Bureh Beach Bliss and Visa Woes

 The last five days have been a bit of a whirlwind, spent lounging at a lovely hotel/resort on Bureh Beach, just an hour outside of Freetown, and stressing regarding visas. The mission was simple: secure Liberian and Nigerian visas so we could keep moving forward. And while Liz and Paul did the hard word and made the Liberian visa process seem smooth, the Nigerian visa situation has turned into its own unique adventure. But more on that later.

First, let’s talk about the beach. Bureh Beach was stunning, the kind of place where you can forget about dusty roads and ant-infested camps for a little while. The hotel was so nice (for overlanding standards) that I couldn’t resist upgrading to a room again—sheepishly, yes, but I had an excuse: my bag situation. After several weeks of overland chaos, my bag’s contents were in dire need of sorting—again. The upgrade was worth it. My bags are now organized, and I feel like a more functional human being. I could go into detail, but to be honest in another month I’ll have some new better layout, and the month after that, and that…

I also washed my clothes (in a bucket). I’ve got the process down quite well. Rinse, squeeze the brown water out, rinse, squeeze the brown water out, rinse, squeeze the brown water out. Eventually it becomes almost clear, then wash with soap. The goal isn’t to remove the dirt stains, quite the opposite, the goal is to obtain an overall consistent brown hue to the clothes, regardless of the colour it originally was! 

We also went to a chimpanzee rescue sanctuary and got so see the chimps a bit closer than we had a week or so ago. I went in with my new camera and telephoto lens, looking forward to getting some great shots, but halfway through realised what I sort of knew for awhile now. Photography is not a hobby that brings me joy anymore, and hasn’t been for awhile. The amount of effort spent getting those shots I desired was not worth it for the amount of joy I got. And I brought binoculars with me, and they provide just as much magnification as looking through the camera does. So with that, the camera goes into the duffle, and I’ll pull it out only when I know I really want photos of something. Wild shots of animals I guess. 

It’s actually a relief discovering this. It’s a lot of gear to carry around if it doesn’t bring you joy. The binoculars are smaller, lighter, and bring more joy.

Today, we’re heading to Tiwai Island for a night away from Nala (who, unfortunately, refuses to swim to the island). With my newly sorted gear, I’ve managed to pack everything I need into a smallish backpack: sleeping bag, air mattress, pillow, change of clothes, batteries, 2 liters of water, binoculars, and my trusty tent strapped to the side. It’s almost like I’m becoming efficient! The amount of space I need for 1 night versus 5 is just a bit more clothing.

Did I mention how insane the currency is in Sierra Leone? The maximum note size is 20 (or 20,000 in old values), which is about $1. This is probably $500 or so. (The really nice rooms were $100 a night, I didn’t go that big).

Now, back to the Nigerian visa saga. After waiting five days in Freetown, we still don’t have the visas. Here’s the thing about Nigeria: it’s one of the most notoriously corrupt countries in the world. Bribes are a way of life, and the system reflects it. Last month, of the 90 applications submitted through proper channels at the Nigerian embassy in Freetown, zero were approved. Zero.

The company we used for the Liberian visas also applied for the Nigerian visas on our behalf—without consulting us—and now we’re stuck waiting for the official rejection. Until we’re rejected, we can’t bypass the process and try in another country.

Our last-ditch option for the Nigerian visa is in Benin, where the system gets a little creative. We can become “residents” of Benin, which apparently makes it much easier to get a Nigerian visa. Of course, with fees, bribes, and other expenses, the total cost will likely be around $450 per visa. Not exactly cheap, but it is the last resort.

For now, though, it’s time to enjoy Tiwai Island. The Nigerian visa drama can wait until tomorrow—or at least until the next border crossing.

Palm Trees, Police, and Problematic Ants

Our first night in Sierra Leone, we hit the jackpot—a glorious bush camp tucked away beside a wide, slow-moving river, surrounded by palm trees. It was the kind of spot overland dreams are made of: soft dirt and sand for pitching tents, plenty of space, and a perfect view of the water. If it weren’t for the ants (we’ll get to them), I’d say it was the perfect camp.

Our armed Sierra Leonean police escort added a bit of extra flair to the experience. They were visibly baffled by our decision to camp in the middle of nowhere instead of staying in one of the many hotels they kept insisting were nearby. “Why sleep outside? Locals are here! Hotels exist!” they asked, with what I assume was a mix of genuine concern and confusion at our apparent madness.

Paul patiently explained the concept of overlanding, and while the idea finally started to click, the police were adamant we needed protection. They stationed one officer with an assault rifle and another armed with a beanbag gun for crowd control(!!). At one point, they tried to say we needed four guards, but Paul managed to talk them down to the two officers we already had, he pointed out in Nigeria we didn’t need any.

To their credit, the police were respectful, professional, and genuinely concerned for our safety. We invited them to join us by the campfire, fed them, and they shared stories late into the evening. They seemed to enjoy the novelty of the experience—though they probably still think we’re a little nuts.

And then, the ants happened. Oh, the ants.

One poor person had the misfortune of discovering, around 4 a.m., that his tent was now directly in the middle of a bustling ant superhighway. And these weren’t your run-of-the-mill tiny picnic ants you may know. No, these were big ants—nearly an inch long—and they were not interested in sharing the space peacefully. They marched over, under, and straight through the inside of his tent, leaving him scrambling to evacuate.

As for me, I learned firsthand just how much these ants love biting when I accidentally stepped into a massive nest. Picture a living, moving carpet of ants, at least two meters wide, covering the ground. I can confirm they bite hard and with purpose. Not an experience I’ll forget anytime soon.

Our unlucky 4am camper had to strip down, de-ant himself, and haul everything out of his tent to wait for the ants to clear out. The police even helped him wipe down his tent and hang his gear, proving that armed escorts aren’t just for protection—they’re also surprisingly good at pest control.

Despite the ant drama, the camp was fantastic, and everyone still had a good time (well, except maybe for our ant-plagued friend). Today, we’re packing up and heading to Bureh Beach to find somewhere to stay. Here’s hoping for fewer ants and more relaxation by the sea!

Detours, Escorts, and Industry Drama

 Last night’s bush camp was a bit of a throwback. We ended up at the same power line access road we camped at the night before. It’s hard to describe it poetically, as it’s decidedly not scenic or glamorous, but overlanding isn’t always sunsets and riverside camps. Sometimes it’s just a dirt and bush patch under a buzzing power line and a shrug of, “Eh, it’ll do.” We take the good with the bad, and this was squarely in the “it’ll do” category.

Today, things got interesting. We set out bright and early for the Sierra Leone border, only to be hit with a wave of updates, each more surprising than the last. First, we heard that our plan to stay in a YMCA in Freetown had fallen through. Instead, we’ll be bush camping outside the city and commuting in tomorrow. It’s not ideal, but we’re used to rolling with the punches by now. (By the time I’m readying this post it’s changed again, we are heading to Bureh beach instead of Freetown, and will commute from there!)

The next curveball came courtesy of Sierra Leone itself. It turns out they’re not big fans of right-hand drive vehicles like Nala (she’s from the UK, after all). Their solution? A police escort to make sure we’re on the correct side of the road, as if Paul might suddenly decide to swap lanes just for fun. While it limits our flexibility, the silver lining is that we now have a built-in VIP convoy experience. The police seem more concerned about our road skills than the drivers around us, which is… well, charming, in its own way.

But the real bombshell came later: Madventures—a competitor company—has bought part of Oasis. This could mean big changes for how trips like ours operate, and Paul and Liz, our fearless leaders, are understandably frustrated and concerned by the changes. They’re both passionate about the Oasis style of travel, and it sounds like they’re working hard to keep that spirit alive.

It’s hard not to feel a little uneasy, especially since we’ve already had a less-than-stellar impression of Madadventures. Early on, we crossed paths with their truck and we helped some of their travelers who had been left stranded by Madaventures to sort out their own visas. It wasn’t exactly a glowing endorsement of their operation. Seeing Oasis potentially absorbed into that doesn’t sit well, but for now, nothing’s certain.

Whatever happens, it’s just another chapter in the unpredictable book of overlanding. We’ll adapt, adjust, and keep moving forward. After all, overlanding isn’t about perfection—it’s about embracing the chaos, dirt, and occasional drama that come with the adventure.

Conakry, Guinea

Today’s expedition was into Conakry, the capital of Guinea, to obtain our CDI visas. The journey should have been 40 minutes but took a leisurely 3 hours through their legendary chaotic traffic.

Conakry is less of a city and more of a living organism—a sprawling, chaotic beast perched precariously on a peninsula jutting into the Atlantic Ocean. It’s a place where urban planning seems to have been scribbled on a napkin during a power outage and then promptly abandoned when the napkin blew away. The streets are a kaleidoscope of potholes, honking taxis, and street vendors selling everything from mangoes to mobile phone credit, all set to the rhythmic background of car horns, construction, and street music.

The skyline is a patchwork of gleaming new towers that look like they’ve accidentally wandered in from another dimension, nestled alongside buildings that have clearly given up any pretense of structural integrity. The markets are vibrant, crowded labyrinths where you can buy fresh fish one moment and accidentally adopt a chicken the next.

In the end as we individually and small groups explored this chaos Liz and Paul set off to the embassy and succeeded in obtaining our visas!

CDI, here we come — but first, Sierra Leon

The (Car) Horn of Africa

 

In Africa, car horns have a whole different vibe. Forget London or Auckland, where honking basically translates to, “Get out of my way, you absolute muppet!” Here, a horn is less of a scolding and more of a social butterfly.

Honk! “Hello there!”

Honk! “How’s life treating you?”

Honk! “You’re looking fabulous today!”

Honk! “Your truck has excellent tire pressure!”

It’s like every car is auditioning for a role in The Sound of Music, but instead of singing, they’re chatting up everyone they pass.

Waterfalls and Luxury Denied

 Another day, another waterfall—but what a day it’s been! We started off from the hotel campground at our usual 7 a.m. breakfast and 8 a.m. departure. (Let’s be honest, though—this group is always a bit ahead of schedule. Breakfast is now basically a 6:45 affair, with everyone pretending it’s still 7.)

I’m proud to say I’ve perfected the art of the rapid pack-up. My current record is 20 minutes flat: 7 minutes to wake up and pack my gear, 13 minutes to dismantle the tent. Efficiency, thy name is overlanding.

The plan for today was simple: hit the road, aim for a stunning waterfall, and camp there. But, as is often the case, the universe decided to toss in a plot twist. The roads, which Paul remembered were glorified goat tracks, were unexpectedly smoother. Great news for Paul’s left leg and Nala’s suspension, but it meant we arrived at the waterfall way ahead of schedule.

The catch? The idyllic camping spot we’d envisioned and Paul remembered from his last time, is now the site of a luxury resort under construction. We could still visit the waterfall (and thank goodness for that!), but camping there was a no-go unless we wanted to pitch our tents in gravel pits and mud. So, with a bittersweet farewell to our dream spot, we set off to find a bush camp that’s less hard hats required. (Though TIA — it’s more like safety jandals required).

As for the waterfall itself? Absolute magic. I took a shower right there under the rushing water, and it was every bit as glorious as you’d imagine. The water wasn’t warm by any means, but it wasn’t the kind of ice-cold that makes you rethink your life choices. It was the perfect blend of refreshing and revitalizing. A few minutes there, and all the dust, sweat, and grime of the road melted away.

Tomorrow, it’s off to Conakry for a bit of bureaucratic fun—visa hunting for the next leg of the journey. But tonight? We’ll find our little patch of wilderness, set up camp, and fall asleep under the stars, dreaming of waterfalls and the promise of more adventures to come.

River at last

 It finally happened. Yesterday, we setup camp at a river—a real river, complete with a small waterfall that looked like something out of a picture. It was everything I’d been hoping for: refreshing, beautiful, and just wild enough to feel like a reward for all the rough roads we’ve endured.

Even Nala got in on the action. She parked herself right by the water’s edge, precariously perched on rocks like she, too, needed a break. I think she just wanted to dip her toes in after all the kilometers she’s put in. (Honestly, if trucks could sigh with relief, Nala would’ve let out a long one.)

The best part of the day? A late departure this morning—12:30pm! Luxury! It gave us all time to do some much-needed washing and drying. I managed to wash nearly all my clothes, which is an accomplishment I’m embarrassingly proud of. My tent also got a much-needed airing out, though I’m not sure “fresh air” can defeat weeks of overland funk.

Of course, not all victories are complete. Two pieces of clothing will need a second round of washing before they’re wearable. It’s not stains; it’s the smell. At this point, though, I’ve given up on “clean” clothes entirely. The new standard is simply unsmelly. Every item I own, except for my sacred “embassy clothes,” is now some level of unrecoverably dirty. And I’ve made peace with it.

I am in this for the long haul, after all. By the end of this trip, I’m certain my wardrobe will just consist of various shades of dust and dirt, with a subtle eau de overland musk. My entire wardrobe will be brown by then, but hey, at least I won’t have to decide what to wear anymore.

Tonight, we’re camping in the grounds of a hotel. It’s quite pleasant, actually—plenty of space to spread out the tents, no rocks poking through the floor, and a general sense of calm. A perfect end to a day that started with a river and ended with a little slice of comfort. Here’s hoping for more days like this, they may not restore my clothes — but they do my soul