While at the Mission I get to know one of the old men who works here. I don’t know exactly what he does, but he’s knowledgeable and friendly. He tells me his brother is a professor at a university in North Carolina. I ask him if he knows about climbing Mount Nimba. Mount Nimba is the tallest mountain in Guinea. It’s right on the border with Côte d’Ivoire to the southeast of N’zerekoré. Lonely Planet’s description mentions you must have a guide but leaves out a lot of details. The information could also be out of date. So, I figure I should ask this man. He tells me I should stop at the tourism office at the prefecture in Lola, the jurisdiction in which the mountain is located, and go from there.

This sounds like reasonable advice, so finally, on Monday the 11th, I set out towards Lola, to figure out how to climb this mountain. I don’t know much about Mount Nimba beyond the fact that it’s the tallest mountain in Guinea (and also Côte d’Ivoire). There isn’t much online about how to climb it, just some info about how it is a UNESCO World Heritage site.

The ride to Lola is about 30 km and takes a couple hours. It’s easy going, and very pretty. The prefecture office building is located on a well wooded piece of land on a hill more or less in the middle of town. It’s a handsome office building, and well organized, with each office labeled. I find my guy pretty easily, the “Chargé de Tourisme et Hotelerie,” who introduces himself as Moise.

I sit down across from his desk and Moise asks me what he can do for me. I tell him I want to climb Mount Nimba. He thinks for a few moments. “The natural reserve?” He seems slightly confused. “I want to climb to the summit of Mount Nimba. Yes, that is in the natural reserve.” The first thing he does is ask to see my tourist visa. He examines it with care and fascination, taking several minutes to take in the single page of text.

Satisfied that I am a tourist, he launches into action. “Ok, I’m going to clarify how to do this, give me a moment.” Then Moise makes a few phone calls. This is a little bit bizarre, but I’m used to this kind of thing in Guinea. You’d think that the guy in charge of tourism would simply be able to give me instructions for where to go and what to do in order to experience one of the premier tourist attractions in the whole country. But I’ve learned not to assume these things in Guinea. Moise mostly talks in Kpelle, with generous chunks of French. He gives the impression of going above and beyond, that this is some great effort, requiring him to expend the capacities of his usual role and authority.

After a few phone calls he explains to me what the deal is. I need to go to Bossou and to the headquarters of a research organization called “IVAN.” He does not know what the acronym stands for, or what specifically they research, but he tells me I can stay in their dorms and when I get there I will meet the guy who organizes guides and who will get me set up to climb Nimba in the morning. He gives the numbers for this guy, and the guides, and then informs me that I need a “laissez-passer,” to go into the reserve. I was expecting to need some kind of permit, so I’m not surprised at this. “Because it’s on the border, right?” I ask about the “laissez-passer.” His response indicates that he has no idea what I am talking about “yeaaaaa, sure.” It’s 150,000 GNF, or $15.66, and I get a fancy document and a folder to keep it in. Moise is a genuinly friendly guy and he walks me out and asks if he can take my picture before I leave. I take his picture as well and start biking towards Bossou.

I have a slight degree of familiarity with Bossou because it is mentioned in Lonely Planet as being the home of the Bossou Environmental Research Institute, which studies chimpanzees that live in the surrounding forests and mountains. Apparently, primatologists from around the world come here to conduct field research. The name of this institute does not match the acronym given to me by Moise, but I don’t spend too much time thinking about this, because as I bike south out of Lola, the skies begin to darken in rapid and a dramatic fashion.

I can’t even remember what the weather report said for today, but by the time I turn off the paved road that continues east towards Man, Côte d’Ivoire, and onto the dirt road going south to Bossou, it is abundantly clear that it is going to rain. My first impulse is to try to beat the storm. I’m only 12 km from Bossou. That’s perhaps 45 minutes of biking, maybe an hour if the road is bad. Sometimes these storms approach more slowly than you’d think. I might be able to sneak into town before the rain. So, I charge up and down the rolling hills, passing and in turn being passed by Liberia bound trucks and passenger vans. I’m along some fields when the rain starts. It begins as a windy drizzle, but within a few minutes it is a total downpour. I am not near a village, so I just keep riding. Before long, my clothes are soaked all the way through. It’s kind of fun, but it’s also crazy. I shouldn’t be biking in this kind of downpour. After a bit I come across a small village, and I ride to the primary school, where there is an outdoor awning offering some shelter from the storm. I am greeted by about 12 kids. They are every bit as goofy and hyper as I might have been during a rainstorm. No teachers though, they are just hanging out at the school.

I don’t know how long this downpour will last. Now I feel a little bit annoyed at myself. I’m probably only about a half hour from Bossou at this point. If I’d just left N’zerekoré an hour earlier I might be sitting through this downpour with a primatologist PhD over a beer, rather than standing here, sopping wet, with a gaggle of screeching kids. But I also recognize that there is really no way to predict these things. The rain is so unpredictable, and a dozen other things could have gone a different way, not just my departure time. And in the event the downpour only lasts about another 20 minutes after I get to the school. I take off as soon as it is reduced again to a drizzle, eager to get to Bossou.

The scene when I get to town is heavenly, the heavy clouds just beginning to break, letting in dramatic rays of golden light. I am muddy and soaked by this point. I ask a guy where to find the research institute, and he points me to the southern edge of town, where I find a sign for the “Instut de Recherche Environmentale de Bossou,” or IREB. Again, this does not match the acronym Moise gave me, but it’s clear that this is the only institute in Bossou, and he clearly told me to go to Bossou.

I cross a soccer field and come upon the institute. It’s really cool. Jane Goodall shit. Just like you’d imagine a remote primatologist field research station built in the late 70s. I am greeted by a man who introduces himself as Gnan (pronounced nYan), who is from Bossou and works for the institute overseeing day to day data collection. He is simultaneously enrolled at the University of Conakry as a student in biology. Gnan is legit. This is immediately clear. He is calm and listens when you speak. He shows me around and welcomes me into the study of the institute where there is a large desk covered in books and research papers. He has a shiny new Apple laptop, which is interfacing in some fashion with some small tracking beacons. The room itself is beautiful. There is an old dusty bookshelf with books in French, English, German, Spanish, and a lot in Japanese. I learn that the institute was originally funded and run by a Japanese organization, but that contract has since ended. There are no foreign researchers currently stationed here, but Gnan tells me he works with researchers from the University of Texas.

I sit on a chair in the study, soaking wet, admiring the scene. Then I ask him if he knows where the IVAN institute is. He informs be that it’s in N’zoo, a town all the way on the other side of the natural reserve, several hours away by moto. “Huh, well I am supposed to meet a guide there to climb mount Nimba in the morning,” I tell him. He looks at me pensively. “I have my laissez-passer,” I continue. Gnan kind of frowns.

The exact order of how he explained to me the following I can’t recreate. But Gnan, unlike Moise, the guy at the prefecture in Lola, knows exactly what he’s talking about. The trips from IVAN, in N’zoo don’t go to the summit. All you can do from there is explore the northern slopes of the mountain, which do contain an interesting chimp population. There is a mining easement between that area and the summit. But I am in luck, perversely, because the trips that do go to the top leave from here in Bossou, and are organized by the institute here, IREB. The “laissez-passer” I purchased? Unnecessary. All the logistics for climbing the mountain are handled here at IREB, which is an official ecotourism outfit.

I feel a flash of rage at Moise, the cheerful and seemingly good-hearted bureaucrat I interacted with at the prefecture in Lola. It’s hard to tell if it was plain incompetence and ignorance, or petty corruption. Either way I can’t help but feel as though this man represents the worst of Guinea. I get on the phone with him and chew him out. He seems confused and asks to speak with Gnan. What he tells Gnan is that he thought I wanted to check out the mining operations. Now it seems like he is blatantly lying. I must have spoken the words “summit of Mount Nimba” three times when I was in his office. I get back on the phone with him and ask why I purchased a permit I don’t need. He then proceeds to babble an excuse about being an “administrator,” and it’s “not his job to know about the procedures on the ground.” I tell him that if he, as the “Chargé de Tourisme” is going to give tourists advice on tourism, he should at least know what he’s talking about, and hang up. It’s not worth dwelling on this man’s infuriating lack of desire to do his job correctly. I am disappointed because I want to be able to trust bureaucrats and local government officials, and he'd seemed like a genuine guy. But it’s over. Time to move on.

And, perversely, in his confusion, he’s sent me to the right place. If he had known that IVAN, the other research institute, where he’d spoken to people on the phone, is in N’zoo, and not Bossou, I’d be on the wrong side of the mountain, several hours in the wrong direction. But in his ignorance, he’s accidentally sent me to the place that does in fact have the ecotourism agency I am looking for, that can get me to the top of Mount Nimba tomorrow. So, I have that to be grateful for. And Gnan is a professional. He helps me sort everything out, and understand the situation.

We are soon joined by a colleague of his, a man named Francois, who, in addition to helping with research at the institute, also runs the guesthouse in town, and coordinates guides. Francois tells me guides can be available tomorrow morning. The fee is 600,000 GNF. $66.66 USD. A devilish sum indeed. It might not seem like a lot, but I have gone two weeks on this trip without spending that much money. At least this time it’s legit. He explains to me that half of the money goes to the mayor of Bossou for community development, 15% pays the guides, and the last 35% supports a reforestation effort being implemented by the institute to support the health of the chimpanzee populations. What he explains is that the population closest to here is adapted only to live in the forest. Chimpanzees can adapt to the savanna too, but it’s not typical. The habitat between them and the next closest chimpanzee population has been fragmented by agricultural and deforestation. The land is now part of the reserve and so to avoid a genetic bottleneck they are attempting to reforest the corridor between the two populations so they can travel and meet and breed.

I’m still soaking wet and muddy, but happy to establish logistics with Francois on the spot. I’ll be picked up by a moto at 5 AM and taken to a village called Selinngbala, where the hike will begin. Sounds good to me. Then I walk with Francois to the guesthouse. It’s less than 5 minutes from the institute, and closer to the center of the small town. Bossou has a cool feel to it. People have clearly seen tourists before, and don’t oogle me to the extent I am typically oogled in other places. It is obviously Christian. There are bars everywhere, and people selling food in the daylight. The guesthouse has a nice rear with a large bar in a separate building. The room is very simple, but it is priced appropriately. It takes me about an hour to fully wash off. There is a big barrel of rainwater from which I fill buckets. First, I rinse off my bike in the courtyard. Not great to get it so wet, but not the end of the world. Then I rinse and wash all the clothes I was wearing and hang them to dry, and take a shower, and find myself, finally, clean, dry, and horizontal on a reasonably comfortable bed. Good stuff.

I venture into town to find dinner and am delighted by the options available in this relatively small town. I encounter two culinarily firsts for Guinea. First, I find a lady selling roasted pork. I buy a dollar’s worth. It’s succulent and excellent, and begs the question: if God didn’t want us to eat pigs, why did he wrap them in bacon? Secondly there is a lady slinging fufu, which is an amazing way to consume manioc. The sauce is okra fish sauce. This is a dish that I associate with the truly tropical, rainforest parts of west Africa, from Sierra Leon to Nigeria and Cameroon. Fufu is great. I also buy some provisions for the hike tomorrow: a fish meat sandwich, a bag of cooked beans and mayonnaise that I can smear into a baguette, some peanuts, and a couple of lukewarm coffees in little plastic sachets that I can “enjoy” tomorrow morning.

When I get back to the hotel I encounter Francois, who tells me the guide wants to pick me up at 7 am instead of 5 am. Fine with me. I don’t think too much about it. It’s about 9 now, so I was on my way to bed anyway. I do some prep for the hike: getting my backpack ready and considering my wardrobe for tomorrow. My main concern are my shoes. I only have my bike shoes, which have a big metal cleat right in the center of the sole. I’ve done plenty of hiking and mountain climbing with the cleats in but decide I ought to remove them for the hike tomorrow. However, after struggling for 10 minutes to dislodge the grit and dirt that seems to have cemented the little Allen wrench bolts into place, I am met with no success at all. It will be a serious undertaking to get these cleats out. Probably not worth it.