5 Days to Côte d’Ivoire

It was such a bitter journey

I left London and arrived in Freetown on August 14, 2007. It was a cool and windy Tuesday night. The British airliner Astraeus Airlines, touched down at about 8pm at the Lungi International Airport. There was impenetrable darkness everywhere, covering the lights that lined the main entrance from the runway. It was obvious; the clouds were pregnant and soon began emptying their bellies.

Brother Momoh, a family friend, was on the standby to pick me up. After successfully concluding security formalities, we drove to the ferry station, waited there for roughly an hour before boarding to cross the Sierra Leone River separating the Airport and Freetown. Waiting that long for the return of a ferry was worth it because the ferries were the cheapest option – costing less than $2; unlike the $40 fare charged by the Sea Coach Express and Eco-Water taxi or the hovercraft which charged $50 for adults and $25 for kids.  Unfortunately, the ferries were certainly not the quickest option neither the most convenient.

As we disembarked the ferry, a cab driver rushed over to help Brother Momoh carry my two suitcases over to the vehicle and off we were. Throughout that night, I kept thinking and hoping that I would get going the next morning to Man, Côte d’Ivoire, where my mom and siblings have resided since fleeing the Liberian civil war in 1990.  Initially, I considered travelling along the Bo highway to Bo Gendema (Sierra Leone) and Bo Waterside (in Grand Cape Mount County, Liberia), and onward to Nimba County (Liberia), then to Man, western Côte d’Ivoire.  On a second thought, I felt that would have been a hugely tiring and stressful journey to undertake.  “Why not connect through Guinea and then, Man, Côte d’Ivoire?” I wondered. Eventually, I reach a decision: route through Nongowa, Guéguédou, Nzérekoré and then Man. 

A dangerous adventure it was

First thing Wednesday morning, Brother Momoh took me to a parking station in central Freetown in search of a bus to Kailahun, the largest town before getting to the border town of Koindou. Everywhere was muddy. The downpour the night before had most parts of the city of Freetown flooded. The traffic from Congo Cross to central Freetown that morning was very heavy, getting jammed throughout. Almost every single time the traffic jam happened; I saw a long line of break lights ahead.

Finally, we were there; the parking was completely empty, a scene that dropped my jaws. I instantly became nervous: “Getting started this way is NOT good,” I said quietly to myself. We were informed by folks of the Sierra Leone road transport authority that there would be no vehicles plying the Freetown-Kailahun highway until after a week. Drivers and car owners were striking. Brother Momoh quickly suggested that we wait. However, after several hours of fruitless waiting, he succumbed. That was when a decision was reached; I had to take a cab to Kenema, spend the night with Brother Momoh’s aunty, a police commissioner, then continue from there the next morning. That decision sounded pleasing to my ears because all I longed for at that moment was to be reunited with my mom and siblings after years of separation.

It was 10:00PM. Kenema’s principal streets were all de-peopled by a torrential downpour. The cab driver drove from one police station to the other; no one knew the commissioner’s residence. We later came across an officer who knew the commissioner’s residence but charged me US$25 service fee.  The Commissioner lived in a huge compound situated within a sparsely populated neighborhood of Kenema.

As though everything was happening from the wrong side, I could not get a vehicle the following morning (Wednesday).  It was mid-day, still no car. The only option was to join a police vehicle that was due to transport a notorious criminal to Kailahun Central Prison. The convict was chained at the back of the pickup. Along with him was my luggage. I was squeezed in the back of the pickup’s front seat. We drove for endless hours before arriving in Kailahun at about 11:00PM on Wednesday. The town was as quiet as a cemetery. I could hardly see a street lamp, except for a few candle lights in the various huts across the town.

I was driven to the police chief’s house to spend the night. Unfortunately, his wife wasn’t the nicest person on earth. She kept me standing outside, in the dark for the longest. I was famished, but in the middle of fear, any desire for food or water was quickly swallowed down. My skin was itchy because my regular bath hours had come and gone. I got tired standing and sat on one of my suitcases. I wasn’t allowed in the house until 1:45PM when the police chief himself arrived home. He ushered me inside and made hot water for me to take shower. There was no bathroom or bathhouse. Bathing was done outside, under a couple of banana trees. I was afraid. I took the water, stood near the house and washed my feet, face and arms. As I returned to the living room, he had made a tiny space among his wife’s dirty dishes and sauce pans she had dashed all over the place. The space was enough for me to sit, place my head on my luggage and call it a night!

Double Stress

Again, there was no vehicle to convey me to my destination town – Koindou – the next morning. The one way out was to hire two bikers to transport me, along with my suitcases. At first, I was hesitant, but soon gave in and was charged an arm and a leg by the bikers before transporting me to the Koindu-Nongowa crossing point. Koindu had been shattered as a result of the Sierra Leonean civil war. I hardly saw people in the town. The town was noiseless as we drove through to the border or crossing point.

As the only available passenger, I had to wait and pray for additional three passengers to join me before boarding the canoe that would ferry us across the river.  It was 11:00AM on Thursday. The canoe operator charged huge crossing fees. His canoe held about 4 people and crossing took 20 minutes. The canoe swayed from side to side as he directed it across the rapidly flowing River Moa.  He never said much. Passengers included anyone who showed up where he kept the canoe. He propelled his canoe ferry with a makeshift paddle (wooden handle with wide metal end).  The alternative to this ferry was to walk about 6 miles in either direction before reaching a motor road.

Two young men showed at the crossing point at about 1:00PM. Still the canoe operator won’t make a move; we needed one more person. Time was flying by. So, I opted to pay for the extra seat. We then sailed across the river into Nongowa, Guinea.

Nongowa, the Guinean side of the border, was a small town surrounded by palm plantations and virgin forests. Like Koindu, Nongoua was sparsely populated. In the heart of the town was a small market of stalls and wheels. I saw no more than 40 persons engaged in various transactions and the main commodities being traded were palm products: nuts and oil. There was also a makeshift booth-like structure where ticketing for cars leaving for Guéguédou was being carried out. From a distance it appeared as though the booth had not been in operation for over 6 months. Its white and blue paints had been layered with thick red dust.

In the Middle of Nowhere

Unfortunately, cars heading to Guéguédou only came to Nongowa on Tuesdays. It was 2:00PM. I fought hard to hold back my tears from racing down my cheeks. I dropped suitcases and sat on them, famished and thirsty. Then a Kia-motor, heavily loaded with gallons of palm oil, arrived in the town. I walked up to the driver and asked him to please take me to Guéguédou.

The old, bearded man asked if I could manage at the back of the Kia-motor, atop the gallons. I responded in the affirmative and made my way up. I sat and held firmly onto the rails at the back of the vehicle.  “Give me your fare upon arrival,” the man said to me. 

I ventured in unknown territories en route to see my mom and siblings

As we departed Nongowa, pregnant clouds began gathering; accompanying winds blew across the forest, carrying with them thick dust, which clogged my nose, ears and eyes. Arrival in Guéguédou was around 7:00PM. The Kia driver dashed me at a roundabout in the heart of the town.  Another round of vehicle search began. I needed a vehicle to reach me to Macènta. After roughly an hour of fruitless search, I had to deal with bikers once more. This time, it wasn’t so east; every motorbike rider I tried talking to, declined; they didn’t want to deal with me plus my two suitcases. It had begun to drizzle. This marked my third day en route to Man. At this point, I could no longer contain the tears; they were screaming down endlessly. I had had very little to eat, no proper bath taken. I consoled myself with thoughts of resilience.

“I can take you to Macénta. Just pay me plenty money,” came a voice from a distance. “Let’s go before it begins to rain. Buy some plastic bags to wrap around you and your luggage. It will protect you and your clothes from getting drenched. You will pay me 125, 000 Guinean Francs,” added the skinny, fair-colored young man of the Foula (Péule) ethnic group.

I pleaded to pay him 70,000 Guinean Francs because all I was left with was 125, 000 francs.  He settled for 75,000 francs. I paid him and we got going. The road was in a terrible state, even motorbikes wouldn’t dare. For every 30 minutes we drove, I was put down and asked to walk for 10 minutes to cross a cake of sticky mud, piled up in the center of the road. During one of my walks, thick mud swallowed me to my knees. The outer layer looked very dry. I never thought it would be wet underneath. As I placed my right foot on it, I began to sink. The more I struggled, the faster I descended in the mud. The biker and another man (an inhabitant of a nearby village) found a slab of concrete debris to stabilize themselves, then had to dig me out by hand. I was scared but unharmed. I later developed skin rashes from the mud.

Thousand Mosquito Bites

Throughout the trip with this biker, I felt very uncomfortable and insecure. He stopped for smoking breaks after every hour. He would park the bike, walk behind a tree and smoke his weed. I was scared to death: “What if he gets intoxicated, pull out a knife and chop me up into pieces?” I wondered. “My mom and siblings won’t even see my corpse.” This continued until we arrived in Macénta at about 3:00AM on Friday. The town was fast asleep. The only place with a handful of folks was the parking station. We drove there and the place to spend the rest of the night at was a large warehouse shared by merchandises and humans. There were sheets of carton spread across the floor for use as sleeping mats. Passengers from everywhere converged there. The man operating the warehouse charged 5,000 Guinean francs per head. Services there prepaid. I paid my 5,000 francs, entered and sat on my suitcase. Inside was warm with thousands of mosquitoes.  I sat up until 6:00AM, was picked up by the biker and taken to a place where I would board a vehicle to go to N’zérékoré.

Fortunately, finding a bus this time was a no issue. From N’zérékoré onward to Man, Côte d’Ivoire, there was no more vehicle drama. I travelled throughout Friday and arrived in Man at about 5:00AM on Saturday.

All the while, my mom and siblings had been worried. They had contacted the folks in London and were informed of my departure from there. They contacted folks in Freetown, only to be told of my departure from there as well. The folks in London were calling those in Freetown, Monrovia and so forth. No one could confirm my location as I struggled in the middle of nowhere to see my mom and siblings.

The vehicle conveying us from N’zérékore drove to the main parking station of Grand Marché, downtown Man. I got out, looking all muddy with scores of dark spots all over my face from mosquito bites. I grabbed a taxi and headed to our Libréville residence. The gates were still locked. Mom, Sally and Babadéni had gone for the congregational morning prayers at the mosque, I was told by a neighbor. I sat outside and waited.

“What’s that at the gate?” asked Sally on seeing my luggage. Suddenly, the trio turned and found me sitting on the opposite side of the fence.  They were dumfounded for few seconds before rushing over to give me that warm embrace I had longed for throughout my journey of reconnection. Such was my dilemma as I journeyed through Sierra Leone and Guinea to enter Côte d’Ivoire.