Overland magazine are running an extract from The Black Stars of Ghana in the current issue of their glossy and rather upmarket publication.
Some great photos, too.
Overland magazine are running an extract from The Black Stars of Ghana in the current issue of their glossy and rather upmarket publication.
Some great photos, too.
African Brew Ha-Ha extract taken from Chapter 2
Desert drift and the road that's on fire
The
following day I make an early start and ride south through the desert on a road
that’s on fire. I am heading for Dakhla in
The
road is flat and featureless and I drift. My brain senses the balance of the
bike and it knows the general direction it has to go; with the essentials taken
care of that part of the mind that controls the bike relaxes. But as one
synapse shuts down a dormant one re-emerges, as if the movement through space
is shaking up the experiences in my head, regurgitating snippets of recent
history: scraps of conversation, flashbacks of glances from veiled faces,
encounters with shopkeepers and smiling policemen at the checkpoints as my
weary mind tries to create order from the events of the past day, of the whole
trip so far.
In my
peripheral vision I am aware of the monochromatic beige of the landscape that
does not change for hour after hour. Above, the blue is so oppressive I try not
to look up. In front, the strip of black tarmac and the broken white line
become as unreal as a video game. The vastness of the landscape forces me back
inside my own mind. An occasional camel or black figure is not enough to return
me to human-scaled certainty. The muscles in my limbs are so tired and locked
in position and the drone of the engine so uniform that my mind plays strange
games and I start to believe I can step off the bike whenever I choose. I
overlook the fact that I’m actually travelling at 120 kilometres an hour. I am
going to sleep. I gently float from side to side of the two-lane blacktop.
There is some gravel and fine sand lining the road on both sides, a frail
margin between me and the
Approaching
trucks, and it is mostly trucks, also straddle the line and we both leave it
dangerously late to move to our own side of the road. The trucks emerge out of
a thick heat haze that keeps me guessing (Focus… focus) until about ten
seconds before they reach me. Many times I see a vehicle approaching, but my
muscles won’t let me move over. I see the thundering object looming larger, but
I want to stay in the comforting centre of the road. I belong here. It becomes
a monumental physical effort to swing the bike into the right-hand lane. Often
the approaching truck driver does not see me because his mind is telling him
the same thing – ‘this tarmac is mine, I don’t want to share it’ – so he
needs flashing and honking if he is to awaken from his own trance.
The thoughts in my mind, now living in a strange netherworld,
are accompanied by a bizarre soundtrack: ‘Fly
me to the… Walking on the… Rocket man…’ Is there life on Mars? I think I’ve left
the planet.
Another
problem is stopping. After hours on the bike it becomes a titanic effort to
bring my mental state to accept that I need water or to stretch my legs, which
are screaming blue murder. My mind is telling me that I have to keep moving,
every minute stopped is another mile I could be further through this burning
hell. There is such little traffic – nothing has overtaken me for days – that I
can lean forward while stretching my legs slightly and resting the chin of the
helmet on the tank bag. Temporarily it’s heaven as some fresh blood rushes into
my limbs. Now all I need do is shut my eyes…
After
twice skimming the edge of the road, I recall Bashir Benslimane’s advice – ‘If
you hurry you will be late’ – and finally pull into a rusting heap of a petrol
station, unused for years. Probably couldn’t get the staff. The pumps and
offices are still there, but it has been sand-blasted to the point that the
structure is unsafe. Great sheets of corrugated roofing lift in the wind and
threaten to crown me; all the windows are missing and anything of value has
been scavenged. The door to the jakes is kicked in and, amazingly, people are
still using the shit hole. The bog has no roof, no plumbing, it’s hundreds of
kilometres from any kind of town, and people still go to the WC. Human nature.
I do the same.
I step
out into the searing heat and do a three-sixty. Dreamily, I face the shimmering
horizon. The smudged line radiates its own energy; it is of this planet yet
otherworldly, alluring yet untouchable, a metaphor for the trip maybe. It is
the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.
My
squinting vision alights on the bike, the only human-scaled object within
sight. I give it a pat on the scalding tank and scare myself into wondering, ‘What
if the thing doesn’t start?’ Despite the soaring temperature, the thought gives
me a shiver. I quickly lean over, turn the key to ignition, push the starter
and am greeted by the greatest sound in my world – 955 cubic centimetres of
British-made internal combustion.
I swing
a leg over the bike like a rootless cowboy in a John Ford film and take a swig
of water from the jerrycan but convulsively spew it all out. The sun has heated
it to the temperature of bath water. If I had a tea bag at least I could make a
cuppa. I put the helmet back on and continue riding south.
Shortly,
I pass a sign in Arabic: ‘300 km Dakhla’.
Jesus.
To read on, buy the book here
.......... UK .......................USA ............... SOUTH AFRICA ......... . IRELAND
African Brew Ha-Ha extract taken from Chapter 4
The last man on earth
For mile after repetitive mile there is no shade, no life
anywhere, not even a spiny tree to make it worth the stop, just the
now-familiar mesmerising trio of blue sky, beige sand and black tarmac. I’m
exhausted, my head is burning from the sulphurous atmosphere inside the helmet,
and I’m shedding weight by the minute in vaporous sweat. After a passage of
floating time, which could be twenty minutes or an hour and a half, I notice a
small shack close to the road in the middle distance. As I get closer I see a
raggedy tent nearby and some fish hanging absurdly on a washing line. The
curious sight shakes me from my dreamlike state and I let go of the throttle.
I park up close to the shack and step inside. Within, there
is a man and two children; the man, wearing calf-length trousers and a loose
shirt tied at the front with a single button, barely nods at my arrival; the
children, squatting on the ground in no more than rags, look up at me with watchful
eyes. The sensation of being off the bike suddenly hits me in a wave of vertigo,
and I become aware of the silence; silence except for the low hush of the
gritty wind.
The primitive structure serves as a shop selling just five
items: bottled water, dried fish, matches, torches and, rather bizarrely, three
flavours of custard creams – orange, lemon and strawberry. The emptiness of the
hundreds of kilometres of desert I have ridden through today catches up with me
and the sight of the man almost makes me want to hug him. We look at each other
as if we are the last two men on earth. What do you say to the last man on
earth? There is nothing to say. I buy a bottle of water and offer to
share the last of my food with him: an apple. He takes half and peels it clean,
dropping the peel on the ground before eating the flesh noisily. I give the
children a Fox’s Glacier Mint each and have one myself, but for some reason
their father takes the sweets off the kids and hands them back to me silently.
Maybe they’re not halal.
I squat down on my haunches. It is just me and him and the
two silent children in the tiny shack with not another soul for miles,
seemingly fighting against insignificance. I step outside the shack, careful to
stay in the shade, and squint to the dazzling horizon full of emptiness, then
look back inside and try to calibrate the vastness of the
I try to imagine what the life of this silent, suspicious
man must be like, the constant gusting an immutable companion while the
occasional trucker, I guess, stops by for a packet of custard creams to make
his day. But what are this man’s ambitions, his hopes, dreams? What does his
family think of living this close to the edge of nothing? Where the hell is the
nearest cash and carry? But we all make big lives out of small lives. This man
has a life. He has loved ones; what more is there to strive for?
I leave the family in their stillness and drink the water up
against the side of the shack. I’m thankful for the shade, a tangible thing
here; it is not a negative – ‘out of the sun’ – but a positive life-saving
condition, something to celebrate.
This brief stop is too extraordinary to comprehend, so much
so that my brain does not have a folder to file the information. So the hard
drive deals with it the best way it knows how. It closes down. Reboot. I have
to get back on the bike.
‘Merci beaucoup. Au revoir,’
I say softly.
The father nods almost imperceptibly and follows me out of
the shop. I think he’ll be happier with me off the premises. The family allow
themselves a shy gaze at the bike as I put on my jacket and helmet and fire the
ignition. I get a mind’s eye glimpse of how I must look to them: who the hell
would go out in this heat in the middle of the day? The man in the black suit.
The fifteen-minute stop is disorienting and I leave knowing I have to focus on
something beyond this nothingness to pull me out of here. I put all my hopes of
the future in
To read on, buy the book here
African Brew Ha-Ha extract taken from Chapter 3
The bastard beast bites back
An hour later I’m sitting cross-legged on the floor of the
tent watching Bwedra brew up while two more Sahrawis and Carla and Keith all smoke like a fleet of Marrakech
taxis. Bwedra is boiling up a pot of tea over hot coals and going to
extraordinary lengths to blend, swirl and stir the dark liquid, adding copious
amounts of sugar as he goes. He tastes and re-tastes at each pass, adding sugar
broken from two misshapen lumps on the tray – each time, a swarm of gorging
flies take flight. The ritual continues: pot to glass, glass to pot, pot to
glass, glass to glass, glass to pot, taste, until there are six squat soldiers
of rich caramel liquid with a deep head of foam on each lined up before him.
By the end of the second glass I am already struggling with
the sickly sweet liquid and there’s still another to go. The sweetness is
making me gag, the tannin is puckering up my gums, and the sour caramel taste
makes my eyes water. I am enjoying the ritual and the company but my taste buds
cannot lie. Tea in the
Carla translates from Bwedra: ‘You must drink three glasses
of tea: the first is young and strong; the second is not so strong and is
beginning to mellow; the third glass is most mellow and is worth waiting for.
If you don’t drink the third glass it is regarded as extremely rude to your
host.’
Actually, even though I put a brave face on it, the tea is
getting no better.
The six of us, 77 kilometres from Dakhla in the Western
Sahara, the last disputed remnant of
Bwedra deems the third pot of tea now ready. He lifts the pot to shoulder height and pours me the first glass without losing a drop. He hands it to me and I do what anyone in my situation would – I think of all that sand outside the tent and the hundreds of kilometres to the nearest town of any consequence, I sip the tea and politely lie, ‘Excellent, the best yet!’
To read on, buy the book now on Amazon.
Available in Ireland ... South Africa .............. USA and UK
The countdown to publication of African Brew Ha-Ha starts in a couple of days with daily Tweeted extracts from the book on Twitter.
There will be three different extracts - one for tea drinkers, one for bikers and one for adventure travellers.
To be sure you get them, follow me @ACWhelan.
Want a Free Copy of African Brew Ha Ha?Pop your email address in the Get Email Updates box in the top left corner of the blog. There will be a random draw from all the email addresses for a free book giveaway on publication day - April 5 2010.
‘You go where? There is nothing here.’
His secretary knocks and enters the room carrying a small
tray on which are balanced a tiny teapot and two shot glasses.
‘I am sure you will have some tea, yes?’
We both take a large swig of the simultaneously sweet and bitter
broth and acknowledge the moment with our eyes over the tops of the glasses. He
leads me out onto the verandah of the building.
‘We are a race apart up here,’ he tells me, ‘we are the
forgotten people. The people of Mfum across the river and here in Ekok belong
to the same tribe, the same families, although they are told they live in two
different countries. To them it is not a border, it is just a river. Most
That's an extract from my book AFRICAN BREW HA-HA which illustrates the sense of separation many people feel in northwestern Cameroon - on the Nigeria border - from the French-speaking majority in the rest of the country (a constant refrain I heard was 'We are the forgotten people').
Many now believe they should have voted to become part of Nigeria when they had the chance in the 1960s when the old colonies were becoming nation states in their own right.
UP STATION MOUNTAIN CLUB Man no run ...
Here is a website - written by English-speakers - that highlights the relationship between the state and anglophone Cameroon. It can be very funny, acerbic - and illegal. Another great example of how the Internet is going to influence life in these otherwise hard-to-reach neighbourhoods.
One thing is for certain - if locals judge their importance to the government by the state of their roads, they have been comprehensively overlooked.
Hi, I'm Alan Whelan. You might like my travel books African Brew Ha-Ha, The Black Stars of Ghana and Empire Road, and my first novel Mandela Park. [email protected]
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