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!
0 Comments
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.
|
AuthorSam Brook - A mildly Africanised Pom about to cycle from Joburg to Nairobi. Archives
August 2017
Categories |