Niger River Project

Several uncomfortable hours pass. On one side I’m being slowly squashed by my oversized fellow passenger; on the other, I’m fighting a desperate battle for limited shoulder room. This involves tactical wriggling to maximise the amount of space I have to lean back against the seat. Any weakness shown by your opponent, the slightest hint of a readjustment of position, must be leapt upon without mercy. In this game, there are no prizes for second place; it’s him or you.

After what seems an eon, we reach Kouriame, the border post with Mali. We all shuffle out of the taxi, into the hut that doubles as the Guinean border control. The formalities are swift, and we’re ushered through to the Malian side, where the next checkpoint is customs. The official here eyes up our huge canoe, no doubt sensing the opportunity for a bribe. He points at it, demanding it be taken down; grumbling, our moody driver obliges, hefting the big bag down off the roof of the taxi.

We try to explain what it is. “C’est un bateau, comme un petit pirogue,” we explain. Pirogues are the local style of canoe used by all the local fishermen.

A pirogue in a bag? The official looks perplexed and bored. We try to make him understand, but he loses interest, the possibility of a bribe probably seeming like too much hard work. He shuffles back to his seat in the shade and waves us on our way.

One more checkpoint, this time on the Malian side, and we’re through, into country number two of the trip. Nothing looks any different. The landscape is flat and scrubby, occasionally broken by solitary rock escarpments. The villages are identical to those in Guinea - clusters of round huts, with conical thatched roofs.

This is the beginning of the Sahel, that belt of semi arid land between the Sahara to the north and the more verdant rainforests of the tropics to the south. ‘Sahel’ quite literally means ’seashore’ - the sea in this case being the Sahara, that great ocean of sand that smothers much of northern Africa. We’re arriving at the tailend of the rainy season, so things are relatively green. But as we’ve already seen from the rapidly dropping level of the river, drier times are fast approaching and the locals are already busily burning back the fields they have just harvested in preparation for the lean months ahead.

It’s getting dark now, and all the passengers in the taxi have had enough judging by the sullen silence that has fallen. To make things worse, the good road we’ve had until now suddenly disappears, giving way to a dusty, bumpy track. The taxi’s weak headlights struggle to pierce the gloom and dust, forcing the driver to slow right down. Bamako seems like a long way off.

No, not a strange African dance, but Guinea’s second city - its Birmingham, I guess, though the local accent isn’t noticeably more annoying than elsewhere in the country.

This is our goal after Kouroussa, and the staging post for getting transport for Mali where we’re headed next. Like most places in Guinea, it’s very dillapidated and everything is coated in a fine patina of the pervasive red dust that makes Africa Africa. But the town has a bustling feel, and the people are friendly. More importantly, we manage to find somewhere to have our first cold beer for almost two weeks; fizzy, pishy lager never tasted so good…

Next morning we hire a boy and his hand-pushed cart to help get us and all our gear to the gare voiture, where we’ll find transport across the border. We’ve missed the first bush taxi of the day to Bamako, but are assured that another one will leave shortly, as soon as enough people arrive to fill the car up.

Four hours later, it’s clear not many people are going to Bamako today. The car (a knackered looking Peugeot) is almost full, but we’re one passenger short. Finally, after what seems an age, she arrives. And true to that African stereotype of the passenger you always end up squeezing yourself next to on public transport, she’s a whopper. What’s more, it’s me she’s going to be sitting next to - or rather, on - for the next few hours. This could get ugly.

In all the driver manages to cram 11 passengers in a car made comfortably to seat probably no more than 7. Dan’s wedged in the front with another guy, his big long legs somehow wrapped around the gearstick. I’m on the middle row of seats along with two normal sized men and Big Mumma, who’s sat half on me, half on the guy the other side of her. In keeping with her size, she spends much of the journey grazing on the contents of various bags of food she picks up along the way - nuts, oranges, bread, goat meat. Then there are four more wedged in the back row of seats - three adults and a small child. It’s going to be a long journey.

Soon we’re off. The Peugeot creaks and groans under the combined weight of passengers and their baggage slung on the roof. The road we follow to the border weaves along the Niger, crossing it once. It’s good to see the river again; we’re both missing it. And compared to the sardine-like way we’ve all been shoe-horned into this taxi, the discomforts of the river - the hard seats, the biting flies and threats from lurking hippos - seem like a holiday.

The expected rapids never materialise - or, at least, they don’t deliver. When we reach the section marked on the map, it’s obvious enough, and I’m sure when the river’s up it’s a different story. But with it so far down now, the so-called rapids are little more than short sections of choppy water. Shame, as we’d been looking forward to some fun.

Our penultimate night in the bush is dismal, a patch of scrub atop a muddy bank overgrown with thick bushes. We can’t even get into the river for a wash. Stinking we go to bed.

The next day we encounter the first signs of people we’ve seen for some time - a battered ferry taking cars, people, goats and cows from one side of the Niger to the other. The fishermen casting their nets from canoes stop and stare at us floating past. They’re agog, but still manage a “ca va” in true Guinean fashion.

We’re approaching Kouroussa now. Rather than get in late on in the day, we decide to camp a couple of hours out of town and make our grand entrance early the next day. We find a genuinely lovely camping spot above a sandy spit that provides excellent swimming (watch this space for exclusive underwater shots of Willis’s arse). As evening draws on, we watch as on the opposite bank several bush fires break out and set the evening sky alight with a bright glow.

We strike out for Kouroussa early. It takes longer than we expected to reach, but eventually two telecoms towers break the skyline, telling us civilisation is once more at hand. We round a corner and look for a place to stop. All along the river bank there are people, washing, playing, hanging out.

We opt for a stop where a group of young men are sheltering in the shade. The pungent tang on the air tells us they’re all stoned. This could be a mistake.

Nevertheless, stoned as they are they all set to and help us pack up Djoliba, an awkward task on the steep bank. One of them runs off to find us some transport to get us to the next big town, Kankan from where we hope to travel to Mali. We have the usual banter about where we’re from, which football team we support, do we know David Beckham etc etc.

The guy returns to tell us that because it’s Sunday the only way we’ll get to Kankan is by chartering a taxi. This is way more expensive than sharing transport, but we’re over a barrell. Unless we stay in Kouroussa until the next day,when buses will be running again, this is our only option - and to be honest, Kouroussa doesn’t look worth staying in, so we head off.

The group of young men help us up to the taxi. Laden down, Dan’ s unable to keep up with one who hops off with his camera bag. We struggle to catch up and do so just in the nick of time - as the chap is stuffing one of Dan’s cameras down his trousers. We foil his attempted theft, but it’s a close call - and another reason to get out of Kouroussa.

We leave the chimp sanctuary after two days. It’s a shame to leave, but having rested, washed and crossed the necessary palms with silver, we feel the pull of the bush once more.

The section ahead of us is possibly the wildest so far - the very heart of the Parc National du Haut Niger (National Park of the Upper Niger) as it’s known. This means, probably, more of everything - hippos, rapids and who knows what else.

We reckon it’s going to be another three days’ canoeing before we hit Kouroussa, where this stage of the journey will come to an end. On what I estimate to be the second of these days, there’s a large section marked “rapides” on my French map, the only specifically named section of whitewater on this part of the river. If we had problems with the unmarked rapids further upstream, what, I wonder, awaits us here? It’s a feeling of excitement tempered with trepidation.

To begin with, at least, the going is good. Before our eyes, the river seems to be vanishing, losing body and momentum as the dry season takes ahold. You can see it if you look at the rocks lining the river bank - a dark, wet line showing where the level of the river had been presumably only hours before. It’s quite incredible how quickly it’s dropping.

And it’s hotting up too. By late morning, the heat is so intense that attempting anything other than flpopping down on shady rock seems a feat.

The good news is our innards have stopped playing up. The bad news is that one physical discomfort has been replaced by another, in the form of swarming sand flies, as we think they are.

These little airborne nuisances tend to come out after about 3pm devouring ankles, legs and just about any other bit of exposed flesh. They’re smaller than mosquitos, but, if possible, more of an irrititation. Their bites draw blood, and leave your legs looking like they’re suffering a severe dose of acne. They also carry a nasty parasite beginning with L, whose name I can’t recall, but which can leave you with nast scarring. Still, it has a gestation period of up to 18 months, so no point worrying about that now.

Our camping spot on the first evening out of the chimp sanctuary is a beautiful one, a patch of flat bush above a long, smooth rock that juts out into the river. “It’s almost too good to be true,” I say to Dan.

“We might live to regret this,” he nodds.

Something we’ve learned about the bush is that being in most places thick and impenetrable, those bits that look inviting to human beings because they aren’t thick and impenentrable also look inviting to other of its inhabitants. It’s a lesson we’ll fully appreciate tonight.

The first sign that we might have picked a bad spot comes as it’s getting dark, when from the bush behind us a frantic screaming gets up. It’s an unmistakeable sound, one we’ve become more than used to over the passed couple of days: chimps.

This time, though, they’re not behind stout iron bars as they were only a day and about 15 miles ago at the sanctuary. This is the real deal, wild chimps that will rip you apart as soon as take a banana from you. And, from the sound of it, they’re only a few hundred metres away. Suddenly that suggestion of a path leading from the bush and through our (now not so lovely) campsite to the river takes on a new significance. Could it be the chimps’ favourite route down to the river for an evening drink?

We stoke the fire and turn in for the night, ears cocked. The chimps indulge in some more of their social shrieking, but soon they too settle down. I drift off.

The next thing I know, I awake to hear Dan extracting himself from the womb of his fancy cocoon hammock. He pads down to the river for pee. Half awake, I’m aware he’s gone for some time. I think I can here him cursing and slapping in the dark. What now?

Eventually he looms out of the night. “We’re in big trouble, boy,” he says. I’m bolt upright in bed. The boats gone! We didn’t secure it properly! It’s drifted downstream to God knows where!

“Ants. They’re everywhere - all over the rocks, around the tent, on me. Everywhere.

Is that all? “Well, there’s not much we can do about it now. Let’s deal with it in the morning,” I mumble from the security of the tent. I hope I don’t sound too unconcerned as Dan ouches and slaps his way back into the hammock and spends the next ten minutes picking off the ones that have hitched a ride on him back into the hammock.

Morning comes, and we greet the day warrily. At first, things don’t look too bad, but then it’s clear: there are ants everywhere, great lines of them, busy workers scurrying around while the mean soldiers ants look on, ready to sink their disproportionately sized mandibles into your flesh and not let go.

Then a shriek from the bush behind us reminds us of the other peril at hand; this morning the chimps sound even more worked up, and they certainly sound closer.

It all becomes too much. We break camp at speed before finding an ant-free patch of rock for our porridge. We’re just breathing a sigh of relief when an loud buzzing heralds the next assualt, this time from the air - a swarm of bees attracted by the sugary water in the bilges of the canoe, the result of sweet papers we’ve dropped there.

Slapping them away, we neck our porridge and throw the bags in the boat. The safest place is the middle of the Niger River where the only the thing that can get you are hippos. Ants? Hippos? I’ll plump for hippos any day. At least you can see them before they take a bite.

Since leaving her gluttenous, muddy banks, the river hasn’t been a visual presence in our lives, yet she has remained at the forefront of our minds.

The canoe trip was an endurance event which suited me fine. I’d been suffering with the usual third world gripes for a few days, so was itching to get away from the contaminated ‘arse paper’ money which we seemed to be handling by the truck load, and get out into nature.
The fact that I almost lopped off one of my fingers in the process, gave me a heightened awareness that we were a long, long way away from help. A&E and other services and amenities we all take for granted every day in the first world, but they’re a dream for the vast majority of people here.

The days of endless blue skies were punctuated with the piercing screach of the Ibis, a sound which for me will be forever East African. Each paddle stroke was the focus of our world: like the cadence of a peddle stroke, the revolutions propelled us forward; the sound of water being ripped as the stroke ended, changed with the slightest shift in the angle of the blade. Our world had shrunk, but all our senses were magnified.

There were no people. Anywhere. Not even cruising at 33,000 feet above our perspiring brows.

Our close encounters with the hippos were adrenaline filled. The fight or flight mechanism kicking in within a pounding heartbeat. The trumbone-esque booming calls leaving no doubt as to their latent power.

Their shyness made photographing them pretty impossible. After shooting the last set of rapids just outside Kouroussa, we took one by surprise and were literally a few metres away, but it dived instantly, sending out a sizable bow wave, leaving us scanning the murk intently for any trace.

We quickly realised that the river experience was enhanced a few key elements: flat ground and a couple of trees (for my hammock), easy access, firewood and lack of biting insects. From about 5pm we were on the look out for an outcrop of rocks, obvious visual features on google earth, where we had a good chance of finding all of the above.
However this was no guarantee, as the ‘ant incident’ testifies…

Ps. Uploading pictures at this time is proving difficult. Seems like this blog needs quite a recent edition of windows to do such an ‘advanced’ task. Something in which this ‘terminal’ (an apt description) is sadly lacking. In fact nine of the keys on this keyboard have been re-written in felt tip and the desk has a strangely satisfying ‘give’ like the end of a diving board…

Pictures as soon as, people.

On day five we reach, way ahead of schedule, our main stop off point in the bush. It’s a chimpanzee sanctuary started by a French woman, Estelle Raballand, to save chimps from illegal sale as pets and release them back into the wild. We make the camp by mid-morning, having successfully negotiated our way around five hippos straddling the river. The trick with them seems to be to be make sure they know you’re there. That way you’re less likely to alarm them and provoke an attack. That’s theory anyway; it’s unlikely to be one I’ll ever want to test out.

We hope our arrival at the camp will cause quite a stir. We’ve heard that working in the sanctuary are five white volunteers - all female. We’re sure that the sight of two white guys, unshaved and stinking, emerging out of the bush on a large green canoe will be a sight they won’t forget.

But when we arrive, the camp is like the Mari Celeste - there’s no-one around. A fire is burning, but there’s no other sign of life. After nosing around, we discover the problem: the pump that powers the camp’s water supply has broken, and without water the place can’t function. We couldn’t really have arrived at a worse time, but the five girls - a Belgian, two Americans, a German and a French vet - are very welcoming.

They show us around the chimp enclosures at feeding time, which is a complete riot. In all there are almost 50 chimps in the sanctuary, most of them rescued from the illegal trade in chimps as pets. The apes are held in a number of large enclosures based loosely on age, where the intention is they’ll form social groupings before being released back into the wild. The sanctuary hasn’t actually released any of its chimps yet, but next year it is planning to release a group - only the third sanctuary ever to have attempted such a feat.

I’ve never spent mcuh time around chimps before, but they’re amazing creatures. Most striking are their eyes, which hold you from the first second of your encounter and seem to look into your soul with a frightening intelligence. The next thing you notice about them is the incredible sense of strength they exude. In their social groupings, they’re constantly demonstrating to each other - screaming, shaking the bars of their enclosures, scrapping with one another. It’s all normal chimp behaviour, but to the untutored eye it seems violent and terrifying. I wouldn’t want to stumble across a group in the wild.

While we’re at the sanctuary, a problem arises - again it’s with paperwork. When we left Faranah, we deliberately didn’t seek permission to canoe through the bush - a designated national park - because we thought the authorities would try to stop us. We’d been told that although normally you need a permit, because Guinea has no tourists and no-one goes into the park anyway, there would be no-one to check our papers.

But it turns out an old fisherman at the camp, known only as ‘Malian’ because of where he comes from, also doubles as the park’s guard there. Where, he demands of us, are our papers? We bluster our way through it, saying we don’t have any. His French is non-existent, and neither of us speak Mandinko, the local tongue; in the end the conversation grinds to a halt and we think that’s the end of it.

But in the evening, two of the volunteers approach and say that Malian has just threatened to “arrest” us if we don’t show him papers. Arrest us? This old, wizzened fisherman? Surely not? The girls are adamant this is what he said (I wonder whether he meant he’d “stop” - “arrete” - us). Either way he’s threatened to seize our canoe if try to proceed.

The next day we have a chat with Malian, through a translator. “It’s for your own safety,” he says. “Between here and Kouroussa, there are many hippos and it’s very dangerous. Just recently a small boy died when a hippo tipped his canoe and he drowned.” We tell him we’ve already come across lots of hippos, and that we’ll take our chances.

“But you haven’t got the right papers,” he insists. We fish out the by now very tatty ordre de mission we used to get to the source, hoping this will be enough, but he doesn’t buy it. In the end, I’m sorry to say, we buy him; our safety it seems, is worth less to him than hard currency. A few Guinean Francs, and the river is ours again.

After our second day on the water, we get into a rhythm. The day begins at sunrise. We get up, make porridge (with real Scottish oats we’ve managed to find somewhere) and honey. We break camp, usually slapping away the ants that have sniffed us out in the night, load up Djoliba and head off.

Mornings are the best time for hard paddling - until about 11, when it really hots up. When it becomes unbearable we find a rock, check it for hippo tracks then cook up some couscous. This is followed by a nap until about 2, then we hit the river again. Afternoon paddling is usually painful, at least the hour or so before we pitch camp for the night.

The biggest problem we’re having is with our bottoms - both inner and outer. Our inner arses are suffering from something we think we picked up before the canoe trip, exacerbated, we suspect, by our drinking purified river water; the purification, it seems, isn’t working. After two days of this, we decide the only option is to make camp a little earlier each evening to give us time to boil up water for the next day. It’s a labourious process, as we only have two small pans, but better this than dystentry.

Our outer bottom problems are far less easy to remedy: after about two hours sitting in the canoe, usually in the afternoon, it suddenly becomes extremely painful and no position seems comfortable. Being a lean fellow, and virtually bottomless, Dan is suffering more than me. I’ve got a bit more natural padding so my pain threshold is higher, but even I succumb towards the end of the day. Dan resorts to putting the padded cycling gloves he’s brought to prevent blisters while paddling under each buttock to provide some much needed relief. It’s not perfect, but it’s better than nothing.

As we get into the groove, the miles begin to slip by. As each one passes, I get the feeling we’re really getting into the wilderness. All signs of humanity have completely vanished. Even the fishermen have given up. It’s just us, millions of little biting flies - worse than mosquitos - and more trees than you can, er, shake a stick at.

On day three we hit our first section of rapids, a line of rocks straddling the river. The water gushes through gaps in the rocks at an alarming rate; it’s time to test how Djoliba handles white water. I get out on to a large rock centre stream to assess the situation. Out of the corner of my eye I see a large shape slip into the water: our first croc!

The two most passable looking channels are in the middle and to the left. The entrance to the middle channel has a nasty bend around which the water is hurtling, straight into some large boulders. The left channel is straighter, but there’s some boiling white water that suggests concealed boulders. We opt for the centre.

We paddle back upstream to get a run up. Immediately the current sucks us in, twisting the boat and dragging it on to a submerged rock. We’re stuck, and what’s more the current has turned us so we’re facing the wrong way. We change the direction we’re both facing in our seats and rock the boat free. Again the current batters us, this time tipping Djoliba so she nearly capsizes. She doesn’t but I’m thrown out, into the foam.

“Stay on your feet, stay on your feet,” yells Dan. But the water’s only waist deep and in spite of the current I have no problem standing. I hold the canoe steady so I can jump back in. Then the current takes us again, and I’m paddling like mad to get us away from the rocks. We miss them by a hair’s breadth - but then we’re through, riding the waves and whooping as Djoliba plunges over the rapids like a prize showjumper. She handles like a bus, but as long as you point her and shoot, it seems she’ll get you through.

We encounter more rapids that day; the river is getting more lively. On day four I notice on the map there’s a section marked that looks like it could herald some more fun. Neither of us can wait; anything to break the monotony of endless flat-water paddling.

Towards the end of day four we approach the expected section. The river splits. To the left it meanders around a long hairpin bend; to the right it looks - and judging by the roar, sounds - a lot more interesting. We head right.

It’s here, approaching the rapids, that we spot our first pod of bathing hippos - three of them wallowing languidly in the shallows to our left, idle and bloated. We backpaddle frantically, trying to put some distance between them and us. They don’t seem too bothered by us, but I feel nervous at seeing them in the open for the first time. Dan tries to fire off some shots on his camera, but one of them starts yawning repeatedly, a sign that they feel threatened by our presence. We paddle on.

The rapids are fun. They’re faster flowing but a lot shallower than previous sections - more like a Welsh mountain stream. In fact they’re so shallow that, half way down, we have to get out and walk the heavily loaded Djoliba down. This is a precarious business, as the rocks are slippery and the current fast, but somehow Dan manages to keep snapping away throughout on his digi camera. Anything for the record…

Our first day on the river is bizarre. Suddenly there are no people. It’s a crazy thing about Africa, that even when you think you’re in the middle of nowhere, someone pops up - out herding, collecting water or just sitting under a tree. But almost as soon as we push off from the bank and head out of Faranah, we’re on our own. A few fishermen in pirogues pass, but I can’t help the feeling we’re heading into somewhere really wild.

The fist afternoon passes without event. From my steering position at the back of Djoliba, I follow our course on the map and using the GPS. It’s clear from the outset, from the way the river meanders back and forth, left to right, that progress is going to be slow. We’ll need to be patient, get into a ryhthym and, quite literally, go with the flow.

At about five we decide to find somewhere to camp. We’re only about 8km as the crow flies from where we started a few hours before, but with wiggles, we’ve probably done twice that.

We find a bit of bank where the vegetation isn’t so thick where we can bring the canoe in. We have to scramble up a steep muddy bank, but at the top it’s flat and looks good for camping. We set to with the machettes and clear a space. Dan gets his hammock up, while I join the ants and other delightful creatures on the ground in a tent.

The evening is peaceful, and we soon have a good fire going. The wood here is the driest I’ve ever come across. Soon the midges are biting so we cover up and slap on the repellent. We’re going to have to get used to this now.

All sems tranquil and convivial - until disaster strikes. Now in full bush mode, Dan decides to get stuck into splitting some wood for the fire with his machette. I’m watching him, thinking, that looks dangerous, when, wham! in front of my eyes it’s happened: he’s missed the log and embeded the heavy cutting edge of the blade in his finger. Instantly both he and the jungle floor look like something from the HMS Victory’s operating table - blood everywhere. He’s hit an artery.

We get a hanky round his finger and stem some of the bleeding, but it’s serious. We don’t say it but we both know this could mean curtains for our trip through the bush.

We rinse the wound, staunch the bleeding again, then slap on some steri-strips, which seem to do the trick. We’ve both brough hipflasks out for just certain occasions (emergencies or celebrations); as soon as Dan’s patched up, we fall on them with gusto, both shaking and laughing at once. For now, at least, we seem to have got away with it.

Day two passes much as day one did. The river lazes its way along, occasionally broken by patches of hardy vegetation growing straight out of the centre of the stream. These we avoid, lest they conceal crafty strainers under the surface, that can snag a craft and tip it.

Fortunately Dan’s injury doesn’t sem to be too much of a handicap - good news, as there’s no room for slackers on HMS Djoliba! We keep a careful eye on it, but the steri strips seem to be holding - as is my lashing, I’m glad to see. Maybe I’ve found my niche.

At lunch we have our first hippo experience. Dan’s just cooked up some couscous on a nice shady rock next to a confluence between the Niger and one of its many tributaries. Suddenly there’s a loud bellow and a snort from the vegetation directly opposite us - maybe 50 metres away. The bushes shudder and bend. We can’t see anything, but there’s no doubt what it is.

We freeze, spoonfuls of couscous and chilli hovering between bowl and mouth. Suddenly my appetite has been replaced by a block of ice. We look around, wondering the quickest way we can throw our things in the boat and peg it.

But we’ve scared the beast. It’s letting us know we’re there through its truly terrifying bellows, but we can tell from the crashes in the undergrowth that it’s heading upstream, happily away from us. We bolt down the rest of the couscous, chillis and all, and paddle off as fast as we can. This is is how it’s gonna be; this is the wild. It feels good to be initiated.

The Strong Brown God was the name given to the Niger by author Sanche de Gramont, who wrote a complete history of the Niger from point of view mainly of its role in the colonisation of West Africa. It’s a quote taken from a TS Eliot poem, and it seems an apt name as we stand contemplating it, canoe at the ready, preparing to strike out for the bush and whatever awaits us there.

It’s two days after our successful trek to the source. We’ve had a day to recover, and are feeling as fresh as can be expected, though my feet by the end of the trek were bloody, blistered stumps. We’ve got all our gear together - bag loads of food to keep the eternally hungry Norwood happy, two very large backpacks, safely stowed in expedition dry bags (should the worst happen and a hippo gets us), and, best of all, two large, evil looking machettes given to us by our South African friend Jon in Conakry.

Innevitably, a crowd gathers to watch us put up the canoe. They look perplexed. Disaster very nearly strikes right from word go when it transpires one of the crucial clips that holds the canoe’s cross braces together has broken. But a bit of string and some nimble-findered Willis lashing saves the day. Mike, if you’re reading this, thanks for showing me how to lash!

We have a look at the river. It’s certainly brown, and, despite that deceptive semblance of tranquility, looks strong and urgent as it sucks its way past the thick vegetation that crowds its banks. I can’t help but think of stories I’ve heard of vicious whirlpools on African rivers that can suddenly get up and suck down a boat, crew and all…Still, this is no time for thoughts like this; they are just stories after all.

Banishing nervousness to the backs of our minds, Dan and I load up Djoliba, the boat. Even without us in it, it’s already groaning under the weight of our kit. We both clamber aboard. It sinks a bit more - but takes our weight comfortably.

The crowd of kids on the shore laugh and point at the sight of two crazy white men sitting in such an outlandish looking craft. They must think we’re mad; for a moment I think we’re mad too, but there’s no going back now.

“Let’s get this show on the road,” I say to Dan. He nods, and with a gentle shove we nose Djoliba out into the current. We’re finally on the River Niger and heading into who knows what.

We set off early after a bowl of hot, gloopy gruel from a woman on Forokonia’s high street, if you can call it that. The day’s march begins with a crippling ascent up the side of one of the mountains enclosing the village.

The going is tough, and Sori slows the pace right down. “Today the road is hard, we must slow down,” he says in his strange drawling English. He tells me he learned this in Liberia, but it’s almost impossible to understand. The word “dollars” comes out as “dow”. Sometimes it’s actually easier to communicate with him in French.

After about an hour we reach the next village, Bakando. Here Sori says we will need to seek further permission to proceed, as the villagers are effectively guardian’s of Tembicoundo - the source.

Upon arrival, there’s the inevitable meeting with almost the entire village, kola nuts are exchanged and Sori struts his stuff. I’m asked to say a few words, which I enjoy, hamming it up like something out of King Solomon’s Mines. “We have come from afar to visit Tembicoundo. We are hoping to follow the river all the way to its end, so we wanted to see where it begins because we hear that it is sacred. We thank you for your warm welcome.”

But the welcome quickly turns sour when the chief stands up to say his piece. He’s only a small man, but he has a fierce face which he uses to great effect when addressing us. He quickly whips himself into a frenzy that carries on for about 20 minutes. Paraphrased, it goes something like this: more and more people are coming to visit Tembicoundo, but the people of Bacando, the nearest village to the source, don’t benefit; because of its remoteness Bakando is a very poor village that needs a road, schools and health facilities; if people in the village get sick they have to walk a long way to seek help.

This carries on, the chief getting more and more worked up by the outrage of his theme. All the time he fixes us with a look of thunder. Eventually he finishes and retires to his hut presumably to calm down and consult with his elders about our being there. We’re called over, and I have a nasty feeling as to what’s coming next. “You can go to the source, but you must pay 150000GFA (about 15 quid),” he says.

I knew it! This would all come down to money. So much for sacred. Sori is incensed. “This would not have happened in my grandfather’s time. This is a sacred place, people should not have to pay to visit. I will visit the minister of tourism in Conakry and tell him about this.” I wonder if he means this, or if its all part of the Sori show.

A huge row breaks out. The chief produces three papers that are apparently letters of recommendation for previous people who’ve come looking for the source; they suggest these individuals all coughed up the 150000. But Sori and I are adamant that we shouldn’t pay this amount, for me mainly because I don’t want to be responsible for setting a precedent that will affect future visits by travellers to the source.

After about an hour of arguing, we eventually get the price down to 50,000. I’m still loathe to pay anything, but we don’t have time to sit around arguing about it, and it is, after all, only about a fiver.

The deal is struck and off we go. Our entourage now includes Sori, two soldiers, the chief, his son and two of his henchmen. The going is easier now, flatter but still rugged. After about an hour we come to a line of trees. “These are the trees my grandfather planted,” says Sori. “This is the border with Sierra Leone.” It doesn’t look much like a border; but we hear voices coming from the other side of the trees. “Those voices you can hear - they come from Sierra Leonian people,” Sori says.

The path dips and turns away from the border. There are more of the magical bamboo thickets we encountered near Forokonia, plus a riot of other huge trees, ferns and creepers. There is a real air of mystery to the place. “We are near now,” says Sori. “This is as far as we go.”

What! We’ve come all this way only to be told we can’t actually see the source! Dan and I both protest loudly. “We want to see it with our eyes,” we say.

“Then the chief’s men can go and bring some water from the source for you to see,” Sori says. Seeing a bottle of water from the source isn’t quite what we’d had in mind, we protest. After another few minutes of arguing, the chief relents and agrees to show us. Sori stays put; he’s clearly superstitious of the place.

The chief takes us through a thicket of prickly vegetation and through a dip in some rocks. We scramble through this, then there it is: Tembicoundo. It’s just a puddle really, seeping out from a pile of boulders before forming into a stream. But, maybe because of the location, in the middle of nowhere, maybe because of the soaring forest canopy, maybe because of something else intangible, there is a palpable electricity in the air, a sense of mystery about the place.

There’s no way of knowing whether this really is it, the source of the Niger, but I try to believe it is.