Bo & Tiwi Island – Sierra Leone 

Since my first walkabout in Freetown I had begun to feel something uncomfortable in the sole of my flipflop, but being a man it took me a few days to investigate the problem and I had merely shrugged it off as a stone. It turns out emergency surgery was required. Not for me, the flipflop. Although it could have been me as I discovered not a stone wedged into the sole, but a shard of glass pointing directly upwards. I took out my trusted Swiss-army knife that I’ve only recently discovered can be quite useful when travelling and started digging and slicing through my brand new flipflop until the stubborn shard of glass popped out. I was gutted at having to reduce the integrity of my new flipflops so early in the trip, yet it appeared to self-heal as though possessed by the Terminator. It turns out I needn’t have worried about the flipflop’s integrity; it was our first day on the road, our first night camping, our first night with the entire group of 20, all I needed to do was not drink excessively and play it cool.  

As it happens, we only drove an hour or so down the road back to a beach that lay just beyond River No.2. It goes without saying that it was spectacular with a beautiful little bay to swim in. We set up our tents overlooking the beach and went for an extended sunset swim before settling into the new group with dinner, again on the beach, and some beers. Many laughs ensued and before long people started to get cocky. Conveniently positioned next to us was a lady with little more than a box as a stall, pineapples, and a blender. The veterans of the group who had already experienced what the lady had to offer when staying the night at the end of the last tour warned us against her but being the newbies, we were feeling fruity and keen to make an impression. Queue not one, but at least two vicious rum and pineapple cocktails that would no doubt lead to regret the following morning. How something so strong could taste so apparently morish I have no idea. Thank God when I did wake the next morning, I was able to drag myself down the beach like a dog dragging its arse across a carpet so I could wash the hangover away if only for just a moment. It’s never lost on me that it’s basically impossible to ever regret a hangover, but that isn’t to say that I can cope with many more like it over the coming weeks. The day didn’t help the cause as we spent most of it on the road heading to Sierra Leone’s second city, Bo, where we parked up and set up camp on a basketball court. From previous experience, this was quite normal and expected for this kind of randomness in West Africa; from one of the best camping spots possible on the Atlantic coast, to a swimming pool with green water and a toilet that needed a bucket to flush. Of course, such issues are ironed over with a ready supply of cold beer, but still unable to shift the pineapple induced hangover, I chose the second-best option, sleep.  

From Bo we headed over to Tiwai Island that sits in the middle of the Moa River. Our campsite was on the riverbank opposite the island nestled among the trees and belonged to the local village. For the next two days curious children would spend hours watching us lay around attempting to deal with the humidity while the adults cooked local dishes for us and took us out on the river or, for walks on the island. This was local tourism at its very best. On arrival we beat the humidity by wallowing in the river although I scared myself by allowing a discreet pee and then wondering if it was this kind of environment where parasites and such nasties swam into penises. Time will tell I suppose. The campsite presented one other challenge, ants. These weren’t any kind of ants, these were attack ants, ants that had no problem biting into you should you happen to upset their day. The villagers solved the problem by throwing down petrol anywhere the ants posed a threat to the campsite, but this wouldn’t help us later on in the evening. Staying with local hosts meant getting accustomed to local time and although dinner rocked up at a reasonable time, our scheduled 9pm walk didn’t see any sign of setting off until 9.45pm. Not the end of the world, but after spending most of the afternoon doing little other than sweat and worry about waterborne parasites, the urge to do anything other than go to bed was strong. Still, we rallied, and off into the night we went where we immediately saw two bright eyes staring back at us from a tree, no idea what it was, I suspect some possum type thing. Pygmy hippos can be found in the area and that was our goal but the thumping music not so far away suggested that we were more likely to bump into a cold beer. The stars did put on a show, and despite almost all night walks being disappointments, I was grateful to be out and actually walking. That was until we stumbled through a stream of killer ants. Our guide and Amber strolled on through, made them angry and attacked the next person, Jen, who stopped in her tracks trying to beat the buggers off. I, following behind then had to stop, and me being me tried to help which was akin to trying to put someone’s emergency oxygen mask on first before doing my own. The ants were in my shoes around the ankles biting right through the socks, my trousers were vaguely tucked into my socks but that didn’t stop them racing up my legs, under my t-shirt, and eating their way as far north as my neck. Every time I picked one off, no matter how firmly I held them, they kicked and fought between my fingers like an enraged Mike Tyson being held back by his entourage. 

The following morning began eerily misty and damp with drops of water falling from the tree above me and through the fly of the tent onto my head. I was looking forward to breakfast but unfortunately it was delayed by almost an hour after the chap sent to get the eggs crashed his motorbike and ended up in hospital which put the whole ant drama the night before into perspective. I had opted for a lazy morning, after which I was rewarded with a splendid lunch of fish and cassava. It’s quite rare when travelling that the locals actually cook local food when required to cook for tourists as they try and westernise it as much as possible, but not here, and I’m glad they didn’t. Well fed, I finally headed over to Tiwai Island for a two-hour guided walkabout where we saw many trees and a few monkeys at a distance that rendered them almost hidden. But it was nice to be out walking, and the boat trip back up the river to the camp was sublime as the sky did its daily late afternoon ritual of igniting into colour and unburdening the worries of anyone who took the time to look up.  

From Bo we were scheduled to head up to Kenema, the heart of the country’s diamond industry but there appeared to be some confusion over the type of tour we were on. Apparently, the roads to Kenema weren’t the best, and the roads from Kenema to our next destination, Liberia, were diabolical; sounded great to me. However, the road from Bo to Liberia was relatively easy going, and all that was worth seeing in Kenema would be closed on Sunday, apparently. I mean come on, diamonds, and Sierra Leone. It’s like going on safari in Kenya but opting not to see any wildlife! Not that it mattered, the group’s irrational fear of poor roads meant the short cut had already been decided. As the chat has swerved towards the very interesting topic of roads, it’s worth mentioning West Africa’s love for roadblocks. They’re everywhere, a piece of rope hung across the road attached to a stick one end and a man in a football shirt the other end. There will be a couple of mildly official looking police or soldiers that will either be half asleep in a chair completely uninterested in the world or, enthusiastically stopping traffic, conducting searches, asking for papers, and generally being an annoyance until an excuse is found to pay a bribe. Behind all this there will be a little stall selling drinks, nuts, and plantain chips. This is the informal economy of a region blighted by corruption that is entrenched from the top down. Interestingly, rocking up in a big blue truck full of tourists was nearly always enough to avoid having to pay bribes as after all, you wouldn’t want to ruin the image of the country. Whatever the reason, apparently there is a rulebook for best corruption practice. Next up, Liberia, a country I’m extremely excited to visit. Sierra Leone, when I left you the first time, I was in love with you, returning over a decade later it makes me so happy to still feel the same. Top five forever.

10^th December 2023