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

17: A Christmas Coup

Following an enjoyable two-day journey from Bissau to the border town of Gabu, I was eager to cross into Guinea (Conakry) and explore the Fouta Djalon highlands. As I ate my bowl of porridge on the morning of December 23rd, shortly before crossing the border between the two Guinea's, I had Radio France International on in the background. The first story on the eight o'clock news focused on Guinea and through my miserable French I was able to make out 'Conte' (the dictator for the past 24 years), 'dead', and then there was something about the military too. In fact, they kept repeating 'militare' every few seconds. This didn't sound like good news, at least for me. In the larger scheme of things there would be many people who would be relieved to hear of the passing of the dictator, there might now be room for hope in a country that has suffered greatly from the greed of those in power.

Going outside to get a better reception, I switched to the BBC World Service as the skinny-looking vultures clattered about noisily on the tin roof of the hotel. The story was the first item on the news and although everything was reported to be calm in Conakry and throughout the country, the military had indeed seized power. Guinea has been on the verge of implosion for quite some time now and with things having gathered pace there would no doubt now be potential for power struggles. In light of this news and without internet or phones to find out other information, I pulled out my map and chose an alternative route to Mali's capital, Bamako, via eastern Senegal.

So now I'm back in Senegal, in the dusty town of Tambacounda. A young captain in the Guinean army has declared himself president and promises to have elections in two years time! I just received an email from Polish Peter who wasn't able to make it to our proposed rendevous in Guinea either. It's just another day here in Muslim Senegal. This morning I cleaned my clothes, then Rocinante, and then I phoned home and heard what was on the menu for the day. I should at least have waited until I wasn't so hungry to call. But still, I'm sure whatever I get will be fine, hell, I might have two plates of rice. In any case, all the raggedly-dressed and snotty-nosed boys coming up to me as I type, begging for money, helps keep everything in perspective.

I propose a toast for change! Merry Christmas!

Tambacounda, Senegal
Trip distance: 9402 km

16: Season's greetings from Bissau

Six days until Christmas. If it wasn't for the life-sized Santa Claus who was grinning inanely at me yesterday, as I stumbled past a shop in the late afternoon heat of downtown Bissau, the whole event might have slipped by without me even realising it. Daren and Tatjana, my trusty traveling companions for the past couple of thousand kilometres, presented me with a Christmas gift of a bottle of whiskey last night. Our arrival in the capital of Guinea Bissau marks the end of their mainland Africa stage in their around-the-world-with-a-sore-arse odyssey. Tomorrow morning they fly out to the Cape Verde islands to meet with their families for a couple of weeks, before venturing on to traverse South America. Their company, good humour, and exceptional kindness will be sorely missed by myself and Rocinante, as we prepare to sally forth, further into west Africa.

Tall trees, short cyclist

Over the past few weeks I've been bemoaning to myself and others, how inadequately writing a blog sometimes feels with regard to portraying the experiences that I'm having whilst cycling through the region. So much is lost in translation, so little makes it to the screen. Yet for all that, I guess it's a good way of sharing at least some of the moments and letting all five of you who read this know how I'm getting along.

Ziguinchor, Senegal

After the immensity of the desert regions, everything is once again on a more human scale. Countries have shrunk to the point where it would be possible to cross two or even three international borders in a day's ride. Since leaving the Gambia a few days ago, we crossed back into Senegal's southern province of Basse Casamance. We left behind the more well-trodden tourist trails around the Gambian and Senegalese coast further north, and continued across Casamance to Ziguinchor. Despite some initial foreboding about crossing Casamance due to a rise in banditary earlier in the year, we were reassured by all whom we asked in the Gambia that the region should be fine to cross. While the region has been stable after a cease fire a couple of years ago between the separatist rebels and the government in Dakar, earlier this year some of the former rebels have turned to highway banditary and they continue to intimidate and attack the local population.

After camping up close to the Gambian/Senegalese border, we entered Casamance early in the morning and reached the capital, Ziguinchor, later that afternoon. The ride across the province was punctuated by friendly encounters with people in the villages, over which hung a huge variety of tropical trees, including mango and the ubiquitous palm. The only reminder of the trouble in the province came from passing army patrols and soldier's observation posts, hidden in the dense growth along the roadside. We were first made aware of the posts when we stopped for a break and some camoflaged figures emerged from the tall grass. The young soldier, along with the others, were from Dakar and had been based in the region for a few months. After a friendly discussion about our trip, we headed down the road to find somewhere else to stop. Later on a soldier, whom had been engrossed in a book when I sailed past, challenged Daren and Tatjana about why they were there and asked to see their weapons. After a few more moments of silly questions that only egotists in a uniform would think to ask, he let them go.

Leaving Ingore, Guinea-Bissau

After a night in Ziguinchor, the region's capital, we continued south to the border with Guinea Bissau and after a reasonably thorough search of our bags and ourselves by the Senegalese police, looking for samples of Casamance's economically vital, but illegal, cannabis crop, we entered our third country in one week. Left in a dreadful state by the Portuguese colonists, Guinea Bissau has struggled to escape from the yoke of it's cashew nut dependent economy and political instability has characterised the country for much of its existence, the most recent coup attempt occuring less than a month ago. Yet despite the threat of instability, the country has been a joy to cycle through. Border guards and uniformed officials at police checkpoints have been very welcoming. We stopped over in the small town of Ingore on our first night in the country and wandered around the stalls in the dark looking for ingredients to add to our pot of pasta. The strain on infrastructure is not simply confined to the small towns, however, as we found out when we arrived into Bissau.

It appears that there is currently no electricity grid or running water in the city, with shops and guesthouses having to rely on generators to produce the electricity they need. This collapse of essential services has meant that epidemics, such as a cholera outbreak earlier this year, have greatly affected the population. Amidst this situation, and the energy sapping climate, it's hard to imagine the relentless consumerism that is no doubt gathering pace further north, and yet once again, the ability of people to survive, smile, and laugh, despite the circumstances that they find themselves living in, continues to astound me. I'm not sure yet where I'll be on Christmas day, although there is a tentative arrangement to rendevous with Peter, a Polish cyclist whom we first met in Mauritania, across the border in the Fouta Djalon mountains in the Republic of Guinea. I might not rise to a turkey, but at least I can now manage a toast with some of my Scotch.

I love sunsets. Bissau, Guinea-Bissau

Wishing everyone a very happy festive season and New Year from Bissau!

Bissau, Guinea-Bissau
Trip distance: 8959 km

15: Sunny days in Senegambia

A morning audience, Mauritania

The couple of hundred kilometers south of Nouakchott, into southern Mauritanian saw a continuous shrinking in distances between settlements and a transition in landscape from desert to savannah to the fertile banks of the River Senegal. On our first night out of Nouakchott we had to leave our selection of camping site until the last glimpses of light settled in the west. Even then we found ourselves pitching our tents in sight of households on either side of us. As we cooked dinner a moonlit shadow strolled past, whistling to himself. The following morning we had a smiling audience of young boys, who stopped by on their way to school to and were fascinated by the packing of the tents and bikes.

St. Louis, Senegal

In an effort to avoid the Rosso border post, Mauritania's notoriously difficult crossing point into Senegal, we opted instead to follow the 90 km piste along the river and cross over at Diama, near the old French colonial capital of French West Africa, St. Louis. After a couple of days of doing as little as possible in St. Louis, and enjoying the now freely available and reasonably priced cold beer, and funky music, we were back on the bikes heading south again through a landscape dominated by baobab and tamarind trees. Avoiding the main road south to Senegal's capital, Dakar, we chose an alternative route that looked perfectly acceptable on my Michelin 741 map of west Africa. However by midday of Tabaski, one of the largest Muslim festivals in the year, we found ourselves pushing our bikes along a sandy piste for almost 10 kilometres when my 'secondary road' deteriorated into a single path of deep sand. In our haste to reach Mbour, a fishing town 80 km southeast of Dakar, we ended up refusing many offers of hospitality to join families as they ate mutton, the traditional meat for the day.

Tall trees, Senegal

Leaving our bikes in Mbour we headed into Dakar for the day to collect some visas and have a look around town. The city was still in a lazy stupor after the festivities of Tabaski and failed to live up in any way whatsoever to its reputation as a potentially hostile and hassle-filled place. Back in Mbour we had two options to continue around the coast to The Gambia. The first was to take the busy main road via Kaolack. The second was to hire a pirogue and catch a lift across the Saloum Delta. Once deposited on Toubakouta's muddy shores we would be just a 50 km ride from Banjul, Gambia's capital. Still wearied from the journey down and the Great Push of Tabaski, there was no contest as to which way we would go.

Four hours into what was meant to be a three hour voyage across the mangrove-lined Saloum Delta, all of those aboard, at least all the paying passengers, were wondering why we had chosen the pirogue option. Until an hour after departure it had all gone rather smoothly. The tense negotiations with the mafia-like pirogue owners had whittled the sum down from astronomic to acceptable at the small beach in the village of Ndangane. Half an hour out we were passed by a rather well-equipped boat ferrying other tourists through the delta. The tourists were sporting lifejackets and had a shaded tarpaulin overhead. In contrast, our barefooted crew, the youngest two of whom were aged 11 and 9, had set off on our adventure with just their t-shirts and shorts and the best we could hope for in the event of an accident was to use the inner tubes from the bikes as lifebelts. The two boys were the apprentices of our early twenties looking captain who was instructing them in the rules of the trade. One of the first rules that I noticed him casually pointing out to the 11-year old, was not to hold his lighted cigarette too close to the petrol tank that he was hooking up to the engine. One hour into our journey and everything was going swimmingly well. At this point in many of my boating adventures the engine dies - and this time was no different. Bobbing silently about in the tidal creek, our captain set to work with my Swiss army knife to fix something with the engine. For the next few hours we crept slowly towards Toubakouta, every so often the engine giving up and then being brought back to life after more work with the penknife and swearing at the engine. Occasionally progress stopped completely when we got stuck on sandbanks. Seven hours after our departure we arrived in the little village of Toubakouta, relieved to be off the boat and back on the bikes. Concerned about the fate of the crew who were turning around to venture back to Ndangane during the night, the 11-year old replied that yes, it was dangerous to travel through the delta at night, but it would be ok.

The border formalities from Senegal into Gambia were painless. For the first time since leaving Ireland in July I'm traveling through a country where English is an official language. I continued to greet people in French though. Our passing through villages continued to the shrill cries of toubab from children. Arriving at the ferry point at Barra it appeared that most of Banjul's population was attempting to return across the River Gambia to the city after the Tabaski break. Finally making it onto the boat, which was crammed well beyond capacity, we slowly ventured across the river to Banjul chewing on some fresh oranges.

Bakau, The Gambia
Trip distance: 8638 km