The Smoke that Thunders

Day 492

Milage 35,018 (56,028 kms)

Skies on fire

One of the unfortunate ironies of life is that we can only experience things for the first time once. With this in mind I continued my journey west from South Luangwa National Park towards Livingstone, a town where I had once lived almost sixteen before, wondering how well my memories would fit with the reality I was about to encounter. Unable to complete the journey of over twelve hundred kilometers in less than one day I took the opportunity to break the long drive into two parts, stopping briefly in Zambia’s capital city, Lusaka. I arrived in the city as night fell and followed my rudimentary map to the Wanderer’s Overland camp, pleasantly surprised to find the streets well lit and signposted. Pulling into camp I received a warm welcome from a fellow rider who had just emerged from a grueling two thousand kilometer traverse of the Democratic Republic of Congo, his bike in pieces as he rebuilt the engine before embarking on the next leg of his journey. As I explored the city it became apparent that I had entered a modern well ordered capital, contrasting markedly with many of the cities I have seen along the way since entering Africa. I’m typically not a fan of big cities but the prospect of finding several motorcycle parts that are overdue for replacement kept me there for a few days. In the end the search proved fruitless but it did provide a comfortable respite from the long ride across Zambia. 

Campsite companions

I made the final push towards Livingstone on a Sunday morning, heeding the warnings of locals who advised me that many drivers on the road are often still drunk after their Saturday night revelry. Thankfully the roads were quiet and by mid afternoon I was nearing my destination scanning the horizon for the first sight that had greeted my arrival so many years ago. The town of Livingstone is close to Victoria Falls, the kilometer and a half wide waterfall where the mighty Zambezi River cascades into the narrow Batoka Gorge creating a plume of mist that can be seen from afar. The locals call the falls ‘Mosi-oa-Tunya’, meaning the smoke that thunders, as the column of spray that rises through the air resembles a cloud of smoke and the noise of so much water crashing against the rocks at the base of the falls fills the air with an ominous rumble. I barely recognized the town of Livingstone as I made several passes along the main street looking for familiar landmarks. I had arranged to meet an old friend at a local backpackers which I struggled to locate but, before long, the beers were flowing and I was catching up with old friends and acquaintances from my days as a raft guide on the Zambezi River. As luck would have it there were a few available seats on a raft leaving the following morning for a quick trip from rapids 1 through 10 so I jumped at the chance to revisit the river. 

Beneath Victoria Falls

After a blurry night of countless bars and endless tales from the river, I awoke feeling rather sorry for myself, pulled on a couple of thermal layers, and joined Grubby’s Extreme Rafting trip into the Batoka Gorge. I’ve always considered a rafting trip to be one of the most effective hangover cures and after several wet and wild rapids I was beginning to feel human again. Little had changed since I last ran the river so many years before, the sheer power of the water was as impressive as ever as it reluctantly squeezed its way between the towering dark, canyon walls, responding to every constriction with a tremendous fury of whitewater confirming my long held belief that this is still the best one day rafting trip on the planet. As we successfully negotiated rapids with names like ‘Stairway to Heaven’, ‘Devil’s Toilet Bowl‘ and ‘Gnashing Jaws of Death‘ it became apparent that our mediocre paddling abilities were being heavily supplemented by our talented guide. By midday we had reached the infamous rapid number nine, ‘Commercial Suicide‘, a compulsory portage where rafts must be dragged across the polished rocks to avoid one of the biggest rapids on the river. We took the opportunity to eat lunch and gaze, in awe, at the overwhelming power of nature, its raw energy on savage display. I shuddered to think about my time here as a safety kayaker when I would run this rapid on a daily basis without so much as a second thought.

Riverside camp Day 3

On returning to Livingstone I bumped into an old friend who owned another rafting company, Water by Nature, which specializes in multi-day trips on a variety of rivers around the world. He had a four day Zambezi trip leaving the following morning and he asked me if I’d like to come along and help out. I jumped at the chance to run the river again, this time in a kayak, but without any of the essential gear I spent the rest of the day digging through piles of old equipment, assembling the necessary kayak, paddle, sprayskirt, helmet and splash top. Before I knew it I was back in the ‘Boiling Pot’ at the very base of Victoria Falls thoroughly soaked by the thundering mist that arose from the deep chasm. I’d had little choice in the types of kayaks on offer and my selection, a small edgy play-boat, was making me a little apprehensive as I compared it to the larger volume boats of the safety kayaker and video boater. For the next four days the river and I danced together, sharing the lead in a furious waltz of whitewater, sometimes the river would dominate and spin me this way and that, but as I settled into its rhythm and recalled the steps required for each rapid, I began to take more control, gliding downstream in harmony with my surroundings, stumbling less often. Peaceful evenings were spent camping on deserted beaches, sleeping under the stars to the sounds of the river, enjoying fine food and good company around crackling campfires. All too soon it was over, we had reached our take out point and the serenity that settles in on a multi-day trip was broken by the thumping sound of a helicopter, our ride back to civilization. After loading ourselves into the sturdy belly of an iconic ‘Hughie’ chopper with doors latched open, the pilot took us back up river, skimming the water’s surface, banking hard left and right through the twisting gorge before swooping up and over the falls where our journey began.

Finishing is style

Exhausted but exhilarated I returned to Livingstone and prepared to depart on the next leg of my journey south. It made me a little sad to have to move on so soon, there were still so many old friends with whom I wanted to catch up but with other commitments elsewhere and a bike in desperate need of a good service I was determined to reach South Africa where parts are said to be readily available. Somewhere on the road between Livingstone and the border crossing at Kazungula my bike hit its fifty thousandth mile and the signs of excessive use in tough conditions were becoming more evident with each day on the road. The crossing from Zambia to Botswana, on a small ferry across the Zambezi River, went smoothly even though I failed to stop at the mandatory Ebola screening checkpoint. Crossing borders is now such a routine experience I tend to ignore the swarms of people trying to flag me down, more often than not they try to offer help completing paperwork that is relatively simple while charging an exorbitant amount for their assistance. On this occasion I assumed the medical examiners were part of a similar operation, I guess their crisp white uniforms should have given me some indication as to their intentions but borders are often a little chaotic and my mind is sometimes preoccupied with thoughts of how best to approach the customs and immigration officials. When the medical team finally caught up with me I was patiently awaiting my entry stamp inside the immigration office, I was instructed to return to a small tent near the ferry and by the time I got there, dressed in my full riding outfit, my temperature was above average which seemed to raise some concerns amongst the small group of nurses and doctors. They examined my passport for some time, checking the multitude of stamps I’ve acquired along the way, conversing amongst themselves in a language I struggled to recognize, finally they turned to me and asked if I had Ebola, when I said “No” and they all smiled and said “Welcome to Botswana”.

Happy Birthday Uhuru (50,000 miles and counting)

I had planned to make it further into Botswana on that first day but the allure of the nearby Chobe National Park was too much to resist so I turned off the main highway and by mid afternoon I had settled into a camp in the small town of Kasane. I resisted the temptation of cooling off in the nearby river, signs warning of crocodiles and hippos were enough to discourage me so I settled for a walk through town in search of food. I always try to eat where the locals do and on this occasion several people I asked recommended a small diner named Martha’s Kitchen. I arrived there at four in the afternoon, the sign outside indicating it would be open until seven that evening. When I asked for a plate of the local stew they told me they had already run out, when I asked if they had any other food they told me they had nothing to offer, everything had been eaten. I asked them what they planned to do until 7pm to which they replied ‘wait until closing’. They suggested I try another nearby diner but when I arrived there I had an almost identical experience. It is a rather stark contrast to how we function in the West, in Africa nothing is wasted, when food runs out they do not prepare more for fear that it may not be eaten whereas we would throw good food away rather than disappoint a customer. The principle that wanton waste leads to wasteful want is applied throughout this continent, the people are most industrious at recycling and repurposing everything primarily through necessity.

Short legged stripy giraffe

From the Chobe region of northern Botswana I continued south along the lonely highway to Francistown. Skirting the edge of the park I would occasionally see large herds of elephant purposefully walking across the veldt like an armada of ships afloat in a sea of tall grass, warthogs and baboons would scurry across the road ahead while graceful raptors would soar effortlessly upon hot thermal updrafts. It was a quiet road with little other traffic and very few potholes where I could allow my mind to wander, a welcome respite from the hours of intense concentration required on most of the routes I’ve ridden so far. I took the opportunity to refuel and take a break at the tiny village of Nata where a group of traveling seed salesmen took time to explain why the average I.Q. in Ireland has been steadily dropping over the years. Apparently the Catholic church has been selecting only the finest minds to serve as priests and nuns, so much so that it has had a quantifiable impact on the general population as the smartest people are removed from the gene pool. It was an interesting observation, one that I was completely unaware of, probably, I assured them, because my I.Q. was so low. 

Long legged spotted zebra

It was a long day’s ride and as I pulled in to a camp north of Francistown, Botswana’s second largest city, I barely had time to erect my tent before witnessing yet another stunning African sunset, the blood red sun setting the horizon on fire in a blaze of color. Life in a tent is dictated by the sun and by 6am the following morning I was wide awake and breaking down my camp. The daily pre-ride inspection of my bike revealed a very slack chain and an over worn rear sprocket, I tightened the chain to its last adjustment and hoped it would get me as far as South Africa where I had a new one waiting for me. My hopes were dashed after several kilometers of bumpy dirt roads caused my chain to pop off the rear sprocket on more than one occasion, I had simply pushed it too far. I nursed the bike slowly in Francistown and set about finding a garage where I could use some tools to shorten the chain. It didn’t take long to find a few fellow bikers and after a couple of phone calls I met Joe De Souza, a mechanic who kindly allowed me access to his workshop. With the right tools I had the old chain off and shortened in no time and I was soon back on the road, I stopped briefly to refuel but as I pulled out of the gas station my main fuel line ruptured pouring petrol all over the hot engine. With Joe’s help I was able to locate a couple of meters of fuel line and soon had that problem fixed although it left me wondering what else could possibly go wrong before I get to a country where I can find spare parts. It was now late in the day but I decided to make a run for the border despite the time. 

Losing links at Joe's Garage

Crossing into South Africa from Botswana at the Martin’s Drift border post was relatively effortless but it was dark by the time I had finished with the customs and immigration formalities. I had to sit down for a while to let the significance of this crossing settle in, it could be my last on this epic voyage, my plans to enter Lesotho are still dependent on the outcome of a military coup I’ve been hearing rumors about over the past few weeks and my ultimate destination is Cape Town, Africa’s most southerly city. I sat there for some time in the warm night air listening to the crickets chirping, contemplating the journey that had brought me to this place, sixteen months on the road and the end is almost within reach. It was hard to resist the temptation to keep moving but African roads can be treacherous after dark, wild animals and potholes make for a dangerous combination so within a few kilometers of the border I found a quiet camp and settled in for fitful night’s sleep.

The ever present, supremely mischievous Warthogs