JEFF McLEAN'S BLOG | MARTY POUWELSE'S BLOG
- 01/10/2002 - Warts and all... (Mali)
- 14/10/2002 - Timbuktu...Tomboctou...however you say it, it's bloody far away... (Mali)
- 23/10/2002 - Goin' birko over bein' in "Burkina" (Burkina Faso)
- 05/11/2002 - Ouagadougou to Bolgatanga (someone get me a linguistomy fast!) (Ghana)
- 11/11/2002 - Roast to Coast (Ghana)
- 26/11/2002 - Ghana get to Benin and finish this thannnnnnnnnnnng... (Benin)
- 10/12/2002 - Currently slumping in the couch...for a little bit anyway... (Australia)
5/11/2002 - Ouagadougou to Bolgatanga (someone get me a linguistomy fast!) (Ghana)
G'day all,
So, you all may as well ask me…go on…”What is your address?” Go on….what are you waiting for? Everyone asks in Ghana, why don´t you? You ARE my friend, aren´t you??
I start with the only negative I can really find about Ghana, and I´ve started with it because it´s just so bloody insignificant. Yes, there are other little things that peeve me from time to time, but they are only little, and such is the way I feel about our “new country.”
And if I think Ghana´s alright, then “Pete” (the trike) is being propelled along paths of perpetual pampering! The roads here so far are fantastic. They are a fine “grade” of bitumen, and riding here after Mali and Burkina Faso´s roads is not dissimilar to the feeling one gets when one has been sprinting on hot, spiky gravel in bare feet, then goes inside and walks on the carpet. It´s pure heaven – my cycling buddies will know the feeling.
The whole story from “Ouaga” begins in a sad fashion. Just before leaving Ouagadougou, it had become apparent that the beautiful, expensive cyclocomputer with altimeter and temperature gauge that my great friends at HPA had bought for me had become lost. Initially I was so mad with myself – I really didn´t think it was possible that I could lose this. I went thought everything many times, revisited all the places we had been in the interim, and found nothing. Then it dawned on me that it must have fallen out of my bag into one of the taxis that we were shunted in and out while getting around town. It was one of the saddest moments of my trip yet, none the least for what it represented. Guys, don´t despair though – your thoughts will always remain with me, and they are nicer than the gift itself.
But, after this setback, there was no use fretting – we got on the road early and set off for Toesse. At only 65km, the day was tough. The heat is incredible here, and can claim you before you know it, so cycling in the cool of the morning was just grand.
It is hard to explain how good the morning cycling is, and how easy it is in comparison with being on the road by, say, 10am.
Actually, the transition of going from early morning cool, to late morning heat is best described as being like that annoying thing an elder sibling would do – hold down the younger one and tap/punch the upper arm quite lightly about 50 times, all the while saying “does it hurt yet?” and knowing bloody well that it will soon. Those little “punches” would never hurt anyone even slightly if performed singly, and yet the last “punch” with the same intensity as the first could make your arm feel like it was going to fall off.
So it was with the cycling. There was no difference in the job from the morning to the afternoon, but once the cumulative effect of the effort and the sun had set in, any small exertion was a huge task.
Andrea, my younger sister, has just cottoned on to EXACTLY what I mean!
Toesse was yet another of those towns we approached and had no idea where we´d sleep. We could always revert to the concrete floor of a verandah, despite our lack of sleeping mats; just like “The Four Yorkshiremen”, “we did it tough!” But, in typical African fashion, we had a room and bed and meals within about 15 minutes of entry into town.
Before we got to the market in Toesse, I had noticed an almost ridiculously large church for this sized town (really, it WAS ridiculously large for this town). The yards seemed surrounded with trees, so I thought “mmmmmmmmmmmmm, shady grounds – there could be a hope…”
Within minutes of entry to the property, the father of the entire parish (quite a large district it seemed) had moseyed over to us and was in the process of having a room cleaned out for us.
I spat on the floor and stormed out of the place when I found out it had no fan! Who do they THINK we ARE???
Sorry, I jest!
So, after accepting the lovely offer, we were in the process of sidling “Pete” up beside the room in the lovely peaceful gardens, and were shown to our wash and toilet facilities (which we found later were mirrored in our room – yes, we had an en-suite!)
Just before we had all our luggage in the room, we were beckoned into the kitchen, where we were presented with a magnificent spread of a lunch, making King Henry´s feasts look like a one-bean, bean salad (well, not quite, but you do get my meaning…) Dinner followed later, and before going to bed, our request to pay for their wonderful hospitality was refused. After a bit of gentle work, I managed to convince the church´s priest to accept a ridiculously small donation for all we had received.
At 4am the next morning, we were up. Having a biggish day of 80km in front of us, we decided that km´s in the dark of the early morning were much easier to complete than km´s under a searing sun. The bloody dogs barked as though an attack from Mars was happening in front of their noses, and a bleary eyed parish priest came out with a torch and quietly and beautifully opened the gate and gave us his best wishes.
Rarely have I had a more beautiful cycling experience (apart from today – the 5th of November, but I´ll get to that later…)
Before I could even see the speedo, we had done 24km in slightly over one hour. We had been told to look out for the “grand camyon´s” (French for “large trucks”), but as usual, these were not the slightest issue. I was, of course, more interested in the possibility of bandits or foul play in the dark hours. However, our friends assured us there was no possibility of this. The sweet cool morning air, the other locals who we just managed to see at the last minute on their lightless bikes, and the sounds of the insects and crowing roosters, were just gorgeous. Even the entry of the mechanical sun (not the “impossible sun” as I almost blasphemously misquoted the Midnight Oil lyric at the end of my last post) could not dampen the enthusiasm of the morning. The sun did, of course, provide a lovely subtle display of colour in the sky, welcoming us to the new day.
Our 80km finished at Po, and what set this town well apart from the others was that our entry corresponded with the entry of the riders on the Tour du Faso – Africa´s significant answer to the Tour de France (largely run by the same people). We rode “happily” up the incline into town as many of the locals cheered us on – according to them, we were the “winning riders” of today´s stage, and we must have looked bloody slow! But who were we to argue?! We were so damned “fast” in fact, that we were early enough to smudge (ooops!) the “Credit Lyonnais” advertising slogan, newly painted at the finish line.
Getting up on the podium and accepting the yellow jersey for being the fastest rider, in front of thousands of cheering fans, belting out “Greenspeed… Greenspeed… Greenspeed…,” was such a beautiful experience that it´s a damned shame it occurred at 1am the next morning during an excellent sleep and a particularly heavy bout of dreaming…
As usual, so much more excellent stuff has happened, and Ghana is certainly as friendly as it was made out to be, but I will leave this missive at two final stories – The Porridge King, and The Great Diversion. (Ohhhhh, but then there´s the Hotel Mayaga, and my little village forays, and “the search for John” and…and about 50 other stories to tell…)
The Porridge King
The Porridge King, as I fondly remember him (though I remember far more about him than this little tidbit) is an Englishman. John Gardner and his wife, Mary, are doing volunteer work in Ghana for two years.
To cut a long story very short, we had met John´s daughter in Bamako, Mali, heard of him through her, heard he loved cycling, heard he was in Navrongo, Ghana, and entered the said town quite dejected after a completely fruitless search for the man! It was only later, as we walked through the dusty lanes of the confusing, “shanty town”-like market, that we ran across his path.
“You wouldn´t happen to…………….be John Gardner, would you?” was my first question. I was going to ask if he knew John, but I took one look at him and saw the similarity to Kate, his daughter, and cut to the chase.
He was. The next day, after a nice day of rest, we turned up at his place and spent a wonderful night, full of conversation, wonderful homely peace, and good food (cooked without 14 litres of oil, as seems to be the norm here). “Pete” got his own room in the house, but was somewhat ungrateful – not a word of thanks from him when we left in the morning. I´ll forgive him just this once. (Fancy…the one night he´s out of manacles, and not even a smile!)
The following morning we awoke to a splendid porridge. How I have missed my porridge! And John did it properly too. Not fancy. Not cooked with raisins, or cinnamon, or even milk, or sugar or anything. Just the pure goodness of cooked oats in water (to which a little milk, and a shi…cartload of sugar was added – mmm…suuuugaaaar!). That stuck my ribs together reeeeeeeeeeeel good, and I nearly made a fool of myself with my paroxysms of pleasure over the supplied “grub.”
After that joy, we got all our stuff together and hit the road to Bolgatanga. John rode half way with us, and we left him under the shade of a wonderful teak tree, many of which were planted along the roadside so frequently on this morning.
Now we are in Tamale after another couple of days hard yakka, and enjoying a rest day before going south into what has been described as more hilly country.
Today we had an excellent morning dropping in on a school and showing the kids the trikes, and we copped a ride in a truck which proved to be an excellent experience. Still, I´d like to score a ride on one of the packed trucks with people piled high. We´ll see if that eventuates… And the best thing about the day – that to which I referred earlier – was our musical accompaniment for the morning.
We have just the right equipment to rig both of us up to my minidisk player, and in an effort to make the cycling easier, I decided to give it a go. Within ten minutes we were wired for sound (looking much better than Cliff Richard did in the early 80´s, despite the pure scabbiness and skankiness of the clobber with which I was adorned.)
“Oils” was the order of this (and every) day! Midnight Oil´s best (according to my rather controversial selection of 6 months ago) came streaming in our ears, and the lyrics (amidst, gasps for air, gulps of water, and tonal disgraces) were bleated and bellowed out around the Ghanian countryside.
No hill could sadden us. No wind could demoralize us. No person could stop our wild hand movements, crazy loud volumes, and hideously large and mad smiles as we streaked through a previously “Oils”-untouched land. It was pure magic. And thanks to the glory of electricity, we can do it all again soon.
But right now, it´s onto my final story – the Great Diversion.
The Great Diversion
Those of you that have spent hours at borders will appreciate this one. You will know instinctively, the mongrels of guards that have little better to do than waste hours upon hours of your time, in the hope of getting some of your “muller” to speed up the process. You can now live your collective revenges vicariously through this story of triumph.
We had been warned about the Ghana border – Customs there are “thorough,” “they” said. Eight hours, one traveller told us, and while I didn´t think we´d get stopped that long, I wasn´t prepared for the effectiveness of my tactic.
You see, not even Customs staff are immune from the “grab factor” of “Pete”. With his three wheels, relaxed demeanour, and utter “freak-arsed” looks, a person that successfully avoids the desire to glimpse is about as commonplace as the 14 year old boy who goes into a magazine shop and doesn´t try to sneak a gawk at the flesh mags!
I had fronted up to the dreaded officers, and – my word! – my woman was in full swing. The travelling lady in front of me had all her belongings strewn out over the table and the official had evidently checked every stitch of her knickers. As a result, my travelling “friend” in front was in the process of getting very hot under the corset over the fact that she was held up for so long.
The Customs woman was giving her the rounds of the kitchen, enlisting my help by asking me to agree openly with the fact that “this process is done at every border”. I felt like saying “Yes, but usually you don´t expect the Spanish Inquisition”, however, I refrained. I didn´t want the dual problem of (a) stuffing up my own cunning plan, and (b) Michael Palin jumping out in some REEEEdiculous costume and uttering…go on Python fans, we know you love it….”NOOOOOOOBODY expects the Spanish Inquisition!!!!”
I just thought of Mr. Palin, and smiled, and nodded at the Customs lady.
As the other lady in front of me packed up her goodies, spread out from A-hole to breakfast time, it was becoming my turn in “the stocks.”
“Where are you from?” delivered in a very laaa-deee-dAAAA tone – what a smelly, smelly scumbag she beheld in front of her!
“Australia.”
“Why are you in Ghana?” (Roughly translated, she wanted to say, “Go back, have a shower and shave you scabby ringworm – and come back with some semblance of dignity!”)
“Tourism…” {“Your worship,” I was apt to add…}
(And then my – if you´ll permit me to say so myself – masterstroke, delivered with an absurdly overconfident smile and manner…)
“…and actually, if you look out to your right, you´ll see what we´ve come in on. It´s an ace bike (yes, I said bike!), and it´s huge, and we´re riding it from Mali to Benin in two months. Go on, have a look!”
This last sentence was a dooozy! Talk about temptation!
The holey walls and gathered throng slightly obstructed her view, but I knew in that second that I had won. Haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahahahahhahahahahaha!!!! (Damn! Even now, it makes me feel soooooooo good!)
Her neck was craned in the manner of a peculiarly violent S-bend, the jaw was rapidly falling to the ground, and the head wanted to move quicker than the body would take it.
“Tha……..!.......Wha…….You ca……..” in the typical African, high pitched voice, and smiley countenance.
There was no point unpacking any further, but I did so for good measure. I at least had to open ONE pocket of my panniers for her, and when I was saying “medical kit…malaria prophylaxes…blah…blah…blah…” and saw the dismissive hand gesture as the body and exhortations continued trikewards, I knew that it was all over.
“No more…really…” she did actually say.
With that, all the Customs officials came to the door. All of them became about 5 years old (some stopped to gawp, others sang out in voices higher than a squirrel-gripped male-soprano – or whatever they´re called) and I threw my panniers back on and we moved off.
32 seconds (for the sake of the story). Half of my baggage declared. None of it searched.
And a BIG fist thrust into the air for the little traveller everywhere!
God bless you all,
Jeff
“Got your last meal filled up with pesticide
Hamburger chains, third world infanticide.
Got robot cars, your jobs will disappear
It´s called the politics of a brand new year.
Manhattanisation is coming
Open your eyes if you dare
Carry us on to the crossroads
Come to your senses and care
16 million
I can´t hear you at all
Some say that´s progress
I say that´s cruel”
- “Progress”, Midnight Oil, © 1985