31. Out of Africa

The Cedarberg mountains, Western Cape

Yesterday morning I did quite a spectacular somersault off Rocinante along the main street in Stellenbosch. Over 22,000 kilometres from home and perhaps my last kilometre in Africa and it took a momentary lapse of judgement whilst jumping a curb on an unloaded Rocinante to go sprawling across the road followed by bits and pieces of the bike. Ironically I was on the way to the bike shop to get Rocinante kitted out for the next leg of the journey, so I just added a couple of new items to the bottom of my fix-it list when I handed the bike over to Leonardo the bike man.

Having failed miserably in any attempts to find passage on either a yacht or cargo ship to South America, I chucked in the towel and with one quick swipe of my credit card I enlarged my carbon footprint, cut a nice dent in my ever-dwindling financial resources, and had a plane ticket from Cape Town to Buenos Aires, Argentina. I fly out on Sunday 20th September, just under one year to the day from when I landed in Tangiers and began to run the stone-throwing gauntlet into Morocco. What a year. 22 countries, 2 tyres and a million experiences.

Spring flowers in the Cedarberg

After over a week in the Cedarberg mountains, I descended to the winelands of Western Cape and now I'm staying with Bennie and Elsie in Kuilsrivier, a suburb in northern Cape Town. We last met on a sandy track in southern Angola, where they saved myself and Peter with water and sandwiches as they toured the country with some friends. We kept in touch and they very generously offered to host me for the final few days in the country. After the visit to the bike doctor yesterday I bought a Spanish dictionary and phrasebook and every night I will sleep with them under my pillow and hopefully I will learn the language by osmosis.

Finally, as you may be aware, I decided a few months back to use the journey to raise money for the Dublin-based charity, the Peter McVerry Trust, which does fantastic work in supporting young homeless people. I just wanted to make it clear that if you choose to donate any money to the charity via The Slow Way Home link on the mycharity.ie website, your donation goes to the Trust immediately (and not at the end of the journey - whenever that may be!). Many thanks to those who have already contributed very generously to the fund.

To all the people at home and along the road who have made this journey be what it has been so far, a very warm thank you.

Gydo Pass, Western Cape

Cape Town, South Africa

Trip distance: 22,153 km

30. (Almost) Spring in South Africa

Having failed to reconvene with Peter at the annointed hour in Windhoek my itchy wheels and I decided to head on alone towards Botswana. The last entry in my journal ends almost one month ago in the village of Kang in Botswana, midway along the trans-Kalahari highway. The title of the road may sound romantic (it did to me), conjuring up images of the bushveld and the San's ('bushmen') well-documented culture in this arid expanse of southern Africa, but really, it's not that romantic. At least on a bicycle. It can be windy (it was), there were the longest distances (almost 200 km) between water sources so far encountered on the trip, and a seemingly endless journey through sand, bush and scrub. Well it seems I'm still bitter but I'm beginning to think that perhaps there is some merit in saying that once you've pedaled through one desert you have pedaled through them all.

Kalahari sands

At some point during the Kalahari cycleabout the magnetic force of Cape Town began to draw me in and a more direct route to the end of Africa was embarked on, rather than a detour back to Lesotho. Many South Africans had by this stage taken time out of their driveabout to stop and chat with me along the roadside and I began to get really worried about the size of my genitalia when the tenth South African opined that my balls were bigger than my brain if I was seriously thinking of riding through their crime-infested homeland. They would then jump into telling me all sorts of nasty stories about cyclists getting shot at, robbed and beaten to death, whilst assuring me that in the very least I should be prepared to walk to Cape Town as it was a foregone conclusion that my bike and gear would not survive the journey.

Somewhere in the Northern Cape, South Africa

Well, I entered South Africa from Botswana three weeks ago at McCarthy's Rust into the vastness of the Northern Cape province and so far I haven't had to start walking towards Cape Town. The Northern Cape is primarily an Afrikaans-speaking area in South Africa where pride is taken in a slower pace of life and considerably lower crime statistics than other areas in the country. The reason for this is because almost nobody actually lives there and any illusions I had about more human-scale cycling distances were soon put aside. I was met with extraordinary offers of hospitality and rarely was I let sleep outside in my tent but instead taken into farmhouses, fed enormous portions of six different animals in one meal and sent on my way again. One memorable morning a fellow sporting an enormous flaming orange mullet, pulled over and told me he worked at the local mine and he wished to get a photo for the local paper, the Kalahari Bulletin. He was late for a meeting and had to rush off, yet half an hour later he returned toting a cheeseburger, chips and Coke and insisted that if I needed money it was no problem.

5,000 year old hand-prints at a cave in Eland's Bay

Yet since entering from Angola into Namibia, history seems to permeate every contact that occurs between people of different races. Here in South Africa you can visit a town with a population of 5,000, all the services you need, and yet three kilometres down a dirt track lives the other 15,000 people who also live and work and try to survive in this town. While segregation may have officially ended 15 years ago, the reminders of the Apartheid era are buried deep in both the physical and psychological landscapes that you encounter in South Africa. Yet one thing that I have learned to appreciate more than ever is the importance of reserving judgment on those who are ordinarily held responsible for the current state of affairs.

Seals take five on the rocks at Eland's Bay, Western Cape

I followed a route that led me across the top of the Northern Cape and back to the coast, passing through the Orange River valley at Upington, Keimos and Kakamas, before continuing on to Springbok. It's springtime in South Africa and the annual pilgrimmage for those with both a caravan and an old age pension to witness the Spring flowers in Namaqualand had begun in earnest. I wanted to see what all the fuss was about. The moisture from the nearby Atlantic is the reason for the normally arid landscape turning a variety of bright hues but unfortunately the flowers had arrived early this year and by the time that I arrived most of the disappointed white-haired flower season veterans were packing up their deck chairs and heading for home. From Springbok, the N7 brought me quickly closer to Cape Town. And yet the closer I get the slower the pace has become and the wider the meanders. I rode down along the green coast before tacking inland to the impressive Cedarberg mountains where I have been pitched up in an orange tree orchard for the past few days, ripe fruit ready to fall like an citrus nuclear bomb on my tent below.

Cedarberg Mountains, Western Cape, South Africa

Trip distance: 21,947 km

29. One year on in Namibia

Day three hundred and sixty-five started a little earlier than most, the southern hemisphere's chilly winter morning rousing me to a state of frigid consciousness at 4 am. An hour later I decided that a warm shower and hot bowl of porridge was preferable to slowly succumbing to frostbite in my lightweight (i.e. useless) sleeping bag. For the past couple of weeks I have been warding off the early morning chill with the remarkably effective solution of sleeping inside an empty 50 kilogram maize sack. As the nights continue to cool down, however, with a corresponding increase in my latitude reading I may have to get more sacks.

On my way south to Namibia's capital, Windhoek, I spent a couple of nights at the Kai-Oms (Our House) hostel in Outjo, a small town that lies south of Etosha national park. Peter wanted to make a detour, a 500 km detour to be exact, to visit Swakopmund on the coast. Having visited the town on a previous trip to Namibia in 2001, I decided to forego the pleasure of an extra few days in the saddle and reunite with Peter in Windhoek for the final stage together in the Tour d'Afrique, along the trans-Kalahari highway in Botswana to South Africa. Our last few days in Angola had been somewhat challenging with a bout of malaria for Peter and then, following some bad advice, we found ourselves pushing our bikes along a sandy track that led south from Cahama to the border town of Calueque. The moral of the latter being: never listen to someone driving a Landcruiser about which roads are passable on a bicycle.

Eh, look behind you Peter

We crossed into Namibia on 17th July and with tar on the roads (well the main ones at any rate) and food in the shops, a love affair with Namibia was all but guaranteed. Following two days off in the northern hamlet of Ruacana, most of the time being spent marveling at and eating the food for sale in the BP service station, we rode south to Kamanjab. As we skirted the western boundary of Etosha park, we were warned by a concerned policeman that lions "operated" in the area and that they might well take a fancy to two passing cyclists. In the end we only spotted varieties of antelope, zebra and giraffe - fantastic to cycle past nonetheless. On arrival in Kamanjab we learned that our proposed route south to Swakopmund would be hampered by sand and I lost no time in deciding that the tarred route to Otjiwarongo and on to Windhoek was the road for me. Namibia is undoubtedly endowed with many magnificent and awe-inspiring landscapes and natural features but unfortunately many are not accessible to bicycles, at least loaded ones, and especially so if you have developed a deep-seated aversion to fine particles of sand.

Mind the elephant

And so it was that I found myself alone in Outjo, taking a first time trial separation from Peter since our several months traveling together. By mid-afternoon Day 365 I was being first cajoled and then harangued into declaring where my loyalty lay in the pending Tri-Nations rugby match between New Zealand's All Blacks and South Africa's Springboks. In between shots of Jagermeister and bottles of cold Tafel lager I surveyed the small sports club bar that I had come to with Deon, the very hospitable and friendly owner of the hostel where I was camped up. The handful of customers in the bar were all Afrikaaners from either Namibia or South Africa. Many from the latter appearing to have emigrated north in recent years to escape the rat race and crime epidemic of South Africa's cities. The roof of the bar was adorned with large flags of the famous rugby clubs in the region. Amidst the collage hung two old South African flags from pre-1994 and along with the rescued street sign of 'Voortrekker Str' that hung above the whisky and brandy bottles, it wasn't hard to imagine which direction many of the patron's political sympathies lay.

Another day ends, near Otjikondo

Fortunately, a lot of the little I do know about rugby was gleaned from John Carlin's (2008) recent book, Playing The Enemy, which focuses on the political build-up to the rugby world cup that was held in South Africa in 1995. In the final match, against the odds, the host nation beat the All Blacks as they were cheered on by the recently elected president of South Africa, Nelson Mandela, who was famously repleat in the No.6 Springbok jersey. Carlin's aim in the book was to demonstrate Mandela's inspirational ability to see the bigger picture and to break down the barriers of fear of the new regime that many of the white South African's felt. As the favourite past time of white (male?) South Africa, Mandela recognised the role that rugby could play in uniting his fractured nation. By embracing the world cup and genuinely supporting the Springbok team, Mandela was supporting what most of the black population in South Africa undeniably viewed as symbols of the oppressive and brutal apartheid regime.

Prior to 1994, rugby had been very cleverly used by the anti-apartheid movement to bring international attention to their cause by ensuring that boycotts were placed on the Springbok's ability to compete internationally. As a result of the boycotts, the Springboks were unable to play in the first two rugby world cups in 1987 and 1991. And yet here was their beloved president embracing the game and even wearing the captain's jersey. What Mandela magnanimously realised was that it was only through such gestures of acceptance and solidarity that he could begin to unite the nation's divided racial factions and assure white South African's that they need not fear retribution from the ANC government. When the Springboks won the world cup in 1995, celebrations were memorably and unprecedentedly held across all of the various communities in South Africa and the episode is fondly remembered as both a great sporting result and a political masterpiece in conflict resolution by Mandela.

Windhoek, Namibia

Trip distance: 19,346 km

28: High and dry in Angola

An MPLA flag in northern Angola

As another fiery sunset engulfed the western horizon last night we found ourselves squeaking into Lubango in southern Angola. Angolan roads have finally forced all the bearings out of Rocinante's left pedal and she now sounds like every other village bicycle in Africa. After crossing into the oil-rich Cabinda province from Congo Brazzaville three weeks ago, we made an "exciting" ten and a half hour boat journey along the palm-lined coastline of the Democratic Republic of Congo and across the 20-kilometre wide mouth of the Congo river, experiencing multiple engine failures enroute, before arriving back on terra firma and mainland Angola. From Soyo we bumped south through N'zeto and into Luanda, where after a brief layover, we continued south along the coastline to Lobito before climbing up onto the cold plateau where Lubango lies. From here it's just a four day ride to the Namibian border.

Toys of the wealthy getting washed in Luanda's sailing club

Angola has been a fascinating country for me. A country that has made a remarkably swift transition from the chaos and brutality of a 30-year civil war that ended just a few years ago, into a country that is now busily preparing for its hosting of next year's football competition, the African Cup of Nations. With a newly exploited oil wealth fuelling the economy, there is little sign of the global economic crisis in Luanda. Construction trucks from Chinese, Brazilian and Portuguese firms clog the city's arteries as they build more skyscrapers, motorways, and football stadiums. And yet, so many of Angola's fifteen million population remains outside of these changes, facing the task of daily survival without access to clean water and other basic services. Vast amounts of money are being spent on rebuilding a road network, while almost every village we passed through lacked a water pump.

Sumbe

Talk of corruption and the 'resource curse' abounds and witnessing the incredible displays of wealth, particularly in Luanda, now one of the most expensive cities in the world, the wealth gap certainly feels oppressively vast. As one expatriate worker in Luanda put it to me, there is so much potential here to get things right and yet, there is so much potential to get it all wrong. Yet, it's also easy to make these comments as an ignorant passerby and much harder, of course, to rebuild a country that has suffered the history of Angola. Like other countries in the region, the major party, the MPLA enjoys vast popular support, winning over almost 90% of the electorate in the last elections in 2008. Such statistics certainly don't make for healthy democracy but hopefully with time things will change, wounds will heal, and people will be ready to trust and place their confidence in a wider political field.

Another great road...

When we arrived into Lubango last night we found our way to the Catholic mission and after asking if it was possible to pitch a tent for the night, we found ourselves invited to first a dinner, and then a priest's ordination party, and we were then given a room and bed for a couple of nights. Such hospitality, from both Angolans and foreign workers, has been the norm during our time here. At dinner last night we chatted with Father Jacinto about his time campaigning for rural land rights, and how after he had brought the spotlight of international human rights organisations to the cause, he had to flee to Europe when death threats were made against him. He still can't return to the parish where he was based. Later on at the party though he turned out to be the finest dancing priest that I've ever met.

Lubango, Angola

Trip distance: 18,086 km

27: A short note from the Congo

Near Alembe, Gabon - happy days

Greetings from Pointe Noire in the Republic of Congo. That's the smaller of the Congos, capital Brazzaville. We've been tracking southwards with a vengence since leaving Yaoundé in Cameroon about three weeks ago. After Cameroon we continued into Gabon, where there was a lot of speculation about the fate of the country should President Bongo, Africa's longest serving leader, die in the Barcalona hospital where he was being treated for suspected cancer. A Liberian refugee who had already witnessed the implosion of Liberia in the early 90s and migrated to Gabon to start another life, was pessimistic about Gabon's political future and stability should Bongo die and his adopted son attempt to succeed him without holding elections. A French expatriate was making preparations to leave in case there was going to be unrest.

Bongo died on our last day in Gabon and initially it appeared that we wouldn't be able to get through the border to Nyanga in Congo-Brazzaville, as all borders into Gabon were closed. But we made it, despite being told not to attempt to cross the border by a military officer in Ndendé, the border officials let us through without a problem, since we had already received our exit stamp in the passports. We plunged gratefully into the mud and then dust of southern Congo. We rode through Nyanga and Kibangou before spending five days ascending and descending along a logging road through the Foret De Mayumba and emerging into the oil-rich economical capital of Pointe Noire.

Internet is as rare as hen's teeth in this neck of the woods, so you'll have to wait for more, but all is going well. Next stop, Angola.

A logging truck in Congo

Pointe Noire, Congo
Trip distance: 16,686 km

26: Yaoundé Redux

On the Ring Road

I'm suffering from a rare strain of tropical blogger's block here in Yaoundé, capital of Cameroon. Yesterday I attempted to write a post on the highlights and lowlights of the past three weeks of pedaling through Cameroon, but I wasn't satisfied. Waking up with renewed enthusiasm this morning and fuelled by some of the finest pastries this side of the Cameroon highlands, I thought I'd make another stab at an update...

A lot of tea

After our weekend sabbatical in Nkambe, where we recovered from the Great Trek across the Nigeria/Cameroon border, it was hoped that progress might improve. It remained rather pedestrian, however, as we headed south along the eastern section of Cameroon's Ring Road - a 340 kilometre track, at times passable, that dips, bends, and more often than not rises its way around the western highlands. By the evening of day one out of Nkambe, we'd covered a bumpy 37 kilometres to the small town of Ndu, home to Cameroon's largest tea plantation. For all the tea in Ndu, I couldn't find a cup to sample, but I did make another profound discovery - fried 'Irish potatoes', as the tubers are referred to here. Combined with roasted fish, I had found the two culinary staples that would leave a happy and lasting impression on my mind and stomach as we pedaled and pushed our way through the highlands. Meanwhile Peter was off discovering the locally-brewed bamboo wine, which can also leave a rather long lasting impression on the mind apparently.

Boys on a hill

From Ndu we rode on to Kumbo and Jakiri, the latter a British army garrison post in the years leading up to independence. The North West and South West Provinces of Cameroon, form the core of the area that was formerlly British controlled. The result is that Cameroon is split into two distinct areas of anglophone and francophone populations, although the latter easily dominates the former in terms of its influence and geographic spread. On the evening of the third day out from Nkambe we arrived into Ndop, in time to sit out yet another afternoon of rain. Ndop marked a return to tarred road and the following day we headed on to Bamenda for a couple of days rest at the Baptist Mission.

The Ndop Plateau

Opting to follow the tarred route south, we headed via Bafoussam and Kumba to Buea, the town that serves as the base for organising ascents of Mount Cameroon. On a rainy Monday afternoon in Bafang, we ate some great beef stew and beans while Raphael, a pineapple exporter, explained the intricacies of the trade to us. Two days previously he had harvested four tons of pineapples. That same evening they had been driven to Douala airport and flown to Paris from where they are taken to a wholesale fruit market in time to be on the shelves of retailers by Monday morning. So right about now, when I was tucking into my beef and beans and lamenting about the state of the tropical fruit market in Cameroon, someone has just returned home from a trip to their supermarché or local fruit and veg shop and is cutting open a ripe and juicy pineapple in Paris. Comprehension of the timeframes involved, in comparison with myself and Rocinante's voyage, momentarily stunned me. For a moment I thought what it would be like to travel at the speed of a pineapple.

Young lads in Muea

A dusty road led us from Loum junction over to Kumba and late one afternoon we had our first and only problematic roadblock in Cameroon. The police and gendarmerié being very kindly disposed to traveling pedalists thus far. I arrived at the crest of a long hill to see Peter in animated conversation with the two officers on checkpoint duty. They could not assure us of the road ahead and given that we would not make Kumba before nightfall we should stay in their village, which coincidentally had a hotel that they could recommend as being up to our quality. We began to insist that we would be fine asking for accommodation in the villages that we would pass through ahead, but then the more rotund of the two began yelling that the road was notorious for armed robbers and that they would surely cut our heads off if we were captured by them. With miraculous timing, the manager of the nearby establishment that they were gesticulating at, bounded down the path and also began arguing and saying it would be foolhardy to go on. In the end Peter discovered that he had left some money at the junction and he had to return there anyhow, so after we negotiated the room down to a reasonable 3 euro per head we had a bed for the night.

Buea is situated on the slopes of the still volcanically active Mount Cameroon and serves as the base from which to organise a trek on the volcano. Having already a contact number for a guide, we bypassed the more expensive agencies that organise the treks. Shortly after dawn on a pleasantly cool Saturday morning, with not only Joseph to guide us up, but Peter No.2 to act as our porter, we felt like a proper pair of colonials as we set off up the so-called and clearly marked Guinness track that leads very much veritically to the 4100 metre summit. Guinness sponsor the annual suicidal marathon up and down the volcano, called the Race of Hope, hence the trail's name. It took over four hours to reach Hut 2, at 2850 metres, the preferred place to overnight on the mountain. After some lunch, however, I developed some stomach cramps and resigned myself to spending the afternoon at the hut, whilst Peter went up to the summit. The night was cold and immediately after our dinner of spaghetti and cabbage we both dived into our sleeping bags. A few minutes later my head torch was on again and scanning the bare and graffiti-lined room for signs of furry creatures that I could hear running about. A large rat emerged with a dazed look from the remnants of our dinner in the cooking pot and dived off the wooden ledge as he was followed by my flying sandle. The following morning, deciding against an attempt at the summit, we trekked back down to Buea and then more-or-less rolled the 60 kilometres down to Douala, Cameroon's largest city. On the outskirts of town we found the Hotel de Bojongo and opted for the nightly rate as opposed to the cheaper and obviously popular two-hour 'siesta' option.

Soldiers climbing Mount Cameroom

With a quickly expiring Cameroonian visa in our passports, we had to push on to Yaoundé to ensure that we could pick up a visa for Gabon. It was muggy riding at sea level and my daily water intake was back up to pool-sized quantities, interspersed with sufficient doses of Coke, which I'm assured cures all manner of ailments.

On the eve of Cameroon's Independence Day we found ourselves at the junction village of Boujeyem. After a row with the manager of the only sleeping establishment in the village, who assured me that the police would arrest us and fine him if they found that two men were sharing a double bed in a hotel, I headed downtown with my newfound friend Bisso, a chef in Douala who was visiting his homeplace. The town was hopping and Bisso displayed his impressive dance moves whilst Yvette held my arm and tried to secure a husband, job and home in Ireland, where she has always wanted to live.

After a night of dancing at the crossroads - Cameroonian-style - it was back on the bike to Yaoundé. The political party banners were out in force on Independence Day and it appeared that those celebrating most vociferously were clad in political party t-shirts, or had Paul Biya's head printed on their dress. Biya is the head of state and has been since he came to power in 1983. The celebrations were winding down as we rode through the capital to our refuge in the Presbyterian Mission.

Yaoundé, Cameroon

Trip distance: 15,130 km

25: Into the clouds in Cameroon

10.30 a.m. Wednesday 22nd April - thunk thunk - a smile spread across our faces as we heard the faceless, nameless clerk in the consular office at the Angolan embassy in Abuja pound the embossing stamp onto our one-month long tourist visas. With only a visa for Gabon left to collect in Cameroon, and visa-free passage through southern Africa guaranteed, it looks like the great African visa hunt may be drawing to a close for this part of the trip. With the bureaucratic barriers enroute to the Cape cast aside, we were back in business. All we have to do now is cycle there.

Beyond the thoughtfully planned and comparatively pristine streets of Abuja, lay the sprawling eastern satellite towns of Nyanyan and Mararaba, where many hopeful souls have gravitated to, aspiring to urban fortunes. Minibus taxis and okada riders wove perilously close as they tried to attract clients by honking their horns. Soon the urban din receded, however, and we were passing through the agricultural states of Nassarawa and Benue. We camped in fields that had been washed green during our layover in Abuja. The rains had now begun in earnest and the occasional thunderstorm broke out during the night, sending us out to hammer down tent pegs. Strong winds usually give warning of impending downpours. Then the rain starts and shortly thereafter the water typically breaches the first and only line of defence, my outer fly-sheet. From then on I'm confined to a the small dry portion of an already rather small tent. Tucked up into a fetal position I avoid the worst of the inundation. Tomorrow there will be sun. Before nine the evidence will have evaporated into another hot day.

The beginning of the rainy season also heralds a return to the fields for the farmers who are now busy ploughing and planting next season's harvest. Makurdi marks our midway point to the border from Abuja and we stopover for Nigeria's answer to McDonald's, Mr.Bigg's, and a couple of bottles of Star to celebrate life on the road. As we search for a guesthouse at sunset, Peter is accosted by a member of Nigeria's notorious State Security Service (SSS), as Peter asks for directions at a junction. The man has no identification, however, and encouraged by passersby, Peter rides off. Moments later we're both pulled over by several motorbikes and a crowd gathers as our documents are examined and we're asked several inane questions that only the truly suspicious, truly bored, or truly dumb could ask. The encounter is brief, however, and soon we're on our way again.

Leaving Makurdi a mangled motorbike lays in two separate sections across the road. The driver couldn't have survived. We find out later that he didn't. Twisted metal carcasses lie all along the roads in Nigeria and the combination of ancient trucks, fast cars, overloaded minibus taxis and often poorly maintained roads, leaves conditions ripe for wholesale carnage. Later on the same day we find ourselves caught out in the darkness, trying in vain to find a secluded spot to pitch our tents. We're invisible to the oncoming vehicles, overtaking two or three at a time. We roll down a lane as lightning over the mountains to our east sporadically lights up the night sky. We find a clapped-out Peugout pick-up parked under a mango tree and Jacob is talking with a neighbour as we ask if we can be put up for the night. Of course it's no problem and once the rain arrives, a couple of other passersby also run into the compound to seek shelter. Jacob farms oranges and dinner consisted of a biblical quantity of vitamin C. The following morning we're served up with pounded yam and a piece of tender, unidentified meat. Such kindness and generosity. We're sent on our way with the blessing of God.

The road to Bissaula

From Takum, in Taraba state, we begin our final trek out of Nigeria. A rough 80 kilometre track brings us to the small border village of Bissaula. We stamp out in the evening at the candlelit immigration post. Then we're asked to produce our international vaccine certificates. After meticulous examination of the yellow book, including the Gaelic script, the officer announces with great authority and a swelling chest that our certificates are indeed valid. Peter tells the man we realise that and if he's done there's a UEFA semi-final starting in a few minutes. "What can you give me?", the officer asks with a greedy smile breaking across his face. "Our friendship" Peter quickly adds, using a now well-tested phrase, as we grab our yellow books and go to seek a hot and airless room to rent for the night. Peter wanders off to see if he can watch the football in a nearby house where a generator and satellite dish brings the match live to this small, remote outpost in west Africa, while I chat with Sunday, a Cameroonian living in the village with his young wife and daughter. His daughter dribbles on my shoulder and cries when I smile at her.

Lizard for dinner?

The official border is a few kilometers further down a progressively narrower track. After a mango and banana break in Agabi, the last settlement in Nigeria, we splash through the shallow River Donga and into Cameroon. The first settlements we pass through appear no different than those on the other side of the river, except for more tattered Cameroon football tops in evidence. Like many of the borders that resulted from the colonial carve up of Africa, the same ethnic groups found themselves divided by an international border that means little to the people living in the area. Shortly after crossing into Cameroon we begin to climb into the north western highlands, beginning a three-day epic journey that marks the toughest stretch of the journey so far. The track rose up at gravity defying angles making cycling impossible on the steepest sections. Initially we could push or pull the bikes, but then I settled for removing the bags and carting items up, then the bike, and then doing the same all over again. Progress could be measured in inches per hour. Descending was no less challenging, down the deeply rutted and boulder-strewn track. Bemused and friendly villagers greeted us with benches in the shade and asked about our trip, while we asked about life in the village. "Why were we doing this?" Damned if I know.

Things got steep

We stumbled into Ako at sunset, the first immigration post into Cameroon. At the police station, a man with a large tooth on a chain around his neck, and scars from numerous fights that deformed the right side of his face, told us he would fetch the chief. The commissioner was a jovial fellow and after a cursory glance through our passports, said there was no problem if we wanted to camp outside the station. Later in the evening, while Peter caught the second UEFA semi final, I sat under the night sky, drinking a beer with the commissioner as we discussed topics from Chinese imports to what the Obama administration might mean for relations between the US and Africa.

After a breakfast of rice and kidney beans we were on our way to Nkambe, one of the larger towns in the highlands, and at 1770 metres one of the higher ones too. We were assured that the road between Ako and Nkambe wasn't too bad and the distance was approximately 40 kilometres, but we would be climbing over 1200 metres. After a couple of hours of cycling it was clear that the previous day's exertions had taken their toll. As the road rose once more into gravity-defying ascents, it looked increasingly unlikely that we would be able to make to Nkambe before evening. By 2pm we had collapsed beside a water pipe in the hillside village of Jeyu, wincing at yet another vertical slope that lay before us. There was no food prepared in the village, but I was able to buy some rice in a shop that someone had in their bedroom, and a smiling girl offered to cook for us. By 5pm we were staying the night and we spent the evening chatting with worldly men who farmed the steep slopes of the surrounding tropical forest. Our host, Exodus, was a carpenter who had returned after a decade in the cities to his native village to raise his family and grow the best pineapples in Cameroon. He studied our map of west Africa and then we went through all of the African heads of state, pictured on a tattered poster on his wall, trying to decide which were still in power. Most of them are.

Kids in Jeyu village, Cameroon

It was with dismay that I noticed the hill was still there when I looked outside into the slowly brightening morning the next day. A couple of hours later, after a breakfast of pounded soya beans and cooked bananas, we'd said our goodbyes and were waved off by a group of villagers who stood to watch our progress up the hill. We pedaled about ten metres before being reduced to pushing the bikes again. Several more kilometres of vertical ascent and the shouts of Polish swear words began to die out as the road levelled out. We'd made it. We looked back down the green, mist-covered valley and I marvelled how similar it looked, albeit on a grander scale, to landscapes much more familiar to me.

Wicklow or the Cameroon highlands?

We finally rolled into Nkambe on an overcast and chilly first of May. Labour Day was being celebrated with unbridled fervour and the shebeens and bars around town were filled to capacity and pumping out loud beats. A taxi passed me in the centre of town, its engine on fire and the driver oblivious to the warning shouts of bystanders. We've taken a couple of days off to see if our legs will work again and yesterday, as I began checking my emails and typing up this posting, Miina and Kristiina sat down beside me in the small internet cafe. We had actually passed them by on our way out of Ako, returning their wave, but not stopping to talk. They had been visiting the Ako area from Finland, in order to assess the needs of disabled children living in the area. They downloaded the photos they'd been taking over the previous couple of weeks and they told a much different story from my own. Untreated infections that had been left for years, causing kids to live with great pain. Whole families almost blind because there were no glasses available for them. They represented a Finnish organisation, Jaatinen, that was set up to monitor the rights of the disabled, and they were setting up links with a Cameroonian partner, but it was their first time in Africa and the two weeks had clearly taken a great toll as they realised the scale of the problems that they faced. They spoke of searching for a clean bandage in Ako, so that a child's leg that had been left infected for three years, could be dressed before they arranged surgery for him. They were only able to find one bandage after visiting the two pharmacies in town. There were two hospitals in Ako but only one had running water and neither had any electrical power.

When such stories are told and I recall the scale of problems that many communities face in the areas I pass through, I often find myself questioning the value of travel in such regions. What purpose does travel provide in such situations? Is it merely voyeuristic to pass through such places? Would it not be far better to work in a capacity that could help make change rather than merely being a silent witness? Ultimately, however, regardless of the unease that I sometimes feel, I still believe that travel has a higher value than simply being an experiential activity and that the interaction that occurs between cultures can, in its own small way, be a positive force for greater understanding between people. Or perhaps not. Yet Stevenson was right, the great affair is indeed to move. Even if there is the odd tempest, it still floats my boat.

Nkambe, Cameroon

Trip distance: 14,266 km

24: Going to seed in Abuja

The days are blending into one interminable wait here in Nigeria's capital, Abuja. I've established routines and am beginning to feel institutionalised. One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest comes to mind, although this time it's set in Abuja, in a collapsing tent at the back of the Sheraton. I'm not sure I will be able to face the outside world again.

Days begin in the pre-dawn hours when the national mosque, several hundred metres away, rouses me from my sleep. I climb out of the tent and before a morning audience gathers at the breakfast bar in the hotel, I take a wash - the bar overlooks the outdoor shower that we're allowed to use and is beside the swimming pool. We don't get into the pool itself because that would blow our daily budget straight out of the water, pun intended, before we've even tracked down a rice and beans lady. I thought we might have been threatened with eviction notices by this point, but the novelty of cycling through Africa still seems to have some charm and our sob story about waiting for Peter's new passport and our mythical Angolan visas still persuades those with the power to let us be. And we are very grateful. We've slowly accumulated bits and pieces of furniture. An old dining table. A couple of rotten bamboo chairs rescued from incineration. We'll start building the walls around our patch of land under the mango trees any day now.

In the meantime our daily rituals evolve around trips to the 'rice and bean lady' and the 'noodles and egg man', whose illegal stalls are clumped around the public toilets outside the hotel's entrance. Across the continent, illegal street hawkers often face harassment from officialdom. Yesterday morning Peter witnessed the town council arriving in a pick-up truck with a nonchalent, machine-gun toting policeman and they began confiscating food and property from the hawkers, which can apparently be retreived upon payment of a 1000 Naira fine, thereby further reducing their already miniscule profit margins.

Besides consuming food and swatting mosquitoes in the evening, reading and the internet feature high on the things to do. I found a book stall after a couple of days and have become a gold-card customer in the space of a week, rotating Grisham and Ludlum novels on an almost daily basis. There are few other author's to choose from - so I now dream about courtroom battles and the CIA. We went to the nearby cinema once, for the novelty, and saw Marley and Me, but it was so cold inside with the air-conditioning on full blast that we haven't been back. Hopefully our Angolan visas will be ready to collect sometime next week and we'll be back on the road again.

As I've been going to seed here in Abuja, I've also made some changes to the blog (changed the address and title to the highly original 'The Slow Way Home'), as well as deciding that now, in the midst of a global economic recession, there really isn't a better time to do a long trip, blow all the savings, and pedal my way back home through the Americas and Asia. A personal rite-of-passage, if you like, or as many family members might argue - a convenient way to evade looking for a proper job for another couple of years! Very exciting times indeed. I've also decided that the trip is a great opportunity to do a little (well hopefully a lot) of fundraising, and after much thought I've selected the Peter McVerry Trust as the recipient of the money raised. I've created my own fundraising page on the mycharity.ie website where donations can be made. The Trust works primarily in the Dublin area, supporting young homeless people. Father Peter McVerry has long been a great inspiration to me whenever I've listened to him speak or read his writings, as he provides a voice for the homeless and marginalised and challenges those who have the power to make changes to do so. All donations will allow the Peter McVerry Trust to continue to support the many young homeless people that they assist and bring new hope to and create new possibilities for.

Abuja, Nigeria

Trip distance: 13, 566 km

23: "Welcome to Nigeria! What is the purpose of your mission?"

Finding a point to cross the border from Benin to Nigeria was harder than expected. Two days after leaving Abomey and riding north to the town of Save, we had wandered across a network of dirt roads, all of which we were assured led to Nigeria. A barrier lay across the track at the end of Oke Ewo village and a group of men who were lazing about under a mango tree, suddenly became animated at the sight of the cycling yovo's. The chief of the border post was summoned from his nearby thatched hut and he soon appeared, smiling in his bedraggled uniform. After telling us he didn't have an exit stamp to put in our passports, he assured us that we didn't require one when leaving Benin. We waved goodbye to Benin and, with no small amount of intrepedation, we rode down the track to a dried-out riverbed and pulled the bikes through the sand and into Nigeria.

Our first road in Nigeria

After climbing a steep track on the other side of the river, we appeared in front of a smoldering fire and several apparently deserted camp-beds. After several progressively louder "hello's" an immigration officer clambered up from one of the beds and cradling his M-16 machine gun, came over to meet his new arrivals. The bad news was that he didn't have an entry stamp for our passports, but the good news was that we had crossed at the wrong village and just a couple of kilometer's away, in the village of Wasimi, was the main immigration office and more importantly the Government-approved road that would lead us further into Oyo State and eastern Nigeria. Mohammad was alone but decided that we were sufficiently important to warrant the abandoning of his post, so that he could escort us on his Chinese motorbike through the forest to Wasimi. Thirty minutes later we were presented to the chief immigration officer, a friendly and, judging by the reading material on his desk, also a devout man from Lagos. After greeting us, his opening question was whether we would like beer or water. Three hours later we emerged into the late afternoon after having been cooked a meal of rice and sardines and been given a very favourable exchange rate on the Nigerian Naira to the US dollar. Nigeria wasn't looking so bad. I had read enough about Nigeria to ensure that I approached the prospect of cycling across the country with a rather large degree of caution. Yet, like many places, the reality is that much of the trouble that gets portrayed in the international press is confined to quite specific areas. In Nigeria's case, this means the troubled oil-producing states in the Niger Delta and a number of other places where ethnic and religious conflict occasionally boil over.

The police service must surely be one of the largest employers in Nigeria. The presence of police is unlike any other country that I had passed through yet on the trip and close to the border areas, road blocks are a constant feature, appearing every few kilometers. Checkpoints employ not only many thousands of police officers, but also a myriad of other government agencies that seek to check whether vehicles are overloaded, whether drivers have their licences up-todate, and perhaps whether Nigerian's brush their teeth every morning. Requests for 'dashes', however, are generally confined to the harrassed local motorists, and my tactics for evading such requests when flagged down include keeping the officers talking - a verbal bombardment with questions about the road ahead, my love for their country, and the merits of toe-clips, before indicting that it's either too hot or too late in the day to delay, and with that pedal off down the road.

Taxis in Ilorin, Kwara State

After four days riding and camping through the picturesque countryside of Oyo State and engaging with very friendly and helpful Nigerians, we found ourselves at the end of a sandy track, late one afternoon, in the village of Malete in Kwara State. After chatting with some workers and students from the local 'youth farm', we were told that there was a Zimbabwean managing the farm and after being introduced to Hamish, we spent a couple of nights pitched up on his front lawn and enjoyed the luxuries of satellite television, fresh meat, and cold beer. The youth farm was set up to train unemployed youngsters about aspects of commercial farming and to provide them with enough skills that they could embark on their own agricultural projects upon completion.

From Malete we tried to avoid taking the lethal main roads to Abuja, and instead followed a route that led us south along the Niger River to a crossing point at Patigi. The last time I had crossed the river was early in the New Year in Bamako. The morning before we reached Patigi we were confronted by a policeman in the village of Gbugbu who seemed intent on proving that we were carting 'incriminating items' around Africa on our bicycles. After asking to be given time to eat our breakfast as we were both very hungry, he agreed, only to return shortly afterward with a colleague in tow. A call was made to the chief of police in town and it was agreed that we would have to present ourselves in front of him to prove that we were indeed tourists, as the explanation was clearly a highly suspicious one for our new escort to comprehend. Fortunately the chief of police was a relatively sensible fellow and appeared quite bemused at our presentation and after a quick interrogation about the content of our panniers we were descending towards Patigi and the Niger.

A small motorboat was waiting to depart when we reached the river and after overloading the boat with three motorbikes, two bicycles, and ten men we crossed over to the northern bank, where long-horned cattle churned up the dry earth into a thick mist of dust as they returned home from a day of grazing. We camped up in a cleared field and I managed a quick wash with a 500ml sachet of drinking water before being driven into the tent by the hordes of mosquitoes that had launched a full scale war on me.

March and April, during the period before the rains begin in earnest, are the hottest months in Nigeria and temperatures are regularly in the high 30s these days. Following a couple of punctures in my rear tube in the searing heat on the way to Patigi, it was Peter's turn the following morning to attract crowds of children as he repaired his tubes. In the village of Jima we spent an enjoyable afternoon avoiding the sun by sitting in the shade of a large mango tree and chatting with Abubakar, a retired agricultural engineer, who now stayed at home taking care of his 107-year old mother.

From Bida we spent a couple of days cycling via Lapai and Gawu to Suleja before arriving in the federal capital of Nigeria, Abuja. Following the unceremonious eviction of the pastoral communities that previously inhabited the area, the city has been built from scratch over the past thirty years. With its modern, multi-story buildings jutting skywards, alongside the nearby Aso rock, wide roads, and visible opulence, Abuja stands in stark contrast to the rest of the country. The city was conceived of as a neutral site for a federal capital that could start afresh and break away from the ethnic divisions that beleaguered other cities and regions in Nigeria. In reality, however, the model city feels rather empty, devoid of the street life that is found in other Nigerian towns. Everything doubles or triples in price inside the confines of Abuja and with reasonably priced lodgings being virtually non-existent, we're fortunate in being able to pitch our tents in the grounds of the salubrious Sheraton hotel, behind the tennis courts.

Abubakar and the kids of Jima village, Niger State

Having obtained a letter of introduction from the Irish embassy, we're now waiting for Peter's temporary passport to be issued by the Polish embassy before we can begin the visa application process for Cameroon, the Congo, and Angola. So it looks like we'll be here for a week or two at least. This is a frustrating aspect of traveling in the region, as we pass through so many places where it would be great to spend more time and yet we get cornered into hanging around large cities that hold little immediate appeal as we chase up more visas. Anyhow, for the moment there is enough to keep me occupied and we hope to get moving towards Cameroon soon before the rainy season arrives and all the dust turns to mud!

Day 246

Abuja, Nigeria

Trip distance: 13,566 km

22: A yovo in Benin

A wise old face in Togo

Our anticipated one night stopover in Togo turned into six nights. The pace has slowed down over the past month, both because we found ourselves in places where we were happy to spend time in as well as in anticipation of the coming months, when our schedule will be governed more closely by limited visa timeframes. As our 7-day visa for Togo went into the red, we found ourselves back on the road, and after a quick 40 kilometres along the coast, into Benin.

On our first night in Benin we found ourselves pedaling in the dark to Grand Popo, once an important shipping point on this stretch of the 'slave coast', and now something of a sleepy resort. After pitching the tents we rode to a cafeteria to find some food. Returning from our plates of rice and fish, we found someone had deflated both of our rear tyres - bienvenue Benin! Fortunately the culprit hadn't noticed my pump and within a few minutes we were airborne again.

From Grand Popo we rode to Ouidah, another infamous embarkation point during the Atlantic slave trade era, that was home to French, British, and Portuguese forts. The last Portuguese ship apparently left with its human cargo, bound for Brazil, in 1885. Just over a hundred years later and you can pitch your tent 200 metres from the 'Door of No Return', a monument dedicated to those who were transported across the Atlantic, and sip cold beers by the poolside. How times change. Bruce Chatwin's The Viceroy of Oujdah had been one of the books I'd read before leaving home, and his fictional account of the last Brazilian slave trader to live in Ouidah helped to recreate a sense of the town's painful history.

Fedine spotted us pedalling around Ouidah as we looked for a bed for the night. He offered us the use of his rented room in exchange for us buying the food that he was preparing at his newly opened cafe. Since opening three days previously, he had been sleeping in the cafe at night to avoid the few possessions that he had bought to make coffee and omlettes from getting stolen. We readily agreed to Fedine's kind offer, and ate yet more platefuls of spaghetti and omlettes whilst he told us of his plans to start an NGO that would work with the unemployed youth in Ouidah.

Fedine rustling up another omlette

We said goodbye to the coast in Ouidah and headed north on a great sand piste that cut across to the main highway north at Aladda. Drums beat in the villages and processions of women in white robes paraded along the roadside in the Sunday afternoon heat. Cries of yovo (Fon for white) and cadeaux echoed behind us as we cruised along. Our arrival back on the sealed road coincided with a torrential downpour and the rest of the day was spent riding north, ducking in and out of shelter when the clouds opened. Later in the evening, 40 km shy of Bohicon, we found ourselves in the village of Massi. By amazing coincidence, Peter's cycling top bore the same name. This was surely a sign. We were led to the chief's place and amidst a crowd of shouting children we exchanged greetings with the chief and his entourage and were offered use of the village's meeting hall, where we could sleep for the night.

Riding north from Ouidah

The next morning after the usual rice and beans, we rode on to Bohicon and the royal palaces at Abomey. As I tried to withdraw cash from an uncooperative ATM outside the Bank of Africa, a smiling fellow approached me. Paul Tuthill hails from Dublin and has spent the past few months cycling and hitching across west and central Africa, including crossing through the Central African Republic and getting a boat down the River Congo to Kinshasa. In fact, I had remembered reading about a previous trip he had undertaken from Eygpt to South Africa and I had emailed the group he was traveling with at the time to come and stay in Lesotho. And here we were in Bohicon, Benin. Sometimes I think that it's a small world, but then I get back on the bike and realise that it's not that small.

Bohicon, Benin

Trip distance: 12,595 km

21: A midnight feast in Togo

After a successful few days in Accra securing visas for Benin and Nigeria, and praying for the electricity to come back and restore our overhead fan to action during the frequent power cuts, we headed out to the resort of Kokrobite, 30 kilometres west of the city, for a couple of days and nights of alcohol-fuelled hedonism in Big Milly's Backyard. Monday morning came around too quickly and we were back to the extreme sport of cycling on Accra's roads. We rode back to our base in town, the Dome Hotel, got our old room back, and had a quick bucket bath before dressing up as best we could for our visit to the Angolan embassy. Our efforts proved fruitless, however, as the lady from the consular section told us that they only issue visas to Ghanian residents. So the hunt continues, we'll try again in Nigeria.

Leaving Accra we headed east along the coast towards the Togolese border. Heavy traffic demands concentration and the high humidity makes for energy-sapping cycling. Fortunately there are juicy pineapples and fantastic ice cream in abundance. Eventually the traffic thins out and shortly before sunset we pick up supplies in a village before camping just beyond a police checkpoint. We were given water in the village to wash with, but as dirty as I am I think I might still be cleaner than the water we got, so I decline a shower. At 4 am the thunder and lightening show that had threatened us all night broke into rainfall and I lay half asleep in the lightshow with the tent staying surprisingly dry. The following morning Peter manages to get the same number of punctures (five) that I have had in over 12,000 km's before we have even ridden the bicycles 5 metres.

Yesterday we crossed the border and passed through Togo's capital, Lome, before continuing along the coast to Chez Alice, another overlander's haunt. In the evening we sit at a bar on the roadside and soon I'm hungry and looking for a snack. "Any peanuts?", I ask in my best French. I am led to several nearby foodstalls and eventually someone says yes. A few minutes later a large bowl of porridge is put in front of me. Somewhere along the line things got lost in translation, but at least I know where to get breakfast.

Lome, Togo
Trip distance: 12,310 km

20: One more yam for the road

Late afternoon on the road to Burkina Faso's capital, Ouagadougou. A car pulls over in front of me and two serious-looking men step out simultaneously and turn to approach me. They don't look like police. "Are you Bob?", the pot-bellied passenger asks me in English. "Eh, no". This unexpected reply causes confusion and after they finish conversing together they turn to me again and tell me to wait under a nearby tree for twenty minutes: "your friend is coming". My friend? Twenty minutes later Polish Peter rolls up, our first meeting since Senegal. Our paths have crossed several times already from southern Morocco onwards. Peter had pulled up at a streetside food stall in Thomas Sankara's hometown of Yako and had been told by the customers there that his Irish brother had just left twenty minutes previously.

Peter arrives

After a few days in Ouagadougou, on the usual West African business of obtaining visas, we continue south towards the border with Ghana. Transitions occur on all fronts. The dry and barren Sahelian landscape of northern and central Burkina transforms into ever taller and (somewhat) greener woodland. Religious and cultural transitions are also clearly evident as we moved from the Muslim-dominated countries of the Sahel to Christian-dominated Ghana. In Ghana it appears that every business and vehicle has to bear reference in some way or another to God or Jesus. Extraordinarily loud Christian pop music is pumped out from local drinking spots, competing with the muezzin's call to prayer. Most importantly, we are back in English-speaking land! A friendly Ghanian immigration officer chats away to us at the border. Peter got his visa for Ghana in Bamako and it is only valid for one-month. The extension process in Accra is notoriously cumbersome and would involve being without your passport for up to two weeks - not ideal if you're trying to apply for other visas. Would the officer consider providing a two-month stamp for a small 'souvenir'? Several Ghanian cedis later and Peter has a two-month visa. Undoubtedly such actions set bad precedents for weeding out corruption, yet the possibility of an expensive two-week bureaucratic delay has been avoided.

Fellow road hogs

A couple of days are spent lounging around Bolgatanga as Peter gets his energy back after a bout of illness. The thermometer has risen up into the mid-thirties now as the end of the dry season approaches. The heat means that we're often sitting under the shade of a tree in a village, surrounded by curious youngsters who have come to stare at obroni (Ashanti for 'white'). We have also picked up some of the lingo, however, and yells of obroni are met with the now equally loud response of tum-tum (meaning 'black'). It feels quite politically incorrect at first, but it always results in hearty bouts of laughter when uttered. Shops in Ghana are certainly better stocked than in the countries to the north that I've passed through, although once back out in rural areas my poverty indicator kicks in. Our two measurements are the presence of cold Cokes and the range of street food. The latter is particularly tasty in Ghana, especially the sauce from the stew that is spread over rice or spaghetti. In small villages off the beaten track only cooked rice, and perhaps beans, are available to buy. In better supplied settlements spaghetti is also on offer, along with shredded cabbage, hardboiled eggs, and a range of meat stews. Although we normally avoid the latter, all of the former ingredients are combined in varying quantities and have together made up our breakfast, lunch, and dinners for the past three weeks.

Elephants on the Burkina/Ghana border

Two roads led south out of Ghana's northern town of Tamale. Having failed to observe our maps and GPS properly, and instead relying on the road signs, we found ourselves on the road that led directly to Lake Volta, rather than the main route to Kumasi. Our unintended detour led us to the small town of Salaga and then to the banks of the lake at Makango, where we arrived just in time to catch the last fully-laden pirogue across the lake to Yeji. Our arrival on the other side coincided with the weekly departure for the Yaqui Queen, a ferry that plies a route between Yeji in the north and Akosombo in the south. For the equivalent of 15 euro each, we were able to shack up in a two-berth cabin for three nights as we plodded south along the largest artificial lake on the planet towards Accra. The boat made several stops along the route, generally involving large quantities of yams being brought aboard by hand (or head rather). The journey saved us approximately 300 km of pedaling. Perhaps there is a God afterall.

Boys on the bridge over the White Volta, northern Ghana

We negotiated our way into Accra and after a four-hour cycle around the pleasant (and not so pleasant) parts of the city in the humid Valentine's Day afternoon, eventually found a place to rest up for the few days that we anticipate it will take to process our next visa applications for Nigeria and Benin (Togo is available at the border). When I was asked for a destination before I left home or along the way, Accra was the goal that I spoke of. It became clear, however, after a couple of months into the journey that I was finally doing something that I've been wanting to do for many years and I knew that when I arrived in Ghana it wouldn't be easy to give up the freedom of the road. Reaching South Africa had been a frail dream ever since I began planning the trip and over the past few months it began to become an increasingly attractive goal. Some logistical obstacles needed to be overcome, however, if I was to keep cycling. Due to the continually evolving nature of political stability and security in central Africa, finding a viable overland route, either to the east or to southern Africa, always presents a challenge. At present Chad, western Central African Republic, and eastern Democratic Republic of Congo are not very amiable places for either the people who live there or hapless travellers wandering around on bicycles. The only viable option at present is a westerly one, via Cameroon, Gabon, Congo, and Angola to southern Africa, although there are still a couple of bureaucratic hurdles in terms of obtaining visas for some of the countries. This is to be the next stage of the journey.

Stopping by a village on Lake Volta to load up on yams

Accra, Ghana

Trip distance: 12,033 km

19: Meandering through the Sahel

Despite having decided on taking a few days respite from Rocinante prior to my arrival in Bamako, after a couple of days off I had the urge to get moving again. Perhaps it's because you move so slowly when cycling that you quickly feel the need to keep the momentum up. After you have a chance to relax and catch your breath, there is a sudden realisation that you're in the middle of a very large landmass and that you have to inch your way across it day by day - literally 'inch', if you're referring to Michelin's regional map of north and west Africa.

Segou

Wheezing my way out of Bamako's dust and diesel fume drenched atmosphere, I took the main paved highway to Mali's third largest town, Segou, a little over 200 kilometres northeast of the capital, through the country's principal cotton-growing region, and located as all important towns in the area are, on the banks of the region's lifeline - the Niger river. From Segou, I left the paved road and headed across the inland delta formed by the Niger and Bani rivers, towards the famous medieval trading and religious centre at Djenne. Off the main roads, my Michelin map reverted to hypothetical scenarios and the relationship between the markings on the map and the reality on the ground widened to biblical proportions. Once again I found myself pushing Rocinante along sandy pistes, and at times having to wade across stagnant irrigation pools that appeared uncomfortably similar to those described in my guide as prime breeding grounds for bilharzia-bearing liver flukes, otherwise known as schistosomiasis. Yet another long word that you don't want to catch.

Market day in the Dogon country

The delta is the main rice growing region in Mali and the season's harvest had been gathered over the previous weeks. Villages were sited relatively close to one another and one occasion I ended up pitching the tent outside the house of a smiling farmer when I couldn't find a secluded spot away from the villages at nightfall. Unable to communicate through any mutually shared language, we passed the evening over the communal bowl of millet porridge, while the fellow pointed at various animals and objects that surrounded us in the dark, slowly reciting their names for me in Bambara. This time of year is tough on the lungs and respiratory illnesses are a common problem with all the dust aruond, and his five children were coughing and spluttering all evening.

Looking out from a cliff dwelling in the Dogon escarpment

I continued downstream from Djenne to Mopti and Sevare. The former situated at the confluence of the Niger and Bani rivers, and as such has been an important trading settlement since before the colonial era. The two towns are also the focal point of Mali's tourist industry, with direct flights between Mopti and Paris, enabling those on two or three-week excursions to arrive close to the attractions of the Dogon country, or within just a day's drive of the Sahelian El Dorado of Timbuktu. The latter a mere 400 kilometres by road and piste from Mopti, was indeed tantalisingly close. The final 250 kilometres of piste, however, is a virtual cul de sac, given the difficulty of the pistes further on, as well as the threats posed by banditry in the area. On a bicycle it would probably have taken almost two weeks to get there and back, something my visa wouldn't allow. Next time perhaps!

The cliff dwellings at Teli village

From Mopti I swung southeast towards Burkina Faso and its capital, Ouagadougou, and left the Niger behind for the time being. Before leaving Mali, however, I spent three days being guided around the southern part of the Dogon country. Historically the Dogon inhabited cliff dwellings in the face of a 200-kilometre long escarpment that rises up dramatically from the Sahelian plains. These days all the households have relocated to either the plains below the cliffs, or to villages built on the plateau above. Many of the animist beliefs and practices of the Dogon have been fused with both Islamic and Christian teachings but they still remain a vital part of Dogon culture for many. In recent years the villages have become the prime tourist destination in the country, with people flocking to explore the natural beauty of the area and to witness a culture that is in perpetual adaptation in the face of time and tourism. The couple of days spent in some of the villages, shepherded by my knowledgable guide Bouba, a Dogon whom I had met in Sevare, provided a brief but fascinating insight into a culture that is attempting to balance the economic potential of tourism, a decline in traditionally important aspects of Dogon culture, and the ever-present desire to follow the path of modernisation, particularly amongst the always impressionable youth.

Watering the onions

The border with Burkina Faso lay just a day's ride from the base of the escarpment, across flat plains that stretch to the horizon. The harmattan was once again whipping up a dust storm that slowed progress dramatically as I pedaled the 50 kilometres between the final Malian checkpoint and the first Burkina counterpart, past sparse villages whose inhabitants eke out a living in this harsh and ultra-dry landscape. Burkina's population is, unsurprisingly, critically dependent on food imports, and as such they have been very badly affected by the massive increase in the current price of staple goods.

By the time I reach Ouahigouya, a large town 200 kilometres north of Ouagadougou, my departure from the traditional plate of rice and onion sauce to a paper bag of grilled meat at the border crossing town of Thiou, has meant that I have had to exchange my saddle for the toilet for a couple of days. It's back to rice after this. Meanwhile, my initial destination of Ghana rapidly approaches and decisions about the next stage of the trip need to be made in the coming weeks.

The sun sets behind the Dogon escarpment

Ouahigouya, Burkina Faso

Trip distance: 11,176 km

18: Dancing at the crossroads - Malian style

Rocinante stands in the shade after crossing the border into Mali

After posting my last entry on Christmas Day in Tambacounda, I was chatting with the owner of the internet cafe when a local photographer came in and turned my stomach with photos of those who had been killed or injured in a riot that had occured between police and young men in the nearby mining region of Kedougou. In a story familiar to many mineral-rich areas of the continent, local youths were apparently frustrated between the obvious wealth of the resources being extracted (gold, iron, and marble, in this instance) and the situation of poor living conditions and high unemployment levels that they find themselves living in. The AFP and UN news service documented the riots.

On a much happier note, the ride across eastern Senegal and western Mali, although marred by the predicted warm easterly harmattan that blows off the Sahara at this time of the year, was a very enjoyable journey through impressive baobab woodlands, scrubby savannah and small villages. Apart from the town of Kayes, on the Malian side of the border, the region is sparsely populated and distances between the larger villages made the trip reminiscent of the cycling through Western Sahara and Mauritania. Bush camping presented no difficulty in the area and it was merely a case of pulling off the road when I was feeling tired and avoiding the shepherds returning home with their flocks at sunset if I wanted some peace and quiet.

New Year's Eve...

My reckless riding across thorn laden ground finally caught up with me this morning when I discovered my fourth flat since the start of the trip. Closer inspection of the tyres revealed several more thorns that I pulled out with a tweezers and pliers. By eight thirty I was on the road and heading east. The already troublesome headwind had picked up overnight and the noise in my ears was now loud enough to drown out positive thoughts as I struggled forward. By midday I was dreaming of my local supermarket again, gleefully skipping down the aisles and throwing all sorts of delicious items into the trolley with great abandon. Reality struck home, however, when I cracked open another tin of pink, "mechanically separated" chicken.

Early in the afternoon I made the crossroads town of Diema, where the main routes for Mauritania, Senegal and Mali's capital Bamako intersect at a ramshackle collection of chop houses and small boutiques. I sat down in front of the shop where I had stocked up on packets of purified water that has a very odd smokey taste to it, and downed my second tonic water of the day. The shop was owned by three brothers from Bamako who had come seeking to make their fortune at this outpost in western Mali. As I munched through some roasted mutton served up on a piece of brown paper, I chatted with Amidou and his brothers about their business venture, my trip, and Malian music. The latter being blasted out at decibels that were high enough to make the shop front feel like it was pulsating along with the rhythms from Salif Keita and other Malian musicians. Earlier in the day I had been calculating that if I happened to be sleeping in my tent when the clock struck midnight this evening, it would be the fifth consecutive such New Years Eve that this had occured. This is surely a very poor show for someone in their mid 20s, so when Amidou offered me a section of his concrete floor and if I would like to join them for the evening, I readily accepted.

Amidou and Ibrahim

I had sat very contentedly watching the world go by when Amidou carefully suggested that I might want to bathe. Looking at my dirty arms and legs and filthy clothes, I admitted that he probably had a point so I accompanied him to a public bathing area nearby, where after collecting a bucket of water from the well, you took your own cubicle and could wash down under the warm sun. I donned my usual set of crumpled outdoor fatigues from the front pannier and was greeted by Amidou who had dressed up like a pimp, complete with shades, clearly all set for a night of revelry.

Diema, western Mali

After a stroll around the crumbling, adobe-type town centre, we headed back to the shop where tables and chairs were laid out in preparation for the evening and twinkling Christmas tree lights switched on. Six protesting chickens were sourced from somewhere and tied together at the feet into two bundles, they all had their necks sliced open and were prepared for the pot. I asked Amidou if he drank alcohol and he informed me of his very liberal approach to Islam that seemed to extend beyond just the consumption of alcohol, and included frolicking with the working girls who had also arrived in Diema in the hope of earning cash from the passing truckers. Both alcohol and sex were available, he assured me, and if I wanted either then I just had to give the word. I settled for a cold bottle of Mali's Castel. We sat in the makeshift bar, complete with red lights and lace curtains, being blasted out of the place by a music video of a one-legged Hip Hop dancer from Cape Verde. Just one bottle of beer was enough for Amidou, however, and we headed back to the shop where a crowd of people had gathered. The midnight hour itself would have gone unnoticed were it not for the fireworks that flew out of a building across the road and briefly lit up the night sky. By 2 am, unable to keep my eyes open any longer, I slunk off to the back room to lay out my mat and bag. Almost immediately, however, Amidou came in looking for me and told me that dinner was about to be served. I reluctantly headed back to the gyrating mass in front of the shop and I was duly handed the best pieces of chicken, far more than my fair share, to ensure that I wouldn't go to bed on an empty stomach.

Evening shadows in western Mali

The following morning I said goodbye to Amidou and his brothers and headed on to Bamako, a four day journey that swung mercifully south out of the wind and down to the banks of Niger River. Bamako is a dusty town with a decrepit appearance in parts, but nonetheless, such hubs have become beacons of light offering rare luxuries, such as fresh fruit, supermarkets and internet. There's also a great music scene and I've been catching up on some local acts over the past couple of nights, but I'm also looking forward to getting back out there under the stars.

Bamako, Mali

Trip distance: 10,323 km