Some of the most intense days we've had since leaving North Cape a little over six months ago were spent in the jungles of Liberia. The humid heat, extreme terrain, and wild human destinies made the experience challenging, yet equally enriching.

“I don't want you to drive through the jungle!”

We have only known the woman for a few minutes when she tries to convince us to drive another way.

“The jungle is not safe. You have to ask the locals and they will tell you which way to go.”

We are only a day's cycling from Monrovia, and have just started a stretch we have been looking forward to incredibly much; a small dirt road through the rainforest, in the southeastern corner of Liberia.

The woman we are talking to owns a small pharmacy and has allowed us to pitch our tent behind her house. But she is nervous about our safety. We always listen carefully to advice from the locals, but we also try to filter and translate their concerns. People in West Africa are generally incredibly friendly and concerned about our safety. But we also find that they do not understand our concept of bikepacking, and how difficult terrain we can actually tackle on our bikes. We think she is most worried about the many cars that are stuck for days in the mud in the jungle. But we will soon find out that there are other things at stake as well.

A sudden awakening

On the second day in the jungle, we ask again in a small village if we can camp. A shady spot is found for us under a mango tree, and the ground is swept and prepared before we can set up the tent.

The next morning we wake up abruptly to the sound of heartbreaking cries from the town's women walking down the main street. They shout a mixture of plaintive cries and words that are not songs, but nevertheless musical, that we have only experienced in Africa. Sorrow hangs thick in the air. We have not a second doubt that something terrible has happened. But what?

The owner of the house we are sleeping at comes out to the tent and tells us what has happened:

“A mine collapsed close to here. There were 7-10 men in the mine when it collapsed on them. They are all dead. One was from the village. That is why the women are mourning!”

We are completely stunned. It is a huge tragedy.

The mine is Turkish-owned. The men work as day laborers. That means they have no rights. This means there will be no compensation or insurance for the family left behind. The wife and children must now find a new way to make ends meet. The children will probably have to work. They may already be doing so.

The woman, whose husband is dead, gets on the back of a motorcycle and rides off to the mine, where he is still buried in the mudslide.

Things on top of the body

We cycle on a wide red dirt road. The rainforest stands like a dense wall, on both sides of the road. The green wall is completely impenetrable. We have never seen such wild and untamed nature. Everyone we meet has a machete on them. It is as essential as footwear. Typically, the women carry the machete on top of their heads. We love that they are so fond of balancing things on top of their bodies.

At another point we see a walking man carrying a generator on his head! It quickly develops into a scene where we lose both our noses and mouths in astonishment: While the man with the generator is coming towards us, a young guy on a motorcycle overtakes us, but he doesn't hold on to the handlebars, in fact his entire upper body is lying backwards on the seat, so he's looking straight up into the air! Bladder ass! When he passes the man with the generator, he makes a rear wheel skid and accelerates while turning the grinder with a wheelie. They exchange a few words before the man with the generator jumps on the back of the motorcycle and they drive off. Still with the generator balancing on top of his head!!! We stood back, gaping, as if we had just witnessed a circus act.

Archangel Martha

It's day 3 in the jungle. By the afternoon we are quite tender from the sun, which is completely relentless, here close to the equator. Together with the extremely high humidity, we almost feel like we are suffocating from heatstroke. It is difficult to keep up our energy and any chance to stand in the shade under a large tree is seized. Our sunglasses are greasy with sunscreen, our bodies are covered in heat rash, all our clothes from the inside to the outside are soaked with sweat. The road is hard to cycle on. There are not many flat stretches, it is all hills. We ride more than 1,000 meters in altitude a day, even though there are no mountains here. And not only with the altitude, many of the hill valleys are large mud holes, where we sometimes have to ride through the muddy morass, sometimes we have to get off and push the bikes through. There are quite a few "closed" streams under the road. But many of them are not even that closed, because the road surface has been washed away by rain and the supporting wooden beams have rotted, so there can be holes that are up to a couple of meters deep. It is challenging terrain, to say the least, that requires high concentration.

After a long steep descent, at the beginning of a village, Marie's front wheel hits a hidden hole in the road, knocking the bike off course, and Marie over the handlebars. It happens in a split second and Marie doesn't even have time to get off. Some of the village children and women are sitting nearby, so water is quickly fetched to clean the wounds. We have iodine and plasters so we can clean and close the wounds. There are many wounds and abrasions on the legs, but none of them are serious. Marie has also had pressure in her chest, so when one of the women offers us to rest with her until tomorrow, the decision is not difficult.

That same afternoon, the rain pours down, a foretaste of the rainy season that awaits further ahead. We sit in Martha's house, together with a bunch of children, looking out at the violent stream of water that sprays vertically down from the sky. If Marie hadn't fallen, we would have been out in the middle of the muddy road right now, soaked to the skin, with no possibility of camping.

In the evening, the rain stops as quickly as it started and the sun's last golden rays sparkle in every leaf in the fresh green rainforest.

We experience that duality every day in Africa. Every day something bad happens. And every day something good happens. The contrasts are stretched far and wide.

Death in the jungle

The next day we wake up again to the plaintive cries of women. We think that there was also a man in this village who died in the mine. But Martha tells us that the women are crying over another young man who died of an illness. We ask more about what kind of illness it was and Martha goes on to say that the young man had crashed his motorcycle (it happens often) and had sustained a large wound. The wound had not been treated properly and he died from it.

We should just sink in a little more, to put what Martha said in perspective. An ordinary young man dies from wounds that are not treated. Imagine if that happened in Denmark. It says something about how raw the people in the jungle live. That you don't necessarily have access to a hospital and treatment. That you risk dying just because you have a wound.

The young man's mother came to us in the morning and wished us a safe journey before saying: "My son is dead. We are burying him today. The men are preparing the grave in the village cemetery."

Life and death are more closely connected here in Africa. Although the tragedy is terrible, we experience in the way it is handled that it is not unusual for someone to pass away.

Drowned in mud

The day after the rain, the red dirt road had become even more challenging. Especially for trucks. Two large trucks had gotten stuck in a gigantic mud hole. They had both been there since yesterday. They had to spend the night in the middle of the jungle. It always takes 4-5 men to drive a truck. We are not entirely sure why, but it is an advantage when trying to dig yourself out of a mud hole. Both trucks were fairly clear of mud, but were still in holes so deep that they could not get out. They had to wait for another truck to pull them out.

Marie felt sorry for the stranded men, glistening with sweat in the baking sun as they dug mud under their wheels, so she gave them a packet of large, delicious cookies. Kenneth stood for a long time, looking enviously at the missing calories.

On our bikes we can better sneak around most mud holes, but at one point Kenneth misjudged the depth of a rut and got both wheel hubs, the bottom bracket and his feet dipped in the red soup. It wasn't the last time during the day and several times we skated around in the slippery sandals while pulling and pushing the bikes up and down mud slopes and makeshift bridges of thick branches.

Sweaty drum dance

At one point we hear insistent drum beats in the distance. As we get closer we see some young men standing on the side of the road waving at us.

“Come on, come on. Bring your camera,” they say as we put down our bikes. It’s all hectic and the young men are eager. We wonder if it’s a trap to get us off the bikes, but we quickly follow anyway.

They lead us over a small embankment to where the drum sound comes from. We were completely unprepared for the sight that greeted us.

In a huge burned area in the jungle, we see 40-50 women dancing to the fast rhythms of drums, while one of the women shouts some words that the others repeat in chorus. The women dance completely bent over while they frantically hammer the ground with a small pick. Sweat is pouring off their faces. When they have chopped a hole in the soil, they throw in a grain of rice.

When we arrive at the field, we are immediately picked up by some of the dancing women, who lead us by the hand into the middle of the inferno. Marie is given a stick in her hand to dig into the ground with. Kenneth has to make do with focusing on delicious dance moves, together with the women around.

On a huge fallen tree in the middle of it all, 5 men sit, each with their own drum. They deliver the fast rhythms to which they dance. The dance steps are done very low to the ground and with fast movements. A woman makes eye contact with Kenneth and a dance develops between them. The woman dances towards Kenneth. The drummers pick up on the dance and intensify the rhythm. Everyone turns their eyes to the dance step. Kenneth and the woman approach each other, right down to their knees and when they are close together, the woman dances on her side and raises her arms, the drums build up, Kenneth and the woman bump their butts together in the climax of the drums and everyone cheers and claps and laughs. The women gather around us with sweaty faces after their hard work. There is an intense atmosphere. They show their tools and their rice and we begin to understand what is going on. It is the annual ceremony to plant rice. It is a huge celebration and everyone is in high spirits. One of the women shouts a loud slogan again, and all the women, now standing in a circle around us, respond loudly in chorus. Wow – how powerful.

We are happy in that moment. Happy to experience such a special ceremony. A tradition that we can feel runs very deep.

We thank everyone for being a part of it, and everyone thanks us for participating. It's also a special thing that we've only encountered in Africa, to be thanked for visiting people. But it's wonderful to feel that it's a mutual meeting.

The rest of the day we drive constantly and talk about what we experienced. How grateful we are.

The vile beasts of the jungle

We probably didn't agree on how many and how dangerous animals we wanted to see in the jungle. Let's just put it this way: Kenneth had probably hoped for a few more, Marie for as few as possible.

We didn't see any particularly dangerous animals. But we did meet the king of the jungle in terms of meanness: the ant.

So you might think – what could be so mean about a little ant? And let’s just start here, because the ants in the jungle are definitely not small. They are between 2 and 3cm long! They are huge creatures. And they never work alone – always in groups. Of course, that makes them fun to photograph, so when we saw a million ants blocking the road, we stopped for a moment to take a picture.

Afterwards we carried the bikes over the small river of ants, so that they wouldn't crawl around on the bikes. But caution helped, because one of them had been quick enough to rush up onto Marie's sandal. Here they tend to get stuck under the strap. And when they get stuck – they bite. And they bite the sapsuckers hard! Like a wasp sting that goes on and on, because they don't let go. Marie probably can't help but let out a panicked scream while she tried to balance the bike with one hand and knock the vile creep out of the sandal with the other. But the ant wouldn't let go, so only when Marie got the sandal off, after a painful struggle, was she able to rip the ant out of its tight grip on the thin skin on her foot.

A few days later, another ant was on its way to attack. But it wasn't so clever, because it crawled up the outside of Marie's trouser leg. When it discovered its mistake, it didn't bother to crawl back down, but decided to try the direct route, through the fabric. It managed to cut a hole in the trouser leg so that it could get its head through, but now its back body was stuck in the fabric. It was a bit of an awkward situation for the ant, because now it could neither move forward nor backward, and it therefore had to end its days with a vengeful death, as compensation for the evil of its fellow species.

A night with narcotics officers

On the seventh day in the jungle we arrived at Barclayville. A slightly larger town where we could get fresh supplies. Right at the beginning of the town we found a well where we got water. When we arrived a teenage girl was pumping, but she was so frightened to see us that she dropped everything she had in her hands and ran home to her mother. The mother came out of the house and let us pump water, with a smile on her face. Gradually the girl also ventured out again.

After we had filled our water bags, a man on a motorbike stopped and asked where we were going to sleep tonight. We replied that we were looking for a place to pitch our tent, and he said that he was a police officer and we could sleep at the station. We followed him, reminding each other of the story we had heard about a cyclist being locked up by the police, who demanded all her money!

The guy led us to some dilapidated barracks where the large UN stickers had been scraped off. This is where the region's narcotics officers live.

The motorcyclist introduced us to the boss, whom he called Big Boss. However, he was somewhat cooler in his reception. The atmosphere was not the best. After the motorcyclist had presented his suggestion that we could pitch our tent between the barracks, Big Boss asked us to sit down. Kenneth sat down. Marie was going to fix something on the bike. Big Boss silently and measuredly looked at the dirty cyclist sitting across from him for some time. Then he explained that he was only “Second Big Boss” and that he should call Big Big Boss to discuss the situation. Kenneth leaned forward and pointed over his shoulder at Marie, while he said: “I completely understand. I am also Second Boss”. He screamed with laughter and slapped his thighs, shook Kenneth’s hand, and the ice was broken. The phone call was a formality and we were allowed to pitch the tent wherever we wanted.

Water was brought for us so we could bathe and wash clothes. Chairs were set out so we could sit in the shade. When evening fell, Big Big Boss came. He wasn't very talkative, but he did tell us that they had an operation going on last night, looking for drug smugglers in the jungle. So while he sat and got himself a few small bottles to strengthen himself, his phones glowed and orders were issued.

We went to bed and enjoyed the silence.

The next morning when we opened the tent, three new officers came up to us. They said they had been on the scene all night. We asked if they had caught any “bad guys”? One pointed to a chair in the shade where a dazed young man in handcuffs was sitting. It turned out to be an informant who had crossed the line and he had now been brought in for questioning and possible imprisonment.

While we were eating breakfast, we could follow the preparations for the interrogation, which all took place outdoors by the barracks. Among chickens and dogs, crying children and pregnant wives, one of the senior officers sat down on a stool behind a low wooden table. The young man in handcuffs sat in a yellow plastic chair next to him.

We quietly crept past, but the interrogation was interrupted by curiosity about our trip. The officers asked where we were from, how far we were going, etc. We told them freely and everyone, including the arrested young man, smiled and laughed and said “Wow!” Finally, we asked if we could take pictures before we left. We did.

Kola nut and smoke wine

The end of our trip through the jungle was in the small coastal town of Harper, which would also mark the end of Liberia.

But the evening before we got that far, we asked at a small well if we could pitch our tent at the school nearby.

The woman explained to us that we had to talk to the village chief. We know that this is the normal way to ask permission, but here there were only a few houses by the road, and the school looked inviting. She was nice and wanted to follow us to the chief. We started walking with her and soon we discovered that the village was huge and spread far into the jungle. It was quite cozy and people greeted us kindly as we walked with the woman. Some started walking with us to the chief. When we reached his house we were shown inside. Everyone in our group went into the small hall where the chief was sitting. We were asked to sit. People came in and there was a bit of movement around in terms of rank and age as people came in. Many stood along the walls, and those who didn't have room stood outside and looked in through the windows. There were probably 20 of us in 12 square meters.

A young guy who had followed us began to explain to the chief our desire for a place to pitch our tent for the night. We do not understand the local tribal language, but tried to supplement. If only to show positive energy and friendliness. The chief welcomed our request, but first said that tradition dictates that when guests arrive, the chief shows his hospitality by breaking a kola nut and sharing it with the guests.

A kola nut was brought, along with chili powder and water. The nut had been cut into pieces. The chief took the first piece. A few others from the tribe also ate. When there were two left, we each took a piece, dipped it in chili, and began to eat. The kola nut is very bitter and dries the mouth. But the chili makes the mouth water a little. It is impossible to eat without rinsing it with water. The chief looked satisfied, but we actually think that despite the traditions that must be observed, he was probably much more excited about the second part of the ritual. Namely, opening a brandy, which was also offered to everyone. He himself took a large shot glass as the first. Then we were offered “smoke wine”. It is a brandy that is made from sugar cane and therefore tastes a little smoky. Marie took the first sip and caused a huge roar of laughter as her whole face contorted into a grimace. It didn’t help much when she tried to say it tasted good. It was a grimace that couldn't lie.

Kenneth also got a shot, accompanied by a grimace and a burnt throat.

Thus the pact was sealed. We were recognized. With solemn speeches from all sides, it was accepted that we could spend the night in the tent, in the town square.

While we were setting up the tent, 30 people gathered and eagerly followed along as we assembled the tent, inflated the air mattresses, etc. The entire session was even filmed and photographed.

When the tent was ready, rows of chairs were set out so people could watch how the evening would unfold for a couple of white people in a tent.

A motorcycle drove into the square and two men got off. One, Ferguson, after a few courtesies, offered us to sleep in his brother's house. His brother is one of the village's 16 elders and thus important. We told him that we had already been offered shelter by the chief, but that the tent was fine for us. Ferguson understood the dilemma and explained to us very politely that we were making amber in it. He understood that we would not be a nuisance. But the village is not at all used to white people coming, and it would be a bit strange for everyone if we slept in a tent in the square. Tradition dictates that the chief and the village elders must ensure that travelers have a place to sleep and that all their needs are met.

We were a little embarrassed and apologized for our misunderstood consideration and agreed to stay with Ferguson's brother, Robert. The tent was packed up and we followed him to Robert's house.

Here we started over with kola nuts and brandy, while the women boiled water for us over the fireplace, so we could have a hot bath, under the starry sky. After the bath, they served us food, in the room that was set up for us. We were super grateful for the great hospitality.

The next morning the women had made us breakfast. A local specialty: Snail soup! They have harvested the snails themselves down in the river. You put the snail shell to your mouth and suck out the soft animal with a big gulp. Again everyone laughed out loud when Kenneth got on board the snails and tried to suck them out, with many failed attempts and only a few successes. Marie jumped over this time.

With a smile on our face and a hearty heart, we said goodbye to our host family. Once again, we felt lucky to get so close to the everyday life of ordinary people who still live in a very traditional way.

An adventurous end to Liberia

To end our jungle adventure, we rolled into Harper and checked into a small guesthouse.

It was absolutely blissful to be able to lie down in a soft bed and let all the impressions replay, for the inner gaze. To let the experiences sink in.

In a way, it is completely incomprehensible to us how harsh life is for many in Liberia. But it is also beautiful. The smiles, the closeness, the dancing and the joy that we have experienced are what fills us the most. At least for us. But it also seems that the joy of life fills us the most for the cool people who live their whole lives here.