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The Saharan Daily Promise

I’m the middle of the Sahara. So no – I don’t have internet connection. It is Sunday though so I thought I’d preset a small post for you to enjoy anyways.

Any guesses where I might be at? Well.

If you take glance on your North African map my hopes are that I’m mid desert somewhere just north of Dakhla, Western Sahara. And also that I’m in mental and physical shape good enough to pass it, rather than taking that way too long detour to reach town and the comforts of civilisation.

Who knows though?

The last thing I received before leaving Nouakchott was a comment from this Czech dude and one of the few people with personal experience of riding against the wind through the Sahara desert:

‘I will keep all my fingers crossed for you! Cycling from Nouakchott northbound is the worst stretch I have ever done. Every day is just such a pain with those terrible headwinds! I hope you have crossed at Diama, because that NP is the most interesting thing for a long time to come. After Nouakchott and especially after crossing into Western Sahara there is little worth cycling for. Be sure to take 15-20l of water and prepare to be averaging around 50km a day with 8km/h. It’s pure masochism! Good luck and let the winds be kind to you!’

Given that – my hopes of already having passed Dakhla seem about as feasible as having reached all the way back to Sweden. We’ll see though. In my experience boys tend to whine about headwinds the same way they do about colds anyways ;-)

And it really doesn’t matter. I’ve got a toothbrush to get the sand out from between my teeth every evening. And I’ve got time. One really doesn’t need more than that.

I realise now this is one weird post. From past me – without any idea of what present me is doing where.

Or well – cycling is quite an alright guess I suppose.

And of course, keeping the Saharan promise I’ve made to myself. That small promise that looks different every time and yet continues to make all the difference. The one which has kept this Swedish girl sane through insane times a million times before. And which is likely to turn even the ‘masochism of the Sahara’ into one helluva good time.

There are quite a few of them. But I’m expecting my main challenges to be headwind and monotony. Leading the sanity promise to this time look like this:

The Saharan Daily Promise 2017:

– every morning: Dance to one full Tove Lo song.
– every day: Sprint in tailwind. Smile the whole walk back.
– every evening: Journal 3 beautiful things you’ve never seen before.
– & don’t: Read your speed. Only time spent.

I won’t preset anything for next week. Let’s assume that I’ve made it to that first safe spot by then. And if you don’t hear anything let’s decide that it’s only because I lost track of time out there.

Smiling, dancing – and finding the beauty in hell.

Until next time,

Fredrika

By |September 17th, 2017|Uncategorized|
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Saharan Shivers

Panniers are packed and I’m ready to go. I’m Sahara bound. For real this time.

The first few days of riding in Mauritania gave me a glimpse of what’s up ahead. But leaving the capital Nouakchott tomorrow morning is when the real party starts. As always when leaning over the threshold waiting to uncover a new unknown – I’m excited out of my wits. What’s a little different this time though, is that I’m also scared shitless.

Of the heat. The winds. The mad distances. The Al-Qaida stories. And more than anything of the fact that I don’t trust neither my body nor bike, as they’ve both been giving me more trouble in the last couple of months than during the previous two years combined.

Tomorrow I’m off. Everything is ready – except me. I was supposed to go yesterday. Or to be honest the plan was to leave already the day before that. Still for no good reason I just haven’t.

Something’s off. But as it goes when it comes to gut feeling, I wouldn’t for the life of me be able to tell you what.

I could wait of course, for that perfect window and the let’s-fucking-do-this feeling that sooner or later is bound to return hand in hand with my physical health. But no. One doesn’t cross the Sahara – the biggest desert in the world – on inspiration. One does it with patience. And if there’s one thing I take pride in having no matter the circumstances (not) given, that is it.

Tomorrow I’m leaving civilisation, trees (read: shade) and phone service behind. When you’re reading this I’m already a couple of days into the nothingness – and I won’t catch you until I eventually come out the other side.

Given that I stay true to my route my next town and first pit stop along the way is Boujdour, Western Sahara. Some 1 000 km from here. And I expect an ungodly headwind through the shadeless and burning hot desert to keep me company every inch of the way there.

Though if there’s one thing we all need to remember, it is to never ever fool ourselves into suffering from the headwinds of life before we can actually physically feel them blasting in our face. And today – the only wind that reaches me is the one from my hotel room air condition.

Keep your fingers crossed for me, will you?

Now – cheers to life! I’ll catch you in a week or three.

Until next time,

Fredrika

By |September 10th, 2017|Africa, Travel Logs|
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Purpose & Pride

Then finally it was time. Earlier – in completely different parts of the world it had always fallen apart. Sometimes due to my route. Sometimes due to ticking visas. Once in Vietnam even due to authorities denying me entry into the off limit region a project was enrolled in.

But then finally came the day, in small town Koussanar in eastern Senegal. The day when I got to visit the other end of the fundraiser to ActionAid. I got to meet them.

Not women / children / communities like them. I got to meet at least one hundred people who in their own words could tell me straight to my face exactly what ActionAid – and this stupid bike ride – had allowed them to do with their lives only in the last 12-18 months.

I got to look down that solar driven well, drilled only last year – that now allow for independent and sustainable fish and crop farming for a whole community. See proud women work their peanut fields in the pouring rain. Understand how they – above all else – thank ActionAid for that single piece of equipment that ‘changed everything’ .

And. I got to dance with small girls with a future.

I’ll simply drizzle some photos throughout this post. When the time comes, I’ll share all of this in every possible way I can think of. Travel tales are good entertainment, but this right here is the essence of everything that this specific journey is about. I live to see the world. Epic mountains and all that, yes. But no view in the world will ever beat getting to see this place become beautiful for more of us.

Writing this, my bicycle is standing fully loaded right in front of me. Today – now even – I’m off. Off in a way I haven’t been in a very, very long time. Today I’m crossing into Mauritania. And today I’m kicking off Sahara.

There will be time to sit down for one more blog post before the true madness begins. Let’s talk then about what this 2000 km headwind stretch through the biggest sand desert in the world actually entails.

For now. The people of Koussanar are enough. The biggest reminder and boost in spirit anyone could ever wish for. Through every imaginable difficult time on this ride around the planet, the distance based fundraiser for ActionAid’s lifesaving humanitarian work has been pulling me forward.

I’m quite convinced that I’m now standing on the threshold to my biggest challenge yet. But the feeling this time is different. This will not be for a blurry fantasy of how this has purpose somewhere, somehow – for someone.

This..! Is for you. This is for hands I’ve held and for cheeks I’ve kissed. For Amina and Awa. For Fatou and Mariama. For little Fanta that I still haven’t gotten over not getting to say goodbye to on the morning I left.

And for each and every one of the millions of women and girls around the world, whose lives are or will be touched – sometimes saved – by the absolutely critical and true work of this organisation.

I’m off now.

Inspired out of my mind. Though let’s be real.

What is the antidote to inspiration? Yes, you got it – headwind. Expecting this to be the fiercest one I’ve ever experienced (which by all means says quite a lot) that first ‘What the HELL am I doing out here?!??!’ might already be closer than I realise.

I don’t care though.

When body and head asks ‘Why??’ – my heart now knows the answer.

Until next time,

Fredrika

PS.

The ActionAid fundraiser is always open. Thanks to you all we have already collectively raised + 1/2 million SEK. Join as a KM supporter or give a small contribution already today. This thing is changing lives. Read more and get engaged at thebikeramble.com/charity. Thank you all.

By |September 3rd, 2017|Africa, Travel Logs|
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The Pre/Post Saharan Retreat

A million and one things have happened since last, but this week’s post is not about that. Nor anything else really. Because after the past months mad voyaging through West Africa I’m all of a sudden finding myself on… holiday? You know. The kind with white fluffy towels and naps in between meals. Last in line in the constant string of unexpected events that currently constitute my life was a few well timed coincidences that finally led me here.

To Gambia.

And to the hotel room of fellow adventure cyclists Lina and Pelle – the Swedish power couple that one year ago decided to take the plunge and go for their dream. To head out and explore the world on two wheels, simply to see what path life would lead them on. As it would turn out – right here, right now – that path was bound to cross mine.

Lina and Pelle are recooperating after having forced through the Sahara. I’m getting ready to take it on. Turning this empty Gambian off season hotel into a full on Swedish post/pre Saharan retreat centre. Hotel terraces are turned into bike workshops and given the amount of snacks and food that are constantly carried up to out room it’s only a matter of time before we’ll become suspects for running some sort of human trafficking business up here.

Swapping maps, currencies and waypoints for the road ahead are obviously great things. Sharing thoughts and reflections on life on the road with people who actaully know your experiences though – is priceless. Add massive quantites of food, a comfy (and clean!) hotel room and daily swims in the warm ocean to it, and the touring holiday-from-the-holiday homerun is a fact.

These past few days have been absolute bliss and to simply call them well needed would be a terrible understatement. Tomorrow I’m heading back to reality, topped up with energy and inspiration and ready to open this brand new chapter. It’s time to point my nose north and take on my Saharan leg.

Headwind and heat are just words. As per usual I know I don’t know what’s waiting. Good thing though is that until I do – Lina and Pelle’s last couple of videos from Mauritania will give us all a small glimpse.

Make sure to check out these lovely loonies’ journey towards South Africa. As long as Lina can keep her fingers out of their drone (…yes) I’m absolutely convinced it will be an epic one. Their blog and some amazing photography is waiting for you on www.velovelo.se.

Alright! That’s it for now. It’s high time for 2nd breakfast.

Until next time,

Fredrika

By |August 27th, 2017|Africa, Travel Logs|
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First in Line is Life

‘I can’t wait for getting to actually sit down for the next post. With all that it is and isn’t – Guinea has been and still is one of the single biggest experiences of my life, and I so want to share some of it with you. All goes well and that one will be written – with time – outside the country borders and with both health and bike intact enough. Keep your eyes open next Sunday :-)’

These were the very words I left you with last week. And as that post’s ‘Next Sunday’ is this one’s today, let’s see where we’re at.

Yes. I made (in time!) out of the Guinean country borders. Body and bike have surely seen better days, but I would definitely say they both make the ‘intact enough’ cut. Guinea being an experience beyond my wildest dreams – even truer now than when those words were written. And the desperate urge to share it with you is too.

Frustratingly enough though, that I-just-don’t-have-the-time-so-we’ll-talk-about-all-this-next-time is what I’ll greet and leave you with today as well.

It literally makes me pull my hair. But is in all honesty the ‘problem’ (dilemma might be the word?) of my dreams. Day by day I’m allowing myself to sink deeper and deeper into the quicksand that is this experience. Ankle, became knee, became hip and shoulder deep. Even if I wanted to I’d way be too late to get out now.

Luckily – not a grain of me does.

I am however slowly starting to feel like this beaten up pressure cooker about to blow to pieces. Which is probably the reason to why I keep comforting myself with that soon I’ll actually have/take the time to sit down, take that deep breath and let some of the million thoughts, impressions and memories take physical shape, even if only in the form of digital words on someone’s screen.

Writing this it’s early morning in Senegal. Yesterday I finally got the rest day that kept my spirit up for the past 2 weeks. Next to me now my panniers are already packed and I’m riding again today. The city of Tambacounda will become the village of Koussanar. Not far at all – but I literally can’t get there fast enough.

I’ve had people wait for me before. But this time is different. This time I’m actually going to sit down eye to eye with some of them. The very people this is all about. Not women and girls like them. Waiting for me today – in the Senegalese village of Koussanar – are actual human beings leading dignified lives thanks to the work of ActionAid and the fundraiser that is this bike ride. Or in better words, the fundraiser that makes this thing something a whole lot more than a bike ride. Something real. And something important as life itself.

Above all else. The fundraiser – and today, the women – that make a millionth blog post about someone riding a bicycle seem like something that not only can wait. Not even should wait. But something that absolutely have to wait.

And like I wrote in an Instagram post yesterday: If not before – I guess I’ll just sit down to tell my grandchildren about it.

Let’s all agree on something, should we?

Life always comes first.

Now get off your screen and live yours.

Until next time,

Fredrika

By |August 20th, 2017|Africa, Travel Logs|
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Shut Up & Ride

Had this been any other time this would be me shamelessly whining my way through this text, start to finish. Or to be more accurate – that would have been the case if I was writing this from any other place.

In short the past who knows how many days of this ride have been this way too long, low intensity slapstick theatre show without an audience. Plot? Human girl and steel bicycle slowly falling apart, piece by piece until all that’s left is a lone bike bell lying next to a pair of muddy shoes with no one in them.

However. This is not any other time, nor any other place. I’m writing this now – in Guinea.

Finding itself as lucky number 183 out of the 188 countries in UN’s Human Development Index I assume it goes without saying that life in Guinea is taking place in what can only be described as a different universe than the one the vast majority of you reading this are in. And that western girls’ front hub mechanicals and black toenails won’t be topping the list of issues anytime soon.

The past week I’ve made it halfway through a million curse words. Halfway through bisarre thoughts about bad luck. Occasionally even halfway through justifying feeling sorry for myself. However – there is one thing that that without exception have let me stop the madness before it’s had time to manifest itself in reality. And that has been riding a bicycle halfway through Guinea.

To give a little context I’m currently racing. A few weeks back an embassy employee in Accra messed up his stamps when issuing my visa, resulting in that I since have been pushing hard to not have the time bomb this man created blow up in my face. Even before entering the country I was tired. Writing this I’m exhausted. Even more so than I originally got ready for.

Then again. I’m not writing this any other time, or in any other place. This is now – and this is Guinea.

I’m not sure how to explain it. And in a way I realise that’s the whole point.

While I struggle to choose my words – no more than 40% of Guinean adults have been taught to read or write at all.

My back tyre ripped open in a downhill and had me drag Mr. Bike into the town of Kissidougou where I could finally find a $5 replacement in the local market. The new tyre sucks. The old one I have left still leaves me with the fanciest setup in the country.

I’ve drowned my bike computer. Lost my gloves. Rolled over my earphones and killed a gazillion pixels on my laptop. Not only have I lost stuff more expensive than what most here would even dream of. My biggest issue with doing so is being in a place where I can’t immediately replace them with new ones.

For a few weeks I can’t afford to take rest days from my made up for-fun-game on two wheels – because I don’t want to end up bribing border guards to continue playing. The men and women I passed today wouldn’t even play with the idea of ‘rest days’ from their rice fields – because they need to eat.

I got a cold. Guinea got Ebola.

The cold have had me loose my voice. Unable to speak I look around me – and meet the eyes of women born into life in a society where they never got one to begin with.

And with an unbelievable 97% (UN report from 2016) of those women being victims of female genital mutilation I’m too embarrassed to even spell out saddle sores here.

We could go on and on, but I think you get the idea.

I can’t wait for getting to actually sit down for the next post. With all that it is and isn’t – Guinea has been and still is one of the single biggest experiences of my life, and I so want to share some of it with you. All goes well and that one will be written – with time – outside the country borders and with both health and bike intact enough. Keep your eyes open next Sunday :-)

That has to be it for now. I need to be out by Thursday, and it’s high time to give these legs another beating.

We’ll speak soon.

Until next time,

Fredrika

By |August 13th, 2017|Africa, Travel Logs|
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Fairytale Frustrations

‘C’est tres tres difficile.’

I looked into Pascals eyes for a while longer than what I think he was comfortable with. As if they miraculously would be able to tell me something more than what he could do with those way too few common words we used to communicate. I let my fingers dig into the bowl of attiéké that was resting on the table between us, formed some of the couscous like cereal into a ball and pressed it hard towards the palm of my hand. I took a deep breath and exhaled.

‘Oui… Tres difficile.’

During this bike ride I spent better part of a full year with hands and feet communication. With life being one big game of charades. A game that one evening taught me to hand milk tibetan yaks and the next let me fall in love with someone over a bottle of wine and a dictionary. One proving that human connection passes way beyond the spoken word and one that I remember as the best thing I’ve ever gotten to experience.

I can no longer find that feeling for the life of me. Sitting on the plastic stool opposite the Ivorian policeman that had invited me to his home for the night, I didn’t even know where to turn with the frustration tha was slowly drowning me from the inside. Our communication wasn’t even wordless. The words were few, of course. But with my ‘peu un peu de francais’ and his ‘small small english’ we were still speaking.

Speaking. But saying nothing.

On the 29th of March 2011 at least 800 people were killed in the Duekoue massacre. Of course even more were injured. And every single person in the city lost someone that day. On the 29th of March 2011 Pascal was on duty. And has since not only seen, but very much been part of his town and country attempting to rise back on its feet after the war. Yet. After spending that half a sentence on the topic we moved onto agreeing on that the grilled fish we were sharing was delicious.

Finally letting go of our eye contact I let my gaze continue out on the bustling street by which we were sitting. Thursday evening, the rain was holding up and everyone seemed to be out and about tonight. Women were lined up behind their food stalls, each with even bigger buckets of rice or attiéké than the next. Groups of children were running pass, playing games I’m not sure I’ll ever understand. And as always, men of all ages were zooming back and forth on their motorbikes. Always in a rush to go nowhere in particular. The vibrating base from the music being played somewhere nearby was filling the air, right on beat with the pulsating heart of the town.

I tried – and failed – to understand. That day, hundreds and hundreds of people were shot dead and left to rot on the very street we were on. This evening. What was to be found here wasn’t only life. It was everyday life.

Thinking about it, this is basically all I’ve been doing during my time in Cote d’Ivoire. Trying – and failing – to understand. Understanding the magic of this place. Or in better words – the magic of it’s people. To understand the strength, trust and faith required to have a new everyday life take form from the ruins of an old one.

Depending on their age, the children greeting me with their waves, laughs and never ending smiles have grown up in one or even two brutal civil wars. Yet – just like their older genereations – manage to be some of the friendliest and most joyus, graceful and gentle people walking this Earth.

In one way or another, I’ve found myself hosted by people in every single one of the 35 or so countries Mr. Bike and I have been rolling through. In Cote d’ivoire though, I generally wasn’t hosted by people. I was hosted by villages. Experiences more humbling than I would have words for even in my own language.

The purity in getting to end a long day bent over a bucket shower that someone helped to pull up from their well. The serenity in being invited to breathe in the sense of community not even imaginable in my part of the world. The comedy in watching the always massive groups of children watch me. And the rewards in thanking every single one of them for the song and dance performance they put on for their guest outside the main hut.

The children. I try – and fail – to understand what will actually happen to them. I try and fail to understand how their genuine smiles and endless fires burning within them would or could ever undo any of what they have in their past and don’t have in their future. To understand what actually needs to be done to help. And to deal with the guilt of letting those western ‘privilage isn’t everything’ excuses justify not doing that.  

Above all, I try and fail to handle the shame in knowing that in a few month or even weeks time, these children will be nothing but a fading memory amongst others.

Pascal clearing his throat interrupted my thoughts, and the burning tears behind my eyelids disappeared the moment my eyes once again met his. He didn’t say anything at first. This time not because he couldn’t, but because he really didn’t need to. I know he knew mine, simply because he was sharing my frustration.

He took a small zip of water. It had been hours since we’d emptied our vocabularies in our two common languages and he didn’t even bother trying to combine his English words into a new sentence. Instead he asked me again.

‘You like Cote d’Ivoire?’

I didn’t stop the tears this time. Pascal didn’t break eye contact.

I also cleared my throat.

‘Oui. J’aime Cote d’Ivoire. I like it very very much.’

Until next time,

Fredrika

By |August 6th, 2017|Africa, Travel Logs|
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Grandest of Adventures

I never even realised that I’d lost it. Not until now, when I’ve gotten it back.

I didn’t know I had forgotten. Though now I vividly remember. I remember what things were like in the early days of this journey. What it feels like when everything and everyone around you has the power to overthrow everything you thought you knew about life. What it’s like to have an experience take up your whole being. And what it’s like trying to not let it slip through your fingers.

It’s just as bizarre as it’s beautiful. Morning comes and I open my eyes, as for the first time of my life. It’s day, and time and time again I literally catch myself trying not to blink. I don’t want to risk missing anything. Not until night comes and I close them again. Grabbing onto the tent floor as if doing so somehow would stop my head (world) from spinning.

It’s all back. Every little piece of it.

I know I can’t make sense of any of it just yet, which is why I’m not even trying. And it’s alright really. At the moment all I need to do is to stay on my back in the flowing river that is this experience, trusting that the current will take me wherever I’m supposed to go.

Ghana has come to an end and I’ve made it into Cote d’Ivoire. The palm fringed seaside has been replaced by lush, thick greenery and the only way I know how to describe it is that every imaginable part of this place somehow seems a little more intense than in it’s neighbouring country. The ride is larger than life and the main reason for it is very clear.

People.

A few months ago I was climbing grand volcanoes and riding 5 000 meter mountain passes in search for adventure. Here – I find it by stopping in a village to buy a few bananas. Or even more – has it find me, by simply sitting down to eat them somewhere (anywhere!) along the road.

Alright, friends. I’ll throw in a few random snapshots. But for now I’m afraid this is it. For now, I need to go back to be absolutely present in what is one of the greatest experiences of my life.


Haha. I have no explanation for this one.

Oh. More than anywhere else I seem to be posting stuff on Instagram Stories these days. For some real time glimpses of life out here, make sure to give @thebikeramble a follow :-)

Until next time,

Fredrika

By |July 30th, 2017|Africa, Travel Logs|
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Ghana Good Times

It’s Sunday morning and I woke up to a brand new world today. I’m in Cote d’Ivoire – which I’m counting to be country no. 35 of this journey. The clock says it’s still early but the bustling streets of small town Aboisso came to life already hours ago. I think the sun was the last one to rise here today. I crossed into the country only yesterday afternoon and as per usual, I’m a little too excited to throw myself onto the road to start to get to know this new temporary home of mine.

First though – we need to talk about Ghana.

…

No. Let’s not.

See those 3 dots? They’re there to replace some 500 words I just deleted, realising that this is stupid. Not to mention it also being impossible – to try and squeeze everything from dancing children and the purest connections between people, to brutal faiths and fundamental human rights issues into a quick Sunday breakfast blog post.

More than anything – would it not give this country a grain of justice.

I didn’t even spend 2 full weeks in Ghana. Still this is one I regard as one of the very biggest experiences yet, on more levels than I was ever ready for.

Which is why this one goes out to you.

Not a single one of you will ever know that these words exist. Nor will I ever meet you again, to get the opportunity to tell you that they do. But thank you. I thank all of you. The hundreds of souls that let me into your world, for a chat, a meal, a night’s rest or for a simple wave and a smile as I swiftly zoomed passed you by the road you were sitting.

Thank you for your respect and for your patience. For your curiosity and laughters. And yes. Thank you Joshua, for sitting down to teach the sweaty obruni how to properly eat an orange.

Thank you all. For making a girl who’s still very far away from home – feel like she’s already there.

Until next time,

Fredrika

By |July 23rd, 2017|Africa, Travel Logs|
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Another Rich White Girl’s Blog Post

Hey.

Short stop in this time. Today marks one full week of breathing African air and my head is still spinning too fast for me to make much sense of any of what’s tumbling around in there. I’m used to a 15 kph movement of around 100 km per day – and the (barely existent) speed of change that comes with it. I’m used to moving from one village or town to the next.

Last week the screen in front of my airplane seat showed speeds hovering around 1000 kph and I found myself on three continents within 24 hours. Though that’s not what makes me feel like I’ve fallen into a tumble drier on steroids.

That is Africa.

I’m finally here. On this massive continent surrounded by more contradictions than any other. The one I’ve been told, not-at-all-told and warned about since before I could even spell it. One week in, mentioned contradictions seem endlessly bigger than they ever have before. And I can’t seem to wrap my head around a single piece what I’ve so far found waiting for me here. Though let’s talk about than another time.

The million impressions and future campfire anecdotes that have constituted the last week led me to Accra and the capital of Ghana. Showing up at the Togo-Ghana border without a visa was probably up there on the list of most-stupid-stunts I’ve pulled on this journey – and a gamble to say the least. Needless to say I’m surprised as anyone that it actually worked out. Just as needless to say is that I am equally grateful, happy and relieved that it did. Probably more than anything, since none of us now have to find out just how much of a catastrophe my Plan B actually was.

Writing this I’m on Day 3 of who knows who many, in the chaotic capital Accra. The one mission here is to acquire necessary visas for the onward journeying through West Africa. A mission that so far is moving along perfectly. The full page visa sticker for Ivory Coast is already in my passport and after the weekend the one for Guinea hopefully won’t be far off.

Meaning that this final and biggest adventure is just about ready to take off for real.

Just now I don’t have time nor energy to try and properly put the overwhelming feelings inside me to words. Though sitting under the cool A/C in the shiny upscale apartment of lovely French expat Lorraine it seems absurd not to. The evening of my arrival Lorraine took me for a burger and beer. We both agreed on that the meal was delicious. But didn’t mention the fact that it had cost almost half a Ghanian monthly salary.

Tapping on my laptop I’m now zipping cool pineapple juice and snacking away on imported Swiss chocolate. I’m looking down through the big windows, passed the guards on duty and across the barbed wire fence surrounding the building. A constant stream of people are passing by, balancing everything from fruit and peanuts for sale, to massive quantities of water or big bags of trash on their heads. I have no idea where any of them are going. I just know that it’s Saturday in Accra, and that normal people are spending it doing normal things.

Right here on this website you can still find the words of 22-year-old me. The girl with the big dreams, who was still back in her hometown merely getting ready to make this journey reality:

‘Brilliant sunshine and pouring rain. Lush rain forests and bone-dry deserts. Privileged people with the world beneath their feet and people who can’t even put a pair of shoes on theirs. This is a ride with the goal of experiencing it all.’

Three years later I’m more grateful than ever to not only have gotten to experience all of that – but also all those things way beyond my wildest imagination. The ignorance in my own words though, makes me absolutely sick to my stomach. It’s been long since I realised it, but never before has the fact been so disgustingly obvious.

That the ‘privileged person with the world beneath her feet’ – has been me all along.

There will be only one photo today, taken at 6.30 am somewhere in southern Ghana. One of 3 beautiful sisters walking to school in the neighbouring village.

I think that if you take the time to actually look at it – this one might be just enough.

Until next time,

Fredrika

By |July 16th, 2017|Africa, Travel Logs|
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