Monthly Archives: August 2017

The Pre/Post Saharan Retreat

A million and one things have happened since last, but this week’s post is not about that. Nor anything else really. Because after the past months mad voyaging through West Africa I’m all of a sudden finding myself on… holiday? You know. The kind with white fluffy towels and naps in between meals. Last in line in the constant string of unexpected events that currently constitute my life was a few well timed coincidences that finally led me here.

To Gambia.

And to the hotel room of fellow adventure cyclists Lina and Pelle – the Swedish power couple that one year ago decided to take the plunge and go for their dream. To head out and explore the world on two wheels, simply to see what path life would lead them on. As it would turn out – right here, right now – that path was bound to cross mine.

Lina and Pelle are recooperating after having forced through the Sahara. I’m getting ready to take it on. Turning this empty Gambian off season hotel into a full on Swedish post/pre Saharan retreat centre. Hotel terraces are turned into bike workshops and given the amount of snacks and food that are constantly carried up to out room it’s only a matter of time before we’ll become suspects for running some sort of human trafficking business up here.

Swapping maps, currencies and waypoints for the road ahead are obviously great things. Sharing thoughts and reflections on life on the road with people who actaully know your experiences though – is priceless. Add massive quantites of food, a comfy (and clean!) hotel room and daily swims in the warm ocean to it, and the touring holiday-from-the-holiday homerun is a fact.

These past few days have been absolute bliss and to simply call them well needed would be a terrible understatement. Tomorrow I’m heading back to reality, topped up with energy and inspiration and ready to open this brand new chapter. It’s time to point my nose north and take on my Saharan leg.

Headwind and heat are just words. As per usual I know I don’t know what’s waiting. Good thing though is that until I do – Lina and Pelle’s last couple of videos from Mauritania will give us all a small glimpse.

Make sure to check out these lovely loonies’ journey towards South Africa. As long as Lina can keep her fingers out of their drone (…yes) I’m absolutely convinced it will be an epic one. Their blog and some amazing photography is waiting for you on www.velovelo.se.

Alright! That’s it for now. It’s high time for 2nd breakfast.

Until next time,

Fredrika

By |August 27th, 2017|Africa, Travel Logs|

First in Line is Life

‘I can’t wait for getting to actually sit down for the next post. With all that it is and isn’t – Guinea has been and still is one of the single biggest experiences of my life, and I so want to share some of it with you. All goes well and that one will be written – with time – outside the country borders and with both health and bike intact enough. Keep your eyes open next Sunday :-)’

These were the very words I left you with last week. And as that post’s ‘Next Sunday’ is this one’s today, let’s see where we’re at.

Yes. I made (in time!) out of the Guinean country borders. Body and bike have surely seen better days, but I would definitely say they both make the ‘intact enough’ cut. Guinea being an experience beyond my wildest dreams – even truer now than when those words were written. And the desperate urge to share it with you is too.

Frustratingly enough though, that I-just-don’t-have-the-time-so-we’ll-talk-about-all-this-next-time is what I’ll greet and leave you with today as well.

It literally makes me pull my hair. But is in all honesty the ‘problem’ (dilemma might be the word?) of my dreams. Day by day I’m allowing myself to sink deeper and deeper into the quicksand that is this experience. Ankle, became knee, became hip and shoulder deep. Even if I wanted to I’d way be too late to get out now.

Luckily – not a grain of me does.

I am however slowly starting to feel like this beaten up pressure cooker about to blow to pieces. Which is probably the reason to why I keep comforting myself with that soon I’ll actually have/take the time to sit down, take that deep breath and let some of the million thoughts, impressions and memories take physical shape, even if only in the form of digital words on someone’s screen.

Writing this it’s early morning in Senegal. Yesterday I finally got the rest day that kept my spirit up for the past 2 weeks. Next to me now my panniers are already packed and I’m riding again today. The city of Tambacounda will become the village of Koussanar. Not far at all – but I literally can’t get there fast enough.

I’ve had people wait for me before. But this time is different. This time I’m actually going to sit down eye to eye with some of them. The very people this is all about. Not women and girls like them. Waiting for me today – in the Senegalese village of Koussanar – are actual human beings leading dignified lives thanks to the work of ActionAid and the fundraiser that is this bike ride. Or in better words, the fundraiser that makes this thing something a whole lot more than a bike ride. Something real. And something important as life itself.

Above all else. The fundraiser – and today, the women – that make a millionth blog post about someone riding a bicycle seem like something that not only can wait. Not even should wait. But something that absolutely have to wait.

And like I wrote in an Instagram post yesterday: If not before – I guess I’ll just sit down to tell my grandchildren about it.

Let’s all agree on something, should we?

Life always comes first.

Now get off your screen and live yours.

Until next time,

Fredrika

By |August 20th, 2017|Africa, Travel Logs|

Shut Up & Ride

Had this been any other time this would be me shamelessly whining my way through this text, start to finish. Or to be more accurate – that would have been the case if I was writing this from any other place.

In short the past who knows how many days of this ride have been this way too long, low intensity slapstick theatre show without an audience. Plot? Human girl and steel bicycle slowly falling apart, piece by piece until all that’s left is a lone bike bell lying next to a pair of muddy shoes with no one in them.

However. This is not any other time, nor any other place. I’m writing this now – in Guinea.

Finding itself as lucky number 183 out of the 188 countries in UN’s Human Development Index I assume it goes without saying that life in Guinea is taking place in what can only be described as a different universe than the one the vast majority of you reading this are in. And that western girls’ front hub mechanicals and black toenails won’t be topping the list of issues anytime soon.

The past week I’ve made it halfway through a million curse words. Halfway through bisarre thoughts about bad luck. Occasionally even halfway through justifying feeling sorry for myself. However – there is one thing that that without exception have let me stop the madness before it’s had time to manifest itself in reality. And that has been riding a bicycle halfway through Guinea.

To give a little context I’m currently racing. A few weeks back an embassy employee in Accra messed up his stamps when issuing my visa, resulting in that I since have been pushing hard to not have the time bomb this man created blow up in my face. Even before entering the country I was tired. Writing this I’m exhausted. Even more so than I originally got ready for.

Then again. I’m not writing this any other time, or in any other place. This is now – and this is Guinea.

I’m not sure how to explain it. And in a way I realise that’s the whole point.

While I struggle to choose my words – no more than 40% of Guinean adults have been taught to read or write at all.

My back tyre ripped open in a downhill and had me drag Mr. Bike into the town of Kissidougou where I could finally find a $5 replacement in the local market. The new tyre sucks. The old one I have left still leaves me with the fanciest setup in the country.

I’ve drowned my bike computer. Lost my gloves. Rolled over my earphones and killed a gazillion pixels on my laptop. Not only have I lost stuff more expensive than what most here would even dream of. My biggest issue with doing so is being in a place where I can’t immediately replace them with new ones.

For a few weeks I can’t afford to take rest days from my made up for-fun-game on two wheels – because I don’t want to end up bribing border guards to continue playing. The men and women I passed today wouldn’t even play with the idea of ‘rest days’ from their rice fields – because they need to eat.

I got a cold. Guinea got Ebola.

The cold have had me loose my voice. Unable to speak I look around me – and meet the eyes of women born into life in a society where they never got one to begin with.

And with an unbelievable 97% (UN report from 2016) of those women being victims of female genital mutilation I’m too embarrassed to even spell out saddle sores here.

We could go on and on, but I think you get the idea.

I can’t wait for getting to actually sit down for the next post. With all that it is and isn’t – Guinea has been and still is one of the single biggest experiences of my life, and I so want to share some of it with you. All goes well and that one will be written – with time – outside the country borders and with both health and bike intact enough. Keep your eyes open next Sunday :-)

That has to be it for now. I need to be out by Thursday, and it’s high time to give these legs another beating.

We’ll speak soon.

Until next time,

Fredrika

By |August 13th, 2017|Africa, Travel Logs|

Fairytale Frustrations

‘C’est tres tres difficile.’

I looked into Pascals eyes for a while longer than what I think he was comfortable with. As if they miraculously would be able to tell me something more than what he could do with those way too few common words we used to communicate. I let my fingers dig into the bowl of attiéké that was resting on the table between us, formed some of the couscous like cereal into a ball and pressed it hard towards the palm of my hand. I took a deep breath and exhaled.

‘Oui… Tres difficile.’

During this bike ride I spent better part of a full year with hands and feet communication. With life being one big game of charades. A game that one evening taught me to hand milk tibetan yaks and the next let me fall in love with someone over a bottle of wine and a dictionary. One proving that human connection passes way beyond the spoken word and one that I remember as the best thing I’ve ever gotten to experience.

I can no longer find that feeling for the life of me. Sitting on the plastic stool opposite the Ivorian policeman that had invited me to his home for the night, I didn’t even know where to turn with the frustration tha was slowly drowning me from the inside. Our communication wasn’t even wordless. The words were few, of course. But with my ‘peu un peu de francais’ and his ‘small small english’ we were still speaking.

Speaking. But saying nothing.

On the 29th of March 2011 at least 800 people were killed in the Duekoue massacre. Of course even more were injured. And every single person in the city lost someone that day. On the 29th of March 2011 Pascal was on duty. And has since not only seen, but very much been part of his town and country attempting to rise back on its feet after the war. Yet. After spending that half a sentence on the topic we moved onto agreeing on that the grilled fish we were sharing was delicious.

Finally letting go of our eye contact I let my gaze continue out on the bustling street by which we were sitting. Thursday evening, the rain was holding up and everyone seemed to be out and about tonight. Women were lined up behind their food stalls, each with even bigger buckets of rice or attiéké than the next. Groups of children were running pass, playing games I’m not sure I’ll ever understand. And as always, men of all ages were zooming back and forth on their motorbikes. Always in a rush to go nowhere in particular. The vibrating base from the music being played somewhere nearby was filling the air, right on beat with the pulsating heart of the town.

I tried – and failed – to understand. That day, hundreds and hundreds of people were shot dead and left to rot on the very street we were on. This evening. What was to be found here wasn’t only life. It was everyday life.

Thinking about it, this is basically all I’ve been doing during my time in Cote d’Ivoire. Trying – and failing – to understand. Understanding the magic of this place. Or in better words – the magic of it’s people. To understand the strength, trust and faith required to have a new everyday life take form from the ruins of an old one.

Depending on their age, the children greeting me with their waves, laughs and never ending smiles have grown up in one or even two brutal civil wars. Yet – just like their older genereations – manage to be some of the friendliest and most joyus, graceful and gentle people walking this Earth.

In one way or another, I’ve found myself hosted by people in every single one of the 35 or so countries Mr. Bike and I have been rolling through. In Cote d’ivoire though, I generally wasn’t hosted by people. I was hosted by villages. Experiences more humbling than I would have words for even in my own language.

The purity in getting to end a long day bent over a bucket shower that someone helped to pull up from their well. The serenity in being invited to breathe in the sense of community not even imaginable in my part of the world. The comedy in watching the always massive groups of children watch me. And the rewards in thanking every single one of them for the song and dance performance they put on for their guest outside the main hut.

The children. I try – and fail – to understand what will actually happen to them. I try and fail to understand how their genuine smiles and endless fires burning within them would or could ever undo any of what they have in their past and don’t have in their future. To understand what actually needs to be done to help. And to deal with the guilt of letting those western ‘privilage isn’t everything’ excuses justify not doing that.  

Above all, I try and fail to handle the shame in knowing that in a few month or even weeks time, these children will be nothing but a fading memory amongst others.

Pascal clearing his throat interrupted my thoughts, and the burning tears behind my eyelids disappeared the moment my eyes once again met his. He didn’t say anything at first. This time not because he couldn’t, but because he really didn’t need to. I know he knew mine, simply because he was sharing my frustration.

He took a small zip of water. It had been hours since we’d emptied our vocabularies in our two common languages and he didn’t even bother trying to combine his English words into a new sentence. Instead he asked me again.

‘You like Cote d’Ivoire?’

I didn’t stop the tears this time. Pascal didn’t break eye contact.

I also cleared my throat.

‘Oui. J’aime Cote d’Ivoire. I like it very very much.’

Until next time,

Fredrika

By |August 6th, 2017|Africa, Travel Logs|