There are as many worlds as there are kinds of days, and as an opal changes its colors and its fire to match the nature of a day, so do I. - John Steinbeck

20 October 2019, Bole to Tinga, 61.72km
Hotel No-name 30GHC (R86)

We’ve had a lovely ride to Tinga, partially because of cool, cloudy weather, partially because of a pretty, quiet Sunday road passing through a green scene, a mixture of nature and agriculture. Passing through small villages with friendly locals. Passing churches from which clapping echoed, and another old mud mosque in the south Sudan style at the village of Maluwe. Passing pigs and goats at large on the road and verge, and ducks bathing in a pothole. What little traffic there was, was polite as always, giving us a wide berth. It was hilly out there, but the inclines, though long, were gentle, and the matching declines a joy as always.
We had, among the usual plethora, two very different greetings today. An elderly woman bobbed a curtsy when responding to my “good morning”. And a man who flagged Charl down for a chat, was smoking a cigar, and greeted both Charl and I with a fist bump, his fist to ours, then a fist thump to his heart.
I am constantly amazed at the size of the average African shop. In a tiny space, someone sets up a business from which to feed and house himself and his family. We bought a cold softdrink and some cheap biscuits from the shopkeeper pictured below. His store is in a small plastered building. The double door, almost the width of the store, serves as both door and window, and secures his stock at night. Behind a mesh shelving unit, he sits in a space choc-a-bloc with goodies: drinks in a chest fridge, loose sweets in twist-top jars, biscuits and tinned goods on small shelves. Those who hawk their goods from the sidewalks, of course, manage even smaller stores. And those who sell while mobile, the smallest stores of all - essentially a basin or tupperware container on their heads.
I was pleased to persuade a mother and daughter to pose for a picture today - people are not always willing to be photographed. I was drawn to them because their pretty dresses were made from the same fabric. We have seen, especially on Sundays, parents and children dressed to match, but also, on occasion, husbands and wives. The western equivalent would be matching T-shirts, but these do not have the panache of vividly patterned and coloured fabrics. We have been a little surprised to find men in Ghana dressed in feminine embroidered fabrics, and in a thick smock, loose-fitting and, to my eye, unattractive.

For today's route see below photos
For overview route, click on ROUTE tab above…