While cleaning out my old computer I found something I'd written almost four years ago after a trip to Guinea during my semester in Senegal. This section is about the particularly harrowing journey across the border. It was an entertaining read for me, reliving what was a pretty intense experience, and I thought others might enjoy it too.
In the morning we headed off into the great unknown. Truly,
that was Guinea in a nutshell; a country I knew preciously little about. Step
one was visiting the local garage,
where all forms of transportation congregate. We had heard the roads were bad,
so my companions started bargaining for 4x4’s. I found myself, carried by the
mob of drivers offering transport, by a large blue truck, camion, in the process of being loaded with cargo. A man speaking
English with an American accent approached me and I learned that, in terms of
inexpensive transportation, this truck was about as cheap as it gets. I have to
admit, I may have been motivated as much by financial concern as by a boyish
desire to ride in the back of a truck. It was in this way that twelve American
students, another five having just joined us, stumbled blindly upon a side of l’Afrique
de l’Ouest that until then had remained hidden to us.
A few things were
made clear very quickly when the truck began to load. First; there were a lot
more people accompanying us on this cross-border trip than we had anticipated.
By the time we left Kedougou there
were close to fifty people, and baggage, crammed into the bed of the truck.
Second; we were not going anywhere quickly. Already sweaty and cramped after
ten minutes, we wailed in dismay as we drove in a series of large circles,
first to an office, then back to the garage, finally to the driver’s house as
he had forgotten his bag. All the while, fifty passengers, from very old to
just born, jostled for leg, elbow, and breathing space in the back. Truly we
had no idea how long we expected to travel for. Optimistically, we clung to the
notion of somewhere around six hours. Worst case scenario; well, we didn't really consider that. We finally left Kedougou
mid-afternoon. Six hours later found us pulling to a halt at some type of
crossing as dusk began to grey the edges of our vision. We dismounted,
stretched, happy to be able to uncurl for a brief respite. Our first notion of
trouble was when, upon seeing the name of the town, we realized we still weren't even close to the border. We started to consider the looming reality of
traveling well into the night. We applied bug spray, put on warm clothes, and
prepared ourselves for a long evening.
Traveling in the daylight was hot and uncomfortable, yet
somehow traveling in the night was worse. Not only was it intensely cramped (we had collected more passengers after nightfall) but we had now
entered the mountains that constitute the border. This means we spent a
majority of the time leaning backwards as the beast of a vehicle labored to
make it up rocky mountain paths. The first time we had to dismount was somewhat
of an apocalyptic event. We were on the edge of a cliff, barely visible in the
dark, listening to the engine make the worst noises so far as we pitched and swayed
from one large rock to the next. Suddenly the tires lost footing and we began
to slide backwards down the mountain, continuing to rock perilously close to
the cliff edge all the while. People clenched the handholds for dear life,
women screamed and children cried. The driver’s assistants managed to stop
our rapid descent by wedging logs under the tires, and we quickly climbed down
and scrambled to safety. We took the children with us, since there was no one
else to watch them. There we were, climbing up a rocky mountain pass into the
dark with little children on our back, leaving behind us the sweep of the truck’s
headlights and the roar of its struggling engine while large wildfires burned
in ever widening circles on the nearby hillsides.
This was the story of the rest of the night. Huddled together
in the dark as the truck climbed until it could climb no further, at which
point we would dismount down the side, trek up the remainder of the incline,
and then pile back in. Each time was like a miniature border war; we had to get
in as quickly as possible to stake out what meager claims to space we could.
There were times when there was simply no possible way to fit another person
sitting down, so we took turns sitting atop the roll-cage bars, one of the more
harrowing experiences of my life. Our mindsets had changed very quickly from
that morning. It’s incredible how the brain adjusts in times of stress. I was
drawn into myself; my frame of reference becoming the walls of the truck, my
concept of time shrinking from next week to tomorrow to simply the next time
the truck stopped so I could readjust my contorted limbs. My mind slowed down,
as if in hibernation, unwilling to function at full speed because there really
is nothing good to think about and furthermore, nothing that can be done about
it. And that’s how we passed the time, crammed together, knees in our chins or
someone else’s, the only personal space found inside our own heads.
We made it to the border at ten thirty that night. We
stumbled down, dazed, half-functioning. Someone collected our passports and
herded us across the miniature stone wall that demarcated the line between two
sovereign nations. I
stayed in the truck to watch the bags, alone except for the children sleeping
on sacks of rice. The stars were much clearer there, and the moon was
absolutely brilliant, I wondered how much altitude we had gained. I was upset,
but not terribly surprised, when I learned that the truck had suffered a mortal
injury during one of the climbs and we would have to spend the night there at the border. A mechanic had been called but it was not sure how, when,
or really even if he would be coming. Everyone else began staking out spaces on
the ground or among the bags. We Americans sat despondently nearby. Our driver,
probably aware that we were in way over our heads, found us a man who offered
his house to us in exchange for buying breakfast in the morning. We collected
our things and as one pathetic, bedraggled group, tramped our way down a dirt
path in search of rest.
The moonlight lit up the landscape in a strange gray-scale
highlighting certain features sharply but leaving others hidden in darkness. We
were led to a dirt hut with a thatched roof surrounded by a tall stick fences
to keep the goats and chickens in, or perhaps other, larger animals out. There
were four beds for the twelve of us. Well two beds, really, and two wooden
planks. Seeing as we hadn't eaten since breakfast we opened up a can of tuna
and a can of ravioli and partook in a cold, but delicious, feast. We cleaned
and bandaged our wounds, filled and purified our empty water bottles, then
collapsed in exhaustion.
What little sleep I was getting was interrupted far too
early by a veritable symphony of roosters echoing off the hillsides. Whoever
said they crow at dawn was mistaken, or else African roosters are just more
eager to start the day. Upon learning that the mechanic had already done his work, we inhaled our
breakfast of bread and milky tea and piled into the truck. The other
passengers, having already gotten on, allocated us a third
the space we had the day before. We set off into the mountains of Guinea with
high hopes and somewhat rested bodies.
Incredibly, the roads were even worse on this side of the
border. We bounced and jostled our way over them, our brains and organs slowly
being liquefied. The sun, not wanting to miss a minute of the action, quickly
joined us. Pretty soon we had consumed a good portion of our water supply, and
everyone was still thirsty. The next time we stopped at village we decided it
was imperative to find more water; there was no telling when we’d get another
chance. A few of us asked an older man, who happened to be the village chief, and
he led us to their water
pump. It was a good thing we got that water because the day turned
out to be a scorcher and there wasn't an inch of shade riding in the back. So
began our week-long battle with water. Even after our adventure on the truck
had finished, water was a huge source of concern. I have never craved water
that way before, never been so dehydrated, never held water in my hand,
weighing my thirst against the risk of sickness from impurities. It was a
frightening feeling, rationing each sip, and it truly made me understand how
much we take our drinking water for granted.
When people got sick, things got serious. Up until that
point we had been dealing with severe discomfort at the worst, maybe a few
instances of physical danger. But when one of the girls in our group started
showing symptoms of malaria, the reality of our situation became clear. There
was no choice available to us other than staying on the truck. We couldn't turn
around, and it was clear no better form of transportation would be showing up
anytime soon. Up until then, I had been worried that my poorly-informed transportation
choice would ruin my friends’ vacation, now I was far more concerned. When we stopped for lunch (a bowl of white rice and a thin yellow
sauce) we made sure to refill our water again. We had to ensure we were all
drinking enough; dehydration was not an option. We rested in the shade at that
village during the worst of the afternoon heat, sprawled out on cool reed mats. We set off again with a renewed
vigor and drive. It was becoming clear that we would be traveling into the
night again and we needed to keep our spirits up. We sang, played games, and
talked, but our situation could not be ignored for long. At one point we picked
up a good deal of speed on a flat road when we absolutely nailed a bump.
Everything on the truck was airborne for a substantial period of time. Many of
us collided with the iron roll-cage bars, and in the confusion some baggage was
lost, fallen off the back.
Up and down mountains, in and out of riverbeds, mounting and
dismounting the truck, baking in the afternoon sun. Everything about the trip was unknown. Every breakdown could be
for ten minutes or three hours, every stopover brief or long, and the response
to our inquiries about the distance to Maliville,
our own El Dorado, was always “far.” Dusk came again. I was glad to escape the
heat, but loath to spend more time traveling in the dark. We got off at the
base of what seemed like a sizable hill. We started climbing; the truck gave
us a head start. The path stretched on and on, around each corner was another
incline, and all the while we could hear the truck roaring and lurching its way
up behind us, threatening to overtake us if we walked too slowly. There was something very ominous
about the truck creeping up behind us, like an animal stalking its prey. It was
both our carriage and our prison, the source of our distress, but our only way out.
At the top of that mountain, we learned we would be spending
the night again. We received the news with quiet resignation. It was a surreal
situation that stretched on, no end in sight, nothing to do but submit to it. We stopped at a town called Fougou, where every one of us promptly
collapsed on the ground. Prepared to sleep in the dirt we laid out our
backpacks, but our driver once again had found somewhere to stay. It’s hard to
say whether the dirt wouldn't have been better, since we ended up on the
concrete floor of an unfinished bungalow, but the hospitality was much
appreciated. We opened up the last of our canned food and cookies, purified
more pump water, and tried to sleep despite the cold.
In the morning our lives took an interesting turn. For once
in the past two days we did not get
back onto the truck. It was a happy, if not a bit astonishing moment, finally reaching the point we'd all be longing for. The routine
we had come to accept had been broken. It had been decided by our driver (and protector) that we would get to our destination in a sept-place
while the other group of five continued with him. We said goodbye to our friends as they re-mounted and rode off into the sunrise. And that
was how we came to be free of our camion.
