Our journey into the forest — Greetings from Daloa

In West Africa, every day is so full of obstacles and uncertainty. Every time we receive another blessing or are protected from danger, I feel like jumping for joy.

On July 27 we drove interior to Daloa. The highway from Abidjan to Yamoussoukro is smooth with very little potholes and plenty of room to pass. But once you leave Yamoussoukro, the asphalt is immediately worn in from rain and dirt, the plants are about to overgrow the street and since it’s a narrow road, those coming to and from their villages and the fields they work can easily be run over.

We were driving a Nissan King Cab perfect for off-roading, but it’s older and was weighed down with our bags. I also had all my camera equipment and my Apple computer in the cab while we — for three hours — wrestled with the road dipping into potholes and dodging oncoming trucks … and villagers on their bikes and walking with their children.

On one stretch of dirt our entire truck flew a few feet in the air until we came slamming back into the Earth. My dad would look ahead and slow down for rough patches, but sometimes a speeding car or truck would block our sight with dust from it’s high speeds and we couldn’t stop in time or slow down.

I was clutching my equipment for dear life. I can break an arm or a leg, but there was no way my Canon camera or its lenses were ending up with smashed glass.

Can the New York Times hire me as an international correspondent already?

We felt fine until the sun went down. We were mesmerized by the fading sunset that set aglow the Ivorian rain forest. The trees still left standing high in the canopy level left shadows across the jungle floor and the small paved road running west through the countryside. The villagers’ fires — which are used for cooking and to ward off insects (like malaria-infecting mosquitoes) — caused the air to hold a smoky, dreamy haze to it; you could smell the ash.

As soon as 7:30 hit, the sun burnt out. The light had been flipped off on the forest, and with no street lights or major cities along our route, the only lights we had were our headlights. This is when the fear set in.

When the sun goes down, the criminals come out. These thieves know the route well — they study the potholes, the curves and the population in each spot. They know when the side of the road will be full of bystanders and when it’ll be empty — not a witness in sight.

We knew it was dangerous to drive in the dark — especially on this route — with limited police, limited lights and limited resources. We read news reports from the interior almost every day of travelers ambushed on the forest roads — we didn’t want to be another number. But it was either head closer to Daloa, our destination, or turn around and drive all the way back — not an option. We were closer to Daloa and needed to get to the mission home there.

So we pressed on. We had an hour left when the sun went down. That may not seem like a long time, but every minute felt like it’s own hour … a lot can happen in that amount of time. If we were stopped, we had no weapons with us.

Thirty minutes into the pitch dark journey, my nerves and my father’s nerves were fried. He was battling the horrible roads, weaving off into the bush to gain reprieve from the holes and dodging oncoming traffic through a thick cloud of dust. And I was silently praying … a lot. To keep my mind occupied, I read the signs of every village or small town we drove past — “Bouaflé, Bozra, Gonaté.”

Now I sit in an air conditioned room drinking cold water and typing this out. Some, especially experienced travelers, may think our journey was mild. Some may think the odds of us actually being robbed are low in that time of night.

Either way, basking in the glow of the setting sun on a dirt road my father used to travel on as a child was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Through the fear, I’ll always be grateful for that experience. 

Photos coming soon from Daloa!

— Sarah