A Holiday

After the slog from Angola to Nigeria, I decided that it was time for a holiday and I thought Ghana was going to be the perfect place to do it. It was.

Whilst the Central African leg was high on adventure and cultural contrast, one thing it didn’t really deliver was encounters with other travellers. The notable exception to this was the handful of amazing expats and of course, Bastien. But basically, from Angola to Nigeria, we barely ran into a single other Overlander or traveller.* This was to change.

In the first week, from Benin, through Togo, to Ghana, I ran into 7 other bikers travelling the other direction. Each of which I jumped at, to chat. And what was to follow from there was two beautiful weeks pinballing from one amazing person to the next. It was a fortnight with loads of laughter, stories, dancing and the sort of brilliant candid conversations about life, love, philosophy and assorted bullshit that only really come from the brief, full-throttle friendships you make travelling. Of all the amazing people I met, the following are just a few. It makes my chest burst and my whole face smile just to remember them.

*The big exception to this was David (US/German) and Elke (German), who Bastien and I met in Cameroon. David’s outgoing and complimentary friendliness was an excellent distraction from our Nigerian visa battle!

The Bikers - the German, the Swissman, the Spanish duo and the three Dutch

I nearly fell off my bike when I entered the hotel in Cotonou, Benin and saw a BMW decked out with panniers and overlanding luggage. There were tyres and riding gear on the dorm room table and it didn’t take me long to track down Jakub. He had the look. Immediately, we both had a beer in hand and spent the evening sharing war stories under an Easter moon. It was refreshing to hear that even with an expensive and fancy BMW, you still get the mechanical nightmares. In fact, the nightmares are just more expensive. Also, heading south it would seem that you do the same visa dance as I did coming up.

At the border of Benin and Togo, I saw another biker. Tall, but shortened by age and riding, he looked at least 60 and had long wavy grey hair. Like a retired boxing champion, his wiry frame was bound round the midriff by a kidney belt, into which he’d stuffed his documents for the checkpoint. Neither of us really approached the other, there was just this unspoken understanding that of course we would chat. As if simply by riding a motorbike to that point in the world, we were already in a conversation that just hadn’t started yet.

For my awe, I remember him only as ‘the Swissman’ and I am certain that there is nothing that would phase him. We stood by his handsome vintage BMW 1100GS (I’m aware of the irony of remembering his bike but not his name) and again compared mechanical issues. He didn’t have a lot of interest in asking me about the road down south, I think he simply had the attitude that he would sort that out when he got there. Given a week, I don’t think I would have gotten even half the stories the Swissman would have to tell about biking the world, but it was nice to just chat anyway. The locals also seemed to enjoy it too, as we steadily garnered an indiscrete, watchful audience.

I didn’t dare demean the conversation by suggesting we exchange details (I very much doubt he would trouble himself to even know what a blog is) but I have heard whispers of him in overlanding circles since. There was talk of a Swiss biker camped 5 days at the border of Nigeria and Cameroon, unphased by the conflict there, trying to find a way through. It would be nice to hear when he reaches his destination - wherever that is - but I don’t really need to, I know he will get there eventually, in his own time.

In Togo, I was in a now familiar position - sitting on a mechanic’s floor waiting for something to happen - when the Spanish duo entered. Nico, on a well laden Transalp and Gustavo on a schmick KTM 690 Enduro. The two had met en route and had an earnest friendliness that seems to typify Spanish blokes. We compared bikes and bike issues, and there I had this realisation, that I feel proud of the Baja. Her petite-ness and all of her rough edges are in fact badges of honour; wrinkles that give her character. Every mechanical issue, tumble, bush fix and burnt faring is a little scar of a trip well endured. These are the things that interest and entertain other bikers and give us both character.*

*Just typing this I realise that I need to give you a more thorough introduction to the Baja. So I’ll post a video soon.

There was work to be done on the bikes which we got on with and made arrangements to meet up later. I went to their hotel and we headed out for dinner. The venue was a small, street-side shanty bar that served very spicy pasta and warm, inappropriately full-bodied beer. We sat on a makeshift stool with the raucous evening life carrying on around us, sharing some of the less glamorous foibles of life on the bike. The heat of a tent, the 3am stresses, mechanical hypochondria and the hair-trigger alarm of an overtuned sensitivity to rattles, smells, squeaks and squeals when surrounded by African traffic. Gustavo put it perfectly, “the things that caused me the most worries in life, never actually happened”. The Spaniards were a wealth of knowledge about the roads to come and I hope I was as much assistance to them.

I was woken prematurely one morning at the Somewhere Nice hostel in Accra to be excitedly informed that some ‘other bikers’ had arrived. By that stage, I had enjoyed the status of ‘the biker’ in the hostel for a day or two, but I was glad to give it up, just to share some more war stories. The ‘other bikers’ weren’t immediately apparent, but three gleaming Tenere’s could be found in the carpark standing over the Baja. Wanting to play it cool and not appear too eager, I didn’t go looking for them. But later, drinking a beer in the pool, I eyed a newcomer with an impressive beard and I thought there was a decent chance he was one of the trio. He appeared to be dozing, but after I dropped a few conspicuous comments about the Baja, he opened a curious eye. His name was Juriaan. He explained that he was Dutch and that he and his friends, Wisse and Sjoerd (which I believe is Dutch for Stuart!) were riding from Amsterdam to South Africa.

The other boys arrived soon thereafter and it turns out that they were all boat builders. So basically, just imagine three vikings and you are probably not far off. They had a wicked sense of humour and repartee. You could tell that they had been travelling together a while. Their mechanical issues had been few, of which I made a mental note. Big shiny Yamaha Tenere, probably a better option than a 250cc dirt bike… But they, like just about every other biker I’ve met so far, praised the ‘decision’ to go small. They forbore oceans of sand to come and that you look at your bike differently when you are trying to pick it up. Very true.

I gave the boys a few contacts for the way south and I look forward to them enjoying Carlos’ company in Angola. Hopefully, I catch them in Europe when all’s done and dusted.

Somewhere Nice and ze Germans

Though its name caused confusion with immigration officials more than once, the Somewhere Nice hostel in Accra was such a great way to start the holiday. It turns out that just about anyone visiting Accra stays at Somewhere Nice and it managed to keep me a day or two longer than I expected. A warm pool, cold beer, amazing breakfasts (which I eventually discovered – thanks Bernice!) and a comfortable sitting area with feng shui that made it literally impossible not to chat with everybody else.

Turning into Somewhere Nice’s street I ran into Bastien and then again, before we’d even gotten through the front gate, a group of five Germans. Riding gear still on, we then slumped into the comfy chairs with a beer and immediately met Leon, another German working in a Ghanaian village. And this was the way it went at Somewhere Nice, within moments of sitting down, you were chatting with someone new and as it turned out, there were a lot of Germans. They were there for a wedding and had brought an appropriately festive demeanour with them. That night, the best man - Stephan - invited me along to dinner and generously sat with me at the end of the table chatting in English. He was tall with a head of thick curly hair and a cheeky sparkle in his eye. I’m told he gave a killer speech and I certainly believe it. Back at the hostel a rampant party ensued. I learnt about luxury boat building from Alex (I met more boat builders in Accra than I have in my life) and refrained from joining the skinny-dipping array.* I copped an invite to the wedding ceremony, but was thwarted by an Accran taxi driver.** Instead I spent the day in the pool chilling, meeting the three Dutch, chatting with Leon, then a fun evening with he, Kamil and Kirsty over more beers, a generous amount of which were shouted by Kamil - a British dentist - who confirmed that beer basically brushes your teeth.

* I guess I’m getting older.

**Travel has taught me many things, probably the most significant being the importance of tolerance and that the world over people are good regardless of colour, race, creed or religion. Except taxi drivers.

Dee and Ossy

By the laws of serendipity, it didn’t take long to strike up a keen friendship with Dee and Ossy, two Brits from near Essex. Soon enough, Facebook then informed us that we had mutual friends in Kemo, Emma and Kristian. I met Kristian and Emma in Istanbul 10 years ago and since then I’ve met up with Kristian in Israel, London, India and Melbourne. Despite living a world apart, he remains one of my best friends. In India, Kristian brought his mate Kemo and we beach hopped through Kerala and Goa for a month. Kemo then moved to Melbourne where we became even better friends. Meeting Dee and Ossy, and becoming mates, was a reminder of just how small the world really is.

They were brother and sister, with a hearteningly close relationship. Dee was bright and confident, and had it down to a fine art, being able to wind up Ossy just enough, but not too far. Ossy was down to earth and easy to chat to. One of those people that you immediately feel you have known a long time and interested in everything going on around him. The two made me feel at once like Richard Burton, Evil Knievel and Jimeoin and generously listened endlessly to stories from the trip (and even managed to look interested the whole time!) We chilled out at an ordinary beach and attended the ‘Obama Bar’ to watch a soccer match. While Ossy was glued to the match, Dee and I preferred the people watching (I just can’t get interested in Soccer – heaven forbid they collide!) When one of the teams scored (I think it was Liverpool…) the bar, which was packed with a crowd seated like a theatre, erupted. The Ghanaian men assembled just went ballistic for a good 10 minutes. It was hilarious.

Andrea and Mel

I was eating a goat’s cheese pizza, drinking a beer, channelling Youtube and thoughts of entering the Finke desert race when Andrea and Mel entered the Oasis beach bar in Cape Coast. Curly hair, laughs and vivacity, the pair radiated confidence and an elegant comfort in their own skin and with each other. From their easy rapport they could have been sisters, a couple or best mates, and it turned out to be the latter. I’ve made some bad decisions this trip but getting out of my seat to chat with these women was one of my best.

Within minutes I was hearing candid stories of their awkward, emotional, evangelical, 8-hour bus-ride from the north, where they had been staying with Mel’s extended family. We eagerly swapped stories and reflections, and if I hadn’t already felt comfortable in their company, the enthusiasm with which they accepted a complimentary bottle of Jamieson from the managers made me feel downright at home at their table.

They were real estate colleagues, who had made their way to Hong Kong - Andrea from Virgina, USA; Mel from Minnesota via Canada. Neither had come so far that they couldn’t cheekily summon their charming hometown accents here and there. Sipping Jamieson progressed to Pink Floyd and 70’s classics, an impromptu dancefloor amongst the restaurant tables and a late night.

The following morning brought me an inadequacy-based-hangover, when after a plate of waffles, I ran into them in their activewear, beaming with smiles and gleaning from their workout. Mel it turns out was also a yoga instructor. We partied again that night (more on that below) and I joined the yoga session the following day, where both graciously remained straight faced at my inflexibility. When at one point Mel gently but firmly adjusted one of my poses, an unearthly gasp/groan escaped me and I felt seismic shifts through my back and core; the ghosts of 10,000kms on a bike and 9 months of sleeping on the ground exorcised abruptly. I was looking at a pristine beach and an angry ocean, but I swear I saw a higher power, by Mel’s expert hand.

If I gain a measure of the positivity, loyalty, resilience and grace of Mel and Andrea I will be well served. I’m hopeful we can catch up again in Melbourne when they come visiting.

Camilla

When I first met Camilla, she was wearing a towel. Camilla is Swedish and beautiful, so this wasn’t altogether unpleasant. It was kind’ve awkward, but it would’ve been moreso and probably an infeasible meeting, were she someone else. Because nothing phases Camilla and she appreciates - if not revels in - weirdness.

Whilst deliberately not focussing on the towel, we discussed the merits of visiting Melbourne during the Australian Open and how the Australian tennis supporting public really get behind the Swedish players... This was probably the most banal conversation Camilla and I were to have, which given the circumstances, is a comment on the calibre of those that were to come.

That afternoon, Camilla joined Simon (more on him below), his mum and I in the beach bar. Camilla has a corporate career back in Sweden, which she leverages to fund her development work in Ghana. She has a Ghanaian community which she was been supporting and working in for years. From what I gather, this involves strongarming Swedish corporates into financing the various projects that she (by herself) runs in this community. This sees her living in this community about twice a year, unpaid and without western colleagues, which – like my reaction to seeing new bikers after 2 ½ months – might explain the enthusiasm with which she struck this meeting in the beach bar.

Though all were key actors in what was to come, Camilla was an instigator and an activist. In the aftermath, she ‘strongarmed’ me into a day-drinking session during which I had some of the most interesting and honest conversations that I have had ever. She sees the world with a clear and positive eye and will see the beauty in everything.

Simon

Anything great had a catalyst and Simon was ours.

During another vain attempt to finish my last blog, I fell asleep at one of the tables in the Oasis beach bar. When I roused, Simon was leaning over the back of his chair looking right into me. A little startled, I’m still not sure about the early details of our conversation, but I am sure that they were polite. He was earnest and enthusiastic. He explained that he was seeing Ghana with his mum and asked to sit with me.

We sat and chatted. He explained his love of electronica and that his mum was visiting, though didn’t have a great English. She onlooked in a way that was sweet. Camilla joined us and enthusiastically took to Simon’s aura. Andrea and Mel glided in, added the effervescence and as such, the unlikely but perfect crew were assembled. Sam (who had previously delivered the Jamieson bottle – more on him below) delivered a few shots of tequila, with pre-salted lemon (still not sure about this) and the night rumbled into gear. Facebook friendships were consummated, the managers (Sam and Ali) got involved and another tentative dancefloor was kindled amongst the restaurant tables, to the tune of shit pop music.

I recall chatting further with Simon at the periphery – who, in the interests of both, had by now done away with his mum – regarding electronica and some business about him getting in hot water with his Ghanaian work for ‘sexist dancing’. In a thick German accent, but with complete sincerity and without a trace of deviance, he lamented, “I get in trouble because of ‘sexist dancing’. But I am not sexist. I am NOT sexist. I just love to dance!” Eventually, I came to understand what he meant and sympathised with him.

Most were sceptical of Simon’s chat regarding electronica. Say what you want about Beyonce, but the hips on the fledgling dancefloor hadn’t lied yet and so handing the reigns over to German mellow-electronica was going to be a risk. But, Simon said, so in Simon we trusted and Simon delivered.

What followed, was perhaps the greatest dance session I have ever been witnessed. So great it was that young volunteers fled in the face of its greatness and the local bar-staff began to volunteer, just so they could continue to bear witness. Simon drew Camilla and I into a bear hug, so that our three chests were pressed together like a star picket, ”OK, ve are going to breave together. It will be grate. Don’t russ it, it will happen naturally”. And it did, and it was.

Camilla assembled the crew in a circle and entreatied, “OK, so we are going to dance, we are going to dance with our eyes closed. Just close your eyes, feel the music, feel your body and feel the music in it. Trust it.” The circle broke away and we danced. I don’t remember peeking, but those who did, report that quite a while later, all were manically and meaningfully dancing eyes firmly closed, any contrivance or self-consciousness entirely lost.

Simon of course never had such hindrances to begin with. Like a beautiful chicken, with boogie in its soul, Simon bounced around on calves made of music. His pert behind shared with all, in vigorous twerks and shakes, aimed at nothing but those around him and rare abandon. I agreed with Camilla’s exclamations that it was beautiful, and like Simon himself, lamented his colleagues’ misunderstanding.

Eventually, most participants were barely clad, the RM Williams were dubbed “Aussie-boots” and it was confirmed by Sam and Ali, that never had a night quite like this been seen by the Oasis.

In the morning, after yoga, Simon farewelled me sincerely “I wish you a beautiful travel”.

Oasis

Like Somewhere Nice, Oasis’ gravitational pull was hard to escape. We were perfectly hosted by its managers, Sam, Ali and Ali’s girlfriend, Birte. Alone, to listen to Birte (a blonde haired, blue eyed German Doctor) speaking about medical life in Ghana, with an Afro-Caribbean accent was reason enough to stay. Either she had learnt English in Africa, or worked in Ghana so long, that it was like listening to Michael Holding in the body of Dolly Parton. I must say, it was a mesmerising combination, about an already interesting life.

Ali and Sam ran a laid-back ship and nailed it. Ali, was friendly and hospitable and Sam had the cheeky suaveness of a cool Ghanaian. Sam, coming and going at just the right time, was always there to ply us with just the right amount of alcohol, while Ali fed us sprawling seafood dinners. I am usually disastrous at African handshakes. I’m probably the whitest guy in Africa, I go for the slap when I should fist bump, I fist bump when I should slap, so I certainly had no confidence that I could do the Ghanain slap-into-the-mutual-clicking-of-the fingers. But Sam had so much cool, there was enough for the both of us. With him, I had it, and from thereafter I still had it. For my mind, he’s the Ghanaian Samuel L.

Two Swedes from Somewhere Nice, that looked like they could have been sisters - Malin and Olivia – soon showed up and were thwarted in their attempts to escape for an early night. In revenge, they further delayed my getaway the following morning and we enjoyed a beachside brunch, watching the fishermen and the pigs. I did eventually get away from Oasis and Cape Coast, only to be ensnared by Cape Three Points and conversations with Linda. Only after hearing it for the first time, did I realise that I had been waiting my whole life to be greeted by a pretty Swedish stranger, “nice ride”.

I have cursed him constantly - and continue to - the embassy official in Lagos who would only give me a 15 day Ghana visa, but in hindsight it was probably for the best, or else I still might be there. Sometimes the best things are only meant to be brief.

Update

Although it’s only been two weeks, Ghana now feels like a very long time ago. A lot has happened, a lot of ground has been covered and the Baja and I are fighting a daily battle to keep the ship afloat. There’s Saharan sand in our boots and I look forward to hopefully updating you soon from Morocco.

Before then, book your tickets to Ghana!

Stu