A few weeks ago, I came across the blog of a compatriot called Amy, who runs Wandering Everywhere. She was diagnosed with Crohn’s disease in 2014, an incurable and lifelong illness that causes the inflammation of the digestive system. This manifests itself in a many number of symptoms which could have discouraged her from travelling altogether. Instead, she's doing the exact opposite.
Most Satisfied Street Dogs? Most Edible Jollof Rice? Most Corrupt Officials? These are the Olympic medals that no one asked for, but I will hand them out anyway. Welcome to the first, and only, West African Olympics! Having completed a three-month backpack through this magnificent and unique region, I deem myself eligible to conduct the most meaningless sporting event since the Mauritanian Camel Wrestling Championships of 2015 (it’s a real sport).
Earlier this week, I was delayed in Dakar, after my plane from the mainland decided to take the week off. Now, in the final four days of my voyage, I must endure the most stomach-churning of ferry crossings one could possibly imagine; to some of West Africa’s remotest, and yet most active, isles.
Last week, I clandestinely crept aboard an iron ore train with its destination deep inside the vacuous heart of the great desert. This week, which I have controversially split into two posts, will be my last - as I come full circle with a return to my very first West African metropolis: Dakar.
Last week, I was forced to avoid the volatile hinterlands of the Sahel, soaring from dusty capital to dusty capital in search of refuge. This week, I took a ride on the most uncomfortable, unpunctual and unreachable train in the world (excluding the Arriva Trains Wales service to Pembroke Dock).
Last week, I encountered frolicking hippos and gambolling footballers as I left the Atlantic Coast for the first time - entering the much-maligned desert region of the Sahel. This week, I am forced to fly, as I hop from no-go zones to no-no-go zones, with the no-est of them all on the horizon.
Last week, I visited floating villages and Lagosian art galleries, as well as having my nuts gnawed by some hungry simians. This week, I leave the Atlantic Coast for the first time as I venture north towards a vastly different climate, culture and cattle. Welcome to the Sahel.
Last week, I convalesced with a giant tortoise named Togo before conversing with an enormous baboon named Benin (one of those is untrue). This week, I reached the easternmost point of my voyage, as I arrived in ‘Africa’s capital’ and largest metropolis: Lagos.
Last week, I spluttered and stuttered along the streets of Accra before hearing of the horrors of life inside the slave forts on Ghana’s Gold Coast. This week, I amble further along the shores of the Atlantic, catching crabs on some of West Africa’s finest beaches.
Last week, I completed the first leg of my trip around West Africa by arriving in Accra in some style - on a lime green double-decker with fully functioning fans and footrests (and with a distinct lack of raucous poultry on board). This week, my race was well and truly run…
