It is probably true that pretty much all volunteers who are out en brousse think to themselves at some point or another, “I should ride into my regional capital (or banking town or whatever).” It is also likely that most of them actually do it once or more, depending on the distance and transport, etc. The Hannons are no different than any other volunteers. We often discussed how we should ride from Yelimane to the closest major town just to say we’d done it, if nothing else. There was a snag, however: the starting point of Yelimane is not exactly “close” to anywhere.
That being said we, two virtual amateurs at cycling, decided that we really needed to cross that long bike ride off "the list." So, during our last visit back to our old village, we brought our bikes on transport with idea of riding them on the return voyage to Kayes. There are a couple of issues with this idea worth mentioning here: 1) It’s hot, well over 100F (owing to the route’s position on the globe, there are also very few trees and, thus, virtually no shade), 2) fitness; Mark and Sam are out of shape, 3) there are few towns and villages along the way to get water (and none that people reading this would consider “safe drinking sources”), 4) oh yeah, almost forgot, its 160 kilometers (that’s 100 miles!), 5) see numbers one and four.
Like a lot of decisions we’ve made, we were going anyway, good idea or not.
So, at 5:30 we got up before dawn, bright eyed and bushy tailed, ready to start at six. The first problem arose, or should we say failed to rise. We got all ready to go, strapped on our bags, prepared our water bottles, ate a bite or two of bread and opened the door to say greet day but the day was not there to greet us. (Probably a telling sign of our forethought, or lack thereof, for this trip: it had not occurred to us that we were now 500km west of our normal sunrise.) For those of you who do not know, the closer you get to the equator, the less twilight there is preceding sunrise or sunset. It's not exactly like flicking a switch but nearly. We sat in the pitch black for a while, each of us thinking that the ride would go much better with an extra half an hour of sleep. At 6:20 there was barely enough light to see the road and walk to say goodbye to our friend, Ali, who was making bread but by 6:30 it was light and we were on our way.
We were making great time. Going about 25km between stops and only resting then because we knew it was a marathon, not a sprint. Spirits were high. No aches or pains yet. Our second stop was the derelict bus at 50km from Yelimane. This is a landmark that always held a morbid fascination for us.
A skeleton on the edge of the Sahara, the ghost of transport gone awry, it stands sentinel over the road, as if to say, “abandon all hope, ye who enter here,” or maybe just “bring extra water.” At the very least it implies, “never take Diema Transport,” Sage advice.
Nearing the halfway point, we started to exhibit the snappiness with each other for which we are famous. Fortunately, we encountered something unexpected which put us in a good mood again: a herd of camels. While all the lions, antelopes, giraffes, etc. in the area are long gone, it was still uplifting to pass through a herd of, what we consider, exotic animals. It reminded us, if nothing else, that we were not in Kansas anymore.
We stopped for food in the big town of Djiagoumbera. There were no fruits, the meat at the local rotisserie not ready yet, the hard boiled eggs we bought were so rotten they looked like something out of a Dr. Suess story. Sam was much more annoyed by the lack of food but Mark was being blinded by sunscreen laden sweat dripping into his eyes and practically blinding him, so we were both a bit irritated. We moved grumpily on.
At the 100km mark we found a small baobab tree and sat in its shade eating peanuts and drinking water. We were still upbeat although clearly getting tired at this point. Our distance between breaks was shortening. This probably would have been a good distance for one day any other time. It was sweltering.
The village of Medina is at 107km. We needed some water as there was a long stretch ahead and we would get parched. We ask a little girl for water. She said the well was bad. No problem, we would treat the water with bleach. She frowned, saying, “no, it’s really bad.” (A little advice here: when a villager tells you twice their water is bad, they really mean it.) We gave her our bottle to fill anyway and she returned filled with what looked like slurry from the tunnel walls of the Big Dig project in Boston.
We thanked her and moved on before they tried to feed us; we did not want to find out how they’d follow up that water.
The heat was getting unbearable. We couldn’t whether decide to curse Allah or thank Him for the headwind he had provided all day. While it slowed the trip down it certainly kept our core temperatures down as well. Things were rough after eight and a quarter hours of exercise, wind, sun and thirst. Sam proclaimed, “I’m about to lose my shit!” We took half an hour break to find her shit (it was apparently under the shade of a tree in the village of Goumera), which was fine with Mark since his neck was so stiff he could barely turn his head. We replaced the milky Medina water with something more potable and were on our way again, 28km to go. We rode the last real isolated stretch before the hustle and bustle of the main “highway" between Kayes and Bamako in the hottest part of the African afternoon.
At this point in the trip stops were necessary every 10 kilometers (6.4 miles) or so. Our energy reserves emptied long before. At the Kayes airport we pulled off and rested for a good long while in the shade of a lone acacia tree. We did not dare to bring our bikes too close, though. A big thorn in a tire after 140km and so close to our destination might have broke our spirits. We had no such concerns for our butts though, as at this point in the trip they were numb, and plopped down for a siesta.
Knowing it was almost over we pumped ourselves up for the last time. The last 15km to the bank of the Senegal River was clogged with tractor trailers and donkey carts. We were so close we barely noticed the traffic. The final 2km are downhill to the bridge and mericifully easy going. So easy, in fact, that we stopped and bought vegetables for dinner. Having made it through the ordeal and only a hop, skip and a jump from the comforts of the stage house, we lazily chatted with gateaux sellers and the ticket lady at Ghana transport. In no great hurry, we soaked in the sights, sounds and smells of the end of our ride.
The bike ride was a bit of a microcosm for Peace Corps. Before hand, we were nervous that we were getting in over our heads or that it would prove too much for us. Then, as it actually began it seemed easy, enjoyable even. This was going to be a piece of cake! It did not get uncomfortable until we were deep into it. Only then did we really start to examine how little we had come and see how long it truly was still to go. Past the halfway point the count-up switched to a count-down and we knew it could be done. As we neared the finish line there was a part of us that almost regretted it was over, no matter how tired we were of it. Back home (the stage house), showered, cold beer in hand, it was almost as if it had all been a dream. We felt accomplished about having done it. Would we do it again? Probably not, but we are both sure glad we "got 'er done!"
(Sampling our just rewards after an eleven hour bike ride: the Queen.)
(Hercules is wicked cute!)
“Red donkeys? I don’t think they exist,” you say. While these shy and elusive creatures are rarely seen by the casual visitor, Sam and Mark just so happen to live next to the plastic and cardboard (they can’t afford tar-paper) shacks of the falitigi (donkey boss) trash collectors. Owing to the sheer numbers of donkeys observed, we occasionally spot a red one. Incredible but true, not unlike seeing an all black penguin in the Antarctic, a white buffalo in Janesville, Wisconsin, or a R.O.U.S. (Rodent of Unusual Size) in a fireswamp. 
(Note: this is not an exaggeration. There really is a three story high mountain of trash burning constantly, raining ash down and wafting the smell of burning plastic into our house year round. Glamorous!) there is a portion of the road which has been repaired with the red earth for which Africa is so famous. These red rocks have been pulverized by heavy trucks and ground into such a fine powder that it covers our feet, gets on our clothes and into our lungs. Donkeys love to roll around in the dirt to cool off and stop the bugs from biting them, at least for a little while. Every once in a great while they use this unique spot. The result is a strange sight: bright red donkeys. Behold! 
