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

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

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