Lilongwe Down

Day 471

Milage 34,125 (54,600 kms)

Lake Malawi sunset

Pulling into a camp on a loaded motorcycle often invites curious glances from fellow travelers and occasionally I’m approached by inquisitive onlookers who want to know about my journey and the bike. Reactions vary when I talk about where I’ve been and how long it has taken me to get this far but a comment I hear a lot is ‘that’s just like The Long Way Down’, Ewan McGregor and Charlie Boorman’s motorcycle trip from London to Cape Town which became a popular television series back in 2007. As I now enter the more travelled parts of Africa I’m beginning to hear stories about how people remember their arrival in camps and villages along the way closely followed by their entourage of fixers, medics, mechanics, camera crews and assorted vehicles. As I pulled up at the beautiful Kande Beach camp the owners chuckled when they recalled how Ewan and Charlie had ridden in years before, their bikes and gear caked in a fine red dust while the rest of their party appeared perfectly clean. The thing is, there is no red dust for many, many miles in this region, along the shores of Lake Malawi all the smaller roads consist of a fine white sand which, while difficult to ride through it certainly does not create the same effect. So, as much as my trip resembles theirs in terms of some of the routes I’ve taken, it certainly lacks the sheer numbers of people and theatre involved but I’m okay with that. It is hard to describe, but the feeling of throwing my leg over the bike each morning and having absolute freedom to do whatever I want and go wherever I please is such a liberating experience that I would have it no other way. There have been times when I have felt exposed and vulnerable but I try not to dwell the ‘what if’s?’ and focus only on the present. Every decision I have made in this life has led me to this moment and it is only my attitude that defines how I react to and perceive each new experience. 

Somebody left their teeshirt behind

From the serene Mushroom Farm Eco-Lodge near Livingstonia, on the Nyika Plateau overlooking Lake Malawi I descended back into the Great Rift Valley to follow the shoreline road south to Nkate Bay. I found a peaceful camp just outside the quiet fishing village and pitched my tent by the waters edge beneath the hot afternoon sun, a refreshing swim in the crystal clear waters of Lake Malawi helped cool me down afterwards. It is a strange sensation to dive into waters that you think should be salty, the lake is so vast it has the appearance of an ocean. Once you are submerged, the water tastes sweet and opening your eyes is not accompanied by the expected sting, colorful cichlid fish dart between the rocks, their bright markings shimmering in the penetrating sunlight. Locals glide silently past in their dugout canoes gathering supplies for their night time fishing excursions. While there I took advantage of an afternoon boat ride to a nearby beach where fishermen dry their catch and mend their nets, stopping along the way to admire the Fish Eagles as they gracefully swoop across the surface of the calm waters to pluck out a fresh meal from the plentiful fish that populate the lake. At the end of each day as the sun set and darkness fell, one by one the fishermen would take to the water and cast their nets by the light of the oil lamps suspended from their dugout canoes creating a line of fairy lights stretching across the visible horizon. 

Mending nets near Nkate Bay

After a peaceful few days in the region I packed my bike and continued south, stopping for a couple of nights at the isolated town of Kande Beach. The beach camp on the white sandy shoreline provided endless opportunities for exploring and I couldn’t resist swimming out to the nearby Kande Island. It provided me with a good reminder of just how unfit I’ve become since starting this journey. Almost a kilometer from shore, there were a couple of occasions when I wondered if this was such a good idea as the island seemed to get further away the more I swam towards it. Tired but exhilarated I dragged myself onto it’s rocky shore and spent some time resting on the warm slabs of rock, enjoying the peaceful serenity, totally alone apart from the nesting Fish Eagles and shy Iguanas. From Kande I continued south towards Cape Maclear, a forested peninsula at the southern end of Lake Malawi, finally settling into a quirky little camp called Fat Monkey. With its western aspect the beach provided the perfect setting for evening sundowners, a gin and tonic going down as smoothly as the sun, its golden glow turning deeper shades of red, gently kissing the waters edge before being engulfed by the hazy horizon. Is there anything more magical than a sunrise or sunset over water?

African Fish Eagle

After three days at Cape Maclear I turned west and climbed out of the Rift Valley towards Malawi’s capital, Lilongwe. Several months ago I’d contacted an old friend I once worked with on the Zambezi River and she insisted I stop by if I was ever in her area so after a beautiful twisting climb out of the valley I was soon on the road to her house. It had been a long time since I’d seen Juba but she welcomed me as though it were only yesterday. I’d planned on spending only a couple of nights in the city but she talked me into staying a little longer giving us plenty of time to reminisce about old times and catch up on all that has happened since. It was a truly wonderful experience to hang out with Juba and her beautiful family after so long on the road, in a little oasis of peace and tranquility. While there, she took the time to give me a tour of the city before her generous husband Dave introduced me to the game of golf, my first ever, which I subsequently won reaching an impossibly high score, that’s how it works right? With Juba’s encouragement I even gave a short presentation to several hundred children at her local school. My extended stay ended with an entertaining Bollywood themed book club party.

Back to school

After a very restful stay in Lilongwe I made my way towards the Zambian border, less than an hour away. At one final police checkpoint less than ten kilometers from the border I was stopped by a tall, thin officer in a loosely fitting uniform, before he had a chance to speak, I bombarded him with questions about directions, distances and nearest fuel stations, I could sense he was fishing for an opportunity to write a ticket and issue a fine but before he had the chance I began telling him how grateful I was that police in Malawi weren’t like those dirty cops in Tanzania and Kenya, he heartily agreed and I was soon back on my way to the border. Exiting Malawi went smoothly but as I walked into the Zambian checkpoint I noticed multiple posters outlining the signs and symptoms of the Ebola virus. With the recent outbreak on the west coast of Africa there are daily rumors emerging regarding suspected cases throughout the continent and it looked as though Zambia’s government was taking the threat seriously. A large lady with a serious face informed me that she would have to take my temperature and I audibly gulped at the prospect, wondering how she planned to do it. She asked me to expose my chest before pointing a laser thermometer at me, she frowned as she looked reading and tried a second time. It was shortly after midday, the sun was high and hot and I was wearing my full riding outfit so, after walking between the various offices located around the border post, my temperature was above average, what followed was a list of questions about my physical condition and my travel history before finally I satisfied her that I was not infected with anything other than poor dress sense and an inappropriate sense of humor. Once again I was pleasantly surprised to receive a visa at no cost while those around me were pushing fifty dollar bills across the counter to the immigration officer. 

Meeting the locals

Back on the road I turned north at the small farming town of Chipata towards South Luangwa National Park and by late afternoon I was pulling into Croc Valley Camp on the banks of the Luangwa River stopping briefly to allow a herd of elephants to cross the road in front of me. There are times when my mind drifts and I briefly forget I am in Africa, when the terrain reminds me of another time and place but it only takes a second to return to the reality of where I am when something happens that is uniquely African, elephants disrupting traffic on dusty dirt roads is one of those occasions. As I pitched my tent I could hear the loud guffaw of a hippo wallowing in the muddy river bed bellow, sounding like an evil villain in a cheesy horror movie. As night fell the noises from the nearby park rose in volume, the occasional roar of a lion interspersed with the yapping of hyenas all mixed with other sinister sounds I could not identify. For once I was thankful the river contained a healthy population of crocodiles, hoping it would deter the parks residents from wandering into the open camp

. 

Luangwa sunset

I had a fitful night’s sleep trying to identify the source and proximity of each and every sound. Sometime around 3am I could hear the unmistakable sound of an elephant ripping branches from the surrounding trees, it sounded close, very close and my heart began to thump as I wondered what was the best thing to do, stay in the tent or leave, in hindsight I probably did the dumbest thing I could have done in the circumstances. I quietly unzipped the outer fly of my tent to get an idea of how close the beast was. At the same time I was fumbling with my camera in the dark to find an appropriate night setting, I could see very little when I looked outside but I could hear movement nearby so I pointed my camera in that direction. I hadn’t expected the flash to go off, neither did the elephant as it illuminated his imposing form walking straight towards the tent. I ducked my head back inside the tent embarrassed by the little squeal that had somehow forced its way past my lips, my heart racing and my mind working overtime as I tried to plan my next move. I was trapped and all I could do was wait, it seemed like an eternity as I remained silent, listening to the soft footsteps approaching, expecting my tent to collapse at any second. As he passed by he gently brushed against the thin nylon outer of my tent and before I knew it he had vanished. I waited for some time before crawling out of the tent to see if there was any damage, everything was okay, my bike was still upright nearby and the tent was in one piece. As I swept my powerful head torch around the camp to assess his whereabouts, the bright beam fell upon the squat, solid body of the largest hippo I have ever seen, keenly munching grass less than ten meters from the tent, as I lit up his face a vague memory flickered in the back of my sleep deprived mind, something like ‘never point your flashlight at a hippo unless you want to piss him off’. He stopped munching as I extinguished the light and gave me a look that seemed to imply ‘just try that again if you want trouble’. As the adrenaline wore off I paid a quick visit to the nearby toilet before crawling back into my sleeping bag for a restless night’s sleep.

Nighttime encounters

The following day saw me up bright and early before collapsing into a hammock shortly after breakfast. In the afternoon I joined a safari tour into the park, as with most other parks, motorcycles are prohibited so I jumped onboard an open topped Land Cruiser with a guide, driver and several other tourists. It turned out to be a rather strange experience, although we saw many different species, including lion, it all felt a little contrived and at one point we even got into a traffic jam in a park that stretches over several thousand square kilometers as each vehicle jockeyed for the best spot to observe a passing herd of buffalo. There are times on this trip when I feel like I am suffering from ‘experience overload’, taking for granted the wonders that are all around me. It reminds me of a visit to a wildlife park, on entering we are enraptured by the smallest of things, the impala skipping through the bush or the warthogs wallowing in the mud but, by the end, we give only a secondary glance to the wooly mammoths or the unicorns. I sometimes need to remind myself of where I am and how fortunate I have been to have experienced all that I have. As this trip nears its finale I find myself becoming more aware of the need to cherish every moment and experience it all with the eyes of a newborn child. Our world is full of wonders and I think we would all look after it a little better if we could learn to appreciate that. 

Flat dog

Smoke on the water

Day 458

Milage 33,070 (52,912 kms)

Tanzanian sunset

With a renewed sense of purpose and a fully functional bike I was finally able to drag myself away from Diani Beach. After almost two months on the coast of Kenya it felt as though I was leaving behind a little piece of myself, I had met so many incredible people and made some lasting friendships while in this region it was beginning to feel like home. In the end, I had three ‘last nights’ at the Southcoast Backpackers as the owners promised me ‘I could check out any time I liked, but I could never leave’. Tanzania had felt so distant when my bike had been out of action but it took little more than an hour to reach the border along the scenic coastal road. The crossing went smoothly but the Kenyan customs officials couldn’t resist trying to squeeze a few more shillings out of me as I completed my exit paperwork. Apparently, I hadn’t paid my ‘road user fees’ and a modest contribution would be needed before receiving the final stamp so, I explained that I hadn’t been using the roads since my bike had been crippled by a botched repair job I’d had done in Nairobi. Obstinate border officials have been a headache throughout this trip but I always get through eventually, I have time on my side and, as a long line of impatient truckers gathered behind me, they finally relented and I was on my way before too long.  

Sleepy streets of Bagamoyo

Entering Tanzania was relatively straightforward, as I approached the border a swarm of money changers and ‘fixers’ surrounded the bike promising impossibly good rates and invaluable help but, as always, their assistance was unnecessary. Road conditions were noticeably better, gone were the vicious speed bumps and the gaping potholes which had left me airborne on more than one occasion. Each time an oncoming vehicle would pop its nose out to attempt a pass they would timidly return to their own lane upon seeing my bike even though I was already instinctively swerving towards the edge of the road. By early afternoon I was pulling into a rundown hotel in the dying seaport of Tanga. The once busy port is struggling to compete with nearby Mombassa and the town had the appearance of a slowly fading relic with its best times behind it. Early the following morning I was back on the road and following the coast south to the small town of Bagamoyo. Once the capital of German East Africa in the late 19th century it has been in a long state of decline ever since, the crumbling town centre revealing hints of a more decadent past. I found a comfortable camp by the beach and set about exploring the town. 

Doorways of Bagamoyo

It felt quite liberating to be in a less restrictive country, Kenya’s reputation for crime had been one of its less appealing traits and Tanzania had a much more relaxed feel to it. Walking through the streets in Kenya after dark would have been considered reckless so it felt good to finally relax a little. As night fell I went for a peaceful stroll along the water’s edge dipping my feet in the warm waters of the Indian Ocean. Not far from the shoreline my attention was drawn towards the orange glow of multiple fires and, as I drew closer, I discovered a lively fisherman’s market where all sorts of unidentifiable sea creatures were being cooked over endless rows of glowing charcoal fire pits. Sweating locals tended large cast iron cooking pots bubbling with oil, the heat and smells were oppressive but the atmosphere felt authentic, a beautiful snapshot of real Africa. I found a lively restaurant nearby frequented by a mixture of locals and foreigners, noticing I was on my own I was invited to join their table by a kind group of young volunteer teachers from Denmark. Before long they were telling me all about their friends who had just been mugged on the beach that evening by a group of machete wielding locals. When I asked them about any other areas in town that were known trouble spots they told me to avoid the fisherman’s market at all costs, so much for my well honed instincts. As I wandered through the quiet streets, on the way back to camp, I was surprised to see faint glimmers of light emanating from within many of the building I had wrongly assumed to be derelict.

Elijah and his broken bike

I spent two days in Bagamoyo struggling with making the decision of whether or not to visit the nearby island of Zanzibar. In the end, I opted to turn inland, my extended stay in Kenya has left with only two months to reach Cape Town and I still have such a long way to go and so much more to see. The road took me West and up into higher elevations, it was refreshing to feel the temperature dropping, I stubbornly insist on wearing my protective riding gear at all times but it can become quite oppressive in the hotter regions but, in the back of my mind, I’m constantly reminded of a statistic I’d read years ago claiming a rider is 50% more likely to survive an accident if properly dressed. I passed multiple police checkpoints where the officers were fastidiously monitoring traffic speeds and I was pleasantly surprised to find the plenty of effective road signage making navigation relatively easy. Before long I was cruising through Mikumi National Park, the imposed speed limit of 70 kph making it easy to spot the abundant wildlife that gathered near the road. Elephant, giraffe, impala, zebra and baboons all made an appearance along the quiet highway making it difficult to keep my eyes on the road ahead. I found a comfortable campsite just outside the park and settled in for a quiet night as a deep red sun set over the endless savanna.

Warm welcomes

Early the next morning I was back on the road and making good time on my journey inland. I’d been warned by many over-landers coming from Tanzania that the speed traps were ruthless and plentiful and each town I passed through seemed to have at least one group of police officers in crisp white uniforms sheltering from the intense sun in the shade of the roadside trees. 50 kph speed limits in the towns and villages were well posted before entering but, more often than not, the signs indicating the end of the controlled zone were missing, leaving me confused as to whether or not I could wind back the throttle and return to a more respectable speed. The local police seemed to know exactly where these areas of confusion were located and on one occasion I was pulled over for going a little too fast while leaving a small village. With a smile and a little humor I was able to talk my way out of a ticket and was soon on my way again, stopping briefly in the small town if Iringa to visit a quiet guesthouse staffed and managed entirely by deaf people from the local community. After a delicious lunch I decided I still had time to get a few more miles behind me before I’d have to look for a place to stay, so I got back on the bike and kept moving. It was late afternoon when I spotted a police officer walking into the road ahead of me raising his hand in the air, I was sure I’d already left the speed limit zone and was tempted to ‘high five’ him as I rode past but a police car parked just off the road made me change my mind. As I came to a stop he informed me I’d been doing eighty-nine kilometers per hour in a fifty zone and with a broad grin he announced that I must now pay the fine. It was hot, I was tired and the charm I’d relied upon earlier seemed to have no effect. He directed me towards the unmarked car and told me to talk to ‘the boss’. Sweating profusely underneath a stained uniform that was straining to contain his ample proportions, the police captain smiled at me from the passenger seat, a large pile of Tanzanian currency stacked neatly on the dashboard. 

Campsite companion

The bidding began at one hundred dollars, his smug attitude implying he now held all the cards. His expression changed when I produced my ‘fake’ wallet and showed him its meagre contents, supplemented with expired credit cards and an old driver’s license for an authentic look. After threatening me with jail and a court appearance he finally agreed to settle for twenty dollars but when I asked for a receipt he became quite upset, brusquely scribbling the details of my offense on a semi-official looking piece of paper before sending me off with a dismissive wave. As I mounted my bike, stuffing my first speeding ticket in over thirty thousand miles into my empty wallet, I resolved to spend less time in Tanzania than I had originally planned and after two more days of hard riding I was approaching the Malawian border. 

Sunrise over Lake Malawi

Border formalities were painless and for the first time in many months I was allowed to enter a country without having to pay for a visa, I was instantly warming to the people of Malawi. It initially came as a shock to find so many people on the roads, men riding bicycles stacked high with supplies, women balancing enormous loads on their heads and children skillfully playing football with balls made from nothing more than plastic bags and string and, most importantly, very few other vehicles and no speed bumps. Police checkpoints were frequent but when they recognized that my bike was not local they happily waved me through and on only a few occasions was I stopped and questioned, ‘how fast, how many cc’s and how much did it cost?’ brought the well practiced response of ‘240 kph, 800 and $10,000’. At one point a lightly armed soldier stepped into my path and flagged me down only to give me a heartfelt welcome me to Malawi and a firm handshake. By early afternoon the I’d reached a camp that had been recommended by another rider, situated on the sandy shores of the turquoise waters of Lake Malawi, it felt like the perfect spot to spend a couple of nights. The appearance of several commercial over-land trucks reminded me that I am now getting into the more travelled regions of Africa and evenings were spent under the stars enjoying good company around a blazing camp fire. Another tip from a fellow traveller saw me turn off the main road into the nearby mountains, climbing steep, rough, dirt tracks towards the quiet Eco-lodge known as the Mushroom Farm. I spent two nights at the cliff top lodge overlooking the vast expanse of Lake Malawi, rising before dawn to catch sight of the fishermen dotted across the lake, oil lamps suspended above their dugout canoes as they cast their nets. Slowly, each one would make for shore to dry their catch before the horizon would begin to glow with the deep pinks and reds of the imminent sunrise. I’d become transfixed by the unfolding light show as the blood-red sun began to break the horizon, casting crimson reflections across the distant waters, completely absorbed by the moment, convinced I’d stumbled across yet another little slice of paradise. 

Welcome to Malawi

With each day that passes and every mile I cover it feels as though I am nearing the end of my journey. Only a handful of countries now separate me from my final destination and as I encounter more travelers coming from the south I am constantly reminded of how close I am getting to Cape Town. I still need to finalize my eventual approach as there are many options but the clock is ticking and my budget is dwindling so it will soon be time to make some hard decisions. The bike is performing well and my gear is holding up but the signs of hard use in tough conditions are becoming evident on both me and my equipment. With luck it will all last long enough to get me to the end but the realization is beginning to dawn that often the most interesting experiences happen when things go wrong.

Sunset cruise