01/12/2024 Bikepacking Sierra Leone Day 157 : Hey Uncle!

I like to buy from the kids selling stuff because I feel like I’m helping them out… But then a whole whirlwind of doubt comes up:

If I buy from kids, am I encouraging them to peddle the streets instead of going to school? How bad is it to not go to school? My grandpa didn’t go to school and worked to support his family during the depression. His life was fine. Why aren’t these kids in school anyway? As usual, the answers are not black and white; they’re mulatto. (Are we even allowed to use that word still?)

The only evidence I’ve seen of school in-progress was cycling through Freetown where I saw kids walking with backpacks and uniforms. I asked directly about schools yesterday:

“Yes, the school is over there,” Mustapha pointed to an empty building. “We had a teacher from the United States. She taught English.”

Like every day, all the kids were in the street with me - not in the classroom. When do kids actually go to school here? I’m on the road from 8am until 8pm most days, and it seems so are the kids ever since leaving Mauritania.

Today, I continued the same line of questioning with someone else.

“Is the school open,” I asked.

“Yes, it is over there,” as he pointed to the empty building next to us.

“Is today a holiday?”

“No”

“Do you know why the kids are not in school?”

“It’s right over there,” he repeats himself.

He didn’t seem to want to continue with my line of questioning.

The extra free time gives kids the opportunity to await my arrival. They yell from hidden corners, “Uncle! Hey Uncle!” Or “Hey Daddy!” This went on for miles… until Mid-day, where I got a new cat call for several miles: “Chinese!” And “Are you Chinese?” There must have been a mine nearby. Each region has its own call that stretches for long distances. I have some ideas, but I’ll allow the reader to infer who may have been here before me.

Amongst the children who call out, this seems to be the extent of their vocabulary in English. If I stop to ask them anything else, they don’t understand.

Today’s route was largely a mountain bike course. Whenever I saw a motorcycle crash, I’d offer to help right the bike - if their pride (or need) allowed it.

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Near the end of the day, I reached a remote military checkpoint. Usually they don’t demand my passport, but this one did.

“Are you going to appreciate me?” He asked?

I could see spite in both his eyes and his manner.

“I don’t understand.”

“Are you going to appreciate me, if you know what I mean,” he said in an angry tone.

He had been delaying me for a while now, and I realized, I was probably being asked for a bribe. I said, “Thank you. Nice to meet you, what is you name?” I put out my hand to shake his, and that seemed like enough appreciation for him to finally let me go.

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It grew dark, but was still hot and I was soaked with humid sweat. I’d been hoping to get to 1800 feet where it might be dryer.. but I’d lost so much time on the rugged terrain. On either side of the road, it was either dense jungle or houses. I stoped at a couple houses in the dark and tried to ask if I could sleep, but the people just stared back at me. They didn’t speak English, and this didn’t seem like it would be comfortable anyway (humidity and not being able to communicate). I carried on with my headlight - despite the remoteness and rugged surface, many motorcycles were still passing. Another military checkpoint, I was detained by Peter. He seemed angry and ordered me around loudly. I asked if I could camp at the post (I saw a flat area). I asked him to not yell at me. Another guy nearby apologized, but Peter’s manner hardly changed. He had a smarmy way about him.

“We will get to that. Give me your passport”.

He took me inside a hot shack with no lights. Putting his cellphone in his mouth to use as a flashlight, he read aloud (yes, with the phone in his mouth) every detail of my passport. He then had a discussion with the other guy in the room about each item. 1970? No, 1976. He too asked me to appreciate him. He repeatedly said he was going to put in an exit stamp, but then he would just sit there and stare with his hands folded. He showed me some yoga stickers that someone had given him as appreciation. This process of delay went on and on. Finally, he got out the stamp pad and punched the stamp into the ink pad slowly 84 times. Finally, “boom” I had the exit stamp in my passport 36 miles before the actual border.

Then he just sat there and stared. I began to leave, and he commanded me to follow him to his house. “My wife is not home, so I want you to sleep with me.” Given his behavior, this did not sound right. Also, with the heat and humidity, I wanted to camp. I followed him anyway, hoping to find a flat spot near his house for the tent. He ordered me to enter the house. I said I will camp outside. He said “No, you will sleep in here.” I said no. He seemed angry. I jumped on the bike and rode away over the detritus and ruts - into the darkness.

Hurrying down the road, it looked grim. But suddenly I saw a small patch of land that wasn’t thick jungle. Elevation 1550 feet. It was a horrible site - not far from the road where lots of motos and walkers were passing. Whenever the road got quiet, I’d turn on my light and pull up the sticker bushes to make a spot for the tent. Large ants crawled on my feet and legs.

If I kept my lights off, no one could see (I tested this by going to the road myself and shining the light). The air, thick with humidity reflected back the light making me impossible to see just 30 feet away.

Everything was wet; to breathe felt like drowning. I hyperventilated a couple times due to the moisture. Insects of all sorts joined me; I had to keep the tent door closed, meaning it was even steamier inside. Sleep came from exhaustion.