A chicken looking for its offspring. (Hint: Look in the pan.)

In any event. We went cycling up to our breakfast table for omelets-in-a-baguette. Annie, being bikeless, met us there on foot.

Riding out of town felt good—the air was cool and it was just great to be free and in the saddle. I followed Andrea for the first few kilometres out of town but she was a bit too slow for my pace (slower than even my idling speed) so I caught up with Il, Jorgen and Lena who were going at a slightly faster pace; just about perfect for me.

Because of the  Harmattan haze, landscape photos ted to be washed out and cloudy-looking so I've decided to focus more on people and minutia—and to take more opportunities to stop and observe, ask questions, and chat more with people.

One of the first opportunities was when we spotted some white, dry "sticks" in baskets by the road. When we stopped to investigate the villagers surrounded us and encouraged us to try some. It turned out to be cassava (a starchy, tuberous root)—very dry and somewhat chalky.

Mmmm... tuberous cassava.

Map consultation.

Shortly afterwards, Il pulled off the road and down a narrow path to a family compound where drumming could be heard from the road. Il is a bit of a paradox in this way: very shy and quiet around strangers, yet she won't hesitate to pull up into some-one's yard or stop people by the side of the road. It's fun travelling with her for this reason—she creates some fun opportunities for me since I'm too shy to do that myself! So I initially just stayed by the side of the road until the family called me over, where I got to see them perform close up. Cycling (and Il) provide great opportunities like this—the chance to see real Togolese in their own element and not as a performance just for the tourists.Regrettably, I neglected to ask what the drumming was for.

Drumming.

Draining children.

Meanwhile, somewhere behind us in Sokodé, David and Annie were going to try and buy her a bicycle. We hoped they would be lucky.

Jorgen helped fortify me with some roadside bananas he bought. The extra energy would be surely needed for what came next: Bafilo pass. I started my climb in my second-lowest gear and started winding up the pass for the first 200 feet or so through sand and broken pavement while avoiding the other vehicles as they hurtled down the twisty mountain.

Little mosque on the savannah.

How did they manage that?

I decided to wait for Jorgen and Lena so I could get them in a picture climbing and was surprised to wait a whole 10 minutes. They appeared around the corner—walking their bicycles. I always say that climbing is mostly mental (as Gill can attest) and I encouraged them to spin up the pass—as Il was doing, somewhere up ahead. Even though you roll really slow when spinning in your first gear it's a lot easier and faster than walking, even if it doesn't feel like it.

Lena and Jorgen hoofing it.

Bafilo pass: a natural formation.

I kinda like climbing myself. It's tough, but challenges can be rewarding. The views are certainly amazing, and so too are the inevitable descents.

I caught up to Il in a village on the plateau and we waited in the shade of a mango tree and greeted and chatted a bit with the locals. (One is a teacher here who lives in Bafilo, on the other side of the mountain.) Because Il doesn't speak French I'm usually better able to understand more of what's being said. One of the things I learned is that today is still a holiday for Tabaski, which explained the quiet road and empty schools!

Bonking with grapefruits.

1. Jorgen had some Powerbars to share and
2. It was all downhill for the next 5 kilometres!

As we coasted down the mountain into Bafilo we soon found the hotel and pulled in. David had pretty much left it up to me to get rooms so with Jorgen's help we where able to get three rooms with showers—although one of them was just two mattresses with a mattress sheet and a very, very dim light. I borrowed the shower in Il's room as I highly suspected I would feel compelled to take the last room with David when he arrived.

The four of us walked in the village to find food and, being the only one who speaks French, was the de facto leader. I quickly enlisted the help of a woman who told me everyone was at home for Tabaski but we might find something down a side road where the market area is. We did: a woman selling a pudding of mashed tapioca, sugar, sweetened condensed milk, ice and water. But we balked (due to the water and ice—it's too early in the trip to take such culinary risks) and got a few loaves of bread nearby instead.

Traditional family compound.

We did some chores back at the hotel (laundry, etc.) after Annie showed up with her new bike: it took them until noon to buy it and make it road-worthy. Even though it's new, the quality is so poor both pedals broke before she even made it out of town; the bottle cages look like they're made of coat hangers. After the purchase she found bus vehicle transport to Bafilo while David decided to slog over the mountain pass in the heat of the afternoon sun. That's dedication... and hatred of public transport.

Filter water where ye may.

We went out for dinner but had the same dearth of options as before. We settled on bread along with bowls of pate (mashed corn millet—like fu fu) with fish and a spicy sauce (eaten with the fingers). It turned out to be delicious.

Back at the hotel everyone got down to the business of filtering water—David and Annie with Steripens (who also helped Einz and Andrea since they had no filter and had been relying on buying bottled water) and the rest of us with hand pumps. (I had to help Jorgen and Lena with their, which had been pumping slowly—the ceramic element just needed a quick scrub.) There are no sinks around so I just used the back of the toilet as my water source.

David was dogmatic and silent about the room situation but I knew it was pretty much up to me to gracefully give up my space for Annie and Il. Our room-with-just-beds was sweltering, dimly lit—and a raucous party was going on in the yard next to our room (which the other rooms were insulated from) so I had to write my journal entry on a railing under an outside light, standing up.

But at least I'm not bitter.

Wikipedia sez: The Harmattan is a dry and dusty West African trade wind. It blows south from Sahara into the Gulf of Guinea between the end of November and the middle of March (winter). On its passage over the desert it picks up fine dust particles (between 0.5 and 10 micrometres). When the Harmattan blows hard, it can push dust and sand all the way to North America.

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