Yesterday was the kind of day that makes you question both your sanity and your commitment to adventure. We rolled into a national park campsite that felt downright fancy—two functioning toilets! Luxury, I tell you. It was like finding a five-star resort.
The local kids were fantastic, speaking the local language Creole, and Portuguese, and they were kind enough to humour us as we butchered their language in our attempts to learn a few words. They even laughed at our terrible pronunciation, which I’m choosing to interpret as encouragement.
Then came this morning. Oh, this morning. At 5 a.m., when the world should be peacefully sleeping, our “minibus” arrived to take us into the jungle to see chimpanzees. Except it wasn’t a minibus. It was an old ambulance. Yes, an ambulance. Complete with stretcher, ancient seating, and a rear door that refused to stay shut—because what’s life without a little drama? The vehicle’s age combined with the driver’s enthusiasm for speed made it clear that we weren’t just passengers; we were participants in a live-action theme park ride called “Survive the Jungle Road.”
After what felt like an eternity of white-knuckle bracing, we arrived at the trailhead, grateful to still be in one piece. We hiked a short way into the jungle, where we stood silently for 40 minutes waiting for the chimpanzees to wake up. Turns out, chimps don’t care about your schedule. But when they finally emerged, it was worth the wait. They were a bit far off, but thanks to binoculars and my long camera lens, I managed to see them reasonably well. The photos might be blurry, but let’s call it artistic wildlife photography.
The ambulance ride back to camp was just as chaotic as the ride out. If anything, the driver seemed even more inspired, as if he had something to prove. By the time we got back, breakfast felt like a reward for surviving. Afterward, we hit the road again, plunging into another long day of driving through the red-dust landscape of Guinea-Bissau.
The language situation here is an ongoing comedy of confused looks. Portuguese is the official language, but Creole, French, and a smattering of English are in the mix too. Combine that with my shaky Spanish and smattering of French words, and every conversation becomes a linguistic soup. I’ve officially reached the point where I don’t even know what language I’m attempting to speak anymore. It’s just a chaotic blend of whatever words pop into my head, usually met with blank stares. When buying things locals have calculators and just type in the price.
Tomorrow, we head further into Guinea. Who knows what adventures—or vehicles—await?
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