Thanks to my friend Tuya for translations of my diary in to english.

Try to imagine the Mongolian backpacker in the middle of the jungle with armed rebels ALONE!

-Have you gone mad, Zoloo? I queried myself. I was surrounded by men in military uniform who puzzled by my presence kept their mutterings directed at me:

-Who Da F… is this guy?

I did not know well the man I was riding with. It felt almost surreal to ride and share a stranger’s motorbike through jungles of Africa again, an insurgency battered land where ceasefire had been declared not long ago.

-Zoloo, haven’t you learned from your previous experience in Congo? How it feels to travel all alone through a land with rebels and civil unrest? Fear was constant; I had to be alert since any random person could potentially pose a danger. That time I swore that I would never test my luck like that again! Yet, today I am travelling once more through such land and not in a company of group of people but alone saddled in the back of a stranger fully realizing there was no other way either.

If anything happens… and I tried to assess possible risks and means to defend myself. I could sense tension the air and each passing motorbike could pose potential threat to me. I still remembered hostile looking men descending from their car at the last village stop. Am I becoming addicted to danger? As my heart pounded faster I tried to reassure myself that nothing can go wrong.

If my parents found out today that I am riding on a motorbike towards through a jungle in one of the few countries who manage to stay in the news…I was intimidated by the thoughts of what might happen in instance if I get captured or get into any sort of trouble.

Tropical jungle was passing along the road and I remembered how dark the jungle was in Congo and how practically it would be impossible to find me there.

Since I decided to ride that motorbike a plate was mounted on it displaying “AMAI SECURITY 5”.

However, my foremost worry was about carbon copies of the photos I took since Egypt and which I was carrying in my backpack. For the last 5 months I was fighting my small battle of survival. Having never heard in my life about a foreigner, save along Mongolian, who travelled through insurgents’ territory I started realizing madness of my decision. I will never forget this experience but I had to survive it first.

Although my skin color is not completely white I still attracted local people’s attention and I was getting used to it.

There weren’t villages where they did not point fingers at me.

We stopped at small African village located along the road. Huts made of assembled tree branches similar in shape to Mongolian ger with mud lined walls, typical of villages I visited before. When the guy stopped his motorcycle I thought “What is now?” and my heart started pounding faster. Because French is the official language of Ivory Coast I could not understand what he was saying. Somehow I realized he was telling me to dismount his bike.

Near the road on dusty side there were several men sitting inside a small tent. Without taking into account an old man sitting in the middle other five men near him bore pretty unsympathetic look.

All wore different colour military uniforms and since each also wore sunglasses they were seizing me openly. Although I could not see their eyes I tried to hold their stare and show that I am no less a man. I was never a contentious person though as someone who grew up in the city I had my fair share of dirty looks from provokers in the movies and bars. I stood like a performer in front of those six men and I felt uncomfortable.

A man in his 40’s, who looked like a real combat soldier compared to others, approached me and while chewing on a matchstick demanded “Your document and your pass!”

My driver shrunk like a rabbit. He got shouted “You, pay 500 francs!” In turn the driver started explaining him something. I’ve just realized why the fee was expensive, 7000. Even though previous night when it was dark and I surrounded by militants I was not as intimidated. Yesterday there were many people around, but today I felt uneasy standing alone in the middle of forest in a company of men with their Kalashnikovs. Is it Hollyood movie about African rebels?

-“Who are you?”

-“Journalist, I am here to put together report about your country and activities of UN. Yesterday couple of our cars must have passed here. I was left behind and now I am trying to catch up with them on my own.” I had no other choice but to make up this answer and see what happens.

I heard that not long ago couple of UN, Bangladeshi peacekeepers trucks passed towards this direction. Since they stand all day here they must know about UN trucks. I showed them my picture that I took with UN peacekeepers and right away overcame with regret about exposing my camera.

He stood checking my passport but it was obvious that he has never seen visa in his life before.

In most African countries there are military backed checkpoints and it has become an established custom for everyone to present their identification to any men in uniform. Hence I thought, perhaps this man was one time a herder and when there was outbreak of civil war he fought for his current rank and now out of his own habit he was checking my documents.

I also guessed that he might the type who likes Hollywood action films. Who wears ROCKY sunglasses and talks this way with a match stick in their mouth?! I didn’t even realize it at first hand.

While I was standing in from of them my driver had decided to take in another person to travel with us. I protested to this; through such bad road, with my backpack and extra passenger. I did not want such burden. Plus, since we were passing through a land with insurgents everywhere it would be better if we are by ourselves. However it was important to divert the attention of soldiers-hence I started arguing with the driver.

-Ok, ok I shall stay here then. You take the man and leave! That said I dismounted my backpack from the bike. The driver changed his mind and started tying back my backpack.

The men who were planning to take my money by beleaguering me in unknown land stood stunned by my act. The man who might have had only one wish to get out of here says-I will wait here until next vehicle comes by!

That was my intention to appear as unintimidated as possible.

I turned around and asked for my passport back.

They said-If you don’t have special pass we can’t let you go.

-My passport has a stamp of your superior officer, I replied to them and I showed them the stamp that I got at the police station occupied by rebels. I realized that the superior officer tried to replace the special pass with the stamp.

I remembered that back at the location where there were insurgencies they asked for money for this pass. They solicit money by selling such passes-hence when I refused to pay money they naturally did not issue me pass. Although the soldier made hints for money I directed my attention to an elderly man. From my experience of 2 years in Africa I knew that in such small villages the chieftains as a rule are old men.

-Do you want hear music?

-What music?

I demonstrated some beatbox and some Huumii style singing. They were all amazed and the old man was astonished a little.

The others could not believe that music was coming out of my mouth. Because most of the time there is no electric power they listen to whatever music is available through old-fashioned transistor radio and when someone plays the music from radio with just mouth they feel natural reverence.

Thus when I was about to retrieve my passport the man who was holding it said-Give us at least money for food, we are starving. I drew out one of the cookie boxes that the Bangladesh peacekeepers gave me; I unpacked it and invited them. Although they were little annoyed by the fact that their plan to collect money came down to just cookies nevertheless they were pleased with the taste of it. If I didn’t un-wrap the cookie box they would have thought the gift was insignificant.

I mounted the bike and we started moving away. I was worried that they would call from behind but they were satisfied with the music and the tasty cookies.

We were back on the road.

In accordance with my previous experience I slipped my sleeping bag underneath myself and it felt like I was riding on a couch.

We rode through several villages and people kept on giving me bewildered looks. We kept on moving until we reached the next security check. According to the rule of 3, if you pass the first test the following is usually not that hard, because they think that if he was inspected once before he should be fine.

When I entered a hut I found two youngsters sitting inside.

Only yesterday they might have been playing soccer with their peers but now they have assumed the role of gun touting hotshots. One of them showed off his Kalashnikov in his right hand by placing it on the table in my direction. Just like in pranks.

The message did not directly read “I will kill you” but they were testing me. The youngster did not easily scare someone who went through gun powder, bomb zones, and someone who was held at rear sight by Kalashnikov. I doubted that they would carry out any decision since they were too young. Also I could be someone they should not be touching since I passed the first security point. However they said “Money!”

I knew that such guards have nothing else to do but to peer into the empty road all day for an opportunity to make some money and in hopes that someone will show up. When someone finally stops by they can be quite a nuisance.

While they examined my passport they tried to initiate a chat but my lack of linguistic ability helped me to avoid it successfully.

The driver stood staring at one of them. In the past when soldiers asked him to pay I usually was able to help him avoid it and therefore he had confidence in me.

Journalist, UN, Liberia, Mongolia, I tried to slip these words into my limited vocabulary of broken French hoping to solve the issue.

In the face of soldiers, rebel boys who were prepared to do anything just to rip something off of me I decided to repeat my previous trick. I offered my cookies to everyone and as I jumped on the motorbike I made it known that the driver was with me.

People get used to the lifestyle where there are insurgencies. One has to learn to adapt well without neglecting own business. I understood that these people were struggling to survive on their own regardless of burdens of securities, checkups, and harassment.

They endure to support their families.

People go to work in the morning and hope to return safely in the evening to their houses-in a country where there is no effective law enforcement whoever possesses a gun becomes the law itself and I saw from the aggravated face of my driver how tough it must be to survive in such conditions.

A person who has at least heard rifle sound will certainly survive like in this land of wolves if he exercises certain nonchalance, posture and confidence.

I thought it wouldn’t harm if I uttered here and there few local phrases and shook the brothers’ hands in RAP style.

We were back on the road and although on the next station we encountered again two guards the security check was not complicated. As I did before I mentioned again the words UN truck, journalist, and my stamp. As I settled back on the road I was leaving behind in the villages of tropics subject for news and gossips, enough to last for few days, image of my Mongolian face.

Africans have black skin color and whether I hang out in the club or at train station they take notice right away.

Then I approached the border.

We stopped at one settlement. Few people under a tree, men in military uniforms chatting with girls perhaps joking in their African manner, anyway stood entertaining each other. One of them took notice of me and escorted me to one room. He said 10 thousand francs and I will put a stamp.

-I am a journalist and no one up until now charged me anything. Why should you? Put the stamp on!

-No, I will stamp only if you pay, he replied in a stubborn manner.

Another man approached and asked me to show my backpack. I opened my backpack and was able to get hold of it back when I explained that I was a journalist and that I was with UN. When I showed them my photos with Bangladeshi soldiers that were stored in my camera they finally understood that I was UN and overcame their suspicion. I approached again the guard and asked him “Please, put a stamp on!”

-No, I won’t put the stamp on, you go away, immediately!

-How can I leave without it?

-Go, go

I took on my backpack, thanked the driver and secretly slipped him his pay 4000 francs.

When I came out from the office there were two rebels kneeling. Your passport, they said. I stood thinking if the passport is overly decorous everybody will be checking it infinitely.

When they asked for stamp I showed them the stamp that I got at their police headquarter. You may go, they said but you need to pay.  I started again my rhetoric of being a journalist and etc.

Hence I retrieved back my passport and started walking down a road. Behind a small ditch I detected a Liberian flag slightly similar in appearance to American. As I stood snapping a shot of Liberia’s side I remembered the man from the border.

I begged him to put a stamp and he refused to put one unless I paid. If I was able to proceed anyway without it what was the purpose of that stamp? For some reason I assumed that the guy must have been at some point a country bumpkin who rose all of a sudden to the position of border patrol office and when he found some stamp in his drawer he took into his habit charging money for using it. That must have been the reason of his haughtiness when I asked him to put a stamp.

Thus, as I walked towards the Liberian border I amused myself with the thought about the man who most likely thought about me: “Ha ha troubles are awaiting you without my stamp!” I chuckled. What a joker.

As I walked over a wooden bridge on the left hand side I noticed remains of train track. I started pacing towards the UN flag with blue inscriptions on it that was visible on Liberia’s side.

What had just happened during these two days?

Where and what have I been doing? If I shall recite my story to friends they wouldn’t believe! “Mongolian and went through rebel zone ?

Alone?” they shall question.

Till this day I remember the face of that guy with the stamp. He he he

This might have been so far the most challenging part of my travel. I shall hope. From this experience and on whenever I see films about wars or on similar topics I get instant flashbacks of what I experienced.