Map of Benin.

We cycled back into the middle of Kanté where we turned down a dirt road for the Tambera region—designated a UNESCO World Heritage site for the mud-tower houses (often with conical, thatched roofs). As such, I was partly dreading what I expected would happen: because the locals undoubtedly see a relatively large number of tourists (for Togo—we saw only one all day) the people would be greeting us with hands outstretched and requests for cadeaux. And so it was—the unfortunate byproduct of so many visitors, creating a dichotomy between the rich white tourists and the locals. It's perfectly understandable and even inevitable for a kind of tourist trade to spring up, but it also wears away the authenticity of what the tourists are there to see in the first place.

Why don't these chickens just cross the road already!?

The first stop was under a baobab tree where Jorgen and Lena had went for a 40 minute walk amongst the tatas, which "are grouped in villages, which also include ceremonial spaces, springs, rocks and sites reserved for initiation ceremonies". I balked at the fact that no sooner had I pulled up then those who lived there started to pitch me a tour—and I didn't feel like going through the hassle of bartering for the cost of my walk when I got back. Instead, I sat under the tree and made chitchat with everyone (and declined to buy the various souvenirs as they were offered) while they admired my folding bicycle. Eventually David showed up with both of Annie's panniers and pawned one off on me.

My punishment for letting him catch up.

Carrying firewood.

Tatas.

Annie, as I expected, was having a tough time on the dirt road, which would certainly be difficult to learn to bicycle on. In fact, both Annie and Andrea (who had a tall, cruiser-style bicycle with thin, 700C tires) had to walk whenever anything resembling an incline arose.

As we cycling along the plain I was overwhelmed with the gorgeous scenery. And the heat, which had risen to 35C in the shade—not including the humidity. We stopped to rest often whenever we found shade but often had to hurry on when people (especially children) appeared out of the tall grass (which they often burn back) to ply us for gifts. At one point Lena and I had about 30 children coming up to us from behind—when they were getting too close we moved on but they started running to was had to hustle!

Eventually we came to the border town of Bamouké, which is actually in Benin. (Instead of an official border into Benin we had earlier stopped to register to leave Togo). We waited a bit for Andrea and Annie to appear at the junction—I was impressed she had made it this far in the dirt roads and heat, and she didn't appear too worse for wear—and cycled a short distance into the village to stop for lunch.

Tatas with baobab.

Handwashing at lunch.

Which was amazing. Cold drinks, and rice with a sauce full of big chunks of Fulani cheese. Best of all, the folks working there were friendly, hospitable and quick. However, we had finished and there was still no sign of Andrea, Einz or Annie. We were puzzled because they had seen us cycle down into town. Eventually they showed up—but Annie was on the back of a motorcycle instead of on her bicycle. Poor Annie had actually been very worse for wear, despite her appearance, and suffered a complete physical collapse and emotional breakdown. She was done. Hit the wall. Bonked out. 

The "done cycling for the rest of the trip" kind of done.

Dinner.

Lucky for me, it also meant I could shed Annie's pannier. And it was a good thing I did, or I may have "lost" it somewhere: The day just got hotter, and it was excruciatingly blistering as we cycled in the the dirt with the full sun beating down. And then we came to the first "small hill" (as described by David) which was the steepest grade I've ever climbed. If I kept my weight on the back wheel the front would rise off the ground. If I shifted my weight to the front, I would lose traction in the dirt. I managed to make it up by motoring up as quickly as I could while the others (except Il, who rides everything) pushed theirs up. (It was soon evident that Einz was quite a capable cyclist himself and had no trouble keeping up.)

School is out. I mean in. Outside.

Group riding.

Soon came the "big hill". At the bottom, David joked that the buildings I could see just barely visible at the top of the mountain "just may be our hotel." I've been on enough trips with David to know he wasn't actually joking. The ensuing climb was of Cameroonian proportions: an unending series of switchbacks, each one hiding the next so you never knew when it would end. 

The second &quothill

Today was only 50 km of cycling, but numbers are almost meaningless. Cycling 50 km on dirt roads, up a mountain, in the heat of the day is far, far different than cycling 150 km on flat pavement in the early morning. A better measure of a day's difficulty would be in litres of water consumed. I drank 7 litres today—about double what I normally take in during normal riding.

The room David and I are sharing took a while to get ready—they had to haul more water for bathing, flushing, filtering, etc. from the huge, cement cisterns that collect rainwater—but eventually I was able to take a refreshing bucket bath by candlelight in the room as it was now past dark.

View from our auberge.

A wonderful night.

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