We wrestle the bike out of the little boat and my feet and the wheels sink into the sand as we make our way to the officers.
“Bonjour! Comment-allez vous?”
We have all our documents now. We have three days to cross this country.

The man gets up from the bench in the shade an we follow him up the sandy slope and into the little office he unlocks. A desk, a bench by the wall, papers and binders. He sits down, takes our passports and papers. We sit obediently. My stomach always tense until the papers get stamped and all the numbers are correct.
Please don’t ask for a bribe, please don’t ask for a bribe.
He stamps the passports without hesitation. My small talk is strained; enough to appear friendly, not so much as to distract him from the stamping. I force my chest to relax.
The stamping has to happen.
“We don’t have so many pens here.”
Oh, what a pity. But you are doing so well, really working so hard.

We go out and he locks. The papers are in our hands, everything in order, smiling. Wow, thank you, thank you.
“Will you give something?”
There it is.
“Sorry?” An opportunity for him to withdraw. To be an honest officer.
“Will you give something? We don’t have much.”
His uniform so clean. He told me yesterday that he moved to the nearby village with his family. Probably his wife washes his clothes.
I consider a gift; the culture is like that here. And he has been nice to us.
I really don’t want to bribe an officer. Someone who should get paid by the state, however little.
The corrupt dictatorship of Guinea.
I don’t want to maybe make them think all white people give.
Maybe the first white to ever cross here.
“I’m sorry mister. May god bless you,” I say.
I hold his gaze.
We don’t have many Guinean francs, either.

He stays looking at us, but the papers are stamped and I smile my sweetest smile and he can do nothing.
“Thank you so much. Really. God bless you.”
True gratefulness because he can not touch me; a bitterness that it had to be like this. Or maybe I felt offended, or sad, or something.
Who really holds the power here?
“Do any cars pass by here?”

We start walking on the only road. The sun is high suddenly, the forest thick around us. Quiet. Lazy clouds stroll over the bright blue sky. Trees lean over the tracks and give welcome shade. Creatures coo and rustle around us, lazy in the heat.

Sweat drips down my back. The side of the road opens up to a field and we stop to catch breath. Voices carry over; women walk in a line through the field, carrying buckets. We watch them from behind the palms. I wonder what they will bring.

The forest opens into the first village; nothing more than a few houses.
“Is there anyone who sells food?”
Yes, come, come. Here.
On a rickety bench she scoops up generous platefuls of rice for us, adds sauce. Calls over somebody who sells donuts. We eat, greedy and sweaty. She brings us water to gulp down and to wash our hands and she asks for so little. Afterwards we rest and slumber in the shade under a mango tree. Somebody brings us a mat to lie on. We have made such small progress.

“Are there any cars going to Gueckedou? To the nearest town?”
The guys look at each other. No, no cars. Sometimes. If they load up something from the boat.
How often? When?
Don’t know. Could be today. Could be in three days. Next week.
What should we do?

We have transit visas with three days to cross over into Ivory Coast and we are hundreds of kilometers away, in thick forest. A single SIM card, no phone reception, a few thousand Guinean Francs crumpled in my pouch, enough to buy breakfast maybe.
What should we do?

“You can take moto to Wejiba.”
Where is that?
“You can go from there to Gueckedou.”
“Are there cars there?”
Shrugs. Maybe.
“How far is it?”
They don’t know.
“Ten kilometers? Twenty?”
Shrugs, shrugs. Two hours ride.
“Can you show it on the map?”
We hold out our screens and point and zoom but it is useless; nobody knows how to read a map or if the town is East or West or how many kilometers away. Just that there is a weekly market there, and that we can take a moto.
“How much is it?”

At this point the whole village is gathered under the mango tree, watching us gesticulate.
“200 000 francs.”
I shake my head. It’s too much.
The young moto boys get eager, hands moving, waiting to be picked. They stress that the price is fair.
The only job this week.

We shout and wave and laugh.
We bargain.
You’re crazy, it’s too much!
The sun is starting to set.
No choice, really.

We decide that my friend will ride the moto with the luggage and that I will take the bike. There is only one road. They’ll text me the location once they arrive. Somehow.
We can save some money like this.

I could do 10 km before nightfall, even if the road is shit and I have to walk.
My friend hates to ride the moto and I hate to leave them on the moto.

No choice.

The tires are well pumped and the bike rolls easily. Determination turns to inspiration in my respiration.

I leave the circle of staring faces, turn out of the only village, follow the only road. I will make it.

There is a police checkpoint just outside.
He spots me and waves me over.
Seriously?
“Where are you going?”
Smile, relax, pretend like I’m not in a hurry.
“Hello, how are you?”
“It is dangerous here.”
“Really, why? You have such a beautiful country. Friendly village. Delicious food.”

Ten minutes of smiling. He doesn’t ask for my papers, doesn’t ask for a gift. Just keeps me there, because he can. Lets me go when he’s decided that I’m a nice person. Just doing his duty in the jungle.

The sun low and golden now, the shadows turning cool and as I head out from the village the road spills down, only to rise in a steep, long hill again. I can see little grey houses on top, colored golden by the light.
They call this part of Guinea la Forêt, I remember. The forest. Nothing much here, small villages in the thick of trunks, bushes pushing in, the roads are rocks barely turned aside by machines who get stuck coming here. Gotta keep pedaling.

But already on the next downhill I have to come off again and lead the bike and the carriage; it is so steep and the sand is deep. No way to descend safely.
I will not make it.
A tiny village, then the forest again. One or two motos pass me, faces turn back to look.
The sky and air shift to misty pink and chilly moist. Shadows disappear as everything blurs into dusk. I hurry on.

Then, in a barely-controlled downhill ride, my brake cable snaps. The handle dangles and it takes a second for me to understand what has happened and put down my foot to skid to a halt.
I laugh and swear.
Here I am, a bike mechanic, always telling others to carry a spare brake cable. It’s so easy, so light, so quick to switch in case anything should happen.
I have no spare.
Will have to lead the bike downhill as well as uphill now; with only the back brake, I can not control the speed with the heavy carriage.

The darkness falls quickly now. Rocks and holes in the road fade from my vision as the purple fades to grey. The road goes either up or down, never flat, so I have to lead. I am out of breath. The dynamo spins too slowly against the front tire; not enough to generate light. My outlines start fading into the black.
I’m afraid to hit a rock or dent and get a puncture, maybe even damage my rims.
Whenever I hear a moto I step right off the road, afraid they won’t see me and hit me.
I would not see it if the road split off now.
The crickets sing.

At least my phone is charged, thanks to the solar panel. I stop and turn on the data; a feeble bar searches reception.
A message from an unknown number.
“The place is called Owet Djiba. It is twenty kilometers from the first village. I am fine, I have arrived and am hosted by the village chief.”

Thank god I still have some money on my Guinean SIM card.
I buy data.
I turn on my position and type the name.
There. 10 kilometers away.
Thank god.
I know where to go.

The forest is pitch black now, but I have my tent. I turn on the torch on my phone. Squint to find a trail going into the trees. Stop and sharpen my ears, listen.
A village somewhere near, yes. Laughter, voices, dogs. But no lights. A moto approaching.
I drag the bike off the track and turn off the torch. Wait in the shadows until they pass.
Follow the trail and find a place for the tent.
No ants.
Quickly now.
No fire tonight, no tea; just get inside.
Relief.

But I have battery and some rye bread snacks from home so I lay there and read and feast on carbs. Tomorrow ten more kilometers with no hand brake and shitty road. But I’ve done ten so I could to ten more.
Two days left for us to get out of the country.
But I will make it.
We will find a way.

Dog barks and voices play as I fall asleep.
I will make it.

…

(This story told in pictures.)