Same road stretches and curves smoothly under the sweltering sun. Yellow grass bows in from both sides. Sometimes huge trees with hanging bats hold up the sky. Every town pops up a little sudden, and they all begin with a clocktower and a roundabout.

The last town; Kailahun.

I open a spongy fruit; “apple”, they call it, and sure; the outside is red but its inside is white and spongy, has a pit like an avocado and tastes sweet and a bit dry, a little like aronia berries in my childhood. It makes a delicate sound when it breaks apart. It is juicy and fluffy at the same time.
Apple.
I think it’s my new favorite.

The central mosque is majestic and yellow in the center of the town. We check into a simple hostel with sockets but no elecrticity, but we’re used to it now. We charge our phones and battery bank at a charging station and we visit the market.

I go to sit in a little roadside café, a small shack with a friendly owner and lots of sugar in the tea. A father sits his toddler-daughter on a bench close to me and breaks bread for her asking hands. The sun sets golden-grey, chill obscurity dampening down the excitement of the day.

From the café we look out over the road. It is passing above us, as if we at the sides have sunk down around it. Trucks are coming home for the night; some empty, others charged over the top and then some. They slow down for the steep edge of the asphalt, crawl and bump down carefully while the cargo shakes the cabin. An empty truck approaches; long, and with youngsters sitting up on the metal rafts over the empty trailer. Their laughter echoes; I can almost make out the flashing white of teeth. The truck slows down to turn, careful to approach the steep edge. The engine roars and other cars stop. Now other boys break loose from the sides where they stood to chat and lean on their motos. They approach, raise their voices to carry through the window to the driver, wave and point and advice. Here, come, you can approach some more. Stop, careful. One wheel makes it down, then the second. The boys sitting on the rafters bounce along with the cabin. The driver’s feet must be playing so softly on the pedals, yet strain to match the probably busted servos.

Nobody hurries or complains about the truck blocking the whole road. Just smiles and laughter and eyes catching jokes. Next to me, the toddler plays with the bread.

They make it in the end; everything turns out fine. The truck drives down the edge and off to somewhere along the eroded sand road. Maybe they are about to load the truck and head off.
Maybe they are coming home.

I think about the guys who gave me a hitch in Guinea, the young apprentice riding all over the country on those busted roads. How old are the boys here before they go to work?

On my walk back the full moon lights up the dark streets.

Our visas for Sierra Leone will expire in a day while the transit visas for Guinea still wait for approval. The border is 5 km away. We discuss and decide that I will try and do the most African thing I can think of: go to the authorities at the border and discuss with them to try and find a solution.

…

(This story told in pictures.)