At the time, I was 5 months into my round-the-world trip, and mid-way through what became a 7.5 month stint in South America.  I was speaking Spanish every day.  Next, I had wanted to spend several months speaking French, and the obvious play was to do this in France.  However, at that hostel in Northern Chile, as Clare cooked us a dinner that I later cleaned up, I decided that France was boring and, in the winter months, far too cold; let’s go to West Africa instead.

In addition to traveling West Africa, I had wanted to volunteer.  That night, I contacted faculty at my university, and was quickly directed to a professor at Georgia Tech who had done a Fulbright–a 10-month teaching stint–in Kankan, Guinea.  Weeks later, this professor organized for me to live with a family in Kankan, and to donate my time to a few of the local schools.

In mid-December 2012, my bush taxi carefully prodded through the live minefield separating Western Sahara and Mauritania, and eventually reached the Mauritanian side: my travels in West Africa had begun.  The plan was to be 4 months in the area, seeing 5 or 6 countries, with half of the time spent volunteering.

In the end, I visited Mauritania, Senegal, Guinea, Sierra Leone, and Côte D’Ivoire, including 2 months working in Kankan.  I taught Spanish to university students and Physics to 7th graders (in French!), and lived with a family throughout.  The following photographs will give you some insight into my life in Guinea, and what it was like living with a family in Africa.

This is a shot of my family.  From left to right, we have me, age 23; Awa, the mother’s sister, age 17; Fadima, the father’s sister, age 22; Mory, the father, age 28; Adama, the son, age 1; Awa, the mother age, 22; and in front, Lo, the mother’s brother, age 12.  The picture was taken beside our house, located in an up-scale neighbor at the edge of town, just after sunrise.

The father, Mory, was a French teacher in public and private high schools.  The mother, Awa, studied part-time, and worked mostly as a housewife.  The rest of the children attended school–except for Adama.

Awa sits with Adama and her friend on a motorbike.  In Kankan, and in most of West Africa, these motorbikes are very popular; if you can afford one, it is commonly your primary means of transport.  They are used for taxis as well.  Unfortunately, safety standards and knowledge are not quite congruent with those of the Western world; it is common to see a mother speeding down a dirt road, wearing no helmet, talking on a cell phone, with a baby fastened to her back by a tightly-pulled cloth.  Accidents are frequent as well.

In an effort to avoid motorbikes, I bought a bicycle.  However, this did not exempt me from sharing the road with motorbikes–a veritable hazard in and of itself.  I actually got fully ran over by one on the backroads of Kankan, which I’ll write about in a later post.

Our family had a chicken pen.  Frequently, we pulled eggs from this pen, and put them in salads.  Most of the chickens were bigger, but as all creatures do, they had a few children.  As you can see, Adama was terrified of these tiny chickens!  In fact, when he picked one up, he’d squeeze the thing almost to death.  It was kind of difficult to watch, actually!

In my first week in Kankan, we celebrated Adama’s first birthday.  Since my family was relatively affluent, they threw him a birthday party: friends, plastic chairs, music, presents and balloons were all gathered on a typically humid evening.  A party in Guinea–this one included–is never complete without women gathering in a circle to casually dance, throw small bills in the air, and take turns in front of the camera filming them.  Chop My Money often soundtracked this scene.

The remaining pictures were taken in front of the neighbor’s house, at around 6:35pm.  As you can see, the light was very warm, and ideal for photography.

This is a portrait of Mory and his first-born son.  Like most Guineans, they choose not to smile for photographs, and instead adopt a more stern, grounded countenance.  Mory wears an outfit typical to the region, which I believe to have roots in both Islamic and Malinke culture–the religion and tribe, respectively, of the locals.

As you might imagine, Adama was adorable.  I saw him take his first steps, in fact.  I was super excited.  His mother was there too, but barely made a face.  “Aren’t you going to tell Mory?” I asked.  “Meh–maybe later I guess?” she replied.  I suppose childhood milestones, like first steps or words, aren’t as significant in this part of the world.  It’s logical though: children are produced  here at an incredible rate.

These are two of my neighbors.  In general, African children are gorgeous.  My neighbors were certainly no exception.  Look at those eyes!

The neighboring family consisted of one man, his 4 wives, and their respective children.  In total, they were about 15.  For most of the day, the women could be found sitting on the porch, preparing food and washing clothes.  The kids hung closely by, and all over the age of 4 would lend a helping hand.

Another neighbor, in typical Guinean dress.  She was certainly old enough to help with daily chores.

Behind her is Lo, a member of my family, carrying the water sack.  This sacked was dipped into our shared well, from which we drew water for cooking, cleaning, and bathing.  Although 12 years old, Lo was still the least senior member of our family (aside from Adama, who got all of the attention), and since respect in Guinean society is doled out according to a strict age hierarchy, Lo was often verbally abused.  Awa and Mory would shout at him to go buy bread, heat waters for bucket showers, or clear the table.

Three more of my neighbors, all wife to the same husband.  Here, outside the house, is where they could almost always be found.  If I returned to my own house and no one was around, I would often pull up a stool next to these women and chat about the day.  Their French was rough, but we got by.  They’d offer me food too, which was far better than that which my host mother cooked!  One time, they even invited me to a wedding.  Only one of the wives, not pictured here, actually had a job outside of the house, selling snacks and cigarettes by the gas station on the edge of town.

The lives of the neighboring wives were rather typical: in African society, women often work as housewives.  Their days may not seem exciting, but to me, they seemed happy.  These women had their children and their home, and not knowing much more, they were content with what they had.

More of the neighboring children.  All pictured here should be over the age of 5, and therefore eligible to work.  The child on the right is carrying a calculator; education was stressed in  Guinea more than one might think.  It was not uncommon to see a chalkboard outside of a family’s home, regardless of their economic situation.  In the evening, fathers would work with children on things like addition, subtraction, multiplication, division, French, and even English!

When I came home each night, I’d often find the boy with the calculator playing soccer outside with Lo.  As I’d approach, they would smile broadly, and kick me the ball.  A really lovely family, my neighbors.

Another neighbor–another gorgeous African child.  Her hairstyle is typical of a Malinke woman, the dominant tribal group in this part of Guinea.  

In this group shot, you’ll see three of the wives, their shared husband, and their children, as well as Fadima, Mory, Adama, Lo and myself.  This shot will be with me for a long time; it’s one of my biggest souvenirs.  When I left Kankan, I compiled and printed a photo album for my host family, with this picture featured prominently.  The shot was taken right around sunset, and the light was gorgeous.  The colors are bright, the smiles are wide, and the cohesion, simplicity, and good vibes are almost tangible. It is powerfully, and unmistakably, Africa.

My experience living in Guinea was remarkable, and remains one of the highlights of my trip.  I do hope these pictures give you a taste, and perhaps, make you want to see a bit of my darling Guinea for yourself.

Have you ever lived with a family while traveling?  Share your experiences below!

When traveling West Africa, you won’t find an extensive infrastructure of public transport.  You won’t find a bus that leaves at a pre-determined time, which connects to a train whose ticket you purchased online, which pulls into the underground driveway of a Central Station, where you follow the signs, put your coins in the machine, and catch the subway to your final destination.  Unfortunately, none of this exists.  Instead, if you choose not to fly (an almost prohibitively expensive option), lack your own vehicle, and don’t have the patience to hitch-hike, travel down here is done in one singular way: the ever-exhausting, and ever-exhausted, West African bush taxi.

What is a West African Bush Taxi?

The West African bush taxi is effectively a car, and the primary means of transport for locals and travelers like.  It’s called a “bush” taxi because it’s often barreling through the bush, bumping along dirt roads and tearing through village-land.  Typically, this car is a Peugot 504 station wagon, like the one pictured above.  However, it can assume many vehicular forms.  When you want to move from place to place, village to village, or country to country in West Africa, this is how you do it.

Where will a bush taxi take me?

A bush taxi will take you almost anywhere you want to go.  All major routes, such as between capital cities in adjacent countries, are bound to be serviced by bush taxis.  Large, adjacent cities within a country are sure to be serviced as well.  Unless your destination is truly in the middle of nowhere, you will probably find a bush taxi to take you there.

However, this is not to say that all taxis are direct.  With a longer journey, you may need to break it up into multiple bush taxi rides.  In addition, if you, like myself, strive your hardest to not travel at night in West Africa, you’ll often need to pause each day’s travel at whatever city you reach before sundown, and hop right back in a different car the following morning.  

In general, the rule for reaching your destination is as follows: if there are people living there, there’s probably a bush taxi that will take you pretty darn close.  You just have to connect the dots yourself.

How many people fit in a bush taxi?

The car fits 7, tightly.  In Senegal–a more developed country–the bush taxis will only take 7 passengers.  In Guinea, it’s 9.  The poorer the country, the more people they will jam and squeeze and essentially purée into the musty confines of the rusty car.  And that’s just inside.  There will be people sitting on the roof, hanging off of the roof, tied down length-wise with a rope across the trunk, or maybe even dragged behind by a string and a skateboard.  Almost anything goes in a West African bush taxi; your horizons for what you think is possible and permissible on the road will broaden very widely down here.

As a foreigner, however, you won’t be hanging off of the roof.  You won’t be tied to the back of the trunk.  You have logic, and you understand this to be a miserable idea.  You will buy your ticket, and you will sit inside the car, in a seat for which you paid.  There is no reason to ever do otherwise.  Be safe out there, soldier.

Is a bush taxi comfortable?

No–not in the slightest.  You will end each journey will some sort of ache or pain.  But this is reality for the local and traveler alike.  Take it in stride, and understand that when you get back to your home country, you’ll likely be once more able to travel in your own seat, in an air-conditioned vehicle, without any babies puking on you, with both of your bum-cheeks securely on the cushion.  When you really think about it, and in the correct context, the burning physical discomfort in a West African bush taxi is very trivial.

Is it safe?

Far and way, the most terrifying (and probably only terrifying) thing about West Africa is traveling in a bush taxi.  These things are worn.  Often, they are just hollow metal shells, with benches secured inside and holes in the floor.  You may have to hand-crank your window closed with a stray screw–you may have to put a piece of cloth between your knee and the inside of the door so you don’t burn yourself.  In a Western country, I doubt a single bush taxi would pass a safety inspection.

Regardless, this is local reality, and if you want the real experience of traveling in West Africa, you do as the locals do.  While the cars aren’t perfect, the drivers do know the roads, and they do know their vehicles.  Basically, just make sure the guy isn’t talking on the phone nor driving too fast, cross your fingers, and you’re bound to arrive safely at your destination.  I wasn’t involved in, nor did I personally see, any car accidents during my time in West Africa.

So, how do I actually find one of these things?

To find your bush taxi, you go to la gare, which is French for “the station.”  Generally, la gare is just a large, dirt parking lot, and it is from here that your bush taxis will leave.  A given city may have several “gares,” if it services many destinations; it is important to make sure that you go to the correct one, as certain cars only leave from certain gares.  A given gare may have anywhere from 10 to 100 cars awaiting passengers and preparing to leave.

How do I get a ticket?

To get your ticket, ask for the driver or syndicate, and everyone and their mother will point you in his direction.  Ask him for a ticket, pay, and you shall receive.  The prices are fixed: no one will try to rip you off.

What about my luggage?

When you buy your ticket, you hand over your luggage.  It will either be put in the trunk, or strapped down to the roof.  Mostly likely, it will be the roof.  Once all of the luggage is on the roof and securely in place, the car may speed off in search of gas, or a teapot, or a bundle of straw, or a bucket of carrots, or something of the sort.  Do not worry: your things are safe, and the drivers will be right back.

When will my car leave?

Excellent, excellent question.  And one I could never answer definitively.

Each bush taxi has a set number of seats, and the driver won’t budge until he’s filled them all.  You may show up at 7:00am, pay your ticket, and be the 3rd of 9 passengers in a car.  10:00am may roll around, and you maybe still have only 3 passengers.  In this case, you are left with two options: buy up the rest of the tickets yourself (or collaborate with the other passengers to share these costs), or wait it out.  If you choose the second option, you may be waiting for a long time.  This may seem illogical to you–you may become frustrated.  But this is Africa, and this is how it works.  Bring a Kindle to pass the time (see Will’s Tips for Backpacking West Africa as well).

When will my car arrive?

Another great question, and another one I can’t quite answer.  Even if you ask a local, regarding a journey with a less-than-perfect road, they will unfailingly tell you “it depends” every single time.

So you hop on board, and you get going.  You cross your fingers, and hope you break down 10 times instead of 20.  You bring with you no schedule–no time constraints.  Your car will arrive when it arrives.

Sound fun, these bush taxis?  Maybe not.  But they are how we travel in West Africa, and moreover, they are an experience.  And this–experience–is one of the big reasons we travel in the first place.

More questions about these beauties?  Leave it in the comments!

People often think of Africa as the un-backpack-able continent–I’ve heard a bunch of it before. “There’s no hostels..”, they say. “It’s too scary.” “I saw once on TV that they have lions and war and my friend who’s been all over Europe and one time to Cambodia and studied abroad in Sydney and knows all about the world said it can’t be done. Unless you wanna get killed or something.”

Hearing things like this makes me giggle. It gives me the energy to speak.

My 2-year trip around the world started in East Africa–just me and my backpack. I wasn’t there for long though–a short 6 weeks in Kenya, Tanzania, Rwanda, and Uganda–and the biggest thing I probably learned was that I needed more. A year later, and I was back in Africa: just me, and yes, my trusty, odorous backpack.

This time around, though, it was West Africa. The Africa with more problems than not, the Africa of the French, the Africa where electricity can be more scarce than a warm shower and your 50km trip down the coast on a road more suited for a MotoX obstacle course than a car full of old women and screaming babies may take the better part of the afternoon. It’s doable though–I’ve been down here for 4 months now. It’s fascinating too. It’s far and away the most challenging, rewarding, “stranger in a strange place” traveling I’ve ever done. You will meet no more than three other backpackers a month–you will learn an incredible amount about the people and places around. You have to. The issues are so dynamic, and so right there in front of you, that the marginally inquisitive mind couldn’t help but deconstruct, discuss, and understand a great deal about the minutia of the people and places it encounters every single day. It’s fun, too, because you have to do it all yourself. There’s hardly a reliable guidebook and there’s hardly a beaten path; in fact, when I was in Sierra Leone, people didn’t really understand what a tourist was in the first place. They all thought I was there to mine diamonds or recruit Christians.

The point of this post is not to sell you on West Africa; I reckon I’ll do that in a later one, when it’s all sunk in. For this one, I assume the interest is already there, and like any good travel blogger, or so I’m told, I’m going to piece together an informative list of advice for making your trip all the more enjoyable. For the ones that want something different, for the ones who speak a bit of French, for the ones who want a challenge more than a holiday and want to explore an area of the world largely untouched by our darling backpacker community–I offer my guidance.

I just spent the last 4 months in Mauritania, Senegal, Guinea, Sierra Leone, and Côte d’Ivoire; here are Will’s Tips for Backpacking West Africa.

1. Speak French Well

I don’t really mean to dissuade anyone from traveling West Africa with Tip #1; this would be in bad form. I don’t aim to sound snobby either–I don’t wish to tell you that you aren’t worthy. The majority of West Africa–Mauritania, Senegal, Guinea, Mali, Burkina Faso, Côte d’Ivoire, Benin, Togo, and Niger–is Francophone West Africa: it was all colonized by the French, has since broken into individual sovereign nations, and while a large multitude of tribal languages are still widely spoken, French is the lingua franca. Without it, unfortunately, you’ll just have a rather tough go. Sure, English is spoken, as it is everywhere in the world, but not often enough to arrive without any French. I kind of equate it to traveling in Germany and only speaking Spanish: sure, you’ll find some people to talk with, but these people will be more of an opportune find rather than a logical anticipation. You can’t really just go up the kebab counter in Berlin and say “¿Hola, cómo estás?,” can you?

Furthermore, the real attraction of West Africa is the people, and I simply can’t imagine a trip down here without getting to know a few. For me, my whole experience could probably be summed up in one scene–eating mangoes with a few Guinean friends, drinking ginger tea with peanuts, discussing life, travel, government and history, under the mango tree–a scene I’d want all WA travelers to experience themselves. It’s not that the scene is rare, no it’s not at all, but it does assume that you have some level of French.

So, if heading to Francophone West Africa, really: take some time to learn the language. I promise you will be thankful you did.

Lastly, it is important to note that when traveling in The Gambia, Sierra Leone, Liberia, Ghana, and Nigeria–all members of West Africa just the same–English will work just fine. In fact, very few people in these countries will speak French at all!

2. Befriend the Peace Corps

In the whole of West Africa, I think there’s about 5 real hostels–hostels like you are used to. Personally, I haven’t stayed in any. What this leaves is a marginal selection of hotels, primarily confined to capital cities, which generally command $50+ dollars a day, as well as an even more marginal selection of cheaper motels. While the latter may seem aimed for the budget crowd, it is only in price: these places often don’t have running water nor electricity, are infested with cockroaches and spiders, and sometimes, are functioning brothels with music pumping ’til sunrise.

If none of the above is to your liking, you’re really left with CouchSurfing, seducing your local chicken lady for a place to sleep, or staying with the United States Peace Corps. Throughout my travels in West Africa, I was hosted by the PC over 10 times; I’d stay with one, who’d pass me on to the next, who’d pass me onto the next. I’d usually begin a travel day without knowing where I’d spend the night, as West African bush taxis are a certifiable circus of unpredictability and fatigue, and around sunset, I’d text a PCV in the area (who I’d never met before), who would immediately offer me a place in their hut. These guys are the best–endlessly lovely and hospitable I do promise–and my trip in WA simply wouldn’t have been the same without them.

For last-minute accomodation (provided you send a nice text message), insider country tips or a great night out, make some friends in the United States Peace Corps; they’re all travelers, and they all rock. They welcome the company too: spending 27 months in a hut in the middle of nowhere isn’t exactly a party.

3. Bring a Kindle

In West Africa, you will have a lot of time to kill. Even with the most prolific vocabulary, a flurry of powerful metaphors and a megaphone on high-volume, I could hardly overstate how much time you will have to kill. Between bush taxis, waiting for food, bush taxis and waiting for the bush taxi to fill up, there will be dozens and dozens of hours when boredom and inactivity devour your mind, to the point that the only thing that can save you from self-immolation is the soothing cradle of quality literature.

You will be hard pressed to find a bookstore selling books in French, let alone in English. The fact is, books are often too expensive for most to afford, and reading is therefore not at the top of the list of priorities here in West Africa. In solution, bring a Kindle. Wherever you find Wifi, or wherever you find a Peace Corps member with a hard-drive full of .epub files, you’ll be able to refresh your stock of books.

This is possibly the most importance piece of advice, in fact. As self-immolation would end your trip rather quickly.

4. Toilet Paper and Hand Sanitizer

In many West African countries, and out in the bush regardless of country, toilet paper is really hard to come by: it’s just something that hasn’t quite yet caught on. Personally, I’m willing to culturally assimilate myself to just about anything, but wiping my ass by hand is where I draw the line.

When you find toilet paper, stock up, and always carry it with you. Hand sanitizer is a nice touch as well.

5. Sleeping Mat, Sleeping Bag

You’ll be sleeping on hut floors. You’ll be sleeping on beds that have seen far more action than you’d care to imagine. You’ll even be sleeping outside on a cement veranda because you arrived at the Guinean/Ivorian border after they’d closed for the day. When traveling in West Africa, sleeping situations are never predictable, and hygiene is never gauranteed: bring a sleeping bag and a sleeping mat, so you know you have something that’s clean, and something that let’s you sleep (relatively) comfortably on just about any surface.

West Africa isn’t exactly a paradise of personal ammenities, so with regards to sleeping, come prepared. You’ll be thanking me when you’re forced to snooze overnight at a land border.

6. Get a Cell Phone

They’re cheap, and everyone has them. Internet is generally scarce and not many use it. If you want to communicate with anyone, you’ll need to do it with a cell phone. And if you think saying “Hey, nice to meet you, let’s meet tomorrow at that street corner at 2pm” will result in anything more than frustration and a sunburn you are unfortunately mistaken.

Furthermore, Africans love to befriend the few travelers they meet; they love to invite them to weddings, to their homes, to their villages, to their funerals. To tea, to mangoes, to rice with peanut sauce. And really, without a cell phone, you’ll miss out on a whole lot of this. Cell phones are cheap and will make your life a few worlds easier. A $10 black and white non-flip phone will work just fine.

7. Bring Cash

I have two friends that did some extended West Africa travels with only an ATM card. They were fine. I think they stuck mostly to capital cities, though.

When traveling in West Africa, and venturing out of capital cities, bring cash. If there is an ATM–they are rare but steadily growing more common–there is no gaurantee that it works, nor has cash. If there is a functioning one in the area, it might be an hour-long car ride just to get there. In my 10 weeks in Guinea, I didn’t see a single one. To make life easier, bring a strong reserve of paper money. In Francophone West Africa, Euros are preferred to dollars, as the former is tied directly to the FCFA, the currency used in most countries. In Anglophone WA, dollars would be your best bet.

For carrying money, I used a money belt. No one knew it was there, and it was a complete non-issue. I recommend it highly–another thing that makes traveling in West Africa far less of a headache.

8. Bring a Med Kit

A small, basic kit will do just fine. West African pharmacies are probably stocked with more stuff than you think, but relying on this fact assumes that you’ll always be near one.

For minor issues, come prepared. A small reserve of ibuprofen, rubbing alcohol, antibiotics, antihistimines, anti-diarrheal, multi-vitamins, and maybe iodine tablet for water purification (I used these once in four months, when hiking in the Fouta Djallon; clean water is cheap and ubiquitous, in general) will more than suffice. I think bringing clean needles and syringes is a strong move as well, since, if you do have to go to a hospital to have blood drawn, you’ll at least know that the materials are clean. They are cheap, and don’t weigh anything either. Please don’t let this last piece of advice scare you–it’s just good practice.

Like your mother told you, and will probably continue to frantically tell you as you bump your way through West Africa–be prepared. There’s no reason not to be.

9. Malaria Prophylactics

Malaria is a big problem in West Africa. Take your physician-prescribed prophylactics, and you are very unlikely to have this problem. I took Malarone for my time in East and West Africa alike, and I’ve never had malaria. One pill a day keeps the fever away.

10. Have Plenty of Time

As intimated earlier, punctuality is not the shining trait of many West Africans. In fact, the concept of time, in the Western sense of the word, almost doesn’t exist whatsoever. You may pay your bush taxi ticket at 7:00am, and the car may not fill up until 1:00pm. Your 140km journey from Nzérékoré, Guinea to Man, Côte d’Ivoire may take 2 days. Your chicken sandwich–a roll with already-cooked chicken, lettuce, tomates, and fries–may command an illogically extensive 90 minutes to prepare.

When traveling in West Africa, have plenty of time. Waiting an extra hour for the bush taxi to fill is completely insignificant to a local, and you simply shouldn’t allow it to be of consequence to you either. Things take a really, really long time to happen in this area of the world, and doing your trip on a tight schedule will make each day unequivocally miserable.

Time limits don’t exist in West Africa, so please, I implore you: don’t bring any of your own along either.

11. Stand Your Ground

As a white person traveling in West Africa, you’ll command a lot of attention. It’s of an interesting flavor too: most people really, genuinely want to help, and really, genuinely want to be your friend, but can’t help but observe that you probably represent a bit more financial utility than the average local. In addition, small minutia of everyday interaction–things like level of greeting, personal space, what’s rude and what’s not, etc–are probably vastly different than what you’re used to. What this manifests itself into are situations like this:

I took a motorbike taxi out of Koidu, Sierra Leone, destined for the Guinean border. This bike only goes a few kilometers, though, before dropping me in a small village, where other drivers line up to take me to the border themselves.

When I hopped off this first motorbike, I had about 20 screaming drivers sprint towards me, grab my things, tell me they’d be the one to take me, etc. I could have been their only client all week. As you might imagine, I was not comfortable with all of the grabbing, screaming, and general invasion of personal space. So, in solution:

Will: “BACK THE F*CK UP, LET GO OF MY BAGS, AND WE CAN DISCUSS THIS LIKE ADULTS.”

To this, every driver steps back, takes a deep breath, and smiles in wry warmth. Their intial excitement derives from nothing more than the novelty of a white guy (there’s really not many around), and the prospect of making some money. Not even money in the sense of “let’s try to rip off this white guy,” but money in the sense of “I haven’t earned a dollar in five days.” They have zero ill-intentions whatsoever.

In situations like this–maybe you’ve just asked where the nearest internet cafe is, and someone grabs your arm and says “come this way”–I think it really important to stand your ground if you feel even the slightest bit of discomfort. Just because you are in a new culture, doesn’t mean you should have to tolerate the feeling of personal violation. Expletives or not, convey strongly that everyone needs to take a deep breath, step back, and proceed in a manner that you are comfortable with. Your wish will be respected, for all intents and purposes, every single time.

12. Trust in Africa

Everyone who has spent time traveling in Africa will tell you the same thing: there’s something special going on around here. The people are a whole different level of hospitable (I say this with real frankness–not just as the masked blogger painting all foreigners as wonderful just to make you want to travel), and as a backpacker, you will be looked after. You will be given the best seat in the bush taxi just because you’re a tourist. You will be shouted offers of food and tea from every which way. And sure, your car might strap down the luggage and speed off inexplicably, leaving you to wonder if someone is after your things. And yes, someone might say “O, I know where that is, get on the back of my bike and I’ll take you right there.” There is so much kindness and strangeness and things that seem shady and the rest that confuse you, but this is Africa. It’s wonderful and terrifying and challenging and illogical all at the same time. Many things you’ll want to doubt. Many things you’ll want to not believe.

Bring a strong sense of judgement, yes. But aside from that, in the grey area that seems strange and mystifying but still exists in what you judge to be the realm of general safety and “this is probably an OK idea,” man, trust me when I say: TRUST IN AFRICA. You’ll allow yourself to seep far closer to the potential of your experience–to the people, to the rolling ebb and antique cadence, to your own demons that tell you what you think the world is like and what it’s not. Trusting in Africa brings you closer to the kindness of which you think strangers capable and of that which you think they’re not, and maybe more importantly, to that draining thirst for pushing yourself forward that brought you down here in the first place.

So, when you ask the village chief if you can set up your tent on a small patch of grass and he invites you to stay in his home instead, and you don’t immediately get the vibe that he is a homicidal lunatic frothing from the ears, please, drop your gaurd and have some faith: there’s probably a comfy bed, delicious tea, a hot dinner, and yet another worthwhile learning opportunity lying ahead.

Backpacking in Africa is very possible–I know because I was there. And on the same token, there’s just nothing else like it.

For more information, get in touch! I’d love to help you with your trip.

I wrote a guest post for Jessie at Jessie on a Journey about my wanders in Guinea’s Fouta Djallon.  Check out the post here!

Cheers from Koidu, Sierra Leone,

Will

Let’s get right into it. Tell us more about Guinea, Will!

What am I doing here?

A few months ago, I was emailing Penn State professors for contacts in Senegal, as I was hoping to do some farm work there, or something of the sort. Instead, I was put in touch with an ex-Schreyer employee, who did a Fullbright here in Kankan.

“Senegal is nice, but if you want a real adventure, go to Guinea,” she said. “I have some contacts that would love to host you, and have you help to teach some classes.”

I took it as a challenge, and quickly accepted; she set the whole thing up from there. A million thanks again, Dr. Bauchspies!

So, for the past 6 weeks, I’ve been teaching: I teach Spanish to university students, and Physics (its basic “science,” really) to 7th graders–both in French. My classes are Monday to Thursday, 4 hours per day.

What’s your family like?

For the past 6 weeks, I’ve been living with a family. There’s the father, Mory, age 28; the mother, Awa, age 22; Mory’s sister, Fadima, age 22; Awa’s sister, also Awa, age 17; Awa’s brother, “Lo,” age 10; and finally, the young son, Adama, nickname “Papa,” age 14 months.

The family is very friendly, and treats me well. When I first arrived, I volunteered to buy them a few sacks of rice; I purchased 3–enough for the whole family for my 2-month stay–equivalent to roughly $105. In exchange, I have my own bedroom, queen-sized straw mattress, daily breakfast and dinner (they’d feed me lunch too, but I’m always in town), laundry once a week, and a hot bucket shower as the sun goes down. Aside from the mother’s cooking, which I’ll get to in a minute, I’m kind of living the dream.

As it seems in most of Guinea, the family is very patriarchal: the man has, without question, almost all the power. The women cook, clean, and wash, and the man earns the money. In my family, both sisters and the mother attend school as well, which I would assume puts them in the minority–especially in the case of the mother. Regardless, as our pen of squawking chickens wakes us up around 6:30am every morning, the women can always be found outside, getting a head start on the day’s chores.

Our house has no running water, nor electricity. However, we do have a generator, which the father turns on for about two hours every night. During that time, we watch TV–usually this terrifically awful narrative about a kid named Ishmael, or some equally awful music videos–and chat. The father and I often have what I call “chez vous, est-ce que..” conversations, where he asks me things about the United States. This is my favorite part. His questions are sometimes outrageous (“when foreigners come to visit, are they allowed to leave the house, and walk around the city?”).

The baby, Adama, is adorable. He’s really taken a liking to me lately as well.

What are Guineans like?

Guineans are oppressively nice. When I walk into school, I am greeted by every single passer by. They smile, widely–almost as if we’re being filmed as part of a movie. They wave enthusiastically–they draw out long hellos with inscrutable genuineness. Guineans are some of the most polite people I’ve ever met. It’s lovely, for the most part. However, coming from a culture where one of most private experiences you can have is walking down a crowded city street, if can be a bit exhausting at times.

What are your classes like?

My Spanish class is great. The kids are respectful, attentive, and really want to learn. I have fun with them–I tell them that Spanish is a language spoken with confidence and energy. I make them applaud each other when they speak in front of the class, and I playfully bang on and kick the wall when their applause falters.

Usually, I’ll have about 12 kids in a class. We’re supposed to start at 8am, but most people shuffle in in the 8:17am range. Some days, an entire class just decides to not show up, in unison. It’s rather amateurish, and mostly out of my hands.

My 7th grade physics class, however, is a nightmare. The kids are so loud, so energetic, and near-impossible to deal with. They respect me–as they do all teachers–but getting their full attention is no easy task. As I observed of my host dad in my first few days in Kankan, you really have to assume the loud-voice authority figure to have control of a classroom.

So that’s what I do. I yell. I kick kids out, where they go to get whacked with a tire rubber by the principal. I don’t have a choice. That’s how you control the younger kids. That’s what they’re programmed to respond to.

How’s the weather?

It’s hot. The days are about 95F, while the nights sit at around 70F. The hot season is fast approaching, which will add about 15F to each of these figures.

It’s easy to get dehydrated around here too. Since you can’t buy much in the way of electrolytes, I’ve begun to make my own oral rehydration salts (ORS), which is basically Gatorade without the flavor. One litre of water, six teaspoons of sugar, and a half teaspoon of salt. I eyeball the measurements, and pour them into my metal blue water bottle with a hand-rolled paper funnel. The Peace Corps gave me the idea.

Do Guineans like white people? What about Americans?

When you walk down the street, you feel like a mild celebrity. Nobody too famous, but someone everyone knows, admires, and appreciates. People will stare with intrigued, rigid faces, almost like their eyes are smiling while their mouth awaits confirmation, until I say “hi,” to which they respond with an energy and comradery that says we’ve been next-door neighbors for twenty years, while kids will jump up and down shouting toubab, or toubabuhnee, which is the diminutive version (hey there little toubab!).

Guinea really doesn’t see much tourism at all (I can’t imagine more than 1,000 white people come through per month, and I’d actually be surprised if it were that many in the first place), so I am mostly viewed as a highly respected visitor, instead of an object of money. Every day, I am at least once beckoned to come eat, or to come drink, by strangers on the side of the road. In short, Guineans love white people.

But I’m not just any white person. I’m American, baby–a living, breathing extension of the golden nation, where Barack Obama personally delivers bags of cash to our doorstep, just before handily disposing of the bad guys who try to f*ck with our shit. And when Guineans find out I’m American, the dial on that initial oven of toubab warmth turns all the way up, their smile reaching their ears, as they proceed to tell me how blessed I am to come from the greatest country on earth. Guineans love white people, and they really love Americans.

What’s the food like?

The food is mostly garbage. It’s lots of rice, with lots of sauce, liberally seasoned with peppers and a dire lack of variety.

The market here is beautiful, and packed with great stuff. But for some reason, Guinean food just clings on for dear, diarrheal life to the utmost basics. Rice with peanut sauce, rice with green sauce, rice with spicy red sauce, and the occasional fish. Here in Kankan, the food is almost inescapable: if you really want, you can pay six times the normal price of a dinner, and get a full chicken at the hotel that the President stays at when he comes into town. I haven’t yet obliged.

Instead, my days go something like this: I eat a baguette with fake cheese every morning–the best meal of the day; meat skewers, rice with fish at the Ivorian restaurant, or many bags of yogurt and grains for lunch; and for dinner, I stomache one of my host mother’s three dinner choices–rice with peanut sauce, rice with green sauce, or rice with spicy red sauce. It’s really a battle to keep it down. Just now, as I write, I left half the dinner in the bowl, and the mothers and sisters finally, for the first time, got the gist that dinner usually brings me to the ceramic latrine brim of vomit. We all had a good laugh.

Lastly, I note that my host father eats really well. The mother prepares elaborate dishes for him–rice, fish, vegetables, etc–while I eat what the children eat. But hey–at least they give me a spoon.

What language is spoken?

In this region of Guinea, Haute Guinea, everyone is of Malinke origin. I’m not too precise on the history just yet, but I do believe that the Malinke’s and the Malians (people from Mali) all come from the same place. As such, the language spoken by all is Malinke, of which I speak roughly three words.

Additionally, almost everyone speaks French–the “national” language. In other parts of Guinea, the regional languages are Susu, Pular, and I believe one more, but across the board, most people speak French, so as to have a common tongue.

The thing that’s weird about this–the reason I put “national” in quotations–is that French is only learned in school. My host dad is from Côte d’Ivoire, so he really speaks French, and even he doesn’t speak much of it at home (except with me); he just lets his kids learn in it school. The reason that this is so bizarre to me, is that to have any real power or place in Guinean society, or West African society, you have to speak French, and you have to speak it well, as many people do. However, with Adama (the baby) as an example, he would be able to speak perfect French by the age of 4, if his father just spoke with him, and would therefore have a huge edge in life. However, he’ll just wait to learn in school as well.

Furthermore, all Guinean news is in French. So, as we watch at night as we sometimes do, I wonder: “what would it feel like to watch the news in my country, in “my” language, and not fully understand what’s being said? How bizarre would this be?”

What’s Kankan like?

Kankan is great. The town itself is the product of overlap of many villages and many tribes, many hundreds of years ago, which all morphed into one big city. It’s all very orange, really, with antiqued architecture that seems to radiate spirituality. Most everyone is Muslim, so Kankan has many a mosque as well. The sunsets are beautiful, and always identical.

In addition, compared to the rest of Guinea (save the capital), you can kind of get stuff in Kankan. “I love Kankan–there’s ice cream, cheese balls, and Snickers bars there!,” said my Peace Corps friend Betsy, as we first drove up here 6 weeks ago.

Kankan is home to several universities, and many high schools and elementary schools. It’s a youthful, energetic place, where people are far more educated than your average Guinean. There’s music, nightclubs, and several elaborate markets.

Is it expensive?

No. I can buy 12 liters of water for a dollar. An expensive lunch–meat chunks with potato salad–costs two dollars. An hour of internet and a motorbike taxi across town each cost seventy cents. A meat skewer is fourteen cents. I spend about five dollars a day.

Are the police corrupt?

Before coming to Guinea, I heard that the police were about as corrupt as they come. I’d have to carry my passport at all times, and argue my way out of bribes every other day. I heard that the police were ruthless–especially with foreigners.

In my experience with the police in Guinea, the exact opposite has been true. I hang out with the police under mango trees as they feed me bananas. I accidentally run escondido road signs on my bike, and smile as they smile back. On one occasion, as I got stopped for going the wrong way down a one-way street, the policeman said “anything else?” after a particularly friendly conversation–obviously hinting at a bribe. I said no, and pedaled away.

I hope not to jinx myself, but the police have been nothing short of lovely thus far. Like all other Guineans, they love Americans as well.

What’s the clothing like?

Guineans are well dressed. Many women wear these gorgeous, endlessly colorful dresses, which I unfortunately lack the fashion vocabulary to describe. The men either wear what I’ll lightly call “Muslim attire” (I again lack the vocabulary to do much better than that), or clean and stylish Western clothes. Everyone generally looks really good–especially at school.

When I ride my bike out into the country, however, things change. The Western clothing disappears, and the clothing turns into this hilariously ragtag collection of donation-pile giveaways (which are generally purchased in a local market–yes, that’s where your “donations” are going) from the early 1980’s. Nebraska Cornhusker Starter jackets, a Ridge High Bearcats softball sweatshirt (worn by a man, with the name Michaela embroidered on the front), a Trevor Linden jersey tee, and the Johnson Seventh Annual Family Barbecue in Birmingham, Alabama. It’s hysterical.

Are there any weird customs?

For the most part, Guineans are like you and I. However, some weird things do occur.

To start, the upper thigh is viewed as a racy display, while a bare chest is of no significance. So, with legs fully covered, many women walk around the house topless, as my host mother often does. At first, it was shocking, but I’ve gotten used to it.

Guineans seem to have a strong taboo against smelling as well. You can’t sniff your food during a meal–it’s a big no-no.

The weirdest custom, by far, is what men (my host dad, at least) do with spit loogies. “You don’t spit it in your wife’s hand, or her mouth?,” he asked me one night.

No, no we don’t. We go outside and spit on the ground.

Lastly, Guineans seem to have a weird obsession with cleanliness–made further weird by the fact that all trash is just thrown on the ground, as the concept of garbage cans hasn’t quite taken hold. I’ll have a kid come late to class, and before sitting down, he’ll spend 3 minutes wiping dust off of his seat.

“Sit down guy,” I’ll say. “You’re late and you’re disrupting.”

“But Monsieur, the dust! It’s dirty!”

“You’re a grown man. C’est pas la fin du monde. I’ll clean it myself if you like. I’ll take a nap in it.”

That usually does the trick.

If I come to Guinea, what should I bring?

You should bring everything. When I was still in Spain, my West Africa consultant told me the same–to bring all of my cash, batteries, sunscreen, and bug spray for all my time in West Africa. After passing through Morocco, Mauritania, and Senegal, I began to think that she was crazy, and that her information was outdated. However, while you can get stuff in the three aforementioned countries, it’s a different story in Guinea.

I haven’t seen a single ATM since arriving. Outside of Kankan, you can barely find toilet paper. If I didn’t bring my sunscreen, I simply wouldn’t have any. I haven’t flossed in 3 weeks, because you can’t find dental floss around here. Guinea is the 13th poorest country in the world, I believe, and in the way of resources and imports, it really does show. You gotta come prepared.

Another scarcity in Guinea is electricity. During the dry season, with no water to power hydroelectric generators, most establishments only have electricity for a few hours a day. Even the biggest university here can go days without having power. Can you imagine Penn State without electricity? Less the implications, but merely the idea? It seems rather insane.

What are children like?

There is a strict age hierarchy in Guinean society, and I’d like to say this is applicable to most of Africa as well. The seven-year-old bosses the five-year-old around. The four-year-old carries the two-year-old. In my family, the baby gets all the attention, and Lo, who’s roughly 10, gets absolutely bullied by everyone else. The girls order him around, the mom orders him around, and he really doesn’t get much love. I suppose it improves when he’s older.

In addition, many Guinean babies are dirty, although this doesn’t apply to my family (they’re rather well off, if you didn’t gather). Children are pumped out here like there’s no tomorrow, and for the formative years, many run around with snot bubbling out of their noses which no parent cares to wipe away, and clothes that have never seen the heavenly light of soap and water. Few wear shoes either. Then, there’s the older brother, age 18, wearing a checkered flannel shirt, leather shoes, and tight fitting jeans standing just beside. It’s all very strange.

Do faux-pas’ occur often?

In West Africa, faux pas’ are frequent and unavoidable. This is arguably the part of the world least in touch with the West, and with traditions that date back a seriously long way. Humanism, community, and brotherhood are all very paramount. Not saying “hi” to everyone is extremely rude. Shaking hands with elderly women isn’t really done. And apparently, I can’t sniff the green sauce before eating it.

When traveling in West Africa, keep an open mind and an open heart, but as keen as you may be, you’re going to inadvertently insult someone sooner or later. It’s just going to happen.

Is it scary?

People have this great fear of traveling in Africa, I think. When it’s on TV, it’s war and famine. When it’s online, it’s famine and war. Recently, my friend Jeff asked me this question: “is it scary over there?”

My answer came in two parts. The first part is that in all of my experiences in Africa, the transport can be, as much as I may enjoy it, absolutely terrifying. Not one car I’ve ridden in since leaving Spain would pass a safety test in any Western nation. In Guinea, they pack up to 12 people in a car made for 7, and let 12 more sit on the roof. The roads are mostly awful, and a 100km ride can take 12 hours. Your cars will break down often, and your ride will not be comfortable. In the last 6 weeks, I’ve witnessed 3 motorbike collisions with my own eyes. In this regard, Africa is scary.

Apart from that, I truly think Africa is the least scary continent on which to travel, by far. African hospitality is unrivaled by almost anyone (I will make it to Iran one of these days, so the title is still up for grabs); if you have a problem, you will be helped. If you don’t have a place to stay, you will be housed–if you don’t have anything to eat, you will be fed. African people are, plain and simple, some of the warmest and most welcoming you’ll ever find. And for this reason, transport aside, there is absolutely nothing scary about traveling in Africa. It’s like being a baby in a hospital ward–everyone is there to help. With a reasonable amount of confidence, wit, and problem solving skill, there’s just nothing at all to fear around here. And lastly, if things do go down, the locals will keep you safe.

Do you like it?

I do–very much. Guinea has been, by far, the most challenging country I’ve traveled in, with respect to the novelty of culture, total lack of infrastructure, unavailability of basic amenities, and a complete disregard for the notion of time. Like I showed in the last post, I have my good days, and I have my bad ones. But a good day in Africa, where everything goes your way, as you ride your bike home under a cool ruby sunset with a smile on your face and a backpack full of mangoes, well–there’s just nothing like it.

Before finishing, I’d like to clarify why I’ve recently been generalizing some things as “African,” and not as being country-specific. First, however, I will mention that I think it bothers the Africa travelers when people say things like, “I want to go to Africa,” or “Oh, I’ve been to Africa.”  Where do you want to go? Africa is a continent, with something like 54 different countries. Where have you been? An afternoon in Tangier, Morocco? Three days in Cairo? Africa is so big, so immense, and to say you’ve “been to Africa” after a 4-day safari in an air conditioned Hummer in Botswana doesn’t really cut it. I think this bothers some people.

However–to my point. One thing I’ve learned since returning to the African continent, echoed strongly by my CouchSurfing host in Dakar, is that Africans have a sense of international brotherhood and continental identity that doesn’t exist anywhere else. A Frenchman and a Slovenian don’t look at each other and feel “yea, we’re brothers, we’re European.” Most Americans don’t look at a Mexican and go: “we’re in this together–we’re North American.” Conversely, most Africans, regardless of nation, seem to have this sense of cohesive togetherness, such that I can make generalizations about the continent without too much inaccuracy, and without angering too many travelers. I can talk about “African hospitality,” even though I’ve only seen 8 African countries–I doubt the rampant kindness differs all that much across borders. I still have many lifetimes worth of learning to do about this incredible continent, but for some things, it does seem fair to lump it all under the umbrella of “Africa.”

Oh, what I would do for a rainy day.

Forgot to stock up on mangoes today,

Will

Guinea is one of my “stops” for the trip: I’ve been here for 5 weeks, and I’ll be here for 5 more. In this post, and in the next, I’m gonna tell you a bit about what it’s like.

Guinea is the 8th African country in my passport, and while each is certainly unique from the next, there is one recurring theme that seems to hold true for all:

You will have your good days in Africa, and rest assured, you will have your bad ones. In this post, I’m going to paint you a picture of each.

A bad day in Guinea goes something like this:

It’s Friday, and I don’t teach on Friday, so I go to the cyber café at 10am, since it opens at 10am. I arrive, and walk through the open door.

“Can I have a ticket for the internet?”

“Sure thing.”

I pay, receive ticket, and sit down at the computer, as the owner continues to sell tickets to other clients.

“Sir, the connection doesn’t work.”

“One second–let me finish with these customers.”

“But the connection doesn’t work in the first place?”

“Wait a bit, it will work in a minute.”

11:15am rolls around.

“Sir, what’s the deal.”

“It will work at noon.”

“OK. I’m going to go home and eat lunch, and I’ll be back at noon. The connection will work at noon? Promise?”

“Yes, definitely. I’ll see you at noon.”

I go home, return at noon, and sit down at the computer.

“Sir, this still doesn’t work.”

“Hmm. Wait a bit.”

“You said this would work at noon. I’ve already paid you. Have you done anything to try to fix the problem?”

“AH! Just wait a bit.”

“When will this work?”

“This afternoon.”

“OK, what time?”

“2pm..3pm..4pm..something like that. Just wait a bit.”

“I’d like my money back please.”

Still in need of internet, I hop on my bike, and head into town. While the opposite lane is fully free, and while I occupy no more than the 0-10th percentile of my lane (my lane would mark the 0-50th percentile, and the opposite lane the 50th-100th percentile, horizontally, of the total paved road), both cars and motorbikes also going downtown insist on flying past me in the 10-20th percentile, coming within, say, 4 inches of me, honking incessantly the entire time, so as to do me the high courtesy of “letting me know they are there,” as if I gave a flying f*ck, and didn’t want to simply focus on the road ahead, so as not to be hit by any oncoming drivers. As if just widely swooping around me, and passing with respect and civility, and in a manner that didn’t give me a heart attack, and make me legitimately feel like my life is in danger, was so f*cking difficult.

I arrive at the next cyber café, emotionally exhausted after a 12 minute bike ride, and log on for 7 minutes, before the power cuts out.

“When will it turn back on?”

“Wait a bit. It should be back in an hour.”

Maybe tomorrow.

I’m now hungry, so I head to the Ivorian restaurant by the gas station, which has some of the bombest rice I’ve ever tried. The previous day, when I went at 1pm, they told me they hadn’t started making the rice yet, or, in other words, they didn’t have any food.

This time:

“Has the rice started?”

“It’s already finished for the day.”

“I came yesterday at this time, and it hadn’t started. And now it’s finished?”

“Wait until tomorrow.”

“Like–this is a restaurant. If you don’t have any food, why am I able to walk through the door? Why are you even open? You make a profit on your food, or you wouldn’t sell it, and I know you buy rice in 100kg sacks, so I know you aren’t fresh out; I’m standing here with money–why don’t you just make more?”

I put my stomache aside, and instead head to “bike street,” in attempt to test-drive some different-sized bikes, since I will be buying one over the phone in the coming days.

“Hi, I want to buy a bike. Can I try this one?”

“Wait a bit. I’ll be there in a minute.”

..Continues drinking tea and talking to his friend..

5 minutes later: “Hi. How are you?”

“Hi–I want to buy a bike. Can I try this one?”

“You have to buy it first.”

“I have to buy it before trying it?”

“Yes.”

“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Sorry.”

“I’ll probably buy this bike if I can just try it first (a lie, of course); don’t you want my money?”

..Resumes drinking tea and talking to friend..

“You’re useless. Bye.”

It’s now 5:45pm, and since the café further downtown starts making soft-serve ice cream at 5:00pm, I head on over, dodging more motorbikes all the while.

“Ice cream ready?”

“No–wait a bit.”

“Look, it’s been a long day. I’ll pay you 5,000GF a cup (it’s normally 3,000GF a cup–roughly $0.42USD) if we can turn this thing on right now. What do we have to do to make that happen?”

“Just wait a bit. It will be ready soon.”

Having lost all patience entirely, I hop back on my bike, and head home. Every other child I pass yells “toubaaaaab!, while every other adult stares unblinkingly at the white guy on the bike. Today, I just don’t have the nerves for all the attention. This is unfortunate, since not saying hi to every person with whom you make eye contact seems like a huge insult in Guinean culture.

On the road home, I concentrate my very hardest on not getting hit, and as I’m just about there–just about to that dirt path, the one so quiet that I can hear my tires grinding the stones–a rusted Toyota Land Cruiser roars by me, and while it could swerve to give me space, it doesn’t, forcing me to effectively dive off the road, and bringing me the closest I’ve ever been to picking up a rock, and launching it through someone’s back windshield, as I wonder, furious, and ready to hit someone–what in the name of logic, reason and civility was going on in that douchebag-motherf*cker’s head.

Finally, I arrive home. Starving, I’m served rice with peanut sauce for dinner for the 4th time that week. Dirty, I take my bucket shower. Feeling a bit ill–maybe from the frustration, or maybe from the sauce–I take my shorts off, boxers off, and t-shirt off, and, sweating, squat over the ceramic latrine, and poop out something faintly tinged with blood. Lastly, tired, I settle down on my straw mattress, lay down on my straw pillow, pull my mosquito net closed, and retire to a sweaty sleep, wondering, ever so slightly, what the hell I’m doing here in the first place.

That’s a bad day in Guinea.

Now, deep breaths–here’s what a good one looks like:

It’s Saturday, and I wake up to my 6:00am alarm, in order to get an early start on a long day’s bike ride. I stretch on the prayer rug next to my bed, eat a truly fantastic baguette with cheese, and hit the road before the sun comes up.

By 7:30am, the sun begins to rise. It’s the same as every morning: ruby-red, a bit larger than I’m used to, and with crisply defined edges–a massive, Jovial (in the “of Jupiter” sense) grapefruit, floating in the sky.

As I approach the 10km mark (from town), I see a path, and decide to go exploring. I dip off, and instantly feel the beauty: there’s no cars anymore! In addition, no more than 3 minutes later, I get that “lost in the woods” feeling, as I’m completely surrounded by mango trees (which look like giant Zoombinis–remember the computer game?), looming baobab trees, bulls, singing birds, farmland, Acacia trees, and a bit of red dust.

I bike for another half-hour, and in the middle of it all, I find a village: a cropping of about 50 huts, all made of homemade cinder blocks, homemade cement, and straw roofs, surrounded by more mango trees, and the odd papaya tree. I get off my bike, and all of the kids begin to jump up and down, smile, and run towards me. Toubab!

Out of 40 people now standing in front of me, all beaming, all genuinely elated to have me in their midst (this white guy came all the way from America or Europe just to ride a bike into our middle-of-the-forest village?), there’s one person who happens to speak French (most villagers don’t speak French), who immediately invites me to eat couscous (hands only) with the rest of the village. Meanwhile, one of the women fetches me two large papayas, each a different type, just to see which one I like best.

I eat, smiling with the children, trying to make jokes even though they speak Malinke, and I don’t. As I finish, and go to fetch my bike, I see that one of the villagers has already moved it right to my feet. I get back on the trail, as the entire village, in unison and warm smiles, waves goodbye.

Around 11am, I make it to the 40km mark, where there’s a police checkpoint under a large mango tree. I pull over, park my bike, and begin to chat with the officers, and the women making food.

I ask how much the oranges cost, and one officer says: “No worries, it’s all on me. Take as many as you like.” Next, he refills my water, hands me a few bags of peanuts, and insists that I try some of the fried forest-bananas being passed around.

We all chat a bit more, joking about America, and I hop on my bike and head towards home. “One more orange for the road,” the officer says.

On the road home, I pass villages, waving villagers, and even the odd monkey swinging from mango tree to mango tree. I pull over in a village closer to home, greet the beaming children in a wood-hut cafe, and am quickly served water, coffee, and banana bubble gum. We chat about bush life, Guinea, and, once more, what it’s like in that crazy wonderland known as the United States. I get up to leave, as the mob urges me to stay, and once more wave goodbye.

Guinea might not be so bad after all.

A few kilometers later, and my bike breaks down. The first four people that pass me all stop, and within 45 seconds, I have a team of mechanics, with tools, fixing my bike for me. I’m back on the road in five minutes.

Once in town, and hungry, I try a new cafe.

“What’s for lunch?”

“We have coffee and bread.”

“Well, what’s that you’re eating?”

“Rice with onion sauce. Here, please take the rest–I’m full.”

“Can I pay you for this?”

“No no. My treat!”

More kindness. And it doesn’t stop there.

It’s almost dark, and I head home. I pass a family plucking mangoes from a tree, and I ask if I can buy some. All of the children run out, ecstatically and warmly shouting toubab!, and excitedly tell their parents to grab the white guy some mangoes.

“Can I pay you for these?”

“No no. My treat. You’ll pay us back, somehow, someday. Enjoy!”

That night, I go to a bar with some Peace Corps volunteers, and some Guineans. The place we go to is basically closed, but for us, they pump up the music, turn on the lights, and start wheeling out beer, liquor, and food. We dance, laugh, and sing until about 3:00am, and all have a great time. The Guineans are impossibly friendly, and are so happy to have met us. At the end of the night, they insist on picking up the whole tab.

I awake the following morning, after having spent the night in a Peace Corps hut, and find that my sandals, which I had broken just as we were heading to the bar the previous evening, and had left on the porch, were fully repaired by one of the neighbors, just to do me a favor.

Does this stuff happen in my country?

I finally return home, do some reading, and take a long, afternoon nap–smiling, energetic, and thoroughly content to be where I am.

That is a good day in Guinea.

On the whole, the Africa I know doesn’t exactly make for the “easiest” of travel.  You have your good days, and you have your bad days, but in the end, I think all who really travel Africa leave with more amazing memories than not.  Besides, bloody poop doesn’t last forever.

I’ll talk much more Guinea in the next post; I had intended to do it all in this one, but it got pretty long, pretty quick! Next one coming shortly.

Today was a pretty good day,

Will

I write this post to you, because I’m so deeply appreciative of all of your support.

Throughout my trip, I’ve received messages, lots even, where I’m constantly told–urged to understand–that what I’m doing is unequivocal, and special beyond measure. They tell me–and it’s usually very to-the-point–that what I’m doing inspires them, asks them to dream, and even, for some, makes them believe. From the bottom of my heart, I want you to know that these messages are remarkable–an infallible pick-up when I’m low, and a bottomless well of drive to keep it all going. So, for this post, if you’re one of these people, I’m speaking to you, directly. Also, if you can read this on your own, just before bed and without many distractions, some soft music playing, maybe a candle lit, and certainly no one yelling, that’s what I’d ask you to do. I think it’ll mean a bit more in a setting like that.

I’ve been wanting to write this post for a while–a personal reflection after a year on the road. I also wanted to wait, though, for the right time to start, a time when I was really “full of it,” that profound feeling of transition, that deep appreciation, clarity, and overpowering love for the present, that not-so-fleeting moment when the reality of what I’m doing–my trip–is fully apparent and there in front of me, and when, try as you might, you simply couldn’t get rid of even the smallest part, of that warm, invincible smile I have on my face.

I wanted to wait for a time like this, because I want to tell you, my Reader, mostly truly and directly as I can, what my trip has meant to me so far. I want my thoughts to flow very freely–I don’t want to miss a thing. It’s 7pm on a Sunday, alone in a darkened bedroom, with Sigur Rós’ “Varúð” playing, and right now, I really do think I got it.

So, as best I can, to you, here goes: a personal reflection, after a year on the road.

I left for my trip on January 3rd, 2012, a kid with a backpack in the Philadelphia airport. I remember it well, of course–graduating just two weeks before, toasting a scotch to the things to come, the lunch I had the morning of my flight, and my Mom feeling like she was “sending me off to war.” I thought I’d be gone just 12 months–that’s what I told everyone. It seemed like forever too, back then, an insurmountable number, an immense, never-ending tunnel, one from which I’d sooner turn back in the middle, than reach the light at the other end. And hey. Here I sit, 13 months later, in a darkened bedroom in West Africa, not even half way done my trip, reflecting on all that’s been.

The craziest part is looking back to the start–a Tusker on the train to Mombasa, a sunset swim in the Indian Ocean, staring out over Lake Bunyoni–and thinking, “man, all that stuff happened on this very same trip.” Overall, I think it’s gone quickly, especially considering that, if I stuck to the original plan, I’d already be finished. However, when I think to those moments, the beginning of a story that has yet to end, it all feels like an eternity to me.

This past year has been filled with so much life, that words could hardly do it justice. I’ve laughed, I’ve danced, I’ve sang, and I’ve cried. I’ve made a pitiable fool out of myself more times than I could count. I’ve fallen for girls, taken new chances, and put caution far into the wind just to see where I’d land. I’ve eaten new foods, seen new landscapes, and had the incredible privilege to meet some people that I simply won’t ever forget. There’s this moment, this recurring tune, that probably best sums it all up, this life–my life–where I’m on a bus, headphones on, watching it all pass by, and there’s something that catches my eye, maybe a person, a tree, or a sunset, and all that life, all that I just described, channels itself into this smile that meets my face, this unbeatable smile with slightly watery eyes, this full-body understanding of what the words happiness and fulfillment might really mean–the insane, and insanely unlikely, privilege of life. It is, and has been, a truly beautiful thing.

People often ask me if I get lonely out here, and usually, I say yes. It doesn’t happen often, but like everyone, I do have my lonelier moments, I say.

Lately, though, I’ve been rethinking it. Lately, as I’m planning the next phase of the trip (I can’t wait to tell you guys about this one), I’ve had these moments, and I’ve even made some notes during these moments, that go something like this:

“I am so excited about my life that I can barely sit still.”

There’s these moments, and they only happen when I’m alone, where, with the right music on, I unstoppably pace around the room–dancing, too, even–staring at maps, pondering visas, thinking, planning, and dreaming bigger than before. And in those moments, like I said, I just cannot be stopped. So, with energy like that stored up inside, I ask you: how could I ever really be lonely?

Next, I want to tell you about my faith in the world. I suppose I’ve always been a trusting guy, having grown up surrounded by good people, a childhood absent of any particular trauma or distress. I come from a good area, too, and your average neighbor is a warm-hearted individual. But that’s just Lower Merion, ya know?

In my 13 months on the road, I’ve been leant a helping hand more times than I could ever count. I’ve been invited into more homes, to more tea, to more parties, and to more dinner than even the smallest trace of doubt would allow you to believe. It almost seems wrong, too, to be out here on my own, being showered with kindness, direction and genuine friendship everywhere I go, and wearily accepting it all, time and time again. But the thing is, you know, they want to help–they want to be a part of my story. Most people are quite literally just as excited to show me their country as a local, as I am to be exploring it as a foreigner. There’s the biker that stops, and tells me where it’s safe to hitchhike, inviting me to stay with him if it all falls through; the mother that didn’t want me to leave her house, so she could continue, every night, to spoil me with her very best cooking; the girl that left her shop counter, and walked me twenty minutes to the only vegetarian restaurant in town, when I simply asked for directions. There’s been over thirty people–friends, families, and CouchSurfing hosts, most of whom I’d met only recently, or never at all–who told me, with real honesty, that I could stay as long as I needed to. This isn’t even just me, either–this is what happens to all who really travel. So, I want you to know, that I simply don’t think you’d ever be remiss to put your full, blind, yet good-conscienced faith in the strangers of the world. Most people want nothing more than to lend a helping hand.

While unforgettable experiences have been numerous, there is of course a down-side: you end up leaving pieces of your heart in too many places to recollect. There’s people from my trip I will see again, and places to which I will return, but the unfortunate reality is that there are many things I’ll never get the chance to revisit. And you know, even if I do, it just won’t be the same as it was. The same people won’t be there, and the same things won’t be in place. And this is OK, of course–this is how it’s supposed to go. But on a late, rainy night, in an apartment bedroom somewhere in the world and 5 years from now, I’ll sit there by myself, music playing softly, maybe a candle lit and certainly no one yelling, thinking back to all of that life in all of those far-off places, and I’ll simply have no choice but to cry. I guess it’s part of the job.

Before looking ahead to the second half of the trip, I just want to tell you once more how perfect it’s been. It’s the imperfection that makes it perfect, of course: I’m sitting in a country I hardly knew existed when I left home, half-way done what I thought would be a 12-month journey, at the end of month 13. In this regard, it’s actually gone exactly as planned. You’ll find it in this blog, on the first post detailing my trip plans: “the only thing certain about the above is nothing–it will all change as I go.”

With regards to what lies ahead, I want to talk about the elusive notion of “appreciation.” When it all began, my trip, a kid with a backpack in the Philadelphia airport, I was that college freshman, stepping first foot into my first dorm and thinking: “4 years is forever–this will never end.” However, on some lonely, senseless Sunday morning, it all does eventually end–I just graduated last winter myself.

At this point in my trip, almost exactly half-way done, I’m beginning to grasp the fact that this, like college, will end too–that one day, a day not so far from now, I’ll be sitting next to my backpack in an airport, maybe Tokyo’s, waiting to board a flight–weak, lukewarm, and vulnerable–full of confusion, contrived indifference, and deep, genuine sadness, on the very last hour of one of the greatest experiences of my life. The day will come–I promise you it must–and at this point, I can actually see it approaching. Yesterday was Saturday, today is Sunday, and surely enough, in a few short hours, Monday will arrive. I can see my time slipping away, and I wonder: have I duly appreciated all that’s been, as well as the privilege of still having so much more to go?

Appreciation is an interesting thing, you know, and for a lot of people, I think it primarily serves to make them feel guilty about something they should not. We have these privileges–especially those from my area–and we think, unnecessarily, “am I truly appreciative of all that I’ve been given?” And really, in my opinion, this line of self-questioning is completely futile, as we can always convince ourselves that we aren’t quite there. To some, a trip to Italy would fulfill a lifelong dream, and for those, be certain, it would be “appreciated” as such. I went to Italy once myself–the Coliseum in Rome, the markets of Florence, a football match in Milan–and really, I didn’t much like the place. Am I villainous, therefore? Am I shallow and misguided?

On the road, I have ample time to think about this stuff (especially in Africa), and on the notion of appreciation, oh how elusive it is, I’ve come to the following conclusion: acknowledging that life, this grand opportunity we’ve been gifted, is ephemeral, and my god, treating it as such, is what being “appreciative” really means. Spinning your conscience in circles over being “thankful enough” is simply a losing battle; instead, focus your efforts not on being sufficiently “aware,” in-perspective, or forcibly sentimental, but on making the most of the time you have left. Learn something every day, challenge yourself, and from this thing we call life, squeeze out every bit you can. That is acknowledging what you’ve been given, and furthermore, that is your categorical responsibility as a human being. No days off: that’s what being “appreciative” is all about.

Next, I’d like to talk about “living in the moment.” It’s an idea you’ve heard, and if I could guess, you’ve probably devoted a concerted effort to its mastery. To me, it’s another head-spinner–another futile, and counterproductive, “am I living this right?”

We have experiences, compacted into fleeting moments, and from then on, we have our memories. Which lasts longer, do you think?

Me, well I’d say the memories–I think it’s rather straightforward. To this effect, which “mode of experience”–the fleeting or the forever–should we put more effort into cherishing?

Iceland and Colombia have been two of my favorite countries, so far: I met someone in each that I really did like. Looking back, my time in these places was so perfect–so unlikely–so effortless, and so unforgettable. I knew it at the time, too, how special it was, but now, as the more common moments dissipate and the high points are all that remain, the perfection becomes a whole lot clearer.

My question, to you, is this: how do we know that perfection as it’s taking place? Can we? Can that beauty really be grabbed as it’s unfolding, or is it really just the memory, and the memory alone, that lives forever in that moment, better than I, or you, ever could?

About a week ago, I finished Viktor Frankl’s “A Man’s Search For Meaning,” which I think contains strong commentary on the issue. The author agrees, like most of us would, that we live in a society that values, as well as envies, youth–the generation of possibilities. It’s logical, too: the unknown and unsolved is enchanting to us all. It certainly works that way for me.

On the contrary, however, Frankl also posits that, just maybe, it’s the young that should be jealous of the old, since the old have, in many cases, lived–a life full of life, full of experience, that will always be theirs, alive in memory. That is the end game after all, right? We live, we laugh, and we love, until one day, when it’s almost all over, we are, in theory, full of more life than ever before.

As the days continue to escape, I won’t forget what Mr. Frankl said. I have done some truly cool things in the last 13 months on the road, and in the 13 that follow, I fully intend to do more of the same. So, when it is all over, maybe sitting in an office somewhere, I’ll be “living in the moments,” those gorgeous, immovable memories, more than I currently ever could. Maybe this is what “living in the moment” really means?

With certainty, what I can say is this: for the rest of my life, when I look at a world map, I’ll never stop smiling about what I did. I’ll know that, as best I could, I really did leave my mark this time around.

Lastly, I want to tell you what a privilege this all is, and what my duty is to you.

My trip all started, really, when I was 15 years old. I deposited $50 onto Full Tilt Poker, and I began to work. I worked hard–as all of my friends would tell you–and was fortunate enough to build that $50 into something substantial. I went to France when I was 16, backpacked Western Europe when I was 18, spent my Junior spring in Australia, and from then on, all I wanted to do was travel. Two weeks after graduating, I was able to hop on an airplane and begin my story–my trip–with online poker paying for the whole thing.

Since that day, January 3rd, 2012, I’ve had the opportunity–the privilege–to meet all types of people, from all walks of life. I met a kid who rode his bicycle, from Portland to Ushuaia. I met a guy who grew up in Greenland, as his parents were missionaries. I met a shaman from Malta, an oil engineer who works on Antarctica, and a lady who used to be close friends with Pablo Escobar. I’ve met people who speak one language, and people who speak eight. I’ve met environmental activists, documentary film makers, NGO workers, fantasy novelists, un-bathed hitchhikers, hip-hop journalists, professional rock climbers, and a girl whose father races pigeons for sport. I’ve met children from the Kibera Slum in Nairobi, and children from the palatial apartments of Buenos Aires. I’ve met people like myself, and people with whom I shared nothing in common. The tall and short, rich and poor, driven and lazy, I’ve had the opportunity to meet.

I’ve had the privilege to discuss as well. I’ve discussed rice production in Senegal, socialism in Scandinavia, whale-hunting in Iceland, maté culture in Argentina, the impact of tourism in Tanzania, police violence in Brazil, Soviet influence in Estonia, guerrilla politics in Colombia, genocide in Rwanda and Burundi, the Israel-Palestine conflict (from the Palestinian side), the corruption hindering resource-rich Guinea, and why New York just may be the best city on the planet, with those who have never been. I’ve had more constructive and insightful conservations than I could ever remember. I’ve had the privilege to be in these places, and to learn about their issues, not from a book nor computer, but from those who actually live there.

A few months ago, I stayed with this girl in Cali, Colombia, who, at the time, was having a rough weekend. She lost of bit of cash, had a small incident with her car, and one night, after her ATM card refused to work, was fresh out of money as we went to find dinner.

I loaned her the money, of course, and afterwards, she swore she’d pay me back. However, having been on the road for roughly 9 months myself, and having had a strong taste of the unrelenting kindness it continues to bring (hers included), it was not an offer I could reasonably accept.

Instead, I told her:

“I won’t take your money, but I would like to be repaid. So, the next person that needs a favor–be it dinner, a lift to school, or some money for dinner–you’ll help them. And only then, my friend, will you have repaid me.”

This may seem like contrived, my Reader–it may seem forced. It may seem like I butter this up, and make it shinier than it needs to be. But the road does this to you, I think–it makes you “full of it.” The road makes you understand how much kindness there is in the world, and how, in order to keep it alive, it must be passed forward.

So, with the immense privilege of this trip–the opportunity to see, if only just a bit, of what this world is really like–I feel it my responsibility, like the friend I bought dinner, to pass the favor forward.  Be it in this blog through my writing, a lengthy email to a distant acquaintance, or a Skype call to someone I barely know–I want, oh so badly, to inspire others to explore their world as well.  I feel like–after what the road has given me–it’s what I’m supposed to do.

Before I finish, I’d like to briefly mention what a treat it is to be back in Africa, where, generally, you just don’t have to think about much. When the sun sets and when it rises, which roads have the fewest motorbikes, who makes the best beef skewers and where the girl selling water sacks has wandered off to, are the biggest concerns of the day. Life moves, officially, much slower around here. It’s not better than home, and it’s certainly not worse: it’s just one piece of a large puzzle, just as important as the next.

Once more, I do want to thank you for your support. It really means the world to me.

The luckiest kid on the planet,

Will

This one, like a few of the last, begins on that same straw mattress, the one in Kankan, Guinea, with my mosquito net pulled shut on a sweltering afternoon. The hot season is fast approaching, and along with a biblical hailstorm of mangoes, in all of their inviting forms, it brings a strong, pressing afternoon heat which, for those who can, simply must be passed indoors.

The past few days have been biking and research. I’ve been riding my bike, and researching where I’ll ride my bike next. I have this idea, this great new idea, that I fully intend to act on, since really, it’s probably wise to act, with excitement, determination, and a strong mind, on all great new ideas. I won’t share this idea quite yet, though: it will theme a near-future post instead.

Before beginning this one, I’d like to apologize for the lack of pictures. I have some great ones–many, in fact–but the internet speeds here in Kankan simply don’t support photo upload. So, for the next few months, I kindly request your pardon: I’ll continue to blog–writing posts on my iPhone (I left my MacBook Air at Brisa’s house in Algeciras, Spain, in order to lighten up my pack, and not have it ruined by sand–there’s not much wifi around here anyway), while bouncing from internet café to internet café, where both the power and connection are always crapping out in some cruel, twisted, and torturous duet, until the “Publish” button finally works and the post goes through–but unfortunately, without pictures, for now. I’ll add them in when I get to Israel.

On January 3rd, after an early wakeup in Naomi’s flat, in Dakar’s Ouackam neighborhood, I began the crawl to Kankan. “I should be there in 3 days,” I told her. The journey is about 1,200km.

After a quick car rapide to la gare, and stocking up on water and bananas for the road, I hopped in one of the many sept-places bound for Tambacounda, in eastern Senegal.

Here’s how this works. La gare means “the station” in French, and sept-place means “seven seat,” so you arrive at the station—generally just a dusty parking lot or street corner–and find a car bound for your destination–generally these Peugeot 504 station wagons–and pack 3 in the far back, 3 in the back, and 1 in the front. It’s a tight squeeze, but compared to Guinea, where the same car goes by neuf-place, well, it’s really not so bad.

Each seat in a sept-place has a fixed price, and the driver won’t leave until all the seats are filled. So, when you hop in a half-empty car, you’re left with two options: buy up the rest of the seats yourself, or wait it out.

Fortunately, this particular sept-place was almost full, and in fact, was occupied mostly by United States Peace Corps volunteers who had, like myself, passed New Years in Dakar, and were now heading back to site near Tambacounda. We made our acquaintances, and they quickly offered me a place to sleep in their regional house for that evening. Wifi, English, and people my age who like to drink beer (not so many in West Africa, since the majority of people seem to be Muslim). I’ll take it.

The ride itself took about 8 hours, and was largely uneventful. We stopped in some villages for snacks, rice and fish, picked up the odd slab of raw meat, popped a tire rolling over a train track (we threw a football around to kill time), and arrived in Tamba just before sunset. A largely uneventful ride, as far as Africa goes.

The Peace Corps house was very college. A kitchen stockpiled with noodles, cookies, and overused kitchenware–wandered by 4 or 5 at a time, making eggs or macaroni, drinking tap water out of half-clean cups; a large cork-board with a collage of pictures–drunken nights, group shots, a pie in the face, what have you; couches for internet bumming, bunk beds, and even ~12 beds set up on the roof, complete with mosquito nets, where most people usually sleep. It was really a nice place to be, and everyone was, of course, very accommodating. As I’ve said before, the lone traveler is a very befriend-able figure.

Two of the first people I met in the house were Adrian and Haley. I told them I was hungry. “Wanna go get some warthog?,” they asked.

An hour later, and we’re sitting at a plastic table, occupying three of four seats, on the patio slash dance floor area of a bar named Baobab, with the music playing WAY too loud (Adrian asked them to turn it down), on the one-year anniversary of my trip. The next post is a personal reflection. It’s really been a ride.

Like most of Senegal, Tambacounda has both a Christian and Muslim population. The Christians eat meat, and the Muslims don’t. There’s lots of warthogs around, which are therefore in high supply and low demand, so for the meat-eaters, it’s a common, inexpensive dish. My warthog came in the form of sautéed warthog cubes, with some onions and peppers to round it all out. It tasted like beef steak, and is something I would eat again. It was a good first warthog.

Next, we went to another bar to meet up with some other volunteers–another “Africa-bar,” I’ll call it. Africa-bars, at least the ones that aren’t geared towards expats in capital cities, seem to all have a similar feel: low, dingy, lemon-lime lights–a rusted, crackly TV playing European soccer–a few locals, who all probably show up most every night (the town drunks, basically)–maybe one woman, who is probably working behind the bar–plastic tables and plastic chairs–and just no discernible superfluity, personal assumption, nor granular trace of coziness. Most are powered by generators, and once in a while, believe it or not, Africa-bars can actually be quite charming.

Exhausted from the day’s journey, and pretty interested to see what Peace Corps volunteers actually do, I began to ask if I could tag along with anyone the following day (instead of continuing into Guinea), and check out some of the projects. “Wait for James,” they said, “he’d be great for this.”

Soon after, in walks James: a young kid from Pittsburgh, to whom I’d actually sent a CouchRequest a few days prior, in anticipation of an overnight rest in Tamba. We spoke for a minute, and he quickly agreed to let me come along. “Hey Will, you’re traveling the world, can I buy you a beer?,” he then asked.

The following day, James and I grabbed bikes from the house (all PC volunteers, at least in Senegal and Guinea, are given bikes), and headed out to one of the farms at which James works. Basically, his job is to facilitate new initiatives on the farm–anything from new irrigation systems, new crops, experimental planting techniques, etc–providing advice, inspiration, general mentorship, and never money. In this way, after his two years of service, James leaves the farmer, and the community, hopefully more enlightened, driven, and capable than when he first arrived; “a man taught to cook fish on the beach in Nouakchott,” essentially.

After introducing me to the farmer, James walked me around the farm, and gave me the run-down: the new irrigation system to be implanted, and how it will work, what crops grow in what seasons, what crops Senegal enjoys, where they come from, and things like that.

In addition, James explained a rather interesting paradox regarding Senegal’s rice production and consumption. I paraphrase:

The main dish in Senegalese cuisine is rice and fish. Senegal produces a lot of rice itself, most of which is long-grain rice, which is healthier than short-grain. When the French came in and took over Senegal, they brought short-grain rice, to which the Senegalese took a strong liking. The main dish, rice and fish, is almost always short-grain rice. So, while Senegal produces tons of rice, but only the long-grain variety (which is, again, healthier), they end up importing all of the short-grain rice, from Thailand, to satisfy the national taste. This inevitably makes things more complicated, and more expensive than they should be. Switch back to short-grain, guys!

I left the farm with a stronger appreciation for farming itself. So much of the world is still agrarian, for two main reasons, which are kind of one in the same: first, sometimes farming is the only source of income available, and second, humans will always need to eat. I made a mental note to read some books on agrarian economics–that stuff is so important. As we move from horse-drawn carriages to amphibious Hummers, from rotary phones to iPhone 10’s, one thing will always remain constant: people gotta eat.

The next morning, I was finally Guinea-bound. My destination was Koundara, a town roughly 85km from Tambacounda, but given that I had to cross a border, and that this is Africa (T.I.A.), the 85km makes for a full day’s journey.

I woke up around 6am, and left la gare around 7:30. My first destination was Manda, an easy 25km away, just shy of the border.

I arrived in Manda around 8:45, and bought my seat for Koundara. Although still in Senegal, the sept-place had already become a neuf-place, as the driver was probably Guinean. I was the 6th person in the car–only 3 seats to go.

3.5 hours later, and I’m still waiting, with 3 seats still to fill. I read the first 60 pages of a new book (Naomi Klein’s Shock Doctrine, since finished, very good), got a baguette filled with scrambled eggs, onions, and potatoes, and actually spoke a bunch of Spanish for some reason–there were a bunch of Senegalese guys speaking Spanish. One of the guys, with whom I chatted for a good hour, spoke eight languages, perfectly, numbered Spanish, French, Malinke, Susu, Pular, and three other West African languages I’ve since forgotten. He’s gotta learn English, though!–that’s the most important one, these days. Seriously.

Around 12:30pm, we’d had enough. Myself and three of the other guys decided to split the costs for the remaining seats, and off we went.

The car starts moving, and 8 feet later, the driver pulls over, and gets out of the car. More waiting. Then moving again. It smelled like campfires, I wrote in my notes. 200 more feet. Then stopped again. A passerby hands the guy sitting next to me, through the window, a blue, crumply, empty plastic cookies bag, full of cash. Classic. Moving again. People are cold. I put a stray metal screw through a piece in the gutted metal door, and manually crank the window shut–a hand-cranked window, without the plastic crank itself.

As we approach the Guinean border, the scenery begins to change: cement huts with straw roofs, and a whole lot of mango trees. This is Guinea, I’d later learn.

We arrived at the border around 1pm, and were told that they’re closed ’til 2. Africa. I eat some lamb with onions under a straw roof–killing time and escaping the sun. More Shock Doctrine as well, and a bit more Spanish. More waiting too.

Around 2:45, and we get to cross. I’m of course singled out, being the white guy, and have to sit in your token cement border shack for 20 minutes while the officer meanders on in. No problems though, and with the visa already in my passport (got it in Morocco), I moved through rather quickly.

We arrived in Koundara as the sun began to set. I was half-hoping my Spanish-speaking friend would offer me a place to sleep, but alas, he was making the overnight push all the way to Labé–my destination for the following day–and I was on my own. I exchanged some money, receiving a fat stack of bills in exchange for my 50 euro note (1 Euro = ~11,000 Guinean Francs), asked some people to point me towards a hotel, and began to walk.

En route to the hotel, and only having had my foot on Guinean soil for a mere 15 minutes, I hear the now unmistakeable “viens manger!” (come eat! in English) from a family on the left. Hungry, and with 6 wide smiles beaming in my direction, I wearily stomped through the brush, and onto the family porch.

The house itself was artistic, and while I’ve never been, it seemed very “Havanan”: a large, crumbling, 1-story house, more wide then tall, yellow and green paint flaking from the outer walls, sparsely decorated on the inside and most windows missing, and with a large front porch, where the majority of family time is inevitably spent.

The mother and father pulled out a table for me, and the daughter brought the rest. A large jug of water, a large bowl of rice, and an even bigger bowl of some sort of fish/beef/peppers orchestration. She reminded me of the daughter from Inglorious Bastards, I remarked in my notes. “Go fetch me the water for my wash, and then go find your sisters!”

After dinner, the father suggested we go to the soccer game unfolding down the street. I told him I’d check into the hotel first, and then meet him at the field.

The hotel was not so far–100 meters further, maybe. I walked inside and got sorted: $4 for a queen size bed, in a borderline deplorable room. No electricity, no mosquito net, and no running water either, and if I looked under the browning, concaved mattress (I didn’t), I fully anticipated there being a strong collection of used condoms. It was a disgusting place.

I locked my things, and made my way to the field. I saw a few kids sitting on a high, crumbling wall, staring peacefully out at the game they so love–the kids from the Sandlot at an MLB game, type scene. Their backs were to me, and they looked onward. There were two smaller boys trying to hop up as well, but were tragically too small, and like the heroic, unexpected, and once more heroic white-skinned warrior-man materializing out of a dusty orange evening, I helped them up myself. I then propped my own bum up on the ledge, and holy shit: there were like 3,000 people, packing the stands and lining the edges of the field, screaming in madness and utter mayhem. “What the hell is going on,” I asked, leaning over towards the other kids on the ledge. “It’s the prefecture versus the army!” Straight out of The Longest Yard.

At that moment, what seemed like the entire “stadium” noticed that a white guy had entered their midst, and started yelling for me to hop down onto the sidelines. I jumped, and given that the ledge was high enough to make for an uncomfortable crotch womp upon landing–I sorely grabbed my crotch upon landing–and the crowd went nuts.

Next–laughing, smiling and jeering–they cleared out a space for me right on the goal line: a front-row seat for their honorary white-guy, and a perfect introduction to Guinea. Needless to say, with the circus of screaming fans, I never found the dad.

Back at the hotel, and after a cold, headlamp-lit bucket shower, I went to the reception/bar for a beer. On the surface, the place was cool, and with character: cement benches painted red, gigantic speakers thumping salsa, red Christmas lights, a straw roof painted white on the inside, Guiness cardboards and Heineken stickers, meat skewers being grilled outside, and a bunch of posters shouting Ba Cissoko – Mandingo Groove–his great new CD, probably.

That was the surface–cool and with character. However, as I sipped my lukewarm, label-less beer (probably Flag), and began to look around at the few girls (and one guy) that were in the place, tossing a faint smile in their direction, and receiving that lingering look in return that I now know all too well, I quickly realized what was very likely to really be going on: this place was a brothel, and with Avicii-concert-quality speakers blasting salsa music that had no intention of surrender, it was a brothel that would be keeping me up all night. But alas, This Is Africa, and you really just can’t expect to win ’em all.

I arrived at la gare the following morning at 7:15am, and we got moving at 11:30. Thanks again for that Kindle, Evan–it’s saving my life. Our vehicle was a fully-gutted (except for the seats) tin box with a motor, packed with 11 people (it’s meant to hold 7), plus a driver, with myself squashed against the middle-row window–my seat of choice.

Labé is about 230km from Koundara–a full day’s journey under the best of conditions. The first 85km of the road we drove was good–paved and well-maintained. Then, almost out of nowhere, the road just nosedives into the forest, and for the remaining 145km, you’re left to negociate a red-dirt road, with plenty of potholes, dodging cows and a passing trucks. To be clear, it’s not exactly a boulder field that you’re driving through, but after a while, the potholes unfailingly illicit a groaning f*ck offf with each thump and dive, which is sure happen at least six times a minute.

Our car overheated roughly 15 times. The hood would start smoking, and the driver would get out, open the lid, and just dump water on the engine until it cooled off. In addition, at roughly 8:00pm, with a pitch black sky and only 30 daunting kilometers from Labé (night travel in West Africa is not recommended), and having just taken break in a small town roughly 20 minutes prior, we ran out of gas. I mention the town part because our driver should have certainly sorted the fuel while we were all wandering around eating beef skewers, obviously.

Not to worry, though. As everyone grumbles their way out of the car, the driver starts to hitchhike back to town, hopping on the back of the first passing truck. The passengers were left to wait it out, complaining idly under a brilliant sky, and wondering if we’d actually make it to Labé before the next morning. Myself, well I wandered away from the pack, and threw on my go-too “woo-sah” song, Weird Fishes by Radiohead, and just stared up at the painting above, trying to make the best of I all.

Around 9:30, and we finally arrived in Labé. The Peace Corps volunteers in Tamba had put me in touch with a volunteer, Derek, who had quickly and warmly accepted my “hey, got some floor space for me?” text earlier that morning. Derek was from California, on his second PC tour (his first was in Botswana), which is called Response. The only difference here, for me at least, is that Response members are actually employed by the UN, meaning that Derek had a massive house all to himself, complete with 24-hour security/on-command laundry team, and a guest bedroom just for me, where I hastily splashed my stuff, threw two of the couch cushions on the floor, opened my sleeping bag, and crashed for a long snooze.

Tired from the journey, I resolved to hang out in Labé the following day. I wandered the market, a labyrinthine collage of dresses, vegetables, and homemade peanut butter, as well as meandered the outskirts of the city, where I chanced about a half-built mosque, cement skeleton only, which I entered and ascended until the staircase ended, and then climbed up a rickety ladder made of sticks and ties up onto the roof. The view of Labé was like that of Kankan: a few mosques, a river, and lots of mango trees.

From Labé, one can take cars straight to Kankan, but the journey is more than a day, and when night falls, the driver often stops the car, has everyone sleep on the side of the road, and then restarts when the sunlight returns. No thanks. Instead, I decided to break the journey up into two parts, crashing the night with yet another PC volunteer, hooked up by Derek (you can see the trend beginning to form here), in her hut in Bissikrima, maybe 180km away.

My first car left for Mamou around 8:00am, and arrived around 11:00am. Then, I grabbed another car for Dabola, buying my ticket at 11, and leaving around 3:30pm. Thank god for that Kindle.

This ride was a bit interesting as well. First, no one oreally spoke French, so I sat there talking to nobody as the whole car yacked away in Pular, of which I don’t understand a single word. Second, I had my very first “crier”: a young child looked at me, and being the first white person he’d probably ever seen, he started crying uncontrollably. He’d then hide behind a door, pop out again to stare, and then start crying even harder. It was utterly hilarious. Third, this ride was interesting because I saw a car on the road with its trunk strapped down with a rope, and a young kid lying across said trunk, with his legs also under the rope, so as to hold him down too. Some of the stuff that goes on in these bush taxis is just so far beyond laughably dangerous: 7 people on the roof of a car, 3 hanging off the back, 12 more inside, and with so much stuff strapped to the roof (rice, fruit, oil drums, chickens, goats, cows, Fanta, literally whatever) that the car itself looks like the basket of a hot air balloon by comparison, is a rather common sight. Lastly, as the driver stopped to pray just as the sun was setting, I saw this massive, post-apocalyptic-looking bush fire in the distance, whose smoke was even more accentuated by the dusky light. It put me a bit on edge. However, as drove right towards it, I realized it was just Africans burning trash as Africans do, in their time-tested “controlled” fashion. Whatever–this thing was still huge, and pretty scary looking.

We arrived in Dabola around 9pm, and after a steak salad and a water, I took one more taxi 25km to Bissikrima (the share-taxis to Bissi, which held 6, were finished for the day, so I was forced to pay a driver for all 6 seats for the way there, and all 6 seats for his way back, amounting to like $14, about which I was not thrilled), where I finally arrived around 10:30pm. Betsy made me some tea upon arrival–nice girl.

The next day, I again wasn’t moving. Instead, Betsy and I slept in (she was off work), went hiking, took some pictures, got a bit lost, braved some mystery berries given to us by passing village children, and tried not to get eaten by bugs. We then met up with a few more PC volunteers, including a visiting family from Seattle, with whom we ate lunch–potato salads with Fanta–and then dinner–pasta with veggies from the market–and finally, went to a clandestine bar buried in the woods–4 huts, a generator, and a meat skewer lady, where we drank the few remaining beers (one of the guys rides his motorcycle 25km back to Dabola to restock when they run out), as well as gin mixed with grapefruit juice, from grapefruits we picked from the tree overheard. Certainly another Africa bar, but definitely one of the more charming ones.

The next day, 8 days after leaving Dakar, Betsy, myself, Momo and Jesse took a car to Kankan (they go up once a month), and 7 hours later, with the warm welcome of cold ice cream from a restaurant down the street from their house, we finally arrived. As I said in a previous post, this was a hell of a journey in its own rite.

Apologies for the length, but it was an eventful 8 days. The next post will be a personal reflection–where Ill challenge myself to produce something markedly eloquent. It should be a good one.

From Kankan, on a painfully empty stomach,

Will