My bicycle, pre-loading.

I have a hearty suspicion I'm allergic to food while it's still walking around and clucking.

Most of us dozed on-and-off throughout the roughly 350 km ride. I was happily placed near the front door of the bus, which they kept wide open, so I was able to keep from overheating in my cramped seat. Andrea, amusingly, wore her helmet the entire ride—including the full hour before the bus even started moving.

My seat-mate.

David as a shoulder-rest.

We disembarked in what must have been a bus lot in the town of Dassa-Zoume in the early afternoon. Dassa is known for the appearance of the image of the Virgin Mary in a nearby cave. Each August, around the Catholic holiday Ascension, Catholics from throughout West Africa and further come to this area to pay homage.

Unloading.

He he he.

Hem.

The Virgin Mary appeared here.

Kaitlin and a granite carving.

After lunch, David rode off to look at hotel options. Even in the shade it was sticky-hot and I was glad to reach the hotel he picked out, about 1 km on the edge of town. Not only do we all have rooms to ourselves but David gave me a special treat for pannier-toting reparations: my room has an air conditioner. And I have it all to myself.

Moto-taxis through town.

Houses up the mountain.

After a cold shower there was talk about exploring the religious area/attractions about town. Apart from the Christianity, there is a lot of ancestral and Vodun rituals practiced here over generations. The number "41", which is religiously symbolic in the culture, is also the number of small rock mountains in the area. However, I really didn't feel up to touristic activities because of the heat. But I decided to push myself to go. I'm glad I did.

After looking at some local art—as well as granite carvings in the rock from a symposium they had formed in the summer—we met Kaitlin, a young consultant from the University of Notre Dame working here. She arranged for motorcycle taxis to take us to where we could climb one of the sacred mountains.

As always, speeding through an African town on the back of a motorcycle is exhilarating, if not the safest most of travel.

We started our climb up the rocks with homes, yards, children, and animals on either side of the mountain path. It was beautiful. We had an initial setback because of an argument between two Dassans over who had responsibility over our entry (and thus the guide fee). Harsh, loud words came to pushing between them and we all walked back down again to leave them to sort it out. It was eventually resolved when Richard, our guide, left to file a complaint with the Chief responsible for local law.

Peppers being dried.

It was nearing dark as we descended and we were supposed to meet the Germans, who stayed behind at the hotel, to go out for dinner at 6:00pm. Jorgen went to get them but as it was almost 6:30pm when he arrived they refused to leave, upset that we did not make the appointed time.

Germans are very punctual people.

Altar for sacrifices.

Sacred site.

That led to a discussion between the rest of us over dinner about how we could or should or shouldn't make accommodations regarding the trip as there has been a rift since day one with their timetable vs. ours, riding ability, risk tolerance, and just the sheer differences between all of our cultures.

The rock indents are made by grinding food.

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