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