My first full day in Nigeria was a long one. All 161km of it. The day was broken up with checkpoints. 21 of them. But no-one wanted to see my passport. Customs men wore grey uniform. Police were in black from beret to boots with automatic rifle slung across the shoulder. Immigration had tank tops your grandfather would wear, with ‘Immigration’ knitted across the midriff. Some stopped me to ask questions. Where am I going? Where have I come from? When did I leave England? What is my mission? Will you marry me? Some just wanted to shake my hand. I love you! Be my wife! What’s up? Can I have your number?

Chaos in Abeokuta

The first big town I arrived at was Abeokuta. I cycled right on through. It was chaotic, hectic, noisy. Plain crazy. The roads were a maze weaving round the hills, crossing each other at random it seemed. Roads jammed. Police in bright orange tried to direct traffic at junctions. Some drivers followed the hand signals, others decided for themselves. Mind alert, strong arms, steady balance, I held the bike upright and negotiated slowly passed the taxis jostling for position and motorbikes weaving between. Occasionally I put a hand out on a car bonnet and regained composure. Nerves of steel were needed. Determination to proceed forward was the key. I didn’t stop. I just kept on slowly. But I didn’t know which road I should take. Nor did many people I asked it seemed. They all pointed in a direction. But every direction was conflicting. Eventually I employed the help of a moto-taxi and followed him to the highway for Ibadan.

Once out of Abeokuta, peace returned and I could again enjoy the road. Over a sea of hills. Up to a peak and down into a trough, a huge green swell. It was endless. Nigeria is big. Big and beautiful.

Pot-holes and Break-downs

After Ibadan I joined the highway north. I joined the trucks. Oil tankers and trucks old and older. The lorries hurtled passed me on the good sections of road, churning black diesel fumes into the air. Slowed by the pot-holes which spanned the width of the road, the trucks slowed, backed-up, tried to overtake each other regardless of oncoming traffic and often broke down causing yet more chaos. At these sections, two-wheels wins. I could dodge around the potholes, find the flat line and continue unabated, overtaking the lorries. Until the smooth tarmac returned and the lorries once again overtook, the driver’s mate waving to me out the window.

The roadside was littered with burned-out wrecks. Rusted skeletons were all that remained of some. I saw tankers stranded, the driver’s cabin detached some way ahead, brought to a stop in a field or by a tree. The crew sat waiting for help, unhurt and unperturbed.

Albino Boy

I stop regularly along the route. Re-energise myself with coffee or coke. Each time, friendly people. One stop, an albino boy is coaxed out from a house. The men laughed out ‘White! White!’ The albino boy retreats, self-conscious. But I am sunburnt and covered in a thick layer of black grime from the dust and diesel smoke. I am not Yoruba black. But I definitely not white either.

Banana Boy

Cycling through another small village, I see a young boy of about six carrying a tray of bananas on his head. Bananas are good. I pull up next to him, and softly say so as not to scare him, ‘Excuse me, could I buy some bananas?’ The boy turns and then sees me. His eyes widen, he jumps back, stumbles and runs off to the safety of the old men on a bench. He turns again to face me, a look of horror on his face, body shaking with fear and tears begin to run down his cheeks. I can’t help but laugh. Nor can the women who have seen the whole episode. Now being laughed at, he cries more. One lady goes and brings me some bananas and gives the boy the money. By the time I am ready to leave, half the village has come over to see what is going on. Only the boy remains at a distance, looking quietly on.

A Police Escort

As I proceed steadily north and turn off the main highway onto the Abuja road, there are fewer towns. Rural settlements with round thatch huts are interspersed between expansive fields. I cross the Niger river. It’s the first time I’ve seen it since Mali. But considering it’s so far downstream and now the rainy season, it is neither wide or imposing or fast-flowing. But it is beautiful here.

I plan to stay just outside Abuja, in a junction town called Suleja. To get there, it’s another long day. After 130km I am getting tired so stop for an early dinner. With a belly full of rice I think I will have enough energy to get me into Suleja. But I underestimate the hills. My tired legs can’t pedal up them. I resort to walking. It is getting late, but I will make it. And then a police truck pulls me over. I am to get a lift with them. DPO’s (Divisional Police Officer) orders. The words, ‘I want to cycle,’ pour out of my mouth. My legs and head and racing heart all shout out, ‘Help me on the truck!’ But nobody hears this cry. I am allowed to cycle but they will follow me into town. I concede and start pedalling. Once in town, the DPO takes over and escorts me to a suitable guesthouse. A guesthouse that is more expensive than I would normally pay, but I am tired and don’t have energy to argue.

I hear the DPO talking to the guesthouse manager – his officer’s will be patrolling the area and checking in. They want to make sure I am safe. At midnight I see a flashing light in the courtyard. The following morning, I am not allowed to leave without another escort. I explain that it’s not necessary, but the DPO is following orders from the District Commissioner. I must be safe he says. I appreciate the concern but feel that this attention is unnecessary and a waste of police resources. But I am overpowered and overruled. I am escorted to the Abuja highway and left to cycle alone. My safety now in the hands of the speeding truck drivers.

A Break in Abuja

I am camping in the grounds of the Sheraton hotel, with ‘more of my kind’ (according to the security guy at the entrance). ‘More of my kind’ turns out to be John and June from New Zealand, who are travelling to Cape Town in a Toyota. It’s good to have company for a day or two.

I have collected two more visas in my passport. Just one more is needed to get me across to East Africa, but I shall get it in Cameroon. I have been eating well and drinking well and planning the next bit of the route. I’m looking forward to it!

I cycled on down to the border but couldn’t see where to get my Benin exit stamp. A young money changer hopped on his motorbike and led me to the police control. Exit stamp – done. He then led me down a narrow dirt track, seemingly in the opposite direction to where I wanted to go. I was suspicious. Why was this guy helping me? The track went on, past village huts and people staring curiously at me or waving. ‘Just a little further,’ he kept saying. And each time he said it, I grew just a little more suspicious. Where exactly was he taking me? But then, after perhaps the tenth little further, I spied a large building. A multi-storey concrete building, when all others are single-storey thatch huts, looking out-of-place in an out-of-the-way place can only be a government building. Sure enough, Nigerian immigration. It appeared derelict and empty from the outside. On the inside, an empty shell, but with a desk in the middle of the entrance and along one corridor, a room with mattress and clothes. Signs of life. I called out. Eventually one tall, slim young man appeared, followed by stouter, rounder middle-aged chap, large belly on show as he struggled to squeeze his beige shirt over his head and shoulders without undoing the buttons first. He was the man in charge. Immigration form completed. Entry stamp – done.

Well that wasn’t so bad I thought. And as I cycled down the smooth tarmac road into Nigeria, everyone I passed waved or said hello or welcome or good afternoon. Some in English, some in French. And the sun shone. The sky was a clear blue. And it seemed like everything was right with the world. I smiled back.

As I started down the hill, the pace quickened. Faster and faster. The wind was cooling and refreshing. And then I saw a roadblock up ahead. What to do? Have to decide quick. When I was back in the UK I met up with Dan Martin, who has cycled this region before. I had asked him what he did at roadblocks. He said he cycled on through them, didn’t stop. That, I decided, was probably a good idea. Dan is a big guy at 6ft5. I’m a smaller girl at 5ft4. Minor details. As I rapidly approached the roadblock, I could see the nail board stretching across the road. Large nails protruding vertically upwards from a wooden plank. There was a gap between the board and the verge. Under the shelter a number of plain-clothed men sat. I saw no uniforms. I saw no guns. I saw no motorbikes. And as I flew past at about 50kmh, I put my head down and ignored the shouts to stop.

Reaching the bottom of the hill, I began pedalling furiously in an attempt to use the momentum and get me as far up the other side as possible before having to changed down into granny-gear. Less than half-way up the other side and two cars overtake me and pull over, arms waving out the window indicating that I should too. They are the men from the roadblock. Angry men. Shouting at me. Why didn’t I stop? Why did I ignore them? They are security. Here for my safety. Do I behave like this in my home country? More shouting. I see the mouth moving and I hear noise. But all I am thinking is, how the hell did I not see the cars?! And how much money are they going to extort from me? I tune back in to the noise. I lie and say I didn’t know I was supposed to stop. He doesn’t hear me. I start shouting back at him. He wants my passport. I give it to him. He shouts I must go back to the roadblock. I don’t want to cycle back up the hill. But I can see no way out. I demand my passport back and in return promise to go back with them. He agrees. Passport in hand I consider an escape. But with the only way up, me on a bike, them with cars – it’s just not going to work. Reluctantly I turn the bike around and slowly backtrack. One car ahead of me, one car crawling behind. I deliberately cycle slowly. I don’t think it’s possible to piss them off more.
Back at the roadblock, the angry man gradually calms down as he meticulously records my details onto a notepad. Not exactly official paper – the pale pink headed paper advertises a hotel. I calm down too and suggest we start over again. He ignores me. Instead I am told to take my passport to the men sat in the shelter. The immigration official, the big guy in the pink t-shirt clearly comfortable with his masculinity or not at all fashion away, needs to see my yellow fever vaccination card. As he scrutinises it, I am told that I am vaccinated, that the vaccination has not expired, that the signature is in the correct place and the stamp is there too. He can find nothing wrong with it. I already know all this, but try to look enlightened and am glad there is no excuse for a bribe. Next the transport official wants to speak to me. What is the registration of my vehicle? I point out that I am on a bicycle. Yes, but what is the registration number, he insists. I say the make is Thorn. No, he needs a number. Is this going to be the excuse for a bribe? I debate making up a number but decide against it. Instead I say, ‘Can you not see, it’s a bicycle. It is black and has two wheels. Will the number two do?’ All the other men laugh. The transport officer is silent and embarrassed. He says nothing else. I am now free to go, with a caution that in the future I should stop at roadblocks. The officers are there for my safety afterall. But now the official duties are over they all want to know where I am going and what I am doing and are jovial, light-hearted and humorous. Eventually I get away. All I had handed over was my email address.

There are several more checkpoints before I reach Imeko, where I stop for the night. Ten in total. I have my details recorded at three of them, at four others I am stopped because someone is intrigued by a white girl on a bike and has lots of unofficial questions and at three others I am waved on through. Everyone is friendly and they are a good excuse for a rest and break from the sun.

I check into a hotel. It is clean and cool and there is a tv and an ensuite bathroom. I’ve barely had chance for a shower when there is a knock on the door. They have all been talking about the girl cycling through Nigeria and someone wants to offer me a lift to Abeokuta in the morning. I head to the bar and explain I want to cycle. As a compromise, JJ buys me a beer. A group of us sit around chatting, watching tv and I turn down many more offers of a beer. I am sunburnt. I am tired. I also plan to cycle tomorrow. More beer just isn’t a good idea.

The tv is tuned into a standard Yoruba soap. Bad acting. Melodramatics. At a scene where the husband is being stripped of his shirt by loan sharks. Precious, a pharmacology student, says to me, ‘That’s Nigeria for you.’ But I couldn’t tell if she was referring to people having no money, people ready to steal the shirt off a man’s back, corruption and bad debt or simply that Nigerian men shout a lot when angry. I had already seen angry Nigerian men shouting.

Behind the friendly, welcoming faces of the Nigerian’s I met that day, those who know how to enjoy life and be happy, I felt a sense of discontent with the country simmering below the surface.

In any case, I have got Nigeria wrong. I am going to like it here. I can tell.

Firstly, apologies for lack of photos in these latest updates - internet is lethargic here and I need to get some km’s underway today. In the next week or two there should be another photo set on flickr so until then, you’ll have to imagine what you can from my words….

Benin Border

I knew I was approaching the border to Benin by the stationary trucks lining the road. Nose to tail, side by side. The two lane road was reduced to one and the traffic forced onto the dusty side in front of the continuous row of stalls selling drinks and biscuits and meat and spare parts. Everything you would expect at an African border. And some things you wouldn’t. The border formalities easy. Not very formal. I happily walked through with the hundreds of locals on foot but eventually searched out the place to get my passport stamped.

Kidnap on the Coastal Highway

In Benin barely an hour and it began to rain. Only the second time I have cycled in the rain in Africa. Once in Benin, once in Accra going to get my visa for Benin. It wasn’t to be the last time in Benin either. But it’s to be expected. It’s the middle of the rainy season. And at that time of year you expect to get wet.

The rain didn’t last long this time, but the grey cloud remained like a hangover to make for a gloomy morning. I lost myself in my own thoughts as my legs rotated the pedals on automatic. Thoughts of what’s in store for me on the road ahead – I’ve been thinking about the next country, Nigeria. People keep reminding me it’s dangerous, unsafe, corrupt, to expect trouble on the roads. My mind was conjuring up possible scenarios for kidnap, robbery and worse. And at that point, a large white van overtakes and stops in the middle of the road at an angle just ahead. Oh NO! Hijack… kidnap?! My mind quickly tries to decide the best plan – speed up, don’t stop, but which side of the van to go past? And then I see a little white smiley face peek out from the passenger window and wave at me. I recognise the face instantly. I know that van. It’s the French couple I first met in Hombori in Mali and then met again in Mole National Park in northern Ghana, and again in a random guesthouse in a little town of Kintampo and twice more in Kumasi. Unbelievable! They’re driving, I’m cycling and have been home for a month and still we’re travelling the same roads at the same speed.

We talk until another vehicle wants to pass this quiet stretch of road, which is long enough to find out what we’ve been doing since our last encounter. We are all going to Ouidah and plan to stay in the same guesthouse (the cheapest according to our guidebooks) so expect we’ll see each other later. They drive off. I follow, slower.

Ouidah Accommodation

At Ouidah, the cheap guesthouse looked closed down. But the owner let me in and I looked at a room. It should be closed-down. I’ve stayed in some pretty dire hovels in my time but this was unappealing in every respect. I cycled into the centre of Ouidah to look for a better kept place. I found one. For the same price, I was greeted by the friendly lady owner, who I interrupted from her snacks with a friend in the bar; and shown to a clean, freshly decorated, ensuite room with towel, toilet roll and soap included in the price. If you’re used to hotels in England that would all be standard. If you’re used to camping in the wild and occasionally staying in the cheapest African guesthouse, that is all luxury.

Route des Esclaves

After a rest over lunch, I went to explore on my bike. I cycled through town to Place Chacha. A large tree overshadows the square. Behind the square is the former residence of Brazilian Governor Chacha. It was beneath this tree that slave auctions were held. Traded for merchandise from Europe, the slaves were bought and sold, traded like cattle. Each slave had a price – those in their prime and in peak physical condition bought the highest price. From this square, the slaves were taken to the Portuguese Fortaleza São João Batista (now a museum) in town to await shipment to Brazil and the caribbean. When the time came, they were walked through town, back past the place where they had been sold and trudged down the dusty track to the coast. This 4km route from fort to sea is known as the ‘Route des Esclaves’. Shackled by the neck and ankles, the slaves walked in lines one behind the other, to their fate.

Having rained earlier in the day, the dirt road clogged my bike wheels as I navigated around the orange puddles. I passed the occasional guesthouse and restaurant and regular symbolic vodun statues such as the three-headed man, a panther and a serpent devouring it’s tail. No slaves now. Just a steady stream of men on motorbikes.

Voodoo round the world

On reaching the beach, an imposing columned gateway marks the ‘Door of No Return’, beyond which the slaves never came back. The bas-relief above the gateway shows lines of slaves walking out to the boats. To each side, guarding the gateway, metallic statues represent Egun-Egun, the spirit of the slaves.

The history of the slave trade and vodun, the predominant animist religion, are historically interconnected. The vodun beliefs of west Africa were introduced by the slaves to Brazil and the Caribbean, where they successfully mixed with the catholic religion of the missionaries to form what we now know as voodoo in Haiti and cadomblé in Brazil. Vodun religion practised by over a million Beninoise today is much like that from Haiti and Brazil. Indeed, it is descendants of freed slaves from Brazil who re-settled on the coast near Ouidah who brought back the practise. Names such as da Costa and da Silva are not uncommon here, are reminders of this heritage.

The museum at Ouidah was informative and insightful. It displayed many photographs and images of religious festivals, both Vodun and Christian. Outwardly, the slaves would practise Christianity, but secretly look to the vodun spirits for guidance. Where clay figurines of the virgin Mary and Jesus may sit on a tabletop; beneath, out of sight, would be vodun fetishes.

Within the grounds of the fort was a commemorative display, erected by the portuguese surrounded by canons. Where fire-power meant ultimate power, one canon would have cost between twelve and fifteen male slaves or 21 females.

A name I won’t forget

Back at the guesthouse I met Francois. Down from Bohicon, Francois was in town arranging a funeral. He invited me to dinner. I suspected he had something else in mind after dinner too and politely declined. Perhaps it was just that he was stood in just his boxer shorts in the doorway of his room next to mine that gave this impression. Nonetheless, I went out to find and internet cafe and then dinner, alone. I aborted attempts to connect online when the power failed for the third time. When each time you have to sit and wait for the antiquated computers to slowly reboot this is a painful process. Instead I found a restaurant and ate in semi-darkness.

It was late by the time I arrived back at the guesthouse so I went straight to bed. Once again it was a case of sleeping inside my tent on top of the bed to escape the wrath of the mosquitoes. From the darkness I heard a voice call ‘Francois’. Ah, that’s his name. I have a terrible memory when it comes to names. I can remember almost everything else I am told about a person; but their name, unless I hear it repeatedly, I inevitably forget. ‘Francois,’ a female voice calls out in the throes of delight, ‘Oooh, Francois!’ Get the iPod quick! And so I go to sleep, drowning out the sounds from the room next door with my music. I will not be forgetting his name! I have heard it too many times. And he really did have after-dinner ideas.

Race To Cotonou, The Capital

The following morning I had breakfast at cafe Eureka. Sat on a wooden trunk that acted as a bar stool, I sat with my coffee and bread listening to the men animatedly discuss last night’s football game. And then who should walk in but the French couple. It turned out that we were both heading to Cotonou that day. But first they were going to look at the museum.

After breakfast, I departed on my bike and the French couple headed for the museum. Halfway to Cotonou, I stopped for a rest and while crunching on another frozen yoghurt I saw their white van pass on the road.

As I neared Cotonou, the road became congested with trucks and cars and taxis and motorbikes. While most vehicles were jammed nose to tail, me and the motorbikes were able to weave around the traffic and continue our journey. Of the many trucks and cars I passed, I also passed one white van. The French couple’s white van. I banged on the door as I passed. ‘Unbelievable,’ they were thinking, ‘We’re driving, she’s cycling and still we’re travelling the same roads at the same speed!’

In Cotonou I collected a visa for the Democratic Republic of Congo, drank numerous coffees and ate well at the Lebanese-run ‘Restaurant Byblos’ and ‘King of Charwarma’. A happy, relaxed couple of days in the capital. For those couple of days I locked up the bike and navigated the wide city streets from the back of a moto-taxi. These kamikaze drivers on motorbikes rule the roads here. Decked out in yellow bibs, each distinguished by a five-digit number printed in bold black across their back, they look more like escaped convicts. They drive like they are trying to evade capture too. One of my moto-taxi drivers looked a real cow-boy with his gold-rimmed aviator shades and necktie. But his tough-guy look faded on closer inspection. His neckerchief was a colourful print of Winnie-the-Pooh and Friends. Tigger, Eeyore, Piglet and Kanga smiling back at me.

Palaces Galore

From Cotonou, it was a long rainy day’s cycle north to Bohicon. From there I visited Abomey. Home of the Dahomey Kings and their palaces. And then it was to the Nigerian border….

Over the border into Togo I flew down the hill into Kpalime. Another town in Africa. My introduction to Togo. Friendly people. French-speaking. I checked-in, showered and sat down in the hotel courtyard with a beer to celebrate a new country. Soon enough I had company. Yana spoke to me as if I was fluent in French. I nodded and agreed and pretended I understood more than I did. My ear was quick to remember the French. Even so, it was some relief when his friend appeared who spoke English and shared out a bag of nuts. I didn’t realise how hungry I was. My next mission – get food. Yana took me to a restaurant out of town. While waiting for food, I half watched the football through a snow-storm on a small screen and half listened to Yana. The simple question of ‘Are you married?’ soon turned into a talk about love and loss. The rest of the first half I heard about Yana’s lost love of girlfriends past. He lost me somewhere after the American girl flew to Europe and he wasn’t able to go with her and she hasn’t been back to Togo since. It turns out that when your grasp of a foreign language is sketchy, you become a great listener. Appear to at least.
Finally lunch arrived. It was devoured in a fraction of the time taken to prepare. I returned to the hotel and locked myself in my room. Too tired for speaking more French just yet. And incapable of answering Yana about why the girl may not have returned.

Midnight music

What an awful night of sleep. First it was the rain, thundering down on the metal roof. Then at midnight, singing from the church. Choral music should be soothing. This was like cat-strangling. Somebody must be in pain I thought. I should go and help. But then the Hallelujah’s and Praise the Lord’s bellowed from the depths of the darkness. I quietly prayed for silence. Early the next morning I was woken by yet more church singing. This was bright, cheerful gospel music that would have been the perfect start to the day had it started a couple of hours later.
So it was, at six in the morning that I was wandering through the cool, misty streets of Kpalime in search of a kick-start coffee. The rest of town was already up. Dressed in Sunday best. Men, women, children, all walking to church.

Church on Sunday

Coffee finished. Time to hit the road. South to the capital, Lome. 130km. A long day ahead I thought. But it was easy – no pain. (Not many hills either.) Legs of steel forged out of lactic acid and long hills. This is the cycling I like. I passed many small villages. The world I passed through was united in belief. Sunday. The good Lord’s day. Church day. Families on benches under thatch shelter. No doors, no walls. Everybody welcome. Just a simple wooden pulpit at one end. A bell strung between two poles outside. Clanging loudly by one enthusiastic teenager. Not exactly a melodic peal. More like the school bell ringing that lunch is over and it’s time to return to class. It’s quite probable the ‘churches’ double as a school. Or the other way round.

Prescription Required

My arrival in Lome was blurred by a fly in my eye. This contributed to another restless night with my eye irritated and itching. A battle with mosquitoes also ensued. A blood-bath on the bed. I won the war by putting up my tent on top of the mattress. The following morning I walked to the pharmacy to get some eye-drops. I knew what I needed. I wasn’t allowed it without a prescription from a doctor. This must be the only medication you can get over the counter in England but need to see a doctor first in Africa. I was fortunate – the hotel manager was Swiss, understood my French, phoned his doctor and within minutes I was at the surgery of a sympathetic physician. Armed with the prescription, the pharmacist willingly handed over the eye-drops.

Leaving Lome

Lome has a small-town feel to it. There are a few regular spots which the same expats frequent. I think I stumbled upon most of them over the couple of days rest there.

I left Lome by the road running parallel to the beach. Early in the morning. A group of teenagers threw themselves around in the sand over a game of volleyball. A European couple jogged along the seafront. Teams of boys in fluorescent bibs interchanged between fitness and football drills. A line of men, all leant at the same angle, tugged against a rope to haul a boat up the beach. I presume there was a boat on the end of the line. I couldn’t see it. It was hidden by the steep drop-off down to the sea. All I could see was the strip of golden sand and above it a strip of deep blue sea, the horizon and the bright blue sky extending upwards to the white light of the rapidly rising sun. In the shade of the palm trees lining the beach-front, people sat quietly, thoughtful. And then the concrete path. In the lay-bys, groups of men with motorbikes lingered. Waiting to take someone, anyone, into town for a few CFA.

As I left Lome behind, the road became clogged with traffic trying to negotiate the roadworks. But it eased up and then I left the beach behind. To be replaced by big industrial plants and pollution. But then I moved away from town and buildings became smaller and less frequent. More trees and green and fields. Lush. Bright. Fresh. At Agbodrafo I crossed a bridge and could see Lake Togo spread out inland. On the other side of the lake is Togoville. Togoville, the place where the chief signed over the rights of all Togoland to Germany in 1884. Togoville, the historical centre of voodoo in Togo.

Fruit, fish and Voodoo Fetishes

Market day in Aneho. Another market. Bowls of rice and nuts. Manioc Piles of onions. Neat little stacks of peppers and chillis, fresh or dried, in 100 or 200cfa amounts. Women sat in brightly wrapped pagnes. Second hand clothes. Flip-flops and shoes piled high – finding a pair a near impossibility. Aluminum pots and pans. Neatly lined-up bottles of hairspray and mosquito killer. Just don’t get the two confused. Fresh fish, dry fish, shrmp, crab. Chickens sat dejectedly in the sun, tied by their feet, perhaps even in their pea-sized brains they know the end is near. But unlike all the other markets I’ve walked through, this had an additional row of goods. All inanimate. All intriguing. In the name of voodoo fetishes. Dried skins of crocodile and antelope; dried bodies of chameleons and birds; monkey skulls and many more, big and small, unidentifiable to me.

A Language Lesson

On my journey through Togo I passed several signs with a woman surrounded by fields of wheat and what I think were packets of spaghetti. Around the sign in huge lettering are the words ‘Maman, ééé taman’. Ééé – so that’s how you spell it!! ‘E’ may be the most common letter in the English language. But ééé would have to be the most common word in the spoken African language. Across the entire region of west Africa, it is the one word I have repeatedly heard. More an exclamation than a word really. Now I have seen it written. I highly doubt it’s in any dictionary though.

You can read the article here: Togblog - Cycle Touring Maintenace Essentials

I am currently sat in a cafe in Cotonou, on the upper floor, watching the rain pour down on the streets below. My bike is loaded and parked outside, waiting for me to find the will to begin another wet day in the saddle!

So far the only days I have cycled in the rain in Africa have been in Benin. Apart from one short cycle trip through Accra that is - But that was to go to the Benin embassy to get my visa. I’m hoping Nigeria will be drier! (From a climatic perspective that is. I know it’ll be a lot drier in the north from a beer perspective!)

No more excuses for staying in Accra. Time to put the panniers on the bike and wheel the bike out the door. Start pedalling. Direction north (yes I know I eventually need to start heading south if I’m to ever reach Cape Town).

Aburi Botanical Gardens

To ease myself back into cycling I aimed for Aburi, a mere 40km from Accra. What I didn’t realise was that there was rather a steep hill. The result: 1. more time spent walking than cycling and 2. my legs hurt a lot. I visited the Aburi Botanical Gardens. It’s wide avenues and tropical plants made for a pleasant evening stroll before the bugs appeared.

Cotton Tree in Aburi Botanical Gardens

I enquired about a room at the hotel there – ‘No rooms,’ was the answer. That seemed strange as I could see several keys hanging up on the wall against various room numbers. The place seemed deserted. ‘Oh. Are there really no rooms available?’ I ask again. Same answer. Not sure what to do now. ‘You mean to say that that all the rooms are occupied?’ - ‘No’. Hang on… ‘I don’t understand, are the rooms free or not?’ And then the morose lady at the desk explains. ‘Yes there are free rooms, but there is no running water.’ Right. So you hadn’t really been answering my question, I thought. ‘Could I have a room with a bucket of water perhaps?’ - ‘Of course, no problem.’ It’s all about asking the right question. And knowing the answer as well sometimes helps.

Red, Yellow, Green

Continuing north, the road from Aburi was Atimpoku was a joy to ride, gentle ups and breezy free-wheeling downs with expansive views of the rolling green Akwapim hills over my left shoulder. Small townships brighten the hillsides with their pink, cream and terracotta painted houses and dusty-rusty corrugated roofs. Passing through these sleepy towns you were hit with yet more bright colours – the shops lining the main road were brightly painted in red, yellow or green. The primary colours of Ghana’s national flag. The primary colours of the three major telecommunications companies in Ghana. Red for Vodafone, Yellow for MTN, Green for Zain. It seems the mobile phone industry is single-handedly keeping the paint manufacturers in business.

Flip-flop races

I had thought I was fed up with jollof rice and spaghetti and sauce. Apparently all that was needed however, was to burn some calories on the bike. As lunchtime approached, I began avidly searching out a fast food street stall – serious carb cravings. I devoured two bowlfuls of rice and spaghetti before the stall lady had popped the cap off my coke bottle. And it tasted delicious. I had been sat down at the roadside bench, facing the wall away from the road. Not much to look at. As I gulped the fizzy coke I heard a thunder of hooves on the road behind. How strange. I turned to see twenty young women rushing after a tro-tro, flip-flops pattering as they went, one hand on skirt and the other balancing the bowl on their head. Whoever got to the tro-tro window first would be the one to sell their fruit. Except soon enough another tro-tro appeared, and the race re-started while the winner of the last round was still getting her change. They never tired. And I’m guessing they do this day-in, day-out; dawn to dusk. If only my legs had that much energy.

Atimpoku

Atimpoku lies on the Volta river, just a few kilometres downstream of the Akosombo dam. The dam, when completed in 1965 created the world’s largest artifical lake - Lake Volta. Huge expanses of land now underwater. Whole communities had to leave their homes.

Bridge at Atimpoku

The project cost £130million and was largely funded by international companies. The result being that only 20% of power generated by the dam goes to lighting up Ghana. The rest is generated for foreign owned companies. I didn’t go up to see the dam. Instead I crossed the river at Atimpoku via the more modest but beautiful suspension bridge. As beautiful as steel and concrete can be.

Youpi-Choco Hope and Fan-Yogo Delight

Next day, Ho. A short name, but a big town. Ho is the provincial capital of the Volta region. That doesn’t mean to say it’s worth visiting. There was one glimmer of interest here – Youpi Choco. These little tubes of spreadable chocolate were in abundance in Guinea, purchased in equally large volumes and eaten soon after. Since then they’ve been noticeable by their absence. You can imagine my surprise then when I spotted these chocolaty delights in a little shop in Ho, Ghana. But did I buy any? No. Not for want of trying. The little tubes were still in the original box of ninety. The reason - this shop owner would only sell the whole box. I only wanted one or two. Well, that’s a lie. More like ten. But I really couldn’t justify buying the whole box. Not for the added weight to the bike. Because I would have stayed up half the night, opening one by one each little sachet and squeezing the chocolate down my throat until they were all gone. Or more likely thrown up. Two weeks after the sighting and I still wishing I’d bought them and thrown up. It would have been worth it!

But now there is Fan-yogo. Not chocolate. But tasty frozen yoghurt. Simply perfect in this heat. So now the kilometres are broken up not just by coffee and coke breaks. Fan-yogo comes plastic-wrapped. Just bite off a corner and begin. It’s a bit like buying ice-cream from a van. Except here they come from a large ice-box on the front of a bicycle, wheeled or pedalled by a local lad in a blue smock. Easy to spot.

Hills to Togo

After Ho I took to the hills again. Still unfit from the lazy days in England, I once again resorted to hauling the bike along on foot. Sweat dripping down my face, neck, back, arms and legs. Leaving a trail along the road that any animal could easily track. Drenched from head to toe. Occasionally I’d wring the bottom of my shorts. Frankly, gross. Really gross.

The Hills towards Togo - view from Amedzofe

Thankfully the following day, as I crossed the border into Togo it seemed as if my legs had finally remembered how to cycle. There were more uphills. But I managed these pedalling. Just keep the wheels turning. Low gear. Slowly, slowly. Until you reach the top, round the bend, change up through the gears. Soon enough you begin to feel the wind against your rosy cheeks, the sweat-drenched shirt cools as it sticks to your body. Then you can stop pedalling and look out at the endless panorama, a green blanket of the tropics spread over the valley. Until… Bump! And you hit a pothole. Better to watch the road….

This time, I wasn’t going to let things get the better of me. Laugh in the face of adversity. That said, I wasn’t planning on trying to put my bike on a bus either.

More Visas

Obtaining visas for Togo, Benin and Nigeria was relatively straightforward. No major embassy hunts. Minimal paperwork. It shouldn’t be this easy. I ought not complain. That said, it still took the best part of a working week.

Accra living

During this time I was fortunate to have the use of a friends’ apartment in the relatively affluent Abelemkpe neighbourhood of Accra. My bike and luggage had been stored there while I was in England. It was all still there (unsurprisingly). I brought back with me a bag full of books and some chocolate. By the end of the week, the chocolate was not still there (unsurprisingly).

I did venture into the even more prosperous Osu. Cantonments Road is lined with restaurants, banks, offices and supermarkets. Expat heaven. Between the modern buildings and traffic-jammed road, the way was blocked by stall after street stall with anything and everything for sale. Plenty of tourist kitsch of course. Hawkers roamed up and down and weaved between the traffic trying to sell food and flags. Plenty of vuvuzelas too – it was the middle of the FIFA World Cup afterall. I contented myself with pizza and coffee and pastries. Best to stock up when you can. Even if you don’t need them. (I had sufficiently beefed up during my month at home – fill those fat reserves was my motto).

I also attempted to see the old castles and forts on the Accra coast. Osu Castle is now government offices and cannot be visited. It can be viewed from Independence square. The square is a large concreted piece of wasted space. Enclosed on three sides by permanent seating, which also blocks the view of the sea. The fourth side is open to the busy coastal road, lined with numerous flagpoles and not so many flags. I saw Osu Castle – it looks like the government offices it now is. I had cycled here, risking life and limb in the clogged streets. I decided not to attempt cycling on to Fort Usher and Fort James, which probably wouldn’t have been much more illuminating (in a historical sense since Fort James, I believe, is now a lighthouse).

Tro-tros for transport

With the arrival of the weekend I headed for the coast. A taxi to the chaotic, bustling Kaneshie station. Then tro-tro to Cape Coast. Tro-tros are the little minibuses which, once filled, run between towns. Ghanaian tro-tros, unlike similar transport in other West African countries, are a relatively comfortable way to travel. Always cheap. There are seats for 14 and so 14 people travel in a tro-tro. Elsewhere, the number would be closer to 20, not including children who generally take the status of baggage and are shoved into an spare nook, cranny or lap.

Cape Coast

Cape Coast on a dull grey day, the wind whipping up the waves that crashed along the shore, is not so much of a beach paradise. The weather seemed fitting for visiting the old forts however. If the subject of slavery isn’t depressing enough; try it on a dull, wet windy day.

Cape Coast - crashing waves

Forts Victoria and William are perched on hilltops overlooking the town. Circular in construction, crumbling round the edges, canons in place but unusable except for hanging laundry to dry. Presumably therefore, still inhabited, but not by Europeans.

Laundry Day at Fort William

Cape Coast Castle

Inside Cape Coast castle

Cape Coast Castle is located on the shore front. This was where the slaves were kept before being herded through the Door of No Return and onto ships where they were transported to the Caribbean. Or more likely thrown overboard as fish fodder when they died or caused trouble. The dungeons, dark and dank, where the slaves were kept before shipment must have been unpleasant. It’s hard to imagine hundreds of bodies crammed in to a plain large room, with minimal ventilation and not even a hole in the ground for a latrine. Privacy, pride, prospect all taken away when the shackles were placed round your neck. If you tried to escape or cause any kind of problem, you’d be taken to the cell. With sixty others you’d be forced into a small room, completely devoid of light or ventilation, and the door bolted behind. That is the last time you would ever see the living world. The stench of just 20 sweaty tourists in this room with the door open was pretty awful. 60 people, barely space to sit; door shut, in darkness, no food or water. That is where you would spend your last days. Perhaps you were lucky and died quickly. Otherwise you’d suffer surrounded by dead, decaying bodies. Perhaps clawing at the door or stone floor in a hope you could get out with your fingernails. You can still see the scratch-marks. But that bolted door wasn’t opened until every last one had died. 100% mortality. The only thing I can think of for comparison are the gas chambers used in the holocaust. But death in this cell would have been so much slower arriving. Prolonged fear.

World Cup Fever

That evening, Ghana were playing the USA in the football World Cup. Anyone who owned a television had it tuned in to watch the game. Most had brought them onto the street so as many as possible could gather round. Men, women, young and old; it seemed as if all of Ghana was pinned to a TV, like iron filings to a magnet. That said, not everyone seemed to be bothered with watching; but they all wanted to be involved with the celebrating. And celebrate they did. At the end of extra time, the streets erupted. There was dancing and singing, vuvuzelas and whistles, and flags waved energetically. Children raced up and down the roads. Taxis and motos beeped their horns and flashed their lights. An impromptu parade, a mass of red and yellow and green, moved in time to the theme music, ‘Give me freedom…’ Now that we have, I thought.

Elmina

A taxi to nearby Elmina in the morning. It was a clear day and the sun reflected brightly off the white-washed walls of St. George’s Castle. Situated on the shores, it lies just over a bridge from the main town, with colourful fishing boats laying side by side like sardines in a tin, lining the riverbank. Fishermen sit repairing nets, as men would have done before the arrival of Europeans and the slave trade became the main industry.

Elmina's Fishing Fleet

St. George’s Fort

St. George's Fort at Elmina

The British St. George’s Fort was built around a Portuguese church, which still stands although is these days used as a museum. The main features of Cape Coast Castle are present here too, although on a smaller scale; the slave dungeons, the death cell with skull-and-crossbones carved above the door, the officer’s rooms and commander’s quarters. The commanding officer’s room was above the female slave dungeons. From his balcony he could look down into the dungeons and make his choice. He had a trap-door in the floor of his room through which he would have sent a female slave whenever he so desired.
I can’t help but wonder what kind of man could live in and preside over such a place. Were all the officer’s comfortable eating and sleeping above so many people who were ill-treated and seen as little more than cargo awaiting shipment? Was it accepted as part of the job? Was it just accepted? I may have learnt a lot about the slave trade and the conditions the slaves were kept in, but I know nothing about the kind of people who ran this business. Can unscrupulous greed blind you to a fellow being’s suffering? I don’t know.

After each tour of the castle, the guide makes sure to say that we are all here to learn about the past - Not to accuse, but to make sure it never happens again. To reconcile. And although the Ghanaian’s nodded approvingly, I found this comment hard to swallow. I agree of course. But at the same time I felt ashamed to be British, knowing it was my countrymen, albeit over 200years ago, who created this fort and used it to trade slaves. I’m not even that patriotic. All I can say is thank you to William Wiberforce whose persistance and hard work resulted in the abolition of slavery.

Posuban Shrines

Posuban shrine in Elmina

A short walk around Elmina included the hill up to Fort St. Jago, which overlooks St. George’s fort and the rest of town.

The rest of town is dotted with shrines. You can spot these shrines because they are large and are invariably of some totally random objects or scenes, and therefore look completely out of place. These are Posuban shrines. The work of Asafo companies, which are patrilineal military units in Akan societies. Traditionally, these units were responsible for the defence of the town. Today, they influence local politics and have ceremonial functions. Apparently the shrines are ancient, but don’t look it. This is explained by the fact that the shrines are replaced every few decades to keep up with ‘modern’ thinking. Like the one of Adam and Eve in the garden of Eden? Very modern. The ship and it’s crew is a few centuries ahead. I wonder what the next one will be – a giant mobile phone? That would be fitting – it does seem to be the symbol of modern Africa.

Apam or Accra

I couldn’t decide whether to stop for the night at Apam, for the chance to see another fort, or to return to Accra and set the wheels in motion. Apam or Accra? As I walked up to the tro-tros stood outside the Wesleyan Methodist church in Cape Coast, one driver walked up to me asking, ‘Accra?’. My mouth replies, ‘Apam’. Apam it is.

It’s five cedi’s to Accra, but only four to Apam. I kicked up a bit of a fuss when the money collector seems disinclined to give me my one cedi change. Once I had my cedi and the tro-tro was pulling out of town, I opened up the book I’m currently engrossed in and read. Next time I looked up we were passing through Winneba. I put away my book and opened up the map. Oh - Winneba is past Apam. I hadn’t noticed and the driver didn’t stop or say anything either. Oh well, to Accra it is. Decision made. I felt a bit guilty about only paying four cedis for the whole trip but as soon as we were off the tro-tro, it was already pulling away. The guilt lasted about as long as it took to hail a taxi. Less than thirty seconds in a city whose streets are overrun with them.

I visited a few of the old forts and castles, which are still standing. Thankfully, slavery was abolished in the 1800’s and since then these forts have been used for all different purposes. Now mostly, they are protected as UNESCO World Heritage Sites and are accessible to viewing - to learn about the history of the slave trade. So it never happens again.

Reconciliation is a word I have heard many times in association with post-apartheid South Africa and post-genocide Rwanda. It’s also a word I heard several times while visiting the forts, post-slavery Ghana.

Here are some photos of Cape Coast Castle, Fort William and Fort Victoria in Cape Coast as well as Fort St. George and Fort St. Jago in nearby Elmina:

Hopefully you won’t have to wait so long for my take on Ghana part 2.

Road to Larabanga

Yet more corrugated roads. It is impossible to describe the effect that trying to cycle on corrugated dirt roads has on the body. Corrugations are not like ruts and potholes. These you can at least attempt to avoid. Cycle around. Corrugations span the entire width of of the track. Unavoidable. Inescapeable. I bounced and bumped and jolted and jumped my way to Larabanga. Slowly. Often I preferred to walk. It was a long day but I made it.

Animal Encounters

Larabanga lies at the entrance to Mole National Park - one of Ghana’s highlights. A must see. So the guidebook says. I was passing so I stopped. A chance to see some wildlife up-close-and-personal.

A morning walk with a ranger and not only do I see some tame warthog, monkeys and antelope, but three elephants playing in the lake and several little crocodiles. I think they were small – I could only see their eyes.

Elephants at Mole NP. Before and After a bath.

The following day I left Mole. Back to the bad roads. Once again I am covered in orange dust from passing tro-tros and taxis. I feel a sharp stone in my shoe. I ignore it, deciding to remove it when I next stop. Ouch. It’s really sharp. Think I’ll stop now. I put on the brakes, dismount, remove my shoe and bash it upside-down against my hand. Nothing. No rock. No sharp object. That’s strange. I shake harder. Eugh!!! No rock. But a huge, pale green spider falls to the floor and escapes as fast as it’s eight hairy legs will allow.

When will I learn? What will it take? I must always shake out my shoes before putting them on.

Before putting my shoe back on (having shaken it a few more times for good measure) I inspect my foot. My sock now has a hole in it, but the big toe appears whole. Well that’s something.

To Buipe. One of the good roads.

Tired Legs

The cycle from Larabanga (post-spider removal) to Kumasi was not particularly noteworthy barring a few exceptions. I shall just summarise this part:

• A fun dirt road to Buipe.
• In Buipe, I met the son of the old chief of Larabanga. He had fled the village after his father had been killed in a challenge for the chieftancy. Now he was looking after a small shop to earn some money to send to his ‘exiled’ mother.
• Tired legs made hard work of the main road to Kumasi.
• The main road got busy with seemingly endless roadworks which meant bad roads and inhaling cement dust of hours on end. Unpleasant in an understatement.
• One night I camped by the roadside to be awoken in the early hours by a horrific crash. Next morning, I passed an overturned lorry with a smashed-up now bricked-up cabin. No hope for the driver. Sad story.
• I got rocks thrown at me. I threw insults and obscenities back. In hindsight, I think the guy was ‘mentally disabled’ (that’s the pc phrase isn’t it?). Didn’t stop me being pissed off though.
• Tired legs still making hard work of the main road to Kumasi.
• No energy. No coke. Anywhere. Instead I end up with a revolting Malta (that’s a Guinness brand non-alcohol malt drink), which I couldn’t stomach and palm wine, which surprisingly I could. Re-hydrating effect – Negative. Energy level – Unchanged.

Kumasi

A tired arrival in Kumasi – but only time for a day’s rest. I had booked a return flight to the UK and so had a deadline for getting to Accra. I hate deadlines. Best to avoid them. Second best is to ignore them. Last option is leave what needs doing to the last minute. Nothing like a bit of pressure to focus the mind. But cycling is mindless and no matter how much pressure I put on my legs, they just can’t go faster.

Nevertheless, I pack my bags and check-out of the hotel. But while eating lunch, it starts to rain. A lot. I don’t want to cycle to Accra on hideously busy roads, breathing diesel fumes and cement dust while dodging decrepit tro-tros. I especially don’t want to do this in the rain. Perhaps I could take the bus…

Conveniently, the bus station is just round from the hotel. There is a bus to Accra in the morning. It can take me and my bike. I check back in to the hotel and unpack by bags.

A Bus Saga

Next morning, I push my bike to the station two hours before the departure time. I buy my ticket, buy a ticket for my bike and confirm that my bike will fit on the bus. And wait. I have an argument with one lazy porter who demands money for putting my bike on the bus. He has spent all the time avoiding the incoming passengers so he doesn’t have to carry anything. Meanwhile the other porters, old enough to be his grand-father, jump at the chance to help. I ask why he doesn’t ask for money for all the local people’s luggage. He thinks me insolent. Except I doubt he knows this word. I think him lazy. Except I’m the one wanting to take a bus when I have a bike. I decide I will give the porter who puts my bike on the bus a tip. It won’t be the lazy one. That I know.

The bus arrives. It looks quite full of people already. The luggage compartments do too. The porters begin putting luggage on-board. The lazy porter is nowhere to be seen. My bike is ignored. These porters are amazing – it’s a geometrical conundrum fitting all the suitcases in such that all available space is used but no luggage is left out. Except my bike. Time to get involved. The security lady’s calls of not to forget the bike have gone ignored. ‘And my bike,’ I call out. Ignored too. I boldly approach one of the porters and point to my bike. ‘There’s no space’. Now even I can see there’s no space now – but the roof is empty and I haven’t looked inside the bus yet. I also know that where there’s a will, there’s a way. And in Africa, if there’s no will, money is an acceptable substitute.

‘Where are you going to put my bike?’ I ask. ‘No space. The bike stays. Now get on the bus.’ What a ridiculous concept – just leave my bike and luggage behind – as long as I get to Accra. I explain again that I have bought passage for my bike, that I am not leaving it behind and that I had been promised on multiple occasions that there would be space. ‘If you don’t want to leave the bike, then you must stay also’.

Perhaps cycling would have been the better option but still my legs are willing me find a way for me to get on the bus with my bike.

I speak to the baggage lady. By now she is crowded around the bus along with the driver, security people and numerous porters. All the other passengers are on the bus already, their luggage safely stowed. Just me and my bike. Nothing to do she says and hands me a refund for my ticket. There is another bus tomorrow. But how do I know there won’t be the same problem again. There won’t be she says. I say I have heard this already. And if I can’t get the bus then I will have run out of time to cycle instead.

I am tired. I am angry. I am being watched by a bus load of locals. I am being shouted at because I am holding up the bus. I want to cry. If only I had left on the bike yesterday I am thinking.

Fine. I go to collect my bike - get out there and think about what to do. I begin to walk away. A little tear runs down my cheek. Get me out of here quick. No tips for anyone. But not before I get a refund for the luggage ticket. I about turn and ask for my money back. Money received, I turn away and leave. I am embarrassed. I never cry.

‘Wait!’ I keep going. ‘Wait!’ shouts the baggage lady. I stop. ‘It’s OK, there is space on the bus.’

What!! By now I have several tears running down my cheeks and I’m sniffing a little too. The whole bus station is watching me. ‘There is space on the bus.’ I am told. Miraculous. I am incredulous.

The bus is like a little universe. Space expanding with time. Something from nothing.

If I can take off the wheels, the bike will fit I am told. I had suggested this several times already to no avail. But as the baggage lady’s idea, it is possible. No longer an idea. A reality.

I am furious now. I hate creating a scene and they don’t come much bigger than this. Except I didn’t create this one. It unfolded around me at centre-stage. An unwilling actor in this saga. A tragic-comedy.

In a flash, the wheels are removed and all components and bags put inside the bus. There is still plenty of space. I keep quiet though and am shepherded on-board also and try to find a seat. There are several spare seats also.

This is not like taking a bus in most other West African countries. Here it is one person to one seat. Not two to every one and then the aisle filled to bursting. Arse to crotch. Barely space to breathe. Not that you’d want to when the air is filled with the acrid stench of who knows how many unwashed bodies. On this bus, I breathe in the cool conditioned air. Deep breaths. Calm is returning. The bus is already out of the station before I can wipe the dried tears from my face.

The simple life returns. The last couple of days in Accra are lovely. Staying with new-found friends. And then back to England. Mixed feelings about returning home. But I’ll be back on African soil soon enough. I need a rest anyway.