Morning light has barely hit the tent as I fold it and tuck it away. Sun filters in through the leaves. I lead the bike out of the forest. Two days to cross into Ivory Coast.

The road rises. The village turns out to be just on the other side of the hill. A pocket in the forest. A few concrete brick houses lie scattered, bamboo bars to hang clothes, buckets and bare feet. Roosters announcing the morning. My eyes scan and yes, there: a woman sitting by the road, a pot of oil bubbling over a fire and a skimmer lifting golden shiny doughnut-balls up on a plate.
I stop and smile and greet good morning.
“Combien, Maman?”
It’s so incredibly cheap. Just about nothing on this forest road. I take a crumpled bill out of my pouch, buy enough so that she doesn’t have to look for any change for me. Maybe her dinner is secured now.
Thank goodness.
Put one doughnut in my mouth straight away, hot and soft and oily, grateful carbs and happiness floods my system. Push my foot down on the pedal and turn back out towards the road.
“Merci Maman, merci.”

Curious eyes peek at me as I go, but nobody shouts.
I wave.
The forest quickly swallows the last sounds of laughter.

The road doesn’t get any easier. It rips to left and right, up and down, sometimes thinning down to a single track, sometimes sinking me into deep sand or over sharp rocks.
I lead the bike with its broken brake cable and heavy carriage, up and down the hills.
I understand now the price of the moto.

I pass streams that swallow the road in puddles deep to my ankles, the cool of the water reflecting up to my face. Sometimes I balance on the small trails on the side, sometimes I get off and plunge in, leading the bike. Women wash clothes, bent backs and strong arms. Greeting hands lift and carry me forward.

The sun rises to noon and the road widens and flattens and I know I am close to something. A bigger village.
I don’t even have to say anything before the first man waves and jogs over with a smile.
“I know where your friend is.”
We cross over a football field and pass by the school.
More smiles.
Turns out they fed her and gave her a room and a phone to text me.
The moto driver even gave a discount.

Our host is a doctor, the big house with tiled walls.
“Have you eaten?”
I am invited straight to the table. We sit and discuss; there is still a long way to go and we are still in a forest; no cars here. We have to take motos.

Our things get strapped to one moto, while we ride a second one. The bike and carriage get disassembled and strapped down on top of the bags, wheels sticking out to the sides.
They smile and wish us well and we take selfies.
We discuss for a good price, the doctor says it won’t be cheaper than this and we trust him.
The map says 40 km and they say two hours.

We hold on tight. The moto bumps over big rocks, skids through sand and sways on thin ledges not yet washed away by the rains. Behind us the second moto with the stuff.
More motos pass and meet us now, stacked with plastic-wrapped packages, sacks, white and yellow water containers reaching far around the vehicle.
Risking their lives.
A car would have taken two days to pass here.

Herds of cows cross the road as the forest gives way to clearings.
The villages are closer together.

By a bridge we are stopped at a checkpoint.
The officer waves us over.
“Documents. It costs to pass.”
We are the only ones stopped. All other motos pass freely.
We give our documents but protest the fee.
“It costs.”
“But we have the papers. The visas. Look.”
“It costs.”
He doesn’t budge. It is so difficult to know what is a bribe and what is a fee. Finally the second moto driver hands over the bills and we pass. Unhappy, but whatever.

Gueckedou. The real town, big and rowdy, hot and dirty. We are dropped right by the taxi station, cars just waiting to fill up and go on a parking lot under the sun.
“Nzérékoré?”
Our bags and the bike get strapped to the roof, become part of the big round bundle held together with net.
Only one empty space left in the car, we’re told. Once it fills, we can leave.
So we wait.
I cross the street to a hardware store and an Orange Money point. Transfer money from my Swedish account and feel heavy relief as everything works and the man hands over the parcel of bills so that I can pay for the ride here, for the car, for food, for bribes.
For little snacks on the road.
For a place to sleep tonight.
Thank goodness for internet and apps.

We wait in the sun for the last passenger, wait for an hour until we finally decide to pay the last seat just to be on our way.
Two people in the passenger’s seat, four in the back. Would have been five.
The engine roars and we turn out from the station.
Turn out of the city.

Ten minutes later we stop.
Something is wrong.
The driver parks on the side of the wide and unbroken highway. Opens the hood, slides in under the car. Discusses with other men and sends somebody away on a moto to bring something.
Something is wrong and we don’t know what.
We wait.
Back in under the car.
Back under the hood.
More discussions.
An hour passes.
We wait.
Is it cooler in the shade of the car or in the breeze under the sun?
Should we try and get a ride back into town and try another car? Would it be worth arguing with the driver to get our money back?
Two days to get to Ivory Coast.
Will we make it like this?

Finally a moto comes and fuel gets poured into the tank.
Was that it? He forgot to fill up before the five-hour drive?

Yellow grass and forest fly past us. The driver steps on the gas and takes small sips from a bottle.
Swings the wheel from left to right.
I’m scared.
I was hoping Islam would keep everybody sober.
We pass mountains and valleys and trucks by millimeters.
At dusk we stop again.
A little town, a rocky hill rising up just behind. Everybody scatters to different small shops and food stalls along the road.
I think to buy bread for the driver who is operating on something under the hood again.
He is agitated; something is still wrong with the car.
Luckily one of the passengers turns out to be a mechanic, I find out. He kindly explains and discusses with the driver.
I give the bread.
I look for the mechanic when we all enter the car again but can not see him; maybe this was his stop.

It gets dark.
Pitch-black.
The car’s feeble lights paint blurry circles that sometimes but not always are enough to distinguish the potholes.
The air from the open windows chills my skin and I shiver under a fabric.
I think of the taxi divers in Labé who always headed out in a procession if they were driving after dark, just to be safe against the bandits. Are there bandits in this part of Guinea?
The driver still presses down on the gas, makes jerks to left and right to pass the holes on the side or between the wheels, sometimes bumping into the next one yet somehow always staying on the road.
There is no question of whether he is a skilled driver.
I just wish he would slow down.
The hours I’ve spent tense in fear are exhausting my body.

Then suddenly a huge bump shakes our tightly pressed bodies and then a blorp-blorp-blorp as we sway and skid to a halt on the side of the road.
It is quiet all around us.
We’ve hit a pothole.
Everyone gets out and hovers around the car, a confused cluster pointing our phone flashlights around us. In the assembled lights, the right front tire rests flat against the ground.
I am so tired.
We are stranded.
I worry we will not be visible enough on this road in someone else’s feeble headlights.
The mosquitoes haven’t found us yet.
Will we ever make it?

Suddenly the friendly mechanic is there again.
“Don’t worry. He has a spare in the trunk. We will fix it, then we can go again.” He smiles.
How can he be here?
Actually, how can all these people be here? We are more than what fit in the car.
I look around for a second car.
Then it hits me.
The ball of luggage on the roof.
The men are riding on top of it.
I see their hoodies tied tight around their faces.
If the potholes and swaying are painful and scary for me in the car, I can not imagine what it must feel like up there.
Dark, noisy, hands and feet getting numb in he cold.

Heart swells;
May we all just arrive.
May the weaves of fate bring us home.

Nzérékoré.
It is almost midnight, our phones almost dead.
The market empty and spooky around the station when we pull up. Wooden skeletons of stalls.
We unload the bike and the stuff. Everybody goes in their own directions. I do my best to assemble the bike in the lone light of a stall, don’t want to linger here. Don’t want our things to touch the mucky sticky ground, don’t want any eyes to see our conspicuous white skins.
We have found a guesthouse online though other people’s reviews and we walk there, follow the big road with still a few cars blasting past us at this hour.
Another big intersection, another closed market.
Meat still being grilled in one last remaining stall.
So hungry.
Any fruits?
We turn into a small street with deep gutters and a single light; trust that nobody will rob us; fumble and find the incognito door.
Knock, wait.
Please.
The fatigue so heavy it is pain.

The reception is also a bar.
The TV shows football and the couches are leather.
We get a room way back, past piles of concrete bricks. Tile floors and double bed and a single light in the ceiling. The bathroom clean enough. No cockroaches.
Body numb after the hours of shaking, just fall flat on the wooden bed.
“Tomorrow we just go back to the station. There has to be buses from there to Danané. It’s a big town.”
“Let’s go early.”
“Yes. I just need to buy a brake cable.”
“Yes.”

Lights off.
One day to make it.

…

(This story told in pictures.)