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12. The Lion Mountains

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(Day 114-125, 8.704km cycled) You Break, you Lose Small raindrops from the slight drizzle of rain are hitting my skin. The city is already awake and vibrating with cars, bikes, trucks and people that are making their way to the market. I am still in Kindia, the bustling, Guinean mountain-top city where a day prior my broken rear rack had been blatantly copied and built anew for my old one was unfixable. Today it was time to leave the town and continue cycling. A quick swerve here, avoiding the sun-glass seller, another swerve around an obese 50 year old woman, clothed in wonderful bright wax linen, carrying a stool and a small table on her head and in her hands, two giant bags of what I imagine are vegetables from her village. Casually, I swerve again, out of the way of a giant truck that is rolling backwards down the hill on the crowded main road leading out of town. The truck nearly misses me. Although dangerous, by now, trucks don't scare or intimidate me anymore. If
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Donations

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  How do I donate?  You can just klick this Link here: Klick me Or klick/scan this QR-Code: What are the donations for? In short, we will test the people of the village Seko and neighbouring villages in Togo. Then we will try to support Diabetics that we find. I am Diabetic type 1, and I know how hard life is with diabetes, even IF you can pay for all the medicine and peripherie. While I planned my trip to Togo, the dangers of doing it as a diabetic became increasingly evident to me. I will pass countries where temperatures are constantly too high for my insulin to survive. I dont know how easy access to new insulin is, and I dont know how expensive it will be. Surely, when you have the money, you can always get insulin somehow, somewhere. Maybe they will fly it in, or maybe you need to go to a bigger town. But in this regard, money is king. 💸👑 Initially, the idea was to rais money for the school in Seko but I started to  wonder, how people in Togo deal with insulin, with diabetes at
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11. The Guineas

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  (Day 93-113, 8.103km cycled) A Different World It is early and I am riding on a smooth dirt road leading me to the Guinea-Bissau border. A truck passes me, announced by a brief honk of his horn, indicating his presence. Not that I would have not heard the loud engine anyway but regardless it was an act of kindness. Once the truck passed, silence returned. I hear the gravel under my tires gnash, the wind noises in my ears, my rustling chain that needs lubing and the ever present cicada calls. Women and children are carrying bundles of wood, large tubs with laundry they washed in a river or a clear plastic bin with snacks for sale in them on their head. They wave at me, I wave back, people here are friendly. I hear a motorbike approaching from behind. The noise coming closer fast tells me its one of the restless drivers. As it levels with me, I glance over and see two kids, no older than 10, obviously without a helmet, riding on a 125cc TVS bike. The kid in charge of the machine slows
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