Sunday, 15 April 2012

Overview

            Early morning on December 18, 2011, four adventurous youths eagerly departed their university dorm abode. They had a vague idea of where they were going, a blurry image of what they hoped to find, and no clue what they were doing.

Mid semester, after time had permitted joyous unions between strangers, one man proposed an idea. The idea was grand, marvelous, and terribly unpredictable. Its magnitude alone was enough to dwarf any experience held by its creator, and that of his companions. With careful scrutiny, the idea was planted in the minds of those deemed worthy, where it germinated and grew into possibility. With the aid of local enthusiasts, the essential supplies were meticulously gathered. Despite the relaxed, painfully slow nature of the environment, the four young explorers acquired everything they believed they would need to survive for five weeks on their own, four grains of sand in a vast, dark ocean. They carried no tent, no backpack, no stove, no compass, one map (picked out of a handy tourism pamphlet), and an extra helping of will power. With only the essentials, like medical supplies, repair tools, flash lights, and appropriate clothing (including one pretty red dress) the four team members embarked on possibly the most extensive exploratory journey of its kind.

A 35 day, 2500 kilometer circumnavigation of one of Africa’s greatest nations, Ghana, all from the unimaginably painful seat of a bicycle. The four: Frazer Tear, Frog, self proclaimed instigator and leader, sleep hater, 6’ 5”, 175 lbs, ginger. Armando Jesus Vargas Estrella, C-Rane, mediator, morale bringer, FanMilk supporter, 5’9”, 140lbs, Mexican. Margarita Gonzalez Gonzalez, E.T., accommodation expert, gesturist, photographer, 5’ 5”, 120lbs, also Mexican. Evelyn Masoner, Lee Jew Ha, laugher, eater, wilderness first responder, 5’6”, 130lbs, Jew.

Together they rode, wind at their backs (almost never), into the great unknown. Tears and sad goodbyes, classes and lecture halls, beds and fans, all left behind for the lure of adventure, and the inescapable attraction of discovery. 



ROUTE

Day 1 - Winneba                           
Day 2 - Cape Coast                                      
Day 3 - Takoradi                                       
Day 4 - Busua                                                
Day 5 - Green Turtle Lodge                            
Day 6 - Tarkwa                                      
Day 7 - Gyapa                                              
Day 8 - Kumasi                                        
Day 9 - Nkenkaasu                                
Day 10 - Wenchi   
Day 11 - Kwame Kwasi 
Day 12 - Bole    
Day 13 - Nyoli                              
Day 14 - Wa 
Day 15 - Wa 
Day 16 - Wahabu  
Day 17 - Tumu
Day 18 - Nakong 
Day 19 - Navrongo
Day 20 - Bolgatanga
Day 21- Tamale
Day 22 - Tamale
Day 23 - Yendi
Day 24 - Bimbila
Day 25 - Nkwanta
Day 26 - Kadjebi
Day 27 - Hohoe
Day 28 - Peki
Day 29 - Akosombo
Day 30 - Lake Volta
Day 31 - Yeji
Day 32 - Atebubu
Day 33 - Mampong
Day 34 - Nkawkaw
Day 35 - Accra



DAY 1


I had, and still have, no knowledge of how to change a flat tire. I knew little of bike maintenance, I had determination to do something I did not believe I could actually do: ride my bike for 80 kilometers a day for 10 days straight. In fact, once we were eating our first meal after our first day of riding, energetic Margarita boldly and confidently recounted our kilometers and time for the day. With my panic and lack of confidence, doing circles in my head, I gave a smile and agreeing nod to her statement that we could average 100 kilometers a day, at least, if we biked for a few more hours. Margarita was a driving force on the trip: constantly happy, constantly ready to go, constantly ready to explore and experience; a consistently wonderful planner with beautiful energy to encourage.

Our first day on the trip, we set the standard of leaving later than our desired departure time. We finally rode away from the International Student Hostel at 6:30 am towards Circle to meet up with some fellow Ghanaian cyclists. Friends we had met during the semester who lived in ISH, and the guards waved us goodbye. I remember feeling free as we rode down a neighborhood behind campus before intersecting with the main road. When we made it to circle, I quickly became fond of this group of cyclists that I had never met before. Not only were they well equipped and prepared but they kindly taught me how to efficiently use gears up and down hills. The greatest part of their send off though, for me, was the siren sounding howl from one of the bikers that got us safely through the traffic and road construction.

I remember the road to Winneba being flat except for the few hills at the end of the ride. The hills felt HUGE, and I lagged behind. Frazer patiently and warmly kept me in a good pace with the group. He never let me lag too far behind or bike too much alone and helped me draft, a valuable skill to learn.  He was the leader who led from the back on the rides and directed the routes and plans as though he was always in front. It was a warm, dry, sunny Ghanaian day that seemed to smile on us. My lungs breathed the air of life and freedom. We rode into Winneba at about 10:30 am. We must have taken a few stops.  One stop was for saying goodbye to our cyclist friends about a third of our way to our destination. And then we probably stopped for water and snacks because I was hungry and concerned that we needed to eat.  Armando set a strong pace and led the way.  His dependable endurance and speed felt like an odometer throughout my time on the trip.  I appreciated his positive, carefree and laid back acceptance of adversity and adventure.

The ride into Winneba was sweet. Once we turned off the main road from the roundabout, it was a downhill ride towards the coast.  We rode past some houses in the process of being built, mentally scouted them for shelter for the night and bee- lined it for a chop bar. I clearly remember the omotuo being so filling and so good.  I, also, remember the energy at lunch seemed to be one of ‘Sweet! We are doing this and that was an awesome start!”

 We finished lunch and easily made our way into town, doing circles, trying to find the beach. We rode through the market, listening to the type of calls that would come numerously throughout each day in the coming future: “Oburoni! White Man! Woo ko he? Where are you going?”  Margarita finally asked for directions from Amma, our first host and friend of the trip.  Amma is a young Ghanaian woman who works as a seamstress. She lived with only her mother and has recently moved to Accra to continue working. She walked us to a beach resort where we ended up camping and took advantage of the unlocked bathrooms.  Amma had led Margarita and Frazer into town on our night of arrival to get us breakfast, snacks and water for the next day.  We swam in the ocean, rested, talked and nervously slept out under the stars. None of us slept well or for long either because of the bugs or serious concern of being ambushed or robbed.  When Armando and I were left to watch camp, three boys with a cutlass came over and sat too close. They eyed our stuff, but left after we shooed them away.  We ended up being safe the whole night under the clear stars next to the sound of ocean waves breaking.

By
Evelyn Masoner

Saturday, 14 April 2012

DAY 4

Riding from Takoradi on December 21st to Busua (Green Turtle Lodge) was by far one of the most memorable and challenging days for me.  As I was running through the 5am morning drill of strategically strapping down my bag onto the rack with budgie cords, while scarfing down a banana, bread and preparing my 3-series water concoctions (1st- water with chia seeds, 2nd-water with Moringa powder and 3rd-water with Grapefruit Seed Extract (GSE) for preventative care), I took the time to jot down a few notes on Takoradi in my journal.  Closing statement of the journal entry was: “Off to Busua, it is supposed to be gorgeous and only about 40-45km, so it should take no more than two and a half hours, practically an off day.”

I could not have been more mistaken!  Sure it was only a 50 km ride, but the last 10-15 km were along an extremely rough road.  According to Frazer it was intermediate level mountain biking.  I mention this as an intro to the next statement, which is that I fell twice. Yes, twice.  I’m really clumsy when it comes to intense out-doors activities, such as snowboarding, skating, or any other activity involving going down a hill at a really fast pace.  Frazer, Evelyn, and Armando on the other hand, were flying down and back up the hills, having the time of their lives strategically “picking lines” to trek through, while I couldn’t help and think to myself “what in the world have I gotten myself into?!”

Although I hadn’t expected us to bike through such rugged terrain when committing to the bike tour, I quickly had to remind myself that in a sense, that was exactly what I had signed up for.  I had committed to an adventure full of circumstances where I’d be forced to take on the unexpected and push my limits in all ways.  These thoughts gave me a burst of energy and next thing you know, I’m zipping right down the hill feeling fearless, when suddenly I was defeated by an unexpected rock, large enough to throw me off balance and into the dirt, with my bike following closely behind and toppling right over me.  The fall managed to pop my tire and gash up my right knee pretty bad, but luckily we had Evelyn on board to quickly mobilize the group and do some quick damage control.  Within an hour we were all checked into the Green Turtle Lodge, where we decided to stay for two nights and recover from the mayhem.

Despite the fall, it was one of the most amazing rides we had. The terrain was extremely rugged and surrounded by lush palm trees, fields of cassava and other tropical vegetation.  The air was crisp; hardly any cars in sight and for the first 30 km, the smoothly paved roads were winding through the thick of the forest.  Although we had technically crossed into the Western Region the previous day, when riding from Cape Coast (Central Region) to Takoradi, it was not until the ride to Busua that I was able to experience the change in terrain and capture the tropical beauty of the Western Region.

The Green Turtle Lodge is located 5-10 km West of Busua beach and is by far the nicest beach I have been to in Ghana.  Given its distant location, there were only about 10-15 other people (tourist) there, making it possible to keep the beach-front in pristine shape. They have bungalows, but we stayed in the tents on the beach front, which actually had mattresses inside and cost only 5 cedis a night.  There was also a restaurant/bar, a ping-pong table, an uneven pool table, and boogie boards, all of which we took full advantage of during our stay, knowing it would be the last of such extreme relaxation.

By
Margarita Gonzalez

DAY 5

Not having to wake up to Frazer, the sleep hater's, 4:30am alarm at Green Turtle was absolutely delightful! I slept in until 7am (never before would I have considered that sleeping in), ate breakfast and enjoyed a delicious cup of French press coffee.  By 9am everyone was up and we were out on the beach playing Frisbee.  By 12pm we were all starting to feel hungry and refused to pay 7-12 cedis for a meal, so Evelyn and I ventured out to the next town (about a mile away) for food.  The town’s name was Akwade and it was truly special.  I can’t quiet put my finger on it, but the energy was extremely positive and touching, I felt almost overwhelmed.  It is one of the most remote towns I have ever been in, to the point where it was difficult to find food to buy.  We had to walk through the front and back areas of small homes made out of clay, bamboo and grass roofs.  Although the town was clearly impoverished, the people looked happy, hard working, and healthy.  It was bustling with life. 
We finally found a hut where at least four women were working on the preparation of fufu, by peeling and pounding the plantains and cassava as well as stirring up a really aromatic fish stew.  Once inside, we were warmly welcomed and given a bench to sit on.  For the next 15 minutes I just sat there looking out the small 4 ft entrance door, watching life happen.  A four year old girl was carrying cassava on her head, and then passed a three year old drumming along with his wood stick and empty plastic bottle.  Kids with button-up collar shirts were walking in and out of the fufu kitchen and then passed a teenage boy blasting hip-life (Ghanaian pop music) on his small boom box.  The men were on the canoes fishing and there was a bridge (rickety, but high and about 30 ft long) which the people use to cross over the stream that meets the ocean.  The Women crossing the bridge were all carrying something or other on their heads: water, cassava, pots, wood, bamboo, etc.  We also walked past women sifting through the Cassava in order to make Gari. 
There was so much activity; it was almost difficult to process.  It left me with lingering questions about poverty alleviation and “development.”  Never had it been more clear to me how dynamic poverty is and how difficult and at times unnecessary it is for outsiders to come in and try to re-structure peoples way of life in order to speed them through what would be a more localized and sustainable development process.  Is development actually “for” the people? Or do many organizations simply try to bring them up to life standards that developed countries find agreeable, regardless of what actually makes sense to the community?  Surely it is not so black and white, and there are some truly successful and inspirational development projects throughout Ghana, but this experience (along with others that have followed) has made me significantly more skeptical of development work.   
By
Margarita Gonzalez

DAY 6

We awoke to a beautiful morning on the beach at Green Turtle Lodge, to make our first journey north. As we leave the comfort of this tropical paradise, we are eager to see what will come as we travel further and further from home. First we must take the same dirt roads we took to get to our beach resort, which means about 7km of rough riding up and down mountainous and rocky hills. Margarita, being cautious this time, is taking it slow. We continue our journey with our humble new friend, Alex, as we make our way to the main road. As we ride, the clouds overhead are beginning to rumble, with flashes of lightning appearing and thunder striking our bones. Is it really going to start raining heavily just as we begin to ride? We’ll see... It actually was quite beautiful, riding through on this winding road, surrounded by thick vegetation of palm trees and other tropical variety, the sound of waves crashing from the beach alongside us was calming. It ended up only raining throughout this section of road, and by the time we hit the pavement, it was smooth sailing until our next destination. We were glad to meet nicely paved roads, after traversing the treacherous roads until then, and we were granted with just enough room on the shoulder to avoid vehicles as they sped by. We kept a pretty tight formation for the most part, and the ride was pleasantly refreshing, as the rain had cleared out the air and dirt. It was brisk, and we maintained a great pace, going up and down hills as we passed some of the most beautiful landscape on our trip. Riding was a breeze until we reached our destination, the mining town known as Tarkwa.


Immediately upon reaching this town, we were greeted by the chaos of hawkers and pedestrians left and right, and an endless stream of traffic that was almost at a stand-still for miles: angry drivers and shouting, along with the noise and exhaust from trucks and vans, we were definitely back in the city. Not really having any accommodation in mind, we continued our way to find a quiet place in hopes of meeting some people who could help us out. After taking some twisting roads along hillsides, we came upon a dirt road, which would be our next route towards Kumasi. Figuring we should stay along this road, we take a few moments to rest and hopefully strike up a conversation with someone. No one really cared to talk to us. Amidst this hectic scene of an endless wave of cars passing by us, kicking up dirt into the air, making it seem like we were in a sandstorm, everything surrounding us was covered by this red dirt. Sounds of construction sites and drilling filled our ears. Our initial plan was to see if we could maybe stay in an uncompleted building, where the workers of this project would stay throughout its construction. All seemed likely, until Margarita insisted (“Guys, just trust me on this one…”) that we follow her and this man who she had just met, named Simon, who promised to help us find accommodation. Tired and on the edge of frustration, all we could say was, “we’re not really looking for a guest house or hotel, we can’t afford to stay somewhere expensive. Maybe we can stay with you, or someone you know?”. “Don’t worry, just come,” is what he replied. We follow Simon for a few minutes and lo-and-behold! We stumble upon an oasis! This couldn't be a more accurate term to describe our accommodation for the night. Here we are, passing through this loud and chaotic town, dirt is sweeping through the air, along with car exhaust suffocating our every breath, and out of nowhere, we come upon this beautiful lake surrounded by green vegetation on all sides, with lush mountains encircling the area and a clean atmosphere with a feeling of peace and tranquility. A true oasis indeed we have found, Onyame Adom


It happened to be that this place was some sort of guest house, terribly out of place. As if this weren't enough of a relief, Simon then proceeds to pay for two rooms for us to stay the night! It turns out that this man is the son of the chief in that area, and wanted to ensure that we have an excellent experience during our stay in Tarkwa. We couldn’t deny, as he insisted on this being the case, and then asked us if we each wanted a beer, took care of that, and then dropped an additional 12 cedis on the table for whatever other items we wanted, and then dipped out and said he’d be back later in the evening to see how we were doing (!). What a nice guy, very generous. How did we get so fortunate? This was just one example of how truly blessed we were during our entire trip. We then finally took to relaxing and spent some time washing our bikes of all the dirt and grime that had accumulated from our first off-road experience, getting them oiled and ready for the days to come. The rest of the evening goes swell, enjoying the sight of this beautiful scene, hearing the story of Hanuka from Evelyn on this 23rd day of December, 2011, the eve of Armando’s twenty-first birthday. We rest up early tonight, as we have to get up early again the next day and do it all over. Where are we going? North.

Editor’s note: Onyame Adom means “By the Grace of God”, in Akan (Twi).

By
Armando Vargas

DAY 7



            Our ride from Tarkwa to Gyapa was unbelievably fun for me. The road was broken. It verged between dirt and pavement with patches of pavement on the dirt sections and vice versa, along with the occasional car, tro tro, and truck that needed maneuvering around. You had to swerve to miss the potholes, it was all about finding the line. I am an addicted skier who could spend the whole day on the slopes skiing moguls and between trees, doing nothing but looking at lines as they quickly come to you.

            This day started out misty on a dirt road.  The feeling of cold was in my bones on this warm December day.  We put bandanas over our faces to prevent breathing in the dirt, generously kicked up from the mining tucks, not just to bike on, but seemingly, through as well.  The trucks’ loud horns and beaming headlights created obstacles for adrenaline as I watched the bumps and lines of the road appear like a game before me.  At one point, when the dust had settled in the day’s dampness, Frazer, Armando and I almost got run off the road by a big truck. I was following Frazer, Armando following me, all of us very close when the truck angled in such a way that it was apparent we needed to either stop moving, jump into the bush or under the truck. I lost my balance behind Frazer, suddenly stopping and Armando got an image of horror as my bike fell sideways and my back hit the side of the truck.  I remember seeing the tire roll behind me while the truck moved along my camel back as I was leaned against it. I used the momentum of my fall and the truck to jump forward into the clear. 

When we arrived in Gyapa, I was so excited about the terrain; this was a day that I wanted to keep biking. The road had been mostly through dense green forest with some hills that beckoned speed on the incline and decline. I led the ride for a good portion of this day.  The rest of the group had mixed feelings about the road and did not get the same thrill that I did.

Gyapa was a small town on hills.  As we rolled in and stopped for a quick snack I remember talking with some locals about the mining of the area, the Chinese illegal mining. We went up a hill for food and found the usual rice stand on the side of the road.  I left the group and went searching for shelter for the night.  Margarita was always stellar at finding us a place to stay.  Still, I figured I would search. I wandered into a church that had a football field and housing for workers. It was peaceful but not adequate because the minister was not around. After waiting for a long time, I left and asked the woman selling something in front of her store if we could stay at her place.  The excitement and fame of the cycling Obruni’s made it easy for her to accept my request. I walked back to the group to find that they had eaten, found shelter and watched some young kids create delicious food. The story goes something along the lines of… this little boy gathered the kids together and then started directing them: “you get this and you get that”. I came upon the kids jumping and screaming and running. Their energy and strength is something you could only find in little boys.  Meanwhile, my cohorts had found shelter from Joe.  The bond was over the fact that he has siblings studying in the U.S., and had invited us into his home.  He had two rooms for us to stay in and a wife that cooked delicious food for us.  She made us rice in the evening for dinner and red-red with fried plantains in the morning, upon Frazer’s request. We bathed in the local showers that we each had to pay 50 pesewas for, the outhouse being a few houses away. Each time we found shelter, we were encouraged to bathe, and I found it always crucial to know where I could go to the bathroom.

The most significant thing about this day was that it was December 24th, Armando’s Birthday!  At a local bar, we drank a few beers and celebrated the way any good college student should enjoy a birthday. It was great! Especially, riding around town in the back of Joe’s moto-trike, leading the Oburoni Parade!
That night was hot! And the house was directly next to a place that sold beer and played music loud enough for a Jimmy Buffet concert. 4 am came way too early, but the breakfast beans were worth it.

By
Evelyn Masoner




The state of our team after the road from Tarkwa to Gyapa...one of the dirtiest days.






Morning beans and plantain to fuel the day ahead.


DAY 8


Christmas Day in Ghana seemed just as long and bustling as any other day.  We ended up biking into Kumasi and managed picked the road that has the most hills into Kumasi as well.  110 kilometers after Gyapa (or longest day yet), we thought were in Kumasi, or at least a few kilometers away, but we were standing on top of the hill that actually had a sign that said 20 kilometers to Kumasi and all I could see was the next HUGE, I mean HUGE like MASSIVE hill in front of me.  Forget mileage, I had to get over that hill to get to Kumasi. Unfortunately, after that MASSIVE hill was another MASSIVE hill which hid the next 5 MASSIVE hills on the other side of it that separated me from Kumasi.  What do I know about biking? Not much because Armando, Margarita and Frazer all told me about the torture of hills in San Francisco and biking up mountains. I rolled my eyes.

 The ride, I honestly, don’t really remember because of my exhaustion of reaching Kumasi. I do remember the traffic being bad and nerve wrecking the closer we go to Kumasi. Also, being in Kumasi the traffic was bad. I remember leading the group and not seeing a wide and deep pothole in front of me, a good sign of tiredness.  I slammed on the breaks and almost caused a pile up within the group.
When we reached Kumasi, the plan was to head into town towards our shelter because if we went to find food we could end up on the opposite side of town. We would of then had to bike through Kumasi, an obnoxious thought. However, hunger took over and we stopped at the first sign of food.  It was a nice food stand that gave us each a free egg roll for Christmas.

 Margarita hooked it up for us by reconnecting with a good friend. We staid with Kwesi and his awesome Dad who built their house and helps out in the villages with his engineering back ground.  Their home was elegant and warm.  They fed us full for dinner and breakfast with chocolate bars, marmalade and all around, good, good food. It was a unique Christmas for this band of adventurers

By
Evelyn Masoner

DAY 10


We made it to Wenchi around 12:30pm.  It was a really “interesting” town.  We officially named it Wacky Wenchi.  It sounds harsh, but I’ll explain.  Upon arrival, we stopped to look at the map and had just bought a round of Fan Yogos, when a man named Ben approached us and began to enquire about our trip and final destination for the day.  I told him we’d just decided to stay in Wenchi and he then proceeded to tell me he lived down the street.  I couldn’t resist the opportunity to ask if there was any chance he might have “a small space for us to rest our heads for the night” (that became my token line for finding accommodation ;).  In typical Ghanaian-hospitality style, he automatically agreed to host us.

He walked us to his sister’s house where we were introduced to the family, invited in to watch the best of Ghanaian soap-operas (they are classic!), given water, and warmly reminded that we are “invited and welcome to feel free.”  As we rested, his sister and nephew pounded some fufu and heated up a stew for us.  It turned out to be some of the best fufu I’ve ever had! The beef was delicious and the stew really flavorful and well-balanced.  Although there was a significant communication barrier, things were going well, until Ben’s brother in-law showed up and started asking us if we knew Ben.  I had to explain that we’d met Ben earlier and he was kind enough to invite us to stay the night.  Mid-conversation, Ben arrived and asked us to get up and follow him to town, so that we could really get to know Wenchi. 

The minute Ben stepped outside to wait for us, his brother in law (town pastor), tells us to sit down and wait for his wife.  I thank him, but explain that Ben is outside waiting and we need to go to town with him, but that we will return briefly.  His expression became very serious and he said “you don’t know that man. You sit down and wait for my wife. Don’t follow him. Only listen to my wife.”  At that moment, I couldn’t help but state the obvious and said “but that’s your wife’s brother and your brother in-law, is there a problem?” The situation only became more awkward when he refused to acknowledge that Ben was his brother in-law, and instead just focused on the fact that we needed to listen only to his wife.

I was then exchanging all kinds of glances with Frazer and Armando, hoping I could read their expressions and that we could somehow telepathically communicate and figure out what the hell was going on.  The sister finally arrived, so I went over to ask her whether or not Ben was her brother and if everything was okay.  In the most relaxed nature, she confirms that Ben is her brother and that everything is fine.  Next thing you know, we are all (the pastor, his wife, her “brother” Ben, his sisters and us) walking to where they’ve decided we should stay the night.  As we are walking in the front with the pastor, he begins the previous dialogue, “Do you know that man? No, you don’t know that man, so why would you follow him to town. You don’t follow people you don’t know!” That last statement just took me over the top and I replied “No, we don’t know him, but we don’t know you either and we are following you to a random house. We are not from here, therefore we don’t know anybody and have had to trust and follow strangers, as we’re doing now. Is there a problem?”  I’m pretty sure he only understood half of what I said, but finally said everything was okay. 

Next, we arrive at Ben’s and his sister’s father’s home where we stayed the night.  Now imagine this: we are all (including Ben and the pastor) sitting in a small living room where we were told to greet their father.  We sit there awkwardly, smiling and nodding as they go off in Twi, only stopping periodically to have us re-greet the father and remind us that it is his home.  We thanked the father for hosting us, only to be reminded 5 minutes later that “this man, he owns this home,” again, we thanked them and the dialogue looped around and around in the same fashion at least 5 times!!  I was then relieved to remember that Frazer also understands a bit of Spanish, so I just muttered to the two of them “familia de locos.”  (family of loonies)
When I think about Wenchi, I can hear “familia de locos” echoing in my mind, because that really sums it up.  It was beyond cultural differences.  The family was particularly unusual.  In any case, they took us out for drinks at night and gave us a place to sleep, so for that we are grateful.  But it was the only town we ever stayed in where things just felt uncomfortably off. 

By
Margarita Gonzalez  

DAY 11

            On this particular morning, Maggie Armando and I got up fast, ate fast, packed fast, and got out of Wenchi, fast. It is the first and only morning of the trip that we are riding by 6 AM, when it is just getting light. We did not wait to say fare well to our wacky hosts, although in the end we were grateful and found them to be rather kind, despite the incongruities of our previous evening. The road was fast in the early morning; dramatic opaque light glowed mysteriously from behind its Harmattan veil. Characteristic of the majority of mornings on the trip, the sun rose in dull colorful beauty; I had to remind myself to watch the road after becoming absorbed in its magnificence. It is a rare occasion that you can stare into the sun without consequence, and be able to marvel at its perfect fiery roundness, almost like it’s standing naked behind frosted glass, not vulnerable but powerful. Illuminating the dying leaves in the Teak forest beside the road, coupled with the cool, dry, crisp air of dawn in the north, I was reminded of childhood memories in Vail Colorado, amongst the aspens in autumn, a treasured time of year. With nostalgia plucking my heart strings and fresh air feeding my lungs, I sped alongside my trusty companions, drunk with an unexpected happiness, a joy for life, a love for adventure and a hunger for the road. We rode for fun, the best kind of riding, highest gear cranking over and over converting euphoria into miles and miles into memories.

            Mornings like that were rare on our journey, feeling fresh and strong, with cool weather, paved roads, and a serine state of mind. Flying the fastest our bikes could go, no problem, no worries, no inhibitions, just us and the road and the world to come. Laughing about the night before and relieved to be riding we pushed towards the unknown Northern region.

            Upon crossing the Black Volta River, one of the biggest in Ghana and the border between the Brong Ahafo and Northern regions, we stopped in the cozy inviting river village of Bamboi. Feeling peckish we parked our bikes against some crates and sat down at a road side café, the first of its kind we had experienced in Ghana and by no means the last. Set up with three yellow benches surrounding the chef, a rack of colorful mugs and a tower of bread it was an egg sandwich production unlike we had ever seen, an oasis in the dry Savanna. Taken with milky sweet Lipton tea and the laid back attitude of Ghana we fed on our fried egg saviors, savoring the moment. From this experience a trend would develop, from the trend a habit, and from the habit an obsession. Who knew egg sandwiches and tea (or Milo) was a staple food in Ghana? The first of hundreds, this particular eggy pit stop opened our eyes to the truth and trained them, with keen precision, to locate the Kyebom Wura in every town north of the Black Volta. Refueled and feeling antsy with the ever rising sun we departed satisfied, heading deeper into the unknown. Our destination, Kwame Kwasi, what we knew about Kwame Kwasi, it was big enough to be on the map, what we didn’t know about Kwame Kwasi, it really was not big enough to be on the map. Chosen because of its convenient location in the middle of a seemingly uninhabited section of road, we figured it would be another small town, rice vendors on the street, some container stores, open gutters. Upon arrival about the only thing we noticed were two huge Baobab trees standing sentry over a haphazard spattering of stick-mud-cow dung huts and a few half naked, dust covered children. I believe all three of us were excited at this point. This small town was by far the most rural town we had stopped at and passing the night there was sure to gain memory. 

            Walking into the village we were greeted with the usual rush of excitement to get a glimpse of the Oburonis and a very kind, hospitable man who gave us a bench and went to fetch the chief. It was customary for us to ask the chief permission to stay in his village, this is the first time we had stayed in a village small enough to make this custom applicable and we didn’t know what to expect. An amiable older man named Eric showed up and showed us to our accommodation, no sign of the chief, no problem. We were directed to the only concrete structure in the whole village, a clinic that had been out of use (or never used) for an adequate amount of time judging by the overpowering odor of guano that assaulted your nostrils if you stood within a twenty foot radius. Eric and his elder companion diligently swept the majority of the dust and rat droppings from the floor with their palm frond brooms, a commonplace in Ghana. Breathing shallow against the stench the three of us laid our bed rolls on the concrete and stripped off our sweaty bike kits. A rustling in the roof alerted us to the fact that the small hairy winged beasts responsible for defecating on the premises were still very much at home in the rotting rafters. Upon reflection, we found this situation highly ironic. Under the impression that these three whites were unable to sleep in a mud hut, the chief put us in the only building he thought would suite our kind of people. However, the clinic was probably the least inhabitable structure in the whole village, covered in dirt, rodent feces and inhabited by a colony of bats. Spending the night in a mud hut would have been leagues more comfortable and healthier than the clinic. What could we do? Refuse the chief and tell him we wanted a hut? Perhaps this would have worked but experience taught us to accept the offerings of chiefs under any circumstances. So, we settled in and tried to feel grateful for the roof over our heads.

            After some time Eric showed up to take us around town, we passed some traditional mud houses, complete with grain silos and goats, on our way to the spot (bar). Cletus’s spot it was called, about the most redneck name you can find, right in the middle of Ghana, and a source of laughter considering my Wyoming home. We were greeted by a few of the village men, relaxing in the shade under the grass roofed bar. The usual language barrier was quick to catch us, and friendly smiles full of “not understanding what anyone said” were passed around. However, one message that skillfully leaped the impossibly tall wall was the request for a round, courtesy of the guests. Of course we were not about to offend the men on the village so we purchased a four Cedi bottle of akpeteshi, also known as sodabi, agba, VC 10, original, blue kiosk, and kill me quick, which is the local moonshine in Ghana distilled from palm wine or sap from various other trees. This particular palm liquor packs a serious punch and you never know what potency you’ll get since it’s not an exact science. Anyway, despite the offer of a dizzy akpeteshi afternoon the villagers refused our offer and insisted on trading it in for various shots in a bag (the greatest invention in Ghana). Shots in a bag are just that, either a shot of gin, whiskey, or similar spirit conveniently distributed in a durable, fun sized plastic sachet perfect for shirt pockets and liver damage. “Goal”, “Score”, and “Soccer” emblazon the front of the sachets, promoting Ghana’s favorite pass time while simultaneously winning the hearts of millions of football fanatics. After everyone had picked their poison, we raised our Star beers in cheers to the sound of crickets and flies. At this moment the clash between the drinking culture of the US and the rural farming culture of northern Ghana reach a hiatus. It is customary in the US for people sharing a drink in a social setting to “cheers” their drinks to symbolize togetherness and equality and friendship. Cheersing before everyone has a drink is considered rude as is refusing to cheers your drink. In Ghana however, they expected us to drink our beers to the end while they sat and watched. I understand where they are coming from, we are guests in the village, and white, and we should enjoy our drinks with our own kind. Despite our protests it was extremely difficult convincing them to drink with us and only after repeated exaggerated insistence did we succeed. It was a good moment; an awkward forced cheers, muttered pleasantries, uncomfortable passing glances, warm beers and shots.

            Back in the sun with a belly full of Stars we plodded around the packed earth ground, passing hellos and smiles to those who watched on in wonder. Eric showed us the village xylophones, two huge instruments not unlike reclining deck chairs with various sized gourds suspended under each plank. It was very interesting to see how they were constructed, bound with plant fiber twine and a skeleton of unprocessed shrubby sticks to create a well formed curvy mallet musician’s dream. Soon enough, with the sun and the day’s ride at our backs we returned to the bat cave for a siesta. Eric took our order for dinner, letting us know that rice was hard to find and the only thing they had around to eat it with was shea butter. Following some questions about the local diet we discerned that Tzert was the food of choice in Kwame Kwasi and we requested it as such instead of the scanty rice. Eric was racked with laughter in disbelief that we could possibly want or eat Tzert. After as much convincing as the cheers we persuaded him to get his wife to whip up the meal, well knowing that we had never tried it and had no idea what is was. Eric told us that it was made with corn flour and millet and served with stew and walked away chuckling to himself. Journal writing, reading and resting followed until dusk, when the real fun started.

            Sitting outside our room on a wooden bench, we slowly began to notice that the noise in our roof was getting gradually louder and louder. Almost on cue a stream of bats started pouring out of a corner of the roof right above our heads, no doubt spurred by Margarita’s piercing encouragement. Hearing the commotion a well-built village man rounded the corner wearing a faded blue flowery dress and wielding and uprooted bush. The sad excuse for a drag queen proceeded to swat madly at the bats plummeting from the roof. Soon others joined, all swinging out of control at the hairy beasts. One of the poor critters didn’t have room to spread his wings, landed on the concrete at our feet, and hurriedly scurried under the door into our room, much to our elation. I edged in after it and bravely poked it with a stick until it flew out the open door. Then, looking to join the fun, I commandeered a bush from one of the men and tried out my batting arm. Of the hundreds and hundreds that came out I only managed to hit and kill four, not a bad number for an amateur home run hitter. Overall around 30 or 40 bats were collected in a sack, not all dead, and carried off to be a part of tomorrows stew. Glad I could help gather food for the village I exchanged “WTF just happened” exclamations with Maggie and Armando, who gallantly stood by screaming and taking photos, and nursed my pulled shoulder muscle. With stew on the menu I couldn’t help but wonder how many bats they had killed yesterday, my stomach grumbled.

~Frazer Tear

DAY 16

It is the second day of January, in the year of 2012 as we leave the comfort of our hotel room in Wa to make our way east towards Bolgatanga. We expect to make it there in about four days, and road conditions will be a challenge along with considerable distance between towns and villages. Most of our riding felt like we were in the middle of nowhere, surrounded only by the dry winds and burning brushfires as we struggled through on endless dirt roads with washboard-like surfaces. Loose sand further created difficult conditions, as it made control over our bikes even trickier.

Much grasslands and sparse trees characterize our northern route through this area. We learn later that the reason for much of the brush fires is caused by poachers who want to drive out the animals for game and hunting purposes. It was an interesting site to be riding along substantial fires along the sides of the road, clearing out much vegetation and leaving only the remnants of trees and ashes, making it seem like death and darkness had taken over the area. We don’t encounter many towns as we ride towards our next destination. Riding along for hours, hindered by the road, we become exhausted and hungry. We have to ration our water supply, since there aren’t many places to buy any, and food is scarce, even in the communities we pass. It is at this point where our most common source of water is from a bore hole, which pumps water straight from the ground. Although only in selected areas, water from these sources is definitely superior in taste as compared to that of the sachet water.

Continuing through the quiet roads, hearing the cry from trees burning, there is a stillness that covers all life. Giant plumes of smoke interfere with the sky and the wind rustles in what is left on the other side, yet to be touched by the spreading flames. We finally arrive at a fork in the road, wondering where the hell this next town we see on the map is. There aren’t any homes, shops or food stands around, and upon asking some people seeking shade under the trees, we learn that we are in Wahabu, on the border of the Gbele Game Reserve, our destination for the day. “Well, is there any place we can find food? We’ve been traveling now for six hours on bicycle, and we need to rest…” They laugh. There isn’t any food around that anyone is selling, not even water. “You can just pass through here and go to the next town, there isn’t anything here. It’s just 16km more, you can make it.” Margarita is stunned, and on the verge of tears, proclaims, “Just 16km?! We’ve been riding all morning; I can’t go any further than right here. I’ll cry if we have to go any more…” We were all drained from the day’s ride, and we had no options except to either keep going, or figure something out.  Luckily, a man came up to us and told us to follow him. Turns out, he is a ranger for the Gbele Game Reserve, and takes us to his campsite, where several other rangers are stationed there for weeks at a time. He fed us plenty of rice, offered us water, and we chatted with the other members of the camp for a while. There happened to be a spare room which wasn’t in use, so we were given this space for the night.

 Relieved to have found some accommodation for the night, we were thrilled. We talked about life out in the bush, and learned that these men would go out into the reservation for a few days out of the week and patrol the areas for illegal poaching. We were extremely lucky because it just so happened that when we arrived they were staying at the permanent station. If we would have arrived there a day later, this area would have been deserted of anybody, thus forcing us to continue to onward.  The rangers were all very friendly, welcoming and hospitable, providing us with an evening meal and good company. We fall asleep tonight to the sound of fire crackling in the distance, burning through a nearby area and being the only light in view aside from the moon. At last we rest before embarking on another journey through the rough roads leading east, isolated from the rest of the world.

By
Armando Vargas




DAY 17-19

            Arriving in Tumu after two long days on dry dirt roads was like stumbling upon a lush oasis in the heart of the desert. As we were nearing Tumu I felt a sudden surge of energy and decided to race an Apsonic Trike taxi carrying three old Ghanaian ladies into town. I kept up good pace with them and could see they were laughing at my efforts. Always in view I flew along after them, faster than I had gone all day on the dirt. Accompanying the transition to pavement upon entering Tumu was an overwhelming relief and a sense of accomplishment. We had made it half way to Bolgatanga! Continuing with our good fortune of finding accommodation we ran into a PCV (Peace Corps volunteer) that we had met in Wa over egg sandwiches. She hooked us up with her room in the house of a hostel owner complete with shower and the fanciest toilet we had seen in Ghana. After a delicious meal at Chop Better we relaxed with our feet up, preparing physically and mentally for the next push.

            In the morning we said our farewells and set off for Nakong, the alleged beginning of the paved road leading to Bolga. The sense of relief we had felt entering Tumu disappeared as soon as the pavement did only a few K outside of the town. Back on the familiar sandy, pot hole ridden, wash board track we trudged along in the morning sun. This particular section of dirt road was particularly draining and painstakingly slow because of its condition. Unlike the previous days the washboard was unavoidable and if you didn’t want to get a bruised gooch you had to take it slow. Trying to find the best, smoothest line amongst the various hazards made for a comical scene. Often side by side Armando and I would cross paths in front and behind each other trying to find the fastest rout. Eventually, one of us would choose wrong and get bogged down in the sand just to see the other ride off ahead laughing. And then there was Maggie, who, under the impression that avoiding hazards was a waste of energy, would just plow through the sand and washboard and take the beating like a champ. All the while Armando and I cringed as we watched her bounce ruthlessly along, yelling with frustration and laughter. At times I would forget that this road was indeed the main highway between the two major cities of the upper east and west regions. Only when the Bolga to Wa Mass Metro would come barreling along dragging its dusty red dirt cyclone would I be reminded that we weren’t on some uninhabited, unexplored region of the earth.

            The day progressed and we gradually began to see the road conditions change. Eventually we crossed a dried up river and entered the construction zone close to Nakong. At this point we were all beat, had repaired who knows how many flat tires, and were ravenous for nourishment. A few construction workers told us it was about 14 K to Nakong and later yelled at Armando and I for leaving Maggie behind as they sped by in their truck. By the time we reached Nakong and stiffly got off the saddle at a waakye stand we had nothing left, it was all on the road. We proceeded to lounge about on the waakye wura’s benches and she eventually asked if we needed a place to stay. Grateful for the offer she led us to the Neam tree where we napped on the platforms under its forgiving shade. Our new friend assured us she would take us to her home as soon as she finished selling her food and left us to recuperate. Five hours later as the sun was going down and we were still sitting in our sweaty kits she returned and escorted us to a nice compound near the cell tower. Presented with fufu we ate heartily until we were satisfied. Once we were satisfied they brought out the next course and we were forced to eat more. We never went hungry on our trip. Ghanaian hospitality is the best I have experienced in this world and as little as it may seem some people have, they will give you everything to make sure you are comfortable, clean, safe, and full. This aspect of Ghanaian culture was truly a life saver on our journey and honestly the reason we were able to sail as smoothly as we did. None of us will soon forget how generous and genuine the rural people of Ghana truly are.

            Again commandeering a kind man's room we made our beds and crashed hard for the night. The morning was cool and windy and the stars gleamed like spilled jewels in the heavens. Riding cold and tired away from Nakong we wondered if the rumor of the paved road was true. It was always a bit tricky interpreting Ghanaian’s sense of distance. At times we would be told that our destination was “far, oh it’s far, you can’t go you will die!” when it actually turned out to be five K down the road. On the other hand, as we got to the north where people travelled farther distances on bike and foot we would be told “It’s not far, not far” and 20 miles later we would still be riding. Soon enough though we spotted it and took a video of us crossing onto the largest stretch of pavement in the last 120 miles. From Nakong we continued towards Bolga, expecting to arrive by the end of the day. We stopped for breakfast of Bambara and rice in Chiana (?) which was the beginning of a very unique landscape unlike we had seen in Ghana so far. The geology of the area consisted of large irregular mounds or hills of house sized boulders interlaced with shrubs and farming settlements. The piles of rock spread into the distance blending with the crops and sporadic outcrops of trees. The morning light provided a dramatic air to the already intriguing surroundings and taken together was one of the most beautiful and interesting landscapes in Ghana. Slowly emerging from the hills we turned onto the straight road leading to Navrongo. Before we had realized, we were there, the pavement doing unseen wonders to our pace and endurance. Infatuated by the abundance of shaded streets and a welcoming atmosphere we decided to spend our well earned rest day in Navrongo. Scoring an 11 cedi room for the three of us at the Catholic Center we dined on eggs, bread, Milo and beer and basked in the freedom and spontaneity our nomadic lifestyle permitted.  

~Frazer Tear

Friday, 13 April 2012

DAY 21-22

Tamale

donkey traction!

The Grand Mosque

25 days from Mali heading for Accra



coal freighter

DAY 24

We depart our lovely stay with our gracious host, Alex from Yendi, and head off towards a town called Bimbila. Fortunately enough, Alex maintained a close relationship with a friend in this next town we were going, who happened to be a Catholic priest. Father Joseph would be helping us with our next accommodation, and we were indeed grateful for this occurrence. The way there, though, was quite a different story. We continue upon unpaved, dirt roads for a good 70km, though the conditions were not quite as bad as those in the north. We made a good pace, and in being fairly maneuverable it turned out to be quite an enjoyable ride. During this stretch we encountered some good climbing—up and down hills seemed to be our only direction—yet we made a strong effort and finally arrived in Bimbila. The first place we went was the Catholic Parish, where we would meet our host for the night. Expecting that we would most likely stay with him in his area of residence, we were relieved just to meet him and sit on a nice comfy couch as we conversed for a little while, while our rooms were being prepared for the night. Turns out there was a guest house right next to the church, and also belonged to the parish. Father Joseph is proud to offer us complimentary accommodation in this guest house, and we couldn’t be more thankful. After bathing and relaxing for a bit, we head towards town to check out the area. It was a quiet, small town with not too much commotion going on, maintaining a pretty calm atmosphere. We kept running into this lady, who had initially led us to the parish upon arriving in Bimbila, several times as she went about her day on her scooter. After munching on some popcorn and delicious fried banana bread for a bit as we sat and watched the world go by on the most bustling street in town, we slowly made our way back to meet Papa Joe for dinner, after Margarita’s failed attempt at catching baby goats and chicks.

            Tired and ready for a proper meal, we wait around until it is time. We make our way over soon enough to his place, and meet the other two priests who live in this place of residence. Father Joseph was a very nice man, and certainly not what we expected from a Ghanaian religious official. He seemed very open to a wide range of different ideas and perspectives, and not once were we even asked as to what our religious affiliation was, something pretty uncommon in Ghana. We sat around for a while and had very interesting conversation with these three priests about life and religion in Ghana, specifically the interactions between Christianity and African Indigenous Religions, and heard some new perspectives which we had never before encountered. It was especially intellectually stimulating for me, being a Philosophy & Religion major, and we went about the rest of the night in good, plain old fashion, drinking beers and cracking jokes for hours. Apparently we were such honorable guests that Father Joe felt the need to open up a bottle of Glen Levit scotch whiskey, which he had brought back from Scotland and had been holding on to for the past six years (!). I think we were special guests, since it was a change in the normal routine of things even for them. Disappointed in Frazer for not drinking enough whiskey as a Scottish man should, we then proceed to eat a wonderful meal of banku with some groundnut soup and guinea fowl (or more appropriately, Ghana fowl, as they preferred to call it). Being tired and perfectly satisfied, we then proceeded to make our way to the rooms to rest for the night, only to wake up and do it all over again. Quite a pleasant evening, I would say.

By
Armando Vargas

Thursday, 12 April 2012

DAY 25

            Waking up in Bimbila on the 25th day of our journey greeted us with sore thighs and dirt roads. Somehow rested and re-energized from the delicious “Ghana” foul soup and Glenlivet from the previous evening, we peddled awkwardly through town in the morning gloom. As the rough pavement ended 100 meters out of town we (Armando and I) stopped to don our dirty weather gear consisting of sufficiently pre-dirtied bandannas. At this point, Margarita Gonzalez Gonzalez had managed to ride more than 160 miles of dirt road without any barrier between her heaving lungs and the thick fog of dust that clung like a leech to the back of every motorized vehicle. We gazed in amazement as she pedaled by and wondered if asthma wasn't an acquirable ailment. Luckily, the early morning traffic was at a minimum and the bandannas could be kept at half mast, raised to attention only when a grumbling tro tro came barreling by. The road conditions were like sweet sweet love compared to yesterday’s sand trap from Lucifer’s sandbox of hell. Not too far along the road from Bimbila we reached a junction where Zoomlion, Ghana’s foremost waste disposal company, was dutifully sweeping garbage into plastic mounds and painlessly setting them alight. Amidst the blaze and blackened smog I asked which way to Nkwanta, our predetermined destination, and waited for the flock to reach the gate so I could usher them in the right direction.

            Amazingly, the expedition had yielded almost no power struggles or head butts between members of the trio and the balance was generally kept in check. However, at this particular junction, Margarita Gonzalez Gonzalez pulled up only to exclaim, “Well, what are we waiting for?!” Slightly irked by the audacity of her comment, and the fact that we were waiting to make sure she headed in the right direction, I exclaimed ”We’re just making sure you make the right turn, I won’t stop again!” Which is exactly what happened. The section immediately following the gate was slightly down hill and mostly devoid of bone rattling washboard. Feeling energized and fast on the hard pack dirt road I flew along, picking my lines through the ruts and pot holes and cranking in my highest gear. I was able to keep this enhanced momentum rolling throughout the morning, not stopping to look back or wait but keeping my eye on the horizon and charging onward. Feeling no reservations in leaving my companions behind, I reveled in the opportunity of riding completely alone for one glorious day. Riding at my own pace, but continually pushing and challenging myself, I fell into the familiar groove of physical endurance reminiscent of high school nordic. Concentrating on the road, I abruptly came upon the mighty Volta River at Dunkwa. It was a beautiful landscape, the broad river sprawling on either side of a weathered iron bridge, catching the sunlight and reflecting it to illuminate the scene. Stares drilled me from raised containers looking down on the road, Oburoni calls unflinchingly followed. Feeling pretty hardcore, yet outlandish in my browning bike kit I transformed the cat calls into cheers and used them to bolster my energy and drive.

            The land sped by, rolling hills, barreling tros, and red dirt as far as I could see through the haze. Biking alone was an enlightening experience, not that I didn’t enjoy riding with my team, I did, it was just that after spending every waking and sleeping moment together some solitude was magical, two wheeled solitude even more so. Eager to make good time and see how far I could push myself, I continued to crest hills and pass through villages without the frequent food and water stops that characterized group riding. When my stomach persisted in its protests I figured I had gained some ground and stopped in a busy, exceptionally dusty down hill town to refuel. After purchasing a small sachet of millet and corn porridge and every shape of Kosi (fried dough) the Wura had in her box; I sat on a table under the shade of a corrugated container and chopped (ate) ravenously. Eating around whatever loitering bodies in the area I attracted some odd looks of wonder and awe. It is a strange habit of some Ghanaians to be completely amazed that foreigners eat any type local food. Such habits go as far as having random men shouting hysterics in your face about the fact that you eat corn porridge, or banku, fufu, kenkey, tzert, or any other food that is not jollof rice, fried rice, or plain rice. During this particular meal however, no one minded me and I felt like a ghost observing the passers-by with impunity. Stuffing another sweeter form of fried dough in my shirt pocket I took off down the hill feeling rested and revived. The sun crept slowly higher by the minute, baking the surrounding dry earth along with my delicate complexion. Spirits still high I cranked on. There is a monotonous nature to biking, a repetitive motion that is somehow therapeutic. I fell to the rhythm, focused on the road, my aching thighs and butt, and the top of the next hill. 

            As the day pushed on I could feel my stamina draining. I had kept a descent pace for about four hours at this point, and the exertion was beginning to take its toll. My muscles felt sore and hills that had been made of cake in the morning were now looming in front of me. I like to make a point of not asking how far my ultimate destination is, however, I had been riding for hours and decided to try my luck. A friendly villager notified me that Nkwanta was a mere 14 kilometers away, not bad considering I had already come 86. Despite the psychological boost of closing in on my goal the next 14 K proved to be sandy, hilly, and hot. I did, nonetheless, pass a series of homey quaint towns which were shaded their length by monstrous ancient mango trees. The village men were lounging about underneath the complete shade on the roots and extended log platforms characteristic of the “benches” of the region. A recognizable difference in mindset between locals and foreigners was apparent from these shady scenes. On the one hand, you have the white man, clothed in spandex and pedaling his heart out on a loaded bike down a dusty road in the sweltering mid day heat. On the other hand you have the local African farmer who is kicking it back under the cooling canopy of a mango tree sucking fruit and drinking local Pito (millet wine). You can’t help but wonder who’s got the right idea…Aware of how crazy I must come off to the locals I smiled sweetly and hauled my bulk closer to victory.

            Cresting one particular hill, I noticed a range of mountains shrouded by Harmattan in the distance; the gateway to the Volta region. Nestled at the base of the pass was Nkwanta, sweet sweet Nkwanta. As I rode through the outskirts of town I was on the lookout for food Wuras and stopped at the first place I found. Parking my bike on the side of a container I bought some rice and stew and collapsed on a bench. Drinking pure water and gazing towards the road I wondered about Armando Jesus and Margarita Gonzalez Gonzalez, and how many hills they still had until they caught up. About 45 minutes and three small meals later they came chugging up, much to the delight of the Wuras who were now good friends of mine. After they had eaten and we had exchanged stories from the day we were lucky enough to be offered a room in the Wura compound just off the road. We were all beat from the day’s ride, a journey that proved to be about 100 K all on dirt roads. Bimbilla to Nkwanta was the farthest we rode on dirt track over the course of the tour, and it felt damn good. A nice bath in the river, a jaunt around town, and a delicious fufu feast found us in blissful exhaustion. The bed we unknowingly stole from the head Wura whisked us off to dream land, dreams of mountains and the wonders that awaited us in the Volta region.

~Frazer Tear    


DAY 30-31

Boat Trip

After reaching Akosombo, the gang was poised for a boat ride up Lake Volta to the port city of Yeji, from where we would make our 500km descent south-bound to Accra. On the way to the boat, we loaded up on food from the market and packed it over the hill to the port. We were given two pounds of gari (dried, ground cassava) and a bag of not so tasty fried fish from our previous night’s hosts who were very welcoming and generous.

The boat was scheduled to leave at 4:00 pm, so we had most of the day to kill before boarding. We spent this time riding around and hanging out on a grassy knoll overlooking the Akosombo Dam, an impressive structure which supplies power to most of West Africa.

We made it back to the port in plenty of time to board, gave our fried fish to the security guards who, much to our relief, accepted the gift. On board the ship, we snagged a booth to set up as a base camp and unloaded our supplies which included mostly food. Actually, most of the boat ride involved us eating ridiculous amounts of food in front of gazing Ghanaians probably thinking to themselves, “Good lord, do these Oburonis ever stop freakin eating?!” Our edible inventory once we boarded the boat included: 3 pineapples, 4 mangoes, two bushels of bananas, a jar of stew, 2 lbs. of gari, a bag of groundnut paste, 3 loaves of bread, chocolate, a bottle of Akpateche, and 2 bags of complicated rice (rice with a bunch of other stuff mixed in like stew, eggs, cabbage, plantain, etc.) …and we also bought food on the boat as well as got off at one of the ports and bought more. Like I said, we pretty much ate the entire time.

The ride up the lake took about 36 hours, most of which consisted of eating and sleeping, punctuated by other activities to pass the time. There was a point where we wanted to play the card game Spoons, but had no spoons, so we resorted to using bananas. Needless to say, we ended the game with several sad looking bananas and a banana baby food type substance all over the table…not one of our smartest ideas. We also played hearts quite a bit and entertained ourselves by consistently passing Evelyn the queen of spades. Frazer and I spent a bit of time reading and enjoying the fine scenery provided by the lake as well.

Night time on the boat was an experience in itself. Once the sun went down, most of the Ghanaians proceeded to pass out on benches, the floor, the deck, or any other space large enough for a human body. Not us. The first night we suspended a headlamp from the ceiling and proceeded to turn Crazy 8’s into a drinking game – draw more than two cards and you must choke down a shot of Akpateche! The first night, I slept on top of a pile of blocks using my sandals and bandana as a pillow, Armando slept at our booth on one of the benches, while Frazer and Evelyn slept in crates of hay that looked like animal pens. The only person who seemed to get any sleep that night was Frazer who had snagged the only mat from the boat and laid it out on a soft bed of hay.

The second night was filled with stops at smaller ports on the way to our final destination. Each time we stopped we would get woken up by the loud wail of the boat horn and the crowd of people entering and exiting the boat, so it was another restless night. This went on for a while until we reached Yeji at about 4:00 am. Frazer had slept next to a motorcycle that night, his head near the exhaust pipe, and was rudely awoken by a nice blast in the face as the bike was started up. Not the most pleasant thing to wake up to. Anyways, we exited the boat, ate a small breakfast and set out on our final ride south. We were all anxious to get going at the point after being cooped up in a boat for 36 hours, so the freedom of being back on the bikes felt great. The boat ride was a nice break where we were able to regain our strength and regain ambition to be back on the road.

By
Andrew Althauser