Cycling the heart of Africa

Five days in the jungle

By Pat & Cat Patterson

As a part of our around-the-world bicycle adventure, we cycled through seventeen countries in Africa, alone, unassisted. A most interesting and adventurous few days were these, spent cycling through Guinea-Bissau to Guinea Conakry.

A course correction, new plans

We cycled into Bissau, the capital city, and up to Hotel Bissau, the remnants of what was once an opulent Sheraton. An old man, maybe in his 60s, checked us in. It was difficult to guess his age. Men’s life spans in Guinea-Bissau were the shortest in West Africa. 

The shabby look of the hotel extended into the lobby. Cat went in to check availability and price. She returned with the price: $89 US per night. It was too late to go shopping for a room. I pushed the bikes inside as Cat checked out the rooms. Looking from room to room, she found some problems with each. The clerk finally threw up his hands and offered her a two-room suite. 

Hotel Bissau was three kilometers (Ks) from downtown Bissau. We took a taxi. The city looked like a war zone with potholes in the streets large enough to be shell holes. Our shopping trip to the supermarket was disappointing, no meat or cheese. We did find essentials like water, wine, mango juice, and cookies. Outside, another young man with leprosy held his fingerless hand out, begging. You’d think we’d be used to the sight. Teddy, the American doctor we’d met, told us the victim’s fingers and toes get numb, then painful as they shrivel. There are drugs that slow or stop progression, but no one in that impoverished place could afford them. That boy clearly hadn’t been treated. 

Acquiring a visa for Guinea Conakry

The Guinea Conakry Embassy was a drab little building, the office dark and dingy. The clerk motioned us into his office, then worked on another person’s visa while we sat. Suddenly, he rose and left, without a word. As we waited, Cat looked out the window and saw him working on a car. I tapped on the window. He came back and said, “These visas cost 30,000 CFA for each.” Cat told him our guidebook said they would cost 20,000. He sort of clucked, then said something curt in a native language and again left the room. When he returned, he was friendlier, accepted 20,000 for each, and said, “Visas, be ready noon today.” 

Searching for the Tourist Office, we came across a UNCHR (United Nations Commission on Human Rights) truck like those we’d seen in Senegal. What a pleasant surprise, Lucien, a man we’d met earlier, stepped through the door. He was amazed to see us. We told him about our idea to find a boat across the Gabu River and down the coast to Kamsar in Guinea Conakry. It would save us 300 Ks cycling up, then around the river. Lucien listened, then asked his co-worker Alisau to help. He pulled down a map on the wall, but it wasn’t helpful. 

UNCHR’s mission was to attend to the needs of the thousands of refugees from Sierra Leone who’d fled to Bissau. Abrahim was one of them. He said, “I flee when my parents are killed. I live here, Bissau, now eight years.” He added, “Sierra Leone is so beautiful, you must cycle there.” When we asked why he hadn’t returned, he said, “Oh no, they would kill me!” That helped confirm our decision to skip past Sierra Leone.

Our time spent with the Coalition to End Domestic Violence, at home, clicked in when we saw the posters on the wall of the UNHRC reception area. They depicted many of the issues we dealt with during our six years as Director and Chairperson.

Godfrey, Director of Planning for UNCHR, said, “Most of the boat lines indicated on our maps are no longer available. Also, cycling could be unsafe as there has been recent unrest on that highway. You might take the boat to Bolama Island, then find another boat to go around the peninsula. You will find several Americans live on the island.” 

We took a clunky taxi back to the hotel. The power in our room went out at 5:00 p.m. We sat in the dim light, enjoying sipping wine and discussing a plan, but without AC, it soon became hot and sticky. Cat noticed that the fan in the bathroom started to run. She looked into the hallway and found the lights were shining brightly. I flipped the main switch, and voila, we had lights and air conditioning. 

We met a French guy working with the World Bank and the Guinean Ministry of Finance. Cat was shocked to hear he’d been living in the hotel for six months. She asked why he didn’t rent a house. He said, “Simple, they have constant edible food here, power and water, and good security.” Cat conceded that Hotel Bissau was undoubtedly our best choice in Bissau. We wouldn’t move.

We ran into Chase, a young guy we’d met in Senegal. He joined us at dinner and said, “I was successful in getting funds at Western Union.” He added, “My trip on the ferry to Bolama was on a slow rusty old tub I dubbed the Death Boat.” That made Cat shudder. 

Maria, originally from Hungary, was the manager of food service for the hotel. She and her husband Attila, joined us. They’d been in Africa for fifteen years. They were tired of the hardships and were planning to move back to Hungary. Attila was frustrated by things that didn’t work. He’d been chief engineer for the hotel but had given up. Management would not budget for proper maintenance. 

Into the jungle, the mighty jungle

Our indecision continued… What to do? Attila, Maria, and their son Thomas hovered over a map of Guinea-Conakry, suggesting new itineraries. Cat told them, “We’re getting low on money. The Western Union office is expensive. Cycling up and around the Atlantic Inlet would take six or seven days.” 

Searching the guidebook, Cat found info on Gahlinas Island. Futre, a friend of Thomas’ said, “I have boat, we sail to Kamsar, Guinea Conakry. My boat, fiberglass, seven meters, very fast, we be there, one day.” Then the bad news. Without hesitation, he said, “You pay 300,000 CFA.” ($600 US). We didn’t have that kind of money. 

“Even if we cycle, we’ll be short of cash,” Cat whispered. She was right, in a week our money would run out somewhere in the backcountry. Attila interjected in his thick Hungarian accent, “You vould luf zis yungle track I propose, vee hunt der often. Ees beauutifool place und people are nice.” I hid my concern but thought, “Sure, people are nice, and it’s safe, when you’re in an SUV and carrying rifles.”

As a last-ditch effort to get cash advanced on our Visa card, we walked into town and found Banco da Africa Occidental, the only bank in Bissau. There was a crowd of people at the door. “What do you think is going on?” Cat queried. “Are they making a run on the bank, trying to get their money out?” I asked, and several people tried to explain in Criollo. Then a guy with some English said, “We government workers, no get pay, six week. We want pay!”

That wasn’t a big surprise. Attila had told us Hotel Bissau was owned by the Gambian government. (Guinea-Bissau had purchased a fleet of 4WD vehicles from The Gambia. When they defaulted, Gambia took over the hotel.) Attila said, “Dees country, Guinea-Bissau, are bankrupt!” 

The doors of the bank were locked and chained, with no chance of receiving money wired from home. Back at Hotel Bissau, another friend of Thomas’, Gabor, greeted us. “I have try to find boat, not possible. I think you must to do what Attila say, you must to ride bicycle.” 

Chase had told us his father had wired money via Western Union. We sent a text to our pal back home, Base Camp Charlie. He went to Western Union and sent $500. It arrived here at the Western Union office the next day. Geez, 421,000 CFA, West African Francs. We divided it and stuffed our pockets, ran the gauntlet of wicked-looking guys outside the door, and grabbed a taxi back to Hotel Bissau.

Off the beaten path, into the unknown

Bissau to Mansao, the die was cast. We spent the morning with Attila, planning the route. “Zee main highway, she go 300 Ks inland,” he said. “Zee Yungle Track way is short by much, maybe 150 Ks.”

At noon, we rolled out of the driveway with a hand-drawn map and Atilla’s notes. Passing cars and trucks honked and waved. “Being on the road again feels great!” Cat yelled above the din. Mansoa, our first stop, was a tiny village with a rundown motel. After fitful sleep, splintered by night sounds of the jungle and a drunken neighbor, we set off early the next morning. 

Mansao to Saltinho. The road surface was good and our spirits high. As we rolled through a valley, the pavement stopped at a gaping hole where there’d once been a bridge. Water cascaded over the old footings. People walked across a concrete wall. 

“We’ll never be able to push the bikes across that wall,” Cat muttered. 

The crowd surged around us, pushing, shoving, and offering advice. A guy who spoke a little English said, “You ride my pirogue, 1,500 CFA.”

Cat tried to bargain. I believed it was a bargain at less than $3.00 US. She accepted, and we thought they’d take us across one at a time. He motioned for me to bring my bike down the steep embankment. He and his buddies lifted it aboard. Then he signaled that I should get Cat’s bike. 

With both bikes in the hollowed log, he gestured for us to get in. Cat said, “They’re going to dump us in the river.” I felt confident that the guy knew what he was doing. The boat rocked and pitched, but didn’t take on water. Once on dry land, the boss held out his hand and said, “3,000 CFA.” As we argued, another English speaker said, “He charges 1,500 for each bike.” Okay, the lesson, “If you want to be terrific, be specific.” The curious, thickening crowd convinced me we should pay. A second lesson learned the hard way: always have small bills available. When I handed him a 10,000 CFA note, all hell broke loose. 

“Can you help us?” I asked a policeman. He took the note, held it up to the sun, decided it wasn’t counterfeit, then spoke to the crowd. A tall, thin guy pulled out an even thinner wallet and exchanged the bill for two well-worn 5,000 CFA notes. The crowd pressed in. Greedy eyes seemed to ponder how much more I had in my fat wallet. I quickly handed the boatman one of the 5,000s. Cat, the ever-mindful budgeter, objected. “Let’s go,” I said, swinging my leg over the seat. “We need to get out of this crowd right now. The extra couple of bucks is a bargain.”

The sun was beginning to set as fatigue hit. Between riding 70 Ks and the adrenaline rush of the river crossing, we were fading fast. A guy along the highway indicated there was a motel 22 Ks ahead in Saltinho. Fear of free camping in the jungle breathed new life into our weary legs. It was worth the extra effort, as they had a room with indoor plumbing, even a shower. Cat let the water run until it was steaming, stepped in, then started screaming. A huge spider had fallen from the wall and was swimming around her feet. I hated to kill the creature, but this was a crisis. Showers, food, and fatigue left us sleeping like jungle babies. 

Saltinho to Quebo. Argh, broken spokes. A young guy, Suleimani, led me down a path to his village and into bygone times. A fellow there had parts and tools. Sitting in front of his mud hut, the guru of bicycles applied his talent. Soon we were back on the road. 

Adding to the National Geographic scenery, we began seeing topless women. After a couple of pictures, the sight was so ordinary it became the norm. A strange paradox: we’d just heard that a woman breastfeeding her baby in a California mall had been arrested.

Quebo was just another small village. When I asked about a room, a young man led us to a mud hut bar. The place was dark and dank. Two men sat sipping beers. The adjacent room and filthy bed looked fit only for a paid quickie, a workshop for hookers. I dared not show it to the Cat.

Pushing along in a gathering crowd, a man in traditional Arab robes began urging us to follow. “My name Saido,” he said in French, “You follow.” He took us to his home. I tried to ask how much. He just shook his head back and forth. Price at that point seemed irrelevant; it was getting dark. He took us to a messy bedroom. His wife Adema, began clearing the clutter. They were giving us their bedroom. Once again, we were hosted by Muslims. For us, it was more than just a room; we had a new family for the night. 

They sat on the porch as neighbors paraded past, staring at us. It was evident Saido and Adema enjoyed being the center of attention. They were affluent by local standards. He owned a truck and hauled freight. She ran a small grocery store attached to the side of their house. Obviously, a unique, industrious family. 

Quebo to Kandiafara (6 miles paved, 40 dirt, 20 in jungle). A short distance out from the village, Cat feared we were lost. Stopping drew the usual crowd. After we asked directions, an older man said, “You go dot vay.” He pointed with a wrinkled finger toward a dirt road. We’d hit Attila’s jungle track. Let the adventure begin.

At 10:30 a.m., we encountered a “frontier” (border) roadblock. The guards were cordial but tried to charge for a visa. When he saw the visa in my passport, he clucked, probably a lost opportunity to pocket some cash. He and the others swarmed around as we pulled out our map. After a boisterous argument, they agreed it was shorter to go to Kandiafara. “You tak dees roat,” one said, pointing toward two ruts leading off into the jungle. Just when we thought the road couldn’t get worse, it did. The jungle thickened, and ruts full of loose dirt and rocks slowed us to a crawl.

Each downhill led to a creek. At every creek crossing, we removed our shoes, pushed, and waded, then put our wet feet quickly back into soggy socks. The water was cool, and the jungle trees kept the hot sun off our backs. Some of the uphills were so steep we had to double team. It took all the strength we could muster to push the bikes up one at a time. The path deteriorated further. The strain from exertion and heat began to take its toll. 

Bare-breasted women and girls were the routine. We felt guilt, as though invading their privacy. At one crossing, several women were scrubbing and pounding their laundry. As I pushed Cat’s bike through the water, I yelled to her, “Grab the camera, get a picture.”

She was nervous, “What if they don’t want their picture taken?”

“Just raise the camera and say ‘photo, if they object, they’ll make a sign, for no.” 

When Cat said, “Photo,” one woman yelled, and they all ran toward her. As she prepared to take flight, they stopped and lined up, smiling and chattering as if posing for posterity. 

At the next crossing, we encountered a natural Nubian beauty slowly tending her wash, accompanied by her younger siblings. She was a vision of simple splendor. A commonplace occurrence in an ancient setting. 

The narrowest bridge of our challenging day was simply a series of twelve-inch-wide boards four feet above the water. I took the bikes across one at a time. With each step, my legs became increasingly shaky. I imagined myself falling into the water and being pressed into the mud by the weight of our bike and bags. 

Residents in a cluster of mud huts were amazed to see us. Cat asked, “Kandiafara?” In unison, they spoke words completely foreign to us and pointed out a single rut pathway. A woman offered us bananas. Cat dug out a few Guinea-Bissau coins and handed them to her. Puzzled, she and her children rolled them around in their hands. A local boy cycled up and said in English, “I am Sadio. Do you need help?” When he explained the value of the coins, the woman offered her entire basket of bananas. Sadio took us under his wing and became our guide. We were painfully slow; he was patient.

The border between Bissau and Conakry

The border of Guinea-Bissau was little more than a handful of thatched-roof mud huts. Several soldiers in faded fatigues, carrying worn-looking AK-47s, stood gawking. Sadio waved to us, then rode on down the hill, apparently not wanting to be involved. The man in charge barked through a slit window in French for us to come inside. We played dumb and spoke English, but were soon busted. One of the soldiers said in English, “He is boss. He is Douane. Customs Officer. He says you remove all items from bags.” 

Instinctively, I resisted, “Why weren’t we asked to remove things for the border guards?”

The Douane gruffly yelled through the slit, “Passports!”

I handed him mine, and he flipped through the pages. After staring at my picture, then at me several times, he shouted, “1939?”

When I confirmed “Oui”, he barked, and a young soldier lit out on the run. Cat whispered, “I think we’re in trouble.” 

The words had barely left her mouth when the soldier came, dragging an old man back. The English speaker said, “This man 1939. Oldest man in village!” The anger and squabble vanished, and the Douane came out of his hut. Suddenly, we were all best friends. The village elder shook my hand, then we hugged. The Douane took both our hands and spoke to Cat in French. In a halting discussion, he told her the average man there lived only 49 years. He called the Commissaire d’ Militaire over, and they spoke. With a wave of the Commissair’s hand, we were off the hot seat and back on our bike seats.

So, age had its privileges. More than just retirement and Social Security, aging could also be a ticket to international friendship and an unrestricted border crossing. 

Sadio explained, “They have motorized ferry but pirogue cost three times less.” Having already experienced riding in a dugout, we chose the ferry. The operator paddled his pirogue across to get the ferry. We thanked Sadio for all his help. Plastic bottles had value to locals. We offered him one. He was thrilled. He shook our hands excitedly, then rushed away to show off his new treasure.

Kandiafara, a short way from the river, was only slightly larger than the cluster of huts on the Bissau border. Sadio had suggested we should stay there for the night. Several women sat roadside selling junk and little else. They chuckled when Cat asked in French for a grocery store. It was 4:00 p.m. and the sun there, so near the Equator, sets promptly at 6:00. Cat summoned up her best French and spoke with Jean Pierre, chief of the gendarmerie (men-at-arms). He stamped our passports, then waved, setting us free to travel in Conakry. However, he also indicated it was thirty-five Ks of jungle track to Dabiss, the city. 

Cat asked about a place to sleep, but he resisted. After asking three times and getting three no’s, she commented on his Britney Spears T-shirt. He softened and told her we could sleep inside the gendarmerie.

The room was vacant, except for a small table and bench, oh, and big spiders on the walls. Our food supply was down to dregs. I set the tent while Cat searched for food. She came back empty-handed, no food in Kandiafara. Jean Pierre was holding court with his cronies out front. 

Cat, carrying our pan like a neighbor borrowing sugar, asked if he had rice we could buy. He scowled, then went inside. Emerging, he upturned a raggedy bag and poured the last grains of rice from it into our pan. Cat asked, “How much should we pay?” Jean Pierre dismissed her with a wave of his hand and a smile. So, this hard-on-the-exterior guy had a soft spot inside. 

As we cooked the rice, a group of the gendarme’s children gathered in our room, chattering and staring. We ate, then shooed them away as we prepared for sleep. 

Kandiafara to Boke. Daylight, like dusk, comes at the hour of 6:00. The sun streamed through cracks as babies next door began to cry for milk. With an early start, we were soon cycling toward civilization. Lots of people walking to and from Dabiss carrying plastic bottles. Imagine a four-hour walk to get water, food, or cooking oil. 

The village of Dabiss wasn’t much more developed than Kandiafara; however, among the huts was a small grocery stand. The place was cluttered, and there were hundreds of bees buzzing around the door. They have no electricity, so no cold drinks, but the guy did have American Cola. I drank 2 two sitting on a small bench as the bees buzzed around my head. Cat sipped one, then we bought four more to put in our bags. She asked if he had bottled water, and he said no, then amazingly found one buried under the piles of cardboard and clutter. 

The jungle track became a dirt road. We never thought we’d be so happy to see a dirt road. The pavement had been full of potholes we’d had to slither around the last two days. There was a series of bridges or culverts that had washed away during high-water times. The road reverted to creek crossings, but the water was shallow, so we began walking through without taking off our shoes. 

Facing a firestorm

[Sorry, no photos.]

The grass grew taller; the trees were scrubbier. A tower of smoke we had been watching for several kilometers became a fire raging on both sides of the road. I felt confident that we’d be okay quickly riding through, but Cat was fearful. We’ve seen the results of the ravages of fire in California and know how dangerous it can be. The wind shifted. The fire was driving itself. The shift brought a shower of hot ashes onto us and fanned the flames on our left into a roaring inferno. The wall of fire moved parallel to the road. The heat was becoming unbearable. We pedaled hard to outrun it. Passing through that area, we were hit several times by smoldering branches falling from trees. 

We passed an old car with a flat rear tire. The three guys were on their hands and knees patching. They thought it was 22 kilometers to Boke. Cat was tiring, and the daylight was fleeting as 6:00 pm approached. Once completed with the tire repair, they agreed to give us a ride to Boke. 

We loaded the bikes and bags into the back seat and trunk, as a crowd gathered. Even in the car, it took an hour to pick their way through the bumps and water hazards in the clunky old car. Then, in front of another house, there was a number painted in red on the wall, which told us we had only come 16 km.

The driver pulled over and checked his front tire. It was flat. We had to get out, then take some of our bags out of the trunk. I thought he was digging for his spare, but no, he found a lug wrench and old tire pump. That’s right, he had no spare or jack. They got large rocks and tried to lift the car with one of the pounding sticks that a lady was using to grind her millet. Watching, I remembered a lesson I learned from my father years ago…

Reincarnation via thought

My first car, an old 1946 Ford, suffered a blown transmission because of my heavy teenage foot. Our bumper jack wouldn’t lift it high enough, so Dad found a 2 X 6 and a thirty-inch section of a tree we had cut for our fireplace. Stymied, I needed to detach the drive shaft from the transmission. Positioned behind my car, he lifted it high enough to pull the rear axle back. He called it lever and fulcrum, something he learned from an old guy when he worked underground at the Bunker Hill mine. Dad said, “That old guy thought he could move the earth using the moon as a fulcrum, if he had a long enough lever.

Those three young guys in the heart of Africa now had it ingrained in their minds, thanks to Dad. They’ll never know Dad, but will carry his thoughts and perhaps pass them along to others, and continue our chain of life thoughts.

I moved the rock (fulcrum) closer to the front wheel and tried to use the stick as a lever. It wasn’t strong enough, so they got another. Three of us leaned on the lever while another piled wood on a second rock. The wheel was off the ground. 

They pumped for a while, then realized that they were getting nowhere. When they took the tube out, it had a huge hole. Undaunted, they applied a larger patch. Cat and I were offered chairs, and we sat like spectators watching an event. The repair took more than an hour. 

Sitting, watching, I reflected on one of my theories, reincarnation via our thoughts. The things we have learned and pass along during our living years.

It was dark when we finally got into Boke. We had them take us to Le Chalet, the only Hotel in the pages of Lonely Planet. Cat and the driver went in. I stayed with the other two and the bikes. They had no room in the Inn, but would move one of their employees and let us sleep in her room, tonight only. We saw no other option and took the deal. The three guys helped us unload, then shook hands and exchanged goodbyes. There was a feeling of camaraderie, of having shared an adventure among the five of us. We knew that these past few days had been an adventure of a lifetime for us! 

Our showers were just sponge baths. The water dribbled out of a pipe, but we got most of the red dust off, then fell into the sagging bed. The strain was too much, and it fell apart. I lifted the mattress and replaced the cross bars. We lit the mosquito smoke coil, and this time, gently slipped into bed.

As Cat always says:

All’s well that ends well. The most difficult moments become the BEST MEMORIES!