I travel along the road to Bissau, the main road leading to the country’s capital. In this season it is in the state of a complete mud porridge. With regular intervals I have to get off to push my bike, sometimes re-arrange all my luggage in order to bring myself through knee-deep puddles. Progress is slow. Trucks and minibuses are stuck, men gathered to push; I offer them my water. Only motos seem to be able to make any headway. People walk between villages, women and children carrying long sticks of firewood on their heads. They look at me but most do not reply to my ”bom día”. Some of them yell out when they see me but as I greet they, too, reply with silent stares. No smiles like in Senegal and the Gambia.

I make my camp by a lake. Small trails lead off the road and I turn down the moment no one is passing. I follow the tracks in the mud, try to see how often they have been walked and when. Cow tracks mix with human footprints. I squint at the field further along the shore to see if there are any human shapes. For the moment I seem to be alone.

The sun begins to set behind the still, wide water-mirror. I decide on a spot between the bushes to pitch my tent. I can hear cars passing on the road and a few voices, but no one seems interested in taking the track passing by my camp, so I relax.

The sky is burning orange and the shadows are dusky when I wrap myself in a fabric and go down to the water. The trees have turned into black silhouettes. I hang the fabric on one of the branches just by the shore, hoping that the dusk will turn my white body into a black outline, too. I wade, sink into the mud and make way deeper, submerge myself quickly. The water is lukewarm. The mud is deep and slick and I dig into it with my fingers; below there is clay. I wonder if any small creatures have burrowed down to live in it. Then I lean back and float on the surface. The water closes my ears to the singing of the crickets and the echoing engines from the road, fills my ears with cotton-y whooshing and mysterious clicks. It holds me, rocks me, erases my body-boundaries. My eyes open to the orange fading from the sky and the first few stars coming out behind the dusk. I stay in the stillness, let the water rock me with my heels touching the mud and my chest lifting ever so slightly as my lungs fill; sinking as they empty. My breath dissolves into the sky.

I stay until I can see the stars.

When I sit up the noise hits me like a wall; crickets and frogs singing full voice. The grove where I left my fabric is all black and I lift my arms to feel my way forward as I get up from the water. I make my way to the tent, hoping not to step on thorns and happy that I have already gathered my firewood. I assemble and light the fire. I find my cup, water bottle and coffee. While I wait for the coffee to boil I cut into the watermelon I bought earlier, a square straight into the juicy meat. I dig out the slice. It is sweet, dripping sticky on my fingers like my wet hair is dripping down my back. The fire dances the shadows. The night is calm; not a single breeze touches the leaves but I know better than to trust that; the rainy season isn’t over here, and the stack cloud didn’t escape my attention earlier as I was pitching my tent. There might be a storm, and it might pass here. Before turning to sleep I make sure everything is wrapped in something plastic and I cover myself with my sleeping bag, even though it is made for way colder climates; my tent has nothing on water.

I wake up to the smattering of rain and wind tearing on the trees. The tent is well protected, nestled between bushes, but I worry of a tree coming down and crushing me. It is nothing like I have camped through so far. Lightning flashes every few seconds and the rumble and thunder are deafening, hitting what feels like not more than hundred meters away. I open the tent and poke my nose out just to glimpse at the spectacle. Water pours as if from buckets. The flashes light up the landscape in a strange, bleak-white light with the shadows drifting. I scoop out the handfuls of water that have gathered in the bottom of my tent and make sure my stuff is still well-wrapped and elevated on my bike tires. Then I tuck myself in under the sleeping bag; it is all I can do. I am so small in all this. In the flashing darkness I close my eyes, listen to the thunder, the wailing and the rain, and work on accepting my fear of being crushed.

No trees have fallen on me by morning. The sun is high and bright when I wake. Drops of water are still hanging on the leaves and the ground is flooded and muddy as ever. I empty the tent and hang it up to dry. I eat a papaya for breakfast. As I am arranging my stuff I hear voices, and soon a handful of children step through the bushes and onto the path running next to my camp. There’s four of them, no older than twelve. All are carrying long sticks of firewood on their heads. They all startle and stop dead in their tracks as they spot me squatting in my mess of wet things. They stare, quiet. I smile to them.
”Bom día!” I call out. ”Túdo bem?” They remain silent and still. I don’t enjoy the staring, but then again I am the strange, white foreigner who is living in their bushes, so I have to have grace. I wave. Cautiously, they set in motion again, sloshing through the mud on their bare feet, eyes still turning back to me.

I spend the morning roaming around the lakeside, waiting for my things to dry. A few people pass by to go into the bush. They are all adults, men and women. They stare and seem cautious, but at least they reply to my greetings. I scoop up some clay from the lake bed, slap handfuls onto a fallen log, form a face. Rough nose, pointy cheekbones, staring pupils. The expression looks stern. I leave it there, looking up into the sky.

The road continues, asphalt interchanging with mud. The forests are lush-green behind the wetlands and rice fields, with small villages poking up their roofs every here and there, smoke and voices rising. The palms sway in the breeze. I notice how the houses are bigger here than in Senegal; a few wide squares with sheet metal roofs reaching high. I guess several families live together in each. I still have to get off the bike and wade through flooded parts of the road. Cars pass me, turn into boats with their noses splitting the water. It is unnerving not seeing where I put my feet, and I wonder what it is like for the drivers, not seeing if they are steering straight into a pothole.

I pass by a town at dusk. Tall trees are lining the main road and heads turn after me in the lively market. I have, again, started searching for a place to camp way too late; it is dark by the time I exit the town. The road is uphill, all mud and wide puddles. The only light is coming from a few overpacked minibuses who blast past me, and occasional motos. At least the darkness protects me from some of the attention.

By the sides of the road is forest and finally I simply heave my bike up and lean it against one of the moist trunks while I stamper deeper in to search for a camping spot. With my phone torch I make out cashew trees growing symmetrically, a clean forest bed with small tracks running in between the trees. I hope for no snakes and no early morning-villagers as I peg down the lines and lean the bike into a bush nearby. The moon is full and the mosquitoes are vicious. From inside the tent I can hear voices shouting as the minibuses pass late into the night and I hope that the people will arrive safely, driving at an hour like this along roads like that. The headlights light up the leaves and the shadows pass over the tent. When I hear any of the cars or motos stop nearby I tense. I am afraid of being found and either scaring the locals or being vulnerable and alone with several men, having to discuss or what not. But at most the people get out to pee and then pass on. I am left in peace, undiscovered, alone under the bright moon and wet leaves.

…

(This story told in pictures and video part one, two and three.)