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