Tri Cycling Africa

HomeBack to the homepage. JourneyThe filmmakers cycled a tandem recumbent tricycle over the dusty landscapes of West Africa. Over two months they crossed five countries from Bamako, the capital of Mali, up to the legendary city of Timbuktu on the southern edge of the Sahara Desert, south through Burkina Faso, Ghana, then Togo and Benin. This is the motivation behind the journey. TrailerDownload an extended trailer for the documentary series. Media KitDownload an electronic press kit (includes full synopsis, crew bios, episode breakdowns, director's statement and more), brochure and white paper. PhotosSome images from the trip. BlogsOutside the making of the documentary, this is a series of emails sent home during the trip. They are completely honest accounts from the filmmakers of the highs and lows of travelling in a foreign place. ContactThe series is currently seeking distribution. Click here to contact the producer. CreditsThis project would not have been possible without...

JEFF McLEAN'S BLOG | MARTY POUWELSE'S BLOG

22/10/2002 - Bobo-Dioulasso, BURKINA FASO

Crap. I'd forgotten this was a cycling trip.

We've just finished our fourth day of cycling, and besides the strenuous uphills stretches, the skanky clothes, and being claustrophobically surrounded by an entire village population every time we stop for a drink, the hardest thing by far is the heat. Bugger me, it get's hot during the day. We start riding before sun rise, and by 8:30am it's sweltering. The sun is so strong, I'm getting badly burnt despite my hat, long clothes and sunscreen under my clothes.

We arrived yesterday (Tuesday) in Bobo-Dioulasso, the second largest city in our second country, Burkina Faso. We bid Mali farewell on Monday and it feels strange to have left it. Almost a little sad. It was quite a shock when I first arrived there and most of it smells like a cess-pit (though some of the food is brilliant), but Mali has taught me an absolute shit-load about the world and that there's more to it than my cozy Australian existence with a clean apartment, clean toilet (with paper), and clean clothes.

Timbuktu was lovely, if such an adjective can be used to describe a town in West Africa. I remember it as a relatively peaceful place, even with the few hassles we got on the street. I guess the difference here is that people understand when you say "no"; a nice change. One evening we went for a 1km stroll desert-wise, chose a tall dune, and sat and watched the sun set over the desert. So quiet and so beautiful to watch. It was magic. On the way we saw a few black beetles burrowing into the sand, and I couldn't help but chuckle, watching their back legs kicking furiously.

Our financial situation became a little tense as we attempted unsuccessfully to acquire some cash. Timbuktu is a romantic place for a holiday, but a pain in the arse to get money. We only just had enough for our accommodation and transport out of the place, which almost didn't happen either. The day before we had to leave we enquired about a 4x4 down to Sevaré, which, to give you some perspective, is just near Mopti, which is where we boarded the boat for Timbuktu. (Once in Sevaré we planned to bus it back to San, which is where we'd left the trike.) Anyway, a 4x4 doesn't leave town until it has at least eight passengers. This is a standard 4WD slightly converted with seating in the BACK back to accommodate a full capacity of a tightly squished twelve. Much haggling was done and we were told there wasn't yet enough passengers to guarantee a departure. The driver said if he did have enough by 2pm tomorrow, we'd leave then. A couple of our travelling friends had returned from an outing and we all ended up leaving with a passenger short, but we covered the shortfall. Not an ideal situation, but by that stage we had no choice.

We finally left at 4pm, and the first leg of our journey was to a place called Douentza. It was a very bumpy eight-hour trek through sand for the first four hours, and dried mud for the second. Occassionally we'd come across a fork in the sand, and how the driver knew where he was going is beyond me as there were no signs, and a lot of the drive was at night. Jeff, being the crazed individual he is, decided he'd travel part of the way up on the roof of the vehicle with the luggage and who I assume to be the driver's assistant, who often rides up top. Several times I seriously thought he must've been thrown off as some of the bumps were ridiculous.

Douentza was a typical West African town with smoke and dirt aplenty. Street-side stalls were everywhere and the place was abuzz, despite the hour (11pm). Our supper of choice was an omelette. The stall, like most others, was simply a dirty table with a bench seat, though some have shelters made of tree branches and hay. This one had a pile of eggs, a jar for mixing them, a jar of oil, a few onions, some bread, and a tiny coal stove on the ground, big enough for one pan. We made ourselves an omelette sandwich and it was bloody beautiful. Very tasty and much appreciated after our long and arduous ride.

Most of the food around this part of the country, especially as you get closer to the desert, almost always (presumably inadvertantly) contains sand. The gritty texture is a part of almost all food, including bread. There's not a lot you can do to avoid it, so again, you've just got to go with the flow, and it doesn't take long to get used to. Also, the locals seem to love vegetable oil. An omelette, particularly, will have half a cup of oil added, unless you notice early enough and signal to the cook that it's not necessary.

The second leg to Sevaré was in comparitive luxury as the roads were made. I nodded off several times as late night progressed to early morning, and we arrived at Mac's Refuge, a highly recommended guest-house at 2:30am. The friendly american host came out to greet us, despite the late hour, and showed us the rooms. This place was heaven. We agreed instantly and fell straight asleep.

Mac's Refuge is easily the most luxurious place we've stayed at so far. You'd hardly think you were in West Africa. Technically, Mac was actually born in Dogon Country, a distinctive and beautiful escarpment region in Mali (and a very popular tourist region), to American parents. He was brought back to the US but returned to Africa soon after and has spent the last fourty years of his sixty one here. However, he seems to have a pretty good idea of what westerners appreciate in accommodation. The beds were gorgeously soft, the rooms were decked out in traditional African style, and our breakfast was absurdly decadant, with pancakes, syrups, cereal, fruit salad, yoghurt, coffee, tea, and water - all laid out on a huge table like a feast. And there was a swimming pool. We couldn't possibly resist another night here so we did it in the guise of recuperation. Jeff also finally succeeded in getting cash in nearby Mopti. Only one bank in Mopti will accept Visa, and you must get to the bank when it opens at 8am or the phone lines become excessively busy making it impossible to withdraw money.

After a visit to the famous shop and bead museum of a local fellow known as Peace Corp Baba, where I picked up a very funky rasta hat to compliment my dreadies wonderfully, we were on the bus back to San. (Whilst on the subject of dreadlocks, the reaction to mine has been quite humerous. It's difficult to walk a street without at least one cry of "rasta!". After a few discussions with locals, it seems that dreadlocks and marijuana are generally not served seperately. One chap trying to sell me a guided tour of Dogon Country could apparently see from my eyes that I smoke way too much marijuana. Most people have difficulty with the concept that I have dreads and don't smoke, and usually react with a cheeky smile and a shake of the head.) Our arrival in San at around 4pm was met with a tremendous thunderstorm with pea to marble-sized hail, and several loud cracks of thunder. An awesome welcome to this town which Jeff and I both view is a haven. When we got back to our hotel, the place hadn't changed a bit. It was peaceful, and we were treated to another lovely dinner on the verandah under the setting sun, and even a few more rumbles of thunder.

Now our riding starts in earnest.

The next four days of cycling have become a bit of a blur of heat, sun, sweat, heat, hot roads, sweltering, heat, sweat, sun and heat. The start of each day is an absolute pleasure: it's cool, there's a beautiful orange light from the sun rise, and it's quiet. However, it doesn't take the sun long to catch on to what we're up to, and it seems to do everything in it's power to make us throw in the towel.

Occassionally we stop at a village for bananas, mangoes, paw paws, bread, water and whatever else we can find to sustain us. Every time we stop, it takes just a few seconds and we're completely surrounded by bewildered locals, nattering to each other in the their local tongue about (what I assume to be) how this strange contraption was created, and why the hell anyone would want to ride it. Their faces betray complete fascination as they run their eyes over the entire vehicle attempting to deduce how it works. Jeff often invites them to blow the horn (actually quite loud as it's air-pressure-loaded) which inevitably results in laughter and gasps of awe. As we leave a village the local kids (usually at least fourty or fifty) run behind us laughing, screaming and trying to keep up. It makes me grin like an idiot to see them, but hearing them is just something else. They're so full of life with apparently not a care in the world. It's beautiful beautiful stuff and easily one of the highlights.

Some of the water pumps are on the edge of a village, so when we stop we only attract the attention of a relative few. The local kids are only to happy to provide the pumping action as Jeff and I joyfully saturate ourselves and fill our water bottles.

The heat is stifling, and the uphills can be a little tough, but generally I'm dealing with cycling much better than I thought. My legs didn't turn into jelly after the first day, like I expected. In fact, besides the uphills, I haven't had any problems or pains whatsoever (besides the sunburn). It seems my stretches and vague attempts at jogging and rollerblading before the trip have actually paid dividends. (So there, Fi!)

We had a rather close call with the law on our way into the country as I was filming the entry sign into Burkina Faso. I happened to be filming as we passed a police checkpoint (quite accidental), but we weren't immediately stopped. About 500 metres down the road, a policeman on a motorcycle abruptly pulled us over and demanded we turn around and have our passports checked. He'd seen the video camera in my hand, and while our passports were being checked and logged, he went over the footage a few times and asked that we record over the parts where officers appeared. For fifteen minutes they discussed among themselves lord knows what, but I realised then that (I think) I'd actually broken the law. I haven't seen it written anywhere but was told that filming around gendarmerie and police stations and checkpoints is not allowed. I was a little concerned that we may have that tape (or worse, all our tapes) confiscated, or that we may be detained. We made several apologetic gestures, as one sympathetic officer explained places which cannot be photographed, and several minutes later they let us go. The West Africa guide book has an absurdly long list of places which are off-limits to photographers in Burkina Faso; some less obvious, like train stations, fire stations, bridges, hospitals, radio stations and so on, which makes it pretty tough to film anything here. It's difficult to walk down the street without seeing one of these things.

We'll now rest in Bobo-Dioulasso for a few days and have a look around the place. On first impressions, it seems quite similar to Bamako, only more modern with slightly less pollution. There are the usual mopeds, street stalls, activity and smells, but the infrastructure seems slightly improved. We've seen several large hotels, corporate buildings and the like. After the intensity of the last few days on the road we decided to go for mid-range accommodation. We're experiencing complete opulence with our own shower (complete with shower head), toilet (with paper), and the magic word: air conditioning. There is only one double-bed, but we managed to share a single-bed matress on a concrete patio the night before, so a double bed is wonderful. I love how going through trying times with just the basic necessities makes you appreciate the little things.

Our plan from here is to take a bus to the Burkina Faso capital, Ouggadougou, for another few days of taking it easy, then it's back onto the trike as we head S for the english speaking and reputedly very friendly Ghana.

If you've reached this point and are still conscious, congratulations. I haven't mentioned half of the stuff we actually experienced, but a lot of it I just cannot put into words, but am proud that it will stay in my heart.

Love,
Marty.

PREVIOUS | NEXT