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

27/11/2002 - SINGAPORE, and oh so close to home

Against all the forces of nature, we finally made it Cotonou in time for our flight!

Sunday was rather a large day in which we travelled in three countries.

We rose early as we wanted to get all the way to Cotonou in one day. It's only about four hundred kilometres, but there are two international borders, several corrupt cops, and a few bus companies to deal with on the way.

The through bus to Benin did not have a roof rack for the trike, so we had to take tro-tros (mini-buses) to the borders, cycle across the borders, then hopefully meet up with a tro-tro on the other side.

The bus station in Accra seemed to be closed, maybe because it was Sunday, but it didn't take long to get accosted on the street by a bus operator. A particularly boisterous gentleman with a fascination with yelling and jumping about madly told us his tro-tro was going to Aflao, the border town we needed to get to.

Amongst way too much excitement for a Sunday morning, and people leaping onto the seat while it was being lifted (much to Jeff's ire), the trike made it to the roof. With the experience of losing my stuff, we were now exceedingly careful not to leave bags lying about, making it even more difficult to film, particularly with the mad throng of people rushing about in seemingly random directions.

We got off at the Ghana/Togo border and went through the formalities, picking up our Togo visa in the process. This was a new country we were about to enter and I didn't care. All I wanted was to get to Cotonou. We were warned about the corrupt police in Togo, and we seemed to get a taste when the border officials refused to give us a receipt for the full amount we paid.

Lome is the capital of Togo and lies just a few hundred metres from the border, so we now had to find our next bus. I hadn't even thought about it, but suddenly we were forced to speak french again. We did get some reasonably good directions, though, and cycled onto not a dirt road, but a sand road. Must be because we were so close to the gorgeous beach (that lay just out of reach as we had no time), but it made cycling almost impossible. In fact, for a while we had to get off and push.

The sun was very hot by now as it was around midday, we smelled like dogs and we couldn't find the bus station, but like an oasis in the desert (this felt like the desert) a lovely little pattiserie shone like a beacon, beckoning us. "A chicken roll and Fanta Cocktail, please," and it went down an absolute treat.

We eventually found the bus station, but there wasn't much going on, especially for a west african city. We did find a few people who assured they could help us, but initially tried to charge us a completely exorbitant amount. Jeff bartered, then argued, for at least half an hour trying to get us a reasonable deal. Eventually Jeff agreed on a taxi to get us all the way to Cotonou (another 160kms) for CFA 20,000 (AU$55).

A four metre trike on the roof of a small car is quite a site. We were pretty dubious about it's stability, but they tied it down very well, and I'm happy to say it made the entire journey without incident. The corruption displayed itself again as we were pulled over, just so the driver could pay the police CFA 3000 (AU$9).

We eventually hit our final African destination of Cotonou, and the driver was very friendly as we cycled off into the darkness to look for a hotel. We spent at least twenty minutes cycling in circles looking for a place that didn't exist, then another ten to Hotel Du Port. CFA 50000 (AU$140) a night was a bit of a shock, so we continued our search. We eventually found a place and treated ourselves to an air-conditioned room, considering this was to be our last night in Africa.

We made it Cotonou with a day to spare which we spent shopping. The regular markets are typically West African. From the top it's a mish-mash of rusty jagged corrugated iron. From the throngs underneath it's narrow alleyways, a vast array of smells, vendors beckoning you to their wares, and lots of colour. We did heaps of wondering, then it was off to the artisan's market. Quite different from the traditional markets in that there was more space and less people. Higher prices but finer artwork. Beautifully sculptured wooden statues in every size and variety, including animals, masks, fetishes and drums; batiks (wall hangings), chunky african jewellery from the very small to the very large, bags, clothing and rugs were all on offer. This place was a joy as it was so quiet, even though the vendors still beckoned. While Jeff was off making his own purchases, I was left to barter on my own. I actually enjoyed the process a bit more this time, but still did not like hearing the sob story at my initial low price.

We eventually got back to our hotel to embark upon our final bike ride: the last 3kms to the airport. We were around 998.something kms so this final home straight would take us over the thousand.

We arrived at the airport at 7pm for our 11:55pm flight to give us plenty of time to arrange the trike. We expected a mass of touts like I got in Bamako, but we were able to get past a security post and were left completely in peace with the good-natured guards. Jeff mentioned to one of them that he needed to go inside to prepare the airline for the trike but the guard did not allow it.

So we merrily waited, both of us in a great mood - so close to the end. We even discovered a bar right next door and were rapt to get a good sandwich. The guards let us take footage of the trike in this little area and Jeff did his final piece to camera.

8:30pm arrived and we went inside to the check-in counter. We waited for a while until the manager was called regarding the trike, and then waited a further hour for him to show up. Finally, a busy looking french guy with a two-way radio arrived and proceeded to explain that putting the trike on the plane would be impossible. Jeff was quite prepared for this, and started to rattle off his well excercised responses with confidence. Unfortunately, the manager would have none of it. He said it was too short a notice to be checking in an item so large. That we'd been waiting since 7pm and that it's never been a problem for Jeff before did nothing to sway his decision. Apparently, it was now too late to load the trike and nothing Jeff could do or say would change the fact. My heart was racing and my mouth was dry, as I knew Jeff was having real trouble. The only other option the manager offered was for one or both of us to stay back and fly out on Wednesday, now that Air France had notice of the trike. Jeff was flabbergasted. He pleaded and almost begged, even offering a bribe (as this often works in many countries), but the manager remained completely steadfast.

We'd gone through so much against so many odds to be able to fly together, and we were being pipped at the post.

Jeff staying till Wednesday meant he would have to pay for another two nights accommodation in Cotonou, rearrange and pay for his three other connecting flights, then possibly miss the start of the Great Victorian Bike Ride, which I know he loves and looks forward to. My heart sank for him. I desperately wanted to stay with him but I had my own concerns. Not only getting home and seeing Lee, or the cost of reconnecting flights (which Jeff actually offered to cover), but I was meeting a cousin in Paris the next day who was flying from London especially. Jeff understood immediately and said I must go. All this incredible effort for this miserable outcome was too much for me and I cried. I tried to thank him for this amazing experience he'd given me by letting me come to Africa with him. The very experience that had given me so much, now, I felt, was taking something valuable from me. I found it difficult to accept that Jeff would now have to cycle back to the hotel at this late hour on his own and stay on for two more days.

Here's what I wrote in my diary on the plane shortly after: "Well. What a ****ed way to end it. With the extraordinary contrasts Africa has a habit of presenting (at the most inopportune moments) and all the effort and work and stress we endured so that we could fly together, I sit on the plane alone while Jeff is stranded at the terminal. Since last Tuesday, Jeff and I have run around like mad after my passport was stolen. The immense work that went into this one desired aim came out in a flood of tears. I could not, and still cannot, believe that we cannot fly together and have a drink together after all we did to try and make it possible. With the effort it takes to look at this objectively, it all seems rather a fitting end to the Africa experience. Africa more than anything or anywhere else in my experience, has the proficient ability to present the unexpected. Things I expect to be hard are easy. And things I expect to be easy become surprisingly difficult. What a fantastic character-building exercise this must be."

Close of check-in was approaching so I had to get to the other counter. I checked in my luggage and went back to Jeff. We hugged several times, myself still in disbelief and finding it difficult not to cry, and we eventually parted.

My last diary entry for that day: "Now, instead of me having to change my flights because of a ******** thief, Jeff had to change his flights because of a ******** beaurocrat."

I slept very restlessly for maybe an hour at most on the six hour flight to Paris, which arrived at 6am. My body felt fatigued but I was alert and excited to be meeting Carleen (my cousin) here. I saw a couple of travellers we'd met in Africa and had a good catch-up with them, and they told me about a strike that was happening at the airport today. "Here we go," I thought. I quickly went and checked my flight for tonight but it was ok. I now had to get on the net and see where Carleen was.

Paris airport must be one of the largest in the world. Why then, does it have but two internet terminals (individual terminals - not cafes) on the entire, enormously large, premises? It took a while for me to find one, then wait for the occupant to finish, but I found three messages from Carleen.

Apparently, the air traffic controllers were striking and Carl's flight had been cancelled. The 'departures' and 'arrivals' boards confirmed it, also. Almost every single flight in to and out of Paris airport displayed a big red "ANNULE" (CANCELLED) next to it. Again, it seems like a higher power was doing everything possible to screw my plans. I was really looking forward to seeing Carleen again. If I'd known this was going to happen, I may have stayed back with Jeff in Cotonou. I thought that by chance alone, there was no way my flight would be leaving tonight.

With no lockers anywhere due to security concerns, I had to carry all my luggage with me, and coupled with the foggy freezing wet conditions outside, there wasn't much incentive to leave the airport. So I had to try and occupy myself for twelve hours in a completely boring and hideously expensive place (15 euros/AU$30 an hour for internet access, 3.50 euros/AU$7 for a tiny cup of coffee).

My, how time crawls when you're bored shitless.

It eventually ended and I was on the plane to Singapore - for over 12 hours. It was uncomfortable and boring, but it did go quicker than I expected. I must have slept for while and more time had passed than I thought.

When we finally arrived at Changi Airport I headed for the showers. The last two nights were spent on aeroplanes and I hadn't changed my clothes or showered in that time. I entered the watery oasis and had my first clean western shower in two months. Free flowing WARM water, a clean room, racks, shelves, handles, infinite soap, shower caps, and a huge clean mirror. Was that ME in the mirror? I'd almost forgotten what I'd looked like. Not many mirrors in Africa. The shower was long, and I made sure I got my eight Singapore dollars worth and possibly a bit more.

A bit of window shopping, re-checking in some baggage, and a few false promises of going into town to see some of the place, later and I sit in a comfy chair at a flat screen with a high speed internet connection in a clean environment with lots of neon signs, just an hour away from my final flight to Brisbane.

I said it before but my plans were foiled: hopefully the next post will be from home and will have some pictures.

Cheers!

Love,
Marty.

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