I was outside a Pakistani UN compound some 120km from Monrovia and looking for a safe spot to pitch my tent. A short distance back down the road the overweight proprietress of a roadside restaurant had refused me permission to camp, preferring instead that I take a room. The place had no electricity or running water. She wanted $50 and wasn’t very interested in bargaining.

“Are you a Muslim?” asked the moustached soldier after he climbed down from his post and we shook hands across the barbed wire. “No, but I like your country” I replied with a smile.

Several minutes later I  was introduced to several officers, seated with a cup of tea and shown my private room for the night. The commander came forward to introduce himself, gave a brief history of the battalion and probably wondered what the hell I was doing riding my bicycle through Liberia. He would have thought the same thing had we met in Pakistan.

“You cycled through Pakistan in 2007?” one of the officers later exclaimed as I scooped up a mouthful of chana masala with a hot fresh chapati.“That was a very bad year for us”. Citing the recent floods I politely asked what year in recent history hadn’t been a bad one for Pakistan, and thought it a far less secure country to be in right now than Liberia. They might have agreed, but the conversation moved on and I was soon showing them pictures of cycling up the Karakorum Highway. What I wouldn’t give for some of that mountain scenery right now.

Breakfast was served the following morning at 7.30am sharp. I had been asked several times the night before what time I would eat, how I wanted my eggs cooked and whether I preferred chapatis or parathas. The officers didn’t join me. I think they took breakfast at 4am, before the first prayer of the day and the fasting that would follow. I had been reminded that as a non-Muslim I didn’t have to observe Ramadan. Thank God for that.

My over-dose of Muslim hospitality left me feeling a bit disorientated when I said goodbye. As with the ex-pat company in Monrovia it had been easy to forget I was in Liberia. This was another World transplanted into Africa. Organizations working for the people, but often so far away from them. And here I was slipping from one World to another as a matter of choice..

The next night I chose to stay in a brothel, although I was very tempted to call in at a Bangladeshi UN compound and see how they fared with the Pakistanis in the hospitality stakes. I say brothel in as much as it was the cheapest guest-house around ($7 for a single room in which I could touch all four walls when lying on the  hollow foam mattress) light bulbs in the place were red and it was in a border town. It’s often enough to go on. A few kilometres up the road was Guinea.

The town of Ganta wasn’t such a bad place though. It had women grilling fresh fish and kebabs on the street at night, people smiled at me and I could drink cold beer without receiving any hassle. Cold beer disappears quickly after cycling 140km, and club beer, Liberia’s own, isn’t too bad.

The tarmac ends in Ganta, and it’s where I thought the real jungle would begin. My Michellin map of north-west Africa shades Liberia in a pale green, with a key denoting the colour as ‘dense jungle’. How very inaccurate. Some stretches of land outside Monrovia appear more like moorland than tropical jungle – an apocalyptic landscape of bare brown slopes. Very sad. Where there is forestation it is often in the form of rubber and palm plantations. Pretty monotonous on the eyes after a while. I haven’t taken many photos recently.

Fortunately, like Sierra Leone the spirit of the people goes a long way to make up for the dull-ness in the landscape. I feel little threat or insecurity out on the road here, although it’s slightly disconcerting when a convoy of UN trucks passes me by. People smile, wave, laugh and look-on with incredulous faces from outside their huts. If I stop or slow down they’ll be sure to ask ‘What is your mission?‘. A few days ago I heard someone announcing that I was an evangelist. People cheered and clapped as I waved back in hysterics. I was actually trying to say I was on an adventure. I guess the words aren’t that dissimilar in sounding.

I’m writing this from the compound of an NGO in the town of Zwedru. Approximately 200km over an undulating red-laterite road, more dusty than muddy, has brought me here from Ganta. Another 300km lie ahead to the coastal border with the Ivory Coast. This, according to various sources, is a terrible stretch of road. I’m glad the rains have lessened. It will be interesting to see how my new $4 tyre I bought in the market here copes. After 12,500km the front tyre developed a large split several days ago. It’s a pity Schwalbe tyres aren’t available in this part of the World. Anyone wish to donate a spare?

]]> http://www.thebigafricacycle.com/general-posts/lost-jungle/feed 5 http://www.thebigafricacycle.com/general-posts/sailing-squash-and-sushi-another-monrovia http://www.thebigafricacycle.com/general-posts/sailing-squash-and-sushi-another-monrovia#comments Tue, 17 Aug 2010 19:26:06 +0000 Peter http://www.thebigafricacycle.com/?p=2232

The sushi was surprisingly good. Not cheap, but then sushi never is. A healthy dose of natsukashii as they say in Japan. As was the game of squash preceding it. Not a bad way to spend yesterday evening.Who would have thought that Liberia had a squash club? The annual tournament winners board dates back to 1976, but since 1995 the names no longer appear. Playing squash probably didn’t figure in the minds of many club-members when gun-fire ruled the streets of Monrovia.

Squash and sushi, surreal as they still sound to me here in Monrovia, were an unexpected way to celebrate a year on the road. On the evening of August 16^th 2009 I was enjoying a few farewell drinks before wheeling my bicycle off the south coast of England and onto a ferry bound for France. At the time I envisaged being a little closer to South Africa than here in Monrovia. Anyone reading this website over the past 6 months will know other unforeseen events have slowed my progress.

I don’t think my wrist has been mentioned in recent posts. It’s five months now. There remains a slight stiffness and swelling around the scar, and I don’t have the same amount of flexibility as I do in my right wrist. I possibly never will, but all things considered, things could have been a lot worse. I’ve wisely stopped walking alone in African cities at night.

I almost forgot to mention the sailing. More ex-pat surrealism. One hour’s drive south from Monrovia lies the town of Marshall. There is little to denote that it is a town – thatched huts and a few concrete buildings line the 15km dirt track that ends at a palm-fringed lagoon. The ocean surf is audible, but out of sight from the pink villa that sits by the calm water’s edge. A Lebanese family relax on the wooden veranda enjoying the view. In front of the villa a small catamaran lies moored alongside a laser dinghy, whilst out on the lagoon dug-out canoes glide by, transporting local villagers to some invisible village. It is a tranquil scene, the sound of the distant surf broken only by that of an engine. Out on the lagoon a young Lebanese man is speeding across the water on a jet-ski. ‘It’s a lot of fun’ remarks one of the Germans I’ve joined for the afternoon. So is sailing I say, something else I haven’t done for a long time.

]]> http://www.thebigafricacycle.com/general-posts/sailing-squash-and-sushi-another-monrovia/feed 8 http://www.thebigafricacycle.com/general-posts/poolside-in-monrovia http://www.thebigafricacycle.com/general-posts/poolside-in-monrovia#comments Thu, 12 Aug 2010 11:54:50 +0000 Peter http://www.thebigafricacycle.com/?p=2197 “To the casual visitor at any rate Monrovia is a more pleasant city than Freetown. Freetown is like an old trading port that has been left to rot along the beach, it is a spectacle of decay. But Monrovia is like a beginning.” (Graham Greene: Journey without maps)

The air conditioning in this apartment is constantly on, even when nobody is here. “It helps stop the mold from coming on the walls” my host tells me. He doesn’t mind it running all day. The bills for the apartment, like the rent, are covered by his employer. It’s not cheap. The cost of staying one month here would take the average Liberian more than 5 years to earn. That is assuming he had a regular job. Most Liberians don’t. It is a sobering thought. I would feel better if I knew the money was staying in Liberia. It’s not. The landlord is Lebanese.

If it wasn’t raining I might sit outside on the balcony. It overlooks a pool and the pounding surf of the Atlantic. I have to step out of the high-walled compound to be reminded I’m in Liberia, West Africa, one of the poorest countries in the World.

A number of other ex-pats live in similar western-furnished apartments, most without this view, here in Monrovia. This city is awash with UN organizations and NGO’s. More than anywhere else I’ve been. Before arriving here I imagined that living and working in the city would be considered as a ‘hardship’ post. Perhaps it is on paper. From the ex-pats I’ve met in the past few days I would say it is anything but.

There are a number of large supermarkets close to where I’m staying. Most foodstuffs are far more expensive than in supermarkets back home – almost everything is of course imported and then whacked for tax. The cashier seemed surprised when I handed over a small bundle of Liberian dollars to pay for my items. Here most people (foreigners) pay in US $. I can even withdraw them from an ATM, which came as a surprise.

I planned to only be here a few days. Long enough to get a visa for the Ivory Coast and pick up a package being sent out from the UK. It seems however that I’m going to be here a little longer. I have the visa (they issued it the same day – $75 for 30 days) but the package (a replacement keyboard for my laptop) is taking a while long. ‘Approximately’ next Tuesday I’m told. I can think of worse places I’ve stayed in and had to wait. When that rain stops I might go and read by the pool.

Eighty years on from when Graham Greene travelled on foot through Liberia (in actual fact he was carried much of the time) it appears some things don’t change. I don’t think there is a road map for the country. But then there aren’t many roads. As for the forest, much of that appears to have gone the same way as Sierra Leone – slashed and burnt. What one sees, at least on the 120km journey from the Sierra Leonean border to the capital, Monrovia, is a continuation of secondary growth – unremarkable bush interspersed by toilet-brush palms.

The road is a good one however, and the people equally as shocked and friendly to greet a white man riding a bicycle past the door step of their mud-thatched abode.

One of the Liberian immigration officers informed me that a “colleague” of mine crossed through this way several months ago. We continent-crossing cyclists are of course employed by our governments (at least in the minds of many Africans) and receive huge compensation for our efforts. “He was from China.” “Are you sure he wasn’t Japanese?” I questioned. The immigration officer thought for a moment. “Yes maybe”. My colleague I guessed was Hiromu, whom I’d cycled with for a day some 7 months ago. He’d recently e-mailed to say he was in Niamey, Niger, and would be heading to Ivory Coast within the next few months. There is a good chance we’ll meet again. Company on the road would be much appreciated.

Before riding into country number 11 (12 if I count Western Sahara) on this journey I changed my remaining Leonean currency into Liberian dollars and dined on a plate of ochre soup, unidentifiable meat (goat maybe) and rice, washing it down with several cups of Sierra Leonean palm wine. I’d bought 2.5 litres in Sulima and brought it across the border with me, much to the satisfaction and amusement of several immigration officers.

 Palm wine, it must be said, is an acquired taste. The first time I tried it in Sierra Leone I almost vomited, but subsequent samples of the stuff were either better, or else I just became hardened to the taste. Tapped fresh from the tree this sweet milky-white beverage isn’t all that bad considering it sells for about $0.25 a litre.

Without a decent map it was difficult to ascertain the distance to Monrovia. In Sierra Leone I found that people were often very accurate in quoting me the distance from their village to the next. Someone might say 7 miles, then another would step forward and say no, it’s 8 miles. Others might then agree with the second speaker that yes, the distance was 8 miles. Much to my surprise they were often right. This goes against the norm in Africa, where time and distance have little measure.

Well in Liberia it appears no-one knows anything about distances, not even police check-post officers. They will look at their watch, say 3 miles and tell you it will take 40 minutes to drive there.

One interesting feature about Liberians is that they have their own particular brand of handshake, which involves flicking the middle-finger with the thumb as you release your grip. This Americanism, if that is what it is, complements the calls of “Hey man, what’s up”, that is often called as a greeting from the roadside. Liberia is after all a nation that can point its history to the Americas rather than Europe. During the mid 19^th Century thousands of freed slaves from America settled back in what is now Monrovia.

Liberia these days shares a greater similarity with its northern neighbor. It too suffered a long civil war. Two in fact. There is still a large UN peace-keeping presence here and tourists aren’t likely to be sunning themselves on Monrovia’s beaches any time soon.

It was almost dark when I entered Liberia’s capital. Much like Freetown, and most African capitals in fact, there is little light on the street at night. This makes seeing the cavernous holes, which can be anything from 1ft-6ft deep, somewhat difficult. A strong dynamo-light would be a useful addition for cycling through Africa.

My outdated guidebook to west Africa provides scarce detail on Liberia, and like the FCO website, warns against travel outside of Monrovia. Personally I always feel safer in African villages than I do in any of their cities. How long I’m here for I don’t know. Several weeks ago a number of keys on my laptop decided to stop working. Efforts to remove and clean the keyboard have proven unsuccessful. I could of course continue without, but writing a blog update using the on-screen keyboard is really a test of one’s patience (this is being typed on a good old-fashioned Internet Cafe PC). So I’m here waiting in Monrovia whilst a replacement keyboard makes its way from the UK to me. This may also require some patience.

The capital was in fact dry for a few days on my return from Sahn Malen, and had I not been suffering with a cold and toothache I would have made my escape. The latter became worrying for a short time, so much so that the thought of undergoing dental treatment within Freetown’s government hospital had me seriously considering a return trip home. Fortunately the toothache subsided with the cold, but when I was ready to leave the state of Freetown’s streets were more suitable for surfing out of than riding a bicycle.

My hosts were optimistic that it would brighten up later, but the Lord clearly wasn’t answering their call on this occasion. Having originally stayed in the compound of a Sierra Leonean family, the premises of which might better have been described as a student squatter house, I found myself taking refuge in the company of missionaries on my return to Freetown. A friend from University put me in contact, although there was no mention of religious denomination when I e-mailed or spoke on the phone.

It was following grace at the table one evening that I was asked what church I belonged to. For a moment I thought of replying with something to the effect of ‘the Church of free thinkers’, but a pause in my response, and some kind of affirmative “um” to the question “Are you an Anglican like us”? seemed to settle matters.

Mike and Vi were in actual fact the kindest of hosts, and if they’re reading this they can be rest-assured that I’ve made it safely to Monrovia.

For the past decade they’ve been in Freetown to teach and spread the Lord’s word. Other assignments/missions have included living in remote Irin Jaya in the 1980’s. “I remember an English adventurer who made a name for himself mentioning us in one of his books”, remarked Mike. I thought for a moment – “maybe Benedict Allen”? “That’s the one. ‘From the crocodile’s mouth’ or something like that, was the name of the book.”

Conversation at the table often touched on religion. About so and so who was a Muslim, but had converted to Christianity. How Islam has grown in Sierra Leone since the war (all the Bangladeshi peace-keepers apparently) and how Christmas isn’t celebrated like it should be in Freetown. I did more listening than talking on these occasions.

When I finally left Freetown I didn’t get very far. The beaches more than the weather were to blame. I also met an interesting chap who’d recently returned from the states and built an ugly but idyllically-located concrete bungalow right on the beach. At the suggestion of this man – Mr James Sharp (it seems the Krio minority in Sierra Leone take very English names) I pitched my tent on the veranda and joined him in dining on the day’s catch.

 Sierra Leone’s claim to having some of the finest beaches in Africa is no overstatement. What makes the miles of palm-fringed white sand special is that its largely unspoilt. James pointed to a helicopter pad a short distance out in the sea and told me some history about Tokeh village. “That pad used to be connected to the beach by a wooden bridge and lit-up at night with lanterns. The owner of Africana wanted to create an impression for his guests.” Africana I later learnt used to be an enormous French-owned tourist resort, catering to 500 people and employing over 400 members of staff. James handed me a faded brochure showing photos of white tourists mingling round a pool in swim-shorts and bikinis. The place closed in 1995 and all that remains now are a few roofless concrete blocks. The jungle has taken over the rest.

“I was accounts manager for seven years”, explained James as he walked me over the site. “This is where I used to sit with a Mackintosh”. We were standing on the moss-covered foundations of the complex, behind which was a second helicopter pad, the remains of a discotheque and two overgrown tennis courts.

The beach now, like most of them on the Freetown peninsula, is devoid of tourist development. The war is naturally to blame, but I still imagined that someone with a bit of money and entrepreneurial spirit would have done something with the land in the past decade. The road around the peninsula is half-paved now, and it’s surely only a matter of time before the secrets of Sierra Leone’s beaches are re-discovered by mainstream tourism? Or maybe not.

Heading south from Tokeh the peninsula mountains became lusher and wilder. Water gushed out over boulder-strewn river-beds on its steep descent to the ocean and sign-posts on the road displayed names that seemed very out of place – York, Kent, Waterloo.

My plans had been to take a boat south from the peninsula and access one of two hard-to-reach coastal settlements, (Shenge or Bonthe) but the over-loaded wooden vessel that was about to depart in choppy seas didn’t inspire confidence. That and the fact that I would have to wade chest-deep to reach it.

Instead I followed the railway-line, or at least a route along which there used to be a railway-line. There has been no train running in Sierra Leone since the 1970’s. That was when the President at the time, Siaka Stevens, decided to pay off some of his mounting debts by selling the nation’s entire railway track. All that remains now are eery station posts  (Hastings, Bradford, Levuma, Mano), station houses (abandoned or else converted into clinics or government buildings) and the occasional bridge over some of the country’s major rivers.

There is little of interest in the countryside between these old settlements and their colonial past. Mile after continuous mile of slashed and burnt slopes stretch to either side of red-laterite tracks. No-where  does the ground rise high enough to give a really good lie of the land. Between the slashed stumps palm trees rise above cassava and rice plantations, their trunks and branches sticking up like toilet-brushes. If there ever was any wild animals, as all the locals like to warn me about, they either escaped during the war or else have been hunted down during this slash and burn blitz.

Most of the villages along these tracks are almost as monotonous and dull. Mud huts are fronted by bamboo posts, erected like goal posts, onto which clothes dry. In some of the dwellings hammocks hang under the eaves of roofed thatch. Here elders may muster a wave from their lethargic repose as you pedal by. In other villages (most come to think of it) swarms of children run towards, and sometimes away from you, screaming “pomoi” (foreigner). There is little to distinguish one settlement from another.

If the women aren’t washing clothes, pounding something, collecting water or preparing a fire for cooking, their chief pastime appears to be plaiting one another’s hair. As for the young men, those not laboring in the fields might be sat in the village meeting hall – a thatched gazebo, which is a centrally located feature of most settlements. They may have a radio switched on and be listening to the BBC World Service or a local station. Questions usually come forth whenever I stop to greet, take in my surroundings and occasionally ask for directions and distances.

“What is your mission?” one will ask after hearing that I’ve ridden a bicycle from England. It is a question I’ve been asked more in Sierra Leone than anywhere else. If I’m not an NGO worker, a missionary, a diamond-prospector or a tourist then what am I?  “An adventurer” I’ll say for want of a response. “What about the wild animals?” another might then ask. “It is the wild people I’m more afraid of” I’ll say. I could point to my wrist at this stage, but don’t bother. Some go on to ask whether the government pays me. Why else after all would a white man be riding a bicycle through Africa? If a small crowd hasn’t by this time formed around the bike it soon will, and unless there is something I need to do in the village (get water, food, ask for a place to stay) I’ll say my farewells and go. I ought to mention that there is no hostility or threat in any of these encounters. The friendliness of Sierra Leoneans  more than makes up for the monotony of much of their country’s landscape.

Having only visited one beach in Sierra Leone I decided on a small detour to see whether others were equally as beautiful. Sulima didn’t disappoint. My guidebook tells me it was once an important trading post (a chap from Liverpool was buried here – his lonely grave dating to 1879) and that Siaka Stevens built his holiday villa here. It’s war-ravaged shell remains beyond the collection of shacks. But it is the long white beach that separates the ocean on one side from the mouth of the Moa river on the other that defines this remote outpost. Zero development yet again, but then the road to get here requires some effort. I walked the beach and spent a lot of time imagining what it would be like to build a guest house here. The river on one side, sea on the other, fresh fish, river and jungle trips. I’d have it built from local materials, employ the villagers, power it with solar and wind. Travelling cyclists would stay for free, although I’m not too sure all that many pass this way. For anyone else, Sulima is a long drive from Freetown. Nine kilometers along the beach and you’re in Liberia, which is where I was headed to next.

Malaria is prevalent, particularly now during the rainy season, but for most people paying $5 for a mosquito net (much more if they wish to buy one for every sleeping space in their house) is simply too costly. Millions of people in Africa die from malaria every year. Bed-nets are the most cost-effective means of preventing the disease.

Now however the people of Sahn (and many others living in the Malen chiefdom) are able to sleep under an insecticide treated bed-net funded by those who’ve kindly donated money here.

Before showing some pictures of the distribution I should explain a little about how I became involved in it.

For a number of months I’ve been liasing with Rob Mather, founder  of the Against Malaria Foundation, to arrange helping with a distribution of bednets funded by people who’ve sponsored the Big Africa Cycle. If I could get to southern Sierra Leone by mid-July a distribution of nets would be taking place. The original plan was to cycle there, but time was too short.

 The NGO (Global Minimum) organising and funding the distribution have previously used the Against Malaria Foundation to purchase nets from in the past. They required 10,000 nets to ensure that everyone living in the Sahn Malen chiefdom  could benefit from sleeping under a bednet. Why this particular chiefdom? The Sierra Leoneon founder of Global Minimum knows the area well and how much of a problem malaria is. I subsequently agreed with Rob Mather to allow 2000 of the nets funded by people sponsoring the Big Africa Cycle to be ringed for this distribution.

Over the space of a week in more than a dozen villages I’d like to think I helped open and hand-out something like 2000  nets. It was a rewarding and insightful experience, and I hope that by sharing it here in pictures it will encourage more people to donate money to fund bednets for the next distribution I become involved in. Please do share any questions or comments.

Bales of bednets were loaded into a mini-bus at the start of each day and driven, along with the team of distributors, to one of the villages within the chiefdom.

Before visiting each house within the village, people would gather together to be instructed on how to use and maintain their bednets.

David Sengeh, the founder of Global Minimum conducts a survey to question each household and determine how many bednets to distribute.

People were asked a number of questions before being given bednets and each house was checked to see how many sleeping spaces were present. Bags were opened and kept so that bednets could be both hung up to air out and not later repackaged and sold.

The team involved in the distribution were both local residents and students from the cities of Bo and Freetown.

I chose to sit on the roof of the mini-bus as we drove between villages. Fortunately most of the distribution was done without it raining.

The population of villages in Sierra Leone is dominated by children. Reducing the size of families amongst rural communities is no easy task and it is not uncommon to find more than 20 people living within several rooms of a compound.

Many children sleep on the floor in villages because there is no bed-space. It is children under 5 that are most at risk from malaria. Educating parents about the importance of their young ones sleeping under a bed-net was necessary during the distribution.

Girls as young as 12 often become mothers in the village, and by the age of 16 most girls will have given birth. It is during pregnancy that they are most at risk of malaria.

Rice is the staple food in Sierra Leone, often served with a cassava sauce and occasionally  fish or bony lumps of chicken. It’s not as bad as it looks and communual eating is common in the villages, usually using one’s right hand rather than a spoon. Oh how I miss a nice juicy steak and English mustard!

 Once the insecticide-treated nets were given to families they were hung up so as to allow them to ventilate. What matters is whether the nets are used in the long-term. Global minimum will return to the villages in the the next few months to conduct spot checks.

I explained that despite a few bribe-searching optimists Guinea had been one of the most welcoming countries on my journey. Now I was entering a country whose name for most people is etched with images of war. Understandable I think. There was a civil war here that lasted 11 years and killed over 50,000 people. But Sierra Leone has been at peace for over a decade and is currently regarded as one of the most stable countries in west Africa. That might not be saying much for a country which is also one of the World’s poorest. Like Guinea, electricity and running water are almost non-existent outside the capital.

Mr Camara allowed me to pitch my tent in a room within the immigration office, before I joined him under the star-lit darkness and listened on the radio to Ghana sadly and controversially being knocked out of the World Cup. Sierra Leone is the third country in which I’ve been present during the tournament, but the first where English is used in the football commentary.

Back in Anglophone Africa I felt at ease and relaxed as I discussed the rest of the games and the road ahead of me. “It is bad as far as Falaba and then improves towards Kabala where it is paved”, explained Mr Camara the following morning as he placed a firm stamp in my passport granting me permission to stay in Sierra Leone until the end of August.

At this time of the year the problem with unpaved roads is due to the rain. Where the road is on a slope cavernous gullies can form during heavy downpours, whilst the road can disappear underwater whenever there is a large hollow.

The rain came shortly after I stopped in the first Sierra Leoneon village. Here I spent an hour hearing how people fled to Guinea during the war. “We suffered immensely. They were terrible times”, explained one man. I wondered whether questioning people about the war would be difficult or inappropriate, but here as elsewhere during my first week in the country people appeared all too willing to talk about their experiences.

It was dark again when I arrived in Kabala later that day. The town sits amongst a boulder-strewn landscape in the north-east of the country, although I could see nothing when I made it back onto the paved road.

Short of cash I needed to change money, doing so at a pharmacy of all places. It was Lebanese run, like most large shops and businesses in Sierra Leone. And much of west Africa for that matter.

Rain is refreshing and cooling in the tropics, until it falls so heavily and for so long that it merely chills and defeats you. From under a plastic-covered tarpaulin a school teacher waved me down to escape the downpour one afternoon. He was drinking from a small plastic satchet. On it was a picture of the African continent and a blonde woman throwing a punch. Double-punch was the name given to this pineapple-flavoured beverage. With an alcoholic content of 45% and a price of $0.10 even a teacher who makes 200,000 Leone a month ($50) can afford to buy a round or two. I asked why he wasn’t teaching. “It is the end of the school year and the students are sitting exams.”

I later visited the one-room school, met the Headmaster and somehow found myself sitting down alongside a number of other Double-punch drinking teachers to be crowned ‘Youth Development Manager’ of the village’s ‘Agricultural Cooperative Program’. The man chairing the meeting, whom I’d met on my tour of the village, considered my arrival on this afternoon to be a “gift from God” and that he was sure I would be helping and returning in the future. Had the rain not still been falling I might have taken this as my cue to explain the important meeting I had to make, then pedal on, but the bike and gear were already in the teacher’s compound and I’d accepted the invitation to stay the night. 

Food, (rice and cassava) was later served with the elders whilst I heard the problems associated with their country’s youth. For those that do go to school there is very little for them to do once they finish. My new friends offered nothing but hospitality, but as with other encounters in Sierra Leone it was hard to judge to what extent friendship went without the hope, if not promise, of me offering something (money), if not now then for sure in the future.

White men riding bicycles aren’t that common in Sierra Leone and it is rare to pass through a village without being reminded that you are a foreigner here. Looks of surprise followed by waves and smiles greet you at the roadside, and I seemed to spend half of the time with one hand waving back as I pedalled past the palm-thatched huts. Sierra Leone must rank as one of the most friendly and welcoming countries I’ve cycled through. 

“Oporto” is a word any white-skinned visitor will hear quickly here. Children yell it out, (and there are lots of them) as their bare-breasted mothers, many still children themselves, look on. The word derives from when the Portuguese were first sighted after dropping anchor in the country over 500 years ago. Confronted by large mountains at the mouth of a wide navigable river they called the area ‘Serra Lyon’ (Lion Mountains).

I imagine that at one time this peninsula of green mountains and white sandy beaches would have excited air passengers looking down at the capital before arrving  in the country. Now all one probably sees is a glistening patchwork of grey metal as corrugate-roofed shacks sprawl up the hillside.

On the ground Freetown is massively over-crowded and chaotic. I expected the pollution, the open sewers and free-for-all traffic laws, but perhaps not quite so many people on the street. On one particular road the mass of humanity reminded me of India. At least they have cows to control the traffic. The road was a carnival parade of people selling goods. Many of these market-sellers probably weren’t born in Freetown, but fled here after the war when their villages and homes were burnt and ransacked by the rebels. They’ve had plenty of time to return, but of course no-one wants to. If there is any money to be made it’s not out in the villages that’s for sure.

The beach in Freetown offers some respite from the crowds and mess downtown. I escaped here for a few hours whilst waiting to collect my Liberian visa.

Cycling in Freetown draws as much attention as it does in the villages. White faces here are far more likely to be seen behind the windows of white SUVs displaying the name one of the many dozens of different NGOs that operate in the country. Freetown, like most African cities, cannot be recommended for cycling in. It’s not so much the hills as the fact that there are no other cyclists on the road.

I still have to pedal out of the city, where I’m writing this from now, but for the last week I left my bike here in the compound of a Sierra Leoneon family, one of whom I recently made contact with over the Internet. He founded an NGO several years ago dedicated to helping distribute bednets to Sierra Leone’s poorest. In his possesion were some of the nets that people who’ve sponsored this journey have funded. I wanted to be part of the distribution and help. A bus, taxi and motorbike ride later I reached the village of Sahn Malin in southern Sierra Leone.

Several hundred metres back, beyond the ramshackle dwellings and stalls that made up this border town of Heremakono, the immigration Police seemed only to happy to bid me bon voyage and provide an exit stamp in my passport. Why was I now being told the border was closed?

I decided to sit down, pull out my journal and wait. After an hour passed I started to wonder if there was an element of truth in this explanation. Perhaps there was. Much more likely is that I was probably expected to have lost my patience and settled on the African way of getting things done – pay a bribe. There was only an hour left of light in the day and 10km of no-mans land on a muddy track lay towards the border with Sierra Leone.

I was contemplating either a bribe or finding somewhere to sleep in the town when it appeared that the novelty of this tight-fisted white man with his bicycle must have worn off. The nod came and the bamboo pole was lowered.

I had anticipated something like this after leaving Labe several days previously. The elections had fortunately passed quietly, but a military presence remained clearly evident on the road. Instead I found nothing but a continuation of waves and greetings in Fula as the road undulated through the green forested hills of the Fouta Djalon. Forested is perhaps not the right description. Many of the slopes have been cleared for cultivation and firewood, thereby leaving a wasteland of slashed tree-trunks. Unless land is placed under some National Park status or given special protection, people living in palm-thatched huts with no other source to cook their food are given a free reign to hack away at the vegetation around them. Guinea is no different from dozens of other poor countries in this regard.

Once I dropped out of the Fouta Djalon mountains the road diverged in two directions - right on what I guessed would be an increasingly busy road towards the coast and the capital, Conakry, and left towards the south of the country. Conakry sounded as appealing and scenic as Dakar, and given the uncertain political situation and the fact that I had no need to go there, the decision wasn’t very difficult to make.

Two days later I was at the border and back on a dirt track, making my time in Guinea shorter than I’d originally thought. I’d by-passed the waterfalls the guidebook had made much mention of, but I wanted to be involved in the distribution of mosquito nets that was taking place in the south of Sierra Leone. First there was Freetown to contend with.

As I write this Guinea is yet to announce it’s new President. No candidate won a clear enough margin of votes, thereby necessitating a second round of voting.

Thorny

Best to start with the bike. There’s not much to say, other than I’m very content. Apart from a broken front spoke and the occasional clicking from the bottom bracket (any suggestions?) my Thorn Raven has proven steadfast and strong. The rims miraculously show no signs of wear and I’ve yet to change the ceramic brake-pads. The Rolhoff hub hums along after an oil change 5000km ago and all cables seem fine. Yes its heavy (about 16.5kg with the tyres I have, racks, kickstand, 1m long chain lock and that hub) but I’m not trying to break a speed record. I re-oil and occasionally tighten the chain whenever it sags. A simple procedure done by turning the bottom bracket. Unless someone would like to advise me otherwise, the chain receives minimal wear and should last a good while longer?

Tyres

Somewhere in southern Morocco I switched the rear Schwalbe XR tyre to the front when it developed a small split in the wall. This will develop, but I’m optimistic both tyres will last several thousand more kms+. A great shame they’ve been discontinued. If I can get hold of some more I’ll continue to use them, otherwise their replacement Extremes.

Racks

Thorn’s expedition rear rack shows no wear and offers plenty of space for my camping bag. Some of you may have noticed the blue dry-bag on the rear rack has replaced the much larger black Ortlieb one I started the journey with. I swapped this with Jon in Senegal. With an 80L capacity it was too big for Africa. This blue bag fits my tent, sleeping bag and thermarest and is a much more compact set-up. The tent poles neatly strap on one of the rear panniers.

As for the Surly front rack, it provides an enormous and useful amount of space to bungee extra water bottles, flip flops (essential kit for African bucket-showers!) and any other gear that may be needed quickly. The rack may be a little heavy compared to other front racks, but it feels as solid and strong as it looks.

Mrs Brooks

My Brooks B17 saddle is now well broken-in and for the most part comfortable. Keeping it dry now that the rains have started isn’t easy, and I’m not sure tan-coloured shoe-polish is what Brooks would recommend me using, but it brings out a nice mahogany shine when I give her a polish. Non-cyclists and those who’ve never ridden a Brooks often think the solid leather is uncomfortable. The fact is unlike many synthetic-manufactured saddles the leather breathes, and once you’ve broken her in its a bit like giving up a pair of well-worn walking boots. I’m also of the opinion that a Brooks saddle adds a touch of class.

Kickstand

On my last tour I went through at least half a dozen kick-stands. They were those cheap Chinese -manufactured spring stands you see on many mass-produced bikes. This double legged-one is far stronger. The only occasional problem is that I possibly cut the metal a little short so that it has trouble holding itself on soft ground.

Panniers

My roll-top Ortlieb panniers show no signs of weakness and stay firmly fastened on to the racks. If I was to make a suggestion to Ortlieb it would be to sew in a mesh pocket to the rear of the front panniers. They seem to have successfully done this with the handlebar bag I have and managed to keep it waterproof. The pockets would come in handy for road-snacks, extra water bottles and stuffing things away.

Water filter

A short while ago I received an e-mail asking about the travel tap that appears on my equipment page. I decided to send it home. I found the bottle had to be squeezed very hard for the water to be filtered through, so it wasn’t like using a regular water bottle. In order for it to be effective it also has to be dried out after each use, which is just a hassle. I found it was sitting in one of my panniers for months. When I am concerned about the safety of the water to drink I have a number of sterilising tablets. I think the travel tap has it’s place in an emergency, but I’m not walking off into the wilderness and needing to collect my water from stagnant ditches and ponds.

Camp gear

My tent needs to pass through the rainy season before I give it a better review, but to be honest I don’t think any tent will keep you really dry in a prolonged African downpour with strong winds. I’m not talking about the tent leaking, more the fact that your belongings will become damp. I’ve pitched the tent over 100 times now. The poles remain strong, the full mesh inner is perfect in hot weather and the tent has no flaws in it other than a small hole that needs duck-taping on the flysheet. This was caused by it rubbing against the inside of a wall when I slept in an abandoned building in the western Sahara. Why MSR have chosen yellow for the flysheet and not a more sensible colour like green or blue I don’t know. The manufacturers probably weren’t thinking of people wanting to wild-camp and be discreet. Jon, who cycled with me in Senegal, was using a one-man hubba hubba. Exactly the same, but half the size. He was able to fit his gear within the vestibule, but it was a tight fit. Personally I would never tour with anything less than a two-man tent. Considering how much time I will stay in it, for an extra kg, I prefer to have the space.

I’ve kept hold of my down-sleeping bag, although could possibly make do with the silk-liner that I’ve only used several times. The latter weighs 100g so I’m not fussed about this. Despite the heat and humidity there have been occasions when I require the warmth of the down, such as recently in the mountains of northern Guinea. Up in the High Atlas mountains in December I was camping at temperatures below freezing. Bringing a down with a temperature rating of 0C was a good choice.

As for the Thermarest, it is the same one that was given to me by a Dutch woman in a hostel in Estafan, Iran, back in 2007. I think she felt sorry for me when she saw me having trouble repairing the one I set off with from Japan. This one has been punctured and successfully repaired twice, and despite the hassle of having to blow it up (why it is called self-inflatable I don’t know) it is often more comfortable to sleep on than a number of hotel beds I’ve found myself on.

Equally important camping-wise is my inflatable pillow. Some people choose to bundle their clothes together into a bag, but I consider my 5-Euro Decathlon head-rest to be money well-spent.

Another Decathlon product frequently used is the camping chair, kindly donated by Tim when he returned from Morocco. This draws much applause and occasionally envy from Africans who have no idea what it is until I sit on it. When not in use its home is strapped down on top of one of the rear panniers.

Cooking-wise I continue to use the Primus Omnifuel that was with me for the remaining 6 months of my last tour. It’s currently running white-gas, another of Jon’s donations, which is clean and efficient, but any time soon I will be filling the fuel can with dirty African petrol. This will require the stove’s jet to be cleaned frequently. I’m using it less often at the moment as I find myself either eating cheap street food (invariably rice with manioc or some sauce) or sharing meals with people. I do carry filter coffee and when alone often boil up water in the morning for a cup. The filter coffee has its home in the tupperware box that also holds camera-film canisters of salt, pepper, mixed spices and at one time olive oil.

The Coleman cooking pots I set off with have proved adequate size (2.0L and 1.5L) for boiling pasta in or mixing vegetables. In Morocco I picked up a small frying pan – perfect for fried eggs and omelets.

Clothes

Are there any other tourers who manage without a towel or a pair of underpants? Now that I no longer need to use my buff headwear as a neck-scarf, I find it makes a good towel. I don’t think Buff markets this as one of the dozen ways in which they can be used. As for underpants, when I’m cycling I alternate between wearing one of the two pairs of padded shorts I have, over the top of which I have my baggy blue altura’s – faded but still strong. Up top I’m wearing the cycle-jersey, as modelled in recent pictures. The Craghopper shirts (2 short sleeve, 1 long sleeve) and trousers that were kindly donated are still going strong and worn off the bike. As is the wonderful Tilley hat. I have no doubt I would still be wearing the first one if the machete-wielding savages hadn’t taken off with it. It’s on my head almost all day everyday. As the label inside the hat rightly states ‘THE FINEST IN ALL THE WORLD’. Even if it is only a hat, I love my Tilley. Perhaps there is a reader who will share my enthusiasm?

Washing the clothes I do by hand. I don’t envisage seeing a machine for a long time. For this the Ortlieb 10L wash bowl has come in handy, although on many occasions I end up using a bowl or bucket when staying in a hotel.

On my feet I still have the same Karrimor sandles I set off in. They have been repaired more than a dozen times and the soles are wearing very thin. I shall continue to wear, repair and cycle in these until it is no longer possible. They blend in rather well with the condition of most peoples’ footwear here. If I was ever to replace them with a decent pair it would only solicit many requests for me to give them away as a gift.

I recently purchased a pair of flip-flops. Now these make for essential gear in Africa. You do not wish to take a bucket-shower (I have not had a shower with running water since leaving Senegal and don’t anticipate having one soon) in Africa without wearing flip-flops. They weigh next to nothing, happily strap onto the front rack and get worn at the end of the day.

As for the cross-trainer/trekking shoes I used to wear in the mountains of Morocco, they reside at the bottom of one of my panniers along with a single pair of socks. They may not have had a huge amount of use in recent months, but if I ever do some serious trekking or my sandles totally fail on me it is worth keeping hold of them.

All the real cold-weather clothes – fleece jacket, gloves, thermal underwear and hat I sent home. Now what does that leave? Waterproofs. Ironically I’m in two minds whether to keep them. Wearing them in the rain under such humidity would be like wearing a boiler suit. I would pour with sweat. I do envisage being so soaked to the skin and possibly cold that putting them on dry after seeking shelter may not be a bad thing.

Electronics

My Asus netbook continues to withstand bumps and heat and offers superb battery-life. I keep it in a neoprene sleeve, over which goes a plastic zip-lock and several layers of bubble-wrap. It slots into one of the pouches that Ortlieb have incorporated in the inside of their panniers.

The Nikon D90 camera and Panasonic Lumix compact stay in my handlebar bag. I alternate between using both, but rarely like to display the two at the same time. The compact gorilla-pod tripod is a fraction of the weight and size of the Velkon model I set off with, although I do at times miss having the height from the legs. It has a home in the top of one of my front panniers and is easily reached.

In a separate bag I keep an audio-recorder, small radio, separate camera lens and a number of chargers. Besides the latter, each of these hardly get any use. Tuning-in to BBC World Service is proving impossible for some reason. I do envisage being surrounded by new and evocative sounds, for which the audio device would be useful. I already am. The truth is my mind is usually thinking through the camera lens rather than through my ears. As for the camera lens, it’s a small 50mm fixed focal length. If I intend to use it, which as I write this I feel I will, it should find a home in my handlebar bag.

Sitting un-used for much of the time in the inside sleeve of a front pannier is my Freeloader Solar charger. I did use it on occasion in the desert, but never found that if offered the full charge to both my mobile phone and Ipod that it promised. Perhaps it wasn’t receiving enough direct light. Rarely do I go so long without some electrical source (generators dominate in countries where there is no national grid) that the battery of my phone dies on me. At some point in the future I may need it, but I wouldn’t list it as an essential piece of kit.

I think I’ve almost covered the entire contents of my bags, other than the maps, books and first-aid kit. I have the two main Michelin maps for North West Africa and Central/Southern Africa, plus country maps as far as Ghana. Several times over the past 10 months I’ve debated whether a GPS would be useful. On a few occasions it would have been, but to be honest I’m much more enthused to look at a map than a little screen, and unless I pre-programmed data into the GPS I don’t think I would get any detail, other than the location of rivers, the sea and possibly land borders? I already feel I’ve gone over-kill on the technology front as it is.

As for books, I try to ensure I have several with me. I recently finished The Poisonwood Bible and am about to re-read Things Fall Apart. Two volumes of Somerset Maugham’s Short Stories (so good I’m also reading a second time) and Graham Greene’s Journey Without Maps await my attention. Oh, and I also have a French Dictionary, which should have received more use than it currently has.

Fortunately for the moment my First Aid Kit only gets opened once a week. This is to swallow one of those foul tasting Larium tablets. I did intend to use Doxyclyclone as an anti-malarial, but taking them daily seems tedious so I’m keeping them as an anti-biotic. Besides, I believe Larium is stronger and supposedly provides more interesting dreams.

The only thing I’m forgetting is my weapon. He resides in a small wooden box and frightens the life out of any African who attempts to release him. If I can record on film the reaction of an African when he/she sees a snake you will see what I mean. He was kindly given to me by my English hosts in The Gambia. I think they picked him up from one of those snake charmers in Marrakesh.

Ok, this post is far longer than I intended it to be, and re-reading it when I take stock of my surroundings here in Guinea seems somewhat self-indulgent. I’m attempting to travel light and simply, but many of the people I meet on the road have little more material wealth than the clothes on their back. Most of my belongings are entirely alien and unattainable to them. I’ve often wondered what the reaction of many people would be if they knew the value of my bicycle. Probably collapse in a fit of laughter and tell me I could have bought 4 motorbikes instead.  The difference is I can choose and they can’t. I was born in a different World, and frequently imagine as I pedal past all those other lives what it would be like to have grown up in this one. The fact that much of Africa is poorer now than it was 50 years ago seems absurd. I remember passing a sign in The Gambia that read ‘The development of a country depends on its leaders and own people’ and thinking how very true. Yes, the mosquito nets I ask people to donate money for help. The effect is tangible and its a worthwhile cause, like many charitable missions, but a short-term solution and drop in the ocean when pitched against the many other problems that make countries like Guinea one of the poorest in the World. The answer and solution has to come from within the countries themselves.

It’s a relevant topic with the Presidential elections that have just taken place here, but I’m diverging from the original purpose of this post onto something far different.  This is a gear review. If you have a comment, about anything mentioned here, please post it, although I’m not sure when I’ll next have Internet.

Greetings from Guinea. This post, like the previous one, has been written from my hotel room in the town of Labe. There is Internet connection here, albeit very slow, which is the first I’ve come across since leaving Bissau two weeks ago. Not in the hotel I should note. I’m surprised there is even electricity. There isn’t much of the time. My room and the rest of the hotel give the impression that there have been very few people staying here in recent months. It has that musty airless smell of an attic. If there ever was a cleaner, he or she has not been working for a while. A family of large cockroaches has moved in during the interim. Most have now disappeared under my foot, except the largest, who is particularly nimble. I realised last night he is actually a mouse.

At least my room has a window. It overlooks what at first glance appears to be a car scrap-yard. This is Labe’s public transport hub. Battered seven-seater Peuguot and Renault estates dominate. Typically there would be a hive of activity out there on that red-laterite forecourt, but at the moment it is eerily quiet.

Today is an important one for the country’s 9.5 million population. They get to vote for a new President. I’m told there are 24 candidates. How about that for choice! I almost cycled straight into a political gathering when I crossed the border a week ago. It’s not the safest place to be. Young men waving flags and banners were speeding around town on their motorbikes, whilst a swelling crowd of people vociferously awaited whoever it was that was arriving. I decided it much wiser to lay low until it had finished, later emerging from my hotel to watch England in another unconvincing display against Algeria.

I escaped into the mountains soon after. The Fouta Djalon isn’t one of the World’s great mountain ranges, but with the humidity, heat, incessant flies and pretty dire roads they make for a challenging ride. Oh, and the rains have begun, which adds an extra level of interest. After many months seeing lifeless shades of brown and yellow, nature is now positively exploding in a riot of greenery at the roadside.

The rain doesn’t come unannounced. One gets the pleasure of seeing and hearing an orchestra in the sky first. Usually there is a light show in the distance to begin with, followed by a series of drum rolls. This is merely a rehearsal before the main act and can go on for hours. Late afternoon and early evening are currently the favoured times for the performance to commence. The best seat in the house is one with a covered roof. I don’t have great confidence in my 3-season yellow spaceship withstanding a serious African downpour.

A few nights ago I was lucky enough to watch it from a Primary school. The clouds had been darkening all afternoon and wherever the sun was behind them it was soon going to set. A plaque on the wall of the school showed it had been built in 2004 by a German-financed project. The building was locked and apart from a few nearby huts it appeared to be in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by dense jungle. Judging by the insect-life in the outside latrine I also guessed it hadn’t been open for some time. I peered through an iron-grill window and saw the date May 12^th written on a blackboard. Summer holidays must start early here.

The school was visible from the road and it had been the wide concrete and corrugate-covered veranda that I wanted to stake my claim on for the night. Not wishing to set up camp without permission I asked two nearby women walking on the road. Unfortunately the Pula for “Where is your chief” is not in my note-book. It ought to be for I didn’t feel 100% safe without the headman’s permission. I assumed the torch that shone out between downpours in the darkness several hours later would be my man. Instead it was a teenage boy wearing a Chelsea football shirt with a rifle across his back. I should note that guns are not that uncommon out in the mountains here, where young men head out into the jungle for the day to hunt. Regardless of that, meeting a nervous teenager in the dark with a gun does not make for the most restful of nights. Fortunately it passed without incident and my friend returned the next morning so I could take a better look at his gun.

Out in the Guinean countryside there appears little political tension. People, mostly women, are out preparing and planting the land with manioc, lifting themselves up from this back-breaking work to greet, wave, laugh, and question the white man who is riding a bicycle. My progress with speaking Pula wins far more smiles than it does with French out here. Say hello (‘jarama’, ‘tanala’), ask how their family is (Nuk ben guri ma?), their work (Nu lee gima?), complain that it’s hot (Heeno wooli), riding a bicycle is difficult (Nosati), that you’re tired (Meetampi) and anything else you can remember and you’ll soon make friends. Gone are the demands for cadeau. People here don’t see many white faces. It’s very refreshing after Senegal and gets my vote for friendliness.

There is next to no traffic on the roads in northern Guinea. I say roads, but much of the time they are merely tracks through the jungle or resemble the surface of a river-bed, often both. I spent a good amount of time pushing my bike for the first few days as I climbed up to 1500m and the town of Mali-ville. On a clear day you can look down into Senegal and the upper reaches of the River Gambia from here.

By all accounts and appearances Guinea is as economically crippled, undeveloped and unstable as it’s Portuguese speaking neighbour. Hardly any electricity, no running water and what concrete fabric exists is in serious decay and disrepair. The only construction I have seen taking place in the last week was that of an enormous mosque, impressive not just because of its size, but the fact that the entire edifice was being supported by an intricate scaffolding of wooden poles. I’m guessing it is Saudi-financed.

Several Policemen stopped me as I rode into the outskirts of Labe. Following nothing but smiles and waves from people further north, their demeanour was altogether different. They weren’t smiling. It’s the first sign that all may not be safe for me at this time in the country. After one scrutinised my passport then demanded to see my vaccination certificates, another (drunken) wanted to search through my bags. I steered the conversation to football and began speaking in English, telling them I was a teacher. The mood changed as each vied for my attention in showing off what they could say. I congratulated them, apologised for having no reward for their efforts, before putting my vaccination cards away (the first time I’ve ever had to show them) and being given the nod that I could pedal off.

Something makes me think this may be more common on the road from here to the capital – Conakry. It’s hard to predict what the post-election mood will be like, and my French is far from fluent to confidently gauge the topic. Plotting a straighter course to Sierra Leone may be a better option. Whichever way I go there’s sure to be more mountains and rain.

On an additional note, next month I will be helping to distribute the mosquito nets which many of you kind people have paid for. First I have to get myself to southern Sierra Leone. Right in the middle of the country’s rainy season malaria is at it’s most prevalent during this time. The roads are also likely to be at their worst. I can hardly wait. If you would like to make a donation and see your nets distributed, please show your support here.