Benin

"Why should I buy some for you?" I said to the chap who had been shouting at me from across the street as I ate my deep fried dough balls.

"Why....because you are white and i am black and you have lots of money."

This conversation typifies the attitude of many of the Beninese people i have come across my the week here. Until now people have tried to extract my money by more noble means- "I wash your bike/clothes/boots", " i be your guide" or a good old fashioned scam. But here, healthy working men feel no shame in simply asking for money, something i would normally only expect from the elderly, sick, children or the very poor. Yesterday i was walking round town with a pineapple i had bought for my lunch and twice i got asked to give it away.

Nonetheless I've had an interesting time whilst waiting for the Nigerian elections to finish. (I had initially planned on riding straight through this country).

Voodoo originated in Benin and Oiudah, where I spent a day and a night, is reported to be its heartland. Voodoo was then exported to the Caribbean with the slaves that that got channelled through this town. After seeing the main sights of the town and hiring a guide to show me the the old slave road and explain Africa's own part in the slave trade, he took me to a Voodoo dance ceremony.......type thing.

Under a big old mango tree 5 guys banged constantly away on their drums, while for most of the time 5-20 rotund women danced rhythmically around the tree and parading in front of what looked the chiefs. Every so often another woman would enter the circle and lift her skirt to reveal a huge dildo which she would thrust into the 200 strong crowd who encircled the tree. Needless to say the crowd loved this and egged her on to get even more filthy! At another stage a skinny little chap entered the arena with a machete and jerked around the tree in a trance sporadically lunging at the crowd. This, needless to say again, didn't go down quite so well. The random comings and goings of various other characters went on for the 2 hours I was there. Unfortunately there were no monkey sacrifices.

With more time to kill i headed to the north of the country. I wanted to see the Samba country. This remote and fiercely independent tribe had managed to resist raiding slavers and the French colonialists, and until the 1970s walked around bollock naked. They wear clothes now but still hunt with bows and arrows and live in beautiful 2 storey mud huts that look like mini fortresses with thatched towers in each corner.

After riding along many of the tracks that link up these dwellings (feeling very intrusive whilst doing so) I eventually found the place i had planned to sleep that night. It was closed, only lizards occupied the sleeping building and it looked unused for months. To make matters worse, my biking jacket that had been tucked under a strap on the back of the bike had come off. I back tracked to where i had last seen it but it was gone.

My plan was to take a guide from the camp i had hoped to stay at to show me around some of these unique buildings. As my own attempts to communicate with the Samba was not received well, I headed back to town, mission failed and minus the jacket. Back towards the town a crowd of about 50 had gathered around one such house just off the track. Children were shouting from the roof over the sound of the drums (yes always drums). I stopped to take it all in and was surprised to be invited over by one of the few french speakers there and offered some murky brown, still fermenting, home brew. It was a funeral and the party was centered around the dead mans house. After paying the chief a couple of quid i was taken to the roof of the house where i was proudly shown a freshly slaughtered cow. Part of the cow had was being paraded and danced around outside as a sacrifice. I think the rest was to be feasted on later that evening.

This is the beer tent

After another slurp on the home brew i was given a go on one of the drums. I think they were laughing at me rather than with me but it was certainly a crowd pleaser. I handed back control of the drum and bid farewell. I think they wanted me to leave so they could start doing all the really freaky stuff. A few chaps asked for some more money but i settled on giving an old fella lift home. I normally refuse to give lifts as i am worried about my rear suspension which is already carrying a lot of load and bottoms out over rough terrain, but i could hardly refuse on this occasion. Now it squeaks.

The sky was getting darker with thick clouds rode back and i just managed to get back to town and into a bar before the heavens opened, the rain making a deafening din on the corrugated iron roof. The streets were suddenly deserted.

Im back on the south coast again now in Porto Novo. I changed my oil again yesterday for the second time this trip in the hope that it would alleviate the sloppy gear changing/transmission that I have been having. The jury is is still out as whether it worked. I was hoping to wait until Yaounde, Cameroon to do the oil change where I hopefully have a new oil filter waiting in Post Restante. But with some rough roads in Cameroon before i get to Yaounde and with 10,000 miles on clock since London I thought it would be prudent to do it now and just clean the existing oil filter.

I will need to find a new rear tyre in Yaounde if not before. Ive been warned that 17 inch tyres are hard to come by in Africa so who knows what i will end up with.