The Masked Rider Cycling in West Africa

by Peart, Neil

• ISBN13: 9781550226676
• ISBN10: 1550226673
• Format: Hardcover
• Copyright: 2004-09-01
• Publisher: Ecw Press

Summary

Dysentery, drunken soldiers, and corrupt officials provide the background for Neil Peart's physical and spiritual cycling journey through West Africa. The prolific drummer for the rock band Rush travels through African villages, both large and small, and relates his story through photographs, journal entries, and tales of adventure, while simultaneously addressing issues such as differences in culture, psychology, and labels. Literary and artistic sidekicks such as Aristotle, Dante, and Van Gogh join Peart and his cycling companions, reminding the reader that this is not just another travel bookit is a story of both external and introspective discovery and adventure.

Author Biography

Neil Peart is the drummer and lyricist for the rock band Rush and the author of Ghost Rider. He lives in Santa Monica, California.

Table of Contents

Part One WHITE MAN, WHERE YOU GOING?
Chapter 1 INFERNO	3	(20)
Chapter 2 DANCE PARTY	23	(22)
Chapter 3 HELL HOLE	45	(16)
Chapter 4 HOTEL HAPPY	61	(10)
Chapter 5 THE LARGER BOWL	71	(18)
Part Two EPIPHANIES AND APOSTASIES
Chapter 6 EPIPHANY AT VESPERS	89	(16)
Chapter 7 THE MISSIONARY POSITION	105	(22)
Chapter 8 ENCOUNTERS	127	(26)
Chapter 9 THE GOOD HEART	153	(12)
Chapter 10 THE PAVED ROAD	165	(12)
Chapter 11 PEOPLE ON THE BUS	177	(20)
Chapter 12 THE BEATEN TRACK	197	(12)
Chapter 13 QUIXOTE AND QUASIMODO	209	(14)
Part Three WHITE MAN, WHAT YOU DOING?
Chapter 14 WATERMELON AND SATELLITES	223	(16)
Chapter 15 TOIL AND TROUBLE	239	(18)
Chapter 16 THE LIZARDS ARE FAT AT WAZA	257	(20)
Chapter 17 AFRICAN NIGHTMARES	277	(14)
Chapter 18 PARISIAN DREAMS	291

Excerpts

It is said that one travels to East Africa for the animals, and to West Africa for the people. My first dream of Africa was a siren–call from the East African savanna … great herds of wildlife shimmering in the heat haze of the Serengeti, the Rift Valley lakes swarming with birds, the icy summit of Kilimanjaro. So I went there, and I loved it. The following year I went looking for an interesting way to visit West Africa, to learn more about the Africanpeople— the animals drew me to Africa, but the people brought me back.

After much searching I found a name — Bicycle Africa — and signed up for a month–long tour of “Cameroon: Country of Contrasts.” At the end of it I swore I’d never do anything likethatagain — but the following year I forgot my vow, and returned to bicycle through Togo, Ghana, and the Ivory Coast.

Cycling is a good way to travel anywhere, but especially in Africa; you are independent and mobile, and yet travel at “people speed” — fast enough to move on to another town in the cooler morning hours, but slow enough to meet the people: the old farmer at the roadside who raises his hand and says “You are welcome,” the tireless woman who offers a shy smile to a passing cyclist, the children whose laughter transcends the humblest home. The unconditional welcome to tired travelers is part of the charm, but it is also what is simply African: the villages and markets, the way people live and work, their cheerful (or at least stoic) acceptance of adversity, and their rich culture: the music, the magic, the carvings — the masks of Africa.

Africa is such a network of illusions, a double–faced mask. It is as difficult to see into it as it is to see out of it. To those who’ve never been there it is an utter mystery, a continent veiled in myths and mistaken impressions, but it is equally obscure to those who have never been anywhere else. It used to be said that electronic media would bring the world closer together, but too often the focus on the sensational only distorts the reality — drives us farther apart. That is why in Ghana the children followed me down the street chanting “Rambo! Rambo!” and that is why Canadians look at me as if I were a lunatic when I tell them I’ve been cycling in Africa — they can only picture it from wildlife documentaries, TV images of starvation camps, and old Tarzan movies.

Africa fascinates me — in the true sense, I suppose, as a snake is said to transfix its prey. And the more times I return, the more countries I visit, the more the place perplexes me. Africa has so much magic, but so much madness. Yet I keep returning, and surely will again. This attraction is compelling and seems to grow stronger, but, like any lasting relationship, it is no longer blind.

And maybe that’s always true. After the first infatuation we’re always most critical of what wefeelthe strongest about. It’s too often the case in relationships, and certainly regarding one’s own family or country. You can criticize your own, but don’t let anyone else try it. That’s when love shows its teeth.

If my attraction to Africa is no longer blind, it is still blurry. From within and without, Africa is as much the “Dark Continent” as it was two hundred years ago — hard to see into, hard to see out of. The mask obscures a face which is so complex and contradictory; it takes a lot of traveling even to get a sense of it. And traveling in Africa is, by necessity, adventure travel.

Some people travel for pleasure, and sometimes find adventure; others travel for adventure, and sometimes find pleasure. The best part of adventure travel, it seems to me, isthinkingabout it. A journey to a remote place is exciting to look forward to, certainly rewarding to look back upon, but not always pleasurable to live minute by minute. Reality has a tendency to be so uncomfortablyreal.

But that’s the price of admission — you have to do it. One reason for making such a journey is to experience the mystery of unknown places, but another, perhaps more important, reason is to take yourself out of your “context” — home, job, and friends. Travel is its own reward, but traveling among strangers can show you as much about yourself as it does about them. To your companions and the people you encounteryouare the stranger; to them you are a brand–new person.

That’s something to think about, and if you try you might glimpse yourself that way, without a past, without a context, without a mask. That can be a little scary, no question, but you may get a look behind someone else’s mask as well, and that can be even scarier.