Go Ghana Cycle Challenge: Bogoro to Ausubone

 Thursday 6^th October: Cycling Day 5 

 

Distance                      62km

Calories burned          More than consumed

Level roads                 1, but covered in sand

Hilly roads                   Yes     

Degree of difficulty      10/10

Misery quotient            Morning none; afternoon growing

Loss of dignity             Given up caring

Highlight of the day      Glorious downhills

Lowlight of the day      Sand and no supper

The lovely ladies who run Monica’s guest house agree to prepare an early breakfast so we are on the road by 7am.  It is truly blissful cycling at this time of day and the sun is still low enough to cast shadows on the road. By 9.30 we’ve covered over half our total distance, and despite being a rocky, off-road section, it is by far the most enjoyable cycling of the week.  

By mid-morning we get our first sight of Lake Volta – the largest man-made lake in Africa – before swooping downhill to lake itself. But before we start rejoicing that we are on level ground again, the terrain changes dramatically and we face a new cycling challenge.  Sand.  Which proves to be my ultimate bête noire.   A thin layer of sand is like cycling on ice, there is no point trying to steer against it, you just have to keep pedalling and hope to stay on the bike until you are through it.  A middling layer of sand requires you to go up a gear and pedal hard, if no one is in front of you going more slowly or stopping abruptly, you stand a good chance of getting through, but it’s fairly exhausting.  Then there is deep sand. You may as well try cycling through a bunker at a golf course.  It stops you in your tracks and, if you haven’t already fallen off, you have to get off and push. 

But this is not a cycle track, it is a road connecting many villages and settlements around Lake Volta, and today we have the additional hazard of funeral traffic.  Funerals are a big deal in Ghana.  We have already seen the ornate coffins beloved of Ghananians and now we are confronted by full-colour obituary posters for a leading light in the local community, and tens of taxis and mini-buses packed full of red-bandana clad mourners heading to the wake.  There is rarely room on the rough road for vehicles and cyclists to pass safely, so we spend even more time hopping on and off our bikes to let them by. 

After our golden early morning, the going for the rest of the day is slow and hot.  But we do have a treat at lunch, when we are officially welcomed by the chiefs of the village of Mpaam, a saltellite of Kwahu-Tafo, our final destination.  The welcome procedure is very formal.  First we have to greet the assembled chiefs, starting on the right hand side of the room and shaking hands with each in turn. Then we sit down, and the chiefs greet us in the same way. Following this, we offer our gift – traditionally a bottle of Dutch gin (or schnapps).  I’m not sure at what stage in their history, Dutch gin became the tipple of choice, but it is now the preferred “libation” to honour their ancestors.  The chief chief mutters incantations over the bottle whilst pouring some of its contents into a glass, then drinking it and shaking the last few drops on the floor for the ancestors.   We are then each given a small shot to do the same – it is very warming on a hot day. 

We take our leave of the chiefs and our cooks, Peter and Jessica, who after clearing up their splendid lunch, should be following us along the rough, sandy road to our overnight campsite at the lake’s edge. 

Our tents are set up in a school field overlooking the lake.  The setting is wonderful, but we must make a curious sight for the villagers who congregate to watch us as we settle in for the night.  On one side of the field the school band plays, as we purposefully march to the concrete urinals (cleaned, I hope) that now form our bathing area and buckets of cold water are ferried in so we can wash away the worst of the red dust now covering every limb.  Suzi and I crouch down to wash in our concrete bunker then wrapped in towels march back through the throng of villagers to our tents. Though I can’t imagine replicating the scene at a school in London, at this stage of the week it doesn’t seem strange at all.    

The stars come out by 6.30pm and a camp fire is lit.  We sit around drinking beer and chatting. It is the most relaxing evening of the trip.  But there is something missing.  Food.  Peter and Jessica’s truck finally arrives at 9pm, by which time several cyclists have given up and gone to bed.  Ever hungry, I happily tuck into their cold lasagne.