transforming planks of wood into a six-metre boat that will (hopefully) take me, Lars, two bikes and lots of food, 750km through the Upper Niger National Park, across the border into Mali and on to Bamako.

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