After settling ourselves into Namagongo for the night, and finally meeting Lara (the recipient and caretaker of Hilary), Chloe and I set about making a plan. She wasn't out for long, so despite having some agri stuff in the pipeline, we decided to head to Jinja the next morning. I'd also wangled a contact for Jinja through friends Ben & Kate so I was always planning on heading there at some point. It's a bit of a faff to get to Nile River Explorers, and seeing as it lay east, and thus on my route, we agreed that, despite agonising hours apart, I would cycle Tina whilst Chloe used a mixture of motorcycles (strictly in a passenger sense) and taxis to get there. I didn't get away at quite the early hour hoped for as we chatted for a bit and had some breakfast, but was on the road by 9. It wasn't Kampala central, but it was still rather busy and I also got a bit lost and had to go back for my turning. Once on the Jinja road it was pretty straightforward. As I left town and the traffic lessened a bit, I could look about a bit more. Scenery was nothing to shout about: we were in Sugarcane country which is basically just really tall grass that blocks your view. I'd ordered a new chain for Chloe to bring out, in an attempt to avoid cog wear and having to replace everything when in the UK. I'd put the chain on the night before, and it looked fine, but upon setting off, it started skipping on the middle (and most worn gears). Despite the chain situation grinding my gears (both literally and figuratively) I was making good progress, and with only 80km to do, apart from a few rolex stops, I kept at it. I didn't have my wing mirror on for the first leg, which made the traffic a bit spicy, but I soon found that a good indicator of whether anything was behind me or not (apart from the hooting of course) is that the oncoming traffic starts overtaking into you. This also riled me up a fair bit, and the worst offenders got a bit of abuse. However, they just plough on oblivious, serenely forcing me onto the hard shoulder. They also seem to do it to the bodabodas (motorbikes) so in the end I came to see it as nothing personal, just inconvenient. Despite a bit of ducking and diving, I was flying along - at this point I should mention that Dad was a far better bag man than Chloe, as he took all my panniers, but Chloe made me travel fully loaded, carrying everything myself - and averaged 23,5kph for the 85km stint. That was despite snapping the new chain - discarded at the roadside in disgust - and some dirt road. Such was my progress, I was confident I was ahead of Chloe so stopped in Jinja for a rolex and market perusal. The fresh pineapple in these parts is bloody great, so I wandered off onto the market for a bit of that. There weren't many about, and the first guy tried to charge me UGX 7000 for a pineapple. No chance, Sir - 4000 is my best. For this he offered me a measly pineapple-ette so I told him to keep both of his fruity items. This guy was right at the entrance to the market, and when I couldn't see any more I began to panic mildly. Still, I'd rather go without my 5 a day than be extorted for it. Luckily right at the back there was another guy. Not as cheap as the bike vendor guy, whose prolific trade we saw in the pineapple detritus littering the road for miles, but I got two for 7000, cut up and bagged for my convenience. I then headed up to camp and claimed first place in the race to Jinja. Once at camp, I set about trying to get hold of Jon the SA owner so that I could ingratiate myself for discount. He was in SA, so I had to settle for Richard the Ugandan. Nice chap, and very organised, but I feared to choose the accommodation type until the Mrs arrived. I headed to the bar and got myself an ice cold Club draft (a novelty in itself as normally bottled but Nile Breweries is only about 10km away). Shortly afterwards Chloe arrived, and after swiftly making it clear she didn't enjoy the taxi ride, and finishing my beer, chose the river view safari tent for our sojourn. No complaints there, and it was nice to link up with another big African river after so long away from the Zambezi. We had some more beers and moved into the tent before it started raining. Classic Uganda! Still, our enthusiasm at being reunited wasn't to be dampened, until Chloe took a nap of course. Classic again! The grueling taxi ride had really knocked it out of her, and obviously not wanting a grumpy fiancée on my hands, I went exploring once the rain had stopped. I'd also got Chloe to bring out my binos (along with mini speakers, chocolate and a bike pump) so it was nice to do a bit of birding. The place we were staying, whilst not the only place to stay, is certainly the place to stay in Jinja: it's quite large, and invariably frequented by the type of people who annoy me (one Pom springs to mind, dressed in those horrendous gap yah trousers, a Uganda t shirt, bum bag, and finally his own personal helmet for the bodabodas). The music was a bit loud, and went on for a bit longer that an old bastard like me would have liked, but it was quite fun people watching and taking the piss. That more or less concluded the first day and night. Next day was a lazy start as it was rainy and misty, but I organised a wash for Tina and to go tubing in the afternoon once it brightened up. That, I must say, was a very pleasant activity. We went local rather than with NRE, so after picking up our truck inner tubes we were ferried down to the river on boda bodas and plonked in the river at the local washing spot. We spurned the lifejackets, and I must admit I wasn't convinced about the need for Julius the safety kayaker, but he turned out to be mostly a tow for us when the current wasn't favourable. Beers were included in the price so we were soon sipping on Nile Specials and Clubs as we drifted down. We stopped for another shitty cave, which I ventured into. I'm not sure whether it's just chance that both Ugandan caves have been intensely underwhelming. Are they easily impressed by caves, or just mugging tourists off? Probably the latter, but at least we'd not paid specifically to see them like we had in Fort Portal. The next day we continued the aquatic theme with some SUPing (Stand Up Paddleboarding). I wanted to tackle the rapids on them, but Chloe, being the Diva she is, doesn't like getting her hair wet so that was a no go. The romantic option was a sunset SUP on the Source of the Nile with drinks, but they wanted $75/pp which I thought rather ridiculous. My haggling here worked to some extent, but $60 each was still rather extortionate. We settled on hiring one and paddling about on the Bugigali Lake at the bottom of camp. This suited Chloe much better as she just lay on the front of the board sipping beer as I paddled her around. I struggled with the thalweg, even on the still ish Lake but we saw plenty of Malachite (Pied are abundant in almost pest-like proportions) Kingfishers which was nice, and some otters again. After some intense relaxation on Chloe's part, and exercise on mine, we headed back to land. Where we were staying had a zip line into the river, so I gave that a go. Very fun indeed, but on the third go rather than hang on until the end, I decided to go for a drop. I had spun round backwards, and must say it was a rather ungracious and painful landing as I backslapped onto the water from height and at speed. It bloody hurt my neck, but probably my pride more, so I had to have a fourth go to atone for the folly of the third run. I held on until the bitter end again on the last run. After that we headed into town for a change of scenery, me on Tina so that I could set off from Jinja on the 2nd easily, and Chloe on a boda boda. We had a decent pizza and good, by Ugandan standards, sunset overlooking the source of the Nile. We then rode 3 up on a boda boda home That evening we met the rafting guys and had a few beers with the Saffers who run the camp that Pete had put us in touch with. Part of this tactic was to convince Chloe to agree to rafting the rapids down to the Hairy Lemon, the island we were to spend our last 2 nights on. It's about 40km downstream, and the best way to get to the island as it’s a mere 300m stroll and 1 minute paddle in the dugout to the island, as opposed to bodaboda, matatu and bodaboda. Aside from the Klippie and cokes slurping Saffers, there was a Mommy, George, who was a top engineer by trade, but cycled from Cape Town to Jinja in 2001. It was interesting chatting to him about how he got one back then. He said most of it was tar, which surprised me a bit, but he did it on a racer and travelled light, so tar was a must I suppose. Chloe remained unconvinced to the last, but I managed to get her on the bus the following morning. We’d been very lucky in managing to get the rafting for free for both of us (Chloe certainly wouldn’t have paid for the privilege, I’m sure), and an added piece of luck, the card machine at Nile River Explorers wasn’t working so the guy only asked us to pay $8 for 3 nights. Bloody mad, but I certainly wasn’t complaining. We happened upon the card playing Belgians that Louis and I met up in Fort Portal at rafting Base Camp, Emily & Sam. Aside from also having a great name, they’re very nice. Alas, we weren’t in the same boat, Davey our guide lumping us in with some fluorescent white missionaries from Tennesse. They were out on some bible, malaria net tour, and clearly didn’t believe in the virtues of a healthy tan! The Nile is a pool and drop river, so unlike the Zambezi, you get nice calm sections where you have an opportunity to relax (or consider your imminent demise at the next rapid you can hear roaring in the distance). The first rapid involved going off a 3 metre waterfall, and whilst that seemed like a pretty stupid idea, is was better than carrying it round the rapid, as we had to do later. This seemed to be a serious rapid, and whilst we came through it unscathed, a couple of boats got stuck on a rock at the top of the falls and another then got trapped under the falls for a bit. This was the boat full of Spaniards, and their incompetence, and propensity to fall overboard would became a theme for the day. All I heard from the portly fella for the rest of the afternoon was a Spanish iteration of ‘I was drowning’ basically. When we rescued him for a second time at a later rapid, he seemed surprised to be informed that it’s a good idea to hold onto the boat if you fall out or it flips. Silly Spanish. We did eventually also flip, which caused Chloe immense distress. I shan’t overly embarrass her by detailing the rapid (get it?) mental breakdown she suffered whilst clinging onto the raft, but suffice to say that it made me feel pretty bad about persuading her to go rafting. After the half day break we were just 3 plus the guide in our boat, so we formed an elite squad of paddlers. That meant no shirking though, and Chloe was often reprimanded for not doing as she was told, whether that was not paddling on the flat sections, or cowering in the bottom of the raft when we were supposed to be navigating the rapids. We did flip again, on the last rapid, but by this time the panic was lessened and we just drifted to the end of the rapid and then got out. For me, I don’t think it’s worth the amount of cash they often charge, but it was definitely a very fun, and indeed novel, way to get to our romantic island getaway. After a nice lunch and a beer, we said goodbye to Sam and Emily, and walked up the path to where the Hairy Lemon was. A quick 2 minute work, and then into a little dugout and across to the Island. Apparently the island was set up by a Pom, and was named after the pub (in Dublin I think) in which he met his wife. Interestingly, the Lemon will have disappeared by next year, as they are building another dam on the Nile to supply the power-thirsty Kenya, and it will be flooded in about 6 month’s time, so let’s hope their matrimony is a a bit more successful than the island venture. It’s a lovely spot, and a real shame that it’s going to disappear, along with the vast majority of the rapids we tackled during the day. The island is basically a shabby chic hippy ish relax-y place, where you camp and all the meals are included. I don’t quite feel that I got full value out of the buffets as they would often run out of food before I was done, but I did secure 25% discount for our two night stay, which was good. It was also needed as they only took cash, cleaning me out of all my remaining dollars basically. We only had one full day there, so we set up the hammock and just relaxed by the waterfall that split the islands up. It’s only little, but rather powerful, having washed one of the other guests over the edge and bruising her a bit in the process. And at various times we both almost suffered the same fate. It’s not called the mighty Nile for nothing! After lunch it, in typical Ugandan style, turned cloudy and rainy. We probably would have got a bit bored, but actually we just sat undercover drinking beers with some other guests staying on the island. We played cards (Shithead, but this time with the correct magic cards, rather than Louis’ generation X version) and moved on to a great board game called Settlers of Catan. It’s a kind of less bellicose version of Risk, where one builds towns and trades in peaceful pastoral goods such as wool, straw (not hay) and bricks. Chloe tends to take such games extremely seriously, which I can’t describe as a fantastically endearing trait, but observing the clash of styles with Andy, the dreadlock mulleted nurse was quite amusing. To say he lacked a competitive spirit, or indeed attention span, would be generous; he was just extremely slow, and didn’t pay attention. However, having caught him sitting in the waterfall naked earlier in the day, surreptitiously trying to put his trunks back on as people talked around him, it was just nice to have him clothed. We would have loved to spend another day or two on the island, but with Chloe now a big dog in the UK property scene, and me racing potential election violence in Kenya, we both had to move on the next day unfortunately. We boda bodaed up to the main road, and then hopped into our respective minibuses which happened to be there just when we wanted them. It was a rather rushed, and indeed public, goodbye, but there we go. I got back to Jinja at about 11 after a pretty uneventful taxi ride. I’d scored a mzungu upgrade and was in the front with some old boy (having booted out somebody else) so it wasn’t too cramped either. I was expecting to take 2 days to get to the border, and was under way by 12:30 after stocking up on rolexes and passion fruit juice. I’d been on the bike every single day for the last 3 weeks before Chloe’s arrival, so a few days off with her wasn’t going to make much difference, but it still took me a while to get back into things. It was a busy road again, especially going out of town, but nothing too bad. After leaving the Nile behind I headed into sugarcane country, with the typically limited views that accompany that crop. Seeing as I was doing a half day, I was pushing the pace a bit, and the ominous looking clouds on the horizon also helped spur me on. I was going through a pretty average looking town, grimacing at the thought of the impending soaking, when I got the biggest cheer of my trip. I don't really know why they started it, but as I was passing the busy part of town they all started shouting and cheering. There must have been a good couple of hundred all shouting and waving at me. I alternated between the royal wave and fist pump as I soaked up the pro peloton support. It was a really awesome moment, and one I think I'll remember with fondness. Not long after that, the rain arrived, jolting me back to the realities of bike touring. By this point I was in the middle of nowhere, and it started to come down quite heavily. I dived off into a lay by, and frantically motioned to the parked lorry that I didn't like getting wet. They opened the door for me and I clambered in to find 2 guys making lunch on a gas stove in the cab. My general experience of African hospitality has been excellent, but I didn't want them to feel obliged so we kept the conversation light - trucking and cycling mostly. As it neared meal time they led with the classic 'Do you eat maize meal?', to which one of course replies, 'Oh yes, naturally. I love a bit of ugali'. Their stove really trumped Susie, being about 100 times larger, and we had a lovely late lunch of tomatoes, aubergine and onions cooked up with reheated dried tilapia and maize meal. Excellent kitchen skills, and I doubt you'll find many English truckers knocking up such a feast, especially in the cab! The rain stopped after about 45 minutes and I was on my way again after turning down a lift to the border. Being on the final stretch now, hitchhiking seemed rather immoral! The rest of the afternoon's riding passed off fairly uneventfully, as I moved from sugarcane into rice paddies. They offer a nicer view and better birdlife, so although a change for the better, the headwind and intermittent rain didn't make things overly pleasant. One thing I did notice that afternoon was the combative nature of the local cyclists. I often found myself embroiled in lengthy battles for supremacy that both lasted longer and were more intense than I'd experienced elsewhere. I must have slogged it out with one guy for a good 15km, picking up and dropping other chancers along the way. We'd form little chain gangs and engage in plenty of sledging (well, I did anyway), which would break up and reform according to the terrain. The chief culprit was quite sneaky, and after realising he had no chance on the hills, would attack me on the speed bump sections as I had to slow down more out of respect for Tina. There were also a few of the classic chain derailings as the single speeds struggled with the speed. All good fun though, and I think I gave a pretty good account of myself really. With all that racing I also managed over 100km, even with the rain delays, and had got all the way to the Kenyan border. For accommodation I picked a place on the outside of town. I went in just to have a look, but they did me a deal on a nice little thatched banda, and agreed to heat up some water for my bucket shower so I was a happy man. For dinner I was escorted into town in search of the mythical Senator beer. I'd seen signs for it all over Uganda but never seen it for sale. Eventually we found one in some shitty bottle store, but it was warm, altogether not worth the search. The bottle cap, for my collection, was also very boring. For food we descended into a pitch black and very muddy market where I ordered chapatti and beans. I treated my guide, whose name I have now forgotten, to a cup of chai with me. Next morning I wasn't away until almost 9, and after waiting ages for some rolexes in town, it was a slow start. Busia seemed to be a bike trading hub, with all sorts of second hand ones coming over from Kenya. They were all hung up or parked along the street, and it looked like there were a few vintage gems, and I was sorely tempted to have a poke around. However, I was running late and had a border crossing to deal with - my last one, no less! I performed the usual ritual of skull disguising and headed on through. It was a one-stop crossing, and not very busy so I was into Kenya, my final, and tenth, country (disregarding Addis Ababa airport) by just after 10. The Kenyan side of Busia was very busy, and extremely muddy, so you had to pick your way between both the traffic and the puddles. That said, it looked like it was shaping up to be a cracker of a day, and it certainly felt good to have made it into Kenya. After wasting a fair bit of time trying to get a SIM card sorted, I was off again. The roads were busier than Uganda, and not exactly in pristine condition, but progress was pretty decent. Roadkill also abounded which meant there was invariably something of interest about, thus making up for the lack of stunning scenery. The first few hours there wasn't much to look at, but my first camels mooching along the side of the road, and a tuk tuk with a coffin on top were the highlights. Other than that I'd discovered that they rather ridiculously didn't have 1,5l bottles of water in Kenya, and that fizzy drinks were basically the same price. I sensed a diabetes epidemic on the horizon! Death seemed to be a theme of the day, with plenty of roadside carcasses, and a coffin-building hotspot punctuating the journey. I then also witnessed a car crash. More of a fender bender really, and they proceeded to block the entire road whilst they argued about it. It got a little heated as I edged my way past, and the prize for the most anguished 'No' goes to the indignant taxi driver whose 'Hapanaaaa' that followed me up the road as he was blamed for the incident. As the day progressed the scenery improved and by 4ish Lake Victoria loomed into view down in the distance. There was then a nice 40 minute descent on nice new tar down into Kisumu. It soon became clear that Kenya, like SA was ahead in development stakes, and Kisumu, which turned out to be a big city really, even had cycle lanes on the approach. I appreciated that, even though it was typically treated as an extra lane for the bodabodas where you didn't have to travel with the traffic, or a parking facility, as otherwise I'd be on the busy dual carriage way. In Kisumu I had a looong wait in the Safaricom shop to register my SIM, but I used the time to figure out where to stay. Maps.me showed a campsite out of down, right down on the lake, so I decided to head down there for the night. It was suitably rustic, off down a dirt road, and turned out to be a lovely spot. The campsite was full of fat old Italian men prancing about in tight panties, which was somewhat offputting. If they'd been young slim ladies I'd have been very happy, but I did wonder whether it was another one of those dodgy European tours, like the French lot in Botswana. Luckily, I was allowed to pitch my tent right on the lakeshore, away from all the showboating, so I set up camp in a secluded spot with views West over the Lake. This produced a rather spectacular sunset, which I enjoyed very much as I sipped on a new and exotic (at that point) Whitecap. I dined there on traditionally prepared tilapia, with the more modern accompaniment of chips, and caught up on my travel journal that had been rather neglected of late. The owner came over and spoke to me for a bit, and although I couldn't be bothered to ask for a refund on camping, I ascertained that my best bet tomorrow was to head for Kericho and that it was uphill whichever way you looked at it. I thought Nakuru was only 100km from Kisumu, but it was more like 220km, so the day I had in hand for the border was now used up here. I was up and away by 8:30, and although the ants had infested my rolex, I soon found food and bought water. A nice lady who I asked for directions took me to a good chapati and beans spot and I dined there well for about 50p. My lady turned out to be a mandazi (doughnut) producer so I stocked up on some of those for the journey. I took a different dirt road and popped out on the ring road SE of the city. The cycle lane soon petered out but by then it was back to single lane traffic. That day was basically heading east from Lake Victoria along the floor of the Rift Valley, and then climbing up out of it to Kericho. I would describe the flat more as a false flat, further hampered by a nasty headwind. I drafted a truck that trundled along at a healthy 28kph for a while, but the going was pretty tough, with the escarpment looming rather ominously in the distance. I stopped for a drink and was immediately approached by one big and boisterous mamma. She was very friendly, but rather crazy. She started off offering to buy me a drink, then asked me to get her one, then she wanted to come and stay with me in Nairobi. She then moved onto my skull and wanted it, or at the very least a piece of it, so that she would become rich and prosperous like me, but became less keen on the idea when I suggested it was more Juju/pagan based than Christian. We had to have photos, and then I pedaled off chuckling, not quite sure what to make of her. The next shot of excitement was being pulled over by the police. Aside from the night in Makuti Police Station in Zim, this was my first detention. I lead with a rather hostile 'What?!', not really wanting to waste my time arguing with coppers, but she said she just wanted to greet me, so I started being nicer. We had a bit of a chat about the route, and which way I should go whilst I munched on a pineapple I'd bought. I was told to carry on straight as the other way was too hilly, so after a bit of a telling off for using my phone whilst cycling (route checking), I was underway again. I'm not sure what her perception of hills was like, but pretty much 5 minutes after carrying on, I passed a 'Climbing Lane Starts in 150m' and that was it for pretty much the next 30km: Up, up, up! To be fair, it wasn't too bad, being quite a civilised gradient, and broken up by a lunch stop along the way: I actually preferred it to the flat, headwind section earlier in the day. I was still quite a tired cyclist by the time I rolled into Kericho though. The day had been a 90km ascent up into the Highlands and tea plantations at around 2500m altitude. As I got into town, it started raining so I hung out under the cover of a cabs point, watching the boda bodas zoom by with their massive umbrellas up to keep everything dry. I headed to Kericho Tea Hotel, which apparently had a campsite. It was a faded colonial gem, which was big and imposing, but clearly not the fancy spot it used to be. I wangled half price camping and they had a buffalo skull rigged with green light bulb eyes so I was sold. I went for tea and cake after a spot a black and white casqued hornbill watching (not Trumpeters, Joost) as it seemed the appropriate thing to do. The fruitcake was extremely light on fruit, but passable. Given my snacking I decided to get Susie out and cook some food for the first time in ages. Nothing fancy - two lots of supernoodles, ex Malawi. After such a delicious supper I headed to the bar and enjoyed a Summit, another new and exotic beer. The next day I was heading for a farm between Molo and Nakuru that Theo my hiking buddy had put me in touch with. I was up early but a very heavy dew meant a slow start drying everything out pre departure. The scenery was absolutely stunning, and rated up there with the most picturesque days, but I really struggled to get going: I felt like I was getting the heavy legs syndrome one often gets on a bike ride as you approach home/the end, but scaled up to tour level. Anyway, I kept slogging it out and inching towards Nairobi. After about 40km I stopped at a t-junction for a drink and some roasted corn. I had a 1,25l of Sprite to take down, so whilst I was chipping away at that Tina drew in a crowd. The Kenyans seem to command a better level of English and we got into some in depth discussions on gears, odometer mileage etc etc. Mid touring conversation, a kid came up to me and shoved a cardboard box in front of me. It contained a couple of white rabbits: not really something I was interested in to be honest, so I politely declined. A few minutes later he asked again, and this time, having disturbed a riveting chat about cadence, I told him to scram - I was hardly likely to purchase a live rabbit as a road snack, was I! A few minutes later I was on my way again, when a guy sprinted past holding a bunch of carrots, which made me chuckle - very Bugs Bunny. The day could be summarised as high altitude undulations, so I was glad to get to Kenana Farm where I polished off the Nightingale's entire lunchtime leftovers, and then headed over to talk farming with one of the brothers. He ran a big row cropping set up with a partner, But had also looked at opportunities in South Sudan due to the high land prices (£10,000/acre - SE England prices!). It was interesting stuff, and in the evening a local (well, Indian actually) flower farmer joined us for dinner so we talked botanicals, birding and Kenyan tribal politics. The election was in 2 days time, and after widespread violence the last two elections, everyone was a bit nervous about the next few days. General consensus seemed to be that Voting Day, the 8th August, would be calm, but from the 9th could be dodgy, so my planned itinerary was to cycle into Nairobi on the 8th and then hole up there with friends Moon & Ed so that I was safe if anything kicked off. Thus far, I'd passed a lot of posters and t-shirts, hooting parades of bodabodas and huge speakers on trucks and bakes spewing forth Swahili political spin. It all seemed quite jolly as far as I could make out, so hopefully it would stay that way. We were up late drinking Tuskers and putting the world to rights, so I wasn't away from the campsite before 9:30, but the day was set to be an easier ride that the last few: about 70km, mostly down into the valley and past the Lakes to GilGil, just before Naivasha. Nakuru caught me by surprise; I was expecting a sleepy, twee little town with fancy safari lodges and game roaming about, but actually it was a massive town with busy dual carriageway and only deadstock about. Heavy leg syndrome pursued me again today, but this time I didn't have nice scenery or quiet roads to relax on, so I can't say I enjoyed that day of riding especially. By far the least pleasant riding conditions I've found on this trip are days when you have a strong headwind as it is super draining and I find it gives me a bad back for some reason. The busy roads were also not very pleasant, with a lot of diving off onto the hard shoulder needed. Taxis have an annoying habit of upgrading their horn so that they sound like some all-conquering land train bearing down on you, and then it's just a pathetic Toyota HiAce that you didn't even need to move over for. Those false alarms began to grind my gears, but better safe than sorry. I did also see two accidents that day - one truck where the back axle had just fallen off (I'm glad I wasn't drafting that one!) and some sort of recent collision. The collision was not really surprising seeing as Kenyans seem to pursue a rather risqué overtaking policy. Bikes certainly don't qualify as oncoming traffic in their eyes, and aside from the wing mirror, a pretty reliable indicator of whether anything is behind you, is if oncoming traffic is overtaking into you. Very annoying but I eventually found out that, unless it was a bus (those okes are just the worst) you could stick to the road and they squidge past you. Basically the day consisted of hammering away into a horrendous headwind, on very busy roads, so I was very glad to jump off the bike by 12:45. Jessie & Jamie had been my main helpers in Kenya, and I was heading to Gil Gil Country Club for Sunday lunch with my hosts for the evening Gordie & Susie Millar. Like many of my hosts I'd never met them, but they were very lovely indeed. We had a boozey afternoon with the expat set, where I was unable to buy even a single beer! The day ended on more of a damp note though as Tina and I got thoroughly wetted sitting in the back on the Cruiser on the way home. We took the dirt road home, which although not the comfiest, did yield a rare Zedonka sighting. For the uneducated, the Zedonka is the lovechild of a donkey and a zebra! This one was mostly donkey looking, but had stripey zebra legs and was running wild with his black and white mates, which I suppose beats towing a cart around by a mile. At the Millars we followed up Sunday Roast with a four-course (if you include the avo) dinner and a roaring fire. I also had my own little en suite abode, and this was my first taste of luxurious house-living in quite a while, so thank you to the Millars. The next morning I scrounged a lift in with Gordie and had a look around his flower farm for a couple of hours. Very interesting stuff, and rather hi-tech too, with fancy Israeli fertigation units and top-secret flower strains and specialist breeders. The plan for the rest of the day was to go and see a big outfit called VegPro which wasn't far from Sanctuary Farm where I was staying that night (thanks to J&J again) and then cycle round the beautiful volcanic NP Hells Gate. However, my schedule slipped and my mate at Vegpro got grumpy with me for being late and told me not to come. That was a blow, but I was also feeling rather lazy and I'd heard tomorrow's climb up the Escarpment was quite horrendous, so thought it might be a good idea to conserve some energy for the final push. A quick google revealed a $26 entry fee for a foreign Mzungu so I binned the Hells Gate cycle and headed straight to Sanctuary Farm. There I struck it lucky - £20 all you can eat Otto Lenghi style buffet. The food was about as good as the view really, overlooking Lake Naivasha with game roaming around everywhere. I proceeded to eat far too much and give myself stomach ache for the rest of the day, but I'm a stickler for value, so worth it in my books! Whilst digesting my mammoth meal, I decided to see if Gareth at VegPro had forgiven me yet. He said I could come down, but needed to do so now, so I jumped on my bike, cycled to the gate and then jumped on a bodaboda for the 10km to the farm. Gareth is in charge of a huge operation of about 2000 acres growing vegetables for export. It's a very impressive (they have their own biomass power plant) and interesting set up, growing a bit of everything really. They're so large that they deal with Supermarkets directly, but they still have to overplant their desired quota by 50% due to disease and rejection rates for imperfect looking produce. Bloody madness, but there we go! My host Guy at Sanctuary Farm put me in another private residence and kept me in beer and fed for the evening which was very nice. Getting spoilt at the end of my trip! Guy is a photographer by trade and showed me a picture of the burning taxi he'd seen on the drive back from Nairobi that day. That took macabre to another level I thought, and told him so. However, that brought us onto the topic of roadkill so I promised to share my album with him for perusal. Maybe I'll graduate to car crashes and human corpses one day, but not just yet. Because my last day in the saddle was election day, I decided to make lunch and use up the last of my food pannier in case nothing was open along the way, so I made some tuna pasta in my fancy collapsible pot ready for the Champs Elysee run the following day. Final day departure was 0930 hours in cold, overcast conditions. I was cycling in my jumper for the first time in weeks and weeks, and the weather seemed to reflect the impending demise of my cycling routine. I suppose I was feeling a mixed bag of emotions - a growing sense of achievement and pleasure at being so near the end, but also lamenting the end of the adventure. I know I didn't enjoy the first 25km one little bit. Cold and miserable with a bleak flat landscape and the worst headwind yet. A sign forbidding 'open defacation' and a simple 'Bring it home' text from Pinhead Dave were the only highlights of the first few hours. The roads, and indeed everything, was dead quiet, with the only traffic really being the stretch Land Cruisers ferrying Chinese tourists around. Things did improve though, as I approached the escarpment and got out of the worst of the wind, and it was actually a relief to start going uphill and see what this hill was about. I'd heard a lot about this gruelling Escarpment climb from a lot of people, and whilst general experience suggests that they either exaggerate the hill, or don't appreciate that I am by now extremely well inured to cycling up hills. It was nothing too strenuous really, and the fact that it is mostly downhill to Nairobi after coming out of the Rift Valley, kept me going. I stopped at a viewpoint and ate my distinctly average pasta overlooking the valley floor below from which I had just come, and reflected on the trip thus far. I wasn't feeling melancholy as such, but I enjoyed having the day to myself to mull things over a bit, rather than having lots of things going on and locals about. After a peaceful lunch I carried on up the Escarpment road and happened upon some open stalls. I got hollered at by a bunch of whities in one of those big overland trucks as I carried on up the hill. As I passed through the more touristy stretch I passed a few stalls selling bits and pieces. Obviously my appetite for curio shopping had been severely curtailed by the fact that I would have to lump said item across Africa for weeks, but I thought on the last day, on the last portion of the big hill, I could manage a little treat. I didn't want the usual tat, but some strange woolly hats with ear flaps caught my eye. I'm very attached to my, now very faded, Proteas floppy sun hat, but I thought I could use something a little warmer for the cold English winter months. Apparently the Turkana tribe up North wear them in winter, so that was good enough for me. After a protracted haggle with the lady, I set off donning a sheepskin hat. Whilst offering excellent padding in case of a crash, it swiftly became too hot for Equatorial conditions so it went back in the pannier.
After summiting the Escarpment, I had about 40km left, most of it downhill as I was descending from 2000 odd metres altitude, down to Nairobi, which is about 1750m. Things got a little busier, but not much really, and I had the roads largely to myself. This was a good thing as I was basically on motorway for the last 20km or so, and it would not have been safe or pleasant riding on an average day of Nairobi traffic. I'd stayed at Moon & Ed's a couple of years ago, so as I neared Hardy, things began to pop into my recollection. Often not in the order or direction I expected, but I recognised them none-the-less. I got into Nairobi by about 2pm, having covered the last 95km of the trip in pretty decent time. It felt a little bit strange to be finally finished after about 105 days on the road, but it was certainly great to be ending amongst friends and somewhere vaguely familiar. That was especially the case as I'd got about a week in Nairobi to kill before my flight on 12th August. We were straight into the social scene, and although you couldn't buy booze due to elections, we managed to rustle up some Tuskers and go to not one, but two, parties. At the latter I proceeded to justify eating the bulk of the pizza the guy made through my feat of cycling endurance. I probably won't be invited back, but I sure was hungry! The next day I went for a little cycle, admittedly mostly because I had passed a fancy looking bakery and really wanted one of those strawberry creme patisserie tart things, but probably also because it felt a bit strange not to have any more cycling to do. Withdrawal symptoms would be an overstatement I think, but I'd really enjoyed my trip so it wasn't like I never wanted to see a bike again. I also have a tour of the Pyrenees coming up in September so couldn't just flop as I'd die in the mountains otherwise. To my immense disappointment the bakery was shut, but on the ride I came across a chameleon crossing the road. Without getting too wiffy, finding a chameleon on my last cycle of the trip had a nice symmetrical ring to it as I'd found one in Thabazimbi when I was on a training ride in SA before departing. Probably reading far too much into it, but it felt like a proper end to the cycle, rather than just jumping off the bike the day before and taking down a beer!
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The Ritco bus up to Musanze was pretty painless, apart from being busy and encountering a few police road blocks and baggage checks. We ended up sat at opposite ends of the back row, me next to two annoying women who spent a lot of the time playing some Rwandan comedian on loudspeaker which I couldn't understand, and probably wouldn't have found amusing anyway. Dad fared better, making mates with a student called Pascale who even helped us with our bags when we got off. The baggage check was a bit odd: bus pulled over, everyone off, some peering into handbags etc, and a cursory glance into the luggage bins. Tina was bum out, with the skull thrust right into prime view, but the copper didn't bat an eyelid. As we moved north from Gisenyi, although only 60 odd km, you could notice the change. We were now heading up into the volcanic foothills, and there was the usual hyper intensive agriculture, but also cairns and rows of volcanic rock everywhere in the fields. These black coral esque formations gave the landscape a lunar feel, despite being a lush green. I then started to notice piles and piles of carrots on the side of the road, piled high and lashed down in the same way that the charcoal is. This region also seemed the poorest and busiest part of Rwanda as the towns were swarming with people, and it was pretty rundown. Bizarrely they were trying to sell me wheels of cheese at one bus stop, and I actually wish I'd got one. Rwandan cheese - how novel! We jumped off the bus before the official stop in the town Ruhengeri, as we were heading down to a campsite called Red Rocks in Nyakinama. I'd found them on the warmshowers.org app, and the guy Greg who runs it said we can camp for free. That was a real bonus as it would both make use of the camping stuff we'd been ferrying around, and save us some cash. It was a straight 7km downhill and we got there at about 5pm. Peterson, Gilbert and Peter were lovely, and immediately made us feel very welcome. We'd had the tour, being shown the gift shop, restaurant, banana beer pit, and 'club'. The latter caused some concern as Brian the yank said they're known for their parties, and the speakers were about as big as me. The place was also somewhat creepily decorated by Zulu the artist, with weird decaying figures meant to depict the evils of alcoholism, mixed with places that looked like they'd had a good going over with a paintball gun. Certainly not my cup of tea, but there we go. We put in our dinner order and met the only other guests - 3 Spanish girls from Galicia and Catalunya. It was nice to speak Spanish for a while as they were the first Spaniards I'd come across on the trip. They were leaving the next day so wanted a 'fiesta'. It soon turned out this meant going to the club about 10 metres from the campsite. Dad and I stayed up for a bit after dinner, plotting what to do with the bonus day and night following his diary-based senior moment. We decided we would do some more cycle touring and head out to Foyer de Charité on the South of Lake Ruhondo for an overnight stay, and come back on the Sunday morning before he flew late evening. It was a religious retreat so we had to check us pagans were allowed in, but that was easily taken care of by an email in very dodgy French, and a word perfect English version below. We were accepted in French so headed to the tents at about 9:30. The music was literally shaking the tents, but one could hardly ask for noise reduction before 10pm we reasoned. Dad asked for earplugs, which I gave him. I decided they were pretty pointless as, even if you couldn't hear the music, you could feel it. I think I actually fell asleep as when I came to at 11:30 he music had stopped. However, relief was shortlived as then some massive rock breaking pneumatic drill took over. It was destroying the local geology literally all night so suffice to say it wasn't a good night's rest. The next morning we weren't in a big rush as the Foyer was only about 20km away, so we had breakfast, and decided to hear to the local Fromagerie, to try and atone for my lack of window based cheese shopping the day before. It was a pleasant 10 minutes up the road along a dirt track, and whilst it became apparent it was a working cheesery, there were no English speakers (or French or Swahili to be honest) and certainly no tour of the facilities. We helped ourselves by peering through windows, opening doors and wondering round the farm yard. They had some very cute new piglets as well as the cows, but we were driven from there as soon as they fed mumma pig and all the surrounding animals started squeaking like hell. The saying 'Greedy as a pig' certainly came to mind. I still had to sort out Hilary bike logistics and had been texting Gerald the Ugandan guide we met on the trail about what to do. He suggested he could meet me and ride with me from the border, and to speak to a guy called Peterson at Red Rocks about getting it that far. He thought it would cost about a fiver to get it ridden up there. Seeing as we were staying at Red Rocks, and Peterson was now our best mate, that was extremely convenient. So, within about 10 minutes of returning from the fromagerie, also cheese less, I'd had everything squared away. We'd do our overnight trip and leave all our excess baggage here, coming back on Sunday when I would again stay the night after getting Dad on the bus to Kigali. It was nice to have everything sorted before our last lake-based bike foray, so I could now relax. We decided that rather than head 7km up into town on the tar road, and then cutting back down on another, we'd do what looked like a straightforward cut through. We set off about 10:30, and after a few minutes on the tar, we took the right hand dirt road. This promptly turned into a massive pile of earth and an unfinished bridge, but we persevered and were rewarded with a nicely graded, empty and wide dirt road. It was viciously uphill in places, and we basically climbed for the first 4km, but it was nice to be cycling something that I doubted any other muzungus had. The expected turn off never appeared, but I was fairly confident that such a 'major' road would spit us back onto the tar at some point. There were a lot of 'give me money' chants still, but I enjoyed a nice moment when I passed a group of kids all flying home made kites in the road. Seeing as they generally chase you anyway, I grabbed one of the kites off them and trailed it behind me up the hill for a while. Everyone, including myself, seemed to enjoy that, as well as find it amusing. My navigational confidence waned as the phone showed us both on a road that didn't exist, and heading in the opposite direction we wanted. We'd passed the grader in the last village and the road was now crap, and I went through a phase of annoyance, paranoia and asking a lot of locals the way. I didn't trust them especially, but one guy with decent French eventually explained the whole route to us, and he was bang on. We emerged onto buttery smooth, quick rolling tar about 20 minutes later, albeit a lot lower down than I was expecting. As we sat at the T-junction debating whether to go left or right, a huge procession of pikipikis streamed by, hooting and whooping, and weaving all over the place. It went on for a good 5 minutes, and continued as we pedalled along the road (to the left). It was obviously something political as they were all covered in and waving flags as they went. I just sh, they seemed to enjoy their politics a lot more than the English do! We got to the Foyer at about 2:30 and were shown round by one of the sisters. It was all in French but I got the gist of things: dinner at 6:30, be quiet in the praying zones, too far down to the lake to go now, hot showers, don't drink the tap water etc. The only awkward moment was when she gave Tina's balls a fondle as she walked past - naughty girl! That would cost her a few Hail Mary's, I'm sure, but made us laugh. It was very peaceful up there, and I enjoyed some good hammock time reading the kindle and listening to their singing. Unfortunately that was disturbed initially by those infernal Pied crows cawing in the trees. I spent about 5 minutes chucking stuff at them but they just did a loop and landed again. Bloody birds! Then a massive group of children appeared and I had to endure a barrage of 'Mzungu mzungu', lots of hissing at me, and general rabble rousing. I stoically ploughed on, ignoring them as best I could, but they wouldn't move on, so after 10 minutes I did the moving on: packing up the hammock and scurrying into the relative peace of the Foyer's lovely garden. It was 5pm anyway by then, so time to search, tactfully of course, for some beers. It took a while, and I think they went up to the village for them, but they did arrive eventually (as it beat me walking up to the village myself). Tepid as opposed to cold, but my heat tolerance for drinks has increased over the course of the trip, mostly through necessity. We enjoyed them sat on the wall overlooking Lake Ruhondo. Dinner was a veritable banquet, starting off with vegetable soup, and then professing to prodigious amounts of crispy roast potatoes, beef stew, cabbage and salad from the garden, rice and beans. And by this time the beers were cold as someone had put them in the freezer! For a while we dined to the sound of religious hymns, which was actually quite relaxing, but then the sound was sent to the dining hall rather - us two heathens dined separately, and with no music after a while. The Father of the place came in to say hello, and he was a nice friendly guy. After the massive main course we were served some disappointing pawpaw (but then all pawpaw is disappointing in my opinion). We stayed up a while chatting, mostly because we were too full to manage the walk back to the room, and then bed at 9ish I think. We'd ordered breakfast for 7:30 just to be on the safe side for getting back to town and making sure Dad got on the Ritco back to Kigali and caught his flight. He assured me he was flying today, and not tomorrow. Breakfast was decent, but not as impressive as dinner by a long shot, where the only let down was cheesy butter. The cycle back to Musanze was a pretty straightforward affair: back down the 12km of dirt roads, and then 3km uphill once you hit the tar. It was a shorted route, and we were only on 22km by the time we were back at Red Rocks. I say we, as we lost each other again. I'll put my hand up and say this time it was probably my fault, as rather than going with Dad to the cash point, I went looking for samoosas, and then got distracted by pharmacies as I tried to get more malaria tabs. We got everything organised for Dad's departure, had lunch, and then both pikipikied up to the bus station. It was a bit of a hurried goodbye as the bus was a bit to leave and there weren't many seats, but it was great having him out for the 10 days, and hopefully it hasn't put Dad off cycling for life! Dad's last Rwandan PikipikiMy plan for the next day, before heading into Uganda, was to do a circuit of Lake Burera and bushcamp, then meet Peterson with the bike at the border on Tuesday morning. However, aside from feeling a little lazy, when Peterson came and brought me some African Tea (chai) out of the blue, I decided that he was such a good bloke that I just had to cycle with him. I also quite wanted a taste of cycling with a local to mix things up a bit. Therefore, on Monday I just headed up to Kinigi to meet the Team Rwanda/Africa Rising guys at their compound and added a few more kms on for fun. Meeting Team Rwanda was quite interesting, although all the main guys were in America ready for the Tour of Oregon. I can't say they were particularly interested in me, but I guess cyclists become a bit boring if you deal with them everyday. I'd have liked to have done a training ride with some of them as I think it would have been interesting to see what kind of level they're at. Anyway, the only guy about was 5-time Tour De Rwanda winner Abraham, and he didn't fancy a race. What was most interesting was the blend of professional and African: you had 18 brand spanking Pinarellos with electronic Campagnolo group set, courtesy of President Kagame, and then these guys pitching up trying to break into the team with 10/15 carbon bikes bandaged up with carbon repair tape. The blend of African and modern was quite amusing - one guy had gone with the ride it until it breaks attitude and when the mechanic took a look at the bottom bracket, there were no bearings left at all, just dust! They have a big compound where the top guys live, and they must follow a strict regime and diet, so hopefully they'll start to see some results on the pro circuit. They get kudos from me for having their own veggie patch where they try and grow as much produce as they can. After Team Rwanda I decided to carry on up the hill, sans Abraham, to have a bit of a general explore. It was about another 10km up to the entrance to Volcanoes National Park, but at $1500 a permit, that would be as close to the gorillas as I was going to get! Still, it was a nice ride, and I soon came across a big lorry blocking the road, accompanied by lots of shouting. Something exciting was going on, clearly, so I approached accompanied by heavy use of my fancy two-tone bell. It turns out it was about 20/30 blokes loading huge Eucalyptus trunks onto said lorry, accompanied by a crowd of onlookers. I watched for a while, but then, seeing as I had nowhere to be, or a schedule at all, decided to park Tina and get involved. It had been a while since stevedoring on the Liemba and it would be good to get in some upper body exercise - keep the body guessing, you know. The system was basically a bit of shouting (1, 2, 3 in Nyerwanda I think as is ended in tatu, which is 3 in Swahili) and then we all shove together. These trees were about 10m and biblically heavy; I honestly don't know how they got the first end up into the truck. We were at the shove it further onto the truck stage, to join the other 14 they'd already loaded. There was a guy up top with some soapy water and a rag to help ease progress, but it was still bloody hard. They bloody loved me joining in, and it was photos all round once loading of that tree had completed. They even made me have a draught from the communal chibuku cup - gross! I pedaled off up the hill amidst much adulation, leaving them to their alcohol fueled heavy-lifting. After that I just minced about, cycling up to the entrance to Volcanoes National Park. It being Rwanda, entrance would have cost me $40 and seeing the gorillas another $1000 odd, so that was as close as I was going to get to our ape friends. On the way back through town I consoled myself with a visit to the Diane Fossey museum, which is all about her and gorillas. Quite interesting, and free! That pretty much concluded my last day in Rwanda, as the next day Tina, Hilary and I were off to the border and crossing into Uganda. Final thoughts on Rwanda: I've really enjoyed my time in the country, just as I thought I would. As I've mentioned already, I'm really impressed with what they've achieved and where they are now, considering the country was in absolute bits less than 25 years ago. Like any country, it has its problems, and in terms of the people I must say I wasn't a fan of the constant asking for money, and the hissing for attention tactic. Aside from that, I've found them to be very friendly and welcoming people. They also seem to have a bit more drive and purpose than a lot of the other places I've been, which I like. I think most people tend to think of Rwanda as quite a developed country, and it's both true that it has a good functioning infrastructure, and seems to have an efficiency about it that gives the impression that all is well. Yet whilst it's true that the roads are good, there's a cheap and efficient government run bus service, and a lot more tin roofs about than I'm used to, I was really shocked at how that contrasts with the water infrastructure. I'm not sure if it's just a case of what aid money and charities focus on in Rwanda, but I saw very few bush pumps and some people filling up the ubiquitous yellow 25l Jerry cans in some horrible, horrible looking streams. You can't go up a hill without seeing at least 20 locals battling up the slope, either carrying water on their heads, or pushing a heavily laden bike up there. That said, I did see a lot more buildings with gutters and rain water harvesting set up, and indeed the Rwandans seem a lot more in tune with waste management and environmental stewardship than the rest of Africa (not that that is particularly hard of course): when we looked around the tea and coffee places, they were making natural fertiliser and treating by product water. I've come to miss the bush pumps and the chatting to the locals when rehydrating, and buying bottled water now feels a bit like cheating. I've heard some people say that Rwanda lacks character, that's it's not proper Africa, and whilst I did find that they were too geeed up for posh tourism and too by the book for my mad bike touring tastes, I think they've shown tremendous character to rebuild after the tragedy of 1994. I absolutely loved the scenery in Rwanda, and actually took a perverse pleasure in the hilly terrain, but I do think I found the tourism scene a bit high end and out to get your dollars. That's probably just a symptom of the type of trip I'm on, and the contrast with the other places I've been. I met a few Mzungus on the Congo Nile Trail, and I described it to them as Africa for beginners really (which I think they set all happy with), but it lacked the edge and value of the other countries I've cycled through. Naturally, as a Mzungu, I soon started giving orders on what to do. And obviously, they didn't listen. TIA! And so into Uganda! Unfortunately Peterson was busy at Red Rocks so they found me a 'proper cyclist' replacement. His name was Yannick and he was a very slight 21 year old who they said trains with Team Rwanda. Uh oh. I was quite glad I'd slapped my camping gear on his Hilary, along with the other camping kit, and that the rear tyre was a bit soft. He was a nice enough guy, but certainly no Peterson. On the first climb (which is about 7km long, but not very steep) there was a bit of ability investigation going on I think. It wasn't a struggle really, but when he got his tyre pumped up I thought I might be in trouble. Those worries turned out to be misplaced as he spent the remaining 25km to the border trying (and mostly failing) to keep up. Sucker! I dropped him a few times and gave up waiting for him after a while, racing the waifs and strays that challenged me along the way. One guy on a decent Trek mountain bike gave a good account of himself, especially on the sections of the road they'd dug up, but he disappeared quite suddenly once back on the tar; it turns out he'd snapped a pedal trying to keep up. What a mug, and a solid victory for Tina and I, although I did feel a bit guilty about being the cause of the mechanical mishap. I was quite pleased to see Yannick pitch up at the border both after me, and rimed with sweat. I can't see him making Team Rwanda if he can't hack my touring pace, but perhaps he will. If he does, I'll be sure to try out too! I disguised my skulls for the border and we sailed through. That left just 9km to Kisoro where Louis was due to get the bus to. We were later away from Red Rocks than anticipated due to the change of rider, but Louis' bus was making slow progress so no need to rush. We went into town so that I could draw some shillings - just the 500,000, no big deal - and sort a local sim so that I could get hold of Louis and Nkusi. Whilst sorting this it started to rain, which caused me much anxiety as I am firmly in the fair weather category of cyclist, despite undertaking such a long trip. Luckily it only lasted about 5 minutes and I could emerge relatively unscathed. After getting to a garage (good cover in case it rained again) I gave Yannick a tenner for cycling the bike over the border to me, and sent him on his way. I then told Nkusi I was waiting for him at the garage, and to come up and meet me. I got tucked into my first Ugandan beer in the meantime - a Club. Nkusi is a Ugandan guy I met on the Congo Nile Trail with Dad when he was guiding a Swiss chick in the other direction. We stopped and chatted for a while as they were the first guys we'd seen doing the trail. I took his number as I hoped he could help me with Hilary cross-border transportation. In the end I got it to Kisoro easily enough, but Nkusi wanted to meet us and show us around a bit. I escalated this into staying with him, and I'm glad I did given the poor options in Kisoro. He lives slightly out of town, conveniently towards Lake Bunyoni where we would head the day after. So we pedaled the 5km or so to his place, arriving at about 3pm probably. He's quite a figure in the community and is building a little heritage centre and tourist attraction which he showed me around and explained. Of even more interest was his permaculture garden which we spent quite a while discussing. He'd been trained by the US Peace Corps guys, and was now in charge of training locals in the practice. This was obviously a bit of a battle, but they had had a few bad years of rain, which I think makes them more receptive to trying new things. Hopefully it will catch on and become more popular. After that we cycled off to see a local landmark - the Kigesi Monument. This was very important historically as it was the hilltop site where the colonial powers met to determine the borders of Uganda, Congo and Urundi-Uanda. It was pretty cool to go and have a look at that as it's not something your average tourist has any idea about. In another interesting relic of Uganda's past, the original African despot, Idi Amin, also decided that he must have a base at this important site, and started to build a house there. He was deposed before he ever used it (although he was in power for a long time) and all that remains are two stones. After my history and culture lesson we went in search of cold beer. I came to the conclusion this wasn't really Ugandan culture as it proved basically impossible. It was now getting to about time to expect Louis, so I issued him with instructions of where to get off (before Kisoro) and what to look for. Whilst in search of cold beer, I came across a little metal shop. I knew from Dad that Hilary's handlebars were too low for comfortable long distance riding, and with Louis being rather tall, I decided to try and get some modifications done. They didn't have bar ends, or anything suitable for that really, but we fashioned a kind of extra set of handlebars out of scraps of metal. Louis arrived mid modification, and if he was horrified at seeing his bike being attacked with a welder before he'd even ridden it, he didn't show it. He picked up the £2 tab for the works and took her for a test ride whilst I ordered a Rolex (roll eggs - omelette inside a chapati) and continued the quest for cold beer. This ultimately proved futile so we headed home. We introduced Louis to Nkusi's mother, Hope, and I was put in charge of showing Louis around the heritage centre and garden. I don't think I butchered it too much, but I certainly couldn't remember the local pronunciation of their butter churning gourd, sleeping mat or spear. After that we focused on dinner - rabbit, which I'd met in its live state earlier in the afternoon - and helped by peeling potatoes and chopping up veg to go in the stew. All I can say that this would have been achieved much quicker if we'd had chopping boards, but there we go. We also struggled with fire heat control and basically didn't eat until almost 10pm. Given that I'd normally be asleep by then, it was a bit of a nasty shock. We were also planning to make an early start and try and get up to Churchill's View for sunrise, so we went to bed pretty much straight after dinner. We'd elected to share a bed inside rather than camp out in the garden, and whilst he certainly wasn't the type of Hazell bed companion I'm used to, all went well despite the tiny mosquito net dangling at face level. The morning was also cold with a very heavy dew, so we felt doubly vindicated for getting close and personal rather than cold and wet. Nkusi had very kindly sorted us breakfast so we got up to bananas and bread, which we supplemented with butter and Jan from my panniers, and drinking millet porridge. The latter I can only politely describe as an acquired taste, but good energy so I just about managed to slurp a cup down. Sunrise was always a tall ask, but we got away at about 7:45. We quickly discovered that Uganda is also hilly, and for the first 13km we were climbing some pretty solid hills. It looked like Louis, much like Dad, was in for a baptism of fire, but at least it was nice tar roads. That was until we got near to Churchill's View where we veered off onto some fantastically steep dirt road. I tackled as much of it as I could, but even Tina and I were reduced to pushing once. The shame, the shame! So Churchill view was where old Winston famously (in these parts at least) stood upon the top of a hill, and admiring the view, declared Uganda 'The Pearl of Africa'. The phrase has stuck and actually features in their National Anthem. The hill itself is 2500m high, and I'm sure on a fine day yields breathtaking views. On our visit it was just bloody cold and windy, so after a few photos and talking up the view, it was back down to the tar. It was here, after 15km, that we parted ways with Nkusi. He's an excellent guy and it was really great to stay with locals again and be shown around some of the stuff that just would have passed us by otherwise. A very auspicious start to Uganda, I must say. Louis and I were heading to Lake Bunyoni as it's supposed to be very beautiful and a popular spot for tourists. That would be about 70km and next up was passing through a forest reserve. It was Nyungwe NP esque in its altitude and vegetation, but not as large or impressive to be honest. There also seemed to be a lot of cattle grazing and tree cutting going on to be considered a proper reserve. Still, Uganda was serving up some spectacular views and nice (albeit hilly) riding. Nkusi had advised us to take the dirt road along the lake shore at Hiseselo, so after about 30km we duly turned off. It was certainly scenic, wiggling along the edge of the lake, but it was also rough and covered in a layer of deep dust, which made for tiring riding. The undulations were manageable until it came to a point where the road climbed up and away from the lake. This turned into a pretty brutal ascent which I didn't enjoy a whole bunch. Perhaps it's the wrong tactic but when riding with people on tour I tend to just ride at my own pace and then wait for them rather than shadow and chaperone: I wouldn't want some skinny bearded guy cajoling me up the hills because realistically it doesn't help. So, I just left Louis to it, and I think he was in a pretty unhappy place for most of that hill. I coined the phrase 'Gap yah nightmah' and had a bit of a chuckle about that. He'd stopped for fruit to get some more energy and texted me to ask what the plan was. 'Waiting for you at the top' was my deadpan reply. We were in it now, and had to just carry on. Admittedly it was a tough hill, and the bulldozer that had destroyed the top portion of the ascent certainly didn't help but there was nothing to be done really. We had a good rest at the top and luckily there was food at the next village so we had a good feed of matoke (big non sweet bananas) and beans, along with a soft drink. I'm not sure how restored Louis was feeling, but he bore it admirably I must say. It was then a pretty short, and thankfully mostly downhill, stint to our destination. There was a nice terrace up at the top of the hill, and I suggested a beer there. Louis initially refused - much like Dad's ordering of a Red Bull, a departure from character - but once I got tucked into mine he relented. We'd make a proper cycle tourist of him yet! After the beer we zoomed down to the lake and selected Edirisa as our campsite of choice. Had we known it was down an increasingly poor road, and up a few horrible little hills, it probably would have been a different matter. However, it was a community campsite so I felt that we were doing our little bit by staying there. The ones in town proper were either quite posh, or had big overlander trucks in - a crowd that's often full of wiffers, so best avoided. We had the place to ourselves, and with cold beers for £1 and direct access to the lake, it wasn't a bad place to be. We were there by 3 ish and after taking care of washing and bathing, it was time to relax. Louis was reading a very high brow 'Why does E=MC2' book whilst I engaged in some danger hammocking, spurning their safe ones and rigging mine up across the corner of the observation deck. Getting in was slightly dodgy, and not at all graceful, but worth it for the improved lake views and birdwatching opportunities. My precipitous hanging caused great consternation amongst the locals, with one of the camp staff reprimanding me for being reckless, and school children, about to embark to their kayak home, spent about 5 minutes gawking and squealing. I gave them the royal wave from my lofty position and wishes them bon voyage (their craft didn't look terribly lake-worthy). Aside from some good sunbird action, we also saw a couple of otters swimming about. If only I'd had my camera, but alas it had broken for good at the Foyer, and now resided, along with its charging cable, in a bit in Rwanda (Tina insists upon a strict no dead weight policy). We rewarded ourselves after a tough day's cycling by treating ourselves to crayfish for supper. Delicious, but a little light on the portion size. When asked how dinner was I informed them 'I enjoyed what little there was of it'. Given that this didn't prompt an offer of seconds, I can only assume the request for feedback was insincere. We were early to bed, with the whole campsite to ourselves, and then up and away by 8 in order to get to a chapati stall for our morning Rolex. We ordered 4 and took 2 for the road. After breakfast it was up and away from the lake, and then a long bumpy downhill dirt road into Kabale. Rolling back onto the blacktop at the t-junction was blissful, especially for Louis I think as his posterior is much younger and more tender than mine. I would point out here that I very kindly donated him a chamois for the trip, freshly laundered of course. In town we stopped for cash for Louis whilst I checked out the Supermarket. This panned out very well as they had ice cream, and although only 10am, a treat rare enough in Africa not be passed off. Louis was very optimistic that it would be flat after Kabale, and I, not wanting to crush his young and fragile spirit, played along. We had no specific place to get to, so I said we'd just ride and see how far we get. It was quite lumpy initially, with quite a big climb straight out of Kabale, but then it eased off. I don't know where we stopped for lunch, but it was quite convenient, with people swarming over to sell you everything. I do enjoy this kind of shopping, but it's best from the bus window as you are in more of a position of power and can simply shut the window when you've had enough. However, we were on the street and in the thick of it so a much more immersive experience: I took a Rolex straight off, as a good staple any time of the day, and then supplemented that with a 25p goat skewer. Following that I sent a guy off in search of bananas, and ordered some plain chapatis to wrap the bananas in (a good snack I've found). That concluded our market dining experience and we decided to have our banana chapati dessert up the road as we were a bit bored of having goat skewers waved in our faces by now. Thus far the Ugandan landscape had been quite Rwanda-esque, but as it flattened out a bit we came into cattle country. It was greenish, but had strong undertones of overuse and overgrazing that I saw in N Tanzania on my way to Rusumo. They were different cows though, and there were actually a lot of proper dairy cows (Friesan/Holstein) along with Milk SACCOS (cooperatives) dotted along the road. These were invariably spelt as 'Diary Shops' which made me chuckle - there must be a dyslexic sign painter in town. All that day we'd been following signs for NMO, and when we got there we'd done about 97km, so we decided that would do for the day. I still have no idea what the town is actually called, but after stopping at the petrol station for a cold drink, we decided we'd find somewhere nearby. A compressor and air gun bay caught my eye as Tina was rather dusty from the dirt roads and the derailleur etc was in need of a good clean. So I sauntered over there and for 25p (they asked for £1,25) I gave her a good blast with that. I must say it worked like a charm, and I was very pleased with myself (as was Tina I'm sure). Following that we turned our attention to a place to rest our weary bones for the night. Technically we wanted the turning before town tomorrow so we decided to check out the first hotel along our route. It looked very much on the posh side, but we had enough time for some failed attempts so decided to give it a go. We asked at reception if we might camp somewhere and we didn't get the immediate 'No' I was expecting: we had to talk to the manager Nelson. Funnily enough we also had a Nelson at Edirisa, but he was a bit of a moron, so we were hoping for better. He was a nice guy, but a bit of a ball-buster; saying not a problem, showing us round, and then coming to 'the price'. He hammed everything up too much and asked for 50,000 shillings. I cried foul and said that was a ridiculous fee and that we didn't really care if it was a fancy hotel or not. There was a lot of toing and froing but eventually I had him on the ropes: free to stay but we'd have dinner and beers at the restaurant to show our appreciation. However, victory was shortlived as I'd forgotten to get showers explicitly included. Here Nelson pretended that 'changed everything' and asked for 40,000 again. I pointed out that that was rather disingenuous as surely common sense dictated that two guys who'd been cycling all day would want a shower, especially if we were to dine in his fancy restaurant. In the end we agreed 20,000 and went down to use the staff showers. Following that, there was a lot of changing of minds about where we wanted to camp, and then where we were allowed to camp. In the end we settled down the bottom and were freshly scrubbed and ready for beers by 6. We had a chef come out and see us, and after trying to get us to take the USh200,000 platter, promised to go and out together a menu to suit our budget. He also said we could have rice pudding for dessert - something I got very excited about as oddly enough I'd been fantasising about a good rice pud recently. Anyway, he never came back, and it later transpired that he'd gone home, leaving us menu and rice pudding-less. We had pork fillet, mash and gravy which was quite pleasant, although the lack of suitable pudding left a bitter aftertaste. We were to bed early that night (as per usual) but I didn't sleep well due to screaming jackal and barking dogs issues. Regardless we were up pretty early and trying to scrounge some free breakfast by 8. We managed a couple of bananas (accompanied by a third surreptitiously slipped into my pocket) and a glass of pineapple choice. Tea we would have to be charged for, apparently. It was a decent place to stay, and I must say I enjoyed the haggle, but charging a couple of thirsty cyclists for a brew seemed a bit pathetic to me. We were on our way by about 8:45 when Louis committed a fatal error: trying to match my power on the hills. It was a rather nasty gradient up the hotel drive, and as he slipped away into the distance, I can only imagine he tried to try and close the gap. That's when I heard a frantic, panted shout of 'Mechanical, mechanical!'. He'd only gone and snapped poor Hilary's chain before getting to the end of the drive. Snapping chains is quite satisfying in a way, but not good for progress. Still, we can't really blame the young lad for wanting to keep up, can we?! Haha. I tried sticking one of my quick links in to remedy the issue, but the 8 and 9 speed widths didn't get on, so we decided the only solution was for him to push into town and visit the local mechanic. Not a disaster as it was only 1km away, and we were heading there for breakfast anyway. A couple of guys on bikes showed us the way, but he turned out not to be much of a mechanic: after trying to sell me a new single speed chain, he then found about 5 old links and started bartering the pin in with a ratchet. I took a look at the chain and one link was already broken, and after this faux pas he was firmly relegated to sub mechanic. I got out my chain breaker, picked the best link, popped that out and then joined it all back together (after correcting the way he threaded it through the derailleur. By this point we had a rather large crowd who were very impressed with the chain breaker, gasping and 'eeeee'-ing as I deftly deployed it. The mechanic didn't really further his cause much so when it came to negotiation he got USh1000 for the link and that was it. Mechanical issues no longer precipitate the dread that they used to early in the trip, and although this was a rather African bodge job, it only took 20 minutes and cost us 25p - not bad! We then set off for breakfast and were shown to a nice chapati place by the two that showed us to the mechanic. Here we ordered chapati and beans, along with some extra chapats for bananas later. We sat in his little dining room in the shade and washed it down with some African tea (although not the chai I was hoping for). We had a bit of a tiff about his chapati prices as 1000 is twice the normal 500. I conceded they were larger than average, but not twice the size. Anyway, my remonstrations fell on deaf ears (I suspect there was some tout commission built in along the line). We hit the road at 10, on what, naturally, turned out to be an extremely hot day. The road was decent enough, and quite quiet, but the real bonus was when we turned off for Ishaka after about 20km. This one was also brand new, pretty deserted, and largely downhill. There was one brute of a hill where we stopped for a banana chapat and cold drink, but otherwise we pretty much cruised the 35km into town. Ishaka wasn't up to much, and I selected the first eatery that I saw, in amongst all the other bride a brac and random stalls along the high street. It was called Lion's Den, like the meat joint of famous repute in Zim that I'd stopped in at, and although no biltong here, it did so a pretty decent goat and rice with juice. After concluding a satisfactory lunch we took a left, leaving the Kampala road. This resulted in a swift deterioration of the road, and we were now dodging plenty of potholes as well as speed bumps, matolas and boda bodas. However, we were soon in tea country which provided some nice looking scenery. In fact it took on a bit of a Rwandan sense of deja vu as the estate was owner by Macleod Russell, the same guys as the Pfunda Estate I toured with Dad, and following that we passed into a forest nature reserve. We stopped at a campsite in the forest to check it out, and although they didn't do food, it was cheap and you could track chimpanzees in the morning for $40. I was sorely tempted, but Louis rather less so, so we decided to push on another 20km to the recommended Crater Lakes. We didn't see any wildlife but it was a lovely climb and the descent through the reserve. The tar was wet ahead of us and we ran into the back of a rainstorm, which although a horrible shock for someone who's only been rained on 3 times in 3 months, it wasn't too bad. What was bad was Crater Lakes campsite. We pitched up there at 5ish with high hopes, which were soon cruelly dashed: it was empty, half building site and full of both cowshit and horrible fly type things. They wanted $10pp to camp - a princely sum for Uganda and one which we refused to pay. In the end we said we'd stay in a room for $20 - the same price as camping - and matey called his boss to check. 'Yes, that's fine, you can have a room for $40' came the reply. We told him we meant $20 for the room, not per person. To be fair he was a good lad and called Elisa down the road at Rift Valley Lodge who said she'd have us. Price was undisclosed at this stage, but the place was amazing, right on the edge of the plain overlooking Queen Elizabeth National Park below. It was a hell of a view and after some charming she agreed to letting us camp for free and we would have some beers and dinner at theirs. Again, we had the place to ourselves, and after a nice warm shower and pitching camp, we enjoyed some cold beers looking out over the plain towards Congo and the sunset. We could even dimly distinguish elephants below! Dinner was very nice and there was much back slapping on both our good luck and charming personalities. In the morning we only had 50km to do to get to Kasese where I'd been put in touch with a farming group called Joseph Initiative. The idea was to take a look around and stay there so we had a very chilled day basically cycling through a game park and trying to see some cool stuff without becoming animal fodder. The day started extremely well with a very nice breakfast but things soon began to deteriorate as Elisa handed us a bill of 40,000 for breakfast and 30,000 for camping. That was a nasty shock and we pointed out that she'd agreed to letting us camp for free. Apparently she hadn't, but we got away with it on the basis of us making our position extremely clear, and her failing to. Breakfast was a bit trickier as although we'd eaten it, we hadn't ordered it so thought it was a free treat. Here I meant to pay half price breakfast but my maths failed me and I said we'd pay 60,000 instead of the 50k. A bit annoying, but not bad value for the spot and good food. So after another round of the haggle dance, we were on our way at around 9. I'd lined up a farm tour in Kasese at with some guys called the Joseph Initiative so the plan was a chilled 50km to there, most of it through the National Park. We weren't quite sure what to expect from Queen Elizabeth, and whether we'd be allowed through: in theory it's Big 5, so cyclists would be fair game, so to speak, and you're also supposed to pay $40/person park fees to enter, but on the other hand it is a public road and the locals cycle it (usually a good sign). So, we set off, and after about 7km on an increasingly poor road, we were in the Park. No barrier or rangers or anything; just a flattened monitor to mark the collision of man and beast. We were in! It was a shame the rod was so awful as you basically had to concentrate on pothole dodging rather than admiring the scenery and looking for game. We came nice and close to some pretty big tuskers which was nice, and that took me back to my Botswana days (it was also very flat). After a bit longer we crossed the bridge (which interestingly formed part of an emergency bridge over the Thames during WWII) that separates Lakes George and Edward - this part of the world certainly isn't for the anarchists out there - and bizarrely we were in a little town just in the middle of the game park. It was pretty bizarre, and verging on the dump rather than picture-esque. I imagine if we needed water or some grub we'd have been grateful, but we were well prepared so wilderness would have been preferable. However, just after the town the battle of man and nature bore some monumental fruit in the form of four dead buffalo. This was big, big news for my roadkill page, and although very much one in the eye for the conservationists, very exciting indeed from my point of view. There was quite a crowd, and there were police everywhere with guns 'conducting investigations' so I was slightly worried about them letting me take photos. I started off erring on the surreptitious until me excitement got the better of me. I become increasingly animated and brazen, but they didn't seem to mind, which was fortunate, as to be denied the opportunity to document such a momentous find would have been a bitter disappointment. From asking around a bit, it seems a night bus smashed four buffalo, killing them, and then drove off. Then, to spice things up even more, some locals obviously chanced upon the carcasses and had two of them away for a bit of bush meat. Quite why they decapitated them but took the rest I'm not sure: I decided it was better either to take it all, and leave no evidence, or make things easier and just gut it etc there so less to carry. After that bit of excitement we came across a Spanish couple heading the other way on Mountain Bikes. We had a bit of a chin wag in a mixture of English and Spanish (Louis being a mathematician rather than a linguist) and they were quite nice, spending a month in Uganda focusing more on the off road stuff. On the back half of the park we saw plenty of live buffalo (a first for me), waterbuck, warthog, impala (obviously!) and a mongoose type thing. And then after that we crossed the equator! I'd passed 4000km a few days before, so it had been a long time coming, and I must say it was quite cool crossing over into the Northern Hemisphere. We took a few photos and then carried on to Kasese, about 10km away. Kasese was basically a massive dump full of petrol stations and not a lot else. I think the tone was probably set by another 'Fuck you' from a local kid on the approaches. A novel departure from the usual 'most welcome' indeed! It turns out that Joseph Initiative do have a farm, but it's miles away in Masindi. What they have in Kasese is a maize processing plant - drier and mill. We had a quick poke around there, and it was quite interesting, I must say. They buy locally in lots of no less than 2 tonnes (but you can bring as little as 50kg if you get it to the gate), and accept only within certain visual and moisture parameters, and then process it for export, either as kernels or flour. There's a very decent mark up on the flour side of things, and it made me chuckle that it's a German owned, for-profit company, but the mill had big USAID stickers all over it. There was clearly no farm or anywhere to camp so we said our goodbyes and just got going. That was around 3pm, and it looked like another 30km or so up to the crater lakes surrounding Fort Portal. We stopped to eat a delicious bowl of chapati, beans and avo at around 4:30, and it was a good job we did as it started to get pretty lumpy and hot. We were also expecting to be relaxing now, so it was a fairly grim afternoon all in all. We made a couple of abortive investigations about places to stay, but local consensus seemed to be Lodge Bella Vista. It was off the main road, and whoever we asked tended to point to the top of an ominously high hill. That afternoon was pretty draining, and I think the sweatiest I've ever been on tour. We ended up with 97km and 1100m of climbing in the bag, and despite breaking a rear spoke (number 4 now) on the last stretch of off-road we were soon very glad we'd stuck at it. The lodge had a campsite, so no need to go through the whole rigmarole of permission etc. We had the place to ourselves and it was $5 each to camp, overlooking a nice crater lake. After a nice warm shower and setting up camp we headed up for beers and ordered battered tilapia and chips for dinner. It was a handsome portion and good cooking so we were very pleased with the venue. We were also now well ahead of schedule and only 40km from Fort Portal. Consequently we decided to stay up late and have a pool challenge. Close run thing but I just edged the series. We then played one of the workers Mohamed a few times as he had the key so free games. Bonus! Our plan for the next day, rather than rushing up to Fort Portal, was to head to Lake Nkuruba, reputed to be the most scenic lake in these parts. That meant a short 25km on dirt, or up to FP and back down on the tar. We chose the scenic route and headed down into town at around 9. The plan was to have some breakfast, get my spoke fixed, and be on the road by 10. The mechanic, whilst much better than Hilary's one in NMO, was still very much of the village type. He didn't have any new spokes but that wasn't an issue as I carry a few on my chainstay. Quick Release skewers also seemed to mystify him so I took the wheel off and appraised him of the situation. Unfortunately it was a drive side spoke so that meant removing the cassette. I have the adaptor nut for this, but no chain whip to hold the cassette. He didn't help matters by repeatedly (literally 4 times) tightening it despite me saying UNDO. However, once the task at hand was clarified I was able to turn my attention to my beans and chapati, and he did a stirring job of putting it all back together and truing the wheel. We were all set by 10, and promptly turned off onto the dirt after just 300m of tar. They were actually really great dirt roads, and it was a very pleasant, although hilly, 20 odd km to Lake Nkuruba. Once there, we followed the signs for the community campsite and there met Sam. I knew there was supposed to be another option but he said it was 'very far' and had no power or anything. That he didn't have power either didn't seem to occur to him. Anyway, he was a bit of a salesman (classic) and it is supposed to support an orphanage so we agreed to stay. He then somehow got 50,000 off of us so he could fix us dinner (also had to be ordered then). Camping was cheap but we had to pay the same again in conservation fees he said. We wanted to go to the lake so seemed fair enough. This was when things started to get a bit weird. Sam followed us down, and even at one point started taking a piss mid conversation. He then came swimming, despite not being able to swim, and took pictures of us in the lake. I was pretty fed up of the weirdo by now, so when he asked if we could go back as he'd left reception unattended I just said that's your problem mate, we're staying here. To cap it all off, he shouted across the lake 'It's alright if I take your bike into town, yeh?'. This really riled me up, especially seeing as I had to shout NO at him about a billion times to which he'd just reply 'OK, thanks'. Once rid of Sam we didn't hang around long as Louis got attacked by a leech, it wasn't great weather, and there was nowhere to put the hammock. On the way back we came across the other campsite, literally 50m away, so we went in for a look. It was way nicer, and it turns out half the price as you don't pay conservation fees. That really annoyed me, so we headed back to our place, called Sam over, and gave him a right earful. He was a slippery chap, and even at one point mid-chastising he shoved his hand down his pants! He was a complete loony, but we succeeded in getting our 'conservation fees' refunded. It was only one night, so not the end of the world, but certainly annoying. It then started to rain, and seeing as our campsite was both crap and deserted, we headed over to the other one. We ordered African tea with avos and chapati to lessen our misery and then whilst waiting for it to turn up who should show up but Sam. He started off sitting on the next table along, but after a few minutes suddenly got up and basically sat on my lap. Bloody pest of a man! I put up with him for a little bit, but after him intently scrutinizing the menu I not so politely told him that we were still far from on friendly terms and that he should go away. I wasn't a fan of him anyway, and I certainly wasn't going to share my tea and chapati with him, and luckily he took the heavy hint and scuttled off into the rain. Good riddance! I was pretty sure I'd pay for my indiscretion if he was in charge of dinner, but there we go. When we came back to dine at 7, we found he'd snared another family so we didn't feel quite so stupid. Dinner was predictably rather poor, but I couldn't detect anything particularly nasty in there so perhaps I didn't upset him after all. We were finished eating by 7:45 - too early for bed even by our standards - so we headed back to the fancy campsite for a beer. There we threw in with Sam & Emily the Belgians we'd met earlier, and started playing some strange Belgian card game. I'm not much of a card player, but being lumped with Emily, who was considerably worse than me, meant we got a bit of a drubbing. That aside, a very pleasant evening and then back to a damp and dark campsite. From extensive guide book consultation the day before, we'd decided to head south to Bigodi Wetlands for a spot of bird watching (mostly my idea, obviously) but once we'd hit the tar and were heading south, when we passed a decent looking campsite we both decided that we were feeling pretty lazy so no harm in taking a look. I'd also very strangely woken up with a dead left leg. Nothing to do with the knee, purely muscular, so I wasn't too worried, but I was hobbling around a lot. That provided another excuse not to go for a bird walk, and when we got half price camping, two courses for the price of one, and a pineapple juice welcome drink, we decided that this spot would do just fine. Weirdly it was also a bloke that we'd seen yesterday at the other campsite. I think Ronald was his name, and he has a picture of me reclining in my hammock whilst his mate does the peace sign. So again, a bit of an odd bloke, but luckily a nice one who bent to my haggling will. After polishing off the juice, I persuaded Louis that we should dump the bags and cycle down through Kibale National Park and back up. It was another one of those you must pay to do anything, but there's a public road running through it. It was a long shot but there was a possibility of spotting some chimpanzees for free. Unfortunately all that we encountered were swarms of butterflies, way too many speed bumps, some mardy baboons and a troop of red tailed colobus. After getting back to camp following a largely disappointing game ride, I had just set up my hammock over the lake - no mean feat with my gammy leg - and gracefully ascended into its silky embrace, when it started blowing a gale. And then raining. It rained solidly from about 4pm until the next morning pretty much. Luckily Ronald/Howard took pity on us as we hadn't even set up our tents before the weather turned to crap, so he let us sleep in their safari tents rather. They also had a big fire going so it was nice to sit in front of that (the rain having mostly abated by now) and catch up with the family. Next morning we were up in the damp misty morning and away by 9ish. Only 20km stood between us and Fort Portal but we covered it at race pace so were still quite tired after getting into town. We'd been recommended to stay at the YES Hostel by a few people. Upon arrival it wasn't exactly clear why, but it did support an orphanage and whatnot so we checked in for camping. We then handed in basically all of our clothes for the laundry service and went back into town for some grub. Seeing as in Uganda the street food is so good, and cheap, we stick to that mostly, so we headed to Mpanga Market which we'd cycled past on the way in. After a restorative Rolex we delved into the market proper, picking some some giant avos for 25p each, and then some mangoes and pineapples for not much more. Weighed down with our healthy wares we then headed to Duchess, a recommended lunch spot in town. It was an expat joint, so a bit pricey, but the celebratory Tuskers upon reaching FP went down very nicely indeed. We got rained on on the way back to camp, and lost an avo to a speed bump, but the soaking wasn't too severe. After waiting out the rainstorm with a bit of table tennis (which I lost, and gave a generally pretty poor account of myself) we headed to the top of the road for some African Tea. Not the best chai I've had (Peterson's at Red Rocks still holds top spot) but not bad for the price. We dined at YES that night, and I opted for what I thought was the safe choice (compared to Louis' goat) of fish stew. It turned up over salted and undercooked, which irked me somewhat. When they took our plates away the waitress asked us how the food was, so I told her exactly what was wrong with it. She seemed rather taken aback at my frank appraisal, but she did ask. Somehow I doubt my constructive criticism ever made it back to the kitchen, but there we go. After dinner we had to endure about half an hour of quizzing by some Israeli girls, who although pleasant enough, asked stupid questions and didn't listen to the answers. We did our best to avoid then after that, although Louis was lucky enough to have them pitch their tents very close to him. Haha.
Chloe landed the next day, so our plan was to do one day of sightseeing around Fort Portal, and then get the morning bus down to Kampala on the 27th to meet Chloe and Lara (the next charitable owner of Hilary). As it turned out, we didn't really need a day exploring the Fort Portal area, and were left scraping the barrel somewhat. We decided to jump on the bikes and head out to Amabeere (breast in the local language) Caves. Mammary themed caves must be quite appealing to the male tourist, we reasoned. It was an easy, but sultry 10km out to the caves where, upon arrival, we were shocked by the price. After a long and only mildly successful haggle we departed for the caves with our fantastically named guide, Apollo. I'd noticed that the Ugandans are partial to a Greek mythological name or two, so Apollo wasn't particularly surprising. They also seem to have a penchant for sunglasses not seen in the other 8 countries I've come through. So, after waiting about 10 minutes for some pesky school children to get out of the way, we were shown to the main caves in all their underwhelming glory. I pity the woman whose breasts resemble these caves! The guiding and explanations were also somewhat lacking, but the dog nipple section of the next caves was a bit more apt. We were also showed some more alcoves/caves which then basically concluded the tour. Luckily there was no visitors book, or they would have been on the receiving end of another frank appraisal. Apollo redeemed himself somewhat by showing us a dirt road route back to Fort Portal via some more crater lakes (because we simply hadn't seen enough of those). This was where the most exciting incident of the day occurred: running down a dog! We were coming down a dirt track and there was a scruffy looking juvenile hound stood in the path. We were cycling 2 abreast and reluctant to check out momentum so I gave it a good trilling on my trusty Malawian two-tone bell, but the dog was either deaf or lazy and didn't take any notice whatsoever. Louis passed marginally in front, and obviously roused it from its standing stupour. To say it leapt sideways would exaggerate the speed of its movement, but anyhow it came my way and I ploughed straight into the dozy mutt. Cue a hell of a lot of yelping, whining and impromptu urination (on the part of the dog I hasten to add). He'd got his back leg trapped in the spokes of my front wheel, and it looked far from pleasant, but after a few seconds of freeing his leg he shot off through the hedge howling like a banshee. I must confess to being fairly amused as Tina claimed her largest victim yet, but now wasn't the time to hang around in case the locals got eggy with our reckless biking. We swiftly decided it was best just to leg it, so we zoomed off round the corner to avoid any Ugandan mob justice. I felt a bit bad about running down a dog, but it was extremely stupid in the first place so my empathy was limited by its own doziness. Such an encounter may go some way to explain why we'd seen so many dead mutts on the road. The rest of the cycle back, aside from a few glances in the wing mirror for the vigilante pursuit party, was uneventful. Back to the market for lunch, and then out to dinner out the fancy (ish) Moon Rocks Hotel to toast our successful trip up to Fort Portal. The next day we packed up early and headed to the bus stop to try and get the first bus down to Kampala. The bus stop proved a bit hard to find, but we got the timing spot on. Bikes in the underneath cabins, and just enough time to stock up on veggie samoosas and Rolexes before we rumbled out of the station at 9am. The first 60km were road works and a very poor surface, making us glad we'd not decided to cycle any of the 300km down to Kampala. The 5 hour bus journey was fairly uneventful, apart from some chap getting on dressed in a Father Christmas hat. Naturally this was paired with a morning jacket, shorts, long socks and boots. He took he prize for best, and most amusingly, dressed by an absolute mile. Probably the only other thing worth mentioning was the traveling pharmacy on the bus: some bloke started parading up and down the aisle selling everything from mysterious teeth something or other (which sold extremely well), to deep heat and aloe vera. The guy sat in between Louis and I seemed to take great delight in trying everything as it was free. Personally I didn't have the language skills to purchase any of the wares with confidence. We got off the bus at about 2 ish, and had about 15km to get to Lara's spot in Namagongo in the Eastern suburbs. We'd seen disgorged in the seething heart of the city (or it felt like it at least) and it was super super busy. The only other guy I'd spoken to about cycling in Kampala had been knocked off, twice. Whilst it was super busy, and there was little concept of giving cyclists room, I'm not sure how he came a cropper twice! It was easily the most hectic riding of the trip, but was actually good fun zooming inbetween the traffic and shouting at the boda boda guys. Traffic lights were particularly fun as most people ignored them, but we arrived unscathed and mildly exhilarated. After that taste of city riding we dumped the bikes and headed to the bar for some beers (classic) whilst we waited for the lovely Chloe to arrive and moan about the state of my beard! Haha. That concluded about 450km of riding from Kisoro to Fort Portal, and as I swap one Hazell for another I look forward to some time relaxing off the bike with the wife to be. Hopefully sharing a bed isn't quite such an awkward orooosition as with the future brother-in-law! He rode very well for a young lad, and I hope he enjoyed the Ugandan leg as much as I did. Between Kigali and starting the Congo Nile Trail, the plan was to spend a night at Nyungwe National Park to break the journey up and try to see some special monkeys. The Nyungwe stopover was also the main reason for getting Dad to bring out camping stuff as, without a car, it's hard to do anything unless you stay right in the park. So, after both getting the Ritco bus to Huye, I set off on my way at 2pm after some intensive umming and aahing, abandoning Dad to his minibus with instructions on where to get off and how much to pay. Unfortunately the cycle turned into a bit of a saga, and I was still on the road at 7pm in the dark. The principal reason for this was that is was really, really hilly, and the campsite was 90km away rather than the expected 75. My plan was to cheat a bit to make things a bit easier and quicker anyway, and after I'd done about 5km, flying along carrying only my front handlebar bag, I came across a bakkie on the side of the road. Worth asking I thought. They were going my way, but stopping often as they were doing environmental surveys of sites for the impending road widening. Charles was the main guy who I chatted to along the way, discussing the quality of Chinese road building amongst other topics. It was frustrating progress and I often felt that my schedule was slipping so was a bit worried about getting there on time. I was getting a bit ansy, but glad I stuck with them as, even though it was probably no quicker than cycling, I disembarked at 35km with fresh legs. Naturally I got out at the top of a hill so I plunged straight into a descent. However, in Rwanda downhills swiftly turn into uphills so I was soon blowing quite hard. The rice paddy vallies had now given way to wheat and barley cultivation, so you had wonderful patches of gold on the terraces dotted amongst the ever present banana trees. After a while of that I moved into Eucalyptus forest with long climbs along shaded roads, with the sun streaming between the tress. Again, also very picturesque, and it made for delightful cycling. I was climbing and climbing and was now at the highest I'd been on the bike the whole trip - around 2500m. The air was thin and made things a bit harder going, but not horrendously so. After the Eucalyptus I came into tea country, with huge hillside terraces swathed in bright green. The scenery really was amazing, and after some more pedaling I was suddenly entering Nyungwe National Park. Nyungwe is a big patch of Afro-Montane Rainforest, getting about 2m of rainfall annually. It's been protected since colonial times, and although it's shrunk a lot in size, it's still a 50km stretch of pristine forest, and home to 13 species of primates - some of them endemic to the Albertine Rift Valley. I don't think Dad experienced it in quite the same way as he didn't have anything good to say about the minibus experience, but cycling through it was amazing. I soon happened upon my first monkey which was exciting. I don't really like monkeys as they're naughty little shits, but it was nice to see something other than a dreaded vervet (the principle reason I carry a catapult). This one was a blue or grey cheeked one and was quite chilled so took some pics. Not long after that I saw the black and white colobus monkeys which were also new to me, so quite exciting all in all. The road was excellent, although very hilly, and winding your way between huge trees and a riot of greenery was really amazing riding. Easily the most scenic day I'd had on the trip, and I felt very lucky to be cycling through it as that wasn't really the plan. There was very little traffic so I pretty much had the road to myself: apart from the whirr of Tina's tyres on the tar you could hear (but not see, unfortunately) birds all around. I was expecting about 20km in the park, and didn't enter it until about 5pm, so I was already on the back foot. It turned out to be more like 35km and I ended up riding both the sun down and the moon up. I deployed the bike balls and head torch for safe riding and, although on the chilly side, it was still a great experience. I got to camp at about 7, by which time it was pitch dark, to find a bit of a worried parent waiting for me. First time on the trip so a bit of a novelty! Luckily he'd booked us in and set up camp so I didn't have to worry about that. He'd butchered putting up the Coffin a bit, but an admirable effort all the same. Camping was $30, which is a bit pricey anyway, but when Dad told me there was no running water, and certainly no hot, it took on the aspect of a rip off. Moaning about things seemed to have no effect at all, and to be honest the price reflected the general trend of expensive and low standard accommodation in Rwanda. On the upside, there was an unexpected little restaurant that turned out a very respectable beef stew with veg and rice for £3. We washed that down with a warm Primus beer and I ordered a second plate of the same again. Oink oink! Senior moment number one occurred that evening too: 'I've got Mountain Rwanda 3G signal' said Dad. 'Errr, it's MTN, the name of the network provider, not because we're on a mountain'! Following that, the guy I'd moaned at a lot also very nicely made us a fire so we got another beer and sat about there for a while. It was definitely damp wood, which required frequent and energetic wafting to get flames, but I suppose in a Rainforest this was hardly surprising. It was quite brisk temperature wise, and in an ironic twist, it was Dad who was cold all night, not I, the whimpy tropic acclimatised one. I guess old bones feel the cold a bit more, eh! Unfortunately the ridiculous pricing in Nyungwe continued the next day. In Kigali the tourist guy had told us we could walk and do trails on our own for free, but upon arrival it became clear that this wasn't the case. All activities had to be guided, and even a walk was $40/person. This was extremely vexing as I was still cross about the crap state of the campsite, but we decided to just go for it and pay $80 for a walk. Then things got even more annoying as they made us wait until a designated start time and lumped us in with two chicks. They looked on the slow side so, deciding I didn't care if I offended them, I threw a mardy and said that, for the princely sum of $80, I expect our own guide so that we could go at our own pace etc. Initially they didn't understand, and then we moved onto 'standard policy' chat, but I would not be swayed. We decided to change route to another walk where we were the only ones. To be fair, the new guides were good lads, and let us do the trail we originally wanted to - at least until we were spotted and he lost his nerve. The guy was a bit of a wheeler dealer and was hawking admission to the USAID donated canopy walkway. It's an eye-watering $60/pp and only 160m long. He started off at $40 for both of us, but when I replied to his classic 'What do you want to pay?', with '$5 each' I think he lost heart. The walk was very cool, and the first time I'd been in a Rainforest. The scenery and vegetation is amazing, but it's also quite a frustrating experience as you basically can't see anything unless it's right on the path. We saw zero monkeys, and although we could hear lots of birds, saw very few of them. The walk was actually quite tiring too, but a nice experience overall. After a good lunch (just the one portion this time) we decided not to try and wring more value out of them by doing another walk, but to head off to Kamembe where the Congo Nile Trail starts and Dad's bike was being delivered. The first section was set to be complicated as we were in the middle of a rainforest, so the first plan of attack was to ask all the cars at Uwinka. There were quite a few unhelpful Mzungus and dead ends but I chanced my luck on a fortuner as he was getting ready to leave. Jackpot - he was going to Gisakura and could drop dad at the 'bus station' (more of a t junction). So we packed up frantically and sent Dad off with as much luggage as possible. I kept one pannier and my tent, but seeing as it was only 50km that wasn't an issue really. I was also quite happy to cycle the last third of the park given yesterday's experience. I saw lots of monkeys again, and the elusive Blue Turacao. The irony of getting the best game viewing for free on the main road wasn't lost on me, but there we go. I also saw a live snake and two dead ones - fodder for the roadkill album. Upon emerging from Nyungwe it was back to tea estates and more hills. I went through some fatigued patches but it wasn't too bad as the last few km into Kamembe were downhill. By the time I got to town Dad had got off the minibus and got a taxi down to the lake with the luggage, and checked us in to Hotel du Lac. It was nothing special, and we had to share a bed, but it had a hot(ish) shower and you could see Congo from the window across the river. Very exciting but probably close enough really. After washing up and devouring a lemon cake from La Gallette we headed over to Hotel des Chutes to collect Dad's $150 steed. This was a second hand Kasimbiri (named after an extinct volcano in N Rwanda) bike from Rwandan Adventures, and rather than hire her, we agreed that we would buy her outright for $150 and donate her at the end of the trail, in the spirit of my fundraising endeavours. The important difference over the Buffalo bike was that this lady had 24 gears: a vital point of difference in the hilly, and occasionally off road terrain of the CNT. At this point she was yet to be named, and whilst an attractive looking bike, she was certainly no Tina. The hotel didn't do, or at least include, breakfast, so we set off on empty stomachs at about 8 the next morning. Seeing as the first 30km were exactly what I did yesterday from Gisakura, I knew that we were in for: a real going over in the hills department. We were straight into it pretty much, and I think we climbed from kilometre one to ten or so. Dad took it pretty well, but I'm pretty sure the only thing keeping him going was ignorance (I chose not to divulge the true extent of what was coming up). We stopped in at a restaurant, but breakfast seemed to be meat and beans so we declined the offer and carried on. I knew it was important to keep him well fed, but just when you want bananas, there aren't any. I stopped at a few places, to no avail, but did pick up some form of foodstuff. Generally speaking in Africa, baked goods are pretty rubbish - fried bread and dry, flavourless cakes are prevalent. And to make matters worse, often they seem to taste of diesel. Not the kind of fuel I'm looking for! Anyway, I bought some cakes which actually weren't that bad on the scale of awful African baking. However, Dad, clearly used to fine English dining, was unimpressed. Fussy, fussy! After a while we began to see a lot of cows on pieces of string, and eventually we happened upon a very busy cattle market. I was there first and set off in search of bananas, enlisting the help of a local in the process. No banana vendors present, yet, I was told. Consequently I turned my attention to peanuts and bought up a whole pound's worth of those. Generally in Rwanda I've found they're much fairer to the Mzungu and tend not to hike the prices. The nuts were a steal, but when a banana vendor finally appeared she was not kind to us. The middle man probably didn't help, but 800 francs for a bunch of small ones was not a good price. I moaned a fair bit, but Brook senior needed feeding so I coughed up the extortionate fee. It's more annoying when you know you're getting mugged off, but there we go. After stopping the old man buying any cows - 'You're on holiday' I told him - it was onward. Seeing as we'd sent some stuff up on the ferry, by my standards I was travelling light, with just 2 rear panniers, but I suppose it was a bit of a horrible shock for Dad, especially seeing as he always overpacks. Selfie on the first hill of the trail. Before the smiles turned to grimaces! The road was lovely, pristine tar and there really wasn't much traffic. The scenery was also staggering, dipping up and down close to the lake, so all in all it was pretty spectacular riding, and I'd been very impressed with Rwanda so far. At one point we passed a school and we must have been mobbed by about 300 kids. It was biblical in a sense, and it was like parting the Red Sea for a good kilometre or so. Even I was a bit shocked by the amount of them, and I've cycled past a fair few schools on the trip now. Rather cheekily I sped up to leave Dad to take the majority of the hassle. All part of the experience, I reasoned. Shortly after that we stopped for lunch and indulged in a bit of a Rwandan buffet. It was another classic one plate, but pile it as high as you can, affair. Dad, being new to this, got a much smaller plate than a pro like myself. I think by lunch we'd done about 40km and I was originally aiming for Kilimbi Bay where there was accommodation marked. However, either we missed it, or it wasn't signposted. Rwanda is particularly difficult as every place has two, or even three, names. Anyway, we ended up having to head for Karengera, which I think is fair to say was a bit too far for Dad. I started asking around for somewhere to stay at around 3, but there was nothing about so we had to carry on. At about 4 we saw a very nice looking sign for Green Hills Lodge, so we took the dirt road up into what turned out to be Karengera. However, our triumph was shortlived: Green Hills was an absolute dive, with rooms under construction. It was that classic situation of 'You can't stay here', but getting an alternative out of the guy was like pulling teeth. He also walked incredibly slowly. Anyway, we took our plight to the street and a nice pikipiki man said that there was a school up the hill that had lodging. I was sceptical but followed him on the bike whilst Dad waddled up the dirt road. It turns out we'd stumbled upon the official Basecamp for the trail at Karengera, and the sign gave me confidence that we'd be ok. There was a bit of a wait and some checking and checking, but then we were shown to a lovely little missionary house on the site. Dad immediately collapsed on the spare bed whilst they got the room ready around him: Rwandan Hills 1 - Dad 0. He's not much of a napper, so he must have been wiped out as he was snoring away whilst I caught up on my travel journal. I left him be and woke him at 5 ish for Fanta sundowners on top of the huge school building overlooking the lake. It really was a cracking view, just a shame you had to walk all the way into town for beers. After a warm, yet refreshing soda, we walked down to town for some supper. We found a little bar on the main dirt drag and asked if they did food. I don't think they did really, but said that if we gave them 40 minutes (meaning around an hour normally) they could do us goat kebabs and fried bananas. That would do, so we placed our order, got a table set up on the verandah, and got some beers. There was also an excellent bakery (finally) next door, so we stocked up on lots of egg and meat samoosas, and some bananas for the next day. The food was really quite good, and the accomm was both nice and cheap, so I considered it a victory and a saved day. There's no easy way of doing 70km and 1600m of climbing on a bike really, so we hit the hay at around 8. Dad did pretty well I'd say, but we had another 50km to do the next day to get to Kibuye (half way on the trail). HILLY AS BALLS!!!!! (Note the duct tape post Ritco bus drive by) We got up pretty early and were on the road by 8, before it got too warm for the Pom. The first couple of hours were very pleasant (for me at least) with the road mostly in shade as the high escarpment cut out the low sun. The roads were pretty quiet, and apart from the odd vicious hoot from a Ritco bus, we got along fine. That was until a rogue Hilux came haring along: it came round my corner, tyres squealing and mostly on my side of the road, but then Dad and a group of kids (he was asking for another push I expect) were round the bend. Apparently he completely lost the back end and was careering towards them with the rear end fish tailing wildly. Dad dumped the bike and leapt off, and was understandably a bit shaken up. As a neutral observer I was allowed to appreciate the hilarity of the situation, envisaging him piling into the storm drain, terrified. Aside from that bit of excitement, it was business as usual: amazing, amazing scenery, friendly locals, photo stops, waiting for Dad to catch up etc. We also saw our first Mzungu trail cyclist: a Swiss girl doing it on the same bike as Dad with a guide. They were nice and friendly, so we had a bit of a chat with them. I couldn't see how they were going to do it in 5 days given they'd only managed 10km by 12 that day, but there we go. Shortly after meeting them we came across a Coffee Washing Station and asked to be shown around that. Unfortunately it wasn't laundry season, but it was still interesting to look around and see how it works: it's basically for taking the berry and then mucus off the bean via a series of machines. It's then graded using an elaborate swimming pool and canal type system. No coffee available, but I didn't really care as I don't drink the stuff. Luckily day 2 wasn't as hilly, or as long as the day before, but there were still some long descents down to the lakeshore, followed by brutal climbs back up to the watershed. We took our time that day, and got to Kibuye at about 2. We headed for the recommended Home St Jean, a RC hostel overlooking the Lake with its own little beach. We checked into a twin room, then sat on the terrace with some beers and had lunch. Very civilised indeed! After that we both did a bit of washing and then headed down to the beach. It was a lovely little garden-y type of thing, with lots of plants and birdlife, and we passed a very pleasant afternoon down there. I'd been very impressed with ze Germans' travel hammock so put an order in via Dad. We strung that up between 2 trees right on the shore, and after a bathe and wash in the lake, complete with bar of soap and lather, I took first dibs on the hammock (I'd been carrying it, after all). After a lovely afternoon relaxing and reading by the lake, we headed up to the terrace for sundowners. We met some American - Brian - who had done a lot of cycle touring and the CNT a few years ago. He made me quite worried about finding somewhere to stay at Masasa the next day, but he ended up annoying me a fair bit as he was one of those types that has an opinion on everything, but not much of one. We declined his suggestion of dinner together (but did take his advice on what to order at the hostel). We enjoyed some excellent sambaza starters (little fish called Kapenta in most of the other lake regions, and probably whitebait in UK) and fish kebabs, washed down with various exotic beers. We decided that, given our timescale, and the state of Dad's arse, that we would get the bus some of the way and then cycle some of the trail from the north. For that we decided an early start was best, so we were up at 6:30, having breakfast at 7, and into town by 8. The Ritco buses we were expecting didn't run a service up to Gisenyi, but one of the smaller buses (they're odd, a lot larger than your standard Toyota HiAce minibus, and not seen them anywhere else in Africa) could take us and the bikes on the back seat to Bumba for 9000 francs. However, it was only 18,000 all the way to Gisenyi, so we decided in the end to go all the way to the top and do an excursion heading south rather. The journey was fine, not too busy or cramped, albeit a bit dusty from the road works. I'd been in regular comms with Rwandan Adventures, who I'd sourced Hilary (since christened by Dad in honour of all the hills), and Katie suggested we get off the bus at Pfunda Tea Estate and then take a scenic route to their office to collect the bags we'd sent by the ferry etc. By this time the bus was pretty chokka, so it was with a slight tinge of awkwardness that I told the driver we were getting off here. It was going to be a pain, but we'd paid a fairly hefty fair, and it would free up space for more customers on the bus if we got out. In the end it was quite painless as Dad, being the spritely young chap he is, scrambled out the window and I passed him all the bags and Hilary (front wheel removed) out to him. Tina was too large for the window exit so came down the aisle upside down with me. We then put everything back together witnessed by an ever growing crowd, most of them gawking and pawing at my skulls. Tina is always the centre of attention, and my macabre adornments cause endless fascination, closely followed by the catapult. Pfunda Estate was on the CNT Map so we decided to ask for a tour. The security guard took a lot of persuading, and we had to use a different gate, albeit one right next door, to get in, which was all rather bizarre and didn't augur well. However, it turns out there was an official tour for $10. We had to hang around for about 10 minutes whilst they searched for the cashier, and then another 20 before our tour guide Fabian pitched up. We passed the time, not sipping on some free tea as you might expect, but watching and trying to photograph sunbirds flitting about amongst the flowers, and observing the various uniforms. All workers were adorned in overalls (or jumpsuits as the Yanks would call them) and funny little caps in all different colours. It was kind of like being in a rainbow themed prison to be honest, and then when Fabian arrived we found ourselves made to don ridiculous labcoats and caps. I don't even like tea, and didn't think much of being dressed as an absolute doucher for the duration, but there we go. Fabian wasn't much of a guide to be honest, and what could have been really interesting was concluded in about 20 minutes, without so much as a hint of a cuppa. We did learn a few things, such as the new leaves can be picked every 10-12 days in peak season, and they'll process something like 600 tonnes of leaves a day. It is then fermented for about 12 hours before being chopped and turned into an odd pea green playdough. It's then dried via a pretty awesome wood fired boiler and drier, and then mechanically graded according to size, the larger stuff being better apparently. The factory smelt very nice actually, and we both fancied a brew after the tour so we cycled round the corner to their tea shop. 50p a cup and powdered milk didn't make the best impression but it did the job on Dad who bought two lots of tea to take home. After tea and biccies (the saving grace) we headed for Rwandan Adventures. There were some pretty ropey directions, and some equally paranoid following of them, especially where hills were involved, but we actually got there fine in the end, via a cool dirt road short cut. Once there, at about 2ish, we set about getting some local advice and making a plan for doing some trail from the top end the following day. We ended up wangling their garden for camping purposes, which was very generous of Katie and convenient for us. The plan for the afternoon was to go to the hot springs, possibly for a massage, and then for a swim in the Lake. However, what ensued was the first argument of the holiday. Those who know my father know that he has a tendency to just wander off, so I guess it wasn't surprising when I got back from filling up my water bottle to find him gone. I, reasonably I considered, thought he must have got a head start to the springs, so set off after him. I went all the way to the hot springs, which was probably 3km away, and then turned around. I met some Aussies on fancy bikes (Rohloff hub and disc brakes) and talked to them for a while, and he still didn't appear. About 40 minutes later I came upon him just by our starting point. I was pretty hacked off with him by now and told him off. Of course he said he didn't leave, just going 'a few metres to check out the lodge'. I pointed out that he'd disappeared so naturally I assumed he was going towards what we agreed to do, and not the opposite direction. It's Mum who can't tell her left and rights, so he couldn't even use that as an excuse! We both cycled towards the springs in a huff, when I told him I didn't really want to go any more. It was probably the wrong choice as the bar we went to was not very good, and the water all oily so no good for swimming. On the plus side, after a beer and meagre serving of sambaza as a snack, we were on improving terms. We decided to check out the lodge opposite for a potential dinner venue, and this place was very nice indeed. It had a little craft shop, and Dad immediately took a liking to a goatskin rug. Shopping - Classic Dad! We were coming back for dinner and goatman was to bring more wares round for inspection. Dinner was excellent except Eric the waiter mugged us off a bit on the G&Ts: we decided to try Ugandan Waragi gin, and Eric came and made them at the table for us. However, rather ominously the bottle of gin remained. It turns out you have to buy the it by the bottle, all 350ml of it! It made for a few G&Ts too many to be honest, but we almost finished it. The next morning the woman next door observing our breaking up of the camp hissed at me (Rwandans have a horrible habit of doing this to get your attention, which I hate), and motioned that I should give her the bottle. That was pretty depressing as it was about 8 in the morning, and she had plenty of child caring to be getting on with rather than boozing. Her attitude may have explained why, on the way to sundowners last night, one of the kids shouted 'Hey Mzungu, fuck you!', and gave me the finger. This was the first Mzungu abuse (which I'd understood at least) on the whole trip, and I must admit I was pretty shocked. Naturally he received the exact same response in reply, which he found hilarious, and I admit I found myself chuckling about it a few minutes later. Cheeky bastard, eh! After packing up camp, doing my bit for stemming African alcoholism, and making porridge, we set off on our third day of the trail. We left at about 10 and the plan was to do about 40km of dirt roads down to Kinunu, overnight there, and get the local water taxi back early in the morning. The first 15km were quite tough, with poor roads meaning you couldn't really enjoy the cycling in my opinion: you had to constantly be on your brakes and weaving around dodging stuff. I'm more of a roadie at heart, so that's probably why I was longing for the nice sweeping tar descents rather than being bounced around at 12kph. It was also super busy, and constant 'Give me money' detracted somewhat from the experience. However, after that initial stretch, things opened up a bit more, both in terms of village/population spacing, and better, more undulating dirt road. Then it was a real pleasure to cruise along the edge of the lake, taking in the views and greeting the locals. I came to rename the CNT the Turkey Trail as there were so many of the birds around. We both tried gobbling at them - like father, like son I guess - but these ones don't respond to gobbling; a high pitched scream one of the herd boys showed me (yes, the turkeys are often accompanied by a herder) was what was needed. He found it utterly hilarious that my high pitched squealing went unanswered, and collapsed in a storm drain laughing. We dipped down into a fishing village with some rather rustic roads on both the descent and ascent, but funnily enough it was in another hilltop village where they were cooking sambaza over little charcoal braziers. Dad didn't want any, but I got 50ps worth served up in a banana leaf. The good thing about these little fish is that, apart from being delicious, they are easy to share. I dished out the remaining 20 odd to my audience. We renamed the Congo Nile Trail the Turkey Trail due to the amount of the birds we saw along the way. The descent down to the lakeshore at Kinunu was very rough again, and I noticed upon arrival that I had broken another spoke - the third of the trip. This was a bit surprising as I was traveling relatively light, with only one pannier on the back. Maybe they're all just getting a bit worn out after so much riding. My derailleur was definitely getting a bit ropey and skipping gears and jamming a lot too. There were two options for the night in Kinunu, and we picked the fancier Rushel lodge. It was rather large and empty, but I haggled us a decent deal on a room and breakfast, and it had a beach/lake front so job done. We rode all the way down to the waters edge and plunged straight in for a dip. It had been a tough, but spectacular 40km on dirt roads, with plenty of hills. Dad went off to order beers and I went for a full on Lake bathe and laundry session. I got roundly abused by the local boys across the water, but they all get butters in the lake so I decided I could too! Dad then fell asleep in the hammock mid beer, so I polished that off for him, and took a pic of him snoring. Dinner was an excellent repeat of sambaza to start, and then tilapia curry for me. Another early night followed - classic - as we had to be up at 5:30 for 5:50 breakfast in order to get the boat back to Gisenyi. As luck would have it, our very friendly waiter Lewis was also getting the boat, so after pancakes, chai and omelette by his own fair hand, we walked down to the lake with him. We boarded at 7, and enjoyed the 2,5 hours ride sat on the roof of the boat with our bikes. Apart from one rush of activity where we had to hastily don life jackets as the boat police were approaching, it was all very relaxing and an extremely pleasant way to get back to town. That was the Congo Nile trail concluded for us, and I think we'd done pretty well, all things considered. We'd missed out about a 40km section, most of which was roadworks, so couldn't lay claim to completing it all, but we'd mixed it up with some good long days on the bottom tar half, a bit of a bus ride, some dirt roads from the North, a tea estate and coffee washing tour, and a boat trip. Upon getting into Gisenyi we spent a few hours getting Tina repaired and serviced, and planning the remainder of the trip (Dad in a major senior moment, thought he was flying on the Saturday, not the Sunday night he actually was). The servicing was taken care of by the marvelous, no-hand track stand Marcel, with me peering over his shoulder and trying to feel useful/learn something. I tried to make Dad come up with a plan so that perhaps he would have more of a sense of timescale for the remainder of his holiday. We'd decided that, having bought Hilary for Dad, we'd try and get her into Uganda for Louis (the future brother in law) to ride for a few days, and then donate her to a friend's charity project in Kampala. Without being too boring, we decided to get another big Ritco bus up to Musanze as that helped me with bike logistics, and was also on the way for Dad's trip back to Kigali on SUNDAY. We'd do some exploring out of Musanze using the extra day and night. The whole bike into Uganda thing was still unresolved, but it was very useful to get Tina serviced and have a base at Rwandan Adventures to plan from and sort out some loose ends - so thanks very much to Katie who was a big help to us over the course of that week. I'd probably been a bit hard on Dad at times, particularly on the riding side of things, but it's sometimes quite tough to adjust your mindset from that of solitary speedy cyclist where you only have to think about yourself. It's funny as Dad said he was finding it very relaxing, not having to think about anything, whereas I found it a bit stressful making decisions for two, and trying to make sure he enjoyed himself. Overall I think we got the balance of things right, and I certainly hope he enjoyed the trip and experience. We'll see how soon he goes near a bike again I guess! Trail completed, and a very tired Dad. I'd also seen him buy a Red Bull the day before, so it's fair to say I tired him out! I finished his beer whilst he dozed - you snooze you lose!
After disembarking the Liemba at around 9:30, paying more port fees at immigration, and dodging a bag check with skulls cunningly disguised under Napoleon's wig and my floppy hat, I tagged onto the Germans and headed for their choice of accommodation: Aqua Lodge. After some poor navigation we were there quite swiftly, it being both unsignposted and spitting distance from the port. I left camping rate negotiation to them as it was their choice, but it was quite a nice spot right on the Lake. They were wiffing about so I just got some washing done, roped them into changing $20 into Tanzanian Shillings for me, and shot off into town. What a joy to be speeding along pannier free! She was a bit twitchy at first, but got the hang of it swiftly. Just like riding a bike really! I wanted to go and visit the Livingstone memorial up the road in Ujiji and also figure out the bus situation for the next day. I also decided in the end to make the effort and get a Tanzanian SIM. This was partly to try and instill some level of organisation and preparation for Dad coming out to Rwanda, and partly because I'd been out of comms for a few days. This turned out to be a real palava with registration needed and no less than 3 photos as well as signature, address and all sorts. After that I tackled the prodigious hill up into town and over into Ujiji. It's quite a pleasant town with a nice old railway station and lots of market stalls and tuktuks and KingLion motorbikes whizzing about. At the top of the hill I stopped at a bus ticket booking office. Uh oh - Saratoga had nothing going tomorrow. He then started blathering on about adventure and I was starting to get cross. 'Yes I was on an adventure already, and didn't want booking a bus to turn into one'. It transpires that there was another bus company called Adventure across the road. The guy in there, Dennis, was very nice and helpful, but seemed to just make problems. I showed him the bike and he said he wasn't sure it would fit. It was a bit like pulling teeth but I gathered it was a full on 60 seater coach. No roof rack but surely no issues getting Tina in the bins underneath. She's not that fat when bagless, after all. Dennis would not be moved, and asked me to come back at between 4-6 to test it out. I wasn't keen on this but I had to get away tomorrow so agreed I would swing by after the memorial visit. The ride to the memorial took on a rather Belgian hue with about 3km of pavé to tackle. I got there and the nice gateman came running over to let me in. 'Welcome, welcome. 20,000 entry'. £15?! Not a chance my friend. I just laughed at the guy and went into the compound. Let the games begin! The charade continued with the 'proper' admissions oke also asking for 20,000. I just flatly refused: I was keen to see the memorial and whatnot seeing as I'd been following in Livingstones's footsteps to some extent, but I'd also been to a few African museums now, none of which are worth more than about a quid entrance. The guy Dennis (one of them was called Dennis that day) looked crestfallen but not altogether surprised. 'How much do you want to pay then?' That's a dangerous question. 'Nothing' was the reply. The whole process took probably 15-20 minutes with a cross forming and in depth discussion about the morality of me having juju skulls on my bike. It was all good fun (or at least I enjoyed it) and they came down to 12, then 10, then 5. My best was 2000 and in the end we agreed I'd pay some more at the end 'if it was worth it'. Dennis obviously liked my style (or hadn't earned enough from the ticket cash), as he attached himself to me as tour guide and photographer. He was a decent oke, and definitely told me (or made up) some stuff I wouldn't have found out otherwise. For example, where the monument stood was actually bang on the lakeshore 150 odd years ago. It had since plummeted about 200m due to a navigable channel into the Congo river being dug, water extraction and tectonic plate shifts. It must be mostly due to the plates as it's an absolutely massive lake so even a fall of 1m is an unimaginable amount of water. He then told me that the Arab slavers planted Mango trees all along the slaving route to Bagamoyo on the East Coast as markers and providers of shade and food. The original tree that Livingstone and Stanley met under started to die in the 1920s and the Poms, aware of the historical significance of the site, took 4 cuttings from the tree and planted them around. 2 have survived and are now 93 years old (they're called Robert and Mugabe). Dennis encouraged me to scale one for a photo. Not sure why, but I enjoy a scramble so had a crack. That and the memorial itself, made of holy stone from Jerusalem (Livingstone was a man driven by an extraordinary religious zeal), was pretty much it. There was a distinctly sub par, even by African standards, 2 room museum. One of the rooms, the Tanzania one, was empty apart from a bit of rubble. I stood there just imagining so poor Mzungu losing the plot after paying 20,000 entrance fee. Based on that they got no more of my money, but I did bung Dennis another 2000 for showing me around. On the way back I tried catching up with a few people as I had a full 1GB of data to use in 24 hours. Despite being able to see, and indeed almost touch, the signal mast, I became increasingly enraged as it cut out every 30 seconds. Oh well, coverage has certainly made the trip a lot more civilised than even 10 years ago I suppose. After that I pitched up at Dennis no. 2's office. Surprise, surprise - no bus. There was another one across the road, a similar one I gathered, so after much hand wringing and ear bending I persuaded him to ask if we could try putting the bike in there as a trial and sort the matter once and for all. They opened the largest bin and it didn't look good. Balls! Dennis then made a few phone calls and it got to the point where they would definitely take me, but it would be 15,000 on top of the 20,000 for me. I didn't really have a choice as I had to get to Kigali in time to meet Brook senior, and I definitely wasn't going to make it by bike alone. So, I paid for my seat and took the ticket, with the balance to pay in the morning. Dennis said I must be there before 5 in order to get it packed in there, which would mean a 4am wake up and 10km cycling in the dark. Not ideal. We then walked over somewhere else for a reason I can't quite fathom, and whilst he was talking to someone else I noticed a nice looking Land Cruiser with a roof rack. So I sauntered over, stuck my head in the passenger side window and simply said 'Nyakanazi?' (where the dirt road ends and tar begins - hence my preferred destination). 'Hapana', (no) was the answer. 'Not today'. A glimmer of hope - so when are you going then? It turns out the guy Ibrahim was heading practically all the way to the Rwandan border the next morning. I'd have to pay for my ride; this is Africa after all. But even if more expensive than the bus, it was a later start, would be faster, and I could get dropped and start cycling whenever I wanted. I couldn't believe my luck. In fact, I didn't really until he showed up at 8 the next morning (he moved it back from 7 which worried me a bit). Dennis took it all rather well, recognising that it made a lot more sense for me, and probably the bus guys too. He refunded me my ticket and wouldn't even take me up on the offer of a free beer to say thanks very much for his help. I think he saw it more as his good deed for the day, but I must admit I had pangs of guilt at wasting so much of his time for no reward. I returned to camp feeling pretty smug with myself. It was my last night with the Germans, and probably high time seeing as when I came back they were 'jamming' on a eukelele and guitar sat on the beach by the lake. I think I'll leave it at that as they've basically done everything wrong for me in that scenario. I had a bath in the lake, Happy Gilmore caddy style, and then went off to Bangwe Beach for a solo dinner and some peace and quiet. I'd just ordered my food and a Kilimanjaro when one of the crew from the Liemba turned up. I donated half my beer and got the inside scoop of the company set up, liquidity, profitability and freight rates for the voyage. I shan't get too into that, but it was interesting stuff. Their break even is 24,000,000 shillings, and he thought they'd miss the next sailing as they're not allowed to depart with only one main engine (you can get away with it if it happens mid voyage). The guy is nice enough, but is a bit of a patronising sod - for example once I'd ordered my food he told me I should have eaten at where I was staying instead. Cheers then! - so I dashed off to hustle some pool instead. That went pretty well, and despite the distinct disadvantage of no local knowledge as far as both the run of the table, and the rules, are concerned, I was 4 wins for 0 losses at one point. I didn't take losing badly but I retired after that single loss as one of the locals looked pretty eggy that he didn't get to play because the Mzungu was winning everything. A brief goodbye to Mr Crewman and I was home by about 10. I'll be honest, that's pretty late for me, and the Germans weren't around so I thought they'd gone to bed already. It turns out they got back in at 11 ish, but I was far too snug, and nude, in my tent to get out and say goodbye. I was awake from 3am not feeling great and I was up and on my way into town in the dark. It gave me a chance for a maiden test of the bike balls Charlie got me for my birthday. I didn't get run over so I'll recommend them to anyone who is looking for a comedy bikelight that also saves lives. Waiting for Ibrahim to arrive I focused on using up my data before it expired by offlining google maps and the like. I also did a bit of breakfast shopping: jamless doughnuts and bananas from the street vendors. My ride pitched at 8 with 2 more passengers: Crispy, who was very nice, and his silent sister who didn't say anything for the first 3 hours. She was certainly an odd one, alternating between trying to sleep and using her 2 mobile phones. Her first words were Swahili, but given what ensued next, I can only imagine was, 'Quick, pass me a plastic bag, I'm about to chunder'. It's quite awkward sharing the back seat with an anonymous girl heaving into a plastic bag whilst crying a little bit. I alternated between offering unhelpful suggestions such as eating something or sitting in the front instead, and smirking with amusement. The lads in the front seemed very nonplussed about it. There was no stopping, or indeed slowing down, just a bit of fresh air for 5 minutes before it got too dusty. Luckily it didn't smell so the second time it happened I was able to just keep on chowing my chippati rather than get involved. I don't know whether Dennis (keeping with the theme) is normally a bad traveler, but her illness should be viewed in context: the road was an absolute shocker, and we tackled it at pace. I can't really excuse her sullen silence for the first half an hour as that was perfectly fine tar: maybe she knew what was coming, and steeling herself against it. Basically the road descended into absolute chaos with busses, lorries, cyclists, pedestrians and taxis all looming out of a dense red mist of dust. Just to add to the fun, it was also raining a little bit. I felt extremely glad to be ensconced in a Land Cruiser sealed away from all the dust and rain. The Germans were determined to at least try the dirt road, despite my (sound) advice to just not bother. I spared them a thought from time to time. Admittedly it was more along the lines of you're naive and stupid than I respect you for trying. You've got to pick your battles on an African cycle tour I think, and 300 odd km of terrible and busy dirt road isn't one of them I don't think. We stopped a couple of times in 4 hours but otherwise we just kept on going. Ibrahim was a jolly chap, and I enjoyed listening to their melodious Swahili from the back seat, picking up the odd word or phrase, but he wasn't messing around in the driving department. I wouldn't describe it as manic, but he certainly subscribed to the theory that if you're bigger then you hoot and them until they're out of your way. Often it was unnecessary, and some poor laden cyclist having a panic attack, and veering off of the road, was a common sight. Likewise pedestrians and motorbikes would often swerve or leap out of the way. It was the goats that I had the most respect for, blithely ignoring the beeping bravado. I found myself wondering what would have happened if Mr Cyclist had held his nerve and stuck to his line. He probably would have won out, but then I suppose no one wants to test the theory. No NHS out in the bush! I would describe it as a proper African road: awful condition, no real rules, a bit of construction going on, super busy, and a few crashes and breakdowns sprinkled along the route. At about 10:30 we started passing the buses that had left 2 hours before us. One had broken down, but as we overhauled the others, I felt very very lucky. Even motoring along on our express service we didn't get to Nyakanazi, where the tar starts again, until almost 2pm. I spent a lot of the time just watching and observing, enjoying the lack of effort needed to cover the distance, but also feeling a bit detached from the environment compared to riding a bike. We also chatted a bit, and covered both European and African politics to a large extent. I suggested they needed to get the President to visit Kigoma, and then he'd see first-hand how awful the road was, and do something about it. Crispy told me that he was in fact from around these parts, but said that they have an African saying for this type of thing, basically along the lines of 'You can't speak with your mouth full'. It essentially means the guy is gorging himself at the trough of power, and is thus too busy to do anything about it. It did make me chuckle, although the expectations, even from successful or educated members of the public, is depressingly low. Getting all crazy beating the trucks up the hills in Tanzania.The timing put a different complexion on things: whilst I didn't want a lift all the way to the border and ending up doing the 150km from Rusumo to Kigali too quickly, ending up killing time there, I wanted to get to within about 25km of the border by the end of the day. The road continued to be pretty atrocious, and in fact tar and potholes is sometimes worse than a more uniform bumpy dirt road. In the end I got dropped somewhere I can't remember the name of, at about 3:15 with 66km to go until the border. I'd like to have cycled more in Tanzania, but it seemed like the right compromise for getting some riding in, arriving in Kigali on time, and not cheating too much. I had the money chat with Ibrahim and we agreed on 30,000 for the trip. I think we were both happy with that as it gives him about £25 in his pocket as a bonus and it really helped me out. That it worked out cheaper than the bus was just the cherry on top. I was very fortunate to get that lift, so it just goes to show how far a bit of speculative canvassing can go. The guys drove off after a bit of a photoshoot, abandoning me to an ever increasing crowd of onlookers. I bought some peanuts off of the first kid on the scene, and went to the shop for 3 litres of water. From talking to Leo about his cycle across Tanzania, and from observing both the lack of bush pumps, and the amount of people collecting water from rivers in 25l drums and cycling off with them, I decided that I needed plenty of water to see me through. Buying that 3l took me up to 5 total. That's 5kg on the hills, but would be needed if I bush camped. I turned out to be correct in my prediction and quite a few people were after my mansi. Unfortunately I needed it as, even though I didn't set off until gone 3, it was hot and hilly. For that reason I took it fairly steady as my only objective was to get within striking distance of the border for a mid morning crossing. As I'm sure you can see from the pictures, the landscape has taken a real pounding. There were a few charcoal vendors knocking about, but not that many. Probably because there are basically no trees left to charcoal-ify. It was quite a depressing landscape, but also one which I was really glad I'd got out and cycled through: the people were all friendly and enthusiastic, and the landscape was actually quite striking in a lunar, post-apocalyptic kind of way. Gawking at the landscape and degradation kept me quite busy, when I wasn't weaving around potholes or saying hello to people. I was coming down a hill when a whole herd of cattle crossed the road. This was my first encounter of the Akergole cows famous in Rwanda. The best way to describe them would be tuskers as they have the most gigantic horns going. I got serious skull envy looking at the choicest animals. They do look a bit ungainly though as, although it may be down to the environment, there's not to them body or head wise, and then they have a whopping great set of horns up top. In the next hour I'd see a lot more of the beasts, and they looked like some giant hedgehog or ancient instrument of war bearing down on you along the road. Exciting stuff indeed! It was a bit earlier than I was expecting - about 5:30 - but I spotted a pleasant looking place with a banana plantation and bunting hung out. I assumed it was a school or somesuch, and decided to give it a go. After a lot of sign language and ropey Swahili, the security guard let me in after signing some register. Fancy place! I got down the bottom and encountered nuns - lots of them. I decided there and then that I'd probably found a place for the night. I spotted a couple of Mzungus, an old couple from New York called Sergio and Joanna, so approached them for permission. They explained that this was a new project for helping the elderly affected by the refugee crisis and the ensuing 'missing generation' and it was being inaugurated tomorrow. What a coincidence. However, they couldn't give me permission to camp as the hierarchy went up to a certain Sister Madiza, who wasn't about. The Yanks started getting on my nerves after a while but luckily Sister M then turned up. She was very very nice (as you'd expect I suppose) and practical too. She had to get approval from the AG or something like that, so set about calling her. I didn't follow too closely, but rather wolfed down the peanuts I'd bought earlier whilst my fate was being decided. After a bit longer I was in, providing I let them photograph my passport. Rather bizarre but naturally I agreed (as did Sister M on how handsome I was). I set up camp under a tree a way off, after raking out a nice spot. Whilst in the process a nice mik came over to chat. I was quite aware during the approval process that I wasn't on the most PC bike around, and there was an awkward moment when she asked what the bike balls were. 'Oh, just a light in case I have to ride in the dark', I replied breezily. Close call that one. There was no water or anywhere to shower so it was basically bush camping with a security guard at hand (3 in fact). The nuns did give me a bottle of water and some cake things which was good of them. Dinner sorted! I didn't sleep well that night either but not sure why. There was a lot of mooing of cows going on, possibly explained by the hyena calls. I was quite surprised to hear the whoooop and manic cackle of hyena as the environment seemed pretty barren and lifeless. But it was nice to listen to them as I'd not heard any since Botswana I don't think. No lion though luckily - I felt that would have tested the mettle of the night guards a bit too much. I got up early ish to a pretty dull and grey morning. I made a load of porridge which I struggled down over about half an hour. I also had a sore throat again, which was either due to all the dust yesterday, or that cold/flu coming back. Not great but nothing to be done. I was on my bike and on the way out at 8:55 when Sister M turned up with her bakkie full of nuns. After a few photos and her asking for my details I set off. I'm sure she'll be kept quite busy praying for my soul if she starts following the blog! If Rwanda is the land of 1000 hills, then Tanzania is the land of 999. It was a tough 27km to the border, with almost 500m of climbing along the way. I was crossing at Rusumo Falls, a place where international press gathered during the 1994 genocide, and reported seeing bodies swept over the falls at the rate of about 2 a minute. A sobering entrance to Rwanda, and reminder of the horrific recent history of the country. That said, I looked forward to seeing what they'd achieved in the intervening years. The border was nice and easy, and with an East African Tourist Visa under my belt, that would be my last one, as long as I didn't decide to nip over into the Congo. I was a bit concerned for my skulls at the border as I thought Rwandan officials would be the least likely to let me off or make a plan. Thus, rather than being let through, some man (or woman - hard to tell) with a gun summoned me over for a bag search. A bit of a gulp (back skull was just draped over with my trusty proteas hat) and out with the high school French. What exactly are you hoping to find?, and I've been all the way up to here without any searching going on. I showed him/her how boring my front right pannier was and was let through. Phew! I then sorted out a sim, ate some grub, and set off into Rwanda. True to form, it was an uphill away from the border post. Classic. A lorry passed me with a cyclist hanging onto the back. However, I was neither brave nor tired enough to try that out at the moment. On the ascent I accrued various cyclists as I went. They were mostly taxi guys as the ones laden with bananas or rice or maize (or anything - I've seen live goats, about 20 chickens draped over the handlebars, a fridge, crates of used bottles, and milk churns) were pushing rather than cycling. We chatted a bit in a mix of broken Swahili, English (on their part only, obviously) and French, and I was told off for going too fast by some of them. However, aside from the fact that Tina and I ride to our own pace, we had places to be as we had to make Kigali by tomorrow and I wanted to get sub 100km away today. They gradually fell away during the climb, and I found that in general, depending how much they're carrying, they'll draft or pass you on the downhills and fall off on the (rare) flat sections and uphill. Don't get me wrong, if I slapped it into top gear and churned away, they'd not be able to keep up on the descents. But, given the amount of hills I preferred to chill on the downhills and save myself. Having crossed the bridge/border into Rwanda, there was a palpable change. For starters, customs had an X-Ray scanner for the trucks, and then more generally there were actual bins around. It was busy again, with lots of people about, and we were also back in aid 'Mzungu, give me money territory' so it had nuances of Malawi. But I'd say it was Malawi on something like Ritilin, or some other performing or concentration enhancing drug: there was a sense of purpose and intention lacking elsewhere on the continent. Don't get me wrong, it wasn't the shift change I had thought might be apparent. There were still a lot of bars, loud music, rubbish and people not appearing to do much, but my general sense of things was that this was a population out to improve their lot, rather than live with it. I also found that here the kids like to chase you a lot more; something that gets a bit awkward on the old hills as sometimes it's tough to shake them. I started dishing out high fives so that they felt they had achieved something and would then desist with the pursuit. Nice friendly people though, I must say. It came across as a very pleasant Africa to me, and I found the sense of purpose and optimism encouraging. The roads were also good, especially compared to Tanzania, and the roadside food was plentiful and decent. Nothing not to like really - except the hills. And boy was it hilly: I was in for over a mile of vertical ascent after a day of just 104km. It was relentless riding in a way, where you either had to work hard on the uphills or concentrate on the downhills. There were occasional flat sections along valley floors but otherwise it was up and down. The countryside had a vague sense of SE Asia to it, and I was surprised to come across a lot of rice paddies and flooded paddy fields. Otherwise the banana tree ruled, and I found myself wondering what the landscape looked like before introduction from S America. A lot of the trees were fast growing non-indigenous types such as Eucalyptus and Pine, and whilst this was a shame, at least they recognised the land-pressure and deforestation issue and had tackled it pretty effectively. The pine-shaded roads also made for pleasant shaded riding, which although in overcast conditions, was still quite warm. We're now officially equatorial, and I was actually expecting more of a riot of greenery. However, I'm not complaining as greenery means rain, which I don't like whilst cycling. That first day in Rwanda I went through good patches and bad. After a hilly 25km to the border, I felt very frustrated, not to mention knackered, after 2 hours and only about 30km done in Rwanda. I stopped for lunch at a buffet type place where you pay per plate. They'd pulled the usual trick of supplying rather small plates, but I followed the local example of going high to compensate for the lack of circumference. I cautiously shuffled back to my table, spilling beans and chips as I went. After demolishing the and washing it down with a Stoney Ginger Beer I settled my tab (£1,60) and got underway. The feed helped me no end, and a good job too as I soon found myself on a rather gargantuan climb. I enjoy a good hill so just plonked Tina in the granny ring and spun up the hill, enjoying the sites (and overtaking). I'm not exactly sure but it was about 300m in one whack. By the time I got to the top I was a sweaty mess so I treated myself to an apple juice and a few cakes whilst I cooled off. In terms of Rwandan sophistication, it was a mixed bag: I'd passed some guys undertaking what looked like a full engine rebuild on a truck on the side of the road - I guess you could say this was primitive, but also argue that they were fixing it rather than just dismantling the vehicle - I also saw another lorry where the guy had his charcoal burner out. You're clearly in for the long haul if that's the case I decided. I couldn't decide whether to vilage camp or not that night, but after no shower the night before, I decided a nice lodge with a warm shower and clean sheets was a better idea. Boy did Rwanda disappoint in those stakes! The place I was directed to was cheap, at only £5 a night, but it really was dive to be honest. In the end, seeing as they couldn't provide a mozzie net, I got the Coffin out and slept in the garden for £3 instead. The bucket shower in a dark and stinky outside bathroom was not what I'd been looking forward to, and in an ironic twist, it was Tina who got a room for the night whilst I camped in the garden. She's living the African Dream that one! It wasn't a great night's sleep but I was up and on the road by about 8:45. After struggling with the porridge yesterday I made do with 3 hard boiled eggs and a packet of party biscuits, with a promise to stop for something more within the hour. I pulled in at a supermarket and scored some meat and egg samoosas and some chippatis and bananas. More excellent scenery and friendly people ensued with lots of friendly waves and bikers coming along for a chat and/or a race. I was only too happy to oblige on both counts. The country is very very hilly, and after a few lumps and bumps for the first 40km I then enjoyed a lovely descent down into the valley floor. The hillsides are mostly cloaked in banana trees (they account for about 30% of productive land apparently), with a bit of terracing, but the valleys are where it's really going on, with a patchwork of rice and other crops creating a lovely mosaic effect. Having zoomed down quite a long way, I was rather worried that a gargantuan climb back out of the valley would appear before Kigali. However, that wasn't the case luckily and I got to the city with only about 800m of ascent. Before getting to the city proper, on one of the descents I decided to put my 'hold your ground' theory to the test. There was a lot of honking but nothing coming the other way, and whilst all the other cyclists around me bailed I tucked myself over but didn't drop off the shoulder. The next minute I'd lost my wing mirror: the bastard had knocked it off! It was a big green Ritco coach, and he got the treatment, not that he cared I expect. Thus, I was a bit nervous going into Kigali as, even though the roads are decent, it's busy with trucks, cars, buses, taxis and pikipikis (motorbike taxis). I'd reattached my mirror so now dived off onto the rough tar when I thought I had to. I found it quite a confusing city, ranged over several hills and valleys, and although perhaps lacking the character and history of some other African cities, first impressions were good. I wish I could say the same for the hostel: I'd heard it was a bit of a meccah in Kigali, but I found it run down and overpriced to be honest. I got to the hostel at around 2:30, and with Dad landing at 8:30 I thought about taking a nap. However, instead I went and took Tina to the car wash for a good scrub after 300km of dusty roads on top of a Land Cruiser. While she was in the spa I went to the supermarket for some food and water (as the hostel was more than doubling the price of a bottle, the cheeky sods). There I found a lion bar, a lion branded beer called 'Turbo King' and some sausage rolls. They went down nicely after the samoosas and ice cream I'd enjoyed about 15km before Kigali. After that I got invited for some beers with some ladies going on one of those overlanding truck holidays. They were a nice enough bunch, and after a few of those I jumped on a pikipiki to the airport. They're slightly worrisome drivers, but for £1,50 fare you can't complain too much. Brook Snr emerged at about 9:15 and I decided to get him straight into things by chucking him on a mototaxi back to the hostel too. Haha. We then had a beer and thrashed out a bit of an itinerary (I'd since found him a bike, with gears and panniers to be delivered to the start of the Congo Nile Trail). We decided one day in Kigali would cover things so we made a fairly early start, heading out on foot, and to spend more time on cycling and more nature based activities. Hopefully this was a decisions that he wouldn't regret too much! First stop was a pretty mediocre craft market (silly idea) and after being ushered into every single stall and repeatedly refusing the same old handcrafts, we pikipikied to the Genocide Memorial. Obviously this wasn't going to be a lighthearted affair given the subject matter, but I thought it was vital that we go in order to get a better understanding of Rwanda's history. We spent a few hours there and it was a very well organised and sensitively handled. I knew a bit about it from having read some books about African history: how Hutu and Tutsi was never an issue or racial divide until the Belgians came in and categorised everyone by wealth (cattle ownership, obviously) and nose shape and size, and then the racial division was exploited until it festered and caused divisions. What did surprise me was how much the writing was on the wall - the Hutu government set up a youth militia, preached a genocidal rhetoric and basically allowed small massacres or pogroms to happen under its watch. The genocide in April 1994 wasn't a coincidence, but rather the culmination of a long planned extermination of the minority Tutsi. What was also horrendously disappointing was the reaction, or rather complete lack of action, from the UN and Colonial powers. In fact, France was responsible for a lot of military aid to the government and then did nothing as it was put into grisly action. One really struggles to comprehend humanity and how we're capable of such things, and in fact you lose face in the human race as you read about the atrocities committed: the children's room was particularly horrific. I really don't know how you start to come back from such a awful massacre and rebuild the country. They'd murdered over a million of their countrymen (the Kigali monument had 259,000 people in mass graves there) and whole communities had just been wiped out. Friends turned on friends, and even family on family. And this wasn't some sterile, distant extermination such as the Jewish gas chambers: this was brutal, visceral, hand-to-hand extermination, with machetes, clubs and blunt objects doing most of the killing. I just don't know how you go from battering infants and children to death to trying to sort everything out and start again. They set up what sounds like a very effective community courts system where you can confess and ask for forgiveness, or go to prison. The volume of cases they dealt with was outstanding, and I think it was quite successful, but it must have been an extremely complex and stressful business. After such a sobering experience we then went into the centre of town to explore a bit, and it's back to business as usual. What these guys have managed to put behind them, and how much they've achieved since, is really, really amazing I think. Well done Rwanda! We had a very civilised French lunch with beer, followed by patisserie and ice cream, which I was very pleased with indeed. After that we got pretty lost due to poor nav skills on my part, sorted Dad out a local sim and went to the extremely well camouflaged tourism office for some maps and general info. That pretty much took care of the day with just enough time for some sundowners on the top floor of a fancy hotel and then a pikipiki back to the hostel. I'd given up trying to find somewhere showing the final Lions test as the Africans don't like rugby so even if they have DSTV they're lacking Supersport 1, and we needed to get underway in order to get down to Nyungwe National Park in the SW corner of Rwanda. Rwanda is very civilised compared to some of the other countries I've been through, and from a bit of asking around, they were big coaches to Huye from Nybagogo Bus station every half hour. The bus station was only about 5km away so I sent Dad and his two rucksacks by pikipiki and cycled Tina laden. I decided to look past the fact that they were Ritco buses - the guys who claimed my wing mirror. The bus rank was seething with people, and we had to navigate the usual mess of touts, hawkers, baggage and buses. But underneath the chaos it was actually pretty straightforward, and we were booked on a bus within 10 minutes, with the bus due to arrive in 20. I had to buy a ticket for Tina too, but an all in price of £5,50 seemed reasonable, especially considering I didn't have to mess around haggling or dismantle her at all. Miraculously the bus arrived on time and we were all loaded and ready to go within about 10 minutes. Normally African buses go when they're full, and not before, so I was rather surprised when it started pulling off without us. We scrambled on and we pulled out of the station at 10:15. It was a very fancy, and empty coach, with USB charge points in the seat. I informed Dad that this was not a normal experience as far as public transport goes on the continent, and that he should in no way get used to it! Sure enough, after 3 hours to Huye we were dropped at the bus station, and it soon became clear that it was going to be very complicated to get both of us, all our luggage, and Tina to Nyungwe National Park. The highlight was definitely coming across a local in a 'Vote for Pedro' jumper, but in the end (after lengthy discussions and negotiations with various parties) I decided to pack Dad into a minibus with all the luggage whilst I undertook some light touring, aiming to meet him at the Uwinka campsite in the park. I'd been really keen on getting the Liemba Ferry up Lake Tanganyika since the very early stages of planning the trip, even before the Kariba ferry was on my radar so it was supposed to be my only nautical treat, and a chance for some free miles and a bit of a rest. I'd also not heard great things about cycling in Tanzania so was looking for a novel way of minimising the distance between Malawi and Rwanda. The Liemba, with its long and chequered history of passenger liner, German warship, scuttled wreck, English rescue project and passenger liner once more. It is now run by the Tanzanian government and is the oldest (over 100 years) commercial passenger and freight service in the world. Quite the accolade, and impressive if not a little off putting! The fly in the ointment of engaging the services of such a quirky vessel was the organisational aspect of things. I'd tried some extensive googling on her, but apart from finding out where she sailed to and from, and some bits and pieces about her history I was none the wiser as to whether she was a) actually working and b) when she left if indeed the old bird was. During my many hours in the saddle, when not musing over the meaning of life or waving at locals, I would sometimes turn my mind to the Liemba. Depending on how rambunctious I was feeling I would oscillate between giving up and playing it safe or just going all in and hoping for the best. The crux of the matter was this: Mpulungu, the Zambian starting point of the Liemba's journey was about 300km off the route, kms that could be out towards northerly progress through Tanzania by land. Seeing as, depending on road condition and terrain, I would quite easily turn my nose up at only a 30km detour, this was quite a serious undertaking. I would often consult African 'fundis' on the ferry but always came up with a blank. And when I had access to a computer and good internet I would often attack the issue with renewed fervour. I emailed port agents in Tanzania and posh lodges on the lake, and to no avail, but eventually I gleaned that she runs on a fortnightly schedule, leaving Kigoma Southbound on a Wednesday and turning round in Mpulungu on a Friday. Further electronic rummaging put the Friday's as 2nd and 4th of the month. Seeing as I had Sam with me 10/24 June that worked quite nicely for the 30th June sailing. In the end I decided that I would really regret it if I didn't at least try and catch her. And so, when Sam and I parted ways on 23rd June it was Mpulungu that I was aiming for, and by the latest 29th June. I had to cover about 550km in a week so nothing to stress about really, but a deadline is still enough to make you a bit nervous when cycle touring. I've covered the cycle to Mpulungu already so I shan't bore you with those details again. I only want to say that even once there and waiting I wasn't terribly optimistic. Hopeful would probably sum up my attitude best as the old African adage 'Believe it when you see it', seemed particularly relevant to an ancient old ferry that gave only the most basic of schedules. I wasn't so much worried about it not running anymore as it's the only service of its kind, and a vital trade link up and down the lake (It used to sail all the way up to Bujumbura, Burundi but now stops at Kigoma due to security situation there), but if it was late or broken down, wasted time would be a disappointment. The Swiss/Germans must have been feeling very Mediterranean when researching as they turned up a week too early, and if that had been me I'd have been pretty bleak about it. Anyway, aside from getting there a bit early, things had gone very well and as Frisia approached I was both quite excited and grimly pessimistic. No one in Mpulungu had any idea when she'd arrive: indeed most people just laughed at you when asked. Not the best sign, but the Liemba plays by her own rules, much like Tina and I, so we respect and understand that. In my mind I'd decided that she would arrive at about 4pm, so when at 2:30 the gate guy at Nkupi came and told me that the Liemba was about to come past I thought it was a good omen. Early?! Impossible! I dashed down to the waterfront bar to ogle and photograph her. She's an elegant looking ship, I must say, with angles and a profile you just don't see anymore. An antique beauty. The other 4 bike wiffers suddenly tuned into their nationalities and had set off for the harbour within 20 minutes of her revival. I decided I knew better, and loitered about camp reading my kindle and talking to Merino. He's a good lad and a really like him. He said he used to have a girlfriend called Tina and I said 'I reckon she was also black' *laughs* then followed it with 'Did she have balls too, like my Tina does?' *mega LOLs bent double*. Merino you dirty old dog! In the end I decided to play it safe and headed down about 4 - no point missing her after all this effort! I also gathered there was a fair bit of admin to take care of in the port. Some American guy had turned up at the bar that afternoon and got my haggling juices flowing - he reckoned if you were smart you could get a 1st class fare for $20 rather than $100. Now, the guy was a bit of an idiot: he picked on some poor chick who'd obviously had a serious make up shocker with a greenish facial hue due to poor foundation application repeatedly shouting at her 'why is your face (expletive) green?!', and even asking others the question too, who were luckily polite enough to stay out of it. If he'd been a bit funnier or subtle about it - maybe leading with are you jealous of someone, or a hulk reference - if would have been OK, but he went in for the classic shouty Yank tactic. I knocked his foul smelling energy drink on the floor in revenge. Anyway, I was now plotting my discount tactics as I pedaled to the port. The other lot had fallen at the first hurdle and were stopped at some police checkpoint right inside the port. I left my bike with them and some guy started chirpsing me about searching my bags. I told him I'd got this far without a bag search and I wasn't going to start emptying my panniers to satisfy his ego. I then promptly stalked off towards the ferry before he started moaning even more. I surveyed the scene first. Organised chaos would probably best describe it. People absolutely everywhere with an endless stream coming on and off the boat, an bit of a market on the side, some fancy bits of equipment parked to the side, and a crappy old tracked crane sitting in a prodigious pool of oil doing all the work. Most of the cargo being unloaded was kapenta in 220kg boxes (the African version of whitebait) and it was interesting to hear that a lot of it was going to Western DRC. I pointed out that the W shore of the lake was DRC, but apparently the roads are so bad it's easier to go all the way across Zambia and then North. There seemed to be no control or protocol in terms of boarding so I just wandered on and headed for the bridge. It became clear quite quickly that the Liemba was built back in a time of a much shorter population as I cracked my head on the first staircase. This would become an extremely painful theme of the trip. On the bridge I found Yusuf, the First Mate and introduced myself. After a lengthy handshake he took my hand and took my to Captain Titus. We shared some chit chat and whatnot but I got stonewalled on the discount front, saying it was government property and couldn't adjust the fares. Booooooring! I was then handed to the ticket officer and this oke was even harder work. I tried the whole 'I'm not fussed about a receipt or ticket', but again I got nowhere. Oh well, worth a try, and Yusuf was a nice guy. So, a full $100 first class fare paid I went back to sort everything else out. The boat was chokker but it turns out a lot of them just want to get on the boat for some kind of kudos, and then disembark before she leaves. On the back deck there were a few locals with very fancy cameras which made me double take. It turns out they'll take a photo of you on the boat and print it out for K10. Quite bizarre but I've seen it in other places too. I even ran into my mate Boniface again who had a picture taken too. Once off the boat I did immigration on my way past, and got stamped out. We were leaving on the Liemba! I then went to get Tina and found a rather unofficial looking chap 'from the Parks & Wildlife board'. I'd bagged up the skull before I left camp, but the carrier bags in this part of the world are somewhat translucent and I was now being interrogated about it. I was asked what it was and then told that it was 'concerning'. I went for him pretty hard and wasn't in much of a mood for his petty bureaucracy. I just told him what it was, that it was from SA, not Zambia, and that I'd cycled all the way here with no issues. I suppose I knew this day was coming and he was still being a wiffer so I played my trump card - my curio and treatment certificate from SA. Boy did he moan about that - no date stamp and some other boring stuff. To be fair I'd not even filled in what type of animal it was from but whatever excuse he came up with I just said 'So what' or 'Don't be ridiculous'. I obviously gave him a good mauling as he ended rather pathetically with a 'Someone yesterday stole some lion's teeth and I'm looking for them'. I spared him the indignity of asking if he actually meant lion's paw rather than teeth as I was quite happy to have sent him packing without too much trouble and kept my juju intact. However, it was then onto the next saga - police bag search. I huffed and puffed a fair bit but dialed down the derisiveness as these were proper officials. We stared the dance with a passport check and whilst he was fannying around I got his name and started worming him a bit. All he really wanted to have a look at was my first aid kit. I handed over the plastic bag full of various bits and pieces and it soon became clear he was looking for drugs. I'd heard they were a bit funny about anti histamine and couldn't remember if I had any or not. He asked me about some pills and I had no idea what they were so I just told him they were for Mzungu tummy and feigned taking a stressful dump. That seemed to do the trick and I was given the all clear. Victor was actually a good guy and we chatted for a bit before I decided it was time to get on the vessel and relax. But as I set off with Tina I was called back again, I ignored it for a bit but they got quite ansy so returned. This time it was to pay port fees of about 80p. What a convoluted process it all was! Anyway, I got on the Liemba and found the bed attendant, who showed me to my room. It wasn't a bad little cabin - double bunk with a fan, wardrobe, desk and sink. I dumped my stuff in there and promptly hit my head on the light fitting. That would happen many more times, mostly when I first got up. We hung around quite a while waiting for customs clearance but got underway at about 7:15. I have no idea if that was on schedule or not, because they don't tell you, but I think it was a bit on the late side. Once underway I went to the canteen for fish and rice, and then bought a beer and took it out to the foc'scle to enjoy. It was a well stocked bar with all the traditional Tanzanian beers such as Safari, Serengeti and Kilimanjaro that I remembered from our last Hazell holiday to that part of the world, plus a new one called Balimi. I selected Safari as it seemed appropriate (means journey in Swahili) and it was good, if not a little too warm. I'd increasingly not really hung out with the Germans as I came to the conclusion that they're a bit of a strange and boring bunch. Nice enough, but they just seem to sit around (and talk in German) so most of the time I just decide not to bother with them. I noticed Tanzanian immigration officials on board so I asked them if I could get my visa squared away before arriving in Kigoma to save some time and hassle. No problem said Aden the official, so that was all relatively painless (but painfully slow). I helped out the other lot by giving them the forms to fill in and advising them to do it here. The first stop out of 17 (yes, 17!) was in a couple of hours. I stayed up until we arrived at about 9:30 and then went to bed. Apparently we were in port for 5 hours as the shoreside crane broke down and it had to be done by the old on board derrick. It can only handle 2,5 tons so slow going. All this passed me by as I was sleeping quite soundly, but when I got up in the morning I did think that the hold was looking rather full. She is a 1 hold/1 hatch lady that can take about 250mt of cargo. Having said that, I'm pretty sure they'd exceeded that even after the first few stops. I'd be interested in getting hold of a tally clerk and seeing what his totals are! It turns out the Germans stayed up until 5 watching the loading (what did I say about them being boring). I asked if they'd also been boozing. Negative. They certainly didn't have bang tidy cycling bodies like yours truly so it's not like it was a health decision. Not sure I could sit there watching a crane for 8 hours or whatever, especially with no liquid sustenance. After a spell finishing off Dorian Gray on the bow (good book) I went for a general poke around the vessel. At this point it wasn't that busy so I checked out the cheap seats in 3rd class and then headed up to the bridge to greet all my new mates up there. I spoke to John the Chief Engineer for quite a while. She's twin engine and twin prop, powered by BMW engines, with Caterpillar generators. The boat struck me as pretty up together for her age, but I'm sure she keeps John pretty busy! The Liemba is classed (like an MOT or roadworthy for a car) by Lloyds but one wonders if she'd pass a proper inspection rather than an African Lakes Official one. After a brief tour I met the two Mzungus in the next door cabin who embarked during the night. More Germans, called Leo and Katja, but a very interesting couple: Katja was working here for an NGO in Kagera region, Tanzania, trying to teach the smallholders sustainable agriculture, and they'd both cycled from Asia to Germany twice! It was great to find some more interesting and gregarious travelers to talk to and we chatted for quite a few hours and took lunch together in the canteen. After lunch we stopped in Kipili, which actually had a proper pier and everything. It looked like a longish stop so I got off and had a wonder around, talking to some locals there and taking some land based snaps of the Liemba. There was a lorry there with bags of rice on and some bikes so I chatted to them a bit. They wanted me to do some work (obviously) so I obliged. Apparently these bags were rice, and 100kg a go. It didn't look large enough to be 100 so I was reckoning on about 50kg or so. Mother of God it was heavy. Luckily I didn't have far to go, just getting it from the truck to the cargo net. I staggered over there, cursing like a sailor, to much laughter from onlookers. Conclusion: comfortably 100kg! To console myself I decided to do something I was good at rode one of their bikes around for a bit. I then got back on the Liemba and was invited into the hold for a bit of stevedoring. 'Why not', I thought; it'll be more interesting than just watching and waiting for them to finish. I think the oke was a bit shocked when I actually jumped down in there shook off my slops and started helping out. Seeing as they're 100kgs you mostly work in pairs, moving the bags from where the derrick dumps them, 20 at a time, in the central hatch, out to the edges. My lack of Swahili meant a few coordination issues initially, but it's definitely not rocket science so we got the hang of it. An upbringing of child labour lumping around bags of cattle feed and shoveling grain bins means I'm quite the worker and they ended up pretty impressed with me I think. After that cargo was done I scurried back to my first class cabin to pick up my kindle and crack on with Fitzgerald's 'Tender is the Night'. The white, erudite stevedore working rice cargo in deepest, darkest Africa. There's a Hollywood script there somewhere, I'm sure! In the evening I went back for another stint with my boys, headlamp and all, and then after braving the loos for a shower, had dinner with the Germans. When they started ordering coffee (or in fact hot water so that they could make their own) I mumbled my excuses, grabbed a beer from the bar and headed up to the roof to type up some blog. It was slightly chillsome so after an hour I headed to my cabin and bed, hitting my head again in the process. Getting up Sunday morning the ship was noticeably busier. There had been a couple of stops in the night and now where there was space to relax or walk, there was now sleeping bodies, goats and other miscellaneous cargo. I sought refuge on the bridge with my mate Titus, and I stayed there for a few hours surveying the pandemonium below. I'd heard a lot of banging in the morning (and I think not much moving) and it turns out we're an engine down. Naughty Man B&W! I later caught Chief Engineer John in the bar when we were still running at 7-8 knots instead of 10. I went down to the engine room to see if I could lend a hand or impart some expertise but it turns out they're quite a lot larger, noisier and more complicated than a Land Rover. As I said earlier, the Liemba makes 17 stops along the way, with 4 official ports, only one of which is in Zambia. The total trip distance is about 572km, and that's not even to the top of the Lake! It's largely a coastal voyage due to the amount of stops she makes, so being able to see the shore most of the time is quite reassuring seeing as she's bloody old, June and July are supposedly the roughest months, and I highly doubt there is an evacuation drill or indeed enough life jackets on board to go around. That said, the waters still run deep - up to 500m in places. In the scheme of maximum depth of 1600m for the lake, it's not much, but certainly enough to drown in. After my engine tour I caught up with my travel journal in the VIP cabin as I'd made friends with the sales rep the day before. As the boat filled with every stop even the gangways became clogged with slumbering bodies. I came to feel pretty guilty moving people out of the way to get into my first class cabin but there we go. The hatch cover was put on and this created a new surface for sleeping, drying fish and rice, and general cargo storage. It was quite a jolly affair, with Yusuf playing music through the PA system to the guys on the main deck. Against the background of Tanzanian hip hop (I'm guessing here) and chatter, you could hear the occasional wail of the goats and crow of a cockerel. For the afternoon stop at around 4 I'd decided that it was finally time to fully immerse myself in the lake by leaping off the bow. So I got the GoPro out and fought my way to the front. I then made the mistake of peering over and getting put off. There was also a large audience which did and didn't help matters. Anyway, after explaining what I was doing I then leapt off. Very fun indeed. I then swam about a bit and waved at the all before clambering back in via a trailing fender. I was going to have another go dressed as Napoleon but I'd had enough of the gawking! After that it was back up to the bridge for more chit chat and kindle reading. Then soon enough it was time for a Serengeti sundowner. I finally managed to get the Germans involved: well 2 of them had beers, one a Fanta, whilst the last didn't have anything and sat facing the opposite way. Classic!
The Liemba was absolutely packed to the rafters now, quite possibly beyond the Plimsoll line, so dinner took about an hour to come, compared to 5 minutes on the first night. I then retired to the top roof deck for a bit of stargazing and caught Yusuf on his ciggy break. Boy does that man like to talk but a very nice man. I had to set him straight on his perceived virtues of one Colonel Gadaffi, but otherwise we mostly agreed on African politics and it's history. The penultimate stop was at about 10:30 and we got to Kigoma at about 2am Monday morning. But because they're a thrifty bunch and don't want to pay the stevedores over time or extra port fees, we waited outside the port and didn't dock until 8:30am. I snuck up to the bridge again to say thanks and goodbye and even blagged the honour of the last foghorn blast of the journey - letting all of Kigoma know that we are coming to berth now. I'm not sure it would have come as surprise as we'd been sitting there for hours, but boy did I enjoy giving them all a good deafening. It's a hell of a mess with people pouring off and dragging bits of cargo (and probably ship) with them, so I waited for about another hour until it had all died down. All in all it was an absolutely fantastic experience, and I really really enjoyed the ride. Even if it hadn't been an awesome, and not to mention a quintenessential African experience, it was 570km of easy mileage so also worth it in that respect. I wholeheartedly recommend jumping on her for a slow chug up or down the Lake (up you'll see mostly rice and maize, and south it'll be mostly palm oil and construction material). She's a charming old thing and it definitely gets chalked up as a trip highlight. A re-baptism of fire probably describes my second foray into Zambia. I'd briefly cut into Zambia on the KAZA Univisa from Kazungula to Livingstone on my way to Vic Falls back in early May, and after about 5 weeks winding through Zim and Malawi, via a slice of Mozambique, it was time to tackle another border crossing and check out the opposite corner of the country. And they couldn't be much more different really! After checking out of Mama Efeo's at about 8, armed with 6 boiled eggs (at MK100 each) and a peanut butter and sugar sandwich I pedaled about 1,5km before a roadblock of sorts. I normally go round these, and this one was by no means very official, but it seemed to indicate I should go into Malawian customs. I almost didn't as obviously I have nothing to declare really, but after speaking to a Swedish chick at Mushroom Farm who rather idiotically just waltzed into Malawi from Tanzania without getting an entry stamp or visa, I decided to err on the side of caution. Good job I did as this was where you have to get your exit stamp. Friendly bunch and nice and straightforward process with no dodgy visa questions. It was then 6km to the Zambian post which had a rather sorry and dejected air about it. The only guy there informed me that there was no immigration official present so I'd have to go to Nkhonde to get stamped in. This sounded a bit iffy to me, and my unease heightened when he said that said border post was 84km away on dirt roads. This was a nasty shock indeed and I got out the map to clarify what was going on. The M14 up that way was supposed to be main road tar according to my map. The map was wrong in the extreme. The road turned to dirt about 5m after the barrier and from there it descended into an absolute nightmare. The first 30km were hellish, to say the least. It was basically half beach, which is impossible riding, and half storm gully. I got in one of these gullies for a pic to send to the map people and inform them what utter imbeciles they were, took a few snaps and then promptly landed on my arse as I tried to clamber out. Another cyclist appeared and looked down on me from the lofty strip of road in between the erosion, apologising profusely. A nice sentiment but unnecessary I thought - not his fault the road was crap. Aside from a pedestrianised crash, I also came off the bike twice. Nothing serious - more to do with sand and the Jesus sandals refusing to unclip. On the last one (by which time I was pretty hacked off) I was left writhing on the floor with rage still attached to Tina by the left sandal. Goddamit would be a polite summary of the words directed at the sandals. At this point I decided to swap them out for my slops in order to avoid further footwear based animosity. By kilometre 35 I was in a pretty dark place when I came across a truck parked by a bridge. I stopped for a chat and he said he was also heading to Nkhonde but was giving it a wash first and would be happy to pick me up on his way past. Absolute jackpot! The wisdom of cleaning a truck that was about to drive 60km of dirt road seems lost on the guy and he had a veritable army of guys bucketing water out from the river and helping wash. I'd get 45km or so in the bag - enough to feel proud of given the first 30km of dirt - and then get scooped up by a truck. Perfect! The road was also improving (although it could hardly get worse) so I stoically continued my onward journey. I'm not sure what happened to them, but they never came past me. The road was a proper bush whacking experience and I was dodging and weaving, as well as following diversions all the time. It beggars belief that these Mapstudio guys got it so wrong. So the first 60km odd were really deserted with hardly any people or villages. I got caught out on the roadside stall front again, but had enough to more or less keep me going. Finding water was also tough for the first time on the trip, and when I did get it from villagers it was very cloudy. Oh well, needs must - down it went, and tasted OK. Let's hope no lasting damage from it. Things were certainly easier after the first 30km, but it was still very tough with long stretches of nothing but hit dusty uphill that shook you to bits. There was a bit of traffic coming the other way, some of which looked wholly unsuitable to the terrain, but no cars at all came past me between the border and Nkhonde. And with an average speed of 15,5kph, it's not like I was flying along. I turned into a bit of a grumpy git again as it was a really tough day's riding. Interestingly I saw 5 buffalo bikes that day, which made a change from the ladies' step through ones with silly little baskets which I'd mostly been seeing in the north of Malawi. Civilisation started to appear from about 75km and by the time I'd hit 85km it was clear that Nkhonde was a pretty big deal, with substantial buildings and tin roofs stretching off into the horizon. The town proper had a real hustle and bustle to it, but with that bit of bite you often find at border locations. I decided I didn't want to stay in town for that reason. The border was straightforward but also quite slow. In the meantime I got chatting to the only Mzungus I'd seen all day; a French couple here on business doing some agroforestry consultancy. I spent most of the time moaning about the quality of my map and they sent me out to talk to their driver about road conditions as they were heading to Mbala that afternoon. The driver said the D1 was tar the whole way and I could have kissed the guy. I probably would have if I trusted him, but operating under the African 'Believe it when you see it' mantra, he had to settle for an 'Asante sana' (thank you very much) instead. After paying for my visa and getting stamped in I changed the remains of my Malawian Kwatcha into Zambian Kwatcha at an average rate and then set about getting a local sim. This proved tricky as none of them had the punch to make it into a nano sim. After wasting about 15mins of making me follow them around on a wild goose chase I demanded the sim and just attacked it with my penknife. Job done, and no tip for them. After all the cycling and border faff I was absolutely ravenous, but decided to just find a lodge and get dinner there. I stopped at one on the outskirts of town but didn't like the high price and lack of breakfast so I carried on. Lodge number 2 was even more expensive and I didn't like the guy much. By now it was 5 and I was starting to digest myself, but I was feeling stubborn so carried on once more, still passing the queue of trucks 5km out from the border. Third time lucky! The trucks ended and it looked like the end of town, with only a bit of traffic as someone had managed to drive into someone else so a lorry decided to park across the road. Classic! I overtook the damaged car shortly afterwards as a backhoe loader dragged it up the road using the front bucket. He was going quite fast considering he was technically reversing, but no match for Tina and a hungry Sam. Town had now disappeared and I was slightly concerned but then we came to the junction I needed and there was both some food hawkers and a lodge. Perfect would be an exaggeration but it would do, and looked a lot better than the truck parks I'd passed a lot of. At ZK70 (Zambian Kwatcha which is about 80 times stronger than the Malawian version) for a room with no breakfast and not really what I would classify as a bathroom it was poor value compared to the other side of the border. The time for haggling was past as the sun had set by now, so I dumped my stuff and headed for the food guys. I devoured chicken and chips and washed it down with a coke and then headed back for a wash. Upon reentering the room It was clear that it stank of excrement so I organised a relocation to next door. That meant swapping a double bed for a single, but worth it for some cleaner air. There was also no mozzie net so I got the guy to find one. This meant taking it from the previous room and putting it up. This involved a lot of fannying about and using a piece of pipe as a hammer after finding a nail from somwhere. All very African, but worth it to keep mozzies and malaria at bay. The 'shower' was simply a shower tray, and a cold wash from a bucket wasn't really what I wanted after 9 hours on the dust road from hell. I then basically got into bed and tried to get some rest. I wasn't expecting much as there was a bar behind the room, and I expect as most people who've travelled in Africa know, the locals seem to have a completely different perception of volume to Mzungus: whether it's a taxi minibus, a bar or corner shop or just a solar panel and speaker in the bush, everything must be full blast. Perhaps they're all a bit deaf by now with tinnitus sets in during childhood and locks them into an ever spiraling increase of decibels and amps, but I honestly don't know how they sit there in a bar or watching TV at that kind of volume. Anyway, having put in earphones to improve the music choice somewhat, I was pleasantly relieved to come to at 10pm and find everything mercifully quiet, both music and neighbouring rooms (there were a lot of women and truckers about so I considered it a high possibility I was staying in a brothel of sorts). This lasted until about 5am when the noise started again. Generally speaking, wherever you are, you're going to get woken up by shouted early morning conversations between the workers or villagers or passers by. And then the speakers come back online at about 6. I've found myself praying for blackouts on occasion! I was up at 6 to give Tina a derailleur clean and chain swap as I wanted to see if I could still chain rotate using 2 quick links on the one that snapped on the hills out of Nkhata Bay. Then I made porridge in the 'kitchen' using my stove. I wasn't in much of a hurry to get away as it was only Monday and I had until Thursday to cover the 230km to Mpulungu where I was to get the ferry from. I also wanted to bush camp, which due to annoying flies and people, means you need to cycle until about 5 before settling down. Plus, after a tough day on dirt roads the day before which had precipitated the beginning of a return of the sores despite liberal chamois cream application, it seemed wise to take it easy. So I went back to the food area but found the charcoal braziers as yet unlit. However, in a move that was one in the eye for bottle sceptic Jim, I purchased a 1,5l frozen water. Today was going to be a good day I thought. And so it proved: I was underway at about 8:45 and the road was simply divine. Buttery smooth, huge wide shoulder and initially a lot of downhill. My only criticisms were the amount of glass (from little bottles of pineapple spirit which they guzzle then simply chuck), the unwelcome appearance of rumble strips before and after bus bays (not stops) and villages, and the overuse of incline/decline signs. I'm not sure who was in charge of signage but I can only imagine that he was on some kind of frequency bonus as anything less than dead flat was signposted as a steep up or a steep down. The first few up ones struck fear into me as over the previous 2 days I'd climbed something like 2500m, but I soon learnt to ignore them. That aside, it was like another slice of Botswana, except with better views, fewer ruined tyres and more people and broken glass. The scourge of roadside littering continues throughout Africa and I look forward to Rwanda which has banned plastic bags and is spotless by comparison apparently. It was all going very smoothly with 26 km done in the first hour and 65 by 11. It was a pleasant change from the crowded Malawian roads and I enjoyed the solitude of only occasional passers by. 'Give me money' had also been swapped for 'How are you?', and I must say the more inquisitive and less demanding line of enquiry was welcomed. Of course 'Mzungu, mzungu' still echoes along the roadside as you go, but I'm pretty sure that's here to stay now. The drawback was no food spots but I made do with what I had and enjoyed a couple of nice lie downs on the warm tar free from any disturbances. As the day progressed and become hillier it became clear that the previous 2 days had taken their toll. The lack of a decent feed didn't help, and neither did my bum soreness and I decided both based on the increasing village activity and the time left that I would have to keep cycling for, that I would village rather than bush camp that night. This was a shame as I wasn't feeling terribly sociable, but equally I was doing this to get a proper experience of Africa rather than whizzing by in a car, so a taste of rural Zambian life made sense. I pulled in at a nice looking place with a bit of a garden but couldn't find anyone about so carried on. I only lasted about 5 more minutes and at 4:15 when I got what I thought was a particularly enthusiastic wave from a group I pulled over and set about introducing myself. The head of the household was donned in top to toe white - jeans, shoes, shirt - and spoke very little English. White seemed like an odd choice for dusty village living but he pulled it off in a distressed chique look. So it was in at the deep end with my (very limited) Swahili skills and I wasn't really sure if I'd been accepted for the night or not. However, I soon had a piece of sugarcane thrust upon me for gnawing, and a bit later they moved my bike out of the way. I took these as good signs so relaxed a bit. Us men were sat around the fire and I was getting a bit bored of being stared at by sullen looking boys after a while. Luckily a Swahili vocab lesson and my bumbling attempts at pronunciation and repetition broke the ice. There was a leg of pork roasting over the coals which looked good, but the live version, and probably relative, was causing some issues: aside from being naughty it was also trying to eat our dinner mid preparation. Here I saw a good chance for a bit of fun so went at got my cattie. Having a fairly practical rather than adoring attitude to livestock, I was confident me shooting at the pig was going to be accepted if not welcomed. I missed a couple of times, and I can only suppose it was used to having stuff chucked at it because it assiduously ignored anything other than a direct hit. The pressure was now on as I was representing the quality of white marksmanship to the Zambian masses. Luckily I swiftly scored a direct hit promoting a squeal and dash for the bushes. Success (and laughter from the hosts)! The catapult was then passed around for inspection and everyone seemed very impressed with the S African workmanship. So much so that it was displayed to newcomers who were told to take it into the light for a proper look. I also got a chance to sample the infamous Chibuku at last that afternoon. I say infamous because they sell prodigious amounts of the stuff - it basically makes up about half of roadside litter in Zim I'd say - but I knew it would be disgusting so didn't see the point in buying any myself, even if only $1 for 1,25l. It is basically a local beer brewed from maize with a milky brown colouring. It is also served at room temperature (which is hot in Africa) and as many of you know I am a staunch cold drink man rather than hot. I'd often come across a drink called Maheu in Zim and by the time I'd got to Nkhata Bay in Malawi I was feeling brave enough to try it. I got together my 50p and selected a Vanilla flavoured one from the fridge. What a disgusting affair it was: all lumpy and bitty like gone off milk! Anyway, both men and women had been partaking of this chibuku via a communal mug, decanting it from an old 5l oil container as the urge came to them, and so eventually I decided I must settle the matter once and for all. The guy poured me a taster, which amounted to about 5 mouthfuls. I can safely say it was 4 too many! This version was positively hot, and was again grainy and alcoholic. It wasn't the strength that was the issue but rather the texture and taste which make me want to gag. No more of that thank you, sir. After an hour or two of more Swahili lessons, pig hounding, halting conversation and boozing, it was time for dinner. It's always a little awkward preceding dinner as it would be rude for me to just pitch up and start cooking for myself but also dangerous to presume on being fed. The usual protocol is make no culinary moves until they ask you 'Do you eat nsima?', to which of course you reply 'There is nothing in the world I enjoy more than flavourless starch after a long day's riding old chum'. To be fair it's not that bad, but it's equally only as good as what you have to accompany it. In this case it was a bit of pork (very good), beans (good) and some strange okra dish that had an egg white like consistency (avoided after the first few dunks). We ate inside and the only awkward part was the clear division of men and women. We had the choice meal and they ate off to the side. Now, I've been called a sexist pig by a fellow hiker whilst on this trip, but that was mostly due to my appraisal of her throwing ability: generally I'm extremely pro women. So I did find it a bit awkward as the lot of an African woman often isn't easy and in many ways they deserve to eat the best food, and first, given that they do most of the work and childcare etc. But that's not going to change terribly soon unfortunately. The food was good and I was forced to take on another huge bowl of beans so was stuffed by the end of it. Whilst the food was pleasant I was far from comfortable, perched as I was on one of those horrible little wooden stalls. I tried sitting on my jacket but that offered only mild relief and every time I leant in for more food my legs threatened to cramp up. So after dinner I agonised over how long it was legitimate to wait before dragging myself off to bed. I managed another half an hour of small talk and trying to teach the smoker how to do smoke rings. I would have had a go and demonstrated myself, but the poor sod was buying them by the single, so decided robbing him of even a couple of puffs wouldn't outweigh the cool factor as far as he was concerned. At 7:30 I mumbled my excuses (without being too detailed) and scurried off to bed. I slept ok until about 11 when I had a show down with the next door canines. I've found these bush dogs both ill disciplined and disposed to bark for ever. So when one took exception to me rolling over and proceeded to bark for about 5 minutes I decided to take things into my own hands. Out I clambered barely clad, and rooted around for something to throw. We'd cleared some brick rubble when setting up camp so although too large for the catapult, it would teach them a lesson. I missed a few times and suddenly there were 3 howling mutts. They seemed to egg each other on and I briefly feared attack. However, they were about 20m away and I'd had my rabies jab before leaving so persevered. I think I hit a hut with my 4th attempt, but they got the message and shut up. I was then back in my tent trying not to move and set them off again when I get a torch pointing my way - as if I was the problem! I have no idea how they can just ignore that infernal baying but perhaps it can be traced back to tinnitus?! I'd done 125km that day and was thus well on my way to Mpulungu so decided not to rush to get up. It was also cold and cloudy with a heavy dew. Add to that the fact that you are guaranteed to be gawked at as soon as you emerge from your tent, and it takes a fair bit of working up to. My hosts had obviously had their Muzungu fix and were very much going about their own business, but the children from the group over to my left (custodians of the noisy mutts) proceeded to chant 'How are you, how are you, how are youuuuu?' For the whole half an hour or so that I was packing up camp. After that I retreated to the domain of my hosts and out of earshot. The men were either already up and gone by this time, or still abed. I spotted a large cache of empty Pineapple Spirit bottles outside the house so could have been a few sore heads sleeping it off. I ate sweet potatoes with the women and children whilst agonising over whether to donate my catapult to them or not. In the end I just couldn't bring myself to, partly due to sentimental reasons and partly practical (I believe there are an abundance of primates in Rwanda and Uganda, so best to arrive well armed and prepared). However, they'd been very nice to me and clearly didn't have a lot so felt that I should at the very least cover my food costs. I settled on 50 kwatcha and they seemed very pleased with that. After the customary host photo I was off on my way by about 8:30. The plan was to stop at a potato farm for a night and a look around, but I had a bit of a feeling that things weren't going to work out as the guy was useless at directions and I had no credit (only WhatsApp) to call him. The first few km were slow going but both I and the weather soon warmed up and we were making good progress. The farm was bang on the route and broke the journey up nicely, and I was looking forward to it. However, as I said I had a sense of foreboding as the guy didn't even know what road he lived on when I initially made contact to find out whether the D1 was tar or not. He didn't know the D1 as wasn't familiar with that part of the country he said: it turns out he lives on the D1 and it is very good tar. How a guy can not know hat when Zambia has only about 20 big roads in total is beyond me. Anyway, long story short his directions didn't make much sense, and neither did his clarifications. When I got almost to Mbala and began to suspect he'd directed me from the wrong direction (and got a left and right the wrong way around) I called him on WhatsApp. Sure enough it was wrong and now about 25km back where I'd come from. I was really quite cross with him and didn't trust myself to be polite even if I did want to turn back. A shame to miss it but 'maybe next time' as he put it. Yeh, if he learns how to read a map in the future. At this point I should thank Gill for trying very hard to help me out. Very kind of you and a shame it didn't work out. Given that agricultural blow I just decided to carry on to Mpulungu and get there a day earlier. It would mean another 100km day but the last 40km were downhill so not too difficult. I stopped for boiled eggs and beans at the t junction and chatted to a few guys. They were very impressed with me (and my juju skulls) and said how strong I was. One even compared me to Vasco da Gama! Probably overegging the omelette there, but very nice of him all the same. I'd noticed quite a lot of Zambians tutting at me along the way. I imagined this was intended in a friendly sense, as if to say, 'Silly Mzungu, you'll get tired and sunburnt the way you're carrying on'. We'll never know I suppose, but mystery is let if the fun. Most people are friendly but of course there are the usual smattering of vacant stares and gawking: indeed for some simply turning their heads doesn't offer a good enough look, and they shuffle around on the spot, mouths agape, as you pass by. I've also had a few bouts of manic laughter, with one guy with his lady friend on the back saying nothing and then cackling hysterically as I waft by with a smirk on my face. Zambians, village hospitality included, I have found to be very nice and friendly, and mostly without the taint of expectation created by NGO projects which you encounter in Malawi. First roundabout since HarareI got into Mpulungu at about 1pm and headed for Nkupi Lodge. The town is thin on options but the Bradt guide to Zambia I picked up at Mushroom Farm assigned it 'legendary status amongst overlanders'. This may once have been the case, but in its current format it exuded an air of faded glory and dilapidation. I wasn't overly impressed for K60/night camping but the manager, Merino, was a nice guy. I was proudly told that their excellent security was a selling point, but a S African would not have been impressed: a mere 6ft wall with no wire or electric topping, no gate, and just the one limping guard. However, a bike selling point was company, and bike wiffers at that! They were in town but had turned up last Thursday for the fortnightly ferry - Oops! They'd taken the security guard at his word, and their stuff was strewn everywhere. Obviously I had a glance over the equipment. Bike wise I saw nothing to impress me or make me jealous. Tina was easily the coolest steed in the lot! Obviously I'm biased but it's the truth. Otherwise they didn't seem to be the serious type of cyclist - too much stuff, and in particular clothes. A pair of roll up denim shorts suggested European - probably German - to me. Time would tell. Two of them came back at about 3pm and introduced themselves: Paul, German, denim short wearer and Carmen, Swiss German. They were very nice and very friendly. The other 2, Sebastian & Jerome were a bit too serious for my liking, but such is their nationality (Swiss German and German again). They made me feel very at home and it was good to chat to not just some Mzungus (hadn't seen any since the Frenchies at the border) but some proper bike tourists. They invited me to join them for supper and we chewed the fat over routes, what they'd done, how long etc etc. We'd been on the same route since about Salima basically, with me hunting them down along the way. Funnily enough, they'd heard of me through some guy at Mayoka Village in Nkhata Bay. The lodge I stayed at in Chitipa hosted them - Moses asked me if I knew Sebastian when I was staying there - and now I'd caught them up. As their bike and kit suggested, they took things a little easier, and some of the stages I did in one whack - for example Karonga to Chitipa and Chitipa to Nakonde - they split over 2 days. I think our kit weights would be about the same but the advantage for them is that they can split everything up and carry a lot more stuff. This basically equated to a lot more cooking stuff and a level of culinary sophistication that is impossible for me to replicate. After sundowners overlooking Lake Tanganyika, slurping on a massive Burundian beer called Primus, bought courtesy of the charmingly drunk Boniface, sales rep for Dangote cement for Burundi and DRC and then dinner it was time for bed as I was quite tired after 5 days of hard riding on the trot. The next morning they had hired a local boat to paddle around in and I was asked if I wanted to come along. I think they were pretty bored of Mpulungu after so long hanging around for the ferry, and whilst it sounded like a novel idea, I declined for a number of reasons: canoes are uncomfortable and thus certainly not a full day activity, my stomach still wasn't feeling great, and I didn't know them well enough to decide whether a full day in a small boat was a good or bad idea. I felt a bit antisocial but a couple of treats from the ice cream parlour in town to celebrate hitting 2000 miles (3200km) the day before, and a hammock took the edge off of things. I told them to come back to the bar at 4:30 and we would paddle over to the island that blocked the sunset yesterday and try watching it from there. At £15 for the day I think they'd overpaid but it was certainly an African vessel, complete with leaky hull due to poor caulking, supplemented by bin bags and clothes stuffed in the gaps. Even the bowl for bailing out the water we took on had a hole in! It was good fun though with about a 20 minute paddle out and a 10 minute hike up to the top. We disagreed on where to watch it from (their choice was blocked by another island) but I'm now well accustomed to watching sunsets alone so not a problem. They were also drinking whereas I'd taken the painful decision to forego beers for a couple of days as I'd developed a sore throats as well - so being apart removed the temptation. I rigged up the GoPro to try a time lapse of the sun setting. No idea how it's turned out, but nicely hopefully. We then paddled back, dropped the canoe off and ate together again. The Thursday I felt really rather rubbish. The sore throat had more or passed overnight but I was now all snotty, headachey and stiff. I'd also dried out my lips by not wearing my sun hat enough so was constantly applying Blistex! I traced the likely cause of the illness to a boy in the village who was snotty and sneezing a lot when I camped there on Monday night. Rather annoying but it meant I felt quite confident that it wasn't malaria or anything nasty. Having said that, I was feeling very sorry for myself. I shuffled into town and bought some more petrol for the stove and poked around the market, buying a meat pie for breakfast along with some bread rolls, butter and jam. I entered into protracted negotiations for some bananas but she just wouldn't budge from Mzungu prices so left it. Doing anything was a real effort so I just came back, ate a couple of rolls, did a bit of washing, and asked Sebastian for permission to use his hammock. With usage rights granted I just flopped in that reading and dozing for the whole afternoon. At about 4 we all went into town to do some shopping for dinner. I was back to my bargaining best now and scored an impressive bunch of bananas for K7, a free avo, and a lot of onions for K3. I was still feeling pretty rubbish though so wasn't much help after that. There was another Mzungu in the market so talked to him for a bit instead. He was an English guy who'd been out in the sun a bit long I think, just roaming around Africa not working and trying to write a book about the mind. Honestly, of all things! He seemed nice enough but pretty useless really, and I hope some publisher hasn't given him an advance on the book as I didn't sense it coming any time soon. He was useful in that he'd done Kigoma (where we get off the ferry in Tanzania) to Rwanda a while ago so I pumped him for information on that. It was a slow process but basically that road sounds absolutely horrendous (dirt, super dusty and lots of traffic) and there's no direct route. I'll have to get the bus up to what basically sounds like a truck stop, and maybe just cycle west from there if it's tar. We'll see but unfortunately it doesn't sound like a simple process. The ferry should arrive today so I decided to get an update on my 5 days or so in Zambia out as after that I will be on the Lake for a couple of days and not sure if I'll bother getting a Tanzanian SIM card or not. As the journey has progressed and developed I think I've relaxed into it. Perhaps it was a bit much to bite off for my first tour: 3,5 months alone up through Africa. However, now I've done a decent chunk and earned my stripes I feel pretty good about what I've achieved. I think I've always pretty much enjoyed it, but it's hard being away from Chloe and friends etc, with no one to really support you 'on the ground' as it were. For the first half it was always at the back of my mind, even when things were going really well, that I've got a hell of a long way to go still and that weighed on my mind a fair bit. Now I'm over half way timewise, and with the Liemba coming up - a section of the journey I've really been looking forward to - and then Rwanda which I think is going to be really interesting around the corner (or Burundi I should say) I'm only mopey if I'm ill (like I am now). Dad has also got adventure envy and booked to come out to spend 10 days with me in Rwanda which will be great fun I think. It'll likely mean some time off the bike, but I don't think that's a bad thing at all really. Overall I've tried to remain philosophical during the trip so far, seeing it as an 'experience' even if things aren't going as you'd like them to, and meeting such fantastic people and hosts along the way has meant that I've never really had reason to complain: there was just that sense of a lot to do hanging over me all the time. However, I feel that now I've really relaxed into it and the home stretch will be lot fun than the first. It's also funny that, having talked to the group of 4 bike wiffers I'm hanging out with now, I don't find myself wishing I'd been with them at all. Company would be nice but personally I think that 4 limits your experience a bit as you rely on the others more, rather than putting yourself out there more. Reflecting on it, I think 2 is the optimum - you've got some company and someone to spur you on or cheer you up, but you're not too many to be hosted easily or snag a lift if you really need to. I do think with 2 we would have wild camped and self catered more, which also appeal more to me than lodges or whatnot. But at the end of the day you play the hand you're holding, and I can't think of a decision I've regretted to be honest (apart from sitting next to that goddam snotty kid on Monday!). I've really enjoyed the element of chance involved, and not knowing what's around the corner. Fingers crossed for a strong finish to the trip!
So after a day or two more of relaxing at Mayoka Village in Nkhata Bay, it was time to get back on the road. In yet another small-worldism, two school friends were volunteering and teaching at the village school so it was great to catch up with them for a bit and discuss all the oddballs from school. A veritable gossip indeed! Mayoka is a lovely spot, as I probably mentioned in the previous post, and we were lucky to have scored a double upgrade to private room for camping prices. So it was with heavy hearts, but fresh legs, that we got up and got ourselves ready for the cycle to Ekwendeni. We'd had breakfast and a wrap each prepared in advance and left in the fridge and we were away by 6:45. We'd been warned that the road to Mzuzu, Malawi's third largest city/town was both really bad and full of roadworks, and pretty much uphill all the way. The roadworks didn't bother us as bikes can scoot through traffic and weave around potholes with consummate ease, but the uphill wasn't ideal. We'd soon see how all the beers and fine dining had affected our performance. I felt particularly sorry for Sam with his single speed. I carried his wrap to even things up! In order to spice things up a bit, and for some fun, I decided to don my Napoleon Dynamite outfit that Sam had bought me out as a birthday present. This consisted not only of the classic 'Vote for Pedro' t-shirt, but wig, glasses and moon boots to match. The wig was a bit itchy but it provided suitable hilarity, particularly as Napoleon was showing in the local 'cinema' the week before. It was a nice cool morning and we were making decent enough progress considering the terrain. However, it then began to rain, which was quite unpleasant. This would be only the third occasion of getting wet whilst cycling in a stretch of 7 weeks, and I'm sure many of you, the Poms especially, will wonder what I'm moaning about. My response is thus; I am now a bronzed pioneer of Africa, acclimatised to the heat of the day and balmy evenings, much better suited to pedaling under the blazing sun than enduring the misery of pedaling in the wet. In summary, I wasn't having much fun, and even though I had a poncho in the panniers, as yet unused, I was wet enough to render it pointless donning it by the time I thought about it. Then the roadworks started, which made things more difficult again. There was a Stop-Go traffic control, but as any cyclist worth his salt knows, traffic laws are entirely optional. I sailed past with a smile that I'm sure resembled more of a grimace (we were climbing steeply at this point) and plonked myself on the brand new, steaming macadam on my side of the road. I was weaving between the steam rollers and congratulating myself on progress when some Mzungu started running towards me and shouting 'You're sinking, you're sinking', whilst gesticulating frantically. I laughed at him as surely Tina and I weren't heavy enough to sink into a tar road but the poor guy wasn't happy. Under his command I went back to the muddy, bumpy side of the road and left him, head in hands, cursing Napoleon and his noble llama Tina. I was too tired to have a proper look as to whether I had genuinely ruined his new tar, and reasoned that if it couldn't handle 130kg of bike and rider, it certainly wasn't up to even Malawian road-building standards. The muddy side of the road was deeply unpleasant and tricky cycling, being essentially clay with no grip whilst simultaneously sticking to everything. This made maintaining control as I paperboyed up the hill in the rain rather tricky. At this point it was every man for himself so I just kept my head down: I would wait for Sam at the top. It was a pretty relentless stretch and, for me at least, it evoked a quintessential impression of Africa: red soil, pouring rain, bad roads and tropical vegetation. All that was needed was a couple of AK-47 touting guerillas to drift out of the bush and demand money or your life. Perhaps my imagination was getting the better of me, but there is nowhere quite as miserable as rural Africa in the rain. Everything just stops but there's also nowhere to really seek shelter or wait it out. It was against this backdrop that that infernal Pied Crow came back to haunt me! In Lilongwe, with the delivery of new quick links, we had restored the shortened chain to its original length by breaking the chain and then reinserting the removed link. The arrival of another quick link took it back to full length. However, the catch was that you're not supposed to re-use chain pins as taking them out weakens them. Jabu had no new 9 speed pins so we just chucked the old one back in. The day before we left I attempted a chain swap, but struggled with the SRAM quick link so couldn't get it off. I'd do it in Ekwendeni when I had a day off I decided. That was to prove a costly mistake as on one of the climbs my chain snapped. This wasn't a major disaster seeing as I could just put the other chain on, but where it had bent the link it had mangled the derailleur a bit, which looked rather ominous. The downpour didn't help matters either. I got the new chain on easily enough, and gingerly pulled the derailleur back into the right position and gave it a spin. The back wheel was all over the place, catching on the brakes. It was then that I realised that I'd also lost a spoke, most likely as a result of the chain link catching on it on the way through. This was a more serious problem as it involves taking the wheel off, then the tyre, then the rear cassette (cogs), taking off the rim tape and then replacing the spoke and putting it all back together again. By now we had taken refuge under a lean to whilst I attacked the task in hand. I had been given a cassette tool but had no spanner large enough to turn it, and no chain whip to hold the cassette whilst I did it. I was carrying spare spokes, so that wasn't an issue, but it is a faff getting the tension right in order to retrue the wheel. I gave up fairly quickly - probably faster than I should have, but I decided it was going to be a rather wet and fruitless struggle and it was better just to get to our hosts Duncan and Grace and sort it out there in the dry with the right tools. Duncan very kindly said he could send a driver to Shoprite in Mzuzu and get us so that was a huge help. The snag was that we'd only done 35km so were about 15km short of the pick up point. Will and Ollie, my aforementioned schoolmates, but they could be of no assistance in their small and terrible car. I must have looked rather ridiculous in my moon boots and poncho but eventually managed to get one of the many roadworks bakkies to stop. Unfortunately he was going the wrong way and told me that I was both crazy and had no one going to Mzuzu at the moment. We had a run of 3 consecutive bakkies, none of which stopped, but then we managed to get two guys with a little Kia flatbed to help us out. It was too wet for pleasantries so we just thanked them and piled into the back with all our stuff. It was a pretty wet, miserable and bumpy 15km, and I would certainly rather have been cycling it in the dry, but there we go: my fancy dress shenanigans had clearly angered the cycling gods! We were unceremoniously deposited in the Shoprite carpark where we formed a muddy, bedraggled pile of possessions. Then a stroke of luck: a rather rotund chap calling himself Georgie Porgie came over and said he could fix the wheel for me. Africans rarely confess to not being able to do something - you just get a varying degree of convincing-ness in their affirmatives - so I was quite sceptical of his abilities. I was also worried about timescales as often we have differing ideas of what 'quick quick' means. Anyway, the mechanic to whom the job was delegated soon arrived so after a bit of quizzing and impressing the need of haste upon him, assented to the repair. I was a bit nervous as Tina is extremely dear to me. The fact that he made off without the spare spoke also caused concern. I needn't have worried as about half an hour later he reappeared with wheel fixed and a spare spoke for future use. What a good lad. I wanted to check wheel truing but had lost enthusiasm in the renewed rain so didn't bother. They asked for 12,000 kwatcha which riled me up as it was a ridiculous sum. 3,000 was my price. There was much hand wringing and excuses as to why they needed the full 12,000. We settled on 5,000 in the end which I think was fair as they'd helped me out a lot, and he'd earned about 3 times what he would have on an equivalent repair for a local. So, by the time our lift givers, farm managers Steve and Gary arrived, I had one repaired wheel. This technically meant I could cycle again, but it was still wet, and my pump was playing up so couldn't pump up the tyre. I rather guiltily loaded Tina into the Hilux for the 20km to the farm, Jacoma Estate where we would be staying. We were staying with Duncan and Grace on the farm he runs in Northern Malawi. It's partly funded by Agdevco investment so is effectively a DFID backed project. It's about 400ha of Macadamia with some chilies and an outgrower program for further production. We got there on the Saturday afternoon a bit wet and tired, but nothing a beer or two couldn't fix. There was a braai planned for the SA vs France rugby game but seeing as there were so many helpers on hand we skyved off and watched the Lions play the Maori All Blacks. I'd already had the victor revealed to me rather annoyingly, but it was a good game (and we won). The saffers also played some decent rugby so dinner was an upbeat affair. The next morning was a leisurely start with some bike tinkering and putting washing on, and then we went out with Duncan to take a look around the farm. It was interesting hearing about macadamia nut growing as it's not something I know anything about. However, post tour I can give you some quick facts: trees take 3-5 years to start producing, hitting full at 8 years, but can carry on for 30 odd years so no need to replace like with citrus trees; mature trees can need in excess of 500l/week of water so irrigation is necessary; margins are around 70% (very very good) and prices circa $16/kg. Interestingly apparently they are worth so much that the S African producers are taking on armed guards now as the trucks are getting hijacked and the product sold off to the Chinese. Classic SA! Jacoma is not producing yet, but has a nice new processing shed and factory ready to rock and roll once the trees have reached maturity, and it will be a very exciting (and hopefully lucrative) project where they will be a big player in the Malawian Macadamia Market. After the tour we just relaxed until it was time for sundowners at the weir. Probably not the best idea with a big cycle on the cards tomorrow, but when in Rome, as they say. It was a great farm stay with lovely hosts and nice to see something a bit different to tobacco or row crops. I'm not sure how interesting it was for Sam, but I reckon he was happy to just be off the Buffalo. Next morning we were up early, and after making some porridge, boiled eggs and sandwiches, hit the road. Sam had a bit of a creaky crank and I still wasn't sure about my derailleur so we had a bit of a mechanical pit stop early on, but after that we made some excellent progress. Because Sam is a novice he can't drink going along but we more or less kept churning along for about 2.5 hours until we stopped for some eggs and our sandwiches. Before too long we began to get swamped by people. I ignored the first guy as was calling Mushroom Farm, our camping destination for the next few nights, for directions and booking confirmation. This left Sam to fend off the awkward requests for things by himself. He'd probably do a better, or at least much more tactful, job than me anyway. Good news from Mushroom Farm - free accommodation because we were crazy charity cyclists, but he recommended we didn't attempt to cycle up the last 10km off road hill to them. By the time I was off the phone there were about 10 people around - Sam was obviously being far too nice! They turned out to be from the school and they were a very nice bunch indeed. We went through the usual rigmarole of being called liars when I introduced myself as another Sam, followed by much hilarity as I handed my driver's license around. They were very keen for our mobile numbers for some reason. Sam dodged it as he has no local sim, but I got collared and had to divulge my details. I was fully expecting to be spammed in the style of my Zim home-stay mate Kumbirai but I have actually received nothing at all! We chatted for a while and then pushed on, being escorted for about 5 minutes by a bloke called Pato on his 'Defender' mountain bike. After carrying on for another hour or so until, operating under Chloe's 'Eat whilst you can!' mandate, we stopped for chips in a large village. The guy wanted 600 for chips so I informed him of our anti-Muzungu prices policy and changed establishment. We were initially the same at chippie number 2 but we busted the price fixing racket right open by switching to sweet potato chips instead. And K20 per chunk it sounded expensive, but through shrewd selection of said chunks (you had to carefully balance crispiness with size) we ended up with a decent feed for just 25p. Not bad! It was nice to have a change from the normal chips and salad too. There are quite a few roadside butcheries here in Malawi where you see pigs and goats in a various state of slaughter. The classic is a goat hanging up under a little shelter, completely skinned except from the neck upwards and hanging by its head. Depending on the time of day and briskness of trade, it might be missing a leg or two as well. However, although fresh looking they tend to just take the most disgusting bits and fry them in oil so I avoid it as I'm not as protein obsessed as the other Sam. There is also a steady supply of boiled eggs available from those crooks so no need for skanky meat to get your fix. After that snack we'd done about 65km and looking good for early afternoon arrival based on 90km stretch. This seemed to be a very different Malawi to the one we were used to from the rest of the trip. The roads were much the same but seemed not as busy. There were also still people about and a fair bit of habitation along the road, but certainly less of it, and of a better standard. I noticed a lot more agricultural cooperatives and the land looked pretty productive, with soya beans, the ever present maize, cassava and bananas spreading from the roadside up and down into the verdant hillsides. A lot of our route was along through a riverine valley which made for very scenic vistas down through the valley and to each side. We took a fair few photos as this would be our last day cycling together before we relaxed and Foulkes donated the Buffalo to a Kock's cause. No Napoleon costume today, and a good job too as it looked like rain at one point, and I'm sure we'd have got wet if I was sporting the wig. The ready supply of water seemed to have facilitated a more vigourous agricultural scene and I think you could see the benefits of this in the state of the buildings and amount of tin roofs about. After about 80km we came to a road closed sign which of course was unwelcome as the detour looked both longer and uncomfy. The rookie Sam obeyed the signage but I spotted that they were just resurfacing the bridge (or getting ready to as not much activity at the time) so I ploughed straight on over. That was the last of Sam I saw for about half an hour! What I thought was just a bit of a climb away from the bridge, developed into a rather horrible mountain climb of around 330m vertical ascent. I thought it best just to get it out the way and wait for him at the top so cracked on. It was quite a tough climb but it was a bit of a nerve settler as we had had it far too easy for the rest of the day so knew we were due something horrible before too long. I had a bit of a wait at the top, and passed the time impressing a bloke called Peter, who was wearing a woman's jumper, with details of my journey. Sam arrived a bit of a sweaty mess but was push free for the ascent - a very fine effort considering the gradient and single gear. You can tell when he's struggling because he bobs up and down like one of those nodding dogs on the parcel shelf of a car (and then bemoans his bruised hands when he stops). After a few snaps with the view and road we'd ascended snaking off down into the abyss, we set off. There were a couple more lumps and bumps but basically now we were just descending off the Escarpment into the Rift Valley towards the lake. This gave us fantastic views and some easy kms. The descent was peppered with baboons skulking around and looking extremely displeased to be forced from the road. I don't like baboons at all but was having too much fun to stop and unleash some catapult based havoc. I was also rather nervous of them after my Vic Falls face off with one. I settled for just shouting abuse at them and close passing them for maximum disturbance. The eyeballed me with arrogant disdain for the most part, but I forced a few off into the forest. After coming off the mountain we basically had about 15km of flat lakeshore to go before we hit the dirt road turning up to Livingstonia. This was also glorious riding and very pleasant. All in all, as we pulled off the road after doing 115km, I would rank it as my favourite day of cycling: the combination of some easy kms, a big hill for satisfactory summiting, new and fantastic scenery, friendly people, some new food and a bit of roadkill ticked all the boxes. We pulled in to see a Land Rover Defender 130 make ready it's departure laden with all sorts of luggage and people. There was no way we were going to fit everything on that so would have to wait. The only other thing about was an extremely buggered Toyota Hilux that was undergoing repairs. We were told 15 mins but when I had a look under the bonnet they were missing the timing belt, which had snapped. 'Ah yes boss, someone he is getting a new one now', was the response. 15 minutes was never going to happen. After a while another Hilux arrived, this one in much better condition. This was driven by Mike, who was very hard work and a shrewd negotiator. After quite a while of softening him up we agreed 10,000 to take both of us and the bikes and kit to the top. The snag was that we had to wait for extra people to fill the rest, and they weren't here yet. It was more than I wanted to pay, and a bit of a rip off I thought, but we'd heard a lot of chat about how bad the road up was so didn't have much choice really. It was a very boring few hours waiting at the bottom, especially as the place was basically teeming with bothersome drunks, touts and shifty looking kids. The Hilux repair and bump starting process provided some light relief to the tedium, but we were both pretty fed up by the time the mini bus disgorged the remaining passengers we were awaiting. They brought with them an inordinate amount of stuff and I soon became involved in a bit of a stowage row with Mike. The Buffalo was safely stacked on the roof but poor old Tina was destined to sit on the tailgate. Most African public transport operators are very good at stowing but Mike seemed to lack that creativity somewhat. Both bikes could have gone on the top but they needed some cargo in between to pad things out a bit. But no one would hand anything over and it turned into a bit of and us versus them, with a guy with a chainsaw being particularly annoying: the gist of what he was saying was that it was local African transport and that I wasn't welcome on it. Luckily I didn't have to worry about the chainsaw as it was in two pieces and clearly not operational so I told him to just butt out as it had nothing to do with him. Regardless, the fiasco culminated in Mike having a meltdown and refusing to take the bikes. He unloaded all our stuff and said we couldn't come up. This would have been a severe blow as there were no more trucks going up and it was almost dark. We didn't want to waste a night down at the bottom so after a few soothing words I deposited the bikes with Elijah the Rasta lodge owner for storage and persuaded Mike to take just us and the bags. Crisis averted but we were also now last on with all the choice seating gone. I sat on a crate of beer but the local animosity continued and I was told to get off in case I damaged them. I pointed out that a) it was only a few bottles of disgusting Chibuku home brew and b) they'd already leaked everywhere. I ended up perched on a bag of maize straddling said offensive beer with one leg dangling out the side. Sam was equally uncomfortable I think and it was a rather sullen, silent 40 minute ride up the mountain. At the top I paid Mike what I thought was right, fully expecting another grumbling session but we were spared that. We walked into Mushroom Farm in the dark at about 6 ish. The saving grace was that we were in our own little mini dorm free of charge and were down for dinner which would be ready shortly. After a few warm beers (it's an eco lodge up a mountain so has no fridge or freezer) we moved on to some banana wine as that is quite palatable at room temperature. The morning revealed a rambling eco camp with compost loos, permaculture garden and excellent views. We set off on a 4 hour hike to the Chombe Plateau as a warm down for the legs which was very pleasant. We've also hiked to a waterfall and done a bit of woodcarving but other than that it's been mostly relaxing and being vegetarian. A few familiar faces from other spots in Malawi reappeared which was both nice and made me feel like a proper backpacker! Early nights and getting up around 6 has become the norm now and Mushroom has been nice and chilled out in that respect. After 4 nights there being lazy vegetarian eco warriors Sam's time with me sadly came to an end. Hopefully he has enjoyed the experience and Malawi: it's tricky to get the balance between cycling and feeling guilty about not and relaxing and seeing some sights. Overall I think I've managed to put on a decent show with some village camping, long cycles, uphills, downhills, lake views, R&R, mountains and hiking, local food and transport all in the mix. Not that it was planned to a great extent of course! My first solo cycle in a while wasn't a pleasant one to be honest. I think there's always an edge of feeling downbeat when you go back to being just one again, and that was definitely there as I pedaled off in the opposite direction to all the guys I'd just come down the mountain with. Don't get me wrong, I was more than happy to get off the bakkie after an extremely uncomfortable 40 mins bumping and grinding our way back towards the lakeshore, jostled by a strange fidgety woman who somehow also managed to sleep at times. Across the loadbed the guy who had a massive piece of wire protruding out of his arm (there's a hospital in Livingstonia at the top of the mountain and I can only assume that he'd been there for treatment) didn't make for great viewing either. I swear it was thicker than a coat hanger, and bordering on rebar proportions. Not nice! Anyway, as I left Sam, Rob and Theo after some very manly goodbyes, I did feel a bit deflated. I also felt pretty rough as my tummy wasn't very happy with me. To be fair I'd done well to last this long without any issues, but it's rather ironic that I felt so crap after 4 nights in a posh Mzungu eco lodge resort. Maybe my body was just going into shock from being a vegetarian for the last 4 days (the food was actually excellent, with such big portions that I'd regularly score about 3 sets of leftovers from fellow diners), but whatever the cause, it made for extremely unpleasant cycling. There was no way of sneaking off into the bushes as there are just so many people about. In fact, I'd pulled into what I thought was a quiet spot to put on my Lycra and chamois cream up when two locals got an eyeful as they came round the corner. Oops! A staff toilet at a Chipiku supermarket along the way saved my bacon so I bought some biscuits as a thank you but I was suffering some rather horrible cramps for a couple of hours, worsening every time I ate something or changed position. Given my lazy couple of weeks, and the fact that both times I'd seen fellow cycle tourists I'd been travelling by motorised means, I was dead against getting a lift. This was partly pseudo guilt driven and partly reluctance to deal with taxis and bike stowage, but mostly I felt that I had to soldier on and prove to myself that I could brave adverse conditions. Luckily my condition didn't affect my legs, and feeling quite refreshed after Mushroom Farm, I was whizzing along at almost 23kph average. I clung on grimly for the first 45km and things were settling down by the 60 mark. The back 30 odd were pretty much fine and I felt vindicated in not succumbing to the allure of an ambulance car. I was a bit of a grumpy git that day and most greetings, whether demanding money or simply being friendly, went unacknowledged apart from perhaps a nod of the head or raising of the eyebrows. My insular progress put me in Karonga by about 1:30, and it certainly wasn't one of those days where I push for big miles and bush camp somewhere - a lodge with a bed and a toilet was needed. I was also working up to rewarding my sickbed cycling efforts with a late start after watching the Lions test match. Again, I felt a bit naughty considering such an action, but I reasoned that it only happens every 12 years, and I'm not going to see next week's game as I'll be on the ferry on Lake Tanganyika if all goes to plan. Thus, I had a beady eye out for anywhere with DSTV. As I came into town 'Paradise Park' loomed into view. 'The Connoisseur's Choice', the sign read, with private rooms, bar, restaurant aaaaand DSTV! Good enough for an enquiry, certainly. Rates were K6000 including breakfast and Supersport channels. The TV was both ancient and tiny, but the rooms were fine and breakfast was eggs on toast. I assented after mere moments of deliberation. Feeling a bit better, and with an afternoon free, I decided to explore Karonga a little bit. The first task was some lunch so I mooched over to the nearest establishment called 11 Seconds which was about 250m away. It would either be a refreshing change to the speed of service in Malawi, or a cruel irony inflicted on an ailing bicycle tourist. It transpired to be very quick indeed - more than 11 seconds but certainly under 11 minutes. We did the normal price dance, and not sure if it was a language barrier but what I think the lady started off saying was K4500 ended up at K1000. One British pound for a big plate of rice beans and veg was very acceptable in my opinion! And to top it off, the water was ice cold. Mushroom could learn a trick or two from these okes. I was so impressed that, with an improving stomach it returned there in the evening for the exact same meal. After my bargain lunch I decided to have a walk around as, even though the room was decent enough, it was only 2pm. It was nice to just have a bit of time and stroll around for a few hours taking in the sights (I mean the general surroundings rather than tourist attractions). I hadn't seen a whitey since leaving Sam & co, and I was certainly the only Mzungu in town. Karonga seems to be a centre of death, and I walked along what I dubbed 'Coffin maker's Row', passing shop upon shop (if that's what you call them) of guys making coffins. After that it was into the town centre and towards the market. I passed the usual fare and was inspired by the numerous bike shops to try and find a 9 speed pin for my dodgy chain. Mission unsuccessful but I did take the plunge and purchase one of those nice two-tone bells I'd been coveting to replace my dodgy Buffalo Bike one (their bells certainly aren't as robust as the frames). After a little high street perusal it was into the market proper; plunging off the tar onto haphazard dirt roads crowded with street stalls. It was a pretty big market, and I'm often surprised at what's lurking behind the scenes in these African towns. They had quite an impressive array of fresh produce, including some kind of millet which they sprout and then dry for selling. I'd not seen that before and there were a few other new products to me. I felt a bit bad not buying anything but I'm generally only in the market for prepared food ideally. There was one whole avenue of hair salons with all the ladies sat in there gabbering away gossiping and getting their weaves done. This lot decided, probably rightly, that I wasn't potential clientele so I was heckle free on that stretch. After market browsing I took a wander to check out a rival guest house (also DSTV equipped) to see if I'd made the right choice. It was nothing impressive and K1500 more excluding breakfast. Vindicated! Sauntering smugly back from that bit of research the Karonga Museum and Cultural Centre caught my eye. With low expectations these attractions are often quite pleasant in a folksy kind of way. Sam and I had been bitterly disappointed by the Livingstonia museum 2 days previously, but wasn't I here for a bit of culture as well as exercise. I blagged half price volunteer entry rates so I had the museum to myself and only K500 worse off. I left my slops at the door and spent about an hour taking in a bit about the geography of Malawi and the Rift Valley System, some general colonial, ancient and modern history and dinosaurs. The replica of the 10 tonne Malawisaurus was definitely the highlight. The skeleton of a black rhino which had only survived in Malawi for about 3 months, seemed less of a triumph - although I suppose Karonga is death central! The next morning I was awoken, but not up early. I'd decided I'd have a lie in, watch the Lions game, and then cheat my way up to Chitipa by bus. Best laid plans eh. First off, Clement hadn't paid his DSTV and I had a nasty feeling he would shake me down for a subscription fee the next morning. As it turned out we never even got that far as the power was off (they seem to switch it off at about 8 and back on at 5 - luckily not when people are trying to be productive or anything!) and he quoted me a ridiculous sum of money to run the generator. This wasn't feasible so off I set with Bighton to find another option. It was looking good - a type of cinema sports venue with a decent screen and DSTV (and power). I'd have had the whole place to myself and they were making popcorn next door so it was all looking quite rosy. However, golden rule in Africa is don't believe it until you see it. Unfortunately we fell at the last hurdle - the channel subscription: they had sports but not Supersport 1. I was ultimately undone by the Malawian penchant for football, and disdain for rugby. What a bloody shocker! That meant there was zero point hanging around so I decided I would do what I was supposed to and pedal to Chitipa. I knew it was about 90km but was unsure just how hilly it was going to be. The only way to find out was to get going.
I was underway late by my standards: only pedaling out of Karonga at 9am. Not the usual plan but plenty of time to get 100km done, and it wasn't too hot either. I was a bit nervous tackling such a big day after sicknote Thursday but things seemed to have settled overnight. Breakfast was pretty disappointing really: one overdone fried egg and three slices of bread with a thermos of hot milk (I said I have my tea white). Hardly the breakfast of champions but it was a start. Town was busy by the time I set off, and I got into a race with a bike taxi oke. I'm ashamed to say I lost that one (or at least couldn't overtake him back) but in fairness he was unladen and I was still getting warmed up. Malawi continues to surprise with yet another side of the country revealing itself on my last day of proper cycling in the country. Karonga was busy as you'd expect, but as soon as I left town things really quietened down. There was a strange incident of a load of blokes driving 2 abreast down the road shouting a lot. I wasn't sure if it was hostility or excitement but it wasn't aimed at me either way, so when they managed to block a bridge (presumably deliberately) I just gave them some new two-tone bell action (theme of the day) and threaded through the gap. But after that I only saw about 20 cars for the next 2 hours. There were also very few pedestrians and even fewer cyclists. It was a day of fantastic scenery and I basically had the road to myself. It was proper African wilderness again - apart from the tar road of course - which was something I hadn't experienced for a long while, and not at all in Malawi. This did present a few problems though: water wasn't an issue as I had 3 litres which would get me to Chitipa pretty much, but I'd been expecting the usual roadside chip stalls and good hawkers. Such was my bullishness that when the group of banana sellers refused to budge on prices (I'm still pretty sure K50 for two bananas is high) I played hard ball, thinking I'd get them from the next lot round the corner. This turned out to be severe misjudgment, being the only banana salespeople for about 60km. I stopped half way for a rest and bought 3 of the local 'Sobo' pineapple Fantas, necking 1,5 and putting the rest in with the remains of my first water bottle. I was stomach grumble free but also hadn't eaten much - only a pack of coconut biccies since breakfast. I had some banana bread which I was working up to eating but never really got round to it. I bought some strange - and terrible - doughnuts for naff all further on, but they were both unpleasant and not boiled eggs which I wanted so can be considered a waste of money. At about 70km I came upon some civilisation, relatively speaking at least. Here was a chance for some scram so I made a beeline for the nearest chip stall. They looked very good indeed, but then I espied a little pot of whitebait and fired tomatoes. 'How much?!' I cried enthusiastically. They were for personal consumption and not for sale I was told. I didn't want to be that rich white guy who says 'But everything is for sale my friend', and after a bit more discussion he said he would just give me some. I think he saw my deep yearning for said fish and the bitter disappointment if I was denied, but what a top lad. It was the best roadside food of the whole trip so far, and was even served on a plate with a fork in a fancy lean-to dining room. It also brought my 6 days of vegetarianism to an end. The kiddywinks gawking at me between the gaps in the rudimentary planking ensured it wasn't going to be mistaken for a Michelin star venue, but I was certainly impressed. After checking with Jim that Sam had safely left the country, I jumped back on Tina and pedaled off. Perhaps it was the food but the last 25km were much more descent-based and I flew along that back stretch. I ended up 95km done, 1430m climbed and 20,2kph average speed, which isn't at all bad I don't think. Chitipa is pretty small and my hopes of catching the Lions game were looking rather slim. I pulled up at some roadside bike repairers and got my tyres pumped up ready for Zambia as I'm not sure how remote it's going to be. I probably should have done that at the beginning of the day but I have a nasty habit of letting the tyres get too soft for efficient riding. After inflating my tyres I set about finding a room for the night. I passed a couple of grotty looking lodges right in the middle of town but decided to carry on. Then a nice pinky purple one caught my eye. I pulled in and K6000 for the night with breakfast again so I took it. They were very nice indeed and Moses even took me to Aunt Jame's restaurant for a candlelit supper (power had gone again) of more rice beans and veg. Conclusions from Malawi: I've passed through most of the country now, with about 5km left of the northern region before I pass into Zambia, and have seen a lot of different things along the way. As I said before, it's a very different African country from the others I've been to in the sense that it is so busy and you don't get the stretches of wilderness you do in Zim or Bots. There are people everywhere, and about the only peaceful stretch apart from the last day was through Bwanje Forest Reserve on the way to Cape Maclear. This has advantages and disadvantages: you're never far from shouts of 'Mzungu, give me money', but I'd also say you're a lot closer to a friendly wave, smile and 'How are you?'. I've done some awesome things in Malawi and the summit sleepover on Sapitwa Peak is going to be a lifelong memory I think. It's also been great to have company for 2 weeks and share some R&R. Like any country, it has it's problems, and I've seen both a lot of half-baked and abandoned aid projects, and far too many brand new Land Cruisers with 'World Vision' and 'USAID' written on. There is also quite a bit of fecklessness and alcoholism which is a shame. That said, the people are what make Malawi, and I won't forget how lovely the villagers were when we asked to spend the night, or the procession of hugs and high fives we got when leaving Mushroom Farm. There are always people who have strong opinions on African countries, and whilst I got a lot of chat about light fingers, idleness and the lack of trees, I am very pleased to say that I can disagree with all 3 generalisations and wholeheartedly recommend a visit to Malawi. I've been in the country for over 3 weeks now, and it'll be strange to finally leave for Zambia: Bordergate and being refused entry in Mwanza seems a lifetime ago now! Eagle's nest, where ze German overlanders took me, was pretty empty, with just us, another Cichlid-loving German called Stefan on his own, and some old S African couple. It was also $10/night for camping so after a good breakfast where I abused Stefan's access to unlimited toast, I set off into 'town'. The far end was more of a village, and a pretty ropey one at that, but it got a bit more touristy after 4km. I topped up my airtime and enjoyed looking at all the stalls and hawkers along the way. I was aiming for Eco Lodge, but checked out some others along the way. The whole place seemed pretty empty, being a Tuesday but I ended up at Funky Cichlid as the management were very nice, letting me stay in a dorm for the same price as camping. Financial incentive aside, the beers were about 80p and the smell of fish curry for lunch sealed the deal. I spent the rest of the day getting the previous blog out, relaxing, and contracting bilharzia by swimming in the lake. In the afternoon a Saffer and his mate from the US turned up, and we had a few beers together. They were pretty good lads so it was nice to have some company but I also liked the look of their Fortuner with roof rack for a lift to Lilongwe to meet Sam on the Saturday. A guy Pete arrived from the lodge next door and preceded to annoy me somewhat by being ridiculously enthusiastic about everything. Obviously when applied to the cycle this was pleasant enough, but when he wouldn't shut up about how good the suspension in the Fortuner was on the way to another bar, it wore a little thin. That the bar was full of young gap year boys playing some atrocious music at full blast didn't help his cause either. The next day was devoted to the midweek Lions game against the Blues (which we lost) and then canoe hire and Cichlid viewing. I went with my new mates Francois and Adam, but it's fair to say that Mr Van de Merwe was more of a natural Afrikaner than athlete so we didn't spend much time together as he kept falling off and I was in one of those speedy ones. There was an island about 10 minute's (for me) paddle away, so I headed over there with GoPro and snorkel kit, lodging the kayak in the rocks and having a swim. The fish were pretty cool but only really held my interest for about 20 mins. The German girls (they get bloody everywhere) from the Sapitwa hike were on the island so I talked to them for a bit and after that I still had an hour on my canoe hire. Probably fueled by some repressed guilt about hitchhiking rather than cycling most of the way to CM, I decided to kayak around the island. I didn't know the size of it, but reasoned that it couldn't be that large so off I went. It did turn into a bit of an odyssey, especially on the far side where it was wavy and I started to ship water, but it was also quite pleasant with fish eagles wheeling and screeching overhead (they probably expected feeding) and baobabs thrusting up from the island skyline. I got back with 2 minutes left on my canoe hire, and scurried off for a fish curry and Kuche Kuche as reward for my efforts. The following day was my Birthday, but being too old to legitimately make a fuss, I kept it to myself pretty much, just speaking to Chloe and family. Due to logistics for meeting Sam, and the failure of the boys to commit to driving hungover on Saturday morning, I decided to aim for Lilongwe via the Axa bus on Friday. I was told that it leaves from Monkey Bay at about 5:30-6 so decided I must relocate to Monkey Bay the night before. I was prepared to cycle, but was offered a lift for the 20km there. Naturally, I took it. The new lodge had an air of quaint fecklessness and decay about it: when asked how many rooms they had, the staff seemed both surprised, and unable to answer such a question. The owner gave the same response. But there was a warm shower and good food so was quite happy. With a 4:45 alarm I was up, packed and at the bus stop by 5:30, with only a vague hope of a punctual bus. 6 came, and then 6:15 with no bus. The time was passed watching the sun rise and then some poor bike taxi oke try and give a lift to a rather large lady. He failed a few times, and then the plump cargo was transferred to another, more powerful, taximan. Then at 6:20 a minibus arrived saying that the Axa bus was not coming. Naturally I suspected a ruse to dupe the Muzungu and told them to bugger off, but as more locals dispersed to other means of transport I began to take them seriously. Then we got down to haggling, the driver asking for 12,000 and me saying 6,000. After some toing and froing they drove off, leaving me standing in a cloud of dust. However, 2 minutes later they came back - I had them! He tried 10,000 but I said no way, agreeing on 8,000 for the full trip to Lilongwe. It took the best part of an hour to even get out of Monkey Bay, and I was glad for the front seat as they packed more and more people into the back (Tina was on the roof, complete with panniers). They kept bothering me for money, but only an unseasoned fool would pay the full fare up front - cash on delivery only is the policy to stick by. They also use buying fuel as a pretext for an advance payment, but I remain unmoved by such fanciful tactics. I was promptly vindicated by my decision as, after a couple of hours when we got to Golimoti, everyone got out and the driver informed me that this was as far as he goes. He tried finding me a lift against full payment but I got pretty pissed off with him seeing as he'd mugged me right off. I decided that the best way forward was to get to Salima, a big ish town 90km from Lilongwe, and take it from there. James, my lying taxi man, got me a lift on a truck for 3,500. He received 2,000 himself for his half baked lift services. Luckily the truck was utterly hilarious so I wasn't cross for long: it was market day and the truck was loaded with about 5 pigs, 12 goats, and a bullock, all in various states of incarceration by a strange rope they make from car tyres. As we were filling with fuel the pigs went mad, a goat made a break for freedom, and the bull decided he would also try and bugger off. I deployed farmer skills and got his head over onto his arse to keep him down, then handed over to the locals whilst I filmed it and pissed myself laughing. The rest of the journey was punctuated by further animal noises and escape birds, various passengers, a live chicken wearing a plastic bag, a bag full of mewing kittens, more breastfeeding, and some roadblock dodging. The latter consisted of us stopping, ejecting most passengers, and then picking them up about 2km later, the other side of the police. I, as the high fare-paying muzungu was spared the indignity of disembarking, instead riding past the white-gloved officials whilst serenely attending to my livestock. All this amounted to slow progress, and it wasn't until about 12:30 that I got to Salima. I was hoping for a simple, large, bus with transparent pricing, but was unfortunately disappointed in this regard. I jumped on Tina and did about 10km down to the Nkhotakota t-junction and picked up a taxi there. We went through the normal rigmarole of fare negotiation, this time taking the panniers off and putting Tina in the boot. I paid close attention to the road as Sam and I would be cycling back out this way. It was a bit lumpy, but nothing hectic in my opinion. Foulkes, with his weak English legs and single speed buffalo bike, might take a different view! The taxi guys pulled the usual trick of not actually doing what they promised, dropping me 10km from Lilongwe proper. This vexed me as I needed to get to Jabu in order to have him service my bike that afternoon. I knocked 1000 kwatcha off the price and trundled off as they abused my thriftiness. Full payment on delivery! Lilongwe is pleasant enough, but is very spread out so doesn't really feel that city like. I got to Jabu at about 2:30 and handed Tina over. He didn't exactly spring into action, but there was a (legendary so I'm told) bar next door so I headed over there for some much needed nutrition and hydration after surviving thus far on just a pack of biscuits thus far as my kwatcha ran low. 2 beers and 2 pork pies later I was feeling much better. Then Harry of Harry's Bar itself appeared and he stood me a beer as we chatted about Malawi, Lilongwe, food security and vermiculture. I had also arranged from Farayi from World Bicycle Relief to deliver Sam's Buffalo Bike to Jabu so that we could collect both on Sunday morning and set off cycling. By the time I'd finished my free beer the bike had arrived so I paid my bill (Harry let me off the pork pies too, which was very kind of him) and got them to drop me off at Lark Cafe where my potential hosts were. I had got in touch with Agdevco back in March as I wanted to take a look at some African agri projects on my trip, and these guys invest DFID money in for-profit agricultural ventures. The London office very kindly put me in touch with Jim, the head of Malawi for the country, and after initial contact in March, as I neared Lilongwe I had sent him another email. He wasn't sure whether he would be in Malawi or traveling on those dates, but on the Thursday he called to say he would be around so I should get in touch when I got to Lilongwe. We spoke a couple of times during my epic journey to Lilongwe and I was told to head for his office when I was finished with bike admin. It turned out that Farayi knew him - Jim - from the gym in another small world-ism but it was still rather cryptic as to whether I was welcome for the night or not. I was keen to meet him and prepared to stay in a hostel if need be. Jim was very welcoming indeed, and after a shower and a change into me best evening outfit, I proceeded to the cafe opposite run by Trish, his wife, to attend the function that they were holding that evening. It was a fundraiser for an eco hospital, with all of the movers and shakers of Lilongwian society in attendance. After slurping down a Carlsberg I decided that rather than hang about trying to meet people I'd make myself useful so headed into the kitchen to see if I could help. The primary aim was to gain some snacks for my building hunger, but I was swiftly put to work making salads instead. This provided meagre snacking opportunity but after completing the lemon and poppy seed dressing I repositioned myself to near the chicken goujons, sneaking myself the off treat surreptitiously. I then turned waiter and caused a few laughs as I shuffled around in my bush shirt and slops trying to explain what all the delicious canapés were. The kitchen staff also seemed to find me hilarious for some reason - probably because I was so blatantly flaunting the eating on the job rule. It was really good fun helping out, and made me feel a lot less guilty about gorging myself on the lovely food. It also provided a good distraction to the accommodation situation: eventually I plucked up the courage to ask Jean, Jim's daughter, whether I was allowed to stay or not, but she said she didn't even know who I was! Half an hour later Jim very kindly came up and said that the plan was always for me to stay with them, and not to worry. Bonus! The Hendersons live out of town, so after a tour past the Houses of Parliament, conference centre and fancy, underused, football stadium, we got home at about 12. Although not cycling, I was on the road in some capacity, whether as market goer and price checker (bull MK220,000, pig MK50,000, goat MK20,000) or taxi abuser, from 6 that morning so I was pretty beat. I'd secured breakfast and Lions vs Crusaders viewing with Hugh, Jim's brother in law for the next morning so we headed back into town at about 8:30 the next morning. I cheekily managed to eat at Jim's too, so was adhering well to Chloe's 'eat whenever you can' mantra. After a heartening Lions victory I headed back to the cafe and readied myself for collecting Samuel from the airport. In the end we had to go last minute kettle shopping so Foulkes had to make a terrible job of negotiating with the taxi driver to get into town himself. I struck a blow for extorted tourists by accidentally taking the taxi man's jacket out of the boot of his car along with Foulkes' luggage - sorry Dennis! Jim had very kindly extended the invitation to both and extra night and an extra person so we headed back with them for some route planning and general organisation. It was nice to get come birthday cards, some bling for Tina in the form of bike balls, Party Rings and some much needed chamois cream from Elliott at Muc-Off. Unfortunately my fancy new cycling shorts were way too big for me, but there we go. A lot of quick links meant that I need no longer fear the dreaded Pied Crows, though it by no means dimmed my burning desire for revenge. After another very pleasant evening at chez Henderson we were on our way to pick up the bikes from Jabu by 8:30 after some oats for a bit of hearty energy. On the way I'd asked Jim to pull in at civilised looking drinks places as I needed to try and get some new water bottles: I'd been running the same two 1,5 l in my XL touring cages for the last 6 weeks, and one had finally succumbed to the ravages of time as one of the hotel workers overfilled and froze it, splitting the poor thing. The other one was still going strong but looking a bit worse for wear. Jim swore blind that such sized bottles don't exist in Malawi, but we swiftly made him eat humble pie as Chipiku Plus came up with the goods. We also found some super duper baobab powder that is supposed to instill magical powers when drunk, which was quite exciting. It makes 20l when added to water, so I look forward to trying it out. Jabu was late, but we eventually got underway at 10:15 after putting the buffalo together. It was a bit of a baptism of fire for poor Sam as it we were aiming to do at least 90km, and it was immediately both quite hilly and into a pumping headwind. I was struggling to get back into things myself a bit, and the first 25km were slow slow, but I took a perverse pleasure in knowing Sam was probably feeling a lot worse than me. My full touring rig definitely weighed a lot more than his, but he has a single speed, and every time I changed gear I felt both pity and smugness wash over me. At about 45km we decided it was time for lunch and after blitzing Sammy on the hills, it was with a perverse sense of satisfaction that I watched him push his bike over the brow of the hill as I munched on a portion of chips and salad. I sensed he was near a bit of a meltdown and seemed rather unimpressed with the lack of protein provided by chips and salad. I informed him that actually he was quite fortunate to have such ample and cheap, albeit unvaried roadside snacks. Luckily the food helped him out a lot, and after half an hour we were underway again. I must admit, it was very pleasant having a companion, and after lunch things leveled out a bit so I felt less guilty about throwing him in at the deep end. We stopped again at 60 odd km for some bush pump replenishment and some banana shopping. The bananas were new territory for me and after some price checking at the water pump, I felt ready to enter the fray. There I was advised that 4 for MK200 was realistic, but this was taken with a big pinch of Muzungu salt. I proudly walked away with 12 bananas for 200 after some hearty haggling. 'That's how it's done', I told Sam. I wish I could say the same for my egg hustling skills - I've still been unable to shift them from MK100 each, no matter how hard I try, or how many I buy. Curse the infernal Malawian Poultry Mafia (Chicken, tembale in Chichewa,is the national bird of Malawi according to the rather unreliable source of Jim Henderson). The second half of the 90km eased off a bit, with the undulations lessening, but it certainly didn't get boring. We passed some rather exciting 'local figures', ranging from the previously encountered Panga wielding, bag wearing type, to another one who looked like a striped stocking, to what can best be described as a moving bush cross jellyfish. Obviously I was in front of Sam, and shouted at them a bit to wind them up, so Sam had to run a strange kind of tribal gauntlet as the shrub and swordsman closed in on him. I found it extremely amusing! He really was getting a nice introduction to African bike touring, with only some good roadkill lacking. I'd seen a dog on the side of the road between Lilongwe and Salima when I was in the minibus, but was unfortunately unable to locate it on the return cycle, which was a great shame. Initially I'd thought of Sengar Bay for our first night's stop, but it was a bit out of the way and not really worth the detour I decided. The other option was Salima, but this is just a normal crappy town with some lodges which probably wouldn't allow camping, so I decided that we would continue with the 'deep end' theme and try a spot of village camping. That meant taking the left for Nkhotakota before Salima and heading up that way rather than into town. We stopped at the junction for some more chips and salad, after sampling, and then rejecting, the grilled 'goat' and set off again at about 4. We were cutting it a bit fine, but best not to camp in a town type place or near a shebeen (boozer) so we carried on for a few more km. I like to pick somewhere that isn't too busy if I can, although this is quite difficult to achieve in Malawi. We tried one lot that, although nice, didn't speak any English, and seemed to say no to our proposal of camping. We then looked at a little group of buildings further on, but they seemed to have an air of abandonment and dereliction that didn't give me a very good feeling. I'd pretty much decided that it would be impossible to bush camp without discovery so we tried again a few km up the road. There we met Ntembe, who was a very pleasant fellow indeed. However, this was Chief Jawal's land, and neither he nor other villagers were allowed to accept private guests. However, he offered to take us to the chief himself so he went and got his bike and we went a little further up the road to the main village. We immediately caused quite a stir, as you can imagine, and a large crowd gathered. The chief was out at another village visiting his other wife so we had to wait whilst they tried to get him on the mobile. All the while the sun was setting, and although I wasn't expecting a no, we did surmise that disturbing him might not be conducive to the favourable response we were after. The half an hour or so wait was passed with us sitting on some reed mats they'd put down for us whilst everyone stared from a safe distance. Conversation was halting and my attempts at Chichewa prompted much hilarity. After not too long Chief Jawal himself appeared for a handshake and granting of permission. He was a small, kindly, and completely unassuming chap, not at all like my Mr Goatskin from the bus. He didn't hang around for long - he probably had another wife somewhere who needed some attention - and we then had to choose between two potential camp sites. We took the more out of the way spot under the trees and proceeded to set up camp. Being a seasoned camper by now, and Sam a complete novice, I was done way before him. Seeing as we had such a large, mute, group of onlookers, I decided to initiate a bit of audience participation; after blowing up my camping mat, I proffered it for squidging. They initially baulked in terror, but then one brave picanin stepped forward and gave it a squeeze. That was good enough for the masses, and then they all surged forward, having a good squidge and seeming very impressed with it. After camp was set, we were asked if we ate Nseema (local word for maize meal) so I said yes. Obviously it's not my favourite, being essentially flavourless stodge, but I always think it's both more polite to accept local hospitality when offered, and less awkward than cooking your own. Once Foulkes had finally finished setting up his camp, we headed over to the fire of our esteemed caterers. Here we were joined by Clement, a delightful man who was easily brought to manic laughter, and his Dad, who didn't speak any English really. Clement, in between introducing us to an endless stream of relatives and teaching us a bit of Chichewa, took a particular fancy to our headtorches. Luckily Sam's, despite being vastly inferior to my fancy one, took the brunt of Clement's fervent desire, and he was left to awkwardly refuse the donation of his headlamp many many times. After a handwash and a supper of nseema and masamba (a kind of bitter tasting spinach) we wrapped up the chatting and turned in at about 8:30 with the bikes safely tucked up in a storage shed. I was quite surprised to be told that the bikes must be locked away because of thieves, as we were clearly welcome in the village and didn't expect to have a risk of them being taken. After a decent night's sleep for me, and a poor one for Sam, we were up at about 6:30. Someone sweeping right outside the tent, as well as general village noises, ensured a lie in was not possible. I emerged from the Coffin to a row of eager onlookers. Luckily I was expecting this and had got dressed before the grand reveal! I packed up the tent etc, and then got the stove out to do oats, along with the remaining bargain bananas, for breakfast. The stove caused considerable interest, as per usual, and whilst it was a bit awkward making food with what I'm sure were quite a few hungry spectators, I made sure to save a bit and pass it round for general sampling. Clement didn't share it as much as he should have, but the porridge seemed to meet with general approval. The villagers were a very kind bunch, with warm water ready for us to have a wash, and then as we were leaving we were presented with a big bag of groundnuts. Luckily I had a bag of sweets to donate in exchange, and we were underway by about 7:45 feeling both very lucky and pleased to have met such a great group of people. The warm heart of Africa indeed! Today was going to be flatter as now we were more or less following up along the lake. I believe this was a good thing for Sam 2 as yday was pretty tough by all accounts. After just a few kms some guy on a racer tried to pass me. 'Not a bloody chance!' I bellowed at him, and things quickly spiralled into a race situation. Whilst I didn't dust him quite as I'd hoped, he was certainly struggling to keep up, and didn't pass me. He turned out to be called Francis and had bought the racer for R3000 when he was working down in Cape Town. He had a printing business somewhere along the way so we cycled with him for about 10km. Nice guy, but our attempts to find out what the strange bush/panga locals dressed up for or as didn't yield good results; 'They're probably going into town to do some shopping' he said. Not very likely in my opinion, but there we go. In fact, aside from these particular traditional costumes, I'd enjoyed seeing the weird and wonderful fashion sense on display in Malawi. There were a lot of suits and ties paired with welly boots, flip flops, or simply no shoes at all, but particular mention goes to a few instances: the porter on Mount Mulanje sporting just the one Asics trainer, the other foot being completely bare, who explained the anomaly by way of 'mechanical breakdown', the old boy wearing a tie that literally reached down to his knees, and the bloke sporting a pink (woman's I suspect) tank top at least 2 sizes too small and denim hot pants - probably the campest man in Malawi, but utterly unaware of it. Oh and the goatskin chief man from last week of course! We were also treated to our first road kill, disappearing dog aside, in Malawi. I saw 3 dead snakes that day, one of which looked both dead and small-mouthed enough for me to dare to pick up. So, off I cycled, dangling it by the tail, and lobbed it at Foulkes as I passed him. Rather amusingly it thudded into his front wheel and then wrapped around the fork. I think he must have been pretty scared as it took a few kms before he removed it. This provided further amusement as the muntukaderas (I'd got Clement to teach me Muzungu for black guys so that I could shout it back at them) are dead scared of snakes, so whenever we passed any locals that saw the snake there were exclamations of shock and awe. We must have looked like a fearsome bunch, me with my Muti skulls and Sam with the snake. Talking of scaring locals, I have taken a liking to scaring the more impertinent and persistent screamers of 'Give me my money' by swerving at them, yelping, or making chicken noises. They're a nervous bunch and anything would do really. Even shouting 'PLEASE!' at them flusters them. I had a great one on the first day when, going uphill, a boy of about 8 was admiring his snazzy blue hi-tops as he walked towards me. I merely squawked at him from close range and watched his eyes widen in fear as he left from the roadside. Excellent fun! Unfortunately most of them are very alert, and cries of 'Mzungu, mzungu, mzunguuuuu' generally precede our arrival. Some of them get very hysterical, their cries building into a high pitched scream by the end. This is also amusing, but not as easy on the ears. We got to Nkhotakota by about 2 and it wasn't really what we'd expected to be honest. Seeing as the Ilala, the touristy ferry that runs up and down Lake Malawi, stops there, I figured there would be a busy centre and some backpackers. Instead, we found a broken jetty and a rather shitty hotel called Satima (which I think was a bastardisation of the word Steamer, as in, ship). They did allow camping but it was a bit of a dive so we asked about alternative places. It was quite funny as he clearly thought we needn't consider any other than his fine establishment. We set off to explore and found a decent spot on the beach with rooms and breakfast for a tenner. I'm pretty sure the mosquito net was a fishing net, and the food was both slow and not delicious. But the beers were cheap and the views were good. We'd decided that in the interests of enjoyment we should rest the next day, and finding Nkhotakota fairly pedestrian we decided to try and use public transport to get us to Nkhata Bay. We spent a long, long time trying to get a sensible answer from our waiter Dan about the bus situation and timings etc. we eventually found out that the Axa (big coach) went at 8, 9, 10am, and mini buses from 7. We decided to aim for 7:30 and see what happened. That meant a fairly early start and after a mediocre 'full breakfast' we cycled into town. We promptly discovered that the Axa bus didn't arrived until 2 that afternoon, and after scouting a few bakkies and trying our luck with an army transport truck we agreed MK5000 each for Nkhotakota to Nkhata Bay. Both the bikes went on the roof; Tina panniers and all, so we were departure ready by about 8. However, we had to wait for the minibus to fill up before we could go so we passed the time wandering around the market and trying out the various snacks. We had some rice samoosas that weren't up to much, followed by some horrible cake thing that was swiftly donated to yesterday's beggar from outside People's Express. The taxi filled up quicker than expected and we were last on at about 9. Luckily we'd shotgunned the front seats by using an assortment of low value luggage as the back portion of the vehicle, as usual, was jam packed. Now, with a lot of information you get from locals, you must take it with a generous helping of salt, and this applies especially to those gentlemen involved in bus transport. I'm probably guilty of asking questions that I can't expect a sensible answer to, but I enjoy posing them, and then finding out how far wide of the mark their responses turn out to be. These taxi guys had actually been straight up in saying that they weren't going all the way, and that we would have to change at Dwangwa. This wasn't ideal, but the best thing to do is just make progress where you can and then 'make a plan' when you have to. So out we got in Dwangwa, and started having a look around. We immediately came across the hard sell - traffic cops mean no bicycles on the roof due to fines. This translates to higher prices due to stowage. In the end we agreed to pay and extra MK3000 each, on top of the original 5000. This was annoying, but it was a decent bus and they said they were leaving now now. Again, this phrasing involves calling bullshit on them, but hanging around near enough to dive in as they head off. We passed the time by winding them up and bartering for apples. I still believe there is a nationwide mzungu price collusion racket in Malawi, but it's quite fun kicking arse and trying to break the deadlock on pricing. I'd enjoyed good success in the chips & salad and Banana areas, but run into a brick wall on eggs and apples. Unfortunately today was a sellers' market, and we got nowhere. Another source of great amusement that we'd discovered was most people's refusal to believe we both had the same name. Consecutive introductions of 'Hi, I'm Sam' promoted accusations of lying, and general disbelief. I must confess to stoking the fire further by wearing a cheeky smirk at the same time. I'd have loved to have had a third Sam with us to really cause havoc, but alas not. Anyway, after changing buses and getting underway before too long, we were making good progress, stopping infrequently and not picking up many people. The embarkation of a man with a large tray of fresh fish made the journey somewhat less pleasant given the potent aroma issuing from them, but on the whole we were going along quite well. We then stopped at Chintheche where we scampered off into the market for lunch. I had often bemoaned the lack of imagination, and thus variation, in Malawian street stalls, and the country suffered from a dearth of chip and salad vendors and a scarcity in everything else. Thus, it was with some excitement that we discovered a guy doing sweet potatoes, chicken and bananas. They were still fried in oil after the same fashion as the usual fare, but I considered it a step in the right direction. After returning from lunch we were informed that our bus had a fuel filter problem and would be going no further any time soon. This was somewhat irksome, but also unsurprising seeing as we had seen them filling up with diesel from plastic cans using a tea strainer to filter the fuel. I did ask what was wrong with just going to the bloody petrol station, but this was for some reason preferable. We were about 40km out and to be fair I would gladly have cycled the remaining kms there, but in a fit of efficiency all our stuff had been transferred to another taxi and they were awaiting our arrival to be on their way. I was a bit annoyed at the presumption of it all, and especially the transfer of goods as I always like to supervise the packing to stop them breaking and bending the bikes. Anyway, it was too late, so we assumed our positions in the cheap seats in the back (next to the fish man who had also been transferred). The taxi driver turned out to be an absolute maniac, scattering children, pedestrians and cyclists before him in a speeding fury of horn blasts and screeching brakes. It was pleasant relief to actually stop and pick up or drop passengers off. The addition of two live goats, one of which insisted on wailing under heavy braking brought some much needed comic relief to the life-threatening situation. Here I must admit to goading the goat with some light jabbing to prolong the hilarity. We got to Nkhata Bay by about 2pm and the crazy, death wish taxi driver dumped our bikes and bags and sped off. His swift exit was well advised as it turns out, because we had both suffered mild bike damage in the loading/unloading process. All we had to do then was tackle the mammoth hill up to Mayoka Village and we were done for the day. Easier said than done, but the promise of overtaking Foulkes, and some cheering street vendors spurred me on. I took the summit honours and retain the spotted KOM cap. Mayoka is simply a wonderful spot, slightly out of town, and built right down to the lakeshore. Coincidentally two people from my school are volunteering here so we had the added bonus of both some friendly faces, and a bonus upgrade to a private room for camping prices. Thank you Will for the help, and Catherine the owner for being so nice. Settling in was as easy as locking up the bikes, dumping our bags, jumping in the lake and then ordering a couple of beers. For the first time this actually felt a bit like a holiday - some company, nice accomm, great scenery, good food and no cycling on the immediate horizon. There was a bit of excitement as a guest had her back stolen from down by the lake. There was a lot of hysterical screeching of 'my phone, my phone', accompanied by groaning and cursing. We didn't really get involved, although I did go and check on the bikes to be sure. Luckily other people did, and there was soon a search party assembled that tore off in hot pursuit of the thief using find my iPhone. It turns out it was a 12 year old boy who had grabbed the bagged and scarpered. They eventually found the phone stashed in the thatch roof of a house in the village, along with wallet etc under the mattress. The poor kid must have been absolutely tripping balls as they chased him down across the mountain! Kudos to the search party for a job well done. I'd got a fair bit of chat about light-fingered Malawians, but it wasn't something I took especially seriously as everyone also has an opinion on where you're going to get mugged, robbed, run over or abused. However, with this incident, preceded by bike incarceration in the village, and a frantic warning in Nkhotakota not to hang out washing where it would be stolen by the locals, perhaps there is some truth to the matter. Luckily it's not a side of Malawi I have experienced first hand, and hopefully it will stay that way. The rest of our time here, when not devoted to guarding valuables, is given to drinking beers and relaxing. We've indulged in a bit of exercise - taking the paddle boards out for sunrise over the lake, kayaking round to another local beach (which turned out to be littered with glass and drunk Malawians) and walking into town for lunch and dinner. In fact, we're so relaxed we've decided not to even brave the unreliable ferry from Nkhata Bay to Likoma Island and stay put instead. The 70km up to Mzuzu and Ekwendeni is beginning to loom now, so perhaps a few less beers over the next day or so.
After the border fraud fiasco and a brief pedal into Mwanza I headed for Mwanza hotel as it came recommended. I know from experience already that a local endorsement of 'it's nice' or 'it's not far' is invariably horribly inaccurate, but it was somewhere to aim for and get out of the rain. Now, I must admit that I become quite self-righteous when it comes to negotiating accommodation rates on this trip, and the charity card is always played. The general rule is, if they're white, you've got a shot, and if they're local locals, they just don't care very much. So, back to the Mwanza Hotel - a typical tactic is to defer to management who is neither present, nor contactable. I encountered such a line from the receptionist after a bit of hand wringing and explanation, and then the bloody manageress appeared, prompting a solid berating of the receptionist. However, the manager then said it depended on the owner who wasn't about or going to be about. So I said 'just don't tell the manager I'm staying', but no matter which way I turned it around, I got nowhere. It was $28 for a room and breakfast, so I vowed to get my money's worth there, especially seeing as there was no hot water for the shower. So, in I strolled at 7 the next morning and ordered the lot, followed by explanations that I was cycling to Blantyre today, and thus extremely hungry. I munched through 2 bowls of cornflakes and all their cupcakes in the meantime, and when a measly plate of 3 bits of small toast, a sausage, and some scramble egg arrived, I sent two bits of toast back, for egging. I then asked for more sausages (I wanted to make a sandwich to take with me) when another waiter said I must pay for extra. What a ridiculous notion I informed him - a hotel breakfast is a bloody buffet! Awkward timing as just then my extra eggs arrived. I grabbed them and quickly tucked in before they were removed. I was tackling the last piece when the first waitress returned and tried to make me pay for the seconds. I refused, then piled a plate with what I thought was pawpaw, but turned out to be squash. Not as sweet but good energy. I then dived for the exit when the staff weren't looking. The next battle was paying the bill in $ and getting change, but we got there in the end after a stern reprimand that them not having ANY change in the float is their problem, not mine. I set off at about 8:30, expecting about 90km and 1000m ascent. People are right in that Malawi is quite different, and there was immediately a sense of it being 'proper' Africa - people everywhere, all sorts of odd shops with very strange names, lots of yelling, livestock on the back of bikes, rubbish everywhere, and a caucophony of hooting. I was stopped at the first roadblock, and given yesterday's run down, was immediately quite on the defensive. But the guy just wanted to know my name and have a chat so I got that wrong completely. Oops! Anyway, onward, and whilst getting out of town, my waving arm for more of a work out than the pins I reckon. Malawi is also very much 'Mzungu, Mzungu, Muzunguuuuu' territory, and a chorus follows you a lot of the way. It means white man in Swahili, and one can't help but feel that you'd be in trouble for shouting 'Black Guy!' If one cycles past in Europe etc. Still, part of the fun, isn't it! The ride was quite a lot of up and down straight off, and it soon became apparent that I wasn't really recovered from the beating I took on the bike the day before as I was struggling a bit. It being busier is both nicer and worse to be honest. There's more going on and a bit more interesting, but the downside is that you can't stop anywhere without everyone staring at you like you're a complete freak. And then there is always that pest of a guy who wants to be your best mate, can't speak a word of English, and then asks for some cash to buy some booze. I didn't take many pictures because the weather wasn't great and I was just trying to get on with things. I was also going to be in Malawi for quite a while so I figured would get pics further down the line. There are a lot of old school bikes around with really cool 'Phoenix' cranks, and rear racks with little handlebars and cushions for giving backies to people. There were also even some tandem type stretch bikes with 2 pillion seats on the back. Things I liked a lot about the first day in Malawi - the amount of trees around. Admittedly there were a lot more shrubs than big mothers, but I'd heard there weren't many left due to deforestation and the charcoal trade. Now, whilst there was a lot of charcoal for sale, and plenty being hauled around on bikes - they have this nifty trick of jumping off on the uphill and hooking the front wheel to the frame using a bit of inner tube so that it stays straight, and then push from the back - there were also plenty of trees, I'd even go as far as saying baobabs for days! With the increased amount of people on the road there was also more food opportunities. I'm fairly convinced I'm still paying Mzungu prices but I stopped for salad and chips a couple of times which was pleasant (apart from all the staring). The second time was a real treat as I was informed that 'His Excellency', the President was about to drive past. The kindly policeman who I was chatting to made me move Tina further from the road. It soon became clear why, as a Land Cruiser with full lights and sirens blaring, came screaming down the road at about 120kph. Now, Malawi had yielded absolutely no roadkill at all in about 90km, something which both disappointed me, and seemed too good to be true. And here we had a Land Cruiser bearing down on a blissfully unaware Chicken in the middle of the road. It must have been a deaf Chicken as even before the din of the sirens became deafening, I could see the demise of said poultry as clear as day, so was excitedly shouting at the chicken to move (I had been told I would be shot if I took any pictures - an exaggeration I would hope - and couldn't cycle, so needed something to pass the time). The locals seemed extremely nonplussed about the plight of the poultry and left it to discover the grisly error of its ways. The truck could easily have gone around the chicken, but in another show of officious might, ploughed straight over it. The first confirmed Malawi roadkill! Alas not - somewhat miraculously it flapped and squawked to the side, maimed but as yet undead. And a good job too as another 21 cars sped past in the remainder of the motorcade. I was left perplexed by both the pomposity and needlessness of such a display. And even more so as the old bird I was talking to seemed to view Theresa May as more corrupt than Jacob Zuma. Absolutely potty! Preceding the ridiculously over the top motorcade, I was encountering a policeman, or indeed policewoman, about every 500m or 1km. Excessive to say the least! They were an officious bunch and struck me as rather pompous. They also made going for a wee rather difficult as I didn't want to get booked for nudity or exposure, or anything daft like that. In the end I just gave up waving to them, or shouting 'Grumpy!' at them when they wouldn't wave back. At one point I was just cycling along up a bit of a hill, my mind wandering, when suddenly I had to double take; there was a guy in a loin cloth, covered from head to toe in mud and with a brown hessian sack over his head, just jogging down the hill in silence. And to spice things up even more, he was brandishing a sword! It was extremely bizarre, especially considering how matter-of-fact it seemed. It may be my imagination, but I think that there was a 'Crime Prevention Unit' in hot pursuit; at least, it wasn't far behind, and heading in the same direction, but of course it could simply be a coincidence as there are so many police about. I like to imagine some kind of showdown with Mr Loincloth bloodily hacking his way out of a corner, facing down the truck load of officers who only seem to carry silly little leather sticks. Either way, I heard no blood-curdling screams in the distance as I continued on my way. I'd stopped for chips and salad on the side of the road a couple of times already, and it was a pleasant change to have a regular and decent supply of roadside food. As I said, you invariably have to dine with a crowd of onlookers staring at you, but seeing as there's no cutlery about, dignity soon goes out the window; chips are ok, but there's just no tidy way of consuming salad with your fingers really. Even with this nutrition, I was struggling quite a lot due to the hilly 117km of the day before. I think I ended up on 103km and 1300m climbing, with I think the longest climb I've encountered yet as I ascended into Blantyre itself. I was a very happy man to have a bed and some company for the next couple of nights. I think these hosts are probably the most tenuous yet, but I take I perverse sense of pride in engineering the most convoluted connections I can. My destination was the Benbow's house and to give you an idea of how much I knew about them, I thought they were French; Demelzu Benbou turned out to be Demelza Benbow, and English. To trace the explanation for my intrusion into the family home, we have to rewind to mid April when I was camping in Lomagundi Lakeside in Kariba, Zimbabwe. A lovely lady called Ellen came over as I was packing up to head up to Makuti and introduced herself. She was quite a keen cyclist herself and after chatting for a bit, she asked if I needed anywhere to stay in Harare. Thanking her, I said that I was sorted for Harare, and indeed had Zim mostly sewn up, thanks to Ant and Caz, but I was a bit thin on the ground heading north into Malawi etc. Ellen said she thought she knew someone in Blantyre who would have me, and went off to get her number. I blame the nationality confusion on her dodgy handwriting! So, after following Demelza's instructions, I got to the house, on Blantyre Synod land and a stone's throw from the oldest church in Blantyre. Everyone but the help was out, and Susan the maid immediately got into my good books by preparing a mountain of toast and scrambled eggs for me. What a star! Demelza wasn't back until late that evening but at about 5 her husband Gordon and children Taron, Sichella and Lemorah all arrived. A lovely bunch and I immediately set about ingratiating myself by taking on dinner duties, butchering an attempt at an omelette in the process. I blamed the poor non-stick properties of the pan, and it seemed to pass muster. The next day I was down to go to school with Demelza to help out in class and talk to the students about what I was doing. It was good fun actually, although I'm not sure how much 3 year olds appreciated my heroic endeavours! I made them stand up and pretend to cycle, and showed them Johannesburg and Malawi on the globe, so maybe they understood the trip a little bit. Then it was playground duties and learning about neon pink with some colouring practice. Then some older punks came and got me as their teacher wanted me to come and talk to them too. This lot were about 8 years old, and seemed to be altogether more impressed with me. I explained a bit about what I was doing, but I made them work for it, guessing the countries I'd been through and how far I'd gone, and how long I'd taken to get there. I then opened up the floor to Q&A and one of them made the fatal error of asking how many minutes I'd been cycling for. We'd already established distance (2200km) and average speed (20kph) so I made them do the calc with me on the board. I was a bit nervous myself as maths is certainly not my forte, but we got there in the end: 6600 minutes. It was good fun and some suggested that I had a flair for teaching: God help us, eh! School finished at 12:30 so the afternoon was mine. I used it to talk to Chloe as I was suffering from a mild case of the mopes and put together a blog post. There was the opportunity to go hiking with the Benbow's in the Mulanje Mountains to the East and camp on Sapitwa, the highest point in Malawi at 3002m altitude. Gordon is a member of the Mulanje Mountain club and was leading a group on a 3-day trek up and down. It's only an annual thing, and very few people actually spend the night on the summit, rather trekking up and back down in one go. So it was quite a special opportunity all things considered as you should get a sunrise and sunset up top. Even so, and probably because of the mopes, I was unsure about going as it would impact my schedule and make cycling to Cape Maclear, getting some R&R in, and then getting to Lilongwe to meet Sam on the 10th impossible. In the end common sense prevailed and I decided to just go for it as it was such a unique and different thing to do, and I'd already cycled plenty to be honest. Even so, I still undertook some bike admin, giving Tina a wash and swapping the chain over (I'm running a chain rotation using 2 chains and a quick link, remember?!). It was then that disaster struck! I'd taken the chain off and had given the cogs a good clean as they were a bit grubby from cycling in the rain. I'd already lost half of one quick link so I had to be extra careful with the one remaining. For that reason, rather than risk misplacing it in the grass, I put it on the garden table rather. I then got distracted doing some other bits and pieces (I think blog and Susan's offer of toast intervened), only going out about half an hour later. To my dismay I found the table devoid of quick link. It was too heavy to have blown away and I definitely put it on the table. Then Gordon and Lemorah informed me that there had been a Pied Crow on the table pecking at something. The little shit had only gone and stolen my goddam quick link! I couldn't believe it, and flew into a rage (pun), probably swearing and blinding far more than was appropriate, especially in front of the children. I was now unable to put either chain on so was in a bit of a fix, to say the least. There are a tonne of bikes in Malawi, but generally they're all shit single speed grandad bikes, so I dismissed the idea of searching the markets for a 9 speed chain quick link more or less straight off. After consulting my remote mechanic Josh I (well he) decided it was best just to remove a link and re pin the chain a link shorter. Whilst a bit exciting to use my (heavy) bike tool and chain splitter, it was a bloody fiddly job, and I was still absolutely fuming about that stupid bird. Being a farmer type, crows are high on my list of despised creatures anyway, and think the latest incident has secured them top spot for a while. I have now sworn an undertaking with my catapult that I shall not rest until crow blood is spilt in retribution for their foul act of sabotage! In the end you had to laugh, but I couldn't believe the bastard had gone and pinched it. Unbelievable scenes! This isn't actually a Pied Crow, but the ominously similar Ravens shadowed our ascent up Mount Mulanje, ensuring the fires of hatred stayed very well stoked. I had in the meantime decided 'to hell with the schedule', and that this hike was just too good an opportunity to miss; I would figure out a plan for Cape Maclear and Lilongwe later on instead. After crow-gate I set off to the shop to stock up on hiking snacks for the 3 days. I also treated myself to a Kuche Kuche, the local beer (albeit brewed by Carlsberg) and walked back home slurping on it, keeping a furtive eye out for the myriad police officers along the road, and feeling like a real local with his bottle of Chibuku grog. We were then out to dinner in Blantyre where I proceeded to cause amazement by ordering a large amount of food, and then finishing the leftovers of anyone else who didn't finish theirs! We were up early for a 6am departure from Blantyre on Friday. We met at the Shoprite (very 1st world, I know) and we were a motley crew of various parties, none knowing the other particularly well before, and in many cases not at all. There were a couple of gap year boys so it was nice to have some lads to chat with, although I was initially wary as had heard they were volunteering at an orphanage - a bit cliche really! However, my initial doubts proved entirely unfounded and they were great guys. In another small-worldism, one of them turned out to be the godson of a family friend in Norfolk! There were a couple of American girls who volunteered or worked for various projects/charities, and they were certainly cut from the volunteering cloth a bit more. I can't say I spent a huge amount of time with them as they were frustratingly incompetent at the tricky stuff whereas I like to be at the front, smashing it. We were on the mountain and underway by about 8am and we hiked up into the warm mist cloaking the slopes. It made for quite sweaty work, and although there wasn't really a view to speak of, it was good fun. We were aiming to make Tshepo Hut on the first night, and then summit and stay the night on Saturday, followed by all the way down on Sunday. We got to the cabin at about 2pm. I was first there (naturally) and was immediately both amused and perplexed to find a group of about 20 young Americans joined in prayer, thanking the Lord both for their sandwiches, and for a safe trip up and down from the peak. Now, as you know from my last post, I take part in the occasional act of worship, but this one I sniggered at from the sidelines, whilst sipping on a beer, instead. They turned out to be from some Mormon university in the US, and absolute fruitcakes! Still, it takes all sorts I suppose, and my fervent Jesus lovers in Zimbabwe are still texting me to this day! The hut was quite a civilised affair, with a fireplace, mattresses in the stores and blankets and pots to use too. Of particular interest were the beers for sale. I got Simon, the camp boy to chuck them in the mountain fridge, aka river, and the lads enjoyed a few cold-ish ones in the evening. I slept inside because it looked cold, and then we were up fairly early next morning. All in all it was great fun, and a fantastic experience. Gordon also thinks I should be a teacher as I was such a great role model and inspiration to the kids. Interesting opinion seeing as I used to be the scourge of schoolmasters throughout my childhood! I probably should have rested the next day as a 3 day hike carrying full kit is hardly a recovery tonic from cycle touring, but I decided that in order to have a decent stretch in Cape Maclear and still make Lilongwe to meet Sam, I should just push on. With the help of Demelza's local knowledge, it was decided to get on a bus to Lilongwe, and make them stop at Lizulu so that I could get out and cycle down off the Escarpment. It would be 110km to CM, which although mostly downhill or flat, would be a tall order. So, it was another 5:30 wake up as I was advised to get down to the bus stop early to get the first departure. The bus stop was only 5 mins away, so very easy, but advice on timing was a bit wide of the mark. I got to the terminal at about 7:20, mostly because I have had experience of African bus transport, and they don't leave very early, and was immediately mobbed by locals. I had to slap a few hands as Oscar the Oribi was getting wiggled around a bit too vigourously by some. After dispelling the main crowd with threats of Muti and charms, I set about finding the first bus to Lilongwe. This was easily done - a big coach with capacious cargo holds which Tina slipped into with ease that would leave at 8. Perfect! Negotiating price was slightly more complicated though. I always try to go into negotiations with some idea of prices, and a police officer (I chose one of the 5 milling about) said a ticket to Lilongwe should be about MK (Malawian Kwacha) 3000. My other usual tactic is to act outraged and shocked no matter what price they give me. So when the guy said MK6000 I gave him a lot of shit. Apparently this was the express bus, and a ticket to Lilongwe is 4000, but I must pay extra for the bike. When I pointed out that I wasn't going all the way to Lilongwe, and thus shouldn't pay full fare, he countered with the fact that the bus shouldn't really stop anywhere except Lilongwe. Touché, the sneaky bastard! I gave up negotiating with such a shrewd character and coughed up the 6000 as, at £6, it didn't seem unreasonable. I confess that I am by now thoroughly fed up with the locals eyeballing you and then making up a Mzungu price, and have consequently made a habit of price checking with various parties how much they paid for certain items. Another reason for getting on the bus was that I thought it was about to leave shortly, and I was being bothered a fair bit. And the fact that most of them don't believe me when I say I've come from Joburg also irks me. The cheek of it! I should have known better - buses in Africa leave when they're full, not before. 8 turned into 8:30 and 8:30 into 9. We eventually left, with not a seat spare (the one next to me was the last to go) at 9:40. What a waste of a lie in! It was quite fun watching the hustle and bustle of the bus station though, and seeing how different people react to the intensive touting that takes place. I was on the same row as a guy dressed head to toe in goat skin - and I mean head to toe, adorned as he was with goat headband, jacket, trousers, loafers and even a man bag to match - so obviously I had to talk to him. First question - have you got any goats left?! He was a chief, in town to sell onions and other produce from the farm, and yes he had some goats around still. He was a very kind gentleman, and helped make sure that the bus didn't mug me off and stop in the wrong place. It was also interesting watching the endless stream of hawkers trapsing on and off the bus a watches, sunglasses, boiled eggs, samosas, crisps, scones, phone chargers, water and apples all made their way up and down the aisle, with varying degrees of success. I got involved and did a deal on a trio of samoosas at local prices. The same process repeated itself whenever we stopped (it was not an express service so the guy mugged me off there!). All this activity was performed to the background of gospel music on the TV (I was on the larney bus). This consisted of a lot of aspirational imagery, a strange kind of walking on the spot, arm swinging dance peculiar to Malawian gospel music videos, Jesus being crucified and lots of wailing and dancing either in the garden or knee deep in the Lake. Once underway I was somewhat dismayed at the quality of bus driving. He would honk viciously at anything, and even when traffic free in the other lane he would make the poor sods pedaling along with bags of charcoal etc off the road. What a belligerent fellow, I thought. The religious theme also continued with a preaching shouting, screaming, and waving a bible in the aisle. The stickers, and indeed law, explicitly state 0 standing passengers, but I suppose God's bidding sometimes necessitates ignoring the law of us mere mortals. Luckily he got off after about 15 mins (the first of many, many stops) when we got fuel. This was probably because some guy sat revving the bus for 1,5 hours before we even left. The last spot was taken by Charity, who was nice enough, but asked me rather stupid questions such as the price of an iPhone in the U.K., mostly when I was about to fall asleep too. She did say I was 'very impressive' though, so she obviously had a fair bit of common sense after all. She also insisted that I take her number, which was rather forward. The bus spat me out right at the turning to the S127 and Mr Goat Chief helped me with my bags so I took a pic of him and thanked him. I was on the bike with helmet on and GoPro on for the mountain descent by 1, and not much hope of making Cape Maclear to be honest. I could tell from the off that I was pretty beat, and the few uphills were quite unpleasant. However, the descents were very cool, with epic views. It soon got pretty rustic, with cow crossings (see pic) and roadside breast feeding (didn't snap as thought inappropriate) and after some chips and salad I set off into a forest reserve. By this point I had more or less resolved to either having to bush camp or snag a lift to the Lake. The latter was my preference as I was tired, had run out of petrol for my stove, and didn't have any pasta sauce. Thus, I kept a close eye on my wing mirror for potential lifts. Cars were few and far in between, and by 4 I had endured an hour of fruitless mirror watching. I had got into the swing of things a bit, and decided I would happy enough to just camp and finish things off tomorrow when a large truck loomed into view. It didn't look like a bakkie, but gave it a frantic wave anyway. It turned out to be 2 Germans, Susanne and Gamunt on an 8 month African Odyssey in a pimped out Mercedes Sprinter. We shoved Tina on the roof, to an ever growing audience of kids, and got underway at about 4:30. I was very grateful for the ride as now I could relax, and was effectively a day up in Maclear. For Germans they were rather poor at navigating, and also had an irrational conception of how high their vehicle was, paling with terror whenever we approached power lines or trees. I was invariably dispatched to inspect the safe passage under said 'obstacle' and seeing as I could hardly bloody get in and out of the truck by then after the hiking, I had to frequently remind myself that I was merely a guest in their vehicle, and a very lucky one at that. We missed sundowners due to a few million-point U-turns but it was great to get to Cape Maclear without too much effort. I conclude this post having hobbled over to a more lively campsite, enjoying a bottle of Kuche Kuche, the local beer, and watching a Pier Kingfisher trying to catch his dinner. Not too shabby at all really! With Border Gate behind me, I can wholeheartedly recommend Malawi as a great place to visit.
After 2 nights spent in Harare, staying with the wonderful Caz and Brendan, it was time to make tracks again before I got too used to Jean's cooking and the good life. The plan was to probably hang around a little bit longer, but it was Africa Day on Thursday so Caz and fam were off camping. It seemed silly to hang around in Harare on my own when I could go and meet some old family friends, Twiggy, AKA Sarah, and Glen. I when I say old friends, they last saw my parents before I was even born, and I think it's fair to say that I'm getting a bit long in the tooth now! Anyway, part of the fun of a trip like this is rummaging around in the contacts drawer and seeing what you can come up with. Thanks to Pat for making this one happen. I'd arranged with Glen to set off from Harare towards Marondera, to the south, and he would meet me at Surreys and from there take me to the farm he was running. That would be about 60km, so a nice easy reintroduction after a couple of day's off of the bike. Glen immediately put himself in my good books by handing me a nice cold coke and then 2 pepper steak slices, and the excellent hospitality continued once we got to the farm with some cold beers and sandwiches. Marondera is the wrong way to the Nyamapanda border for me, but Glen very kindly said he would drop me on the right road the following morning so that I wasn't off course, as such. We spent the afternoon driving around the farm and game reserve which was very pleasant. I must say it was a very neat and tidy operation and in addition to the usual tobacco and sweet peas, there was a very snazzy packhouse and pioneering trial of growing peas on killed off tobacco stalks rather than the arduous installation of posts and trellis network. Glen also grows Rhodes grass [originally found down near Livingstone on the Zambezi], combines the seed heads off, selling that to the likes of Aus and the MEast that grow it for fodder, but where it is too hot for it to seed, and then makes hay from the remaining stalks. They also have a pedigree herd of Baron cattle, originally from Kenya/Tanzania which are nice animals, albeit slow calvers! It was a real shame to hear that all 4 farms next to each other had been issued with government letters instructing them to vacate the premises by 30th June as it's a very well run farm [especially compared to some of the efforts of the smallholders]. In my mind I thought that the Land Seizures were over, and I had even heard of historical compensation being on the cards, so it was a shock to find out that the movement was still ongoing. After some sundowners at the duck dam and another session of 'question the crazy cyclist' as mosquitoes feasted on my legs we had steak and boerie for supper, followed by an excellent fry up in the morning. Glen and I were underway by about 8.20, and it was with a heavy heart that I commenced pedaling towards the border an hour later. Not only was I nearing the end of my stay in Zim, but this was now the end of the good life and hospitable homestays. Still, variety is the spice of life and it would be good to mix it up a bit. It was 190km to Nyamapanda border, and the plan was to break it in half, staying at Matoko on the first night. It was lovely scenery and fairly easy pedaling, so after reaching Matoko at about 1ish and doing a spot of shopping I went to check out the local lodge that I had spotted on google maps. A snapshot of some dubious Zim products and distributorsThe lodge wasn't exactly a dump, but it didn't look that great, and was very much deserted. When a receptionist eventually appeared, a lengthy negotiation ensued as to camping price [apparently showering is a high cost] and what size breakfast I was allowed. In the end she wouldn't budge from $20 for not a lot, and was decidedly unimpressed with my feats of both human endurance, and charity fundraising. We parted ways on slightly less than amiable terms, my parting jibe being along the lines of 'You're mean' and calling her level of good conscience into doubt. That was half an hour wasted, but I had been feeling a bit guilty about sticking to white hospitality thus far and not giving the villagers a test. I justified it as I knew beds to sleep in were going to get thinner on the ground as I head north, so might as well enjoy it whilst I could, but I also wanted to give it a bash. On the way out of the lodge I got chatting to a smart, and very trendy looking black guy. He was in adorned in leather snap back cap and driving a fancy merc, and I was surprised to learn he was a Pastor on a 'crusade' as he certainly didn't look like your typical man of the cloth. He was very charming and it was pleasant exchanging information on what we were both up to. He exclaimed 'Jesus Christ' when I told him what I was doing, which made me chuckle, and we parted with my instructing him to pray for me at his fancy crusade. I did about another 20km past Matoko as my general policy is to head out of town for camping. It would probably be fine, but I envisage a small to medium sized village as offering the best combination of hospitality without too many people being around to interrogate me. The scenery was improving again after the town, and the road was lined with children of all ages as the various education establishments disgorged them for some weekend relaxation. I got lots of waves and cheers, and the new bell got some heavy usage as I replied to the whooping and hollering that pursued me along the way. As things thinned out a bit more I started looking for a nice spot or a friendly looking face and embark on a bit of campsite negotiation. There were a couple of lovely Baobabs on the left, and what looked like a pretty secure plot with a fence around it, so I decided to chance my arm and enquire if there was any room at the inn. I suppose I was a bit nervous as this was my first foray into throwing myself on the mercy of the villagers, having previously slipped into the bush furtively rather than announcing myself. I needn't have worried as they were absolutely lovely and immediately made me feel very welcome. I met Warren first, who then introduced me to Grandma of the household, and then various others. including my main host Kambirai. We had a bit of a tour, and in order to make myself useful in exchange for their hospitality, I did a bit of maize and sorghum threshing and went and got water from the well. A rather quaint bit of volunteerism I'd say. I was going to set the coffin up but Kambirai insisted I sleep inside. Initially I was reluctant as I didn't want to boot someone out of their usual spot, but I was assured that it was a spare room, and thus fine for me to use. I similarly ummed and aahed about dinner - Warren was preparing pork and saadza [maize meal] in the kitchen, but the place was covered in flies and didn't look too appetising - but I decided that I would go all in for the immersive experience and dine with them. I'd also been foraging with the youngster for an hour or so, eating dried baobab and some other strange berries he was acquiring from the floor. I'd also been taking on the bushpumps and boreholes without sterilising any of the water using the droplets I was carrying, so reasoned that I had likely toughened up my weak Western constitution enough to handle a bush of bush cooking. I was also a bit worried about the nutritional values of saadza and my cycle the next day. Anyway, it turned out Warren can really move in the kitchen, and he threw together a really quite delicious meal, complete with some greenery too. We tucked in with our hands and I enjoyed it very much. I got an early night as conversation ran a little dry after helping junior with his homework, but didn't sleep very well to be honest. The compound dog barked all bloody night, having some kind of shouting match with another dog miles away. I don't know if they just tune it out or what, but it was driving me absolutely mad. When Chloe and I pony trekked in Lesotho there was a similar irksome hound, and that chap got a wine bottle launched at it eventually. However, seeing as I was here by their good graces, I decided best not to beat the dog and put up with it. There was also a rooster that crowed at ridiculous times, but the most disconcerting one was rodents - they had stored mealies in the room, so I was fairly confident there would be some nocturnal grazing of some sort, but the little shits were everywhere, mostly living under the bed. I then became paranoid about fleas as a result, but decided I must just put up with it. In the morning I had my own cereal and milk and banana and got under way at about 8.15. They were lovely people, and although it got a bit too religious for my liking at times - we had a group prater for my safe travels before I left - I could not have asked for a better experience. I set off for the 70km to Nyamapanda in very good spirits, feeling lucky to have met such a nice bunch of people. Kambirai is still sending me messages [I shall refrain from using the word spamming] on a very regular basis now to keep in touch with me. The only lodge of note near Nyamapanda seemed to be Pumpkin lodge, so I thought I would stay there and then get through the border early doors, nicely rested for the long 140km stretch to Tete. However, I got to the lodge at about 11, and it was 20km from Nyamapanda. I consulted a Malawian truck driver who had been broken down due to injector problems for 4 days, and his mate who was sucking on a diesel hosepipe to siphon the fuel off who said there were plenty of lodges in Nyamapanda to stay in. The scenario brought to mind yesterday's BJ Petroleum, and I pedaled off sniggering, having resisted the urge to tell the guy to make sure he didn't swallow. I probably should have known better than to trust a guy who also claimed that Malawi still has loads of trees as he made his way to SA with a shipment of shutter ply, but there were no lodges in Nyamapanda. I decided that it was probably a good idea to get through the border anyway, and likely cheaper on the Moz side as not USD. The Zim official accused me of not having a visa and ran off with my passport, but that was just a misunderstanding as she wasn't familiar with the UNIVISA that covers both Zimbabwe and Zambia. I bagged up my skulls again and set off into Moz. The border guard was immediately a douchebag, exclaiming, 'But you have no visa!'. I started off all smiley, explaining that I was here to get a visa from him. Cue much sucking of teeth and head shaking. The price was $72 he said. At this I took umbrage as, as far as I was concerned, it was $50, the same as at the embassy. This was not the case he informed me, but equally could produce no price list to prove either of us right. I decided to not make any issues before I had to, so just filled out the forms and got things moving. There was a lot of 'Wait outside' and saying he was trying to get hold of his boss, when actually he was just being a plump, heavy browed official, pompous and arrogant at his rubber stamping booth. I was beginning to get cross! Anyway, they got the visa done and was told to pay $72 for it. I refused and then both of them got very arsey with me saying I had agreed. No such thing I said, and I would either pay $50 or the price they could prove. I found it hard to believe that there was no official price list to be found anywhere. Cue another hour or so of me being a bit of a nuisance, and trying to get poor Chloe to prove that I was right, until eventually they produced some Portuguese document with some prices on. It didn't refer exactly to my visa, but $70 was on there. That was probably why they chose it, but their downfall was that there was also R750 on the list. They had a bit of a pow wow when I asked to pay in Rand, and there was definitely talk of percentages, but the other guy said it was R750 as per the list. That equates to about $53 so I cobbled the cash together and scuttled out of there before something else went wrong. I supposed it was about time I had a crappy border crossing, but it was a good job I went through the day before. I then set about finding somewhere to stay, exploring the bountiful 'Cuarto' options on the Mozambique side of the border. There certainly weren't any 5-star options, but luckily that's not what I was after. I looked at a couple and it seemed to be 600 Meticias for a fancy room and 300 for a basic. That equates to about $12 for the luxury en suite with a cold shower or $6 to slum it with the bucket shower and long drop. Despite being rather sweaty I decided a proper cold shower wasn't worth the extra outlay, and took the cheapy. The staff were a bit weird - laughing at me a lot, and trying to charge me for a bucket shower (as well as being very particular about what bucket I was to use for the task). After a bit of a bathe and laundry I set off to have a look around and get a local sim. I was also on the hunt for beer but decided with 140km to do tomorrow, I wouldn't bother. The sim turned into a bit of a fiasco to get working, and there was much fiddling with the phone under the table which made me a bit suspicious. We passed the time by talking a bit of Spartuguese. This mostly consisted of me gabbering away in Spanish and just lengthening the vowels and changing a few consonants. It caused much amusement as I named the various creatures in the market place (even turkeys - pavo in Spanish - were knocking about) but seemed to work ok. After that I made tuna pasta on the stove and decided I might as well get into bed. That was at about 7, and most people were still partying loudly next door at that point. Then the power went off. Haha! The noisy revellers were plunged into music-free silence, and the noise subsided into a sulky murmur. Unfortunately it didn't last - the power came back on at 8:30, and I didn't sleep very well really. A combination of football match on the TV, someone trying to get into my room, cars coming in and out via a very noisy gate, a braying donkey, and some shitfaced guy singing what sounded like military songs outside, made for a broken night's sleep. That aside, I was up at 5.30 and after breakfasting on the last of my muesli, an extremely blackened banana and some slightly off milk (rather confusingly it doesn't need to be kept in the fridge until you open it), I was on the road by 6:15. The cycling was pleasant, with only about 3 cars in the first hour, after which the odd bus and trailer ferrying Malawians from Joburg would thunder past. It never really got busy, despite the large amount of roadkill about and the villages, nestled under massive baobabs, were both scenic and rustic. The people were also very friendly, and as I wafted along, pursued by the faint smoky aroma of charcoal manufacture I must say I was enjoying myself. The first 85km went pretty fast, but it soon became apparent that my dreams of roadside rustic nandos was a pipedream and I fell into the classic trap of not eating enough really. Towards the end I was really struggling as the shitty roadside biscuits didn't really help much. It also began to get rather hilly, just when I could have done with nice easy rolling downhill. So the last 30km weren't much fun, especially as the left buttock sore was close to being joined by another. A few truck drivers got some pretty choicy views of Vaseline application on the last stretch! On the plus side, Brett had very kindly sorted me some hosts - Amanda & Brendan - as my original contact Martin had sloped off into the bush for the weekend, where he had no signal. It was a nice descent down into the Zambezi valley to Tete, which I think saved me, and in a nice fortuitous touch, as I rolled across the big new Caswene bridge that brought up 141km, taking me to 2000km since departing Joburg a month ago. Then, after a bit of poor navigation and a U-turn, I met Brendan and followed him to their plot. And what a plot - prime river frontage looking right on to the Zambezi, complete with bathing locals even! We had a few beers and some snacks after jumping in the pool and setting up the Coffin, and then I took Tina down to the riverbank for a sunset photoshoot. And in one of those strange twists of fate/small world coincidences it turned out that I ended up in exactly the same spot as I would have with Martin, after putting 2+2 together and realising that he was Brendan and Amanda's next door neighbour. Very funny indeed! The next day was planned as a rester, so I headed in to work with Brendan and Amanda to catch up on some emails etc. The plan was then to go into town on a Chopela (Tuktuk) and see some sights, but they were quoting ridiculous prices so I took a walk down the road for a second lunch of delicious chicken peri peri and chips. A good view of Baobabs, party-ville in Cancun, African pot hole repair, African roadside recovery, and free toll roads as locals refuse to pay until the roads are of a good enough standard to merit it! Rather conveniently work was 15km out of Tete in the right direction, so in the morning we all drove to Moatize together after my sorghum porridge took about an hour to cook. After a bit of faffing, and a photo shoot where the guy didn't actually take any photos, I was underway by about 9:30. I was expecting about 110km with a fair bit of climbing. What I wasn't really expecting was to get rained on. It was more of a drizzle than a soaking, but after over a month of precipitation free cycling, anything is unwelcome. I stopped for a bit to try and get some lunch but the woman wanted M1500 for chicken and chips. An utterly ridiculous price and I cycled off in disgust at her mzungu-abusing antics. This was foolhardy as it was raining fairly hard, and I needed a rest. I ended up not much further down the road where there was one really annoying guy and a lot of staring faces. Fizzy drinks were again overpriced so I just chowed some biscuits and set off again, pretty fed up. I ended up underfuelled again, and pretty exhausted. I couldn't really decide whether to bother crossing into Malawi or not, but I got to the border at about 3 and couldn't see anywhere decent to stay in Moz so just went for it.
The Moz exit was easy, and then there was a big long stretch of downhill through no-mans-land to the Malawi border post. Everyone was super polite and I began to feel pretty good about things again. Then I got to the immigration counter and things fell apart pretty quickly. Basically, back in January I was super keen and wanted to get some visas sorted so things would be easier and I wouldn't have to carry so much cash about. So off I went to the Malawian Embassy with my Letter of Invitation for 10/20 May from Adi the Gardener and all the other paperwork. I was assured that they could issue the visa that far in advance and that Malawi was a far more competent nation that the colonial overlords of Nyasaland, Great Britain. However, when I collected the visa, it expired on 18th April. When I pointed this out, I got told I would have to reapply and pay (a lot) again. I stewed on it, and after discovering you can get visas on arrival, decided not to waste my time on another trip to the embassy with Adi to argue my case. Rather, I would take things into my own hands and change the dates on the visa myself and see if they figured it out. This attempt to save $75 backfired rather rapidly as they rumbled me pretty much straight away. The machinations of bureaucracy swung into motion and I was promptly accused of tampering with visas, a criminal offence. Naturally, I denied the charges, but all the same some strange handwritten note was scribbled and I was told to go back to Mozambique and not come back again. I must admit at this point that things weren't exactly going to plan, and with Sam coming to join me in Malawi for 2 weeks it would quite a balls up not be allowed into the country. I acted sufficiently shocked at such wild accusations of forgery, and then dejected at not being allowed into their wonderful, amazing, fantastic country. They came on pretty strong in the beginning, but eased off as the mention of 'making a plan' came up. In the end I was allowed to enter providing I bought another visa and paid a penalty of $50. It became a rather expensive day, but I couldn't really be arsed to argue too much, or explain that the only bloody reason for my sneaky endeavours was because of their idiocy at the Embassy. Oh well, part of the experience I suppose. So $120 got me off the bail list and into the country. After this Mike the border guard became quite friendly and I gave him some shit, asking for change and he asked for more. He even said Tina wasn't a very heavy bike, the toe rag. When the Health Guy sidled up and asked for money for a cold drink I told him to piss off and ask his mate Mike who had just taken all my money. I then haggled over a local sim and pedaled up the road in the rain and dark to a distinctly average, and of course overpriced hotel for the night. Welcome to Malawi, 'the warm heart of Africa' (and grubby little greedy hands to match). |
AuthorSam Brook - A mildly Africanised Pom about to cycle from Joburg to Nairobi. Archives
August 2017
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