(English Translation Below)

Dag 57: Pita na Koundara
 
'n Dag van kontraste. Die pad wat as brokkelpad begin, skielik oorslaan na perfekte Shinese teerpad, en net so skielik, reg oor die bergpas, terugruk na stukkend-skud pad. Daardie tipe klipharde modderpad wat drooggeword het.
 
Ons is moeg. Het nou vir hoeveel dae gery sonder rus. Ons visums bied ons slegs vyf dae om deur Guinea te kom, so ons kan eers rus in Senegal. Gister agt ure aan 250km gery. Die dag voor dit tien ure aan 290km. Ons plan is om deur te druk see toe. Dakar of St. Louis. Daar te rus en te herstel vir die laaste derde van ons toer.
 
Twee motorfietse van voor af. Mede-reisigers deur Afrika. Ons stop om hallo te sê. Dis 'n man en vrou, elkeen op sy eie fiets. Diep in die sewentig. Hulle is oppad Kaapstad toe. Ons dink aan hoe sommige van die paaie en stede ons uitgemergel het, en hier is 'n Duitse tannie van oor die sewentig besig om dieselfde te doen! 'n Ent later kom ons 'n fietsryer tee. Ook 'n Duitser. Ook oppad Kaap toe. Op 'n trapfiets! Ons wonder waar trek die hardloper wat ons in Kameroen teëgekom het. Engelsman oppad Londen toe vanaf Kaapstad. Elkeen van ons op ons eie reis.
 
Ons stop om water te drink. My Camelbak is weg! Êrens afgeskud. Ons oggend-roetine was anders omdat De Witt sy pakroetine moes verander om sy sak wat afgeval het van nou af onder 'n ander sak vas te maak. Dit het my pakroetine geaffekteer, want ons moes gaan eet voordat ek klaar gepak het, sodat hy ná ete sy nuwe roetine verder kon voer. Toe maak ek nie die Camelbak soos gewoonlik met sy eie gespe ook vas nie. Klein details wat mens duur te staan kan kom. Ons moenie ons onderliggende uitputting onderskat nie.
 
'n Ander lastigheid is dat my Cardo valhelm-interkom gister terstond opgehou werk het. Nou kan ons nie met mekaar kommunikeer terwyl ons ry nie. Ons slaan oor na handseine toe, soos in die ou dae. Bel vir GPS4Africa waar ons die Cardo's gekoop het. Hulle sal 'n plan maak. Dis Saterdag vandag. Hopelik kan hulle Maandag via die verskaffers vir ons iets reel.
 
Vanaand, in Koundara, sowat 45km van die Senegal grens af, vervang ons die lugfilters, maak die kettings skoon, gee olie. Ons slaap in 'n vuilerige plek met baie muskiete. Gelukkig is hier 'n muskietnet. Maar die muskiete ken al die ding se skeure en gate, so dit help nie veel nie. Maak alles net warmer en bedompiger voel. Wanneer laas het ons lopende water vir stort en toilet-toe-gaan gehad? Mens waardeer eers werklik iets as jy dit nie meer het nie.
 
Ons raak al hoe meer bewus dat ons beide Afrika én Europa in ons are het. En dis OK.
 
 
Day 57: Pita to Koundara
 
A day of contrasts. The road that starts off as a painful crumbling path suddenly transforms into a perfect Chinese asphalt road and later, just as abruptly, reverts back into a shake-you-to-pieces endurance test right where the mountain pass begins. That type of rock-hard mud road that has dried up.
 
We are tired. How many days have we ridden without rest? Our visas only allow us five days to cross Guinea, so we can only rest again in Senegal. Yesterday it took us eight hours to ride 250km. The day before, ten hours to ride 290 km. Our plan is to push through to the coast. Dakar or St. Louis. Rest and recover there for the last third of our journey.
 
Two motorbikes up ahead. Fellow travellers through Africa. We stop to say hello. It's a man and a woman, each on their own bike. Deep into their seventies. They are heading towards Cape Town. We think about how some of the roads and cities have worn us down, and here is a German lady in her seventies doing the same! A while later, we encounter a cyclist. Also a German. Also headed to Cape Town. On a bicycle! We wonder where the runner is whom we met in Cameroon. An Englishman heading to London from Cape Town. Each of us on our own journey.
 
We stop to drink water. My Camelbak is gone! Somehow, it got shaken off. Our morning routine was different because De Witt had to change his packing routine to secure his bag, which had fallen off, under another bag from now on. It affected my packing routine because we had to go eat before I finished packing so that he could continue his new routine after eating. Then I didn't secure the Camelbak with its own clasp as usual. Small details that can cost you dearly. We shouldn't underestimate our underlying fatigue.
 
Another inconvenience is that my Cardo helmet intercom suddenly stopped working yesterday. Now we can't communicate while riding. We switch to hand signals, as in the old days. Call GPS4Africa where we bought the Cardo's. They say they'll figure something out. It's Saturday today. Hopefully, they can arrange something for us via their suppliers on Monday.
 
Tonight, in Koundara, about 45km from the Senegal border, we replace the air filters, clean the chains, oil them. We sleep in a dirty place with many mosquitoes. Fortunately, there is a mosquito net. But the mosquitoes know all its tears and holes, so it doesn't help much. It just makes everything feel warmer and stuffier. When was the last time we had running water for a shower and using the toilet? You only truly appreciate something when you no longer have it.
 
We are increasingly becoming aware that we carry both Africa and Europe in our veins. And it's okay.

(English Translation Below)

Dag 56: Faranah na Pita
 
Dis pikdonker van die stof. Ek kan dofweg die vragmotors se ligte van voor af sien kom. Maar niks anders nie. De Witt is hier voor êrens. Die stof is so dig ek kan sy agterlig eers sien as ek heeltemal teenaan hom is. As ons 'n gat of sloot tref is dit verby. Stop is onmoontlik want taxis en vragmotors kom net so blind van agter af. Dan tref ons weer 'n oorlewende stuk teerpad en die stof bedaar. Die verbrokkelende pad is plek-plek nog geteer met reuse-gate, en nou en dan net heeltemal rooi poeierstof. Opgekou deur tyd en verwaarlosing.
 
Wat beteken dit om arm te wees? Vanuit ons verwysingsraamwerk sien ons natuurlik arm mense langs die pad al van Pretoria af. Maar in Guinea lyk die mense nóg armer. En dis oor-romanties om te sê in Afrika is mense gelukkig al is hulle arm, en word rykdom met ander maatsnoere gemeet.
 
Skielik 'n vragmotor wat stilstaan. Ek en 'n aankomende taxi swenk gelyk uit, tref gate, hoop ons wiele hou. Die vragmotor staan met sy enjin langs hom in die pad. Drie jong mans, uitgehawend, werk seker al vir dae om die ding weer aan die loop te kry. Dis die hoeveelste een vandag. Gebarsde wiele. Gebreekte asse. Enjins wat oppak. Niks romanties daaraan nie.
 
Die oerwoud, oor berge gedrapeer, is ongerep en onbegryplik mooi. En ja, hier en daar is daar grashut-gemeenskappies wat van die aarde af leef. Maar selfs hulle wil klere en skoene en medisyne hê. 'n Nuwe selfoon-battery. Maar die meeste mense hier bly dig teen mekaar in aangelapte skerms van blou plastiekseile, gras en sinkplate. In dorpe. Waar water en kos en petrol gekoop moet word. Met geld.
 
Ons stop, lag vir die stof op ons gesigte. Kla oor die pad en die vragmotors. Koop petrol, Coke, gebottelde water, Red Bull en Pringles wat deur daardie einste vragmotors aangery moes word. Op paaie wat vir hulle nie bloot avontuur-ritte is nie, maar hulle daaglikse werkliheid.
 
'n Motorfietsie met drie kinders en 'n bok kom verby. 'n Taxi wat dubbel sy volume gelaai is, plus twee seuns wat vasklou aan die pakkaas op sy dak, dryf kantel-kantel deur die draai, bly net-net op vier wiele. Nie omdat dit gerieflik of pret is nie. Maar omdat gewone mense met bittermin hulpronne moet klaarkom sonder enige infrastruktuur. Moet planne maak. Vragmotors langs die pad moet regmaak. Vanaand 'n kind met malaria by die kliniek moet kry. Via hierdie opgekoude pad.
 
Die ekonome sal beter weet, maar wat ons hier sien is 'n armoede van totaal uitgelewer wees aan die elemente, jou eie vindingrykheid, en mekaar. Met geen infrastruktuur as vangnet of platform waarvanaf mens iets kan bou nie. 'n Onbeskermde ontbloting. Vir generasies.
 
Day 56: Faranah to Pita
 
It's pitch dark from the dust. I can vaguely see the lights of the oncoming trucks. But nothing else. De Witt is somewhere in front of me. The dust is so thick I can only barely see his taillight when I am right up against him. If we hit a hole or a ditch, it's over. Stopping is impossible because taxis and trucks are following just as blindly from behind. Then we hit another surviving piece of paved road, and the dust settles. The crumbling road is occasionally paved with giant potholes, and now and then just completely red powder dust. Chewed up by time and neglect.
 
What does it mean to be poor? From our frame of reference, we've seen poor people all along the road from Pretoria, of course. But in Guinea, the people seem even poorer. And it's overly romantic to say that in Africa, people are happy even if they're poor, and wealth is measured by different standards.
 
Suddenly, a stationary truck. An oncoming taxi and I both swerve to avoid it, hit potholes, hoping our wheels survive. The truck is parked with its engine next to it in the road. Three young men next to and under it, worn out, probably been working for days to get it running again. It's the umpteenth one today. Burst tires. Broken axles. Engines giving up. Nothing romantic about it.
 
The jungle, draped over mountains, is untouched and unbelievably beautiful. And yes, here and there are grass hut communities living off the land. But even they want clothes and shoes and medicine. A new cellphone battery. Still, most people here live close together in makeshift shelters of blue plastic tarps, grass, and zinc plates. In towns. Where water, food, and petrol must be bought. With money.
 
We stop, laugh about the dust on our faces. Complain about the road and the trucks. Buy petrol, Coke, bottled water, Red Bull, and Pringles that have been delivered here by those very trucks. On roads that are not just adventure rides for them, but their daily reality.
 
A motorcycle with three children and a goat passes by. A taxi, loaded twice its volume, plus two boys clinging to the stuff on its roof, floats through the turn, barely staying on four wheels. Not because it's convenient or fun. But because ordinary people have to make do with minimal resources without any infrastructure. Have to make plans. Fix trucks along the road. Get a child with malaria to the clinic tonight. Via this chewed-up road.
 
Economists may know better, but what we see here is a poverty of being entirely exposed to the elements, your own ingenuity, and each other. With no infrastructure as a safety net or platform from which to build something. An unprotected state of exposure. For generations.

(English Translation Below)

Dag 55: Nzerekore na Faranah
 
Ons word wakker met 'n wolk-kombers wat die aarde koel hou, maar dalk reën kan bring. Ons pak, eet eier en suurdeegbrood. Koffie. Net voor ons ry vertel 'n Engelsman ons van 'n slegte stuk pad wat ons voorlê vandag. Klippe en dik modder en vragmotors. Ons wil 450km ry vandag. Dit gaan 'n lang dag wees.
 
Nzerekore se oggendverkeer is chaos - soos elke groterige dorp van Angola to nou toe. Maar mens raak gewoond daaraan: honderderde toetende motorfietsies met twee of drie of vier passasiers, 'n bok of 'n vark of 'n paar hoenders of 'n sink geut of sommer 'n ander motorfietsie dwars agterop. Al vleggene deur die gate en plasse modder en vragmotors. Skielik een wat reg van 'n systraat af injaag sonder om te kyk. Mis vir De Witt met 'n haarbreedte.
 
My oog vang 'n ou man wat in die straat inhardloop, buk, iets optel. Lyk soos 'n selfoon. Hy kyk vlugtig of dit werk en skoert dan weer blitsig uit die malemoes. Dis asof die prentjie perfek vir my ge-orkestreer was, want skielik tref dit my dat ek my selfoon in die hotel vergeet het. Ons stop. Ek deursoek my sakke. Dan draai ons om, terug die verkeer in, hotel toe. Kry die foon nog net waar ek hom gelos het.
 
Die wolke bly rustig oor ons hang. En die pad, waarteen mense ons al in Nigerië begin waarsku het, is geteer. Hier en daar 'n gat, nou en dan 'n spoedwal, maar meestal al kronkelende deur die woud wat haar vingers bo ons toevou. Selfs die polisie-blokkades speel saam, glimlag telkens vir ons en laat ons deur sonder om ons te stop. Later reën dit om ons af te koel, en voor ons koudkry hou dit op en word ons weer winddroog.
 
Skielik die slegte stuk. 'n Teerpad wat 'n krummelpad geword het. Maar die reen was gelukkig nie hier nie, so dis net 'n modderplas hier en daar wat mens maklik misry, en baie gate wat jy nie kan mis nie. So dit vorder stadig, maar ná 20km word dit weer teer.
 
Die laaste ent Faranah toe voel lank. Ons is honger, ons lywe is seer en ons het alweer te min water gedrink. De Witt sê oor die interkom in ons valhelms dat hy net nie weer vanaand vis wil eet nie. As daar 'n keuse is wil hy hoender eet. Ek stem saam. Visgrate is te moeilik as mens regtig honger is.
 
Die laaste stuk grondpad tot by Hotel Niger, 'n afferige plek, is mooi. Mens kan ry! Skielik 'n spoedwal. Onsigbaar in die skemer en stof. De Witt vlieg in 'n stofwolk daaroor. Toe ek. Waaiende mense roep langs die pad. Het iets afgeval? Ek voel agter my. Als is nog daar.
 
'n Uur later, toe ons afsaal, sien De Witt sy sak met paspoort en geld en dokumente is weg. Hy spring op sy fiets en ry terug om te soek. Toe hy nog ver is, waai iemand al vir hom. Hy't gesit en wag - geweet die vreemdeling sal terugkom vir sy sak.
 
Afrika sorg vir ons.
 
Toe dit donker is en tyd vir ete, gaan De Witt solank die eetsaal binne terwyl ek buite klaarmaak op die telefoon met my seun. Ná 'n rukkie volg ek hom. Die kombuis het slegs nog een bord vis en een bord hoender oorgehad en tafel toe gebring terwyl ek buite was. De Witt het vir my die hoender gelos.
 
 
Day 55: Nzerekore to Faranah
 
We wake up with a blanket of clouds that keeps the earth cool, promising rain. We pack, eat eggs and sourdough bread. Coffee. Just before we leave, an Englishman tells us about a bad stretch of road ahead today. Rocks and thick mud and cargo trucks. We want to cover 450km today. It's going to be a long day.
 
Nzerekore's morning traffic is chaos - like every larger village from Angola until now. But you get used to it: hundreds of honking motorcycles with two or three or four passengers, a goat or a pig or a few chickens or a zinc gutter or simply another motorcycle loaded sideways on the carrier. All weaving through the potholes and mud puddles and cargo trucks. Suddenly one zips in from a side street without looking. Misses De Witt by a hair's breadth.
 
My eye catches an old man running in the street, bending down, picking up something. Looks like a cellphone. He briefly checks if it works and swiftly darts out of the maelstrom. It's as if the scene was perfectly orchestrated for me, because suddenly it hits me: I forgot my cell phone at the hotel! We stop. I search through my bags. Then we turn around, back into the traffic, heading to the hotel. Find the phone just where I left it.
 
The clouds hang calmly over us. And the road, which people warned us about in Nigeria already, is paved. A hole here and there, now and then a speed bump, but mostly winding through the forest that folds its fingers above us. Even the police blockades play along, smiling every time and letting us pass without stopping us. Later it rains to cool us down, and just before we get cold, it stops, and we are wind-dried again.
 
Suddenly the bad stretch. A tar road that deteriorated into a gravel road. Fortunately, today's rain wasn't here yet, so it's just a mud puddle here and there that you can easily dodge, and many potholes that you can't miss. So progress is slow, but after 20km, it becomes tar again.
 
The last stretch to Faranah feels long. We are hungry, our bodies are sore, and we have once again not drunk enough water. De Witt says over the intercom in our helmets that he just doesn't want to eat fish tonight. If there's a choice, he wants to eat chicken. I agree. Fish bones are too challenging when you're really hungry.
The last stretch of dirt road to Hotel Niger, a shabby place, is beautiful. You can ride it! Suddenly a speed bump. Invisible in the dusk and dust. De Witt flies over it in a red cloud of dust. Then I do too. People along the road are yelling something. Has something fallen off? I feel behind me. Everything is still there.
 
An hour later, when we dismount, De Witt realises his bag with passport, money, and documents is gone. He jumps on his bike and rides back to search. When he is still far away, someone waves for him. He sat and waited - knowing the stranger would come back for his bag.
 
Africa is taking care of us.
 
When it's dark and time for dinner, De Witt goes into the dining room while I finish up outside on the phone with my son. After a while, I follow him. The kitchen only had one plate of fish and one plate of chicken left and brought it to the table while I was outside. De Witt left the chicken for me.

(English Translation Below)
​
Dag 54: Man na Nzerekore, Guinea
 
Ons bekommer ons oor die Guinea grensoorgang. In Accra al na die Guinea ambassade gegaan om te sê dat ons nie teen die datum wat op die eVisa papier gedruk is, by die grens sal wees nie. Dis een van die onmoontlikhede van die beplanning van só 'n reis. Jy moet voor jy vertrek 'n stuk of fyftien visums kry. In serie. Guinea se visum-rekenaar ken aan jou 'n sperdatum toe op grond van jou datum van aansoek. Jy moet vóór daardie datum by die grens wees. Maar die vrou in die Guinea ambassade in Accra het ons belowe: dit sal nie 'n probleem wees nie. Kan sy vir ons iets op skrif gee om dit te bevestig? Nee, jammer, ongelukkig nie. Volgende?
 
Ons ander bekommernis is die politieke situasie in Guinea. 'n Paar dae gelede het die vorige diktator, en van sy trawante, ontsnap. Hulle is in aanhouding weens 'n menseslagting in 2009. Die regering het die grense gesluit, die man gevang, en gelukkig weer die grense oopgemaak. Maar ons weet: As lande senuweeagtig is, is hulle grense ekstra prikkelbaar.
 
Ons strategie vir die grensoorgang: Nederig en ons beste bekoorlike selwe.
 
Net voor die grens kom 'n Oostenryker van voor af met 'n motorfiets. Hy's oppad Kaap toe. Sê die grens was maklik.
 
Ons kom maklik deur die Ivoorkus-kant. Ry tot by die klein geboutjie langs die Guinea vlag. Stop, klim af, valhelms af. Die amptenaar sit by 'n lessenaar op die stoep, ons staan met ons elmboë op die stoepmuurtjie wat as toonbank dien. 'n Vrou met 'n klein dogtertjie sit agter teen die muur. Die dogtertjie loer vir ons. Ons maak oogkontak. Sy kruip weg. Loer dan weer en lag. 'n Lekker speletjie. Nog drie of vier ander mans sit en staan ook op die stoep. Besef ons kan nie Frans praat nie. 'n Vrou bring vir hulle gesnyde komkommer. Hulle bied eerste vir ons aan. Wat 'n lafenis! Dis reg sê die amptenaar ons kan maar ry. Is ons deur, vra ons verbaas? Wat van die stempel? Nee die stempel kry ons by Immigrasie, 'n entjie verder in die pad af.
 
Ons kom daar aan. Wys weer al ons papiere. Twee mans in uniform. Stug. Ons hou ons asems op. Dan: Jammer maar julle visums het verval. Maar die vrou in Accra... Jammer, kyk hier, kyk die datum, dis verstreke. Ons weet, sê ons tevergeefs, maar die vrou by die Guinea ambassade in Accra... Jammer julle moet terug Abidjan toe en nuwe visums kry. Hulle roep die baas. Hy stap nader, bekyk die visums, loer dan oor sy bril op na ons. Ja, baie jammer, julle sal moet Abidjan toe. Ons verduidelik weer. Hierdie keer luiser hy. Reg, hy sal Conakry (hulle hoofstad) skakel en uitvind. Ons moet wag. Ons wag. Beplan ons volgende skuif. Besluit om heeldag hier te sit, selfs tent op te slaan, totdat hulle ons deurlaat.
 
Dan kom die boodskap: Ons kan deur!
 
Die pad is soms geteer, soms grondpad, maar dit kronkel deur die woud, nou en dan oor 'n bult met 'n uitsig oor golwende groen woude tot op die horison. Ons is in Guinea. Die onbekende wat haarself oomblik vir oomblik aan ons bekendmaak. Dit is mooi.
 
 
Day 54: Man to Nzerekore, Guinea
 
We worry about the Guinea border crossing. In Accra, we went to the Guinea embassy to explain that we wouldn't be at the border by the date printed on the eVisa paper. It's one of the impossibilities of planning a trip like this. Before you leave, you have to get about fifteen visas. In series. Guinea's visa computer assigns you a cut-off date based on your application date. You must be at the border before that date. But the lady at the Guinea embassy in Accra assured us: it won't be a problem. Can she put something in writing to confirm it? No, sorry, unfortunately not. Next?
 
Our other concern is the political situation in Guinea. A few days ago, the former dictator and some of his cronies escaped. They're in custody for a massacre in 2009. The government closed the borders, captured the man, and fortunately reopened the borders. But we know: when countries are jittery, their borders are extra touchy.
 
Our strategy for the border crossing: Humble and charming.
 
Just before the border, we meet an Austrian from ahead on a motorcycle. He's heading to Cape Town. Says the border was easy.
 
We breeze through the Ivory Coast side. Drive up to the small building next to the Guinea flag. Stop, dismount, helmets off. The official sits at a desk on the porch, we stand with our elbows on the porch wall, serving as a counter. A woman with a little girl sits against the wall. The little girl peeks at us. We make eye contact. She hides. Peeks again and laughs. A nice little game. Three or four other men also sit and stand on the porch. Realize we can't speak French. A woman brings them sliced cucumber. They offer it to us first. What a refreshment! The official says we can go. Are we through, we ask in amazement. What about the stamp? No, the stamp we get at Immigration, a little further down the road.
 
We arrive there. Show all our papers again. Two men in uniform. Stern. We hold our breath. Then: Sorry, but your visas have expired. But the lady in Accra... Sorry, look here, look at the date, it's expired. We know, we say in vain, but the lady at the Guinea embassy in Accra... Sorry, you'll have to go back to Abidjan and get new visas. They call the boss. He walks closer, looks at the visas, then peers over his glasses at us. Yes, very sorry, you'll have to go back to Abidjan. We explain again. This time he listens. Right, he'll call Conakry (their capital) and find out. We must wait. We wait. Plan our next move. Decide to sit here all day, even set up the tent until they let us through.
 
Then the message comes: We can go!
 
The road is sometimes paved, sometimes dirt, but it winds through the forest. Now and then over a hill with a view of the undulating green forest to the horizon. We are in Guinea. The unknown revealing herself moment by moment. It is beautiful.

(English Translation Below)

Dag 53: Bouaké na Man
 
Dis die nimmereindige onbekende wat mens moeg maak. Nie soseer die ontvouing van die onbekende hier reg voor jou nie, maar eerder die onbekende wat agter die horison lê en wag. Die bobbejaan agter die bult.
 
Sê-nou Guinea se grens is toe wel gesluit as ons daar aankom? Sê-nou die grens is oop, maar hulle aanvaar nie ons eVisums nie omdat die datum daarop reeds verstryk het? Sê-nou ons sê vir hulle die Guinea ambassade in Accra het ons verseker daardie datum maak nie saak nie, maar hulle luister nie? Sê-nou ons maak dit tot in Guinea en die paaie is weer so sleg soos tussen Kameroen en Nigerië? Sê-nou ons bande hou ons nie tot in Dakar nie? Of Wes-Sahara maak dit vir ons onmoontlik om in die res van Morocco in te gaan?
 
Die teerpad vandag is 'n satynlint wat tussen heuwels en oor vleie vleg. Landerye dadelbome langs die pad. In die vleie klein eilandjies met grasdakkies. Dit lyk of die mense dit gebruik om vanaf vis of krappe of iets te vang. Ons herinner mekaar om die oomblik te geniet. Die teengif teen 'sê-nou' is eenword met die 'hier-en-nou.' Ons bou ook roetine-tjies in ons dag in om darem 'n bietjie voorspelbaarheid te bring: Vyfuur staan ons op. Ek skryf die vorige dag se blog. Dan slaapsak oprol, kleresak pak, malariapil drink. Koffie. Toilet toe gaan. Ry-onderklere aantrek. Battery-laaiers en rekenaar wegpak. Ontbyt eet as daar is. Sonbrandroom smeer. Sakke vasmaak op motorfiets. Ry-pak en stewels aantrek. Valhelm, sonbril, handskoene - in daardie volgorde. Opklim. Wegtrek. Klein sekerhede aan die begin en einde van elke dag om die onsekere ontvouing tussenin te omarm.
 
Ons saal af op 'n plek wat 'n kerk-kampterrein of iets moet wees. Dis aan die rant van die dorpie. Rustig. Tortelduiwe wat my aan Pretoria laat dink. 'n Reuse-skerpioen en geitjie wat mekaar ál sirkelende aangluur. Dan blits die geitjie weg. 'n Brulpadda hier langs ons in die gras. Die olifante in Ivoorkus is blykbaar omtrent heeltemal uitgewis. Die internasionale honger vir ivoor was nét té groot. Maar hier waar ons ons daaglike post-rit biertjie sit en drink, léwe dit.
 
Môre-oggend petrol ingooi. Dan Guinea toe.
 
 
Day 53: Bouaké to Man
 
It's the never-ending unknown that wears you out. Not so much the unfolding of the unknown right in front of you, but rather the unknown that lies behind the horizon and waits.
 
What if Guinea's border is indeed closed when we get there? What if the border is open, but they don't accept our eVisas because the expiration date has passed? What if we tell them that the Guinea embassy in Accra assured us the date doesn't matter, but they don't listen? What if we make it to Guinea and the roads are as bad as between Cameroon and Nigeria? What if our tires don't hold up until Dakar? Or Western Sahara makes it impossible for us to enter the rest of Morocco?
 
Today's tar road is a satin ribbon weaving between hills and over plains. Orchards of date palms line the road. In the wetlands, small islands with grass-thatched huts. It looks like people use them to catch fish or crabs or something. We remind each other to enjoy the moment. The antidote to 'what if' is being in the 'here and now.' We also build routines into our day to bring a bit of predictability: At five, we wake up. I write the previous day's blog. Then roll up the sleeping bag, pack my clothes bag, take a malaria pill. Coffee. Go to the toilet. Put on my riding underwear. Pack away battery chargers and computer. Eat breakfast if there is any. Apply sunscreen. Secure bags on the motorcycle. Put on riding suit and boots. Helmet, sunglasses, gloves—in that order. Mount. Take off. Small certainties at the beginning and end of each day to hold the unfolding of the unknown in-between.
 
We camp at a place that must be a church campsite or something. It's on the edge of the village. Peaceful. Turtle doves that remind us of Pretoria. A giant scorpion and a little gecko circling each other, weapons drawn. Then the gecko dashes away. A bullfrog here beside us in the grass. The elephants in Ivory Coast have apparently been almost entirely wiped out. The international hunger for ivory was just too great. But here, where we sit and drink our daily post-ride beer, life abounds.
 
Tomorrow morning we'll refuel. Then off to Guinea.

(English Translation Below)

Dag 52: Yamoussoukro na Bouaké

Ons word wakker en voel soos roerlose roeibote wat in die rivier afdryf. Moet ons Wes ry en hoop die Guinea grense maak oop? Of Noord, in Mali se rigting, na 'n dorp waar Mali 'n konsulaat het waar ons kan uitvind oor visums? Of Suid na Abidjan om van daar af per boot na Dakar te vaar? Of moet ons net bly waar ons is en wag vir nuus voordat ons beweeg? Boonop het iets in gisteraand se aandete ons mae ontstel, so die oggendure was rof.

Ons ry Noord. In Bouaké sal ons die konsulaat opsoek en solank die Mali-visum proses aan die gang sit terwyl ons wag vir nuus oor Guinea en huiswerk doen oor veerbote vanuit Abidjan.

Die pad Bouaké toe is só nuut dat hy nie op my Garmin verskyn nie. Volgens Garmin het ons teen 110km/h reg Noord deur die bos gery. Sover in Ivoorkus het ons nog nét pragtige paaie gehad. Wat 'n guns doen 'n land nie sy mense deur mooi paaie instand te hou nie!

Bouaké is groter en besiger as wat ons verwag het. Ons hou langs 'n park stil om ons kaarte te bestudeer. Kry nie die Maliese konsulaat opgespoor nie. Later stap ek oor die straat om 'n sekuriteitswag te vra, maar hy weet nie. De Witt vra die naaste ou wat sommer net daar langs ons op 'n park-bankie sit. Weet hy waar die Maliese konsulaat is? Ja sê hy. Sy pa werk daar! 

Die Konsul-Generaal van die Republiek van Mali bekyk ons papiere, geïnteresseerd in ons trans-Afrika storie. Sê die visum behoort nie 'n probleem te wees nie. Kyk dan reguit na ons oor sy lessenaar. Julle moenie deur Mali ry nie. Dis gevaarlik vir mense soos julle. Daar's oorlog in Mali. Uit die perd se bek.

Ons vind 'n plek waar ons moontlik vir 'n paar nagte sal moet oornag terwyl ons ons volgende stap beplan. Mon-Afrik. 'n Stukkie oase buite die dorp onder reuse-bome. Nora Jones in die agtergrond. Dan begin ons rondbel: Bote uit Abidjan. Nuus oor Guinea se grense. 'n Motorfietsryer in Mali wat belowe hy sal ons veilig kan deurvat.

Dan bel Fransie uit Pretoria. Sy't by beide die Suid-Afrikaanse Ambassades in Abidjan (Ivoorkus) en Conakry (Guinea) gehoor: Die grense is oop!

Môre ry ons Wes.

Day 52: Yamoussoukro to Bouaké

We wake up feeling like rudderless rowboats drifting downstream Should we head west and hope that Guinea's borders open? Or go north in the direction of Mali, to a village with a Malian consulate where we can inquire about visas? Or south to Abidjan and take a boat from there to Dakar? Or should we just stay put and wait for news before we make a move? In addition, something in last night's dinner upset our stomachs, so the early morning hours were rough.

We head north. In Bouaké, we'll look for the consulate and start the Mali visa process while waiting for news about Guinea and doing our homework on ferries from Abidjan.

The road to Bouaké is so new that it doesn't appear on my Garmin. According to Garmin, we drove north, through the forest, at 110 km/h. So far in Ivory Coast we've had nothing but beautiful roads. What a wonderful gift from a government to its people to build and maintain good roads!

Bouaké is larger and busier than we expected. We pull over by a park to study our maps. We can't find the Malian consulate. Later, I cross the street to ask a security guard, but he doesn't know. De Witt asks the nearest guy, who's sitting on a park bench next to us. Does he know where the Malian consulate is? Yes, he says. His dad works there!

The Consul-General of the Republic of Mali looks at our documents, interested in our trans-Africa story. He says the visa shouldn't be a problem. Then he looks straight at us across his desk. You shouldn't drive through Mali. It's dangerous for people like you. There's a war in Mali. Straight from the horse's mouth.

We find a place where we might have to stay for a few nights while we plan our next move. Mon-Afrik. An oasis just outside town under massive trees. Nora Jones in the background. We start making calls: Boats from Abidjan. News about Guinea's borders. A motorcyclist in Mali who promises he can safely guide us through.

Then Fransie calls from Pretoria. She's heard from both the South African embassies in Abidjan (Ivory Coast) and Conakry (Guinea): The borders are open!

Tomorrow, we head west.

(English Translation Below)

Dag 51: Aboisso na Yamoussoukro
 
Ons word wakker met die opwindende verwagting van die volgende stuk aarde wat voorlê. Vandag via Abidjan tot in Yamoussoukro. Dan verder die binneland in tot by Guinea en dan 'n paar rowwe grondpad-dae tot in Senegal. Die Sahara-woestyn lê nog ver maar die gedagte dat ons naderkom maak ons beide nuuskierig-opgewonde.
 
Die teerpad speel saam. Pragtig tot in Abidjan en toe word dit beter: Snelweg tot in Yamoussoukro. Ons vorder vinnig en voel hoe die volgende hoofstuk van ons reis naderkom.
 
Maar toe stop ons vir petrol. Kry die nuus: Moeilikheid in Guinea! Die vorige diktator het in die oggendure ontsnap en die landsgrense is toegemaak. Wat nou? Sowat 'n week gelede het ons navorsing oor Mali gedoen as potensiële roete om die slegte Guinea-paaie te vermy, maar wat ons uitgevind het van die onrus en ontvoerings in Mali het die Guinea-grondpaaie na kinderspeletjies laat lyk. Ons onthou ook hoe Stephen McGown vir ses jaar in Mali gyselaar gehou is.
 
Die ander opsie is om Liberië en Sierra Leone deur te ry, al langs die kus, maar dan moet mens nogsteeds deur Guinea gaan Senegal toe. En Niger is in chaos weens hulle onlangse staatsgreep.
 
Op stop by die Basilika in Yamoussoukro. Dis reusagtig. Blykbaar byna 600 miljoen USD gekos om te bou vanaf 1985 tot 1989. Die plek is asemrowend, maar iets van ons vooroordele teenoor die Groot-Man-in-Afrika-sindroom, wat mag wil vertoon ten alle koste, ontneem vir ons die moontlike betowering van só 'n struktuur. 
 
Die bestuurder van 'n magtige Land Cruiser, wat vroeër op die snelweg só naby teen ons verbygesnel het dat ons byna bokveld toe was, is ook hier om die Basilika te bewonder. Die magtiges van Afrika wat kan ry soos hulle wil, kastele en reuse-kerke kan bou, weermagte kan beweeg om regerings omver te werp. Grense kan sluit.
 
Buite in die strate staan die kaalvoetkinders bakhand. 'n Man sonder klere wat met homself loop en praat. Dan wonder ons, dalk heeltemal uit ons plek uit, wat 600 miljoen USD sou kon regkry as dit eerder op skole en hospitale spandeer was. Trouens, reg oorkant die Basilika staan 'n leë hospitaal.
 
Môre sal ons die nuus lees en hoop Guinea se grense is weer oop.
 
Day 51: Aboisso to Yamoussoukro
 
We wake up with the exciting anticipation of the next stretch of earth laying ahead. Today we're heading through Abidjan to Yamoussoukro. Then, further inland to Guinea and a few rough off-road days into Senegal. The Sahara Desert is still far, but the thought of getting closer makes us both curious and excited.
 
The tarmac plays along, beautifully into Abidjan, and then it gets even better: a highway all the way to Yamoussoukro. We make good progress and feel how the next chapter of our journey is approaching.
 
But then we stop for petrol and get the news: Trouble in Guinea! The former dictator escaped in the early hours, and the country's borders are closed. Now what? About a week ago, we did some research on Mali as a potential route to avoid the bad Guinea roads, but what we found out about the unrest and abductions in Mali made the Guinea dirt roads look like child's play. We also remember how Stephen McGown was held hostage in Mali for six years.
 
The other option is to drive through Liberia and Sierra Leone along the coast, but then you still have to go through Guinea to get to Senegal. And Niger is in chaos due to their recent coup.
 
We stop at the Basilica in Yamoussoukro. It's massive. It reportedly cost nearly 600 million USD to build from 1985 to 1989. The place is awe-inspiring, but something about our prejudices against the Big-Man-in-Africa syndrome, which wants to display power at all costs, deprives us of the possible awe of such a structure.
 
The driver of a powerful Land Cruiser, who earlier, on the highway, almost ran us off the road, is also here to admire the Basilica. Africa's mighty, who can drive as they please, build castles and giant churches, move armies to overthrow governments, and close borders.
 
Outside in the streets, barefoot children begging. A man without clothes walks and talks to himself. And we wonder, perhaps completely out of place, what 600 million USD could achieve if it were spent on schools and hospitals instead. In fact, right across from the Basilica stands an empty hospital.
 
Tomorrow, we will read the news and hope that Guinea's borders are open again.

(English Translation Below) 

​Dag 50: Cape Coast na Aboisso, Ivoorkus
 
Ek sukkel om wakker te bly. Voor my die polisiebakkie en die manne met die AK47's wat ons deur Ghana begelei. Agter my De Witt. Dis sieldodend om so agter 'n voertuig aan te ry. Jy moet naby genoeg ry sodat ander karre en motorfietsies nie tussen jou en die begeleidings-voertuig indruk nie. En die vet weet jy moenie agter in die ding vasry nie. So ek kan nie links of regs na die omgewing en gewoel langs die pad kyk nie, want die pad is vol slaggate en aggressiewe spoedhobbels. Dan stop die bakkie skielik omtrent dood in sy spore en kruip deur die gat of oor die hobbel sodat die manne agterop hulleself nie stukkendwip nie.
 
Die verveling van die situasie-agter-die-bakkie, die dieseldampe, die ongelooflike hitte, die bedompigheid, my draaiende maag en die dors van baie sweet en min water drink begin my vang. (En my sonbril irriteer my!) Uiteindelik stop ons. Koop yskoue koeldrank. Drink die botteltjie met een sluk leeg. Dan nog een. Verligting!
 
Ná omtrent vyf ure se ry kom ons by die grenspos aan. Stop net eers om met ons Laaste Ghanese Cedi's petrol in te gooi. Ons konsentreer nie en gooi meer petrol in as waarvoor ons Cedi's het. Nee hulle vat nie kaarte nie. Ook nie Sentraal-Afrika Franke nie. Een van ons polisievriende leun nader en hou 'n noot uit. Ons betaal, gaan soek 'n kistbank, trek 100 Cedi's om vir hom terug te gee. Dan groet hulle ons. Van nou af is ons weer op ons eie. Ons sien uit om te kan ry soos ons wil en stop waar ons wil. Maar ons weet ook ons sal dit mis om soos lords onaantasbaar deur die padblokkades en die verkeer te kan ry.
 
Die twee grensposte neem ons vier ure. Eers omtrent 'n uur om uit Ghana gestempel te word. Dan tref ons die Ivoorkus-grens. Trotse nuwe tegnologie om mens tjop-tjop biometries te skandeer. Net jammer niemand het ooit vir die mense gewys hoe werk dit nie. En die rekenaarnetwerk opgedateer nie. Dit neem min of meer die gebruiklike uur om die motorfietse tydelik ingevoer te kry, en dan nog twee ure om die paspoorte te stempel omdat hulle eers kan stempel as ons klaar futuristies ingeskandeer is.
 
Dis byna 17:00 toe ons klaar is. Die son sak 18:00. Ons het nog 60km om te ry tot by Aboisso. As die pad sleg is gaan die donker ons vang. Ons verlaat die grenspos uitgemergel en dun van die honger. Begin spoed optel want die pad is mooi. Dan skielik 'n polisieman in die pad. Hy keer ons voor. Die polisie op die grenspos van flussies het hom gebel en gesê ons moet teruggaan soontoe. Ons het nie by die polisielessenaar gaan sit sodat ons invoerpermitte, wat ons in die kantoor langsaan gekry het, op hulle stelsel ingelees kan word nie. Protesteer help nie. Ons draai om. Spring deur die hoepels. Ry weer. Sestig kilometer se gladde teerpad wat die skemer inkronkel deur die woud. Hier en daar nog vars reen op die pad. Alles ruik skoon.
 
Dis tien ure sedert ons weggetrek het in Cape Coast vanoggend, iets geëet het. Ons strompel soos twee gedehidreerde soldate die hotelletjie binne. Die ontvangsdames verstaan nie Engels nie, maar bygryp dadelik ons behofte aan 'n yskoue bier.
 
 
Day 50: Cape Coast to Aboisso, Ivory Coast
 
I'm struggling to stay awake. In front of me, the police pickup truck and the men with AK47s escorting us through Ghana. Behind me, De Witt. It's mind-numbing to ride behind a vehicle. You must ride close enough so that other cars and motorcycles don't squeeze in between you and the escort vehicle. And you certainly shouldn't crash into it! This means I can't look left or right at the scenery and the hustle along the road because the road is full of potholes and aggressive speed bumps. Every now and then the police truck suddenly stops to creep through a pothole or over a speed bump. Preventing the men at the back from being bumped to pieces.
 
The boredom of the situation-behind-the-truck, the diesel fumes, the incredible heat, the humidity, my churning stomach, and the thirst from sweating and drinking too little water start to get to me. (And my sunglasses are annoying me!) Finally, we stop. We buy ice-cold soft drinks. I gulp down one bottle. Then another. Relief!
 
After about five hours of riding, we arrive at the border post. We stop to fill our petrol tanks with our last Ghanaian Cedis. But we weren't paying attention and we put in more petrol than we have Cedis for. No, they don't accept cards. Also not Central African Francs. One of our police friends leans closer and holds out a note. We pay, find an ATM, withdraw 100 Cedis to give to him. Then they bid us farewell. From now on, we're on our own again. We look forward to being able to ride as we please and stop where we want. But we also know we'll miss being able to ride through roadblocks and traffic like lords, untouchable.
 
The two border posts take us four hours. First, about an hour to get stamped out of Ghana. Then we reach the Ivory Coast border. Proud new technology to quickly scan you biometrically. Unfortunately, nobody has ever shown the staff how it works. And the computer network hasn't been updated. It takes roughly the usual hour to temporarily import the motorcycles, but then another two hours to get our passports stamped because they can only stamp us out after we've been scanned into this futuristic new machinery.
 
It's almost 5:00 PM when we're done. The sun sets at 6:00 PM. We still have 60 km to go to Aboisso. If the road is bad, the dark will catch us. We leave the border, emaciated and starving. We start picking up speed because the road is good. Then suddenly, a policeman in the road. He stops us. The police at the border post called him and told him we had to go back. We didn't stop at the police desk so they could capture our import permits, which we got in the office next door, into their system. Protesting doesn't help. We turn around. Jump through the hoops again. Ride on. Sixty kilometers of smooth tarmac winding through the forest twilight. Here and there, fresh rain on the road. Everything smells clean.
 
It's been ten hours since we left Cape Coast this morning, where we last ate something. We stumble into the little hotel like two dehydrated soldiers. The receptionists don't understand English, but they immediately grasp our need for a cold beer.

(English Translation Below)

Dag 49: Accra na Cape Coast
 
Ons ry nogsteeds onder polisiebegeleiding ná ons skoolbesoek gister. En ons hotelkostes in Cape Coast word gedek. Ongelooflik hoe vinnig mens gewoond raak aan spesiale behandeling!
 
Rondom middagete kom ons by die hotel aan, pak af en word deur die polisie geneem na die Elmina kasteel buite Cape Coast. 'n Gruwelike gebou.
 
Kyk na die foto. Dis geneem van waar die Portugese, en later die Hollandse, goewerneur sou staan en afkyk na die vroue-kerker. 'n Klip-hel waar die vroue aangehou is voordat hulle as slawe verkoop is. Die goewerneur sou een uitkies om hom na sy kwartiere te vergesel. Sou sy weier, was sy sonder kos en water tot sy sterf. Sy sou met die houttrappies vanuit die kerker opklim na hier waar hy staan en wag. In sy kwartiere, ruim en met 'n uitsig oor die hartseer see, sou hy haar verkrag en later weer weggooi die kerker in.
 
Kyk weer na die foto. Die verdieping bokant die vroue-kerker, met die langwerpige luike en driehoekies geverf, was die Hollandse kerk. Psalm 132 inge-ets aan die binnekant van daardie vertrek, bokant die deur wat na die verste kant oor die kasteel-grag uitkyk. Hier sou die goewerneur en sy offisiere en sendelinge Sondae bymekaarkom om te aanbid, want om Afrika te kersten was 'n heilige roeping. Hulle sou die pyn van die vroue in die kerker onder hulle deur die houtvloer kon hoor terwyl hulle stilraak vir gebed. Die reuk van stukkende lywe kon ruik.
 
Sommige slawe is deur die Europeers self gevange geneem. Die meeste is deur Afrika-konings aan die Europeers verkoop in ruil vir wapens. 'n Bose bondgenootskap deur die base.
 
Ons ry terug hotel toe. Regs van ons die see. Palmbome. 'n Lang vakansiestrand. Eet- en drinkplekkies van hout wat die verte in kyk. Links van ons die grashutte en skarrelende hoenders. Vroue wat gebukkend staan en wasgoed was, vee, vuurmaak vir koskook. Babas op die rug. Kinders aan die pante. Die mans waarskynlik uit op die skuite.
 
 
Day 49: Accra to Cape Coast
 
We are still traveling under police escort after our school visit yesterday. And our hotel costs in Cape Coast are covered. It's amazing how quickly one gets used to special treatment!
Around noon, we arrive at the hotel, unpack, and are taken by the police to Elmina Castle outside Cape Coast. A horrifying structure.
Look at the photo. It was taken from where the Portuguese, and later the Dutch, governor would stand and look down at the women's dungeon. A stone hell where the women were kept before being sold as slaves. The governor would pick one to accompany him to his quarters. If she refused, she would be left without food and water until she died. She would climb the wooden stairs from the dungeon to where he stood waiting. In his quarters, spacious and with a view of the sorrowful sea, he would rape her and then send her back to the dungeon.
 
Look at the photo again. The floor above the women's dungeon, with the elongated hatches and painted triangles, was the Dutch church. Psalm 132 etched on the inside of that room, above the door overlooking the far side of the castle moat. Here, the governor and his officers and missionaries would gather on Sundays to worship because converting Africa was a holy calling. They would hear the pain of the women in the dungeon beneath them while they knelt for prayer on the wooden floor. The smell of broken bodies.
 
Some slaves were captured by the Europeans themselves. Most were sold to the Europeans by African kings in exchange for weapons. The diabolical brotherhood of the bosses.
 
We drive back to the hotel. To our right, the sea. Palm trees. A long vacation beach. Wooden eating and drinking places looking into the distance. To our left, the thatched huts and clucking chickens. Women bending down to do laundry, sweep, make fires for cooking. Babies on their backs. Children by their sides. The men probably out fishing for the day's meal.

(English Translation Below)

Dag 47 en 48: Accra
 
'n Swart Land Cruiser met donker vensters stop voor die hek. Ons klim in. Polisiemotorfiets voor. Blou lig en sirene. Die oggendspitsverkeer maak voor ons oop soos 'n pad deur die Rooi See. Voet in die hoek! Ons is genooi vir ontbyt saam met die Adjunk-minister van Onderwys en Accra moet padgee.
 
Ná ontbyt neem hulle ons na 'n hoërskool om 'n praatjie te lewer oor ons reis, ons beroepe en hoe om mens se drome te verwesenlik. Die Land Cruiser ry statig die skoolterrein binne. Dis iets om te beleef! Skoolgronde wat oor akkers strek, reuse-ou bome, geboue uit die koloniale era. Perfek instand gehou. Ons is nie seker of ons met 6, 60 of 600 kinders gaan praat nie.
 
Ons hou stil. Die Adjunk-minister klim uit. Twee mans staan nader. Een is die Skoolhoof. Die ander een is die Streek-Superindendent van Onderwys. 'n Entjie verder 'n groepie joernaliste. TV kameras. Ons skud blad en word na die volgepakte skoolsaal begelei. Ten minste 'n duisend kinders. Die skoolsaal is goed uitgedink vir die omgewing se klimaat: Geen mure nie. Slegs 'n dak op kolomme, 'n vloer en 'n verhoog. Ventilasie in die hitte en geen lugversorging nodig nie.
 
Die Adjunk-minister stel ons voor. In gevleuelde taal. Die kinders klap. Ons kry elkeen 'n beurt om iets te sê oor ons ervaringe sover op ons reis, asook iets oor ons loopbane tot dusver plus enige raad of advies vir die kinders. Dan vra hulle vrae. Meestal oor hulle eie vraagstukke as dit kom by loopbaankeuses, die pad vorentoe, kruispaaie. Ons maak beurte en doen ons bes om iets van waarde aan hierdie wakker kinders te gee. Na die tyd media-onderhoude en fotos in die son. 'n Jong seun trek my aandag. Hoe werk die sielkunde van leierskap, vra hy. Sy tweelingboetie is 'n prefek en hy nie. Ons gesels 'n oomblik. Mense is mense.
 
Oppad terug hoor ek weer die skoollied weergalm: "She's the school of whom be boast, she's the glory of the Coast - Achimota!" 'n Skool groter as die individue wat daar deur is. 'n Kontinent groter as elkeen van ons.
 
Soos in Walt Whitmann se woorde: "...that the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse." Wat is die vers wat ek wil bydra ná hierdie toer?
 
Môre ry ons weer verder. Oppad Ivoorkus toe. Daar is nog baie Afrika voor ons.
 
 
Day 47 and 48: Accra
 
A black Land Cruiser with tinted windows pulls up to the gate. We climb in. A Police motorcycle leads the way. Blue lights and sirens. The morning rush-hour traffic parts before us like the Red Sea. Full throttle! We've been invited for breakfast with the Deputy Minister of Education, and Accra needs to make way.
 
After breakfast, they take us to a high school to give a talk about our journey, our professions, and how to realize one's dreams. The Land Cruiser enters the school grounds. It is something to behold! School grounds sprawling over fields, ancient trees, colonial-era buildings. Impeccably maintained. We're not sure if we're going to speak to 6, 60, or 600 children.
 
We stop. The Deputy Minister steps out. Two men approach. One is the Headmaster. The other is the Regional Superintendent of Education. A bit further away, a group of journalists. TV cameras. We shake hands and are led into the packed school hall. At least a thousand children. The school hall is designed to suit the climate: No walls, just a roof on columns, a floor, and a stage. Ventilation in the heat and no need for air conditioning.
 
The Deputy Minister introduces us in much-too-flattering words. The children applaud. Each of us takes a turn to talk about our experiences so far on our journey, as well as something about our careers to date, and some advice for the children. Then they ask questions. Mostly about their own career choices, the road ahead, crossroads. We take turns and do our best to offer something of value to these bright-eyed children. Afterwards, media interviews and photos in the sun. A young boy catches my attention. How does the psychology of leadership work, he asks. His twin brother is a prefect, and he isn't. We chat for a moment. People are people.
 
On the way back, I hear the school anthem again: "She's the school of whom we boast, she's the glory of the Coast - Achimota!" A school greater than the individuals passing through it. A continent greater than each one of us.
 
As in Walt Whitman's words: "...that the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse." What is the verse that I want to contribute after this trip?
 
Tomorrow we continue our journey. Heading towards the Ivory Coast. There's still a lot of Africa ahead of us.