DAY 25

            Waking up in Bimbila on the 25^th 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