The epiblog.
God, that's a terrible heading.
Now I'm at the ultimate journey's end: Wheatley, Halifax. Home !
Claude picked me up from Heathrow at 8 am and I spent a day and a night at his place in Richmond, which made the whole trip almost symmetrical. The next morning we pedalled through the medieval splendour of Richmond Park. We parted company in Barnes and I cycled on to Kings Cross. Cycling in London is surprisingly easy and better than Halifax.You can ride down the relatively empty bus lanes and dedicated cycle lanes and there is lots more cycle traffic for company. There's also lots of interesting stuff to look at and you can pull onto the pavement to take a longer look whenever you want. Good on you, Boris.
If you leave your bike on the concourse for a couple of minutes at Kings Cross while you get your ticket you get a special mention over the PA system and a police lady will come and give you a friendly telling-off. Grand Central Trains are good with bikes. There is a guards van at the back of the train for bikes and the guard loads and unloads it for you.
Back in Halifax, it's been lovely and quiet in Wheatley since I arrived, as The Gas Board, or whoever it is who relays the gas pipes, has stopped 90% of the traffic passing our house. The road down the valley has been gloriously severed while new, improved pipes are installed. Even the work itself is a quarter of a mile away.
Southern Africa seems a thousand miles away; probably about 5000 to be imprecise, and a great experience is gently receding. It's back to the comfort zone, cleaning windows, sipping beer in familiar pubs, cleaning bicycle chains, enjoying friends and family.
Nick and Rob have done a splendid job keeping my window-cleaning customers happy and the round right up to schedule.
On the news this morning was more bad news from Southern Africa: striking miners dancing for the cameras with weapons raised. This, following the shooting of many of their fellow miners at the Marikana platinum mine a few days ago.
I hope my blog has shown that there is a much more peaceful, friendly and welcoming side to the continent from where our ancestors wandered out. I suppose we are all Africans really.
That is not what I intended to show when I started this blog. I'm not sure what I really intended. A bit of showing off maybe. Sharing a dare. Like the journey, blog-writing was just a new experience really.
Cyclists' Corner
Here are some technical details for keen cyclists.
My bike is a Dawes Galaxy, a classic touring bike that's been around for the last 40 years. It simply gets "tweaked" and modified year on year. See http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dawes_Galaxy. Also http://www.dawescycles.com/p-20-galaxy.aspx for photos and details of its bits. It's great on tarmac but struggles off-road if the surface is too soft. The tyres are only 1 5/8 inches.
Over the 75 days of my trip I averaged about 60 km per day. Given that I had approx 18 days-off though, the average cycling day was really nearer 67 km, or 42 miles. The shortest was around 40 km and the longest about 150 km.
42 miles per day doesn't sound a lot but over 5 or 6 days non-stop and with 30 kg on board it can be quite knackering. Organizing the food and water for the day and the right clothing for changing temperatures , as well as fettling the bike from time to time , all makes for a pretty busy day.
The climate in winter, the mostly gradual gradients and the quietness of the roads makes Southern Africa a good place to cycle. Rather better than the UK, in fact. On the other hand eating and sleeping opportunities are less good and frequent than in Europe, though good enough.
Dan questioned my "1,000,000 turns of the pedal cranks". In fact it was probably a good few more. I worked it out as follows. Pedal turns, regardless of the gear you are in, tend to be about 1 per second or 60 to the minute. My average speed was about 13kph. Over 4,500 km, this gives approx 1,250,000 turns. Then you have to knock a bit off for free-wheeling. You'd think your knee and hip joints would wear out. There must be some good lube in there somewhere.
I'm grateful to Barry Firth at Firth Cycles in Queensbury who built me a new back wheel for the trip and renewed all the drive. Apart from the collapsing rear luggage rack and about 6 or 7 punctures the bike never let me down. For friendly and expert bike servicing I'd recommend Firth Cycles, which is on the left-hand side, about 200 yards short of the dog-leg in the middle of Queensbury, coming from Halifax. You can park outside the shop. www.firthcycles.com/
End of "Cyclists' Corner".
Finally, thanks for the generosity of people who have sponsored me. I'll be out collecting soon.
To view 125 of the 700 and something photos I took, here's the link...Just click on "My photos" on the next line, even though it doesn't look like a link.
My photos
Thanks again for reading this stuff.
If you've enjoyed it, you might like SHALLOW THOUGHTS OF A YORKSHIRE WINDOW-CLEANER, coming soon.
On yer bikes !
Thursday, 23 August 2012
Tuesday, 14 August 2012
Last bulletin from the light continent
It's now Tuesday and I am down in Walvis Bay, the real journey's end. I cycled the 30 something kms from Swakopmund yesterday.
Etymological aside: Walvis Bay is a corruption of 'Whalefish' Bay. Swakupmund is also Germanic and means the mouth of the river Swakup, a dried up sandy riverbed at this time of year. I'm passing on 'Swakup' itself.
It's a busy but unusual road. It runs between a few yards and a few hundred yards from the sea. Immediately inland are some of the biggest sand dunes in the world. They look like the way you imagine a desert when you are a kid: graceful drifts and peaks of pure sand.
You can go on sand dune safaris but I settled for the view from the road.. Also, unusually, it was a grey day. Today was another one to begin with - the sun is out now - and it even drizzled a bit this morning which is most rare for the Skeleton Coast. It's breezy and cool (for here); maybe 18 degrees C. It's almost as if I'm being reacclimatized for the UK. It's certainly not tropical.
Walvis Bay is a bit like Hull with flamingos. Basically it's a large port with all the grotty stuff that goes with a port: lorries, cranes, piles of containers, warehouses, seedy bars etc. It does have a nice side though,overlooking a lagoon where there the thousands of flamingos hang out. Adjacent to this was the original settlement. The oldest building is a small church, prefabricated in Hamburg, and erected here in about 1880.
Last night I got talking to John, father of two small kids, from Durban. He has come to Walvis Bay to ride The Donkey. Eh? Yes, I was puzzled too. He is a keen surfer and, at certain times of year, thanks to disturbances thousands of miles away in the Atlantic, powerful waves are driven ashore off Donkey Point, the far tip of the lagoon, which is just visible from town. Apparently the big waves I saw on Sunday were part of it.There is a lull at the moment but there are more rollers due tomorrow and the surfers are biding their time. Four of John's mates turned up ( another John, Gigs, Paul and Naude) and they whisked me off to Rafters Bar in their Land rover. Rafters Bar is a funny wooden building perched on stilts out on the lagoon. You get to it via a rickety walkway over the water. There was much mysterious talk of tubes and wipe-outs.....A friendly bunch though who love their hobby.
Today I've been shopping for a "tarp" to wrap my bike in and 50m of duct tape. The plan is, to cycle to the airport tomorrow morning, gift wrap my bike for South African Airways, tie my panniers together to make fewer items of luggage, then sit around and wait for my plane at 2 pm. From there it's a hop over Botswana to Jo'burg. A couple of hours later my flight leaves for Heathrow. As they say in Bruges, what could possibly go wrong?
So that's it, journey's end. It's been a wonderful trip for many reasons, most of which you will have read about. But mainly due to the kindness of many, many Africans of various hues, nationalities and languages, most of whom will never read this. But thanks anyway.
I'm relieved it's gone well and ready for home. I'm trying to imagine the relief of Fran Sandham when he got to the end of his year-long walk of the same route.
Even less can I guess how John Rolands (Henry Morton Stanley) felt when, after 999 days, his starving party of 77 people - all native Africans bar Stanley himself, the only other 2 whites having died - staggered into a tiny Portuguese outpost near the mouth of the Congo, having crossed the continent.
He had no maps, no communication with the outside world, no internet, no roads, no mechanical transport, no bottled water, no malaria tablets and no idea what he would find after the first few hundred miles. And then 10 years later he repeated the feat in the opposite direction and by a different route, taking another 3 years.
John Rolands, workhouse lad from North Wales, I salute you. You were one of the greatest explorers.
Not quite done
I've decided blogging is good fun.
So, coming to a computer near you soon.....a new blog: SHALLOW THOUGHTS OF A YORKSHIRE WINDOW CLEANER.
Anyway, this one is not quite finished. Don't miss the epilogue. I also hope to throw in some photos with a little help from someone with more technical savvy. Thanks for reading.
It's now Tuesday and I am down in Walvis Bay, the real journey's end. I cycled the 30 something kms from Swakopmund yesterday.
Etymological aside: Walvis Bay is a corruption of 'Whalefish' Bay. Swakupmund is also Germanic and means the mouth of the river Swakup, a dried up sandy riverbed at this time of year. I'm passing on 'Swakup' itself.
It's a busy but unusual road. It runs between a few yards and a few hundred yards from the sea. Immediately inland are some of the biggest sand dunes in the world. They look like the way you imagine a desert when you are a kid: graceful drifts and peaks of pure sand.
You can go on sand dune safaris but I settled for the view from the road.. Also, unusually, it was a grey day. Today was another one to begin with - the sun is out now - and it even drizzled a bit this morning which is most rare for the Skeleton Coast. It's breezy and cool (for here); maybe 18 degrees C. It's almost as if I'm being reacclimatized for the UK. It's certainly not tropical.
Walvis Bay is a bit like Hull with flamingos. Basically it's a large port with all the grotty stuff that goes with a port: lorries, cranes, piles of containers, warehouses, seedy bars etc. It does have a nice side though,overlooking a lagoon where there the thousands of flamingos hang out. Adjacent to this was the original settlement. The oldest building is a small church, prefabricated in Hamburg, and erected here in about 1880.
Last night I got talking to John, father of two small kids, from Durban. He has come to Walvis Bay to ride The Donkey. Eh? Yes, I was puzzled too. He is a keen surfer and, at certain times of year, thanks to disturbances thousands of miles away in the Atlantic, powerful waves are driven ashore off Donkey Point, the far tip of the lagoon, which is just visible from town. Apparently the big waves I saw on Sunday were part of it.There is a lull at the moment but there are more rollers due tomorrow and the surfers are biding their time. Four of John's mates turned up ( another John, Gigs, Paul and Naude) and they whisked me off to Rafters Bar in their Land rover. Rafters Bar is a funny wooden building perched on stilts out on the lagoon. You get to it via a rickety walkway over the water. There was much mysterious talk of tubes and wipe-outs.....A friendly bunch though who love their hobby.
Today I've been shopping for a "tarp" to wrap my bike in and 50m of duct tape. The plan is, to cycle to the airport tomorrow morning, gift wrap my bike for South African Airways, tie my panniers together to make fewer items of luggage, then sit around and wait for my plane at 2 pm. From there it's a hop over Botswana to Jo'burg. A couple of hours later my flight leaves for Heathrow. As they say in Bruges, what could possibly go wrong?
So that's it, journey's end. It's been a wonderful trip for many reasons, most of which you will have read about. But mainly due to the kindness of many, many Africans of various hues, nationalities and languages, most of whom will never read this. But thanks anyway.
I'm relieved it's gone well and ready for home. I'm trying to imagine the relief of Fran Sandham when he got to the end of his year-long walk of the same route.
Even less can I guess how John Rolands (Henry Morton Stanley) felt when, after 999 days, his starving party of 77 people - all native Africans bar Stanley himself, the only other 2 whites having died - staggered into a tiny Portuguese outpost near the mouth of the Congo, having crossed the continent.
He had no maps, no communication with the outside world, no internet, no roads, no mechanical transport, no bottled water, no malaria tablets and no idea what he would find after the first few hundred miles. And then 10 years later he repeated the feat in the opposite direction and by a different route, taking another 3 years.
John Rolands, workhouse lad from North Wales, I salute you. You were one of the greatest explorers.
Not quite done
I've decided blogging is good fun.
So, coming to a computer near you soon.....a new blog: SHALLOW THOUGHTS OF A YORKSHIRE WINDOW CLEANER.
Anyway, this one is not quite finished. Don't miss the epilogue. I also hope to throw in some photos with a little help from someone with more technical savvy. Thanks for reading.
Sunday, 12 August 2012
Done it !
Wow! Made it! Another wow !
At 7 am this fine sunny Sunday morning I strutted from my 5-star B and B in Hafenstrasse, Swakopmund, down to the beach - only 100 yards away - removed my sandals, rolled up my tracky bottoms and proceeded to bathe my legs (right up to the lower knee) in the mighty, thrashing Atlantic, just 70 days after a similar, though full-body ceremony, in the Indian Ocean. I then reversed all of the above and went for a large African - a bit like a full English - breakfast.
I planned to do all of the above (apart from the breakfast) yesterday afternoon, except that I arrived after dark, as tired as 10 men, bad tempered and ridiculously hungry. All celebrations were brushed aside while mental and particularly physical needs were attended to. These included a hot shower while drinking a cup of hot, sweet rooibos tea, a Thai meal - what a wonderfully cosmopolitan world we live in - and 8 hours between cotton sheets.
So, 70 days after leaving Dar es Salaam, and approx 1,000,000 turns of the pedal cranks, I managed my African coast-to-coast.
Thanks to Judith, my wife, for giving me an exceptionally long pass-out and for not making a fuss and worrying (unduely) when I said I was thinking of going cycling in Africa. Thanks to Fran Sandham for putting the idea in my head. Fran Sandham walked the route in the opposite direction. (Read his book "Traversa").
The last 2 days
That's "last" in both senses.Friday was pretty straight-forward as I hoped it would be. I left the great, little town of Omaruru around 8 am and I was in Usakos, down the road 50 kms, then turn right for a further 30 km, by mid-afternoon.
The weather had changed subtely. The mountains were no longer sharply defined as if they were 10 yards away. This morning they had receded into a slightly milky haze. I'm not sure whether it was from dust blown in on the recent easterly winds or whether it was a real mist haze coming in on the current Atlantic breeze. You can't know everything, even in the digital age.
The highlight of the day, apart from sitting in a very comfortable chair at the Total filling-station cafe in Karibib, was spotting a family of 7 giraffes. Once again, like other spooked animals, they were running alongside the stock-fence that follows the road. They actually overtook me, only about 50 yds to my left. This is no great feat but they were running over very broken ground and probably doing 20 mph. Their run was effortless and graceful, not at all how I'd expected giraffes to run. You'd have thought it was a slow-motion replay. It only lasted a few seconds but it was an unforgettable sight.
Freezing in the tropics
The last day, yesterday, about which I was naturally excited and nervous, was less of a breeze. In fact it ended in a head-on, pig of a gale.Usakos is a small quarrying town (I think) that sits quietly in the bottom of a broad valley between mountains. Apart from the vegetation, the mountains remind me in shape and size of the the mountains of Snowdonia (North Wales). The peaks are about 2000m but the valley bottoms here are around 1000m.
I left around 6 am, which is first daylight. I swapped a hand-shake for a packed breakfast with the B and B owner, who then unlocked the gate for me in his pyjamas.
Several people, inc the B and B man, had warned me about the 25km hill before the long drop to the coast.
As I left Usakos I noticed with relief that the various "tourist" flags were flapping weakly towards the coast. And for the first time in weeks there were grey skies overhead and some of the peaks were poking into them, again reminiscent of UK mountains.
The hill is not so steep. It's arrow-straight and there are no hair-pins. I could see the sun rising behind me in my mirror as I pedaled steadily up. There were already a few cars on the road. It was a Saturday. The B2 is the main (and only tarmac) road between Windhoek, the capital, and Swakopmund, one of the country's two sea-side resorts.
Brace yourself for a rant....Mercedes doing 90 mph on a two-lane road are bloody annoying when you are out for a peaceful bike ride. Why do people rush around so much? Slow down. Enjoy the journey. Look at the scenery. Don't kill yourself or anybody else. Get there 20 minutes later. You'll never notice the difference. Consume half the petrol. Buy yourself a nice ice-cream. Get there in one piece. Don't scare the shit out of cyclists, hedgehogs, meerkats etc . Sometimes I wish you'd have a front tyre puncture, roll over 15 times, scare the shit out of yourself and never dare speed again Rant! Rant! Rant! Phew! I needed that.....
Where was I? Oh yes. ...I was soon pealing off layers of clothes, helmet, ruc-sac etc and piling them on the back and thinking it was really a bit of a girls' hill.
Half way up though it started getting cool and some of the luggage mountain on the back transferred itself back onto me. It probably took 3 hours to reach the top where there's a desolate shanty town called "Crystal Mountain". Presumably they sell gems, minerals and stuff; I didn't investigate. You can turn off here on a dirt road if you have a suitable vehicle and head for the Spitzkoppe Mountains. I'd seen intriguing photos and paintings of these rocky peaks and I was disappointed that they were hidden in cloud.
I stopped for breakfast at the very top. A couple of articulated lorries drew up and their drivers, slapping themselves to keep warm out in the air, came over to check me out. They had "Maersk" containers on the back and were heading for Walvis Bay. They promised to flash their lights if they spotted me on the way back.
"I could've sworn that was rain" I thought as I peeled a boiled egg. Indeed it was. And the first rain in Africa (for me) for about 7 weeks. Even that was only for an hour in the night. It was the finest drizzle and odd, as I was in a very arid landscape.
Fortified with ham, cheese as well as eggs, I set off down the gentle 100km slope to Swakopmund. The drizzle increased, the wind was now in my face and it was suddenly bloody chilly. There is nowhere to hide on a bicycle, as you know, and after 30 minutes of this I was frozen. My drizzled-up glasses had to come off and I could feel the wet getting through my trousers and giving my knees an icy caress.. What with the wind and the cold, my brain was also losing its concentration. Is it the lack of blood? I began to think how dreadful Antarctic explorers must have felt when their body heat started to drain away while still having to concentrate, calculate and keep moving.
One calculation I did make was, the lower I got, the warmer it would become. And yes, 30 minutes later the drizzle stopped and the air warmed up.. For the next couple of hours I went into confident mode.. There was now an increasing head-wind but that was cancelled out by the downhill slope. I was making 20 kms every hour, a good rate. Swakomund by mid afternoon was on the cards and a triumphant dip in the sea before drinking much beer and bragging about my achievement to anyone who would listen.
70 kms from Swakomund the landscape becomes full desert, brown and yellow sand and stones in every direction. With about 50 km to go, Roessing Mountain appears. It's a steep, rocky peak sticking out of the surrounding sandy plain. On a different day it would have been fun to go clambering around on it.. Not far away is Arandis, a collection of enormous industrial sheds associated with the Roessing Uranium Mine. I stopped here for breakfast, part two.
50 km to go. Piece of cake! There was one last surprise though. I felt tired as I left this stop, the road became flat and undulating, the road surface went irritatingly lumpy and, more significantly, the westerly wind became a gale. Freakishly, those last 50 km were the toughest of the whole 4,400 km. No exaggeration. I'd studiously avoided being knackered since Dar es Salaam. It's just not nice. On this day though, short of camping in a gale in the desert or down the aforementioned uranium mine - probably not allowed - it couldn't be otherwise. The last 50 km of road were mocking, bleak, heartless, ache-inducing, remorseless and so, so chuffing long.
The sun set around 5.30 pm and it was 6.30 before I reached the outskirts of Swakopmund. I blundered around the town before finding a B and B with a bed. I cycled up "the front" in the dark. It probably has some of the dearest property in Namibia and I could hear the waves hitting the beach but I could not see them. Anyway I had other priorities and couldn't give a toss for the symbolic journey's end.
Zzzzzzzz, fart, burp, zzzzzzzz. Phew !
If you have read thusfar, well done. Keep reading, there's a little more to come. Not home yet!
Thursday, 9 August 2012
As I slide down the banister of life.......
There used to be a bit of graffiti in the urinals in the Upper George pub in Halifax : "As I slide down the bannister of life, the Upper George is yet another splinter in my arse".
The above image came to mind last weekend. For Upper George, substitute the town of Otavi. But more of that later. The last 5 days since last writing have gone well, despite Otavi, although I'm getting a bit tired. Can't think why...
I've just arrived in a very pleasant little town called Omaruru, which is about 350 kms from Grootfontein where I last blogged. I cruised the length of the main street and back - there's not much more to the place - and chose a place called the Central Hotel. "Deutsche Kueche" said the sign over the door. It's just like a German boozer. Not surprising, as it was built as a German boozer a little over a 100 years ago.
The rooms are out the back. They are little thatched chalets with all mod cons and set in a lovely garden with a fountain, palm trees, a swimming pool and shady corners for eating and drinking. And all for 300 Namibian Dollars per night. There are 12 and a bit to the pound. That's a lot more than the previous 3 countries but standards are a lot higher here.
After a bite to eat, I asked the receptionist where I could get weighed - I'm looking like someone off the Burma Railway and getting curious - , where I could get a beard trim and where I could find an internet café. The first call at the Apotheke showed that I'd lost 10 kgs in the last 69 days. The barber's was nowhere near where she said. Just as I was looking lost a policeman ran past. People run a lot in Africa. He was going off duty. "Follow me", he said. Santos the policeman, who may be reading this, - Hi, mate ! - is from Walvis Bay but has been posted to Omaruru. As we walked he gave me some handy tips on avoiding a mugging in Walvis Bay. He then invited me into the police barracks dorm ,where his mate had just woken up, while he changed into his civvies: jeans and T shirt. It's an old colonial building in a German style. You could tell it was German from the rock- solid original door and window frames. Strangely he used an abandoned window frame, minus glass, as a ladder to get his T shirt off a high shelf, its glazing bars still strong after all these years. There were several policemen in there and stuff everywhere. From there we went to the barber's and then he dropped me off here at the internet place. So, thanks, Santos. You are never alone for long in Africa...
But back to where I left off in Grootfontein
Last Friday night I retired to the hotel bar/restaurant for a quiet night. After a bottle of Windhoek Bitter and some athletics on TV from London, the lad I'd got acquainted with at the internet café turned up with his fiancée. Petrus is the Grootfontein hooker and likes to talk, especially sport, and drink. His fiancée is very pretty and likes to dance. We had a long session and I went to bed about 10 pm, late for Africa, carefully avoiding the swimming pool. Petrus said if I stayed another day he would have me round to his place for a barbecue. Sorry, Petrus, if you are reading this...I woke up early on the Saturday morning and thought I'd better move along a bit. Thanks for the invitation though.
The ride to Otavi ("splinter in the arse town") was a good one. For the first time in nearly 1000 kms I was surrounded by rocky hills and mountains. The road snakes down an empty valley. It's broad at first but gets narrower and narrower. There were no villages this day, just the occasional ranch and some wheat, maize and sun-flower cultivation. You could shoot a western anywhere along this road. There are rocky bluffs, high hills, cacti, desolation, everything you need. At the end of the valley the road squeezes through a gap to the south and another endless plain opens up. This is where Otavi lies.
Now Otavi could enter an ugly town competition and easily get on the podium. Gold, I reckon. It's dominated by a silo, looks like it's been abandoned then given a reprieve, has wide, filthy, dug-up streets and all the buildings look as if they belong in Soviet Russia. I met a nice Australian couple, Keith and Ann, while looking for a B and B. They suggested I go to theirs, which I did. It was OK and in the evening I joined them and some SA tourists in the bar. Keith and Ann like Namibia so much they have a car planted here. We drank some beer together and watched a ferocious and skilful rugby match from Cape Town between two rival "public" schools: Paarl Boys' High School and Paarl Gimnasium. It's no wonder their national team is so good. "Paarl" is Dutch for "pearl" and also a suburb of Cape Town. It's the place where we watched Nelson Mandela walk out the correctional centre back in 1990 . But I digress....nay, ramble....
About 8 pm I ate a dinner of undercooked chips and, I suspect, undercooked pork steaks. Big ones. Never eat in a dark restaurant. I wolfed the lot without complaining, as I was ravenous. A few hours later, in the middle of the night my alimentary canal started heaving like Mr Creosote's and the rest you don't want to know about. ( For non-Brits, Mr Creosote is a modern-day Gargantua character from a Monty Python film who was monstrously greedy then impressively ill).
I lay in my room muttering and expectorating for much of Sunday thinking the world and my trip were at an end. But things are never as bad as you think and by afternoon I was well enough to mention it to the owner, Sandra, a powerful lady with a smoking habit. She tried to persuade me I might have malaria, especially as I'd come from the north. Maybe I'd been drinking the wrong bottled water. To her credit, she did give me a roll of luxury toilet paper from her own supply, which I still treasure. And she offered to take me to the doc's the next day at her expense and free accommodation as long as I malingered. I think we both knew where the problem lay .
The human body is a remarkable thing and by the middle of Sunday night my head and various other bits had stopped aching and I felt some energy and will-to-live returning. I left Sandra's place at 6 am next morning and headed for the 24 hour Total garage for supplies of sandwiches and water to get me the 113 km to Otjiworongo. I also got some milk which I mixed with the Muesli I carry, for breakfast.
The day began well as I watched the first 3 ten-kilometer signs go by. By 10 am though, the strongest head wind of the trip got up and I was straining to do 10 kph. I was resigning myself to camping part-way to my destination. There is nothing much between the two towns by way of a bed. By mid afternoon the wind slackened a bit and, with about 50 km to go, Otjiworongo was back on. In the end I struggled in about an hour after the sun had set. By then I had my head-torch on and the wind had dropped completely. There is so much reflective stuff on the back of my bike, including my folded spare Schwalbe tyre, which is visible from the moon, that a rear light would be just a formality.
My luck turned. Within an hour I was sitting down to a delicious family meal with the kind hosts of the Bush Pillow Lodge, and their son, on the outskirts of town. The table, the company and the food were immaculate. I sat, depleted and sweaty, at the head of the table and recounted some of my adventures. There was another paying guest at the table. He'd spotted me on the road earlier in the day while he'd been drilling for minerals between the road and the railway. He was a large, jovial fellow and clearly fascinated by my trip. He even filmed me cycling away next morning. If you are reading this, please message me your name and the names of the kind lodge owners. They've evaporated! And I hope you find what you were looking for under the ground.
Day 68
Day 68 starts with breakfast at the Bush Pillow. I meet the two friendly Dutch couples who'd directed me to the Bush Pillow the night before. Like many Europeans they'd rented a Toyota 4 by 4 with tents on the roof and had driven up from Cape Town.
From the diary....."It's a superb day. It's cool but the sky is deep blue and the air crystal clear. There is a cold east wind from Botswana ie the east. So, a side wind for me. Once again I call at the filling station for supplies having decided I won't make Omoruru, the next town, in a day It's 136 kms. and I've left too late. Anyway I'm too tired from yesterday. I feel fine to begin with but soon start flagging. I'm still not eating properly. The scenery is great with scattered hills rearing out of the plain. There are lots of wart-hogs grazing on the road reserve. They scatter in panic when they see me and shoot off wildly under the stock fence and into the bush. You wouldn't want to surprise one in a narrow alley. They are built like prop forwards with huge muscular shoulders and arses and with a fearsome look on their faces thanks to their tusks. And they can sprint.
At one point I spot blood on the road and in the distance a parked petrol tanker. It's time for my good deed for the day though at first I'm nervous. The driver of the tanker calls me over. "You help me, Sir?" He's trying to heave a large dead wart-hog into the passenger side of his cab and failing. It's a lift of a good 2 metres. He's already put a plastic bag over its head. Probably that's where it got its mortal wound and he doesn't want too much mess. The driver hauls on its back legs and muggings gets the job off pushing on its chest and front legs. The chest is still hot and rubbery and its bagged face not far from mine. One heave does it though and I squash the beast the rest of the way by pushing the door to. Some blood trickles down the bodywork. "Thank you, Sir," says the driver making an eating gesture with his hand. At least it hasn't gone to waste.
The first sight of Kalkfeld, 70 km from my start, is of dozens of tin shacks. People are sitting around in the yards, which they share with goats, dogs and donkeys. At least one person waves. Two white people have said negative things to me already about Kalkfeld. It's a cross-roads town where 3 dirt roads meet the tarmac road. It's an impoverished dump of a town in a beautiful, peaceful bit of Namibia. I pull in at a concrete block of a shop at what looks like a ex service-station with no pumps. There are people waiting for lifts and just chatting with nothing to do. I have a Coke wondering if it doubles as a B and B. I know there is one here somewhere. I decide to continue
Over a bridge over a dry river bed I come across the B and B on the way out of town The town is a dump but I have a nostalgia to spend one last night in an African settlement. Most accommodation in the towns in Namibia is white owned with white guests. I check in with Theresa the manageress. It's clean and comfortable enough. It's called "The Spot".
I doze in the afternoon then take a walk in the last hour before sun-set. It's a bit like a township from "Of Mice and Men". I walk past the school and some houses and into the bush. There are lots of kids about in dirty, tatty clothes. Some give me a polite "Hello". I must be a strange sight with my daft hat, baggy shorts and bright red face. They are too respectful to show it though. I come across the town cemetery. Some graves are smart, some just a heap of random stones. There is no one around and I take some photos. I make my way back along a maze of dirt paths and tracks to the main road.
I sit out on the patio and read a bit more of "Mill on the Floss", a book I picked up at least 6 weeks ago. The choice of bookshops and books has been minute so you finish up reading new stuff. Around 6 pm Theresa cooks me a tasty meatball and chips meal. I try a beer but can't finish it. Stomach still not right. I watch Olympic beach volley-ball on the café TV. USA narrowly beat China on Horse guards' Parade in an exciting semi-final. The only other customers are 3 women who share a large bottle of beer and a portion of chips before bidding me goodnight. "
Day 69
More diary......" Night of bad dreams. Also there is a strong wing blowing all night Something in the yard bangs and squeaks all night. Up for 7 am breakfast. Olympic reviews on TV. Away for 8ish Theresa rolls back the security gate for me. The wind is blowing strongly from the east again. It's a fresh one. I'm heading SSW so occasionally I get a slight push. I'm still wearing a pullover, track-suit bottoms and a ruc-sac when I roll into Omoruru at midday. This is a first. I've always been down to shorts and shirt by about 9 am.
The road climbs for 4 or 5 kms out of Kalkfeld. It's only a 65 km day and I'm not feeling especially frisky so I take it easy. After about 30 km I reach a crest and I can see 100 miles to the south, I reckon. The horizon to the south is littered with mountains. The air is clear as can be. It reminds me of the day I climbed a small mountain in Norway and I could see the Lafoten Islands 150 miles away. It doesn't happen very often!
Two eagles soar not-so-high overhead. I think they are looking for road-kill. I keep an eye on the lowest one in case it fancies me. Unlikely, but I've been buzzed by birds before. Scary!
Then some Kudo run alongside me on the other side of a stock-fence some 50 yds to my right. They are in a mild panic and don't seem to have the sense to cut into the bush.
Finally (on the animal front) I spot my first Meer cats. A group of about 7 or 8 run across the road ahead of me. They look like large rats as they run. They disappear into the bush, except for one, which stays behind and stands up on guard to check I've gone. Without that I wouldn't have known what they were.
The last 20 kms is a lovely, ever so gradual descent on a perfectly smooth road into Omoruru, which is visible down on the plain with about 8 kms to go. There is an attractive rocky peak sticking maybe 1500 feet out of the plain to the NE of the town. If I had a bit more time and energy........"
The rest of Day 69 is spent writing this, dear readers.
It's now Day 70, Thursday 9th August, and time for lunch. Greetings to Johannes and Monika from Cologne who shared their table with me at dinner last night and at breakfast this morning. Kommt gut nach Hause.
The coast, at Swakopmund, can be reached in two days from here with luck. From there it's only a cock's stride to Walvis Bay. Swakopmund is about 240 kms from here. The first section will be to Usakos, about 90 kms. The next day would then be 150 kms, which is a long stint, but there is a glorious drop of 900 metres, roughly the height of Scafell. Bring it on!
There used to be a bit of graffiti in the urinals in the Upper George pub in Halifax : "As I slide down the bannister of life, the Upper George is yet another splinter in my arse".
The above image came to mind last weekend. For Upper George, substitute the town of Otavi. But more of that later. The last 5 days since last writing have gone well, despite Otavi, although I'm getting a bit tired. Can't think why...
I've just arrived in a very pleasant little town called Omaruru, which is about 350 kms from Grootfontein where I last blogged. I cruised the length of the main street and back - there's not much more to the place - and chose a place called the Central Hotel. "Deutsche Kueche" said the sign over the door. It's just like a German boozer. Not surprising, as it was built as a German boozer a little over a 100 years ago.
The rooms are out the back. They are little thatched chalets with all mod cons and set in a lovely garden with a fountain, palm trees, a swimming pool and shady corners for eating and drinking. And all for 300 Namibian Dollars per night. There are 12 and a bit to the pound. That's a lot more than the previous 3 countries but standards are a lot higher here.
After a bite to eat, I asked the receptionist where I could get weighed - I'm looking like someone off the Burma Railway and getting curious - , where I could get a beard trim and where I could find an internet café. The first call at the Apotheke showed that I'd lost 10 kgs in the last 69 days. The barber's was nowhere near where she said. Just as I was looking lost a policeman ran past. People run a lot in Africa. He was going off duty. "Follow me", he said. Santos the policeman, who may be reading this, - Hi, mate ! - is from Walvis Bay but has been posted to Omaruru. As we walked he gave me some handy tips on avoiding a mugging in Walvis Bay. He then invited me into the police barracks dorm ,where his mate had just woken up, while he changed into his civvies: jeans and T shirt. It's an old colonial building in a German style. You could tell it was German from the rock- solid original door and window frames. Strangely he used an abandoned window frame, minus glass, as a ladder to get his T shirt off a high shelf, its glazing bars still strong after all these years. There were several policemen in there and stuff everywhere. From there we went to the barber's and then he dropped me off here at the internet place. So, thanks, Santos. You are never alone for long in Africa...
But back to where I left off in Grootfontein
Last Friday night I retired to the hotel bar/restaurant for a quiet night. After a bottle of Windhoek Bitter and some athletics on TV from London, the lad I'd got acquainted with at the internet café turned up with his fiancée. Petrus is the Grootfontein hooker and likes to talk, especially sport, and drink. His fiancée is very pretty and likes to dance. We had a long session and I went to bed about 10 pm, late for Africa, carefully avoiding the swimming pool. Petrus said if I stayed another day he would have me round to his place for a barbecue. Sorry, Petrus, if you are reading this...I woke up early on the Saturday morning and thought I'd better move along a bit. Thanks for the invitation though.
The ride to Otavi ("splinter in the arse town") was a good one. For the first time in nearly 1000 kms I was surrounded by rocky hills and mountains. The road snakes down an empty valley. It's broad at first but gets narrower and narrower. There were no villages this day, just the occasional ranch and some wheat, maize and sun-flower cultivation. You could shoot a western anywhere along this road. There are rocky bluffs, high hills, cacti, desolation, everything you need. At the end of the valley the road squeezes through a gap to the south and another endless plain opens up. This is where Otavi lies.
Now Otavi could enter an ugly town competition and easily get on the podium. Gold, I reckon. It's dominated by a silo, looks like it's been abandoned then given a reprieve, has wide, filthy, dug-up streets and all the buildings look as if they belong in Soviet Russia. I met a nice Australian couple, Keith and Ann, while looking for a B and B. They suggested I go to theirs, which I did. It was OK and in the evening I joined them and some SA tourists in the bar. Keith and Ann like Namibia so much they have a car planted here. We drank some beer together and watched a ferocious and skilful rugby match from Cape Town between two rival "public" schools: Paarl Boys' High School and Paarl Gimnasium. It's no wonder their national team is so good. "Paarl" is Dutch for "pearl" and also a suburb of Cape Town. It's the place where we watched Nelson Mandela walk out the correctional centre back in 1990 . But I digress....nay, ramble....
About 8 pm I ate a dinner of undercooked chips and, I suspect, undercooked pork steaks. Big ones. Never eat in a dark restaurant. I wolfed the lot without complaining, as I was ravenous. A few hours later, in the middle of the night my alimentary canal started heaving like Mr Creosote's and the rest you don't want to know about. ( For non-Brits, Mr Creosote is a modern-day Gargantua character from a Monty Python film who was monstrously greedy then impressively ill).
I lay in my room muttering and expectorating for much of Sunday thinking the world and my trip were at an end. But things are never as bad as you think and by afternoon I was well enough to mention it to the owner, Sandra, a powerful lady with a smoking habit. She tried to persuade me I might have malaria, especially as I'd come from the north. Maybe I'd been drinking the wrong bottled water. To her credit, she did give me a roll of luxury toilet paper from her own supply, which I still treasure. And she offered to take me to the doc's the next day at her expense and free accommodation as long as I malingered. I think we both knew where the problem lay .
The human body is a remarkable thing and by the middle of Sunday night my head and various other bits had stopped aching and I felt some energy and will-to-live returning. I left Sandra's place at 6 am next morning and headed for the 24 hour Total garage for supplies of sandwiches and water to get me the 113 km to Otjiworongo. I also got some milk which I mixed with the Muesli I carry, for breakfast.
The day began well as I watched the first 3 ten-kilometer signs go by. By 10 am though, the strongest head wind of the trip got up and I was straining to do 10 kph. I was resigning myself to camping part-way to my destination. There is nothing much between the two towns by way of a bed. By mid afternoon the wind slackened a bit and, with about 50 km to go, Otjiworongo was back on. In the end I struggled in about an hour after the sun had set. By then I had my head-torch on and the wind had dropped completely. There is so much reflective stuff on the back of my bike, including my folded spare Schwalbe tyre, which is visible from the moon, that a rear light would be just a formality.
My luck turned. Within an hour I was sitting down to a delicious family meal with the kind hosts of the Bush Pillow Lodge, and their son, on the outskirts of town. The table, the company and the food were immaculate. I sat, depleted and sweaty, at the head of the table and recounted some of my adventures. There was another paying guest at the table. He'd spotted me on the road earlier in the day while he'd been drilling for minerals between the road and the railway. He was a large, jovial fellow and clearly fascinated by my trip. He even filmed me cycling away next morning. If you are reading this, please message me your name and the names of the kind lodge owners. They've evaporated! And I hope you find what you were looking for under the ground.
Day 68
Day 68 starts with breakfast at the Bush Pillow. I meet the two friendly Dutch couples who'd directed me to the Bush Pillow the night before. Like many Europeans they'd rented a Toyota 4 by 4 with tents on the roof and had driven up from Cape Town.
From the diary....."It's a superb day. It's cool but the sky is deep blue and the air crystal clear. There is a cold east wind from Botswana ie the east. So, a side wind for me. Once again I call at the filling station for supplies having decided I won't make Omoruru, the next town, in a day It's 136 kms. and I've left too late. Anyway I'm too tired from yesterday. I feel fine to begin with but soon start flagging. I'm still not eating properly. The scenery is great with scattered hills rearing out of the plain. There are lots of wart-hogs grazing on the road reserve. They scatter in panic when they see me and shoot off wildly under the stock fence and into the bush. You wouldn't want to surprise one in a narrow alley. They are built like prop forwards with huge muscular shoulders and arses and with a fearsome look on their faces thanks to their tusks. And they can sprint.
At one point I spot blood on the road and in the distance a parked petrol tanker. It's time for my good deed for the day though at first I'm nervous. The driver of the tanker calls me over. "You help me, Sir?" He's trying to heave a large dead wart-hog into the passenger side of his cab and failing. It's a lift of a good 2 metres. He's already put a plastic bag over its head. Probably that's where it got its mortal wound and he doesn't want too much mess. The driver hauls on its back legs and muggings gets the job off pushing on its chest and front legs. The chest is still hot and rubbery and its bagged face not far from mine. One heave does it though and I squash the beast the rest of the way by pushing the door to. Some blood trickles down the bodywork. "Thank you, Sir," says the driver making an eating gesture with his hand. At least it hasn't gone to waste.
The first sight of Kalkfeld, 70 km from my start, is of dozens of tin shacks. People are sitting around in the yards, which they share with goats, dogs and donkeys. At least one person waves. Two white people have said negative things to me already about Kalkfeld. It's a cross-roads town where 3 dirt roads meet the tarmac road. It's an impoverished dump of a town in a beautiful, peaceful bit of Namibia. I pull in at a concrete block of a shop at what looks like a ex service-station with no pumps. There are people waiting for lifts and just chatting with nothing to do. I have a Coke wondering if it doubles as a B and B. I know there is one here somewhere. I decide to continue
Over a bridge over a dry river bed I come across the B and B on the way out of town The town is a dump but I have a nostalgia to spend one last night in an African settlement. Most accommodation in the towns in Namibia is white owned with white guests. I check in with Theresa the manageress. It's clean and comfortable enough. It's called "The Spot".
I doze in the afternoon then take a walk in the last hour before sun-set. It's a bit like a township from "Of Mice and Men". I walk past the school and some houses and into the bush. There are lots of kids about in dirty, tatty clothes. Some give me a polite "Hello". I must be a strange sight with my daft hat, baggy shorts and bright red face. They are too respectful to show it though. I come across the town cemetery. Some graves are smart, some just a heap of random stones. There is no one around and I take some photos. I make my way back along a maze of dirt paths and tracks to the main road.
I sit out on the patio and read a bit more of "Mill on the Floss", a book I picked up at least 6 weeks ago. The choice of bookshops and books has been minute so you finish up reading new stuff. Around 6 pm Theresa cooks me a tasty meatball and chips meal. I try a beer but can't finish it. Stomach still not right. I watch Olympic beach volley-ball on the café TV. USA narrowly beat China on Horse guards' Parade in an exciting semi-final. The only other customers are 3 women who share a large bottle of beer and a portion of chips before bidding me goodnight. "
Day 69
More diary......" Night of bad dreams. Also there is a strong wing blowing all night Something in the yard bangs and squeaks all night. Up for 7 am breakfast. Olympic reviews on TV. Away for 8ish Theresa rolls back the security gate for me. The wind is blowing strongly from the east again. It's a fresh one. I'm heading SSW so occasionally I get a slight push. I'm still wearing a pullover, track-suit bottoms and a ruc-sac when I roll into Omoruru at midday. This is a first. I've always been down to shorts and shirt by about 9 am.
The road climbs for 4 or 5 kms out of Kalkfeld. It's only a 65 km day and I'm not feeling especially frisky so I take it easy. After about 30 km I reach a crest and I can see 100 miles to the south, I reckon. The horizon to the south is littered with mountains. The air is clear as can be. It reminds me of the day I climbed a small mountain in Norway and I could see the Lafoten Islands 150 miles away. It doesn't happen very often!
Two eagles soar not-so-high overhead. I think they are looking for road-kill. I keep an eye on the lowest one in case it fancies me. Unlikely, but I've been buzzed by birds before. Scary!
Then some Kudo run alongside me on the other side of a stock-fence some 50 yds to my right. They are in a mild panic and don't seem to have the sense to cut into the bush.
Finally (on the animal front) I spot my first Meer cats. A group of about 7 or 8 run across the road ahead of me. They look like large rats as they run. They disappear into the bush, except for one, which stays behind and stands up on guard to check I've gone. Without that I wouldn't have known what they were.
The last 20 kms is a lovely, ever so gradual descent on a perfectly smooth road into Omoruru, which is visible down on the plain with about 8 kms to go. There is an attractive rocky peak sticking maybe 1500 feet out of the plain to the NE of the town. If I had a bit more time and energy........"
The rest of Day 69 is spent writing this, dear readers.
It's now Day 70, Thursday 9th August, and time for lunch. Greetings to Johannes and Monika from Cologne who shared their table with me at dinner last night and at breakfast this morning. Kommt gut nach Hause.
The coast, at Swakopmund, can be reached in two days from here with luck. From there it's only a cock's stride to Walvis Bay. Swakopmund is about 240 kms from here. The first section will be to Usakos, about 90 kms. The next day would then be 150 kms, which is a long stint, but there is a glorious drop of 900 metres, roughly the height of Scafell. Bring it on!
Friday, 3 August 2012
Rundu to Grootfontein
I left Rundu just as it was getting light around 6 am, rode up the chilly high street then turned right on the B8 to Grootfontein. "Grootfontein 254 kms " said the sign. The road is flat, smooth and monotonously straight, perfect for max kms. I reckoned I could do the distance in 2 days. On my map, as good as any map I've seen, there is very little detail, just a long straight road with one settlement marked, which is Mururani Gate, at the border between Kavango Province and Otjozondjupa Province. I'd been told there was a shop and somewhere to sleep , which turned out to be true.
It was my lucky day, 2 days in fact, as the wind blew in gusts right at my back for most of the 2 days. Travelling the other way would have meant at least 3 days pedaling. Long may it blow, as my route is SW for the remaining 600 kms. My first stop was about 10 kms out of Rundu at a police road block. There have been lots, mostly to check the paperwork and condition of people in cars and HGVs. This was my first in Namibia though. Zut alors! I thought, thinking back about a week to the police chappy in Katima who had told me to get a cycle helmet, as they are compulsary in Namibia. This policeman held up his hand and invited me into his tent. "Do you want to see my passport, Sir?" I said putting on my Mr Bean face. He did, but only out of idle curiosity, before giving me a longish lecture on the necessity and safety of helmets. He was only about a third my age and still keen on his work. As an ex-teacher I'm familiar with the concept of the severe letting off so I knew the formalities. I'm not as familiar with the contrite role but I managed and promised faithfully to buy a helmet in Grootfontein. " You might not be so lucky with my colleague at Mururani Gate" he said. Something to look forward to. I refrained from the usual smirking and hooting as I left the tent.
The rest of the day flew by thanks to the tail wind. There were many villages despite the apparent emptiness of the map. The locals mostly herd goats and very handsome cattle with fine, long horns. I had one stop for a Coke at one of the many road-side bottle shops. There I was befriended by a group of teenagers who brought me a plastic chair to sit on (most welcome) and asked me why I was riding around on a bike. It's hard to explain. I usually say something along the lines of..."I'm 63 and it's my first time in Africa. I wanted to come here before I got too old. In a car I would not have met you; I'd have just wizzed by. It's been a great adventure. In Europe we are relatively well-off and comfortable and sometimes get bored. So we need a challenge. All the way people have been friendly and helpful; I'm having a great time." That usually keeps them happy and it's all more or less true.
So, instead of struggling into the huddle of buildings that is Mururani Gate, I sailed in around mid-afternoon. The policeman there didn't give a fig for my lack of helmet: he just wanted to know what I was doing riding around on a bicycle. "I'm 63 and it's my first time etc.....".
There is a lovely little campsite which belongs to the white couple who own the shop. There is a little swimming pool and a couple of chalets which they are living in while a bigger home is being built. They hope to be in for Christmas then they'll rent out the chalets to tourists. They are also farmers.The shop sells burgers, beer and other basics, so I had a decent evening meal and night-cap. They have a son and 3 dogs, one large mutt and 2 Jack Russells. I sat up reading and writing and drinking by torchlight till about 8 pm then went to bed . One of the Jack Russells came to check on me every couple of hours during the night. It wormed its way under the fly-sheet then came to the fly-screen of the inner tent, stuck its pointy little face into that, saw me but couldn't understand why it couldn't get any further. What a sweety!
Yesterday, the remaining 120kms or so, was slightly tougher. The morning kms flew by but by the afternoon the road surface got rougher and there was a slight uphill gradient. In the morning I stopped to take a layer of clothes off about 9am. A 4 by 4 came down a side road from one of the white-owned cattle ranches. "Everything OK?" he asked winding the window down. He was a powerful, blond haired bloke with a beard and busting out of his clothes. We talked for a bit and in the end he came out with the usual: "You are a braver man me. " I told him I'd met with nothing but friendliness all the way and never felt threatened. The perception of danger is interesting. I blame the media. We finished with a hand-shake. My metacarpals are still rearranging themselves. I prefer the black African hand-shake which is much gentler and I've now got the hang of. It's a normal handshake, followed by a thumbs handshake and finishing with another normal handshake. If they like you, they then hang onto you....
So I was approaching "the wall" when I got to Grootfontein. It's a nice place on a low hill overlooking a vast plain. There is an old German fort here dating back to 1895 and now a good museum where I spent a couple of hours this morning. The town reminds me of some of the sleepy, little rural towns in Australia. From the 60s to the early 90s though, when Namibia was still a part of South Africa, the town was an important military base with 200,000 troops based here according to the internet cafe owner.
Ulli, a white German speaker who is a volunteer at the splendid museum, also gave me some insights into life here, past and present. Her grandfather came here in the 20s and set up shops, moving further inland by ox-cart.
Then at lunchtime in the supermarket, when I asked a trio on the next table if they came from Grootfontein, they said, "No. We are the people you spoke to a week ago in the game park". And so they were. Hans-Martin, Mechthild and Kristina from Frankfurt are on holiday here, not for the first time. Unfortunately they bumped into a cow recently and are having to get the damage fixed in Grootfontein.
So, just 600 kms to go and at least 10 days to do them in.
More later.
I left Rundu just as it was getting light around 6 am, rode up the chilly high street then turned right on the B8 to Grootfontein. "Grootfontein 254 kms " said the sign. The road is flat, smooth and monotonously straight, perfect for max kms. I reckoned I could do the distance in 2 days. On my map, as good as any map I've seen, there is very little detail, just a long straight road with one settlement marked, which is Mururani Gate, at the border between Kavango Province and Otjozondjupa Province. I'd been told there was a shop and somewhere to sleep , which turned out to be true.
It was my lucky day, 2 days in fact, as the wind blew in gusts right at my back for most of the 2 days. Travelling the other way would have meant at least 3 days pedaling. Long may it blow, as my route is SW for the remaining 600 kms. My first stop was about 10 kms out of Rundu at a police road block. There have been lots, mostly to check the paperwork and condition of people in cars and HGVs. This was my first in Namibia though. Zut alors! I thought, thinking back about a week to the police chappy in Katima who had told me to get a cycle helmet, as they are compulsary in Namibia. This policeman held up his hand and invited me into his tent. "Do you want to see my passport, Sir?" I said putting on my Mr Bean face. He did, but only out of idle curiosity, before giving me a longish lecture on the necessity and safety of helmets. He was only about a third my age and still keen on his work. As an ex-teacher I'm familiar with the concept of the severe letting off so I knew the formalities. I'm not as familiar with the contrite role but I managed and promised faithfully to buy a helmet in Grootfontein. " You might not be so lucky with my colleague at Mururani Gate" he said. Something to look forward to. I refrained from the usual smirking and hooting as I left the tent.
The rest of the day flew by thanks to the tail wind. There were many villages despite the apparent emptiness of the map. The locals mostly herd goats and very handsome cattle with fine, long horns. I had one stop for a Coke at one of the many road-side bottle shops. There I was befriended by a group of teenagers who brought me a plastic chair to sit on (most welcome) and asked me why I was riding around on a bike. It's hard to explain. I usually say something along the lines of..."I'm 63 and it's my first time in Africa. I wanted to come here before I got too old. In a car I would not have met you; I'd have just wizzed by. It's been a great adventure. In Europe we are relatively well-off and comfortable and sometimes get bored. So we need a challenge. All the way people have been friendly and helpful; I'm having a great time." That usually keeps them happy and it's all more or less true.
So, instead of struggling into the huddle of buildings that is Mururani Gate, I sailed in around mid-afternoon. The policeman there didn't give a fig for my lack of helmet: he just wanted to know what I was doing riding around on a bicycle. "I'm 63 and it's my first time etc.....".
There is a lovely little campsite which belongs to the white couple who own the shop. There is a little swimming pool and a couple of chalets which they are living in while a bigger home is being built. They hope to be in for Christmas then they'll rent out the chalets to tourists. They are also farmers.The shop sells burgers, beer and other basics, so I had a decent evening meal and night-cap. They have a son and 3 dogs, one large mutt and 2 Jack Russells. I sat up reading and writing and drinking by torchlight till about 8 pm then went to bed . One of the Jack Russells came to check on me every couple of hours during the night. It wormed its way under the fly-sheet then came to the fly-screen of the inner tent, stuck its pointy little face into that, saw me but couldn't understand why it couldn't get any further. What a sweety!
Yesterday, the remaining 120kms or so, was slightly tougher. The morning kms flew by but by the afternoon the road surface got rougher and there was a slight uphill gradient. In the morning I stopped to take a layer of clothes off about 9am. A 4 by 4 came down a side road from one of the white-owned cattle ranches. "Everything OK?" he asked winding the window down. He was a powerful, blond haired bloke with a beard and busting out of his clothes. We talked for a bit and in the end he came out with the usual: "You are a braver man me. " I told him I'd met with nothing but friendliness all the way and never felt threatened. The perception of danger is interesting. I blame the media. We finished with a hand-shake. My metacarpals are still rearranging themselves. I prefer the black African hand-shake which is much gentler and I've now got the hang of. It's a normal handshake, followed by a thumbs handshake and finishing with another normal handshake. If they like you, they then hang onto you....
So I was approaching "the wall" when I got to Grootfontein. It's a nice place on a low hill overlooking a vast plain. There is an old German fort here dating back to 1895 and now a good museum where I spent a couple of hours this morning. The town reminds me of some of the sleepy, little rural towns in Australia. From the 60s to the early 90s though, when Namibia was still a part of South Africa, the town was an important military base with 200,000 troops based here according to the internet cafe owner.
Ulli, a white German speaker who is a volunteer at the splendid museum, also gave me some insights into life here, past and present. Her grandfather came here in the 20s and set up shops, moving further inland by ox-cart.
Then at lunchtime in the supermarket, when I asked a trio on the next table if they came from Grootfontein, they said, "No. We are the people you spoke to a week ago in the game park". And so they were. Hans-Martin, Mechthild and Kristina from Frankfurt are on holiday here, not for the first time. Unfortunately they bumped into a cow recently and are having to get the damage fixed in Grootfontein.
So, just 600 kms to go and at least 10 days to do them in.
More later.
Tuesday, 31 July 2012
After Mongolia.....
Don't worry, I haven't lost my bearings, not seriously anyway. Just wanted to say that Namibia is the second least densely populated country on earth after Mongolia and, although it's fairly well developed, more so than Tanzania, Zambia and Malawi, things are ....er.... far apart. I wanted to write something in Katima Mulilo, 5 days and 500 km ago, but the whole town had an internet plague, so I just concentrated on eating, drinking and resting.
Since then it's been mostly trees. Anyway, I expect most of you are too busy, superglued to the Olympics or permanently drunk after Halifax's magnificent defeat of Feath, to be reading about an obsessive cyclist.
Now I'm in Rundu, another pleasantly scruffy, but well appointed town on the River Okavango, which forms the border with Angola to the north. The Okavango, as some of you will know, is the river that flows into Botswana and finishes in a big, swampy delta, famous for it's wild life. Here it's just a lovely river full of tasty, if rather bony, fish, crocodiles, also on local menus, and hippos, which are best avoided.
After Livingstone....
So, just to summarise the last 8 days since Livingstone and the Vic Falls..... I left Livingstone and soon ran into some impressively large wild elephants. I'll swear the minibus at the front of the queue could've driven under the leader's legs. I'd been told they were all round the town. These were ambling slowly across the road.
A couple of miles later I earned a load of points for my I Spy Book when I saw a lone elephant pursuing a man in a green suit, collar and tie and with a Bible in his hand. The latter is a common sight on a Sunday, which this was. Jumbo was marching purposefully alongside a railway line running parallel to the road. The guy in the green suit was also walking, increasingly briskly, down the line about 100 yds in front of it and shooting nervous glances over his shoulder. I'm not making it up ! You see some strange sights in Africa.
I did about 70 km that day to a run-down town called Kazungula. About 20 km short of it I got the dreaded back tyre puncture. Dreaded because the good quality Schwalbe tyres I use are a bit of a bad dream to get on and off. I know, as I'd put this one on a couple of months before. There is even stuff on line telling you how to get this brand of tyre on and off. It was 1 o'clock in the afternoon and hot and the flies were buzzing. It took about an hour to get a new tube and tyre on, as all the luggage had to come off. So I entered Kazungula a bit bad tempereed. It was meant to be an easy day. I found a decent B and B with a large room that made an excellent cycle workshop. I located a tiny shard of glass in the old tyre, fished it out with tweezers and put the tyre back on.
Let me help you....
This section is devoted to all the people since Dar who, unasked, have offered help. It's made the trip a pleasure.
Next morning I was sitting on my bed drinking tea and looking absent-mindedly at my bike when it appeared that the main support on one side of the rear panier rack had snapped in two. It must be an optical illusion, I thought, a pessimistic turn of mind. Sadly not, it had sheared in half. There were rumble strips across the road yesterday to slow the traffic down at elephant crossing points. Cars mostly ignore them but they shake bikes to bits. Literally in my case. Oh bugger! The ride to the Namibian border that day was off. I'd been told about the ingenuity of African metal bodgers but did not think I would have to put them to the test. I wheeled my bike into the lounge (OK in Africa) and told them I might need another night and showed them the problem. I thought I might have to return to Livingstone.
The lodge factotum, a skinny guy of about 45 called Joseph, was there. "I know a man. Let me escort you there." It was just dawn and chilly. Outside we set off down some dusty footpaths. At this time of year - the dry season - there's a lot of soft sand about. Even pushing a bike is hard work. "Let me help you " he said and grabbed the handle-bars. We reached the local metal- basher's place, an open-air workshop with mountains of scrap metal from previous and ongoing jobs. Their main line was door frames, windows and security grills. The owner wasn't there yet and Joseph built a fire to keep us warm. We chatted till a guy of about 25 arrived. Within an hour he'd cut a neat steel bracket to match the broken bit, off-set it perfectly, drilled it and rivetted it to the rack. The rack is ali so there was no welding it. "How much do I owe you? I asked. 10,000 Kwatchas, he suggested, unsure what to charge me. That's about one pound 25. Mistakenly I gave him 100,000 Kwatcha (12 pounds or so). Embarrassed, he gave it me back and pointed to the correct note in the collection in my fist. In the end I gave him 50,000 telling him how pleased I was to have it fixed so quickly and so well. Joseph pushed the bike back for me, said good-bye, and set off home. He was the night watchman and was probably going to bed.
I set my sights for the day on a town called Mwandi, 70 kms away on a flat, easy road. I arrived about 3 pm. It was just a big village, right on the Zambezi and with a nice feel to it.There was a tidy lodge and I settled in ready for a beer and a siesta after the hassle of the day. When I took the luggage off - unbelievable - the other side had sheared identically. Double bugger! I thought it was a remote possiblity and I had thought of asking the guy to fix both sides but I wanted to get moving. I showed the break to a young bloke called Peter who just happened to be around. Like in a scene from Groundhog Day we pushed the bike up the street to another metal-basher, showed the two men there the previous job and asked them to do something similar. They dropped what they were doing and spent 2 hours on it as they had no electric drill or rivetter. I gave them some of my spare screws, they took it to a wood-worker over the street and got it drilled there. "What do I owe you?". "What did you pay the other guy?" they asked. I told them and handed them 50,000 Kwatcha. They seemed suited.
I've tried to rationalise the kindness of the Africans I've met. Why are they so helpful? I think they like it when a different face appears in town. Whites don't get to the smaller places much and they are curious to know what the hell you are doing, especially on a bicycle. Also they live mostly outside in the sun, which is an important factor. And their time is not as scheduled as ours. Many work very hard but are happy to break off. Many others are unemployed and are happy to have something useful to do. And I think some like speaking English, which they do very well, to the English. I suppose equally, a lot of poverty engenders a certain mutual cooperation. Whichever and whyever, it's made my trip so much better and I'm grateful to many of them for it.
The next day, day 54, I reached Katima Mulilo on the other side of the Zambesi and the first town in Namibia. When I spotted an internet sign on a building the following day I went in and tried a computer but, as I said, the whole town was on an internet go-slow. The owner was a 76 year old Jewish gent called Michel. He'd lived in Egypt, where he still had family, and Iraq and had finally come to rest in this corner of Namibia. He showed me photos on his computer of his family and of himself, literally rolling around with well grown lions in the lion sanctury in Livingstone. He ran the business with his Chinese wife Luna. I showed him some family snaps and told him of my Dad in army gear posing in front of the Sphinx in 1940. They told me to come back for lunch later in the day which I did. Luna had cooked up a delicious spicy chicken stew. After lunch we watched an American horror film on the computer and then took photos of each other. Michel looks remarkably like Omar Sharief.
Maybe it was Michel rolling around with the lions that persuaded me I'd be safe cycling through the Caprivi Game Park. From Katima I rode 100 km to Kongola the last town, just before the Park. There I followed a sign pointing down a sandy track to a campsite. It was a nice little spot on the River Kwando. That night I opted to eat 2 km down river at their lodge. I was taken their for free in a motor-boat and had another good meal in a palatial guest-house which caters for upmarket tours. It's surprising to find such peace and luxury stuck in the middle of the bush. After the meal, in the dark, under a starry sky, I was taken back by boat to the camp-site.
The next day was a bit nerve-racking. It was 200km across the Game Park to the next town Bagani. I can't do 200km in 12 hours, the length of daylight, so I'd have to spend one night in the park. Fran Sandham, on his walk, must have spent several nights in the park, so I reckoned I could manage one. There is a tribe called the San who live in the park, about half way along the road. I planned to have a night with them. About 7.30 am I reached the Park gate. "Aren't you afraid of lions?" one of the park wardens asked. I said something cool and British, like" I'm more afraid of mosquitos and humans in big scary lorries", while thinking, "why the f*ck did you have to mention lions?". I don't think there are many in there. Some guide books don't mention them at all. But since, I've been asked by a number of local Namibians the same question, "weren't you afraid of the lions?" After 100 km of the park I'd only seen only butterflies, birds and ants, so I was growing in confidence. Also I'd hatched another "accommodation" plan. I didn't really fancy sleeping at one of the villages as I'd be tired and have to be sociable, a good guest, all evening. In different circumstances I don't mind that. I've said Namibia is more developed, well, they have laid on concrete pic-nic tables and 2 concrete benches every 10 kms along the road, another indication that the lions stay away from the road, I reckon. I thought I could throw my tent fly-sheet over the whole lot, table and benches, and spend a comfortable night under the table. So that is what I did at about km 140. There are elephants in the park and I thought that lying under a concrete table with a concrete bench on one side was as good a protection as you could get from an elephant trampling, which is bound to be painful. On the other hand I did seem to remember that Fran Sandham mentioned in his book that 2 tourists were killed by lions while pic-nicking one evening. But, to counter that dismal thought, I'd been told several times that lions leave tents alone. Perfect ! I went to bed about 6.30 . I read a large chunk of Hunt for Red October under there and had a good supper of peanut butter butties - they have a very high energy rating if you look at the stats on the jars - dried fruit, nuts, wet fruit (an apple) and various other delicacies. And I slept surprisingly well on my camp mattress.
I got up refreshed when it came light - that's when lions go to bed - and it was another glorious African sunrise, cool and clear. The birds were singing sweetly and I had a good breakfast. I don't normally grumble or rave about the weather. Weather is weather. Early tribes came to England partly because it had decent weather, not for sitting in the garden but for growing stuff and not freezing to death in winter. But I've got to say that the weather here is wonderful. Even the middle of the night is good with clear skies and a refreshing chill. I sometimrs wish I had Patrick Moore with me to point out what's what. The stillness at dawn is magical. And the light around 8 or 9 o'clock is special. It must be the sort of light that Van Gogh loved in Arles when he was knocking out a painting every day and begging his brother for more money for paint. The colours here at the moment are the deep blue of the sky, the golden yellow of the grass and the green of the trees.
I just had 60 km to go to the exit gate to the park. I was only about 20 km from the gate when I got a reminder that this was an African Game Park and not a Sunday ride to Harrogate. I was riding along in a bit of a trance when a snake shot across my path. It was going at a hell of a speed in that strange rolling motion they have. I must have missed it by a hair's breadth. I was out of my trance in a millisecond and my left leg shot up somewhere near my left ear in order to avoid any poisonous lunge at my bare leg. It was about 6 foot long, light green and skinny. And probably more terrified than me.
Only about a mile later I saw my first elephants in the park. A very large elephant was standing by the road side. It was unmistakably a bull elephant. It was standing there not doing much at all. When I drew level - I'd pulled over to the other side - it turned it's head slowly to look at me. He decided I was just too scary and he ambled off briskly deeper into the bush to join his mate, who was ravaging some trees.
All in all I was happy to get to the park boundary. For one thing there hadn't been a shop for 2 days and supplies were getting low or rancid. At Bagani there was a good food store full of locals doing their Sunday shop, just like in the UK. I found a nice lodge on the banks of the Okavango. The next day I cycled a further 100 km and found a very comfortable lodge, Tatella Lodge at Ndiyona, on the old dirt road which runs closer to the river. The tarmac road, a few kms away and parallel was only built in the late 90s. It was Sunday. The big steel security gate was locked when I arrived and no amount of shouting could raise anybody. A neighbour directed me to a bar just across a field. There I found Luciano, a son of the owner. He let me into the lodge and told me his older brother Lazarus would be along later to "look after me". Lazarus turned up later and had clearly had a few. He was very amiable and invited me to join him in the meal he was cooking. I said I wouldn't mind a beer, so he was quite happy to walk back across the fields to the bar for one. The meal wasn't a huge success with the fish half fused to the oven dish.We ate on a terrace overlooking the river. Lazarus threw his unwanted food over the wall into the river and broke off his rambling tales every so often to urinate over the wall. In the end I followed suit not wanting to appear rude. And so ended another day in Africa. Next morning I was up around 5.30 as usual. I let myself out. Fortunately Lazarus had forgotten to put the padlock on the gate. I thought I wouldn't wake him. I had another 100km to do to reach Rundu where I am now. I developed another puncture 10 km short of town: the bike slowed and started to wander. Another back tyre puncture. Aie! Caramba!. I pumped some air into and it just got me in. A patch on the tube had worked loose.
From here it's about 850 km to Walvis Bay. I have 2 weeks to do that. If all continues to go without major problems I should be able to pedal there in relative comfort. The roads in Namibia are good and straight and flat which is fine for knocking out the kms. And the coast is over 1000 m lower than here. It's all downhill to Walvis Bay ! Thanks for reading and, the usual reminder, you might want to sponsor me. See the end of the post entitled One sleep later to get details of what it's in aid of, how to sign up etc.
Don't worry, I haven't lost my bearings, not seriously anyway. Just wanted to say that Namibia is the second least densely populated country on earth after Mongolia and, although it's fairly well developed, more so than Tanzania, Zambia and Malawi, things are ....er.... far apart. I wanted to write something in Katima Mulilo, 5 days and 500 km ago, but the whole town had an internet plague, so I just concentrated on eating, drinking and resting.
Since then it's been mostly trees. Anyway, I expect most of you are too busy, superglued to the Olympics or permanently drunk after Halifax's magnificent defeat of Feath, to be reading about an obsessive cyclist.
Now I'm in Rundu, another pleasantly scruffy, but well appointed town on the River Okavango, which forms the border with Angola to the north. The Okavango, as some of you will know, is the river that flows into Botswana and finishes in a big, swampy delta, famous for it's wild life. Here it's just a lovely river full of tasty, if rather bony, fish, crocodiles, also on local menus, and hippos, which are best avoided.
After Livingstone....
So, just to summarise the last 8 days since Livingstone and the Vic Falls..... I left Livingstone and soon ran into some impressively large wild elephants. I'll swear the minibus at the front of the queue could've driven under the leader's legs. I'd been told they were all round the town. These were ambling slowly across the road.
A couple of miles later I earned a load of points for my I Spy Book when I saw a lone elephant pursuing a man in a green suit, collar and tie and with a Bible in his hand. The latter is a common sight on a Sunday, which this was. Jumbo was marching purposefully alongside a railway line running parallel to the road. The guy in the green suit was also walking, increasingly briskly, down the line about 100 yds in front of it and shooting nervous glances over his shoulder. I'm not making it up ! You see some strange sights in Africa.
I did about 70 km that day to a run-down town called Kazungula. About 20 km short of it I got the dreaded back tyre puncture. Dreaded because the good quality Schwalbe tyres I use are a bit of a bad dream to get on and off. I know, as I'd put this one on a couple of months before. There is even stuff on line telling you how to get this brand of tyre on and off. It was 1 o'clock in the afternoon and hot and the flies were buzzing. It took about an hour to get a new tube and tyre on, as all the luggage had to come off. So I entered Kazungula a bit bad tempereed. It was meant to be an easy day. I found a decent B and B with a large room that made an excellent cycle workshop. I located a tiny shard of glass in the old tyre, fished it out with tweezers and put the tyre back on.
Let me help you....
This section is devoted to all the people since Dar who, unasked, have offered help. It's made the trip a pleasure.
Next morning I was sitting on my bed drinking tea and looking absent-mindedly at my bike when it appeared that the main support on one side of the rear panier rack had snapped in two. It must be an optical illusion, I thought, a pessimistic turn of mind. Sadly not, it had sheared in half. There were rumble strips across the road yesterday to slow the traffic down at elephant crossing points. Cars mostly ignore them but they shake bikes to bits. Literally in my case. Oh bugger! The ride to the Namibian border that day was off. I'd been told about the ingenuity of African metal bodgers but did not think I would have to put them to the test. I wheeled my bike into the lounge (OK in Africa) and told them I might need another night and showed them the problem. I thought I might have to return to Livingstone.
The lodge factotum, a skinny guy of about 45 called Joseph, was there. "I know a man. Let me escort you there." It was just dawn and chilly. Outside we set off down some dusty footpaths. At this time of year - the dry season - there's a lot of soft sand about. Even pushing a bike is hard work. "Let me help you " he said and grabbed the handle-bars. We reached the local metal- basher's place, an open-air workshop with mountains of scrap metal from previous and ongoing jobs. Their main line was door frames, windows and security grills. The owner wasn't there yet and Joseph built a fire to keep us warm. We chatted till a guy of about 25 arrived. Within an hour he'd cut a neat steel bracket to match the broken bit, off-set it perfectly, drilled it and rivetted it to the rack. The rack is ali so there was no welding it. "How much do I owe you? I asked. 10,000 Kwatchas, he suggested, unsure what to charge me. That's about one pound 25. Mistakenly I gave him 100,000 Kwatcha (12 pounds or so). Embarrassed, he gave it me back and pointed to the correct note in the collection in my fist. In the end I gave him 50,000 telling him how pleased I was to have it fixed so quickly and so well. Joseph pushed the bike back for me, said good-bye, and set off home. He was the night watchman and was probably going to bed.
I set my sights for the day on a town called Mwandi, 70 kms away on a flat, easy road. I arrived about 3 pm. It was just a big village, right on the Zambezi and with a nice feel to it.There was a tidy lodge and I settled in ready for a beer and a siesta after the hassle of the day. When I took the luggage off - unbelievable - the other side had sheared identically. Double bugger! I thought it was a remote possiblity and I had thought of asking the guy to fix both sides but I wanted to get moving. I showed the break to a young bloke called Peter who just happened to be around. Like in a scene from Groundhog Day we pushed the bike up the street to another metal-basher, showed the two men there the previous job and asked them to do something similar. They dropped what they were doing and spent 2 hours on it as they had no electric drill or rivetter. I gave them some of my spare screws, they took it to a wood-worker over the street and got it drilled there. "What do I owe you?". "What did you pay the other guy?" they asked. I told them and handed them 50,000 Kwatcha. They seemed suited.
I've tried to rationalise the kindness of the Africans I've met. Why are they so helpful? I think they like it when a different face appears in town. Whites don't get to the smaller places much and they are curious to know what the hell you are doing, especially on a bicycle. Also they live mostly outside in the sun, which is an important factor. And their time is not as scheduled as ours. Many work very hard but are happy to break off. Many others are unemployed and are happy to have something useful to do. And I think some like speaking English, which they do very well, to the English. I suppose equally, a lot of poverty engenders a certain mutual cooperation. Whichever and whyever, it's made my trip so much better and I'm grateful to many of them for it.
The next day, day 54, I reached Katima Mulilo on the other side of the Zambesi and the first town in Namibia. When I spotted an internet sign on a building the following day I went in and tried a computer but, as I said, the whole town was on an internet go-slow. The owner was a 76 year old Jewish gent called Michel. He'd lived in Egypt, where he still had family, and Iraq and had finally come to rest in this corner of Namibia. He showed me photos on his computer of his family and of himself, literally rolling around with well grown lions in the lion sanctury in Livingstone. He ran the business with his Chinese wife Luna. I showed him some family snaps and told him of my Dad in army gear posing in front of the Sphinx in 1940. They told me to come back for lunch later in the day which I did. Luna had cooked up a delicious spicy chicken stew. After lunch we watched an American horror film on the computer and then took photos of each other. Michel looks remarkably like Omar Sharief.
Maybe it was Michel rolling around with the lions that persuaded me I'd be safe cycling through the Caprivi Game Park. From Katima I rode 100 km to Kongola the last town, just before the Park. There I followed a sign pointing down a sandy track to a campsite. It was a nice little spot on the River Kwando. That night I opted to eat 2 km down river at their lodge. I was taken their for free in a motor-boat and had another good meal in a palatial guest-house which caters for upmarket tours. It's surprising to find such peace and luxury stuck in the middle of the bush. After the meal, in the dark, under a starry sky, I was taken back by boat to the camp-site.
The next day was a bit nerve-racking. It was 200km across the Game Park to the next town Bagani. I can't do 200km in 12 hours, the length of daylight, so I'd have to spend one night in the park. Fran Sandham, on his walk, must have spent several nights in the park, so I reckoned I could manage one. There is a tribe called the San who live in the park, about half way along the road. I planned to have a night with them. About 7.30 am I reached the Park gate. "Aren't you afraid of lions?" one of the park wardens asked. I said something cool and British, like" I'm more afraid of mosquitos and humans in big scary lorries", while thinking, "why the f*ck did you have to mention lions?". I don't think there are many in there. Some guide books don't mention them at all. But since, I've been asked by a number of local Namibians the same question, "weren't you afraid of the lions?" After 100 km of the park I'd only seen only butterflies, birds and ants, so I was growing in confidence. Also I'd hatched another "accommodation" plan. I didn't really fancy sleeping at one of the villages as I'd be tired and have to be sociable, a good guest, all evening. In different circumstances I don't mind that. I've said Namibia is more developed, well, they have laid on concrete pic-nic tables and 2 concrete benches every 10 kms along the road, another indication that the lions stay away from the road, I reckon. I thought I could throw my tent fly-sheet over the whole lot, table and benches, and spend a comfortable night under the table. So that is what I did at about km 140. There are elephants in the park and I thought that lying under a concrete table with a concrete bench on one side was as good a protection as you could get from an elephant trampling, which is bound to be painful. On the other hand I did seem to remember that Fran Sandham mentioned in his book that 2 tourists were killed by lions while pic-nicking one evening. But, to counter that dismal thought, I'd been told several times that lions leave tents alone. Perfect ! I went to bed about 6.30 . I read a large chunk of Hunt for Red October under there and had a good supper of peanut butter butties - they have a very high energy rating if you look at the stats on the jars - dried fruit, nuts, wet fruit (an apple) and various other delicacies. And I slept surprisingly well on my camp mattress.
I got up refreshed when it came light - that's when lions go to bed - and it was another glorious African sunrise, cool and clear. The birds were singing sweetly and I had a good breakfast. I don't normally grumble or rave about the weather. Weather is weather. Early tribes came to England partly because it had decent weather, not for sitting in the garden but for growing stuff and not freezing to death in winter. But I've got to say that the weather here is wonderful. Even the middle of the night is good with clear skies and a refreshing chill. I sometimrs wish I had Patrick Moore with me to point out what's what. The stillness at dawn is magical. And the light around 8 or 9 o'clock is special. It must be the sort of light that Van Gogh loved in Arles when he was knocking out a painting every day and begging his brother for more money for paint. The colours here at the moment are the deep blue of the sky, the golden yellow of the grass and the green of the trees.
I just had 60 km to go to the exit gate to the park. I was only about 20 km from the gate when I got a reminder that this was an African Game Park and not a Sunday ride to Harrogate. I was riding along in a bit of a trance when a snake shot across my path. It was going at a hell of a speed in that strange rolling motion they have. I must have missed it by a hair's breadth. I was out of my trance in a millisecond and my left leg shot up somewhere near my left ear in order to avoid any poisonous lunge at my bare leg. It was about 6 foot long, light green and skinny. And probably more terrified than me.
Only about a mile later I saw my first elephants in the park. A very large elephant was standing by the road side. It was unmistakably a bull elephant. It was standing there not doing much at all. When I drew level - I'd pulled over to the other side - it turned it's head slowly to look at me. He decided I was just too scary and he ambled off briskly deeper into the bush to join his mate, who was ravaging some trees.
All in all I was happy to get to the park boundary. For one thing there hadn't been a shop for 2 days and supplies were getting low or rancid. At Bagani there was a good food store full of locals doing their Sunday shop, just like in the UK. I found a nice lodge on the banks of the Okavango. The next day I cycled a further 100 km and found a very comfortable lodge, Tatella Lodge at Ndiyona, on the old dirt road which runs closer to the river. The tarmac road, a few kms away and parallel was only built in the late 90s. It was Sunday. The big steel security gate was locked when I arrived and no amount of shouting could raise anybody. A neighbour directed me to a bar just across a field. There I found Luciano, a son of the owner. He let me into the lodge and told me his older brother Lazarus would be along later to "look after me". Lazarus turned up later and had clearly had a few. He was very amiable and invited me to join him in the meal he was cooking. I said I wouldn't mind a beer, so he was quite happy to walk back across the fields to the bar for one. The meal wasn't a huge success with the fish half fused to the oven dish.We ate on a terrace overlooking the river. Lazarus threw his unwanted food over the wall into the river and broke off his rambling tales every so often to urinate over the wall. In the end I followed suit not wanting to appear rude. And so ended another day in Africa. Next morning I was up around 5.30 as usual. I let myself out. Fortunately Lazarus had forgotten to put the padlock on the gate. I thought I wouldn't wake him. I had another 100km to do to reach Rundu where I am now. I developed another puncture 10 km short of town: the bike slowed and started to wander. Another back tyre puncture. Aie! Caramba!. I pumped some air into and it just got me in. A patch on the tube had worked loose.
From here it's about 850 km to Walvis Bay. I have 2 weeks to do that. If all continues to go without major problems I should be able to pedal there in relative comfort. The roads in Namibia are good and straight and flat which is fine for knocking out the kms. And the coast is over 1000 m lower than here. It's all downhill to Walvis Bay ! Thanks for reading and, the usual reminder, you might want to sponsor me. See the end of the post entitled One sleep later to get details of what it's in aid of, how to sign up etc.
Sunday, 29 July 2012
Saturday, 21 July 2012
The Water That Thunders
This is not really a site-seeing trip as I'm happy to look at whatever passes in front of me every day, if you get my drift. However, only a loony - I heard that, you at the back ! - would not make a small detour to see Vic Falls. It's just 10km from Livingstone and I went there yesterday. There are various ways you can visit it. You can white water- raft it, apart from the vertical bit, of course. You can rent a helicopter and buzz around it that way. You can do something similar in a micro-light. You can view it from Zimbabwe or Zambia, or from both sides. You can tie elastic to your legs and hurl yourself of Beit Bridge and view it upside down. All kinds of wacky possibilities. I cycled there and just saw it from the Zambian side. They say the Zim side is better but I didn't fancy the hassle of going through the border twice and the expense of 2 more visas. This is what I scribbled in my diary over a few bottles of Mosi last night...
"I decided last night to make an early bid for the Falls, so I'm up at 5.30 and away for 6.00. The hotel is silent. There are just 3 guys round a brazier at the gate. I tell them to tell reception I need another night.
It's very cold out on the road especially when I reach the countryside. It's 10 km to the Falls and I'm well chilled on arrival especially, my hands. Maybe I need a warmer hat, gloves and sox for Namibia.
The edge of the Zambesi, dotted with tiny islands, appears well before the Falls. I stop for a couple of photos and a warm-up. I'm not sure what to see or how to see it. For once I have no Lonely Planet guide and I haven't done much research. There's a car-park to the right but I carry on and Beit Bridge with its customs and passport control loom up. I do a U-turn and go back to the empty car-park I passed. At the end of it is a shed marked "Entrance to the falls". The car-park is empty; it's only 7 a.m. I hand over 100,000 Kwatcha (about 13 pounds) for my ticket. It's about a tenth of this for Zambians. I head for another shed marked "information centre". It's full of blokes sitting around chatting. Some kind of work-force. I make my way round the walls. The presentation reminds me of Belle Vue Museum, Halifax, circa 1958. I learn that beds of molten lava were layed down over aeons. These developed a grid of cracks at right-angles to one another: a checker-board pattern. This probably explains the strange shape of the falls. It's not a traditional horse-shoe shape like Niagara. The line of the falls is straight, about 1 km long, and the river below then zigzags. It's as if someone has whacked a giant chisel into the earth so that the water drops into a slot. The slot has only a narrow outlet about a third of the way along it.
I enter the Falls park through a gate by the ticket office. By this time there are 4 of us : a white lady and 2 oriental chaps. The park is full of trees but I soon get my first view of the falls. I'm at the height of the overflowing water and maybe only 50 yds from it on the opposite side of the "slot". Between me and the cascading water is a chasm about 100m deep. It's not possible to see the bottom for the spray which is shooting skyward. Looking towards Zim there's a brilliant, almost circular rainbow. The path twists and dives up and down a bit with viewing points, then there's a bridge across a rocky cleft as far as the end of the park. Way down below is the escaping river but the gap is too narrow and deep for it to be visible. The views are spectacular and I take loads of photos.
Returning to the entry gate I spot a scruffy sign saying "boiling pot" and with an arrow. I've read something about that: the spot where the river rushes through a gap and goes into a whirlpool. I follow the path down through a kind of tropical jungle for maybe 15 minutes. I come out of the trees and there at the foot of a tumble of black rocks is the river. There is no one else around; I'm in a kind of lost world. About 100m upriver there is a pinch in the cliffs. I make my way carefully over the smooth volcanic rocks to this pinch-point. Here the sides of the river are vertical cliffs and only birds go further. The water is glassy smooth and flying through before boiling and twisting in the wider pool below, then it's off round another bend and under Beit Bridge. At one time I could just about have thrown a stone across here, it's that narrow.
So, there I was, at a world heritage site, one of the seven wonders of the natural world, and all on my own. It was such a gripping place that I wanted to enthuse to someone about it. I was hoping another tripper would turn up. No one. I looked to see if there was a phone signal down here. Surprisingly it was a good one. I decided to ring (son) Dan wondering if he'd be up and moving. It was now 9a.m., 8 o'clock UK time. He answered immediatley and we had a chat. The line was dead clear above the roar of the water and I did my best to describe where I was...
Around 10 am I cycled slowly back to Livingstone under a warm sun. The rest of the day was spent in the museum looking at Livingstone (the explorer) memorabilia, looking for an ATM without a long queue, talking to Wolfgang, the German, swimming for half a minute in the freezing hotel pool, having my beard trimmed, adjusting my brakes, tidying up my room, inquiring about the best route to the Caprivi Strip, ringing home, eating etc. "
So, that was my trip to the Falls. I had to break off blogging a bit suddenly as someone kept ringing my phone and speaking a strange language. I think it was a wrong number.
I plan to leave Livingstone tomorrow and head for Sesheke on the Namibian border. That's probably 3 days cycling. From there I should be able to reach Walvis Bay by Aug 15th when my flight leaves.
A few random facts about Zambia afore I go....
* It's over 3 times bigger than the UK with a population of about 15,000,000
* The President is Mr Sata voted in last year. He's the 5th President. His photo is on display in most shops, hotels and offices.
* The vice-President is Guy Scott, a white bloke whose parents hailed from Glasgow. When he was introduced to George Bush, who happened to be passing through Zambia, he says, "Bush thought they were kidding".
* English is the only official language although there are several other recognized languages, without any one of them being dominant (unlike Tanzania and Malawi where English has shared official language status).
* The name Zambia is based on the river name, Zambesi, which means something like "god river".
* Zambia became an independent state in 1964. Before that it was Northern Rhodesia and a British Colony.
* Life expectancy is low at approx 40 years.
OK, that's enough of that . Read more on Wikipedia where all that came from anyway.
Thanks for reading, Blog you later.
This is not really a site-seeing trip as I'm happy to look at whatever passes in front of me every day, if you get my drift. However, only a loony - I heard that, you at the back ! - would not make a small detour to see Vic Falls. It's just 10km from Livingstone and I went there yesterday. There are various ways you can visit it. You can white water- raft it, apart from the vertical bit, of course. You can rent a helicopter and buzz around it that way. You can do something similar in a micro-light. You can view it from Zimbabwe or Zambia, or from both sides. You can tie elastic to your legs and hurl yourself of Beit Bridge and view it upside down. All kinds of wacky possibilities. I cycled there and just saw it from the Zambian side. They say the Zim side is better but I didn't fancy the hassle of going through the border twice and the expense of 2 more visas. This is what I scribbled in my diary over a few bottles of Mosi last night...
"I decided last night to make an early bid for the Falls, so I'm up at 5.30 and away for 6.00. The hotel is silent. There are just 3 guys round a brazier at the gate. I tell them to tell reception I need another night.
It's very cold out on the road especially when I reach the countryside. It's 10 km to the Falls and I'm well chilled on arrival especially, my hands. Maybe I need a warmer hat, gloves and sox for Namibia.
The edge of the Zambesi, dotted with tiny islands, appears well before the Falls. I stop for a couple of photos and a warm-up. I'm not sure what to see or how to see it. For once I have no Lonely Planet guide and I haven't done much research. There's a car-park to the right but I carry on and Beit Bridge with its customs and passport control loom up. I do a U-turn and go back to the empty car-park I passed. At the end of it is a shed marked "Entrance to the falls". The car-park is empty; it's only 7 a.m. I hand over 100,000 Kwatcha (about 13 pounds) for my ticket. It's about a tenth of this for Zambians. I head for another shed marked "information centre". It's full of blokes sitting around chatting. Some kind of work-force. I make my way round the walls. The presentation reminds me of Belle Vue Museum, Halifax, circa 1958. I learn that beds of molten lava were layed down over aeons. These developed a grid of cracks at right-angles to one another: a checker-board pattern. This probably explains the strange shape of the falls. It's not a traditional horse-shoe shape like Niagara. The line of the falls is straight, about 1 km long, and the river below then zigzags. It's as if someone has whacked a giant chisel into the earth so that the water drops into a slot. The slot has only a narrow outlet about a third of the way along it.
I enter the Falls park through a gate by the ticket office. By this time there are 4 of us : a white lady and 2 oriental chaps. The park is full of trees but I soon get my first view of the falls. I'm at the height of the overflowing water and maybe only 50 yds from it on the opposite side of the "slot". Between me and the cascading water is a chasm about 100m deep. It's not possible to see the bottom for the spray which is shooting skyward. Looking towards Zim there's a brilliant, almost circular rainbow. The path twists and dives up and down a bit with viewing points, then there's a bridge across a rocky cleft as far as the end of the park. Way down below is the escaping river but the gap is too narrow and deep for it to be visible. The views are spectacular and I take loads of photos.
Returning to the entry gate I spot a scruffy sign saying "boiling pot" and with an arrow. I've read something about that: the spot where the river rushes through a gap and goes into a whirlpool. I follow the path down through a kind of tropical jungle for maybe 15 minutes. I come out of the trees and there at the foot of a tumble of black rocks is the river. There is no one else around; I'm in a kind of lost world. About 100m upriver there is a pinch in the cliffs. I make my way carefully over the smooth volcanic rocks to this pinch-point. Here the sides of the river are vertical cliffs and only birds go further. The water is glassy smooth and flying through before boiling and twisting in the wider pool below, then it's off round another bend and under Beit Bridge. At one time I could just about have thrown a stone across here, it's that narrow.
So, there I was, at a world heritage site, one of the seven wonders of the natural world, and all on my own. It was such a gripping place that I wanted to enthuse to someone about it. I was hoping another tripper would turn up. No one. I looked to see if there was a phone signal down here. Surprisingly it was a good one. I decided to ring (son) Dan wondering if he'd be up and moving. It was now 9a.m., 8 o'clock UK time. He answered immediatley and we had a chat. The line was dead clear above the roar of the water and I did my best to describe where I was...
Around 10 am I cycled slowly back to Livingstone under a warm sun. The rest of the day was spent in the museum looking at Livingstone (the explorer) memorabilia, looking for an ATM without a long queue, talking to Wolfgang, the German, swimming for half a minute in the freezing hotel pool, having my beard trimmed, adjusting my brakes, tidying up my room, inquiring about the best route to the Caprivi Strip, ringing home, eating etc. "
So, that was my trip to the Falls. I had to break off blogging a bit suddenly as someone kept ringing my phone and speaking a strange language. I think it was a wrong number.
I plan to leave Livingstone tomorrow and head for Sesheke on the Namibian border. That's probably 3 days cycling. From there I should be able to reach Walvis Bay by Aug 15th when my flight leaves.
A few random facts about Zambia afore I go....
* It's over 3 times bigger than the UK with a population of about 15,000,000
* The President is Mr Sata voted in last year. He's the 5th President. His photo is on display in most shops, hotels and offices.
* The vice-President is Guy Scott, a white bloke whose parents hailed from Glasgow. When he was introduced to George Bush, who happened to be passing through Zambia, he says, "Bush thought they were kidding".
* English is the only official language although there are several other recognized languages, without any one of them being dominant (unlike Tanzania and Malawi where English has shared official language status).
* The name Zambia is based on the river name, Zambesi, which means something like "god river".
* Zambia became an independent state in 1964. Before that it was Northern Rhodesia and a British Colony.
* Life expectancy is low at approx 40 years.
OK, that's enough of that . Read more on Wikipedia where all that came from anyway.
Thanks for reading, Blog you later.
Thursday, 19 July 2012
It's all downhill to the Zambesi
I arrived in Livingstone - the town for Vic Falls - at about 11 am today , Thursday, roughly 24 hours ahead of schedule. I'm booked into Faulty Towers, a popular hotel just outside the town centre. It's the best organised accommodation I've had for many a day with a lovely shady garden and tiny swimming pool. I asked a couple of white lasses in the town centre and the Towers is what they recommended. They are volunteers in a lion rehabilitation centre. I always thought lions could look after themselves...
I'm ahead of schedule because the last couple of days since Choma have been a cyclist's dream. The road has been silky smooth with a slightly downhill gradient. I stopped for a pee on Wednesday morning around 8am and realized I even had a significant following wind for the first time in a long time. In fact Livingstone is over 1000 feet lower than Lusaka, so hurrah!, I say
I tried to find out about prevailing winds when planning the trip. Strangely I could find nothing on the internet, only daily weather forecasts which showed light winds from various directions. On 3 or 4 days there's been a stiff breeze from the south, usually 10 o'clock direction as I cycle and a bit of a pain. Only when I was mooching round a bookshop in Lilongwe and flipping through a school geog book did I discover a page showing prevailing winds. In winter they blow straight up the continent from the south. Doh!
On Wed lunch-time in Kalola I met Radek Gerstner from Prague. He's a teacher and a big, modest guy. He spends his 2 month summer holidays cycling the world, but usually Africa. It was interesting hearing his tales. He's a real off-the-beaten-track guy with a bike to suit. His route to Dar es Salaam was real black- route stuff and made mine look cissy.
Later that day I bumped into 4 lads from Antwerp on motorbikes who'd ridden down through West Africa on their way to the Cape. I owe the D.R.C (Congo) an apology (see earlier comment). They'd managed to get in and out although they'd had to fly one bit. But they did say they'd met two cyclists who had managed to cycle right across from north to south in 5 weeks. So DRC, I'm sorry for my cynical comments.
Last night I stayed in Zimba. I landed in a quiet, tidy guest house and had a jolly night out with a car salesman from Zimbabwe, who was staying in the same place. You are never alone in Africa. We had a chicken dinner together and then some bottles of Mosi in a candle-lit bar (another power-cut). Mosi is a nice lager. It gets its name from Mosi Oa Tunya, literally "Thundering Water" in one of the Zambian languages, possibly Nyanja, and the name for Vic Falls. So it's thunder beer. It's a bit of a misnomer as it's only 4% but perfect at the end of a day's pedaling.
Ok there's a queue for this 'puter. Just a reminder...if you'd like to sponsor me, please see the post entitled One sleep later 13/7/12 for details. Right at the end of the post. I'm already worth 90 pound - or rather British Heart Foundation, The Maurice Jagger Centre and Water Aid are - if I get to Walvis Bay. As Mrs Doyle would say "Go on!Go on ! Go on!"
I arrived in Livingstone - the town for Vic Falls - at about 11 am today , Thursday, roughly 24 hours ahead of schedule. I'm booked into Faulty Towers, a popular hotel just outside the town centre. It's the best organised accommodation I've had for many a day with a lovely shady garden and tiny swimming pool. I asked a couple of white lasses in the town centre and the Towers is what they recommended. They are volunteers in a lion rehabilitation centre. I always thought lions could look after themselves...
I'm ahead of schedule because the last couple of days since Choma have been a cyclist's dream. The road has been silky smooth with a slightly downhill gradient. I stopped for a pee on Wednesday morning around 8am and realized I even had a significant following wind for the first time in a long time. In fact Livingstone is over 1000 feet lower than Lusaka, so hurrah!, I say
I tried to find out about prevailing winds when planning the trip. Strangely I could find nothing on the internet, only daily weather forecasts which showed light winds from various directions. On 3 or 4 days there's been a stiff breeze from the south, usually 10 o'clock direction as I cycle and a bit of a pain. Only when I was mooching round a bookshop in Lilongwe and flipping through a school geog book did I discover a page showing prevailing winds. In winter they blow straight up the continent from the south. Doh!
On Wed lunch-time in Kalola I met Radek Gerstner from Prague. He's a teacher and a big, modest guy. He spends his 2 month summer holidays cycling the world, but usually Africa. It was interesting hearing his tales. He's a real off-the-beaten-track guy with a bike to suit. His route to Dar es Salaam was real black- route stuff and made mine look cissy.
Later that day I bumped into 4 lads from Antwerp on motorbikes who'd ridden down through West Africa on their way to the Cape. I owe the D.R.C (Congo) an apology (see earlier comment). They'd managed to get in and out although they'd had to fly one bit. But they did say they'd met two cyclists who had managed to cycle right across from north to south in 5 weeks. So DRC, I'm sorry for my cynical comments.
Last night I stayed in Zimba. I landed in a quiet, tidy guest house and had a jolly night out with a car salesman from Zimbabwe, who was staying in the same place. You are never alone in Africa. We had a chicken dinner together and then some bottles of Mosi in a candle-lit bar (another power-cut). Mosi is a nice lager. It gets its name from Mosi Oa Tunya, literally "Thundering Water" in one of the Zambian languages, possibly Nyanja, and the name for Vic Falls. So it's thunder beer. It's a bit of a misnomer as it's only 4% but perfect at the end of a day's pedaling.
Ok there's a queue for this 'puter. Just a reminder...if you'd like to sponsor me, please see the post entitled One sleep later 13/7/12 for details. Right at the end of the post. I'm already worth 90 pound - or rather British Heart Foundation, The Maurice Jagger Centre and Water Aid are - if I get to Walvis Bay. As Mrs Doyle would say "Go on!Go on ! Go on!"
Tuesday, 17 July 2012
It's too nice to continue
Don't worry, I haven't packed in. Just for the day, that's all.
I left an undistinguished, if memorable little town, called Pemba, this morning at about 6 am just as it was getting light. 60 km later at about 11am I arrived in Choma, a much livelier town with more to offer. I've pulled into the town craft museum which is in a pretty, little park bathed in warm sunshine. The air is dry and clear with a fresh southerly breeze. The sky is a perfect blue. Anyway I rang Judith this morning and she says Nick is getting on with my window-cleaning today, so it must be at least decent on the island. Long may it continue.
I've just had a delicious if terribly slow meal under the park trees. As usual I got into conversation with some local guys (from Lusaka actually) who work for BASF and who had a T-bone steak, nsima and veg each. Nsima I haven't taken to but Zambians seem to love it. I've heard it likened to wall-paper paste but that's unfair, I think. It's made from maize flower, is white and looks a bit like wet Polyfilla. It's generally eaten with the fingers and mixed with anything else on the plate. I've had some and it's OK. I guess if you are brought up with these things.... The guys from BSAF, Jeremiah Shakubanza and his two friends, were particularly interested in the cost of my trip. A back-of-a-fag-packet calculation got it to about £3000.00. Other people have asked similar questions probably wondering how the hell I manage to swan about for 3 months thousands of miles from home. I guess it just indicates the wealth gap between nations and how lucky we are.
I met a lovely old gent and his wife yesterday. I stopped for a breakfast of peanuts, biscuits and Coke at about 9am after a couple of hours cycling. They were farmers but had started a little grocery stall and restaurant (opening soon) by the road-side. He was born in 1936 and had done well with his agricultural studies. In the early1980s he'd won a bursary to study further in Wolverhamton. He told me about it with great enthusiasm. He'd become a fan of Wolves, who, he said, were a top club then. I did a bad Brummy accent for him and it cracked him up. It obviously brought back happy memories. After Wolverhampton he was sent to study combine harvester maintenance in Leipzig in the old GDR. Kenneth Kaunda courted the Soviets then and vice versa, I gather. He was equally positive about his stay there and we compared notes on Dresden. He said that after church on Sunday in Wolverhampton they'd be taken on outings. With a laugh, he remembered one where they were taken to the sea-side and how both men and women would strip down to their swimming gear and frolick in the water together. Ah, decadent Aberystwyth.......
Just before Choma, where I am now, there was a rare distance sign saying Livingstone 200km. That's 2 days cycling after today, so I should clap eyes on The Smoke That Thunders on Friday. Zambians speak very fondly of Vic Falls and urge me to go there. I'm looking forward to it but not the touristy stuff that's bound to be there.
Last night's stop was Pemba. My morale dropped as I rode slowly through the town - only about 400 yds long - out the other side and back again without spotting a single sign for a Lodge, as hotels are known. I called at a grocer's for bread with a view to inquiring. A man next to me at the counter saved me the trouble by asking if he could help me. He said he'd take me to his cousin's lodge. It was only a few doors away but, as well as being dirt-cheap, it was ..... dirty. No matter, "There's another across the road". Snap! "Let's try the one by the police road-block" he said, "the local MP stays there." Fine. We strolled up the road together, he with his last-born son on his back and me wondering why he didn't take me there in the first place. I gathered from the conversation with the large motherly manageress, in the local language whose name I forget, that they were full. Bugger ! I put on my crest-fallen look, which was quite easy and looked at her in pathetic desperation. "You could sleep in the living room if you wanted". I told her that was the best suggestion she'd made in her life, or words to that effect. So I moved in. Not only that but she caught my bike with one hand when it fell over as I unpacked; she carried my bags in as if they were weightless and then fetched me a plastic bath of hot water for me to have a wash. The bathroom was full of fancy plumbing but it just lacked mains water. My room was probably the best in the house, a good 30 foot long with 2 sofas, 2 arm chairs, a TV and 2 beds. And all for a tenner (80,000 Kwatchas). I then strolled into town for a beer in a bar. I was obviously spotted because when I went next door for a bite to eat the only other msungu in town, a lovely school-leaver called Nina from near Aachen was ushered in for a chat. She was a one-year volunteer at the end of her year. She'd worked in the kindergarten and local health clinic. She'd had a good year but was clearly looking forward to going back home. So an unpromising arrival in town turned into a pleasant evening. Africa is full of surprises.
Don't worry, I haven't packed in. Just for the day, that's all.
I left an undistinguished, if memorable little town, called Pemba, this morning at about 6 am just as it was getting light. 60 km later at about 11am I arrived in Choma, a much livelier town with more to offer. I've pulled into the town craft museum which is in a pretty, little park bathed in warm sunshine. The air is dry and clear with a fresh southerly breeze. The sky is a perfect blue. Anyway I rang Judith this morning and she says Nick is getting on with my window-cleaning today, so it must be at least decent on the island. Long may it continue.
I've just had a delicious if terribly slow meal under the park trees. As usual I got into conversation with some local guys (from Lusaka actually) who work for BASF and who had a T-bone steak, nsima and veg each. Nsima I haven't taken to but Zambians seem to love it. I've heard it likened to wall-paper paste but that's unfair, I think. It's made from maize flower, is white and looks a bit like wet Polyfilla. It's generally eaten with the fingers and mixed with anything else on the plate. I've had some and it's OK. I guess if you are brought up with these things.... The guys from BSAF, Jeremiah Shakubanza and his two friends, were particularly interested in the cost of my trip. A back-of-a-fag-packet calculation got it to about £3000.00. Other people have asked similar questions probably wondering how the hell I manage to swan about for 3 months thousands of miles from home. I guess it just indicates the wealth gap between nations and how lucky we are.
I met a lovely old gent and his wife yesterday. I stopped for a breakfast of peanuts, biscuits and Coke at about 9am after a couple of hours cycling. They were farmers but had started a little grocery stall and restaurant (opening soon) by the road-side. He was born in 1936 and had done well with his agricultural studies. In the early1980s he'd won a bursary to study further in Wolverhamton. He told me about it with great enthusiasm. He'd become a fan of Wolves, who, he said, were a top club then. I did a bad Brummy accent for him and it cracked him up. It obviously brought back happy memories. After Wolverhampton he was sent to study combine harvester maintenance in Leipzig in the old GDR. Kenneth Kaunda courted the Soviets then and vice versa, I gather. He was equally positive about his stay there and we compared notes on Dresden. He said that after church on Sunday in Wolverhampton they'd be taken on outings. With a laugh, he remembered one where they were taken to the sea-side and how both men and women would strip down to their swimming gear and frolick in the water together. Ah, decadent Aberystwyth.......
Just before Choma, where I am now, there was a rare distance sign saying Livingstone 200km. That's 2 days cycling after today, so I should clap eyes on The Smoke That Thunders on Friday. Zambians speak very fondly of Vic Falls and urge me to go there. I'm looking forward to it but not the touristy stuff that's bound to be there.
Last night's stop was Pemba. My morale dropped as I rode slowly through the town - only about 400 yds long - out the other side and back again without spotting a single sign for a Lodge, as hotels are known. I called at a grocer's for bread with a view to inquiring. A man next to me at the counter saved me the trouble by asking if he could help me. He said he'd take me to his cousin's lodge. It was only a few doors away but, as well as being dirt-cheap, it was ..... dirty. No matter, "There's another across the road". Snap! "Let's try the one by the police road-block" he said, "the local MP stays there." Fine. We strolled up the road together, he with his last-born son on his back and me wondering why he didn't take me there in the first place. I gathered from the conversation with the large motherly manageress, in the local language whose name I forget, that they were full. Bugger ! I put on my crest-fallen look, which was quite easy and looked at her in pathetic desperation. "You could sleep in the living room if you wanted". I told her that was the best suggestion she'd made in her life, or words to that effect. So I moved in. Not only that but she caught my bike with one hand when it fell over as I unpacked; she carried my bags in as if they were weightless and then fetched me a plastic bath of hot water for me to have a wash. The bathroom was full of fancy plumbing but it just lacked mains water. My room was probably the best in the house, a good 30 foot long with 2 sofas, 2 arm chairs, a TV and 2 beds. And all for a tenner (80,000 Kwatchas). I then strolled into town for a beer in a bar. I was obviously spotted because when I went next door for a bite to eat the only other msungu in town, a lovely school-leaver called Nina from near Aachen was ushered in for a chat. She was a one-year volunteer at the end of her year. She'd worked in the kindergarten and local health clinic. She'd had a good year but was clearly looking forward to going back home. So an unpromising arrival in town turned into a pleasant evening. Africa is full of surprises.
Sunday, 15 July 2012
The Sweetest Town in Zambia
This afternoon - Sunday 15th July - around 3 pm I rolled gently into Mazabuka. It's 80 km from Kafue and I felt quite fresh, so I was pleased with myself. Clearly all that carbo loading chez Andrew Malunga and family did me good. The locals call it "the sweetest town in Zambia" as it's the sugar cane growing centre for Zambia. I was a bit nervous before setting out because The Munali Pass was marked as being on my route. It turned put to be no worse than cycling over The Ainleys and, on either side of the "pass", today's leg has been nearly all flat. I talked to a bunch of blokes in a cafe this afternoon and they assured me that the road to Livingstone (Vic Falls) is mostly flat. One said he'd like to join me - he'd had a few, I think - and another said he'd like my bike when I've finished with it.
Before leaving Kafue I inspected the statue to Keith Brown, a friend and former teaching colleague, who taught in a school in Kafue for a year or two before moving on to do something similar in Zimbabwe. The inscription simply says "Top sums teacher and big mate of Kenneth Kaunda". Keith was invited to coffee with the first president of Zambia during his stay. On the head of the statue is a battered straw hat that seems to have got singed in a fire. (Sorry, that's a joke of limited currency).
Actually I also made up the bit about the statue. I've had an idea for a book for you, Keith: "From Kafue to Keighley, a life devoted to numeracy". You'll be retired soon and have loads of time.
So, all in all, a very pleasant day. I was pleased to see the reappearance of a few Baobab trees just after the pass. They are leafless at the moment . Apart from being amazingly whopping trees with incredibly stout trunks, they also give me a double chuckle. Firstly, because they bear a remarkable resemblance to one of the funniest animated characters of all time, Eccles off the Telegoons. It's the fat shapeless body and the diminutive straggly branches which look just like his hair and vice versa.
Secondly, because of something I saw written on a Baobab tree, way back in Tanzania when I first came across them. I won't quote the message verbatim but it suggested that a certain local gentleman, Mister somebody, enjoyed an unconventional relationship with goats. And it was about 25 feet up the trunk. It was probably a gross schoolboy calumny by someone who got whacked by his geography teacher or something. Anyway it appealed to my schoolboy sense of humour. Baobab trees generally suffer from the graffiti artist's craft; they are so huge and smooth they make excellent bill-boards.. Often they are used to advertise bars, restaurants and guest houses. Or sometimes couples declare their love for one another. Why is it always geography teachers? It's so unfair.
I'm dead lucky today as I'm in the hotel reception tapping away on the rather nice hotel computer. I complained about the lack of hot water, as was promised, and the fact that the bathroom window flaps in the breeze, is burglar size and won't lock. I think it's a bit of compo.
I hope you are having good weather in England; it's a lovely sunny day here. In fact it's the 45th lovely sunny day of my 45 day trip so far. Unbelievable.
Today's landscape was savannah: broad, open grassland with a few scrubby trees. For the first time, miles of fence ran alongside the road. I asked the men in the bar about these and they said they were ranches belonging to white families, one called Cook and one called Coventry. They rear brahmin bulls, although I didn't see any apart from on advertising boards.
Being a snob and wanting to hang on to my teeth I don't generally touch Coca Cola or its substitutes. Today though, unable to find anything else - you can't always get bottled water out in the sticks - I've been drinking Crazy Cola from the Tangy Drinks Co.. I've invented several other alliterating names for it. When you unscrew the top, even though it's been bouncing along in my paniers for an hour, there's just a weak sigh. I've saved the empty bottle for when I'm in non en-suite accommodation. It says on the label "Fizzingly, bubblingly.......". The label had a bit missing and I'm intrigued what else it could be.
Just going back to Lusaka briefly, last Friday morning began with a memorable trip to church. Andrew, who was my host in Lusaka, and who is about 10 years younger than me, goes to church every morning at 5.30 am "to freshen up spiritually for the day ahead", as he puts it. Andrew goes to a Baptist church. As Christians, they believe in whole-body baptism and only when the person is old enough to understand. This sounds sensible to me. Not the dunking but the waiting till the person has some grasp of what is happening to them. I'm with the often but, unfairly I think, maligned Richard Dawkins on this. Bringing up "Catholic" children, "Muslim" children or "Hindu" children etc is wrong, he claims. Let children see what is on offer and then let them chose, is his suggestion. So, at 5.15 am, in the dark, Andrew and I began zigzagging our way through the dusty, pot-holed streets to his local church. On arrival - we were first there - I was introduced to Pastor Peter who was sitting quietly in the vestry. He was a very welcoming man with a big laugh. There were 20 or so of us, I guess, when the service began. It was taken by a visiting Pastor, Pastor Aaron, originally from northern Zambia, I think. He was a big guy with a powerful voice and would not have looked out of place in a pack of international rugby forwards. We began with a full-on version of Amazing Grace. The windows of the church were open to the air so it probably woke anyone in the neighbouring houses still asleep. Then there were prayers. The next phase of the service was interesting. Lead by Pastor Aaron everybody began their own individual conversation with God, some shouting or wailing loudly, some talking softly. Not being a Christian I was unable to join in. It reminded me of what I understand happens in Quaker services. It lasted a good 10 minutes. Then the pastor read from Luke and interspersed it with a homily, during which I was very shocked, embarrassed and moved to hear myself mentioned. "To God everything is possible and he can make things possible for you too. He can give you the strength to cycle great distances, he can....". This sermon lasted some minutes. I felt humbled by this personal touch as I had only been introduced to Pastor Aaron 30 minutes previously. The service lasted about an hour and at the end Andrew asked God to bless my journey and he introduced me to the congregation. I was a bit choked at this point, mainly at being made so welcome and at being made to feel part of the service. It still wasn't 6.30 in the morning. I said a few words about my trip and thanked them, and especially Andrew, for their warm fellowship. Each one shook my hand as they left to go about their day. After a month I was getting used to the spontaneity of life in Africa but this experience took me aback.
When I left the Malunga household a few hours later, I got a hug from each member of the family. Andrew picked me up bodily and lifted me off the ground, although he is a bit smaller than me. I hope you didn't mind me not reciprocating, Andrew, but we long-distance cyclists have to look after our backs.
I could ramble on but I think the hotel staff would like to use the computer. Thanks for your comments and sorry if I don't get back to you . A lot of them seem to be "no reply" anyway.
This afternoon - Sunday 15th July - around 3 pm I rolled gently into Mazabuka. It's 80 km from Kafue and I felt quite fresh, so I was pleased with myself. Clearly all that carbo loading chez Andrew Malunga and family did me good. The locals call it "the sweetest town in Zambia" as it's the sugar cane growing centre for Zambia. I was a bit nervous before setting out because The Munali Pass was marked as being on my route. It turned put to be no worse than cycling over The Ainleys and, on either side of the "pass", today's leg has been nearly all flat. I talked to a bunch of blokes in a cafe this afternoon and they assured me that the road to Livingstone (Vic Falls) is mostly flat. One said he'd like to join me - he'd had a few, I think - and another said he'd like my bike when I've finished with it.
Before leaving Kafue I inspected the statue to Keith Brown, a friend and former teaching colleague, who taught in a school in Kafue for a year or two before moving on to do something similar in Zimbabwe. The inscription simply says "Top sums teacher and big mate of Kenneth Kaunda". Keith was invited to coffee with the first president of Zambia during his stay. On the head of the statue is a battered straw hat that seems to have got singed in a fire. (Sorry, that's a joke of limited currency).
Actually I also made up the bit about the statue. I've had an idea for a book for you, Keith: "From Kafue to Keighley, a life devoted to numeracy". You'll be retired soon and have loads of time.
So, all in all, a very pleasant day. I was pleased to see the reappearance of a few Baobab trees just after the pass. They are leafless at the moment . Apart from being amazingly whopping trees with incredibly stout trunks, they also give me a double chuckle. Firstly, because they bear a remarkable resemblance to one of the funniest animated characters of all time, Eccles off the Telegoons. It's the fat shapeless body and the diminutive straggly branches which look just like his hair and vice versa.
Secondly, because of something I saw written on a Baobab tree, way back in Tanzania when I first came across them. I won't quote the message verbatim but it suggested that a certain local gentleman, Mister somebody, enjoyed an unconventional relationship with goats. And it was about 25 feet up the trunk. It was probably a gross schoolboy calumny by someone who got whacked by his geography teacher or something. Anyway it appealed to my schoolboy sense of humour. Baobab trees generally suffer from the graffiti artist's craft; they are so huge and smooth they make excellent bill-boards.. Often they are used to advertise bars, restaurants and guest houses. Or sometimes couples declare their love for one another. Why is it always geography teachers? It's so unfair.
I'm dead lucky today as I'm in the hotel reception tapping away on the rather nice hotel computer. I complained about the lack of hot water, as was promised, and the fact that the bathroom window flaps in the breeze, is burglar size and won't lock. I think it's a bit of compo.
I hope you are having good weather in England; it's a lovely sunny day here. In fact it's the 45th lovely sunny day of my 45 day trip so far. Unbelievable.
Today's landscape was savannah: broad, open grassland with a few scrubby trees. For the first time, miles of fence ran alongside the road. I asked the men in the bar about these and they said they were ranches belonging to white families, one called Cook and one called Coventry. They rear brahmin bulls, although I didn't see any apart from on advertising boards.
Being a snob and wanting to hang on to my teeth I don't generally touch Coca Cola or its substitutes. Today though, unable to find anything else - you can't always get bottled water out in the sticks - I've been drinking Crazy Cola from the Tangy Drinks Co.. I've invented several other alliterating names for it. When you unscrew the top, even though it's been bouncing along in my paniers for an hour, there's just a weak sigh. I've saved the empty bottle for when I'm in non en-suite accommodation. It says on the label "Fizzingly, bubblingly.......". The label had a bit missing and I'm intrigued what else it could be.
Just going back to Lusaka briefly, last Friday morning began with a memorable trip to church. Andrew, who was my host in Lusaka, and who is about 10 years younger than me, goes to church every morning at 5.30 am "to freshen up spiritually for the day ahead", as he puts it. Andrew goes to a Baptist church. As Christians, they believe in whole-body baptism and only when the person is old enough to understand. This sounds sensible to me. Not the dunking but the waiting till the person has some grasp of what is happening to them. I'm with the often but, unfairly I think, maligned Richard Dawkins on this. Bringing up "Catholic" children, "Muslim" children or "Hindu" children etc is wrong, he claims. Let children see what is on offer and then let them chose, is his suggestion. So, at 5.15 am, in the dark, Andrew and I began zigzagging our way through the dusty, pot-holed streets to his local church. On arrival - we were first there - I was introduced to Pastor Peter who was sitting quietly in the vestry. He was a very welcoming man with a big laugh. There were 20 or so of us, I guess, when the service began. It was taken by a visiting Pastor, Pastor Aaron, originally from northern Zambia, I think. He was a big guy with a powerful voice and would not have looked out of place in a pack of international rugby forwards. We began with a full-on version of Amazing Grace. The windows of the church were open to the air so it probably woke anyone in the neighbouring houses still asleep. Then there were prayers. The next phase of the service was interesting. Lead by Pastor Aaron everybody began their own individual conversation with God, some shouting or wailing loudly, some talking softly. Not being a Christian I was unable to join in. It reminded me of what I understand happens in Quaker services. It lasted a good 10 minutes. Then the pastor read from Luke and interspersed it with a homily, during which I was very shocked, embarrassed and moved to hear myself mentioned. "To God everything is possible and he can make things possible for you too. He can give you the strength to cycle great distances, he can....". This sermon lasted some minutes. I felt humbled by this personal touch as I had only been introduced to Pastor Aaron 30 minutes previously. The service lasted about an hour and at the end Andrew asked God to bless my journey and he introduced me to the congregation. I was a bit choked at this point, mainly at being made so welcome and at being made to feel part of the service. It still wasn't 6.30 in the morning. I said a few words about my trip and thanked them, and especially Andrew, for their warm fellowship. Each one shook my hand as they left to go about their day. After a month I was getting used to the spontaneity of life in Africa but this experience took me aback.
When I left the Malunga household a few hours later, I got a hug from each member of the family. Andrew picked me up bodily and lifted me off the ground, although he is a bit smaller than me. I hope you didn't mind me not reciprocating, Andrew, but we long-distance cyclists have to look after our backs.
I could ramble on but I think the hotel staff would like to use the computer. Thanks for your comments and sorry if I don't get back to you . A lot of them seem to be "no reply" anyway.
Friday, 13 July 2012
One sleep later...
I suppose "just tidy it up a bit but don't take too much off" is a bit vague and open to interpretation.. I was scalped. Looking around at the other guys in this "cafe" though, I guess the average length of head hair is about 2mm, so I suppose I could have seen it coming. Last cut I had like this was at Harry Hardisty's in 1961. In a way I was lucky. My barber did the whole cut with an electric trimmer / strimmer and the second he'd finished there was a power-cut and the salon was in darkness. Five minutes earlier and the result could have been horrific. Anyway none of you will see me for at least 5 weeks and it's all part of the adventure...
I've had a relaxing day at the home of Andrew Malunga and family. I've eaten well, slept well and thanks to help from Andrew, got my bike cleaned and oiled, my clothes washed and half fixed my leaking camping mattress. We dipped it in the bath this morning, found the leak but, as yet, haven't managed to get an airtight patch on it. This afternoon we went shopping: nothing exciting: peanut butter, phone credit, superglue, beer etc
Anyway, just to finish what I started above....on the rather tough 113km ride to Chongwe, the last overnight before Lusaka, I was saved by a bottle of Coca Cola. With about 30 km to go I was struggling uphill on a poor surface in hot sunshine, knackered and wondering whether I'd make it. For reasons already outlined, I didn't even know I had 30 km to go. I spotted a grocer's, as they are still called here, and stopped for a drink. It was cold Coke and it went down well. I don't whether it's the caffeine or the high sugar content but it had a magical effect and my legs were back to how they'd been at 9 o'clock that morning. Amazing ! I actually enjoyed the last 2 hours. Must have a quiet word with Bradley Wiggins.
The run into Lusaka yesterday was relatively easy, mostly downhill and only 44 km.
Tomorrow I'll leave for Kafue and I hope to be in Livingstone/ Vic Falls in 6 or 7 days inshallah.
A couple of things afore I go.
First of all, a message to my friend Gerald Barker whom some readers will know. Gerald has been in NHS land for some weeks now, so this is just to say "Thinking of you, Gerald, and we hope you are home soon".
Second thing....Many people asked me before I set off who I was raising money for. "Er. nobody actually, it's just a challenge". Even last night Andrew's wife asked me which charity it was in aid of. Better late than never. Would some of you readers like to sponsor me ? There is a hidden, selfish agenda. If you sponsor me as I suggest it'll help me reach Walvis Bay in 5 weeks or so. I'd like you to do it strictly as was the norm when sponsored events began in the 60s. Who went on those early 30 mile Long Marches in Halifax?. You were paid according to distance covered and it pushed people to do the full 30. My trip is 4400 kms. I'd like you to sponsor me strictly on a per 100 km basis. The more people who sponsor me the more likely I am to pedal the full distance. So far I've done approx 24 times 100 km.
I would like to give the money raised to these 3 charities equally...
1 Water Aid
2 The Maurice Jagger Centre, Halifax
3 The British Heart Foundation
Please go on-line for details of what each charity does. To donate please send an e-mail to wheatley_barretts@hotmail.com. Please state the amount per 100 km and put "Sponsor an Idiot" in the subject box. Or contact Judith Barrett (01422 355539) or Daniel Barrett (01904 466138 /07722120105) .
I suppose "just tidy it up a bit but don't take too much off" is a bit vague and open to interpretation.. I was scalped. Looking around at the other guys in this "cafe" though, I guess the average length of head hair is about 2mm, so I suppose I could have seen it coming. Last cut I had like this was at Harry Hardisty's in 1961. In a way I was lucky. My barber did the whole cut with an electric trimmer / strimmer and the second he'd finished there was a power-cut and the salon was in darkness. Five minutes earlier and the result could have been horrific. Anyway none of you will see me for at least 5 weeks and it's all part of the adventure...
I've had a relaxing day at the home of Andrew Malunga and family. I've eaten well, slept well and thanks to help from Andrew, got my bike cleaned and oiled, my clothes washed and half fixed my leaking camping mattress. We dipped it in the bath this morning, found the leak but, as yet, haven't managed to get an airtight patch on it. This afternoon we went shopping: nothing exciting: peanut butter, phone credit, superglue, beer etc
Anyway, just to finish what I started above....on the rather tough 113km ride to Chongwe, the last overnight before Lusaka, I was saved by a bottle of Coca Cola. With about 30 km to go I was struggling uphill on a poor surface in hot sunshine, knackered and wondering whether I'd make it. For reasons already outlined, I didn't even know I had 30 km to go. I spotted a grocer's, as they are still called here, and stopped for a drink. It was cold Coke and it went down well. I don't whether it's the caffeine or the high sugar content but it had a magical effect and my legs were back to how they'd been at 9 o'clock that morning. Amazing ! I actually enjoyed the last 2 hours. Must have a quiet word with Bradley Wiggins.
The run into Lusaka yesterday was relatively easy, mostly downhill and only 44 km.
Tomorrow I'll leave for Kafue and I hope to be in Livingstone/ Vic Falls in 6 or 7 days inshallah.
A couple of things afore I go.
First of all, a message to my friend Gerald Barker whom some readers will know. Gerald has been in NHS land for some weeks now, so this is just to say "Thinking of you, Gerald, and we hope you are home soon".
Second thing....Many people asked me before I set off who I was raising money for. "Er. nobody actually, it's just a challenge". Even last night Andrew's wife asked me which charity it was in aid of. Better late than never. Would some of you readers like to sponsor me ? There is a hidden, selfish agenda. If you sponsor me as I suggest it'll help me reach Walvis Bay in 5 weeks or so. I'd like you to do it strictly as was the norm when sponsored events began in the 60s. Who went on those early 30 mile Long Marches in Halifax?. You were paid according to distance covered and it pushed people to do the full 30. My trip is 4400 kms. I'd like you to sponsor me strictly on a per 100 km basis. The more people who sponsor me the more likely I am to pedal the full distance. So far I've done approx 24 times 100 km.
I would like to give the money raised to these 3 charities equally...
1 Water Aid
2 The Maurice Jagger Centre, Halifax
3 The British Heart Foundation
Please go on-line for details of what each charity does. To donate please send an e-mail to wheatley_barretts@hotmail.com. Please state the amount per 100 km and put "Sponsor an Idiot" in the subject box. Or contact Judith Barrett (01422 355539) or Daniel Barrett (01904 466138 /07722120105) .
Thursday, 12 July 2012
Over the half-way line
An alternative title could have been "Wheatley Boy falls lucky in Lusaka" but more of that shortly.
I sometimes think they made Africa a bit on the wide side. I'm sure Fran Sandham (read his "Traversa"), who walked the route thought so. It's all the Rift Valley's fault, I suspect. (Good pun, eh?). No matter though, a couple of days ago, 3 in fact, I cycled over the impressive Luangwa River on the equally impressive 1968 Luangwa Suspension Bridge, shook hands with the police guard on the west side and had my picture taken with same, punched the air in my imagination, - too tired in reality - , and cycled into the little town round the corner for a good night's sleep in the Council Rest House : grim but friendly enough. The Luanga - atlases out please - is about the size of the Thames at London and flows due south into the Zambesi about 60 miles below the bridge.. It looks rather lazy and peaceful as it makes its way through high, silent wooded hills. "Mountains" the locals call them. It'd make a great boat trip, with Mozambique on one bank and Zambia on the other. Must speak to the tourist board.....
I would have preferred - Fran as well maybe - to go directly across the continent, instead of at an angle, and in doing so, cut off approx 1000 kms. That would have involved going through the D.R.C. (The Congo) and a big tunnel of tropical rain forest. But politics got in the way. Until the early 60s, I gather, it was quite possible. Adventurous tourists would use the Belgium built roads, railways and river boats ( I doubt they did much of the donkey work) to discover the country. Imagine the scene today though.You arrive at a few remnants of tarmac, formerly a road. "Excuse me, Sir, I am the sub-prefect responsible for this stretch of the B156. With the power invested in me by the President and this AK37 I am obliged to tax you $1000 for the use of this amenity..." only in French..."alternatively I am permitted to take your hat, shoes and bicycle wheels in lieu. Safe journey, Monsieur. My colleague will be waiting at the next tree where my jurisdiction ends." No thanks but what a shame.
The diagonal but longer route, and the three countries so far, have had none of that kind of lawless horror. Quite the opposite, people have gone out of their way to make me welcome, even the police at their frequent "road blocks",ever since I left Dar es Salaam nearly 2500 kms ago. Yesterday was a case in point. Just before sun-set at 6 pm, I finished my most challenging day to date: 113 undulating kms over lumpy tarmac to the town of Chongwe. I called on the first tidy-looking guest house and took a room. Within an hour Mr Wynegood Malunga, the charming owner, had arranged for me to stay at his brother's house in Lusaka where I arrived today. Brother Andrew picked me up from the end of The Great Eastern Road, brought me to his home, made me most welcome, then dropped me off here at the local Internet Cafe. Now how kind is that? I plan to have a couple of nights here then to make my way at a steady roll to Livingstone and Vic Falls.
Wynegood is also a blogger. He describes his blog as being " political and satirical ". Having met him I imagine it's worth dipping into...(wynestuff.blogspot.com)
The Ride Since Lilongwe
It's been about 700 kms since the Malwian capital and it's taken 9 days. I could not have managed that a month ago but I'm pedaling better now.
The morning out of Lilongwe reminded me of the Irish blessing: "May the road rise before you, May the wind be always at your back, May the rain fall softly on your fields, And till we meet again, May the lord hold you in the palm of his hand." (sic). That day I did 111km before mid-afternoon, when I arrived at The Kayesa Inn, a splendid guesthouse in a beautiful garden, run by Jimmy Enderson and his mother. The road was mostly down-hill on smooth tarmac, with a following wind. It didn't rain and I didn't have a religious conversion but everything fell into place. I left without breakfast around 5.30 am but just as I started to feel hungry I spotted an unassuming place in a small town with Bakery and Tea Room scrawled across it. Inside a small steamy room, it was like a scene from Road to Wigan Pier. There were perhaps 20 men and women sitting drinking tea and dunking bread buns. I was made welcome on a remaining seat right in the middle and had a tramps breakfast of bread, marg and hot sweet tea. I had to explain the purpose of my visit, of course, but after that they left me in peace, as if I called every morning. Other stops at banana stalls and soft-drink cafes - I've taken to Pepsi and Coke - were equally amiable.
The next day was a short hop of 33km over some hills and over the border to Chipata in Zambia. As I pulled into town around midday I spotted the name of the road where friends John and Christine Priestley lived and took a photo of what I think was their house, hoping no one spotted me and asked me what I was poking my camera through their gate for.. I found a place to stay and went into town for a new SIM card, a new book and some Zambian Kwatchas. I coolly withdrew 2,500,000 of the latter.. The Zambian Kwatcha is a bit like the Italian Lira used to be i.e. of small value. There are 8000 to the pound and as I could not be sure of another ATM before Lusaka, 550 km away, I loaded up. You need a head for noughts in Zambia.
For the next day, an 80 km ride to Katete, here is a diary extract..."The road is slightly undulating but without any serious hills. The road surface is v lumpy though, with annoying rolling resistance. It seems they've re-tarred and chipped it with large chippings and then forgotten to roll it, a bit like they used to do round Halifax in the 50s and 60s. It's the worst since Dar. The road is quiet though and the scenery pleasant; scrubby and a bit arid with clusters of conical hills. Around 8 am I stop in a village - there aren't many and I buy bread buns, toms and bananas. I'm carrying pea-nut butter. I leave the bread in the shop while chatting to the grocer but 5 or 10 minutes later he runs down the road to where I'm buying toms and bananas. A mile or so later I find some rocks and enjoy breakfast in the sunshine. Lunch is identical, only on a log under a tree by the road side. My Swiss knife is getting unhygienic When I'm having breakfast, a teenage lad introduces himself. He's Robert Phieri. He's from Katete and he says he's the son of the chief Bongome, the chief of the Katate area. He's a v nice lad and is studying at boarding school near where I'm having breakfast. Like most youngsters he wants to visit the UK and go to uni. His best subject is biology." Robert has rung me several times since to check on my progress..
The next day is another long day to Petauke. Here I fall out with the (non) management of a rather overpriced lodge. Accommodation is significantly dearer in Zambia. I create a Faulty Towers scene in reception when there is no light or hot water (as promised). "No. You listen to me..." etc. Sometimes you just have to react for the sake of the Zambian tourist industry! The next morning it's pitch dark in my room again. The hotel generator has run out of juice. "I've stayed in 100s of hotels and this is the worst, most overpriced blah, blah, blah," The annoying thing is you have to pay for accommodation on arrival.
The best section of this long stretch is in the middle either side of the Luangwa River. It's quite mountainous, well wooded and utterly silent. The only noises between rare vehicles are the birds and the sound of charcoal burners hacking at the trees. I get chatting to a bunch of ragged looking burners who speak fluent if heavily accented English. One of their large bags of charcoal, about enough to 2/3 fill a wheely bin, fetches about 20,000 Kwatcha, less than 3 pounds.
Must get my hair cut. To be continued...
An alternative title could have been "Wheatley Boy falls lucky in Lusaka" but more of that shortly.
I sometimes think they made Africa a bit on the wide side. I'm sure Fran Sandham (read his "Traversa"), who walked the route thought so. It's all the Rift Valley's fault, I suspect. (Good pun, eh?). No matter though, a couple of days ago, 3 in fact, I cycled over the impressive Luangwa River on the equally impressive 1968 Luangwa Suspension Bridge, shook hands with the police guard on the west side and had my picture taken with same, punched the air in my imagination, - too tired in reality - , and cycled into the little town round the corner for a good night's sleep in the Council Rest House : grim but friendly enough. The Luanga - atlases out please - is about the size of the Thames at London and flows due south into the Zambesi about 60 miles below the bridge.. It looks rather lazy and peaceful as it makes its way through high, silent wooded hills. "Mountains" the locals call them. It'd make a great boat trip, with Mozambique on one bank and Zambia on the other. Must speak to the tourist board.....
I would have preferred - Fran as well maybe - to go directly across the continent, instead of at an angle, and in doing so, cut off approx 1000 kms. That would have involved going through the D.R.C. (The Congo) and a big tunnel of tropical rain forest. But politics got in the way. Until the early 60s, I gather, it was quite possible. Adventurous tourists would use the Belgium built roads, railways and river boats ( I doubt they did much of the donkey work) to discover the country. Imagine the scene today though.You arrive at a few remnants of tarmac, formerly a road. "Excuse me, Sir, I am the sub-prefect responsible for this stretch of the B156. With the power invested in me by the President and this AK37 I am obliged to tax you $1000 for the use of this amenity..." only in French..."alternatively I am permitted to take your hat, shoes and bicycle wheels in lieu. Safe journey, Monsieur. My colleague will be waiting at the next tree where my jurisdiction ends." No thanks but what a shame.
The diagonal but longer route, and the three countries so far, have had none of that kind of lawless horror. Quite the opposite, people have gone out of their way to make me welcome, even the police at their frequent "road blocks",ever since I left Dar es Salaam nearly 2500 kms ago. Yesterday was a case in point. Just before sun-set at 6 pm, I finished my most challenging day to date: 113 undulating kms over lumpy tarmac to the town of Chongwe. I called on the first tidy-looking guest house and took a room. Within an hour Mr Wynegood Malunga, the charming owner, had arranged for me to stay at his brother's house in Lusaka where I arrived today. Brother Andrew picked me up from the end of The Great Eastern Road, brought me to his home, made me most welcome, then dropped me off here at the local Internet Cafe. Now how kind is that? I plan to have a couple of nights here then to make my way at a steady roll to Livingstone and Vic Falls.
Wynegood is also a blogger. He describes his blog as being " political and satirical ". Having met him I imagine it's worth dipping into...(wynestuff.blogspot.com)
The Ride Since Lilongwe
It's been about 700 kms since the Malwian capital and it's taken 9 days. I could not have managed that a month ago but I'm pedaling better now.
The morning out of Lilongwe reminded me of the Irish blessing: "May the road rise before you, May the wind be always at your back, May the rain fall softly on your fields, And till we meet again, May the lord hold you in the palm of his hand." (sic). That day I did 111km before mid-afternoon, when I arrived at The Kayesa Inn, a splendid guesthouse in a beautiful garden, run by Jimmy Enderson and his mother. The road was mostly down-hill on smooth tarmac, with a following wind. It didn't rain and I didn't have a religious conversion but everything fell into place. I left without breakfast around 5.30 am but just as I started to feel hungry I spotted an unassuming place in a small town with Bakery and Tea Room scrawled across it. Inside a small steamy room, it was like a scene from Road to Wigan Pier. There were perhaps 20 men and women sitting drinking tea and dunking bread buns. I was made welcome on a remaining seat right in the middle and had a tramps breakfast of bread, marg and hot sweet tea. I had to explain the purpose of my visit, of course, but after that they left me in peace, as if I called every morning. Other stops at banana stalls and soft-drink cafes - I've taken to Pepsi and Coke - were equally amiable.
The next day was a short hop of 33km over some hills and over the border to Chipata in Zambia. As I pulled into town around midday I spotted the name of the road where friends John and Christine Priestley lived and took a photo of what I think was their house, hoping no one spotted me and asked me what I was poking my camera through their gate for.. I found a place to stay and went into town for a new SIM card, a new book and some Zambian Kwatchas. I coolly withdrew 2,500,000 of the latter.. The Zambian Kwatcha is a bit like the Italian Lira used to be i.e. of small value. There are 8000 to the pound and as I could not be sure of another ATM before Lusaka, 550 km away, I loaded up. You need a head for noughts in Zambia.
For the next day, an 80 km ride to Katete, here is a diary extract..."The road is slightly undulating but without any serious hills. The road surface is v lumpy though, with annoying rolling resistance. It seems they've re-tarred and chipped it with large chippings and then forgotten to roll it, a bit like they used to do round Halifax in the 50s and 60s. It's the worst since Dar. The road is quiet though and the scenery pleasant; scrubby and a bit arid with clusters of conical hills. Around 8 am I stop in a village - there aren't many and I buy bread buns, toms and bananas. I'm carrying pea-nut butter. I leave the bread in the shop while chatting to the grocer but 5 or 10 minutes later he runs down the road to where I'm buying toms and bananas. A mile or so later I find some rocks and enjoy breakfast in the sunshine. Lunch is identical, only on a log under a tree by the road side. My Swiss knife is getting unhygienic When I'm having breakfast, a teenage lad introduces himself. He's Robert Phieri. He's from Katete and he says he's the son of the chief Bongome, the chief of the Katate area. He's a v nice lad and is studying at boarding school near where I'm having breakfast. Like most youngsters he wants to visit the UK and go to uni. His best subject is biology." Robert has rung me several times since to check on my progress..
The next day is another long day to Petauke. Here I fall out with the (non) management of a rather overpriced lodge. Accommodation is significantly dearer in Zambia. I create a Faulty Towers scene in reception when there is no light or hot water (as promised). "No. You listen to me..." etc. Sometimes you just have to react for the sake of the Zambian tourist industry! The next morning it's pitch dark in my room again. The hotel generator has run out of juice. "I've stayed in 100s of hotels and this is the worst, most overpriced blah, blah, blah," The annoying thing is you have to pay for accommodation on arrival.
The best section of this long stretch is in the middle either side of the Luangwa River. It's quite mountainous, well wooded and utterly silent. The only noises between rare vehicles are the birds and the sound of charcoal burners hacking at the trees. I get chatting to a bunch of ragged looking burners who speak fluent if heavily accented English. One of their large bags of charcoal, about enough to 2/3 fill a wheely bin, fetches about 20,000 Kwatcha, less than 3 pounds.
Must get my hair cut. To be continued...
Tuesday, 3 July 2012
Moving along nicely thanks ..Part Two
This could be a bit of a rag-bag section, as I think I've brought you up to date re trip's progress so far. I've cycled into town again on rest day 2 in Lilongwe and I'll spend the rest of the day hanging around the shops and cafes, reading, writing and watching the world go by. I need to get my beard number oned, my shoes cleaned and to eat lots of food. I also need a good book to replace the one I've nearly finished. I've been reading Blood River by Tim Butcher. It's by a bloke with a bit of a travel compulsion like myself. In 2004 he retraced John Roland's ( aka Stanley's) journey across Africa, when he, Stanley, became the first white man to cross the continent from east to west and descend the River Congo. If you like horror stories then this is the book for you, although there are some uplifting moments in it. Hopefully my blog is showing a more benign side to Africa. Anyway the rag-bag starts here...
Poverty. It's difficult to talk about poverty when you are relatively fortunate in the money department. There's a bit in Fran Sandham's book, the man who walked the route I'm attempting, where a Zambian comes up to him and says "You've just come here to see how poor we are." He is probably right. It's at least one reason in respect of most people who choose to visit Africa. I suppose it's the other end of the scale of fascination from walking round Knightsbridge and noting the insane property prices, the fancy motors and the boutiques selling shoes for 500 pounds. Most of us get a buzz out of it. The mud hut villages and the teeming tatty markets are picturesque and intriguing. And the remarkable thing is the resilience and apparent cheerfulness of the people, which is moving. Having said that, it's probably not much different to life in rural and urban Victorian England, the sort of conditions Stanley extricated himself from. I've talked to and overheard conversations of the many young westerners doing voluntary work with schools, orphans, aids victims, farm workers etc . They all comment on how they are inspired by the spirit of the people but often add that it all seems a bit hopeless in that they are not really solving the problems they are working at. It's just sticking plaster.
Strangely there are very few beggars, no more than in the UK, it seems. Everyone is doing something to earn a crust. Most are working the land without any mechanical help other than hand tools. The produce is mostly carried out of the fields on their heads, on bicycles or in hand carts. Others are carrying things for other people - half a dozen fish they've caught, a bundle of sticks for fuel or a tub of water on the head. About a third of the people are barefoot, nearly all children. There are very few overweight people, the exception being the police who man the many traffic check points. They tend to be tall and hefty. The country people are generally significantly smaller than my 5 foot 9.
As I've got into central Malawi, where tourists go, I've heard "Give me money" a thousand times. That's not an exaggeration. It usually comes from a disembodied child behind bushes as I cycle past. It can be young adults though and the wording hardly changes.Presumably it's taught them by their elders. Maybe it's the aid culture trickling down. Foreign aid, it seems, is a vital part of the economy. I feel like shouting back "I'm already giving you money" and drawing their attention to the many, many EU supported schemes to build roads, bridges, schools, clinics, irrigation schemes, agricultural diversification schemes and so on. The sign boards are all along the road. A Dutch woman working in safe sex education said " Wouldn't it be nice if they'd say "Excuse me, can you pay me to help you with something.""
OK, enough, but it's difficult to visit some places without saying something about the fact that they are poor while you are rich.
Weird ! A few people intimated that I was mad for wanting to cycle across Africa. I chatted to the manageress at my accommodation yesterday. She said, "Oh, we get all sorts here. People on bikes, some on foot. We even got a Dutch woman who'd driven a farm tractor from Holland and was heading for the south pole". "Did she make it?" I asked. "Yes. She was sponsored by various people". Ah, well that's different, I thought. I pictured her chugging up the Beardmore Glacier blond pig-tails flapping in the antarctic breeze. Must check out the veracity of that one...
Hi, lads ! This is just to say "Hello" to two likely lads whom I met in Mlare 2 weeks ago and who took my address and said they'd read. So, Lawrence Munthali and Kelvin Moses, it was nice talking and I think you'll go far.
Other cyclists, by which I mean fellow pinkos on tour. I've met 4 so far. Dave the Canadian I told you about. Then I met a Dutch couple 4 or 5 days ago, possibly my seniors. And an Italian man on a bamboo bike who was hoping to ride it to London in time for the paralympics, he said. Drugs?
Joyce Banda. Since April Malawi has had a woman president. Wikipedia has all the details.
Stats. So far, and having finally learned how to use the calculator on my mobile phone, I've done 0.3947608 of my total journey. Call it 4/10.
School slogans. Maybe, like me, you are a bit fed up with the meaningless mission statements that schools have produced since they've been obliged to compete and tout for business. The "Excellence as standard" variety. They've caught on here too. I've read 100s as I've crossed Tanzania and Malawi. They all have one. The one I liked best , a couple of days out of Dar, was just 3 simple words: "Education is light".
Lake Malawi. It's contains 8400 cubic kilometers of water. Its deepest point is approx 700 feet below sea level. The first naval action of WW1 took place on it. The surface temperature varies between 24 and 25 degrees C, just a bit cooler than Hx swimming pool. The first European to visit was a Portuguese named Cardoso in 1846.. Livingstone visited in 1859. Its surface area is approx 3 times the size of Yorkshire. It's thought to have the greatest variety of fish species of any fresh-water lake.
It used to be called Lake Nyasa. Apparently Livingstone inquired of the locals what its name was. Nyasa, it seems, just means "water", not quite what he meant. There are lots of bodies of water in east Africa with similar names. Exe, Axe and Usk are the English river equivalents. Speaking of misunderstandings, I don't think it's a pub myth that when Capt Cooke asked a puzzled native what the hopping marsupials were called and got the answer "Kangaroo", what the guy really said was something like "Bog off, weirdo !".
African lorries can be a partial cure for home sickness. As they have the good sense to drive on the left here, many come from the UK when they're deemed to be knackered. Or maybe, they just get stolen. Often they keep the UK firm's name, so I've spotted Allan Ramsay Bulk Haulage of Pencaitland, Peter Smith and Son, Cliviger, Burnley, Hopley Haulage of Weymouth and many others.
Mystery reader According to Blogspot I have reader in Nigeria. I'm baffled. Please get in touch.
Next blog could be in 703 kms time in Lusaka or, possibly, Chipata just over the border. You've probably had enough anyway. Thanks for reading.
This could be a bit of a rag-bag section, as I think I've brought you up to date re trip's progress so far. I've cycled into town again on rest day 2 in Lilongwe and I'll spend the rest of the day hanging around the shops and cafes, reading, writing and watching the world go by. I need to get my beard number oned, my shoes cleaned and to eat lots of food. I also need a good book to replace the one I've nearly finished. I've been reading Blood River by Tim Butcher. It's by a bloke with a bit of a travel compulsion like myself. In 2004 he retraced John Roland's ( aka Stanley's) journey across Africa, when he, Stanley, became the first white man to cross the continent from east to west and descend the River Congo. If you like horror stories then this is the book for you, although there are some uplifting moments in it. Hopefully my blog is showing a more benign side to Africa. Anyway the rag-bag starts here...
Poverty. It's difficult to talk about poverty when you are relatively fortunate in the money department. There's a bit in Fran Sandham's book, the man who walked the route I'm attempting, where a Zambian comes up to him and says "You've just come here to see how poor we are." He is probably right. It's at least one reason in respect of most people who choose to visit Africa. I suppose it's the other end of the scale of fascination from walking round Knightsbridge and noting the insane property prices, the fancy motors and the boutiques selling shoes for 500 pounds. Most of us get a buzz out of it. The mud hut villages and the teeming tatty markets are picturesque and intriguing. And the remarkable thing is the resilience and apparent cheerfulness of the people, which is moving. Having said that, it's probably not much different to life in rural and urban Victorian England, the sort of conditions Stanley extricated himself from. I've talked to and overheard conversations of the many young westerners doing voluntary work with schools, orphans, aids victims, farm workers etc . They all comment on how they are inspired by the spirit of the people but often add that it all seems a bit hopeless in that they are not really solving the problems they are working at. It's just sticking plaster.
Strangely there are very few beggars, no more than in the UK, it seems. Everyone is doing something to earn a crust. Most are working the land without any mechanical help other than hand tools. The produce is mostly carried out of the fields on their heads, on bicycles or in hand carts. Others are carrying things for other people - half a dozen fish they've caught, a bundle of sticks for fuel or a tub of water on the head. About a third of the people are barefoot, nearly all children. There are very few overweight people, the exception being the police who man the many traffic check points. They tend to be tall and hefty. The country people are generally significantly smaller than my 5 foot 9.
As I've got into central Malawi, where tourists go, I've heard "Give me money" a thousand times. That's not an exaggeration. It usually comes from a disembodied child behind bushes as I cycle past. It can be young adults though and the wording hardly changes.Presumably it's taught them by their elders. Maybe it's the aid culture trickling down. Foreign aid, it seems, is a vital part of the economy. I feel like shouting back "I'm already giving you money" and drawing their attention to the many, many EU supported schemes to build roads, bridges, schools, clinics, irrigation schemes, agricultural diversification schemes and so on. The sign boards are all along the road. A Dutch woman working in safe sex education said " Wouldn't it be nice if they'd say "Excuse me, can you pay me to help you with something.""
OK, enough, but it's difficult to visit some places without saying something about the fact that they are poor while you are rich.
Weird ! A few people intimated that I was mad for wanting to cycle across Africa. I chatted to the manageress at my accommodation yesterday. She said, "Oh, we get all sorts here. People on bikes, some on foot. We even got a Dutch woman who'd driven a farm tractor from Holland and was heading for the south pole". "Did she make it?" I asked. "Yes. She was sponsored by various people". Ah, well that's different, I thought. I pictured her chugging up the Beardmore Glacier blond pig-tails flapping in the antarctic breeze. Must check out the veracity of that one...
Hi, lads ! This is just to say "Hello" to two likely lads whom I met in Mlare 2 weeks ago and who took my address and said they'd read. So, Lawrence Munthali and Kelvin Moses, it was nice talking and I think you'll go far.
Other cyclists, by which I mean fellow pinkos on tour. I've met 4 so far. Dave the Canadian I told you about. Then I met a Dutch couple 4 or 5 days ago, possibly my seniors. And an Italian man on a bamboo bike who was hoping to ride it to London in time for the paralympics, he said. Drugs?
Joyce Banda. Since April Malawi has had a woman president. Wikipedia has all the details.
Stats. So far, and having finally learned how to use the calculator on my mobile phone, I've done 0.3947608 of my total journey. Call it 4/10.
School slogans. Maybe, like me, you are a bit fed up with the meaningless mission statements that schools have produced since they've been obliged to compete and tout for business. The "Excellence as standard" variety. They've caught on here too. I've read 100s as I've crossed Tanzania and Malawi. They all have one. The one I liked best , a couple of days out of Dar, was just 3 simple words: "Education is light".
Lake Malawi. It's contains 8400 cubic kilometers of water. Its deepest point is approx 700 feet below sea level. The first naval action of WW1 took place on it. The surface temperature varies between 24 and 25 degrees C, just a bit cooler than Hx swimming pool. The first European to visit was a Portuguese named Cardoso in 1846.. Livingstone visited in 1859. Its surface area is approx 3 times the size of Yorkshire. It's thought to have the greatest variety of fish species of any fresh-water lake.
It used to be called Lake Nyasa. Apparently Livingstone inquired of the locals what its name was. Nyasa, it seems, just means "water", not quite what he meant. There are lots of bodies of water in east Africa with similar names. Exe, Axe and Usk are the English river equivalents. Speaking of misunderstandings, I don't think it's a pub myth that when Capt Cooke asked a puzzled native what the hopping marsupials were called and got the answer "Kangaroo", what the guy really said was something like "Bog off, weirdo !".
African lorries can be a partial cure for home sickness. As they have the good sense to drive on the left here, many come from the UK when they're deemed to be knackered. Or maybe, they just get stolen. Often they keep the UK firm's name, so I've spotted Allan Ramsay Bulk Haulage of Pencaitland, Peter Smith and Son, Cliviger, Burnley, Hopley Haulage of Weymouth and many others.
Mystery reader According to Blogspot I have reader in Nigeria. I'm baffled. Please get in touch.
Next blog could be in 703 kms time in Lusaka or, possibly, Chipata just over the border. You've probably had enough anyway. Thanks for reading.
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