The overdressed traveler betrays more interest in being seen than in seeing, while the true traveler knows that the novel world about her serves as the most appropriate accessory. - Gregory Maguire

23 November 2019, Bouafle to Daloa, 80.7km (less 15km lift)
Hotel Harmonie 9,000XOF (R225)

Roadworks and DUST defined our day…
My new chain, replaced just a few days ago in Abidjan, snapped 15km east of Gonaté. We had just taken an apple break at a shaded spot, sitting on the trunk of a downed tree, contemplating the dusty 35km still to ride to Daloa. Back on the bikes up a slight incline, one of many today, and SNAP! We decided to hitch a ride, preferably with a vehicle that could accommodate us both. We positioned ourselves where we could watch approaching vehicles come down a hill lying behind us, making it easy to identify if they were car (of no use to us) or small truck (of definite interest). We positioned ourselves where we could easily be seen, and where there was room for a vehicle to pull off the road. Literally the first “bakkie” we saw and waved at, stopped. Both bikes and Charl fitted with ease into the empty base; I sat upfront with Idris.
Idris spoke a little English, so we were able to communicate. He drives heavy machinery for a living, has a wife and three children, and a brother living in Gabon. Idris has travelled to Togo, Libya and Italy, but says “home” is best. He said that in both Italy and Libya, he encountered racism because of his skin colour. In Ivory Coast, he feels comfortable. When I said I was glad he had stopped, he said when you see someone in trouble, you stop - almost exactly the same response we had when Charl’s chain broke in northern Gabon and he had to hitch a ride. We were dropped beside a bicycle workshop where they fixed my chain, as well as the puncture I had somehow gotten loading the bike onto the bakkie. And we were back on the road with just 20km to go.
Earlier in the day, Charl had spotted a FanMilk salesman doing a brisk trade from his bicycle at a popular bar. We bought a frozen orange juice and a frozen strawberry yogurt, and joined the clientele seated at tables and chairs under a tree dense with green leaves, casting a circle of intense shade. There are fewer FanMilk salesmen in Ivory Coast than in Ghana, and I miss them.
As always, at intersections and other slow spots along the road, people, particularly women, hawk wares to passing motorists and buses loaded with passengers. On several occasions today, we saw women with basins of goodies on their heads run toward a newly-arrived car or bus, unfettered breasts a-bounce. African women seem in general to be at home in their bodies…
Dealing with locals on bicycles presents, on occasion, a dilemma. Their bikes are usually old, and always have fewer gears than ours. They, however, are usually younger and stronger than we. On an uphill, most locals can outstrip me, if they work at it. On downhills and flats, they can’t catch me unless they really, really work at it. Working at it is tiring, so over longer distances, I am faster by far. I am not interested in whether or not I am faster; I am not interested in racing some hapless chap on a cheap bike. I am often uncomfortable about overtaking someone, knowing that at some level many feel unmanned by having a much older woman pass them. I just want to cycle at whatever speed is comfortable for me. Sometimes I find myself hanging back, not wanting to embarrass a cyclist, but this will not get me where I need to be. Usually, if I have overtaken someone, I know they will see it as a challenge and are likely to catch me on the next hill. If the opportunity presents, I will point at my bike and say “velo bon” (bike good), so they know I know I owe it all to the bike not body strength.
There is one time, however, I got tremendous pleasure overtaking someone. Actually two someones on an old autocycle. They came pottering by me on an incline, in casual conversation with each other. Once crested, I was presented with a lovely long decline, steep enough for me to gain a lot of speed without even peddling. And there they were, pottering and chatting still, when I whizzed by them, eliciting a sound of surprise from both. Of course, they were soon back in front again, but it was fun…
Here’s an odd thing. The forms one is required to complete when checking into hotels requires the head of the family to list the names of both parents, even if long dead. One wonders what the bureaucrat was thinking.

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