Border farce

Many countries are awash with minor borders in the back end of nowhere that receive very little traffic. The footfall that does pass through receives a disproportionate level of attention. So it was today at a very obscure forest border crossing between the backwaters of Liberia and Guinea. My friend and colleague Laura was leaving us for a few days to work with our Guinea team, a drive of several hours on terrible roads once the surprisingly well maintained Liberian tracks had ended. Reaching the Guinean immigration post, ensconcing Laura in the hands of colleagues and returning to our place in Liberia, Guinea joined the illustrious group of countries whose borders I've sniffed, but not entered. It's in good, tantalising company: Chile, Namibia, Zimbabwe.

'Guineans are rough and bad', said Fayiah our driver, who spent three years in Guinea's forest region during the Liberian civil war, working as a mechanic to make ends meet. Liberian immigration officials fit that description better today. The Guinean side demonstrated the flair for bureaucracy and administration that the French left behind on departure. I'm told the French also left espressos and baguettes, but no evidence could be found at the border post.

On the Guinea side, pidgin French had to be produced to explain what we were doing, first to the army, a group of ragtag young men under a canvas, begging for cigarettes whilst trying to exercise authority, second to two crusty old men in a brick customs shack, and third to a serious uniformed official in a new yellow and blue painted building.

'Il n'y a pas de probleme', and the serious face erupted into a smile. I asked where this legendary Guinean coffee could be sought, but that was only further into the interior. Instead the serious/smiling official led us to a little lean-to selling snacks, where I had a can of Vimto, using the official's concrete veranda to await our Guinea team bumping down the track at 15 km/h.

The forested stretch of no man's land between border posts is the longest such space I have experienced. Leaving Liberia, a trainee official appeared never to have seen a passport before, clutching his stamp extremely hesitantly and grimacing intently. Fayiah and I were nonchalantly given permission to pass to drop Laura as we weren't entering Guinea after the drive through the forest. All very trusting, I thought. Less nonchalance on the return when I was accused of committing an offence for passing through without showing the correct ID. You had your chance to grill me at the time Sonny Jim, I dug my heels in and explained, in words to that effect. 'He wanted small small' said Fayiah afterwards. I didn't fall out of the last tree, and he wasn't going to be successful in such trickery.

The pictured truck was heading from Guinea towards Liberia with construction materials under the tarpaulin. I don't think the paltry covering of bananas was going to prevent the truck from the scrutiny of the Liberian border official.

Minor disputes I had to mediate in the evening about whether the previous lot of eggplant seeds we'd procured had received a germination test and had grown faster or slower than the peppers. This topic provoked a surprisingly strong reaction among members of the project team. Then some spicy noodles were consumed that burnt my lips off.

All in a day's work.