Koundara, the first big town after the Guniea-Bissau – Guinea border, is only forty kilometers away from the border post.

The road winds up and down, jumps into creeks and holes and back again. Sometimes it widens into mud puddles, tracks leading through and around, and I have to get off and lead the bike. Another time it leans steeply into a valley and runs straight through a creek, forming a pond, tall trees casting cooling shade. Women and girls stand knee-deep in the water with basins and beat clothes on the rocks to wash them, the water flying in cascades above them. People gather to think and consider by the water. The women point fingers at where it is least deep but it is really all the same. Motos plunge right through; cars go slower, splashing the already-wet women. I unpack the carriage, wade through with the luggage, then go back and wade over again with the bike. The water is clear and cold.

Other times the road rises high and runs through flat fields, deep sand and sun burning straight down. I sweat and pant as the tires search for grip.

In a forest town I pass a lively market, suddenly surrounded by people, cattle, engines and vendors, voices and shouts, bodies completely filling the road; people move with merchandise hanging from their arms and basins balancing on their heads; bicycles, motos and donkey carts squeeze and squiggle into the gaps left. I turn left by the mosque, some people sitting by the road indicating with their arms, and out of town again. I pass by some trucks standing still on the road, one of them stuck and blocking the way, another one trying to tug out the first. I squeeze by carefully, smile to the men gathered around and head on ahead.

I pedal along like this, legs slowly shaving off meter after meter in the sun.

At midday I stop by a creek, lean my bike against a tree and stumble down the rocks to cool down by the water, eat my snacks and read my book. I have barely sat down until a rumble startles me and I look up to the road. They pass me high above, slowly creeping by with engines roaring: the convoy of trucks. I go up to move my bike, worried they may not see it and accidentally hit it, but the worry is unnecessary; there is plenty of space between it and the trucks. One after one the drivers smile, lift their hands to me through the open windows. Younger men and boys look from the passenger’s seats, cling to the backs of the empty trailers. Some sit high up on the roof beams and some jump down as the trucks bump along in snail-speed, slide down to the water and splash their faces and necks to cool off. The wear torn and dirty clothes. Some look weathered and in their 50s, others barely 15.

Truck after truck creeps by; ten, fifteen maybe? I lose count. I wave to the last ones slowly wobbling down the road before I open my book again.

It doesn’t take long until I see them again. They have stopped not even five kilometers ahead. This time I slow down and pay attention. I notice someone preparing ataya on the side and others carrying rocks from one of the trucks and up ahead to lay in front of the first truck. I stop and greet the biggest crowd, the handful of men gathered in the front. They all smile.
“Are you building this road?” I ask them as I watch the younger men dump the rocks and return back to bring more.
“Not really, but we need to improve it. After the rainy season the roads are always bad,” one of the drivers tells me. Unlike the skinny youngsters, most of the drivers have comfortably rounded bellies under their torn t-shirts.
“Ah,” I say, remembering that the rainy season has just passed. “And where are you going?”
“To Labé,” he says.
“Labé?” I try to remember. “That’s far! And do you always go together like this?”
“We have to, so we can help each other. We come here every week for the Monday-market.”
“Oh, I think I passed it!”
“You see,” he smiles.
“And how many days does it take for you to reach Labé like this?” I consider that it hasn’t even been ten kilometers, and I’ve seen them stuck twice.
“After Koundara it will only take a few hours,” he says. “From there the road is good. But during this season it takes us around two days to pass on this road.” I pause to think for a moment and then startle.
“It takes you two days to drive forty kilometers?!” I can not believe it. He shrugs.
“You see the road. We get stuck all the time, and sometimes we have to dig and work on the road.” I imagine the road even muddier, with the furious rain tearing along the sand. Now it hasn’t rained for days, yet still the puddles are deep.

The boys have finished laying out the rocks, the ataya has been drunk and the drivers are dispersing into their trucks again. Engines start.
“OK,” I say and roll up the pedal. “Good luck! See you up ahead!” They smile and raise their hands, and I head on down the mud and sand, thinking to gain some distance before they catch up. Unless they get stuck again, I think. At least with the bicycle I can move faster than forty kilometers per day, even on a road like this.

…

(This story told in pictures.)