My morning in Kelimbou is one of the most pleasant and beautiful I’ve had yet. This humble, small, depopulated village still has a lot of energy to it, and people are happy to share their lives with me. I still cannot get over how epic the views are, from basically everywhere in the village. Great setting for morning coffee and mangos. After this I wander down to the building site I’d seen yesterday on arrival, where a group of men and boys are busily at work, continuing with the construction of the hut. On my way I run into a man and his son building reed cylinders that are placed in trees to host bees nests. It’s a cool process. Honey is a key source of income here.

The building site is really cool. Everyone from old men to 4-year-old kids participates. Almost the entire process is on display right here. To one side of the job site a young man mixes gravel and dirt with water to get the right consistency. Another man then cuts this mix into softball sized balls, which are then brought, often via a fireman’s line, to the mason, who slaps and pats them into place, slowly forming a wall. I am told that the whole hut should be done in about 8 days of work like this. Strong Amish vibes.

Then I head down to the women’s garden, which is just down the hill from this part of Kelimbou, in full view from my coffee drinking spot. It is a beautiful garden, as always, but here, in Kelimbou, the water issue is worse than anywhere I’ve seen yet. There is no water in the little creek bed at the edge of the field. So the people here are reduced to digging little wells by hand. These take a variety of forms, some are pits you can walk into, others more straightforward wells. In every case it’s a hassle. The women ask me, very bluntly, to help them. In a situation like this, I have two options. I can either tell them that, inshallah, I’ll do what I can. But this is a white lie. What am I going to do, hire a professional well digging company? I cannot realistically offer any material support. The thing I can do, is give them advice on how to manage their land better. This is what I elect to do. It’s a hard pill for some to swallow, but it’s important for people to realize that the toubab who shows up is not going to wave a magic wand and somehow solve the water issues in a village.

What I tell the women who confront me, asking me to help, is that their fields are drying out, and the ground water level is receding because they’ve cut down all the trees in this big clearing where they are gardening. And it’s true. Women’s gardens all have this issue. The sun is baking the soil dry. Trees will keep moisture in the soil and raise the groundwater. Look up piliostigma reticulatum. It’s been discovered to affect a phenomenon called “hydraulic lift,” where it makes groundwater from deep down available to plant roots closer to the surface.

But all of this is not a quick fix. I explain myself over and over again to anyone who asks me to help with their water issues. It’s really the only thing I can offer. I feel helpless and inept and am painfully aware of how impractical my advice is. This is a feeling I find myself carrying often in West Africa.

After exploring the garden, it is time to go. My host, Mamadou Jaxité walks my bike, with a whole swarm of kids in tow, out to the trail I want to take towards Manda Sarakulé. He’s been a great host, and I tell him, sincerely, that I hope to be back someday. Kelimbou exceeded all expectations. Somehow, more than the other Jaxanké villages in the area, I feel a connection to this village.

The ride today is a blast. Truly fun, pure riding. I was looking forward to this part of the ride and it delivered. Amazing climbs, fun descents, unbelievable scenery. I feel really good. Really strong and really in the zone. The only challenge is finding somewhere to eat lunch. The villages along the way are all small, no restaurants at all.

I arrive in a sprawling Pulaar village called Missira around 2 pm. There are some nice houses here, and lots of compounds, but they are all extremely spread out. The village is on a long, sometimes steep slope, and after entering the gate at the downhill end of the village, I climb for 15 minutes and several hundred feet before getting to the mosque. It’s absolutely amazing how spread out this place is, and that it is all ringed by a fence. This has to be an extremely long fence. The whole village is classic Pulaar low density, low development. Just scattered compounds. No businesses.

The mosque is surprisingly nice, and I find, next to it, a single boutique, that does in fact have some bread. The woman there looks at me like I am a three headed creature from an alternate universe. And seems shocked that a creature like me would like bread with mayonnaise. Sometimes my encounters in small villages are just bizarre beyond description. I know that in many cases I am the only toubab that’s ever been here, but I just want the same thing everyone else wants. It’s like this lady has forgotten how sandwiches work. She gives me the bread, and I tell her I want mayonnaise too, because it’s the only thing to put on the bread. She takes a spoonful and just tries to glob it onto the side of the bread.

What?

“Mburo??” I ask? (The pulaar word for knife). She digs up a knife and hands it to me as if she has no idea what I could possibly want with such a device. As if she does not cut dozens of baguettes down the middle herself every day.

It’s all just so bizarre. I know for a fact that she serves mayonnaise sandwiches all day. There is nothing else to do with mayonnaise here. But in my case it’s a struggle every step of the way. But I finally get a mayonnaise and sardine sandwich situated and sit down to devour it. I am very hungry. A crowd of children watch, intrigued, apparently, by the fact that toubabs eat food. After this lunch, which does succeed in filling my stomach, I keep heading south through Madina, and it is another few hundred feet of really hard, really steep climbing to just get out of the village. This village is absolutely fucking ridiculous. There's probably a 400 or 500 ft difference in elevation between the top of the village and the bottom. I’m pouring sweat by the time I reach the village gate at the top of the hill. The cool thing though, is that I am now on the top of the ridge line, and the riding is completely beautiful.

Really fun descent for the next 10 km or so, down to the village of Tianguel Bori. Which is what you’d call a "road town." It’s on the paved road, about 70 km from Labé, where I intend to bike tomorrow. I’m just passing through though, turning west for the last 12 km to Manda. The road I take, parallel to the highway is one of the most jagged and rockiest I’ve experienced yet. I am 2 km past Tianguel Bori, riding up a hill, when I hear a violent pop behind me. My rear tire has finally given out.

I was aware of a bubble on the tire, a bulge, and that I would need to address it, but was hoping it would get me to Labé. Instead, I walk back to Tianguel Bori, and catch a moto to Labé, and now find myself at what is possibly my favorite hotel in Guinea, Hotel Tata. Tianguel Bori does not have 700cc tires, but I suspect Labé will.

I’m bummed I won’t get to check out Manda. It sounds like a very interesting town. But the ride from there to Labé, 70km along a busy road, is not something I’m too worried about missing. And it is nice to be in a hotel. I’ll spend a couple days here and catch up on journaling from the last few days.