You re-join me in an overcast Athens and having been far too petrified to drive my enormous hire-car through the frenzied Greek capital, I was extremely grateful that I could finally abandon its narrow streets for the safety of wide, majestic highways for the first time.
Where is every seventeen-year-old Brits favourite destination for snorting copious amounts of cocaine from sun loungers? For balcony hopping in half-built concrete hotels until dawn? For losing their virginity after a foam party against a palm tree to a pink-eyed shot seller from Chelmsford? The answer: Greece.
Snorting cocaine and sipping on caipirinhas from Pablo Escobar's Colombian rooftop was what I imagined I’d be doing now. Instead, I find myself reverse-snorting phlegm and sipping on Horlicks from Dai Lampost's Kidwellian patio. No, I don't have any particular virus. My body is just bracing itself for a prolonged, frigid winter, trapped inside the reeking bowels of a small Welsh town.
January 23rd, 2015. A plane touches down at Honolulu International Airport bearing an anxious - and extremely inebriated - Welshman with a large flag and a foolhardy plan. That Welshman was Max Boyce (he planned to climb Mauna Kea bollock-naked whilst playing ‘I’m Going Home to Swansea Town’). Also on that plane was another Welshman, with a slightly more reasonable plan of visiting every country in the world. This, folks, is the naissance of Hit The Road Jack.
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.
