At 5.30 the rat woke me; pitch blackness and only the wailing mosques for company. I was excited for the day to come; I was going to catch a lift with Dave and Gary to the beach near Freetown, a 3 hour drive from Makeni and the last stop before my flight back to the misery of a British winter. I left the house at 6 and started to trudge my way along the main road to our rendezvous point, as a pale yellow glow broke over the horizon. The coolness of the night was dissipating and the humidity clung to my skin; a typical African morning, the smell of wood fires drifting from the scattered shanties and the buzz of insects. Luckily for my back (as I was carrying all my worldly possessions) a moto came past so I was able to hop on and whizz along the only paved road in the town. You are never as free as when you are on the back of a bike and the feeling is magnified when you are surrounded by Africa; I felt exhilarated. Soon I was lounging in the back of the air conditioned 4x4 watching the landscape transform from flat, rusty scrubland to lush, green hillsides, until finally the sea shimmered in the distance.
3 hours later we were at a fork in the road, I say road I mean dirt track and our guide, the fourth in our band of adventurers, a French girl by the name of Audrey, couldn’t remember which way to go. We took the right one (if in doubt always go right, right?) and it started to meander away from the sea. We were all bit sceptical. The group, who were extremely hung-over, were looking worse for wear as the land rover, (unfortunately for us not land cruiser), lurched across boulders and across clefts in the sun baked ground. We decided that this couldn’t be the route to the mysterious No. 2 River Beach so after much deliberation, turned back only to discover the alternative track took us to a dead end. So, finally convinced we were on the right track, we continued. Audrey suddenly gave a scream and buried her head in her lap. I saw what she had soon enough; rough wooden planks, barely wide enough to fit the wheels on were laid across a 40 foot drop to the thrashing rapids below. Gary skilfully tight-roped the car along three of these tree concealed canyons as I peered nervously over the edge.
When we finally arrived it was worth every bump and bruise. Undulating white sand dunes as far as the eye can see, drop down into rolling turquoise waves; emerald jungles protecting this paradise from the gaze of the outside world. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky to distract the beating sun and our skin soon turned to tarnished bronze. As we wandered along the shore front we crossed vivid blue tributaries which snake their way into the ocean. Matching bead necklaces and a lobster lunch made the day a celebration rather than a run of the mill day lounging on the sand.
All too soon it was time to go and I was dropped at waterloo on the outskirts of the city to make my own way to the airport.
