“Take a picture with us!”

The sun is just slipping into that golden setting position. The men in uniforms are leaned back around a small, rickety table under a mango tree, cradling their bellies, playing checkers and eating peanuts. They greet me with smiles and leisurely waves. One of them gets up as I lean my bike by the stairs, strolls over to unlock the office and installs himself on the other side of the half-glass window. I hand him my papers through the gap, nervous, but with no need to be; he accepts my online visa approval, almost forgets that he is supposed to keep one copy, distracted as he is by my bike and carriage, my skin color, my coming from Senegal.

The road from the Guinea-Bissau border post to the Guinean border post has been the worst one yet, but manageable by bike. I exchanged all of my CFA to Guinean francs there already, got almost the same rate as my internet search suggested, ate a big portion of beans, bread and mayo though I wasn’t hungry, but just to use the last change, and so I have all the time in the world, no needs to fulfill. The men at the border control don’t ask for any bribes, not even my number; in the receding heat of the day they are relaxed and cheerful. Even stumbling back into French feels somehow easy. They invite me to sit and we chat. I watch them play checkers for a little longer, say hello to somebody’s wife. Then I am then waved off and well-wished into this new country, and off I go again along the crumbling forest road.

Guinea.

I sigh relief every time the crossing of a border is easy. Though my passport gives me overwhelming privilege, I never trust the process until it’s all done; the African police especially with their whims and follies, so free to decide what the rules will be for the day.

The road continues, bad and bumpy; sand torn from rock by rains and streams, climbing up and unfolding down, not wide enough for two cars to pass. Not that there are cars; a few motos pass me, otherwise I am alone in the forest.

I stop sometimes for pictures, sometimes just to listen to the silence. I find an onion on the ground and it makes me happy. Somebody moves in the bushes and I startle, watch and wait; this is forest. Real forest.

And suddenly it opens up into a field, soft tall grass swaying in the breeze. Further away the ridge of a hill spikes up, erect like a curving spine pushing willfully from the earth, ending in a soft angle straight down and I smile, remembering that yes, this is Guinea, and Guinea has mountains. Eagles circle high above. Trees grow in fluff balls all along the ridge. The blue sky opens and so do my lungs. The bike rolls of itself; I am free.

Figures start appearing along the road; an elderly man here, a woman carrying there. They look at me, eyes calm, yet from just the gaze I feel my shoulders tensing and my own eyes wanting to evade; the yelling has been intense these last couple of weeks. Here too, their eyes stay fixed on me.
“Salam aleikum,” I greet in mere panic. They don’t move. But then:
“Aleikum salaam.” Said in a calm, quiet voice; the mumble of breeze rowing over the fields.
“Aleikum salaam,” and that is that. Nobody yells, runs or insists on attention. Their eyes let me go and I let go too, and we pass.

From behind the vegetation I make out pointed roofs, round and thatched with gray straw. They stand together in clusters, thin pillars of smoke and the voices of bleating goats rising between them. Small tracks turn in from the main road which is still no wider than a car’s width, and more people pass now that the sun begins to set. Some carry tools, a few move by bicycle like me.

The air turns fresh with the falling shadows. The tension falls from my shoulders as my chest fills with something big, giddy and tearful. I meet the gentle eyes and smile, sincerely happy to see them. To be here.
“Salaam aleikum!”
“Aleikum salaam.”

…

(This story told in pictures.)