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

5/11/2002 - Tamale, GHANA

HELLO!!!!!!!!!!

Sorry, but it's easy to get excited speaking english when you've been stumbling like a fool through a foreign language for a month.

After crossing the border into Ghana, instead of hearing the usual "bonjour!" and "ca va!", we now get the rather surprising "hello!" and "good afternoon!". Ghana is a former english colony so the locals speak english! Being able to respond appropriately and communicate our needs effectively is almost akin to being in a hospital bed for a week, finally taking a few steps and realising how lucky you are that you can walk.

In last week's episode, we were relaxing in the large Burkina Faso town of Bobo-Dioulasso. We took a few days off cycling to do bugger-all and remember what it was like to not sweat like a bastard and get heatstroke.

Bobo was quite a bussling city with the usual street stalls, dirt, and smoke, though the smells weren't quite so bad as Bamako, which isn't saying a great deal. After our few days of R & R, we cycled to a large dirt area with lots of space, pot holes, goats, chickens, tyres, smoke, some dead buses, some working buses that look like dead buses, and some relatively healthy-looking mini-buses. This was apparently the bus station. As we rode in we got the usual "my bus is better than his bus!" and "I give you best price!". With learned skill, Jeff stopped abruptly, raised his finger and said "Right, you. How much?" There was a response Jeff was evidently happy with and the deal was done. We were directed to a dusty shelter with a red mini-bus out the front. "When do we leave?" "11 o'clock." It was 10:45, but of course, experience had taught us that Africans give time the same respect they give their sense of smell. Nevertheless, at 11am, the trike was hoisted adeptly atop the roof and we were on our way. How could one help but get excited?

A few minutes later and we stopped. We waited several minutes till we could resist no longer. "When do we leave?" "12 o'clock". I see. 12 o'clock slowly came and went, and we asked again. "2 o'clock, definitely". Uh huh. Yep. Soon after, they insisted on moving our luggage out of the bus and taking the trike off the roof. Apparently, we were being moved onto another bus, which was to arrive at 2pm. So we sat there patiently in the heat, myself sporting a rather gruesome headache and the onset of a cold, and waited. At 2pm, however, our bus did arrive and the trike was dragged onto another roof. Very soon after, we were on our way again. I couldn't help but ask myself when we'd unexpectedly (or should I say, expectedly) stop again. Much to my joy, it was five hours and an arrival in Ouagadougou later before we did.

In darkness and with a map almost entirely devoid of road names, we rode slowly down a busy street with no idea where we were going. After half a dozen apparently humerous conversations with locals, we were none the wiser. Wait! It's the air traffic control tower! Must be the airport! Amongst much pointing and shouts of merriment (which inevitably follows wherever the trike boldly goes) we found the main road and headed north with zest. Our enthusiasm was shared by the bugs that swarm in great numbers around every street light, some of the more brave members daring to dart away and smack into my chest at a rapid rate of knots, resulting in a surprisingly audible thud. Attempting to cycle on a tandem recumbent tricycle with a grasshopper trying to escape from under your top while you do the twist and scream "ewww! it's inside my shirt!" like a girl is not a good look. Luckily, my heart was still beating at an acceptable pace when we arrived at our hotel.

If the noisy smelly streets are a firey hell, then arriving at a hotel is sheer heaven. The people, noises and hassles stop at the front gate. There's nothing quite like the feeling of entering your room sweating like a fountain, dropping your luggage, and flopping on the bed like a rag doll. Oh, yes there is: having a cold shower. Not that you get a choice of temperature. Not that you'd want one in this sweaty place. We met a french traveller who noticed the trike and told us about the Tour De Faso, West Africa's answer to the Tour De France. Jeff, the cycling geek, screamed with glee at the possibility of being on the right road at the right time to meet the racers.

Being the capital of Burkina Faso, Ouagadougou (pron Whagga-do-goo) was the place to get our visas for our next country, Ghana. On our way to the embassy we saw a vendor selling frozen drinks in bags. The deep red was hibiscus juice, which we'd already tried - quite tasty; the brown was a mystery so got one each. Turned out to be a very strong ginger flavour. So strong, in fact, it felt distinctly like it contained chilli. Quite refreshing really, but a second one would've blown my head off.

The chaps at the embassy were quite nice, and Ghana being previously ruled by the Britons ("well, who are the Britons?!"), we were treated to the now rather unusual act of speaking our own language. Simply talking was never such a joy. My knowledge of the french language is about enough to get me an embarrassed smile. To think I could go and order a meal or successfully communicate the inner workings of our tricycle on my own in Ghana was just too much. We could also now go and do some proper interviewing and chatting to local people on camera.

We went back into town and purchased a much-required cold beverage. Whilst merrily sipping we saw an old man wandering down the street wearing nothing but a red hanky, which was doing a piss-poor job of covering his crucials. In fact, his testicles, not far from the size of a mature bovine's, were blowing freely in the breeze, not far from his knees. When you come to a place like this, especially from a place like Australia, it's easy to become desensitised to the activity that surrounds you on the street, and I'm glad there is still scope for capturing my attention, and this did the trick admirably. Actually, yesterday we saw a rather raggamuffin young chap wandering (apparently aimlessly) down the street completely naked. Can he not afford clothes? Does he see no need for them? After all, it is rather warm here. Where does he keep his money? Perhaps he sees no need for this either? Is there room for admiration for his active non-involvement in the capitalist regime?

Ouagadougou seems quite modern, particularly when compared with Bamako, but also with Bobo-Dioulasso. Around the centre of town the roads are two lanes wide each way, there are huge monuments and roundabouts and plenty of large corporate buildings. The pollution from cars and bikes, however, is no better than anywhere else we've been in West Africa, though the sewerage smells are considerably less frequent and pungent. There seems to be less guides here trying to sell us their services, but the vendors are more insistent. Thankfully, though, Ouaga still has nothing on Mopti.

Jeff had a mild malaria scare while in Ouaga, as he regularly gets bitten (they always go for him first, which is my warning to apply RID) and he went and had the test. He was quite surprised to find it came up negative as he expected the worst.

I'm getting the most shouts of "rasta!" then anywhere else so far. It annoys me that dread-locked vendors think we have an instant bond simply because we share a hair-style. Besides the marijuana connection, cries of "Ras Tafari!" imply peoples assumptions that I'm a supporter of this Jamaican messiah who believes Ethopia to be the promised land. I hate to dissappoint them, so I wave and move on.

Back on the road and it was typically hot. This is one aspect of riding I most certainly do not enjoy. We get up as early as possible to avoid the late morning and early afternoon heat, and today we got up an hour late. Later in the morning with 20kms to go, the back tyre received a puncture and I was really not looking forward to getting back on the trike. So far it's been surprisingly easy to just go with the flow, and deal with the heat, but several days of getting burnt, and with the sun now beating down fiercely, I would've been more than happy to call it a day. One re-application of sunscreen and lip balm later, however, and we were slowly on our way again.

Another catholic mission in a weeny town called Toesse showed us the kind of hospitality and generosity that would make the Dalai Lama throw in the towel. Jeff simply asked for a bit of concrete space to sleep on and we received keys to a private room with two beds and a bathroom. No sooner had we lumped our stuff in there, and they had two extra places set for us at a lunch they were evidently just about to have. We sat with the local priest and benedictine monk and shared rice, a meat sauce, a stew that looked like pigs trotters and skulls, bread, fruit, soft drink and water. All for free. It was with effort the next morning upon leaving that Jeff successfully managed to give them some money as a donation to the mission. This kind of selfless behaviour was incredibly humbling and almost brought me to tears. Jeff decided to come to Africa to demonstrate, that regardless of where you go, the majority of people, particularly muslims as they are represented badly in the western media, are good. His point of coming here was that he hadn't been here before, and there-in lies the faith, which so far has been rewarded substantially.

After this amazing lunch I went and lay down as I felt particularly fatigued. My body was very hot, my face was very hot, and I had a strong headache. I'd felt like I'd taken every precaution on the road today, with regular drinks of water and applications of sunscreen, but now I felt terrible. It felt as if the intense heat came from within. Not just hot weather, but I felt like my body was genuinely hot from the inside. It's difficult to describe but I've never felt it before. I finally summoned the energy to have a shower, and spent twenty minutes joyfully cooling my body. It worked terrifically well and, besides a still very apparent headache, almost succeeded in making me feel human again. After a look through the village we returned to a dinner invitation. A new fellow had joined us this time, and he couldn't believe we were from Australia. Every few minutes our conversation was interupted with his cries of "Australia! Really?!" Apparently, we are the first Australians he's met. I suddenly realised that we had the rather dubious job of representing our country. I hope he doesn't think all Australians wander the streets sunburnt with stupid grins.

The stars were ablaze when we cycled away from the mission the next morning at 4am. It was blissfully cool and my first hour was spent with my neck arched backwards enthusiastically watching the stars. I saw several satellites and shooting stars. With the sun still ages from showing it's face, I was actually starting to enjoy this cycling caper. When the temperature's right and without too many uphills, cycling's not such a bad thing. With the strenuous conditions on the road lately, I'd made a negative association with cycling, and the cool of the pre-dawn was starting to turn this around. Most people were still asleep at this hour, but occassionally we'd pass a cyclist, always without lights, giving the dark road and eerie atmosphere.

As we approached Po, the streets started to thicken considerably with people, who were out to watch the cyclists from the Tour De Faso. No participants of the ride had passed us on the street yet, so we knew we were ahead of them. Upon entering the town, we were met with huge cheers from the crowd, who perhaps thought we were some kind of freak show from the Tour De Faso. I felt like we were racing and that we were winning, which the crowd seemed to confirm for us as we crossed the finish line. This place was abuzz with people, the streets full of activity. Media was everywhere to cover the event, and it was strange to see so many white people in an otherwise typical West African town. That night there was music from a large stage in the middle of town, and a strange dancing contest to offload corporate propaganda in the shape of t-shirts, caps, and even empty plastic bags with "Telecel" emblazoned across them. The next morning we were willing to get up relatively late to watch the cyclists leave and head back to Ouagadougou for their next leg.

We eventually approached the border to our third country and I started thinking about what I thought of Burkina Faso. It certainly didn't have the impact of Mali. I subconsciously expected it to be similar to Mali (as I had no other reference), and it seemed to be. The people were generally no more or less hospitable, and the architecture of the village huts certainly looked the same. The biggest difference I noted was in the capitals. Compared to Bamako (capital of Mali), Ouagadougou is like Tokyo. It's large, modern, relatively clean, and there are ATMs. Retrieving money is as absurdly simple as keying an amount into a machine. This is absolutely laughable when compared to our Mopti money-chasing excercise.

Our trials at the border lasted just half an hour, and it was refreshing and a pleasure to finally hear people greet us in our own language. Finally, Jeff doesn't need to be the spokesperson for everything. Besides the language, the most obvious difference at this early stage was the road. It was beautifully smooth. Almost makes cycling uphill a joy.

At our next town of Navrongo we went in search of a bloke called John Gardner, the father of an english traveller we'd met in Bamako. We got sent to a dozen different places by well-intentioned but unhelpful locals, so we went in search of some local currency. Ghanians use CEDIs and not the CFA francs we were carrying, and we had not a cent of it. It was Saturday and the banks are closed, with everyone telling us to go to the next town. We wandered the markets looking for a local member of the black market who could help, and a restaurant owner went and fetched a friend. A couple of minutes later, a bloke walks in and Jeff quickly sets up the deal and suggests an exchange rate which the bloke agrees to. We hand over CFA60,000 (AU$170) and off he goes to get our cedis. A couple of minutes later of sitting in silence, I turned to Jeff and said "why didn't we follow him?" It all seemed rather natural, but now I felt like a fool who had been easily parted with his money. We watched the street nervously for another five minutes and he finally returned carrying wads of local cash. Jeff reiterated the deal, and the bloke responded with an arkward laugh and a "no no, I must have misunderstood you." Either he was deaf or incredibly stupid, as Jeff had explained it very clearly, even displaying the amount on the guy's calculator. When he'd returned, he hadn't brought back our CFAs. "I'll just go back and get it." Jeff wisely decided to go back with him, and ten minutes later returned with our original money.

We continued our search for cash and finally found a guy who lead us for ten minutes through the narrow market alleyways into a dark stall where a deal was done and we finally got some money. On our way to get some much needed food, and we briefly greeted a white fella who passed us. It's difficult not to say hello to the white people you see, as they're so few and far between. Jeff suddenly stopped the guy and said "You wouldn't happen to be John Gardner would you?" "I am indeed! You're not the tandem cyclists are you?" After all our searching this morning, and we'd run into him by chance. If we hadn't had all our hassles getting money, we probably would never have crossed paths. I loved that something positive had arisen from something negative and was disappointed I didn't foresee it. He immediately invited us for dinner and a bed the next night, which we gratefully accepted.

The next day after visiting the largest catholic mud cathedral in the world, we rode to John's place to a lovely welcome. We helped chop the vegies and it was wonderful to smell the aroma of a decent meal cooking; a small pleasure we've missed the last month. It was also a pleasure to have a meal with no oil, sand or dirt. I almost melted as we ate mango crumble with custard for dessert.

Yesterday while riding we stopped at a small village. Jeff happened by a local teacher and offered to talk to his school kids about the trike and our trip, which the teacher accepted. The classroom was full of kids as Jeff enthusiastically drew up maps of Africa and Australia on the blackboard, throwing questions at the kids all the while. The teachers then asked Jeff some questions, and just before we left the kids sang a farewell song, which quite unexpectedly almost made me cry. We got outside and Jeff demonstrated the vehicle while the kids chased behind screaming with glee. Quite an amazing experience.

One ride in a rather large truck later, and we're now in Tamale, the centre of the Northern Region of Ghana. The guide book describes the town as "lifeless and dull except maybe on Saturday night". Perhaps times have changed since the book was printed in 1998, but it's Wednesday morning and this place is anything but dull. The streets are thriving with activity, the cars and bikes coughing out their pollution with the usual gay abandon.

I hate to call it a rather exciting novelty, but a curfew is in force in this town. Our internet session was cut short last night as we had to get back to our hotel before 10pm. Waring between two factions of the Northern Regions' Dagomba tribe resulted in the chief in Yendi (west of here) being killed six months ago. The curfew is apparently being reviewed at the end of this month. It did feel strange walking the streets at 9:45pm wandering what we might see if we stayed out after 10pm.

We have another rest day today, then another nine or so days of cycling in total, the rest of the time spent resting, or on faster more relaxing modes of transport. We're over halfway now, and the more I go on, the less surprised and interested I'm finding myself. My introduction to West Africa was shocking and wonderful, but now the surprises are unfortunately becoming much less frequent, and I'm really starting to look forward to getting on the plane and going home.

Cheers.

Love,
Marty.

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