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Kolé, Liberia: A DIY Busker's Messy Diary

@Felix Drake2/14/2026blog

i just walked off the bus in Kolé and the smell of fried plantains hit me before my eyes even adjusted to the humidity. the moment i stepped onto the uneven pavement a tin‑whistle slipped out of my pocket, ready for a first‑act solo on the street corner. i’m a diy busker so my kit is basically a backpack, a cheap amp, a pair of second‑hand drums, and a bunch of hand‑made sound‑effects like a bottle‑filled with water that rattles when you shake it. honestly the gear list could be a bullet point masterpiece, but today i’m going for the chaotic stream‑of‑consciousness style so you can feel the sweat drip from my forehead onto the strings.

these are the streets where the locals seem to love noise as much as they love fried fish. i got a quick tip from a mango‑seller who told me to keep the amp volume low after the evening rush, otherwise the night market’s bamboo stalls start to sway like metronomes. that’s the kind of overheard gossip you hear when you’re standing in front of a stall selling boiled peanuts. blockquote:

the sound‑engineer at the community centre says the best spot is the wooden bridge over the river bo, but he warns that the bridge creaks louder than a broken drum when the tide’s in.


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someone told me that the hostel owner flips a coin for room assignments, just for fun, and the loser gets a mattress made of banana leaves.


i just took a quick glance at my phone and the forecast screams sticky, upper‑heat that makes every breath feel like a sip of warm broth. pressure feels low, humidity looks like it’s trying to drown the sun, and the whole atmosphere feels like a closed‑door sauna. hope you like that kind of thing.

the neighbours are a bit sparse - if you get bored, the little towns of Dolo and Grand Lâge are just a short drive away. they’re not exactly a cultural explosion, but they have cool beach fronts where you can jam by the waves. i heard that in Dolo the fishermen play a tune on a cracked water‑bottle whenever they cast a net.

tripadvisor review of Kolé night market says the market is noisy but that the noise actually adds to the vibe. yelp of a local juice stall mentions the mango‑smoothie with a hint of spice that never disappoints. i also ran across a community board on lonely planet where someone posted a schedule for spontaneous jam sessions every Saturday at late‑afternoon.

a random rumour i caught from a teenager hanging out near the river: they said the mayor once gave a free banana to each traveler who could play a single note that made the nearby birds stop chattering. i tried, but the birds just kept ignoring me, maybe they were too busy hunting insects.

the street art scene is alive - colorful murals that look like they were painted by a drunk octopus. you can almost hear the brush strokes if you stay still for long enough.

i’m also trying out a new amp that doubles as a portable charger. it’s a life‑saver when you’re stuck in a corner and the only power outlet is a spare socket in a shop that’s never open past the evening. the amp is overheating because the humidity is like a monster, it smells like a wet rat after a few hours of use.

the locals love drumming, they have a hidden drum circle at the old market every night, you just have to follow the sound of a bongo that seems to get louder every hour. i once played a solo on the bridge and a crowd of teenage kids started break‑dancing, the whole scene turned into a free‑form jam session that lasted until the tide rolled back in.

someone told me that the reggae night is a secret affair held in the back of a laundromat, you have to knock three times before they let you in, and it’s where the sound system is rumoured to be powered by old car batteries. i haven’t made it yet, but the promise of a reggae beat in a place that smells of detergent makes my heart thump.

if you find yourself craving sand and sea, you can hop in a car and be on a beach within an hour. that’s the quick escape route for when the city feels too thick.

the cheap amp isn’t the only thing sweating; my guitar picks are all rusted now, turning into tiny metal teeth that bite the strings. i learned the hard way that you should keep a spare bag of dry picks in your backpack, or you’ll sound like a broken rattling tin can.

a local bartender who claimed to be a coffee snob gave me a quick tip: “if you feel the humidity rising, drink a strong brew and splash some on your face - it cools you down and keeps the amp from short‑circuiting.” i’m not convinced, but i tried it, and the sudden aroma of coffee mixed with sweat gave me a weird high.

the night market vendor once warned me never to wear bright orange because the police will mistake you for a neon sign, a funny but useful piece of drunk advice. i opted for a faded denim shirt, which blends in better with the dusty crowd.

i tried a traditional bamboo instrument that sounded like a haunted train rolling down a deserted track. it made the kids giggle, and they started imitating the sound with their own improvised whistles.

the local museum has a strange exhibit about a ghost who haunted the old church; they claim you can hear its echo during a full moon, a story that fuels my imagination for a midnight solo.

the busker’s code in Kolé says to always leave a small coin for the street vendor after you finish a set, a gesture that keeps the rhythm of kindness alive.

overall, Kolé feels like a mix of chaos and calm, perfect for a busker who loves the unpredictable. if you love humidity, street food, and a good excuse to improvise, you’ll probably stay longer than you planned. the heat is relentless, the people are warm, and the music is everywhere. i’ll keep playing until the tide rolls out or until i run out of dry picks - whichever comes first.

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About the author: Felix Drake

Just a human trying to be helpful on the internet.

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