The so-called transport park in Kailahun is a spot on the road, with drivers and other people waiting under a tree. If you didn’t know, you wouldn’t know it’s a place to get transport. So maybe it was for the better that I asked a moto to take me there. That or I’m becoming more African (not walking anywhere) or too old. It was less than a kilometre from the guesthouse and in the morning it is pleasant enough.
Anyway I was dropped under the tree and I was asked to sit. And wait. The transport men were eating a kind of porridge made of millet, no coffee in sight of any sort, not even tea. We waited. I guessed I was the only passenger.
On the border I was advised to come early because best chances of getting a car are in the morning, afternoon it’s only motos.
After some time one of the men asked me to sit in a car, it was a saloon nissan, and we’d go to a hospital and see if there are passengers there.
We drove maybe 200m and turned back then we drove 200m and turned back and we landed back under the tree. “It’s Sunday, there are no passengers. We’d better sit.” And where is the hospital?
But things started happening. There was a commotion coming from a water well behind the fence. People went there to witness what it was all about. A man I met under the tree yesterday – passing by, I had no idea it’s anything transport-related – introduced himself as Alhaji and asked for my phone number so can call me and we’ll be friends. An alternative to millet porridge appeared, in a form of rice and beans or rice and green gooey stuff. The old woman in charge of the kitchen didn’t speak English so I picked the beans. 3,000le, it wasn’t bad.
Then another man told me to move my bags to a bigger car, a sort of 4wd-looking nissan. I still had my bags in the saloon nissan in its trunk. Then my driver started saying things and another commotion ensued. Some men that looked like passengers started arriving. Some other cars started showing up. One man looking like a passenger jumped into one of the cars that pulled up and the car left.
Turns out the transport in Kailahun is a free-for-all affair – you go on a car that goes first. My driver started complaining that Sunday is a car day and these men sitting under the tree don’t allow him to collect passengers. Me, with my bags in small Nissan’s trunk, not wanting to cause problems, how will I ever know which car to be in? Oh the days of Guinean ticketmasters and transport syndicats where everything was so well organised. I could leave the car park and go away knowing that when the car is full I’d be called up and found.
Soon a land cruiser pulled up, with an NGO registration plate and the driver asked me if I wanna go to Kenema, which is the first large town out of Kailahun on a way to Bo and really the rest of the country. I said yes, he said he’d be waiting for me “in town” because the men here wouldn’t allow him to take me here.
He left. Then my driver told me to sit in the car and he drove me to the clocktower roundabout, 200m away, and there it was the land cruiser waiting for us. He asked if I can pay 50,000le + 10,000le, I agreed and we moved the bags. There were already other people in the car. I got the front seat and I was sitting there ALL BY MYSELF. And it looked like this: when they spotted a woman on a moto that looked like a passenger, they’d run after her and bring her back to the land cruiser. I overheard how they talked to the woman and she was paying 55,000le all the way to Bo! Now, me, raised on Guinean transport (i.e. high) prices, when I pointed it out to my driver, he said he felt sorry for the woman because she doesn’t have money. I said I, too, don’t have money and he laughed “you? don’t have money?” Oh well. I still had to pay the difference for Kenema-Bo stretch and while we were already in the car, the driver asked for 20,000le, I said 15,000le and he “didn’t have a problem about it”.
The first 30km or so were a bushroad and very pretty one. Giant trees surrounded us, hills graced the horizon, nice. Then asphalt showed up and what an asphalt. Wide road, with all lines properly marked, road signs abound, there were even the reflection markers on the ground and metal fences on road sides. It looked a bit surreal in this environment.
The beautiful road ended in Kenema which didn’t look like a nice town, traffic-choked and dusty. But I found ginger juice! Not as nice as the one in Guinea, weak in ginger but there is hope. I always thought ginger juice is a Francophone affair.
We quickly reached Bo, where I had to take moto (5,000le) to Omoja Guesthouse. Located in a quiet spot, I was shown first a room that looked like a suite, and it was 160,000le. When I pointed out I came there because I heard (iOverlander) there are 80,000le rooms, the man said yes, there are but we have a military “sport” this weekend and all are taken by soldiers. I can have another room for 100,000le. So I did.
Bo isn’t a very pretty town and possibly the reasons I stopped there for the night included the fact that finding transport afternoon is supposed to be difficult or that I wanted to avoid Freetown as I’d be staying there for a few days anyway or at least so I’d be able to say I was somewhere else than just the capital city.
I took moto towards city centre. There, a town busy as always, bustling traffic and a few diamond offices. We passed some diamond offices already in Kenema. They look like storage houses, possibly wholesale shops, they do not look like diamond offices. Yet the signs are clear and you’re guaranteed there will be a Muslim name on it.
I found a restaurant. Like, a real restaurant, called Rufi’s. With table cloths on the tables, A MENU, pizzas & hamburgers but also some local dishes, almost 10 times more expensive than their street versions. 25,000le for a groundnut sauce isn’t too bad, I took a plate, it was tasty. I walked up a bit and there was a bar. Like, a real bar, with seats, tables and plenty of TV screens showing soccer. It’s called Black & White. I had a Guinness, 10k.
I took moto back to the guesthouse. On the dirt road leading up to the lodge there is a small market, which looked quite a picturesque. I took a general view picture of the market. As I walked on, a woman ran out of the dark depths of a market stall shouting that I snapped without asking.
I waited over the worst heat but even the fan wasn’t much of a help. I lied on bed literally melting in my sweat.
As the evening approached I walked out and asked if there is a bar nearby. I was directed to a place called Obama.
The vast hall with huge speakers and huge TV screens, each showing a different football match wasn’t very full. There was a menu but I only took shawarma, it wasn’t tasty, and some Guinness bottles. I came back after dark.
In the guesthouse I lied down in a hammock, sipped Guinness, the night was quiet, cicadas cried and life didn’t feel like it could get any better.
Coming back to Maman 