(Continuation)

We slide down the track into Dixcove. A strong aroma of dead fish and raw sewage hangs in the air to meet us. Watched by an ever-hopeful vulture we slate our thirst in a dingy bar. Wherever we look there are photo opportunities to grace any travel magazines. The old shanty buildings of mud and wood look as weary as the few pathetic palm trees left standing. Like sentries, they cast their cooling shadows in the noonday sun.   We purchase a fish called Skip Jack for dinner back in the car park.

To the annoyance of Florence, the white walls of Metal Cross and its cannons beacon me. Two hours later we emerge after one of the most enthusiastic guided tours by the fort’s caretaker. The piece the resistance is the Blackhole into which new bewildered arrivals were lowered blindfolded to crawl through to their holding cells. “You can stay in the fort if you wish says or guide.” There are two rooms for rent. The very thought sent a shiver down the girl’s backs. We rather face crossing the turd minefield and dine on SkipJack.

We awake to Ghana national Hash day sponsored by Ashanti Gold mines. The runners are hopeful gold miners. Eight hundred cides gets you in the run with the all-important Hash tee-shirt. Running in the noonday sun is only for mad dog and English men. God only knows why I am on the start line. Fortuitously I team up some like-minded we hitching a lift back to Gloria arriving well ahead of the main contenders we are rewarded with cold beers.

That night the Hash turns into a late night of dancing to a steel band that plays the same number over and over for hours and hours non-stop.

It’s headaches all around in the morning.   We spend our fourth day in the surf venturing into Busua for the evening meal.   Over the meal, we run into an Aussie pufter. He turns out to be a left overlander named Harry who caught typhoid from the drinking the local water some years ago and never recovered enough to leave.

(Top TIP: Beaches, car parks, airports, ferry crossings, and the like are places not to leave your tent, vehicle unattended. Hire a watchman.) On Harry invitation, we agree to visit Takoradi in the morning up the coast towards Accra for a spot of shopping.

We arrive late morning dropping Harry off with a warning if he is not back to the Jeep by two pm its shank’s mare for him back to Busua.   The coastal town is nothing to write home about.   A large market constitutes the town heat beat. Set in the middle of a roundabout full of frustrated Ghana cops that spend the day sending the traffic in whatever direction they fancy.

Loaded with American football-shaped Pineapples that you would die for, McVitties, Digestives, Soups, Cheese, Guinness, Sweets, Sprit, Cooking oil, Scallions, Cabbage, Carrots, Tomato sauce just to mention a few of the essentials we arrive back sans Harry.

Over a delicious dinner with Pineapple juice drooling down our chins the decision is taken to move on. One more day is Busua to look after some domestic shores and car perseverance is agreed.

By eleven in the morning, I am covered in oil, and another tee-shirt has bit the dust.

The girl’s stay put in the afternoon I venturing up the beach to a village named Butrue.   Here I bump into Nana Edjuba Thea the village chief. No problem with a cup of tea on this occasion.   Butrue cuddle’s up to a golden sandy beach that runs as far as the eye can see and like Dixcove has a fort that overlooks it. A small river flows between large healthy palm trees into the surf. The village is set like a jewel on the end of a small peninsula that is covered, in lush tropical vegetation. Nana Edjuba informs me if I could buy the Peninsula that he would accept a knocking down fee of one bottle of the locally distilled gin and 50,000 cides.

Back at Busua it is rumoured that a disillusioned geologist in his search for gold bought a similar peninsula for 4000 US $.   Nothing ventured nothing gained.

Arriving back the good news is that Jerry wins hands down with an alleged few hundred thousand voted in the kitty just in case they were needed. We leave for Accra. Our route along the coast passes Sekondi, Cape Coast, Saltpond and Winneba. Each place has its slave forts. Fort Good Hope, fort Patience, fort Orange, and Fort Grossfriedrichsburg to name but a few.

Surprisingly fort Grossfriedrichsburg has not yet attracted a Mac Donald franchise. The day is hot and unbending. Williwaw suffering a blowout, with the welded exhausts cracking once more. We arrive on the outskirts of Accra as darkness descends with a very hot engine. Large cities are difficult enough in daylight to find ones way around combined with a very tired, hungry, and sticky short-tempered passengers it is a nightmare.

Our contact Sam is waiting for our arrival at a restaurant named the Country Kitchen. (Top TIP: If possible you should make up a list of contacts before leaving they can be more than useful when in need.) On completing the country verbal mile of around and around finding him several hours late.   I park Williwaw on a corner but decide to move her across the road. In the dark, I reverse her into a storm drain.   Down she goes with a loud thud on to her back axle. It is the last straw. There is no hope of getting her out. Sam comes to the rescue. Across the road is a gym. He returns in a few minutes with four iron-pumping blokes. With two lifts I am back on the road.

After a drink and something to eat, we set off in hot pursuit of Sam. We are booked into a small hotel a friend of Sam’s.

Accra has no visible landmarks nor does it seem to have any rhyme or reason to its layout or traffic. We seem to drive forever before arriving at a small modern building. The bed is more than welcome.

Sam offices turn out not to be too far from the hotel. He is a well to do Accra newspaper and journal businessman how loves his status and Mercedes more than his family.   He knows everybody worth knowing in the city. It is just what we need as Accra is one of our main visa stops.

Most countries Embassies and consulates are represented in the city if you can find them. Also English being the first language of Ghana is a big bonus when it comes to looking for a visa. The first jobs on hand are to extend our Ghana visa and to get Williwaws strut bars straightened and strengthened. With Sam’s help, a garage is found. After much discussion two starting handles are welded to the back strut to give them added muscle and the exhaust get the once over.

Getting the additional time on our Ghana visas turns out to be easier said than done. The contact list comes to the rescue. There shining in big letters is the Foreign Minister name. Sam is impressed so am I.

A phone call has his driver Oliver on his way with the forms with an invitation to visit Sam’s house that evening which we are sure was not on his list of hospitality duties.

There is not much to see in Accra. A downtown trip with a wander around a huge parade grounds named Independence Square or Black star square as it is referred to by the locals has us wishing for the coast.   Although Accra is built on the coast it is to be five long days before we are to see water again.

Oliver brings the right forms on day three and on day four manages to bring back our passports with a three-month extension.   Sam has had his fill and we have more than our fill of the Triumphal Arch overlooking the square bashing parade grounds, the post office, and Jamestown the small lively commercial centre of Accra.

On the other hand, I have happened on an invitation to Rawlings re-election party in the football stadium. This is an opportunity not to be missed. You only live twice I tell the girls who are not too keen to attend. What a night they missed. It was not my introduction to the flamboyant audacious Mr Rawlings that stole the night but Angēlique Kidjo who gave non-stop performance.

Out of the wacky tobacco cloud, a spotlight finds me.   What followed begs to be believed.

While Rawlings bodyguards are battering a passage for him through the throng to the stage he stops right in front of me. My chance handshake meeting with coup de main is unlike the Ghana handshake, which usually ends with a click of the thumbs. I receive a firm western handshake from a man who looks more like a cowboy than a Nana dressed in traditional Kente cloth. God only knows if only Sam had got the picture I might be offered a job.

Fleeing Accra we check out of Faraware to Coco Beach camping recommended by the Bible. Will we ever learn? The name itself should have warned us but there is not much choice near Accra. If the extension of our Visa is anything to go by we are going to be around for quite a while waiting on visas for Benin, Togo, and Nigeria. Coco beach one saving grace according to the Bible is that it is popular with overland trucks. This is good news as from here onwards is difficult solo travel so we are hopeful of running into some like-minded travellers. We pull into a plot of shade less land the campsite, Pitch No 61

Run by a deranged Accra woman of dubious reputation Coco Beach resort is a rundown joint serviced by one toilet and shower. Lambasted on all sides by disco music at night it is a dump of dumps.   It is to turn out that we shall not forget our stay in a rush. The Bible this time has got it right when it said it was a good place to run into some over Landers.

Parked near the rubbish dump standing on new tyres is a twenty-year-old series three petrol Landrover. Over near the fence are two Trucks with a swarm of small tents pitched out in front of them. Parked near us is a young couple named Josh and Annmarie with a small terrier named Curt. They are also travelling down to Cape Town in Landrover similar to ours bar their tenting arrangement that comes off the roof to covers the bonnet.

The piece the resistance is a Mercedes Mobil home decked out to the nines > owned by a Dutch family who according to Josh hit the headlines of the Dutch Newspapers on their departure expostulating their bravery in taking on such a trip. A few others on foot made up all the happy campers for Christmas.

Over the run-up to Christmas, the topic of conversation is the War in Zaire, the war in Chad, the war in Cameroon, the war in Congo, the war in the Central Africa Republic. There seems to be no way that one can tack around or cross these countries never mind the horror stories coming out of Nigeria.

The brave Dutch family are resigned to throwing in the towel. They had made a fundamental mistake with the Mercedes it is too wide to handle any off-road tracks not to mention its axle clearance.

The twenty-year-old Land Rover turns out to be suffering from an electrical meltdown. It’s proud owned penguin style walking Bob is an English electrician travelling with his rather plumb girlfriend an irresistible target for all short- tempered camp mosquitoes. Unfortunately, while he is up to his oxers replacing the congealed mess of wiring her rather large bikinied rear arse is begging for a bout of malaria.

Josh and Annemarie terrier Curt having being brought up on a diet of black and white photos spends his days demented by any passing dark-skinned humanoids. Josh spends a good part of his time calling him from the foot of various trees.

We also have another new arrival the three young musketeers who are agreed come hell or high water to hack their way through the Congo in their new TDI Landrover.

All in all, we are a mixed bunch waiting to go our separate. For the moment we are tied together awaiting visas, the passing of Christmas, or the confidence to take on the unknown.

For us, it is out with the contact list. Sam has done his bit is there anyone else how could help. How about the chairman of Barclay’s bank he might be useful.

Under a sun hot enough to examine everyone’s deepest emotions the days lumber bye.   The surf is our only relief. The beach is long and disinterested with a nasty undertow. I am to experience it first hand one early morning.

Luckily for one young man, I had taken to wearing fins when swimming. On the second day of our stay at Coco Beach resort, a lanky Australian presented me with the worst kind of dilemma.   Will I or will I not. A billion to one chance had me swimming just beyond the breaking surf when I hear that dreaded cry HELP!   From years of yachting, a drowning man has the grip of despair. Well appreciated by me.

On my second circle of the disappearing hand fortuitously for him, I overcome my fear of leaving my daughter and beloved for another world with or without a visa.

Too exhausted to ask if he was still alive one hour later I leave the fool to roast in the midday sun on the beach. Fanny and Flo are shocked on my return; my hard-earned suntan has all but disappeared being replaced by the shade of an opened coconut. That evening a red lobster backside appeared to thank me. All I can think of is that I hope the stupid blighter will have to stand for the rest of his African overland experience.

God is good, however. That evening up the coast in a posh suburb of Accra   I am rewarded with the discovery of Ryan’s Irish pub. It had just opened. I have no trouble in downing a few ball of malt with a chaser to get rid of those images of the six-mile deep. However, Ryan’s is to have a sting in its tail, which arrived on Christmas Eve.

After failing to recognise Fanny on the street she having a change of hairstyle for the Christmas Festivities I am left to my find my own way home with Williwaw.   The girls returned to base with Jose and Annmarie, so Williwaw and I have no trouble in finding Ryan’s.

The X-Pat – American brigade in Ryan’s are also on their way home.   All encounters in the pub whether they are Accra Nanas, gold panniers, bull shiters, lost accountants, or just plain ordinary blokes have a story to tell.

Several hours later in no condition to walk in the early hours of the morning I rolled out into the night more than three sheets to the wind. Oblivious to the following blue lights there seemed to be a new slackness in Williwaws steering.

I am waltzing my merry way back to Coco Beach. Suddenly surrounded by a swarm of assorted police I am helping from the driver seat with the assistance of a very painful cold gun barrel up the nose.

The Blarney Stone is in for an extreme test. Thank god for Irish.

(Top TIP: You never really learn to swear until you learn not to drive with drink aboard.   Passport, Passport! )

” Nil thigem me” “English, you are English”. I am brought around to the back of Williwaw.   Pointing the gun at GB > “English”.   “Nil.” > Pointing at the IRL.   “Irish”. My nose is in the process of swelling when it is decided that I should follow them back to the station. I am told to drive Williwaw.

The rain starts a thunderous drumming on the tin roofs, and my head starts throbbing as I try to avoid the braking lights in front of me. The convoy arrives at a large flat grey building. I am put sitting in front of a large desk. An hour of Passport demands with two trips to the back of Williwaw. GB? IRL? Still preserving with on speak the English, Irish only.

A large book lies open on the desk. “Where are you staying?” “Nil thigem me” “You’re in big trouble.” “You will have to appear in court.” NIL THIGEM ME!

Dismissed from the large desk morning light is creeping in over the windowsill.   A large man appears in army camouflage uniform. Pointing at me the man behind the desk calls him over. What a sight I must be. A bright swollen nose with a look of total bafflement   “You served with the Irish in the United Nations.” “Can you ask him for his Passport?” He walks in my direction. Good morning I am Mr—- “Nil thigem me.” He turns to address the man behind the table. “ The Irish are all like this over Christmas the best thing to do is to let him go.”   I can believe my ears when I hear that I am a lucky man. “You can go.” Jesus that was too close for comfort. Whoops spoke too soon. “You escort him back to where he is staying” orders the man behind the desk.

I arrive back at Coco Beach with the blue flashing lights to awake the whole campsite.   A wave from the driver window sees my escort wave back in true Christmas spirit. To the alarm of Fanny and Florence on all fours, I crawl into the tent and crash out.   They have the sense to let sleeping dogs lie.

Christmas day starts with a large dose of humble pie. Curt has a red bow. I have a red nose. The rewiring is completed and Cass the girlfriend has taken to wearing long trousers after a bout of malaria.   The newspaper Dutch have turned into parasites. The Musketeers have decided on a route through the Congo.   By the time I surface the over Lander’s Christmas party is about to start or more to the point it has already started.

Feeling like Rudolph the red nose reindeer I wander over to the bar for the hair of the dog that bit me. “Happy Christmas.” “Many happy returns.” Ah! “You do speak English.” Fuck I’m nobbled.   “What would your children like for Xmas?” “A dash for Christmas cheer would not go astray”. “Thanks be to Jesus for that.”   The dark vapour shape behind last night’s desk smiles as if to say I always get my man.

Christmas night starts in earnest with a visit to the 7^th Son of Jesus Church. It is packed to the gunnels. The altar is adorned with a five-piece Band, a backing group of halleluiah woman who could be heard on the other side of the galaxy. With a roving microphone, we are all asked to introduce ourselves to the faithful. After an hour of praising God no high in high-octane, it is not difficult to see why Ghana’s shops and business are named in such a way that you are not sure what you are entering for. Such as Fanny reappeared from the hairdresser called THE Divine Beauty Salon that she now wants to change too – God help You Salon or O! Well If I must look like these don’t laugh. In Ghana every lorry, taxi is bejewelled with signs on how to get to heaven. Be Merciful. Who cares God knows why. There is only one way up.   We dance and boogie until the early hours of the morning.

The New Year is not long in coming with the serious business of finding a way forward. Josh and I decided to pay a visit to the port to see if there is any possibility of securing a passage by ship to Walvis Bay in Namibia.

( To be Continued)

( continuation)

Williwaw to Florence’s horror is in no time attracting the normal vendors, give me’s, dogs, and no good do ours. The egg vendor having made a successful sale is commandeered to point out where the Mission lies. Up he pops on to the driver’s footstep, “OK left that right, straight on that’s left.   He has the gift of giving Irish directions. If I were you I would not start for here. I follow the pointed finger rather than the verbal and to my surprise arrive in a large yard sporting a workshop capable of repairing the whole of Ghana armed forces vehicles.

We are welcome is in a strong German accent by Brother Keith. Our feet are no more on terra firma when we are off on a guided tour of the Missions piggery, chicken farm, and plantations. The Goldmine whereabouts are not revealed. In the meantime, Williwaw exhaust is under the acetylene torch for a re-welding.   Brother Keith suggests that we make camp in the Plantation for the night. We arrive at the gates to the Plantation to find that they are closed. The water pumps shut down with the security guard long gone home. Fanny is travel weary. Bole has nothing to offer other than a dose of fleas. We pass a flat dusty area with a small mud hut in the middle. Pitch no 58.

Bright and early next morning finds us all much rested making good mileage on a tar surface our target is Kumasi. The capital of the Ashanti region said to have the biggest market in western Africa. We make it a far as Techiman.

Here we stop outside a pink church. This time it is a Catholic mission unlike the sole welcome from Brother Keith we a confronted by the church committee and a few hundred children from the adjacent school. We are allocated the football pitch for Pitch No 59. Over the next few hours, we are bestowed with gifts of fruits. There is no stopping the line of people arriving with their gifts of welcome. A small mountain of Pineapples, Bananas, Papaws, Cacao, start to grow higher than Williwaws roof.

The early TV cooking class by Fanny is attended on mass with standing room only. To our amusement, a flash from my camera to record the attendance causes a near stampede. Oblivious to our need for some privacy some of the spectators sit on the grass within spitting distance in total silence observing our every movement.   After the cooking show the village dignitaries, one after another introduced themselves using their long formal names. Each one state when he was born, where he was born and what village they came from. It is not long before we get our first taste of Ashanti culture. A man approaches in a traditional dress. Black-robed with leather flip-flops a formal invitation is issued to join the villagers in the church in the morning.

The Ashanti region covers a mere 24,390sq km area. Founded in 1701 by Osei Tutu the region was annexed by the British from the gold coast colony after a war in 1873. There then king Prempeh 1 was exiled to Seychelles in 1901 and allowed back in 1906 ingratitude of the Ashanti steadfastness to the Allies in world war one.

It is said that the Sir Frederick Hodgson in 1900 demanded a Gold stool known as the Sika Dwa be handed over so he could park his ass on it. This golden stool embodied the soul of the Ashanti people. Neither the Asantehene nor the kings were allowed to grace the stool with their rears. The original, which had arrived down from heaven was the symbol and the foundation of the kingdom in the 17th century.   Fortunately, the Ashanti royal family had anticipated him providing him with a fake stool. The original had been hidden.

We all sleep wondering how many rows of eyes will be awaiting or waking in the morning. The first up is Florence to a round of applauds. Caught creeping out of her sleeping bag by the awaiting multitude she is the Asantehene of the moment with every woman wanting to touch her blond hair. Next is Fanny. With no affects whatsoever she makes strong appeals for some privacy. “I don’t live in a zoo”. Breakfast is a difficult meal.

The first job of the day on hand is to return without offending our hosts our mountain of fruit.   Explanations that it is impossible for us to fit, never mind eating the mountain all fall on deaf ears. In the end, sanity prevailed with the mountain being returned in the order of village echelon. This exercise takes hours as each village member once again introduced him or her self again with the full trimmings.

It is late afternoon and we are not relishing our formal visit to the pink church. It turns out not to be forgotten. On entering we are once again presented to the church VIP and the worshippers. What follows puts us to shame. Two beautiful carved wooden stools are presented to us in honour of our visit. I make a pathetic speech of thank before we all troop outside the church door for the obligatory photo.   A visit to the school it the next duty.   The whole school, teachers and students are awaiting our arrival. With a request to speak to them from the village elder we are presented formally.   In my best Irish brogue, I give them a short rundown on us.   From where we have come, and where we hope to go. Our third formal introduction to the elders follows.

One by one, full name, date of birth, origin, and status position. A guided tour of the school was next on the afternoon line-up.   Fanny looks at me in despair.   Luckily unknown to the girls before hitting the pit I had slipped off last night with the last man to be introduced Abou for a bottle of Guinness. I explained to our captured audience that I had promised Adou to visit his Plantation before we set off on our way in the morning. It made no difference as all two hundred children, teachers, elders tag along as we set off down into a maze of high Tropical growth. Pineapples, Papaws, Mangos, Chillies, Yams, you name it all grew in six months.   The piece the resistance according to Abou is his Palm wine still. Thank God we did not have to sample any of the wine. Past experience of three-day palm wine had left its mark. Once bitten not bitten twice thank you?

Suffering from lockjaw and throbbing face from hours of smiling we give a hoot to signal our early departure. Nothing stirs. Our route is across the Kwahu Plateau to Kumasi 107km as the crow flies, or 6º 41N -1º 35W. We make good time arriving early evening.   A room with a bath is top on the list. Check into a hotel recommended in the bible we soak, soak, soak, and sleep. The morning breakfast bill is an unadulterated rip-off. So much for the Bible, it could do with its information being dated. The manager is called.

“You are not dealing here with raw prawns, 8000 cides for three boiled eggs.” “It’s possible to buy a chicken farm for the same amount” One hour later with Fanny threatening damnation on the hotel in her next tourist guide publication a reduction of 700% reflects the going price of an eouf.

We move to the Kings hotel, which seems to have the price of omelettes right.

The Kumasi previously known as Coomassie derives its name from the Kum tree and seat. Akan speaking Ashanti people, who are named mostly after the days of the week, populate it. In modern-day Ghana, it remains an energetic city with its own Ashanti courts and a royal family. It is for some time our first taste of the city. Supermarkets, Banks, post office, co2.

Into the hustle and bustle, we go armed with a map. The first call is the Market one of Africa biggest. Markets with all their smells, movement, noise, colour, give one a wonderful sense of being. The countries economic heartbeat pulses before your eyes. Our taxi drops us off at one of the many entrances. A mass of corrugated roof stalls spread out as far as we can see. A frontal attack looks far to life-threatening so we skirt the outer east boundary as if shy to enter. Here we find the main railway that circles the core market peppered on both sides with stalls that only move on hearing the blast of the train’s horn. From on top of the railway embankment, the brown rusty roofs of the market nestle as if welded together in a hollow.

Down we go disappearing in a flash under a canopy of galvanised tin. There are no organised isles leading to a checkout. No prices, no bar codes, no see your face on the floor, no artificial light, no trolleys, no massive car park, no loyalty cards, no buy one get one free, no name tags, no crèche, no credit cards. There is, however, that wonderful African quality dignity with a smile no matter how bad business is.

We wander for hours through well-defined areas, spices, flour, rice, and fresh tomato puree, vegetables, fruit, meat, fish, tub aware, plastic bottles, stainless steel, guns, medical cures, tablets, silk, tailors, firewood, sunglasses, shoes, car parts, money exchanges, greegree, jewellery, tapes, records, you name it and it is to be had.

A few items we noticed that might be hard to find these days were smoked bush meat and fetish items. The whole lot it is governed by supply and demand, market prices and market laws. We emerge into the sunshine promising ourselves another dose before we say our goodbyes.

Our second Kumasi day is Fannies. She has the bit between the teeth and is single-minded in that we are off to meet Nana for a cup of tea in the palace grounds.   She had met him back in London in the late sixties. The thirty odd stone Ashanti king had given her an open-ended invitation to call on him if she happened to be in the area.   Learning once more the use of the indicators and the horn we all troop across town in Williwaw to Manhyia the Asantehene’s Palace.

Arriving at the palace, which is colonial in its caricature we are directed to the secretary’s office. The only permanent resident in the offices is a large black cat. People roam in and out at will.   Fanny leaves a note with the cat for his highness. We learn that he will be meeting some of his Chieftains on Monday.   Come along and watch.

We console Fanny with a visit to the Prempeh II Jubilee Museum to see the fake stool, and a leather sack, which according to tradition if opened will cause the downfall of the Asante nation. But not to worry, as across the road there is a sword if pulled from the ground will have the same effect according to another legend.   Perhaps King Arthur had a practice session down here. We did not try. It looked like that the end was near, and the whole Asante culture, nation, is going to be conquered by rust.

Rust or not I am rapidly becoming ineffectual due to thirst. A watering hole is needed.   Some minutes later while pleasurably sipping a cool Guinness down the street comes a parade of people dressed in traditional black, sandals shuffling in my direction to the sound of drums.   Dancing is considered a highly recommended way of communication. This approaching thud was sure interconnecting with Fanny.   In a flash, she is up joined in the march past.   Hopping up and down in full swing with the rhythms till I bring her attention that to the rear of the procession is a coffin. How was she to know it was Ntan drumming? An Asante style of playing highly decorative drums to see the departed on their way to the pearly gates. We call it a day retiring to a swimming pool behind our hotel.

A visit to the Asante Gold mine Obuasi for a spot of lunch and a guided tour sounds a good idea. It is one of the largest open cast gold mines in the world. As a shareholder, I ring the mine.

(Top TIP: It a good move to invest in a few hundred shares in select corporations operating in Africa prior to departing they might give you a free meal or two.)

The mines PR man cannot make up his mind if he works in the mine or outside. It all sounds too messy to risk the 70km trip out-of-town so we decide to buy the tee-shirt and mess about town. Tomorrow is the royal oath.

One more with feeling we arrive to see Nan.   Entering the palace grounds we find a small crowd sitting under the shade of the royal trees. Apparently, four new district chief are to take the royal oath. The heat of the day marks time but Fanny’s determination to achieve her goal cannot be deflected. I take a walk over to the royal courts.   Five hardened thugs are up for swiping tomatoes. The outcome of the case I did not learn.   All four judges dressed in their Kente robes stood up all of a sudden and marched over under their sun umbrellas to the palace grounds the case can wait. The Oath of allegiance ritual is about to begin.

I arrive back to the girls to learn that the whole event is taking place inside the palace.   Apparently, Otumfuo Opoku-Ware II Asantehene is so fat he has outgrown the palace doors   Being the only ones not dressed in black robes, sporting a lighter shade of red from the sun we have no chance of infiltrating the chamber. I hoof Florence to a round of clapping from the multitudes stretched out under the royal king palm trees up on my shoulders for a squint through one of the windows. She gets somewhat a wobbly viewing of the proceedings.

In a tropical downpour, we eventually retire to the pool for a swim > Wonderful.

The next day after eight-hour driving including a company tour of the Goldmine we emerge gold dust free to that superb sight of the braking surf at Busua beach. Pitch No 60

Busua is a Jerry Rawlings resort 230 odd km west of Accra, 4º 46 N 2º 07 W. We are here because we are advised to avoid Accra for a few days due to elections.   How knows there might be another coup.   Mr Rawlings is a dab hand at coups.   Back in 1972 to take power he executed a few of his foe. But in 1979 he did a commendable thing for an African dictator. As promised when he took it over in 1972 he handed the country back to civilian power.

The next three years saw a country blessed with natural wealth plunged into debt till our man once more held another coup.   Son of a Scottish pharmacist he is Ghana current president and looks like remaining so with the help of the USA for some time to come.

Built for I billion cidies in 1996 Pleasure Beach hotel in Busua is a modern complex with twenty beach chalets with a restaurant and bar central block. Suffering from a large dose of African inanity the whole place is run by a beauty queen named Gloria.   Busua village in its own right gets quite a write-up in the bible mention as a favourite meeting place for over Landers.

Once again the Bible gets the prices of accommodation and the like way of the current mark. We spend two nights in one of the Hotel Chalets receiving a bill that puts in plain words the modern meaning of the Gold coast.   We move to the car park designated as their camped area for the rest of our enforced stay. It is not hard to see how Busua was once popular before the arrival of Pleasure Beach which has led to the disappearance of any genuine over Landers, not to mention the palm trees.

On day three of our stay, we wander over to Dixcove a small fishing village. It’s a short walk up the beach and over a hill. To our horror, less than ten minutes up the beach we find the local lavatory awaiting the incoming tide. Perhaps the hotel derived its name from such oblivious pleasure.   Shunning the crap minefield we cross a dubious small but deep stream. A steep climb follows up through the last of the surviving palm trees till we emerge overlooking the Cove.  

Perched high on the rock cliff overlooking the cove is our first Slave trade fort. It is not difficult to envisage anchored in the small bay a large slave ship.

Descending the slope metal crosses built by the Portuguese stands in a silent proclamation to man’s greed.

All along this coastline forts built by the French, Portuguese, Dutch, British, Swedes, and Danish had doors of on return. Not so long ago over 10 million slaves were dragged through these doors to be packed like sardines on slave ships bound to the USA. The Gold Cost originally got its name from the slave trade meaning the payments made to slave hunters. It’s only one hundred and ninth five years ago that the USA abolished slavery. Their human stories remain a strong magnetism for any visitor to Ghana.

(To be continued)

BURKINA FASO

What we know:

Landlocked. Poor. Military Coups. French Colony. Formerly Upper Volta. Flat. Hot. Droughts. Donkeys. Aids.

Time has disappeared from our daily lives but we know it is early November. Whether Fanny or I will ever revisit the Dogons seems highly unlikely and whether they will survive is another question. Spot lighted by UNESCO, the Malians are exploiting their culture for what it is worth. Our feeling is that our Animist friends will not be visiting or be visited by the outer Galaxy for much longer. It is far more likely that Big Mac will land and destroy them. In the mean time long may they believe that hashish comes from outer space.

(Top TIP: Visit soon.)

With unexpected ease we clear the police and customs at Koro crossing into the Fatherland of the Just Men or the Country of the Honourable people some miles later at Ka In.   Our chosen route will virtually cut Burkina Faso in half describes by bible as one of the poorest countries in the world < A vast lateritic plateau of some 274-200 sq km populated by roaming donkeys, with potholes capable of swallowing Concord.

It is not long before our dirt road has us healing to port with one wheel on top of the rut and the other locked in the gutter. Williwaw wheelbase is not quite wide enough to handle the truck ruts so we drive along the ruts at a 20º angle. Some times we are able to drive in the middle with a high likelihood of slipping off and breaking our repaired half shaft.   Fortuitously it is not long before the track improves widening to accommodating both potholes and corrugations.

Ouagadougou the capital our target lies eighty plus odd kilometres to the south of us at 12º 22′ N and 1º 28′ W. It is just one of those short Fanny hops on the map. 

The passing countryside is arid, flat, dotted with the odd surviving tree all watched over by a squadron of nature’s undertaker’s vultures.   Their necks turning with the same sinister movement of a high security camera scanning the earth smoothly and relentless for an ass that did not use the zebra crossing or has unfortunately disappear down one of the six meters deep roundabouts.

Our first witnessed vulture banquet is an explosion of survival of the fittest. In the inertia of the day’s heat, the stillness of land is shattered in a frenzy of feeding that blow apart the harmony of nature. Its harshness; its fury; its nakedness brings all awareness of time to a full stop.

Florence is enraptured by the horror of the explicate lesson from natures undertakers and Fanny is awakened to African wild life.   I promise to tell every Irish nacker to book his or hers holidays somewhere else.   There is an Irish expression “When a donkey bray’s a tinker dies”

Some miles pass Ouahigouya the capital of northern Burkina we come upon a roundabout full to capacity. Deep within its bowls, lying on its side is a beer truck. Judging from the amount of waiting trucks, the empty cans and bottles it has been some days since it fell in. Off to its left there is yet another truck stuck up to its oxters in mud and deep reddish water. Any way around is totally blocked. We learn from one of the driver that a bulldozer is on its way, but it could well be a few days before it arrives.

This news is not surprising. Remembering that nothing is ever quite as it seems in Africa we have long come to appreciate that nothing ever happens quite as it is supposed to. Back in the capital of Mali there were men in western business suites were eating French food flown in by Air France while a few hundred clicks down the road Dogons collect soil from below their escarpment to grow the odd vegetable.

The quagmires to the right and left of the dirt track are to say the least uninviting. While the thought of spending four days waiting for a Caterpillar that might never make it due to odd missing part. Or for that matter staying put surrounded by an unlimited source of warm beer is far from appealing to the girls or me.

I walk down into creator to have a look only to emerge with a coating of red lock tight mud right up to the balls that dries in the sun instantaneously cracks and flacks off like pealing paint with every step to hear an engine roar. Hallelujah it is the Cat. Not so. One of the awaiting trucks has come to life. The driver with the help of a few dozen bottles of Sobra the nationally brew beer followed by a few shots of Chapalo the local made millet beer, has cracked in the noonday sun.

Glazed eye he mounts his charge. In a cloud of exhaust fumes releases the clutch. Like a charging elephant he plunges headlong into the jaws of the trap to a round of approving applause from the thirsty on lookers he comes to a steaming halt.   All is not what it seems in Africa.

Braving the imaginary snakes I now decide to scout the adjacent hinterland of the crater. The right hand side is impenetrable, but the left shows some hope. Except for some tree stumps and a few muddy sections where the water has seeped across from the other side of the dirt road it looks possible. It’s either go on the binge native style for a few days or have a go.

The idea of daddy on the rip with the lads wins hands down. If I get stuck the cat is on the way. I walk my route once more taking note of all the sly traps. The course to be followed is a maze of turns with the high likelihood that I might find my African roots sooner than reading Alex Haley ‘Roots’.

The sound of Williwaw engine coming to life alerts a group of vultures huddled near by.   Moving forward with the help of the girls who are directing me on foot I squeeze past the waiting trucks.   For some reason a thought comes into my head “It is the land that owns the African by lying downs his fate.” A small crowd gathers to watch if I will make it.   After our experiences in Guinea Conakry the drive turned out to be a piece of cake. Apart from the clinging mud I have little trouble emerging back on to the dirt road safe and sound.

We are on our way again with mud flying in every direction.   Apart from a bright blue bird, (which we eventually identify some months later with the aid of Ian Sinclair, and Phil Hockey Illustrated Guide Birds of South Africa as an Abyssinian Roller) our surrounding colours are drab shade of browns and ashen greys. Village after village dots the barren land.   Their houses stand like clumps of large fat toadstools.   Nothing moves. Williwaw arrival and departure in each village is marked by a dust cloud on the way in and barking of dogs on the way out.

It’s not long before our dust cloud is mixing it with the traffic exhaust of Ouagadougou.   Referred to, as Wogoddogo by Mossi the largest ethic Burkina Faso group Ouagadougou is a big sprawling maze of villages with no apparent centre. We have arrived at midday. The place is heaving with mopeds all with minds of their own.

Our Bible says that L’Eau Vive is its most famous restaurant where the sister – waitresses down tools at midday to flex their cinctures with a rendering of the Ave Maria. Why not a spot of lunch before heading on to Ghana sound like a good idea. Due to the capitals square grit lay out we find the restaurant with little difficulty.

A quick look around the Nouveau Grand market put us of eating meat for life.   The market is housed on three floors in grey concrete building which I am sure started out in the mind of its architects as a parking lot. Heaving with commerce, noise, the entire place is enwrapped in the pungent smells of stale urine, body odours and flies. With escape routes to beat the ban it is a pickpocket’s paradises.

Some hours later it is us who are singing Ave Maria as we escape from the city straight into the first of many police/army barricades.   Following the southerly direction of the Red, White and Black Volats rivers we make it on an atrocious pothole tar road as far as Kombissiri forty odd kilometres from Ouagadougou. Pitch No 52

Refreshed after a peaceful night sleep with gum shields in once more we venture forth for a days driving.

“For Christ safe Fanny, avoid the Potholes.” “Jesus Bob slow down.” from the back “Stop arguing “, Florence. The road, the heat, the jolting and the boring flat landscape, has all of us on short fuses long before we arrive at the first point of departure from BURKINA FASO.  

Just before noon we clear customs and the usual police formalities at Po. Twenty kilometres further of zigzagging we arrive at Paga where I shit myself.  It’s a major cock-up. We have no visa to enter Ghana. A blue-black scared-faced Ghana informs us that we have no option but to return to Ouagadougou. All contact names, string and bribes fail miserably. Luckily George over hears our efforts. He is the visa issuing man in Ouagadougou returning from his holidays.   Assured of his personal attention in the morning in Ouagadougou we set off back up the road. The journey needs no description. There is an African proverb that says, “Who travels alone tells lies.”   So when I say it was fucking awful believe me it was just that.

Murphy’s Law is now at play. The Po customs that had cleared us through to Ghana now refused to recognise Williwaw’s Carnet. I am forced to purchase a temporary importation licence. Offered at 50,000 CFA eventually bought for 10,000 CFA. Next Fanny fails to stop at a wooden sun blistered police barrier sign that is hidden behind some scrub with an attached rusty chain to the barrier buried in the dust that is only visible to those in the know.

One of those I hate whites bitter-faced menacing cop is now threatening a 10,000C FA fine for our non-arête. Some heated arguments revolving around the impossibilities of bring a three-ton vehicle to a sudden halt and promise of a few packets of fags on our return see us once more on our way.

One hundred thousand bone shattering pots later we arrive back in the fading light in Ouagadougou. After the usual dashes to the outskirt cops we decide to eat first, and sleep after > Another mistake. Around and around we go in search of a long close Vietnamese Restaurant.   Eventually giving up we check into a hotel. Knackered we eat and spend the best part of the night hunting the room lizard with a spray can.

After a morning of endless form filling George is true to his word. Armed with visas we set off once more down the obstacle course to Ghana. All goes well. Not even a scrub fires on either side of the road that endeavour to unite with each puff of wind slow us down.   In the firm knowledge that this time we are finally going to escape we cardiac from one pothole to another.

Arriving outside Po a Guinness sign atomises all thoughts of the wooden sun blistered police stop signs. With no sign of the die-hard bigot cop the Guinness sign is our beacon to cure our acute dose of the jitters.

Two bottles of the black stuff later we are back in the Customs. It is taking a long time to clear Williwaw when in the door hot off a motorbike arrives our in the heat of the day cop. Bristling with contempt his torrential tongue pour forth anger not for the promised packet of fags but for our failure to stop once more. .

Never far from the surface in Africa lies the unexpected. I begin to smell a rat, as there was no way he could have seen us passing over his rusty chain. We have no option but to return up the road and face the music. At the point of gun the arrogant faced bastard refusing to accept dollars for a fine of 12,000 CFA.

While I remain sitting in his shabby hut Fanny with Florence return to Guinness Bar to get the dollars changed.   Waiting for the girls return it dawns on me that there is a scam-taking place between the Customs and Mr Screw it cop.

The Ghana border is due to close in a few hours. My temporary importation licences for Williwaw will expire at six-o clock making the Jeep eligible for confiscation or subject to a demand for some extortion’s exportation fee.

Fanny god rests her soul returns with the CFA. With agonising calmness I watch as he counts the money note by note, then enters the amount in a school jotter and issues me with an unreadable receipt.   With no love lost we leave arriving once more at the customs.

Here we are met with more unnecessary demands, and a refusal to stamp out Williwaw Carnet.   With the clock ticking away our chances of getting across the border into Ghana are getting slimmer and slimmer. I tell Fanny to go out and start-up Williwaw.   There is nothing for it but to make a run for it.

The clock striking six, the customs post comes to attention as the national flag is lowered. It’s now or never.   I walk out the door jump aboard Williwaw slip her into gear and go for it.   In a blink of and eye we are hurtling down the dirt road in the direction of the border. In the bouncing wing mirror I get glimpses of a pursing motorbike. Endeavouring to stay out of our dust cloud it appears on my right then on my left.   The girls sit in silent terror as we crash from one pothole to the next.   Dusk is not far off.   A torso steps out in front of us. There is no stopping a three-ton Jeep charging like a rhino. With lights flashing and our horn endeavouring to sound loud and mean he jumps for cover.

We whistle through the border gates with a few minutes to spare. Enveloped in her following cloud of red dust Williwaw comes to a screeching halt. In perfect English a bone-crushing handshake a large scared dark smiling face conveys a significant and unmistakable message of welcome to Ghana.

Covered in goose pimples and a large dosage of heebie – jeebies our James Bond style exit from Burkina Faso is over.

(TO BE CONTINUED)

( CONTINUATION)

In the early stillness of the morning, we board Williwaw.   Skirting the town we once more cross by ferry to join the main drag the Mopti road. It’s not long before the hot dusty dirt road leaves the river Bani to evaporate its way north to join the Niger in its long search for its gateway to the sea. Making good time our shale landscape has little to offer to occupy the mind.   Fanny has draped her open window against the blazing sun with muslin material. Florence perched on her high rear seat is battling with her Game Boy.

(Top TIP: A piece of muslin large enough to cover those lily-white knees and arms can be especially useful when seated in your vehicle for any duration.)

It comes as a great relief to us all to swing right before Mopti. We had heard on the grapevine in Djénné that Mopti had turned itself into a pain in the butt. Full of smart Smert spies; rip off tourist kids, bureaucrat police and flies. So assured by our new Merc overlanders we take a new Chinese constructed road to Bandiagara. The preferred way but not quite yet recognised by our Michelin 953 map, which designates the route as a dangerous passage.

Avoiding the odd charging bulldozer and completely disregarding any road closed and men at work signs we arrive covered in dust at hotel Les Arbies well ahead of the Mercedes.

After a good meal is another rooftop pegging Pitch number 50. Bankas is nothing to write home about. A collection of mud-walled housing facing each other forms the main thoroughfare. Dust devils dance on their whirling dervish way in or out of the flat shapeless surrounding landscape.

Along with our Hotel, there is a baby Djénné style mosque, a Smert office all of which owe their existence to the Bandiagara escarpment or Falaise of Dogon country that lies twelve kilometres out the back door of our Hotel.   Bankas is the alternative route into Dogon country – Mali’s top tourist attraction. Now a protected World Heritage site with the Placenta of the world called Amma and now Fanny’s birthday present.

Lying 14º00′-14º45’N, 3º00′-3º50’W from Douentza in the north to Ouo in the south the area that houses the Dogons culture is world-famous.   Its greatest threat today to its rich traditions, rituals, art and folklore is hard-core tourism thanks to its World Heritage status. Within its Placenta, not a pubic hair has been left unruffled.

Early morning our Guides Sambaquine Dallo and Moussa Drabo arrive. A command of English and French selects Dallo.

(Top TIP: Selecting a Guide without any prior knowledge of his or her abilities is not to be recommended.   You should always have a friendly chat before taking him or her on to establish whether they truly have the gift of the gab. Also never pay all their fee up front.) 

Dallo fee settled we all pile into the Merc for an extremely bumpy and get out and pushing ride to the base of the Bandiagara escarpment.

The escarpment extends over a 150 km in a southwest to northeast direction, says Dallo. “We will overnight at Teli a village on the southern end of the escarpment it is one of the less visited villages.” Again with our vast knowledge of Mail Teli could be on the moon for all we knew. What we did know is that it is getting hotter and hotter by the minute.

Parking the Merc at the side of a mud building with a lean-to acting as a bar/ restaurant we are invited to partake in a spot of lunch before we set off up to the cliff face. Fanny’s face is a Mask of Dogon anticipation. ‘Up that’ it says. ‘Not on your Nellie my necklace is just fine’. Too late. Dallo is well into informing us that human occupancy of the cliffs was a long time before the Dogons arrived.   “For some strange reason beyond our comprehension the village communities are divided into the inneomo and innepuru, ( living men and dead men) respectively they exist in symbiotic union with each other.” I can only hope that by the time we get back I will not be living in the doghouse for having suggested the hike as a birthday present.

Our lunch hosts lose no time in trying to sell us Dogon doors, intricate door locks, elaborate carvings, painted masks, wooden bowls, and pots. All available irrelevant of UNESCO, Law No. 86-61/AN-RM of 26 July 1986 and Decree No.299/PG-RM of September 1986 which is supposed to specifically control excavations, commerce and the export of cultural objects.

Back in the car, Dallo rattles on “Po is hello, Konjo is beer.”   “Every inhabitant of each village has the same surname.” “Their houses represent human figures and each village keeps a semi-domestic crocodile.”

“You have missed the Sigui gig, which represents the renewal of the Universe.” “ It takes place every sixty years when Sirius companion star is known to the Dogons as Po Tolo. “ (Po this time meaning the smallest seed known to the Dogons and Talo = star) comes into view.” “ Only the Dogons can see it without a telescope.”   Not bad considering it is a mere 8.6 light years from the earth.

Apparently, according to their oral traditions, the Nommos visited them thousands of years ago > An ugly lot resembling mermen and mermaids who landed on their doorstep in an Ark. “ It was these scale boy’s, extraterrestrial visitors from the Sirius system that told them about Jupiter’s four major moons and Saturn’s rings and that we all spun around the sun. They knew that the earth’s moon is dry and infertile long before Armstrong left his footprint. They also knew that the Milky Way is a spiral galaxy of stars and they the Nommos equipped them with, especially advanced eyesight to see the lot. Circumcision and clitoridectomy is a must. There are temples everywhere. Every door and lock is an orgy of meaning. They used to file their teeth.”

Never having seen a photo, full of ignorance, the first views of the Cliffside houses with their clay granaries is gobsmacking.   It is an entirely individual tangible exhilarating experience > a magical hierarchy of mythical fathomless mysteries. Florence, on the other hand, accepts the Dogon Einstein’s Theory of Relativity as a matter of fact taking it all in her stride.

Still surrounded by fields of maze the views are surreal. The granaries look like large telephone boxes wearing enormous pointed straw hats all standing on stilts beneath the overhanging escarpment. As we get closer we begin to see the village houses woven in amongst the rock ledges. Dallo asks us to wait for him while he goes ahead and announce our arrival and gets permission for us to visit.

Await his signal to follow all eyes are looking upwards.   Whirling eagles pass overhead their high nest sites clearly marked against the rustic rock.

We eventually open the door of our earth craft.   Unsettling the settled dust any moment now the earthlings with their Hubbell telescope sight will spot us advancing up the cliff to emerge from their skull protected caves. With each and every footstep echoing against the overhanging outcrop of rock, Florence blazes the trail. Arriving at our first village of the living and dead there is not a humanoid to be seen.

Stumbling along behind Dallo we reach our first Dogon ladder. A large log with steps cut into it that requires a proficiency in high wire balancing or suffer the painful consequences. Scrambling up I associate it more with ascending into the heavens rather than entering a village. Up we go in single file through the Stargate into a world created by Dogon’s for Dogons where all life, nature, mind and matter are comprehended in a single scheme of interconnecting myths.

Myths that not only explain the origin of the universe but the characteristic archetype to which all in it including our societies and us should knuckle under.

The main one according to Dallo is an Egg called Amma the seed of the earth who quivered seven times before the first Nommos arrived to create the sky, day and night, the seasons, and the universe.   To be more precise the world egg was shaken by seven big stirrings of the universe. It broke into two birth sacs, each holding twins, who were looked after by Amma, God on the maternal egg. In each placenta were a male and a female twin, each male and female contained both the male and female basic nature.

“Jesus the heat is getting to me Dallo I don’t think I can take much more of this”

There was no stopping him he is in full tour guide flow. “A male twin named Yorugu got out of one of the placenta before he was supposed too. A piece of the sac from which he busted out of formed the earth. However, when Yorugu tried to get back into the egg to rescue his twin she had done a bunk and had been placed in the other placenta with the other set of twins. So he took a trip to the new earth and copulated with it—his own motherly placenta, but did not succeed in creating people. Seeing what was going on Amma sent the other lot of twins down to have a go and that where we all came from the first joining of brothers, sisters, and cousin twins.

” Long live Darby O’ Gill and the little people is all I can say.

Standing outside one of the Granaries, which is to the Dogons what earth is to the cosmos and the stomach is to the individual. They are not just granaries Says Dallo but a form of defence. “Each Granary is divided into sections. The first floor is against famine. The next is the man of the house and his first wife and her jewellery. The next floor is the second wife.” Slopping against the Granary is a log ladder (a tree trunk in the shape of a Y with steps cut into it. The Y section is the top of the stairs) that leads up to a top window above a smaller window some twelve meters off the ground. With two hands gripping the log I venture up to have a look.   Curiosity kills the cat. The interior is sectioned walled into four orange shape segments but before I can explore further we are on the move again upwards.

Next stop is the hunter, the high priest dwellings and courthouse all three set into the cliff face. We never make it to the top as Florence has discovered the witch doctors cave.

Inside the cave, there are four small baked round clay mounts in a circle. Each mount is about the size of those Austrian dumplings that stay in your stomach till the next black ski run. Apparently, these mounts are used to administer justice. The accused have to enter the cave one after the other and rest their hand on the mounts, which are covered in blood. The hand that refuses to touch the mounts is the guilty one.   Florence is fascinated. I am mystified as to how it actually works. Perhaps a Dogon riddle that goes something like this:   Riddle-me ree. Locked up inside you and yet they can seal it from me. Fanny has had enough; Dallo at long last stops for a breath of air.

Above the sorcerer pad again reached by Dogon style ladders are smaller caves and ledges. The caves were utilised by a Pygmy tribe called Tellem who shared the escarpment with the Dogons for a few hundred years – as to why no one knows not even God or Mohammed can figure out says Dallo who is showing signs of wanting to leave. Other ladders go up further to Dogon cemeteries that are taboo to all.

With Dallo’s ankles twisting and turning inside his designer sneakers we start our descent. His ankles remind me of many a chicken wishbone I pulled in deadly battle against my brother for a wish that never came true.

On the way down I lag behind in the hope of spotting a live Dogon, or a living dead one that might not be to camera-shy. Dallo has already warned us those caught taking photos could set the cosmos wobbling but with no one around I cannot resist taking a few shots.

Once more we arrive at the foot of the escarpment.   The odd Acacia dots the otherwise Sahelian dominating species on the plain of Séno.

Stage two is just a short walk along the escarpment face to a crack where we can climb up to the top of the plateau.   After one kilometre we are well spread out Fanny to the rear, Florence up front without the twists and turns matching Dallo’s African paces step for step.

By late afternoon in the simmering heat large chunks of fallen cliff face are watching us trudge our way up. Nothing stirs. On our right, the rock cliff face looks brittle and barren. Here and there large enormous blocks of rock have detached themselves to slide hundreds of meters out from the foot of cliff face.   On our left a small dry riverbed and fields of parched millet.

After nine kilometres we are all beginning to believe in the three Dogon revelations. Nature speaks through the sounds of the grasses. Order is symbolized by weaving. Not quite the same type of weaving that all of us are doing.   Communications is the work of the drum.   The last one we have no problems with the scorching heat as all of our heads are drumming.

Dallo points to crack in the cliff face. “This is the way up.”   What is visible to us is a rocky passage blocked by large sections of broken rock covered in dense vegetation. The shade looks inviting but the climb looks intimidating.   Fanny’s face reads beam me up.

Following a spring line of water, we pass through a botanical garden of vegetation and flowers that none of us can name.   Surrounded by trouble hawks and the ever-present sound of rock dove and plovers the climb turns out to be relatively easy. Gradually we leave the humid microclimate of the crack to emerge on the top of plateau. Our sandstone plateau is a labyrinth of holes, mixed with areas of hard impervious rock, somewhat resembling the Burren in County Clare in the west of Ireland but without the blue of the sea in the distance.

An energy field of rising heat blocks any possibility of long vision so our view (from the top) is disappointing. With an announcement of a further five kilometres to the nearest village Fanny’s weaning energy evaporates while Florence on the other hand god bless her little pins is off strutting out front once more.   One hour later with large helpings of TLC, I nurse a sore, weary, and parched Fanny into the village.

After a few beers, we are shown our sleeping quarters.   The choice is dismal a bamboo slattern bed or the flat mud roof.   Just as the evening light begins to paint the hues of a warm night sky I brave one of the Dogon ladders to a roof nights sleep. With no mossie net, it’s a night of pure torture.   Sleep is almost impossible. What I get is snatched between the high-pitched piercing sound of an incoming mosquito attack and the eerie silence while he or she sucks their fill. – I awake drained.

The new day is rung in at six am. A group of Dogon ladies standing in a circle start the day’s heartbeat with the arithmetic sound of dull thudding of maize. Without a drop of perspiration there pounding poles gliding up and down in time to their ever-swinging breasts. From my rooftop, the gathering light casts shadows in long curved thin lines across the rocky surface. Bending at the foot of my ladder the shadows like the living dead returning to their life bodies as the sun rises. The colour scheme of the new day flamed out in a time-compressed experience.

Djiguibombo our host village awakes with many of us suffering from millet beer hangovers from the night’s consumption of Konjo – the local brew. By the time Dallo appears breakfast is on its third untouched push around our enamelled plates.

Reluctantly we set off on a walkabout of the village.   Avoiding Holy ground on which no feet must tread we visit all the important structures. The Toguna an open-air stone structure roofed with millet stakes, (the pub) where the village elders (men only) meet for their daily chinwag over a fresh pint of Konjo. Across the street a round stone hut that bears no name where ovulating young ladies sweat it out.

Next is the Gina a type of sanctuary where the honoured ancestors hang out. Luckily for us, Dallo’s enthusiasm for long explanations is muted by the early start.   We are spared his unquestionable narration as to why’s and why not’s of every doorknob, stone, shapes and colour.   Then it is off to the main square where the stilt dance takes place in celebration of the sighting of Po Tolo the Dog Star of Sirius (booking in advance).  As to why the dance takes place on six meters high stilts is a mystery that Florence explained. “You need to be up high to see the stars.”   As none of us other than Florence has a hope of climbing up again in the year 2020 we will never know if her observation is true.

What we do know is that the thought of walking to the next village Enndé and on to Doundourou for more of the same is a large no-no.

With Florence setting the pace determined as ever to finish in front we arrive at the top of the three hundred meters high escarpment to descend to the floor before the sun requires us to take a block 35 stop.

(Top TIP: Sunblock is expensive and not always available in the bush. Bring lots and Calamine lotion.)

By late afternoon we have struggled back into Kani-Komble where the awaiting green Merc connects us once more to the real world.   After savaging a few cool beers, and once more resting the purchase of a large carved door that one would die for we jar and jolt our way back to our Hotel.

Karen and Chris their time-limited decide to head for the Burkina Faso border. We with our three arses pointing at Sirius B the Po tolo star of the Dogon crash out on the rooftop and pass out for the night. Pitch No 51.