Liberia to Mali by road

After nearly ten months in Liberia, I finally finished my fellowship with the IRC in June. I said goodbye with a weekend at the beach outside of Monrovia, followed by a party thrown by my office in Voinjama. I decided to attend the latter with my hair braided to match my friend and godchild’s mom Beatrice—a style that looks great on her but is not so kind to a pasty-scalped white girl like myself. Nevertheless, my new hair attracted an endless stream of compliments from my coworkers, all of whom lamented that I hadn’t started braiding my hair sooner.

The next morning, I started my overland trek through Liberia and Guinea to Mali. Most of my coworkers and fellow expats looked at me like I was slightly crazy when I told them about my plan—a lone American girl hitching rides through three countries. But I had plenty of experience traveling in West Africa from my Peace Corps days. And besides, I was excited about the potential for a little adventure. So as soon as the sun was up, my friend Sidiki came to pick me up on his moto, and off we went.

The “quick ride” to the border naturally turned out to take a bit more time than I expected. It was only perhaps 50 kilometers to Macenta, Guinea, but with all the border checkpoints, it took us more than two hours. About a quarter of this time was probably spent at the Liberian side of the border, where the immigration officials tried to convince me to give them 20 dollars to stamp both my passports (I have dual citizenship, and I had stupidly gotten my Guinean visa in my British passport while my Liberian visa was in my American one). Thinking there was no way they could be asking me for twenty American dollars, I gave them twenty Liberian dollars. As this is equivalent to about 20 cents, they laughed in my face. But with a few bats of my eyes and some Liberian English, they eventually let me through.

Once in Macenta, Sidiki invited me to meet his family. Like many Mandingos (the ethnic group to which Sidiki belongs), he thought of himself as equally Guinean and Liberian and moved freely back and forth across the border. He worked for the IRC in Voinjama, but he had built his home in Macenta and so spent the weekends there with his wife and children. Though I was already running late and anxious to find a car to take me to Kankan in Upper Guinea, I knew that it would be rude of me not to say hello. In West African culture, greeting friends and family wherever you meet them is essential, and being in a hurry is never an acceptable excuse for ditching out.

Once we sat down with Sidiki’s relatives, it became clear to me that making it to Kankan before nightfall was not going to be as easy as I had hoped. I had missed the direct cars that leave early in the morning, and taking an afternoon car was likely to result in me spending the night on the road. Instead, Sidiki’s relatives suggested that I find a moto taxi to take me.

Since there are few things I love more in life than riding on the back of a moto, the breeze running through my hair as the changing landscape passes me by, this option instantly appealed to me. I was pretty sure Kankan was far, but if the Guineans were telling me this was a good plan, I was willing to take their word for it. It was their country, so they surely knew what was best. So while Sidiki’s wife made me lunch (FYI fresh avocado with condensed milk and sugar tastes just as terrible as it sounds, no matter what Sidiki’s wife assured me), he went out and found someone trustworthy to take me to Kankan.

When we finally set off, I asked the moto driver how far Kankan actually was. Though he couldn’t give me an exact estimate, it was immediately clear from his body language that I was in for a long ride. And as it was now well past noon, I knew that reaching Kankan before dark was no longer a realistic expectation. But there was no turning back at this point, and as I said, I love moto rides, so I pushed to the back of my mind any concerns about the distance and let myself enjoy the ride.
The first two hours on the road were beautiful, with nothing but lush, green forest surrounding us as our moto climbed and twisted up and down the small mountains outside of Macenta. Needless to say, I was a little bit in love. As time wore on, however, and my butt became increasingly sore from sitting for so long, I began to wonder if I hadn’t let my love of motos and desire for adventure cloud my judgment given that I most certainly would be sitting on this moto well into the night. And that was assuming all went well (that is, no rainstorms, breakdowns or accidents—all of which had a relatively high likelihood of taking place).

However, just at the point where I thought my butt had lost all sensation, a Land Rover appeared out of nowhere and flagged us down. The only car we’d seen on the road since Macenta, I realized just how insane my plan had been when I saw the look on the driver’s face as I explained to him where I was going. It turns out Kankan is about 280 kilometers from Macenta, a trip that takes 10-12 hours in a car. In other words, I wasn’t getting there any time soon on my friend’s puttering moto. The men (employees of a mining company) offered to take me with them to the next major town and help me find a ride on to Kankan. Recognizing this as the more sane option, I bid adieu to my moto taxi and hopped in the car. I instantly missed feeling the fresh air on my face, but my ass was certainly glad I made the switch.

Not surprisingly, we didn’t reach the next town until dusk, so there were no more cars heading to Kankan until the morning. In a show of kindness and generosity that is typical of West Africans, the miners set me up with a place to stay for the night. The driver then invited me for dinner with his family, gave me a tour of the town, and took me back to the taxi depot in the morning. Refusing to take no for an answer, he even paid for my ticket to Kankan. All of this, and not even the slightest hint that he wanted anything in return. Time and time again in my travels in West Africa, I have encountered people who go out of their way to take care of me in this way, and it never ceases to amaze me. It’s why even as a single female, I always feel relatively safe when I travel. In this part of West Africa, there may be frustrations and setbacks to my plans, but I can almost always rely on the kindness of strangers to get me where I need to be in the end.

From the town of Kerouane where I spent the night, it took me about six hours to get to Kankan, further evidence that my plan to ride all the way there from the Liberian border on a moto was borderline insane. From there, I had to change cars one more time before making it to the Mali border and on to Bamako. But I made it eventually, and though my route turned out differently than I had planned, looking back, I wouldn’t have done anything differently. I got to see new regions of Liberia and Guinea, and the people I met along the way reminded me once again why I love this part of the world so much. And naturally, as soon as I set foot in Mali, I felt like I was home.