Kilimanjaro sunset

This is the last blog that I will be writing from the road.  Tomorrow morning we will be crossing the border into Kenya and who knows what chaos awaits us there as we try to import our bikes.  Apologies for the radio silence, we've been without an internet connection since we left Mayoka Village in Malawi 10 days ago.  Leaving Malawi changed our moods, we had waved Debby and Gary goodbye, and we were now only one country away from the end of our trip and  on a deadline to reach Zanzibar for my dad’s birthday with a lot of ground to cover.  We climbed the final bend before the border and stopped to wave the lake goodbye.  The lake waved back with a massive swarm of lake flies that coalesced into a life from that rose like a dragon from the surface of the water.

Two of the Tenors saying goodbye to the lake

Lake flies doing a dragon-dance and saying goodbye 

Lake Malawi rust bucket

We crossed the border with surprisingly few problems and headed towards Mbeya for the night.  We’ve commented before that while many of Africa’s borders are quite arbitrary, they nonetheless bring about massive changes, and crossing the border into Tanzania was no different.  Suddenly we had traffic, trucks carrying fuel, containers, cows, and loads of stuff, busses with names and elaborate artwork, called “Ramadan Kareem”, “Insh’Allah!” “Allahu Akbar” and “Mash’Allah!”.  The road surface also changed, from the pristine tarmac of Malawi, we were now dodging this melee of traffic whilst avoiding potholes the size of volcanic craters.  Chaos!!!  And the closer we got to Mbeya, the worse it became.  We eventually arrived on the outskirts of Mbeya as the sun set, my relief at having arrived in the city was short-lived as it took another hour to reach our lodging for the night, playing Super-Mario Brothers with the other road users.

We pulled into the Karibuni Centre looking forward to our beds for the night, but alas they were full and so we headed for their campsite.  Through the dark we could see another bike, and so we met another Peter, also from Cape Town and riding an F800 on a 6 month long tour of sub-Saharan Africa.  We ate pizzas and set off to find Mama-Land, the local bar recommended by the watchman.  Mama-Land was everything you expect from a local bar in a medium sized Tanzanian town, it had a warped pool table, distorting speakers playing local clink clink music, and a ½ dozen TVs broadcasting a Nigerian televangelist blabbering away with the volume turned all the way down. 

In the morning we headed out early with the new Peter in tow.  He had warned us about speed traps, and so we stuck to the speed limit to the decimal point, 50 in the villages and 80 everywhere else.  Some villages have speed signs at the beginning and end of the village, but others are guesswork – where does the village start and where does it stop?  One villages runs into another, and pretty soon you are puttering along at 50 the whole way. 50 / 80 speed limits must be the most dangerous in the whole of celestial existence, there world at that speed is hypnotic.   If you’re riding at 140 on those roads you are alert and alive…  But at 50 for hours on end it produces a brain-freeze…

The road dropped down the escarpment and opened up into the valley of the baobabs, more baobabs per square kilometre than you could possible imagine, and they covered everything from the valley floor to the mountaintops.  There was a spark in the air, that night was the world-cup final night, and we were hoping to catch the game.  We came around a corner and in the avenue of baobabs there fluttered a German flag, it fluttered upside down, but we figured that rather than being a sign of distress, it was rather an innocent mistake.  Maybe they would be showing the game?  The Crocodile Camp was perfect after a long day in the saddle, a comfortable room on the banks of a river, baobabs, cold beers, but alas – no reception – no phone, no internet, not television, perfect isolation!  The owner managed to dig out an old short-wave radio for us, and we rigged an aerial with pieces of wire scrounged here and there and managed to find a signal for the BBC World Service – from Brazil!  The game was live, and it couldn’t have been more perfect if it had been on a large flat screen TV in High Definition…  We all huddled around the set and before too long I fell asleep, slinking off to bed well before half time.

Listening to the World Cup final on short-wave

Meeting Peter from Cape Town on an F800

The next morning Pete couldn’t tell me the score – he claims that the radio lost its signal, but I think he also fell asleep.  We only learned about 2 hours later that Germany had won the world cup – fantastic news from the colony!

Our route that day took us into Dar Es Salaam.  All the Zen points that we had managed to gather during the trip up to that point were quickly destroyed.  Humid heat and chaotic traffic go under our jackets, into our gloves, and up our noses.  By the time we made it to the ferry port we had lost the third Peter in the chaos, and after 30 seconds at the ferry terminal I had lost my temper.  We were told that it would cost about $800 to get our bikes and ourselves to Zanzibar by ferry, and that we would have to wait a day for the pleasure.  I quickly learned that every ferry operator in the whole of Dar Es Salaam is owned by the same person, and run by the same Ferry-Mafia, and so with a huf and a puf, a stamp of my feet, we told them all to shove it and jumped on our bikes with middle fingers raised.  Early on in the trip we agreed ‘no wheelies’ – we needed to make it to our destination in one piece, and wheelies might look cool, but on a loaded bike they can go badly wrong.  Panic Mechanic Pleitz obviously needed to blow off some steam after our encounter, and as I glanced in my mirror I saw his front wheel come up and he danced past me on his rear wheel. 

After an emergency call to Pete’s dad we ended up at the Slipway where the owner, Nichola, is an old friend of Pete’s dad and quickly sorted us out with a serviced apartment for the night.  He also happened to own Coastal Aviation and the next morning we found ourselves booked on a flight for Zanzibar, avoiding the ferry mafia entirely.  We managed find a place for the bikes – a huge thank you to Sean and Salome for providing a nice safe corner for them to sleep in.

Zanzibar was a treat, a gorgeous house on the beach, good food, swimming pool and my girls.  Its the best feeling in the world when your daughter runs up to you and jumps into your arms after not seeing you for 4 weeks!  We spent a few days with my family and celebrated my dad’s 70^th birthday with a snorkelling trip to a coral reef.  That evening we told my brothers tales of how their father had braved rain, sand, mountains and sun on our run up from Cape Town to Sossusvlei. 

We're all so normal

70th birthday breakfast - Birthday boy taking a pic with his birthday pressie

Zanzibar - not too shabby

Beachcombing

Pete and I left the family on Zanzibar to continue our journey, the clock was ticking and the border procedures were looming over us.  We have to import the bikes into Kenya, a process that is bound to cause us trouble.  We flew back to Dar, picked up the bikes and headed north along the coast to Peponi, a beach camp just south of Tanga on the northern Tanzanian coast.  What an awesome place!  Mangroves, dhows and lots and lots of pristine beach.  As we pulled in at the gate I recognised the registration of the vehicle that had signed in before us, our old friend Peter who we had last seen lost in the traffic fumes in Dar, we exchanged stories and helped him plan his route up to Nairobi. 

Peponi

Pangani Sunrise

Paradise

Panic Mechanic Pleitz seemed to know everyone in Peponi.  We had no sooner kicked our side stands down than a beautiful young woman hobble-bounded across to us with the help of a crutch, this was Rebekka from Arusha, local motocross champion and who once competed against Pleitzy in an enduro and lapped him!  She was there with her dad, Per, who once had flown over Pete’s head on a jump, while Pete was racing and Per was just taking it easy because he was injured.  But the spooky one was that evening when Pete got a Facebook message from someone saying “Are you in Tanzania?  Because I think I’m sitting next to you…” – an old friend from school who he hadn’t seen in 20 years!

Today we left Peponi and covered 400km to Moshi, the road was fantastic, and we managed to recover some of our Zen, it winds past the Usambara mountains which look incredible, and will have to be explored one day soon – by foot, but mountain bike or by motorcycle – it doesn’t matter – but they need to be explored!

Our destination for today was Kaliwa lodge, belonging to Bianca and Thilo – old friends from when we first arrived in Nairobi.  We couldn’t have chosen a better spot for our last night of African Horizons.  This lodge is nestled on the slopes of Killimanjaro and has a spectacular view of Africa’s highest mountain, seen through the lense of a valley of trees.  The sun has just set on the mountain, my battery is about to die, my beer is finished, and tomorrow we tackle Namanga – wish us luck, we’re going to need it!

Kili from Kaliwa

The Warm Heart of Africa

Panic Mechanic Pleitz had been having sleepless nights.  His chain, his chain, his chain.  I’ve seldom seen someone as obsessive about something in my life.  Last thing every evening and first thing every morning he would have a look, adjust, tinker, lube, jiggle, kiss, curse.  I don’t know why, it wasn’t going to miraculously repair itself overnight.  It has done 19,000km, it is done, it is dusted, it has performed.  Like the Monty Python skit, this chain is deceased, it has gone to meet its maker.  And so we went in search of a new chain in Lundazi, and believe it or not, we found one!  OK, its not a Regina O-ring chain, and its not orange, but it’s a chain, and it will go around and around.  And so we left Lundazi with a less panicked mechanic.

The road to the Zambian border point was much like the road the night before, horrible…  but at least we could see it now.  I couldn’t get to the border point quickly enough, the beef stew from the night before was not sitting easily, and corrugated roads and a firm motorcycle seat do not help matters.  But I was informed at the Zambian border post that they did not have any facilities, and so sweating, I went through Zambian emigration, which thankfully happened at record speed.  And so we crossed into Malawi.

We walked into the Malawian border post and our footsteps echoed in the cavernous emptiness - there was not a soul in sight.  I was functioning according to Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs, and took an executive decision to explore the border post and find its most valued facility – which thankfully I did quite quickly.  Whew!!!!  Meanwhile the official came trotting along and apologised profusely for not being there before.  This was the most relaxed border so far, Pete did my immigration while I was otherwise occupied, and nobody seemed to mind much.  As we were leaving the customs official ran out and told us that he had forgotten that we needed insurance which we could get in the next town, and wished us a safe journey. 

The road was supposed to be ‘good’ from the border post to the tarmac road – some 40km away.  We were advised to follow the power lines, which we did, and the road rapidly deteriorated into a narrow slither of hard packed dirt which fell away on each side into rutted canyons, deep sand and corrugated culverts. It took all our skill to stay on the road - a bit like trying to balance a ping-pong ball on a jet of air!

We hit the tarmac road and paradise opened up before us.  This was the finest piece of tarmac we have experienced this trip, a touring bikers dream, twisty mountain passes through pine and rubber forests, not a pothole in sight, and the perfect camber on every corner, with not a truck in sight.  After the Congo, northern Zambia and the Luangwa Valley, we couldn’t help twisting our throttles and pegging the needle between 130 and 140 through the twisties.  We quickly approached Mzuzu, and having not eaten since Zambia, we made our way straight to the nearest restaurant that Mr Garmin could point us to.  The Pine Tree Restaurant on top of the world overlooking Mzuzu boasted a chalk board menu with oxtail, racks of lamb, t-bones and lasagne - real food for the first time since we left Ndola!  We basked in the sunshine, drank coffee and celebrated having arrived in the Warm Heart of Africa!

After eating we went in search of insurance, and met a German-South Africa on a 1200GS who was on a 3-month tour of southern Africa.  He proudly told us that his setup weighed 400kg, and that as a result he had avoided any rough roads and anything sandy so far.  He also told us that the maximum speed limit in Malawi is 80km/h, and doing anything over 90 will get you arrested.  Oops.

Our destination for the day was the Mayoka Village at Nkhata Bay on the lake shore.  This is a fantastic little place, it is Robinson Crusoe meets hippy commune and a bit of Neverland on the banks of paradise.  The sweet smell of whacky backy hanging in the air, we quickly determined that we are about double the average age of the rest of the clientele, but nobody seems to care.  The food is awesome, the scenery is spectacular, and this little bohemian resort is the best example of organic design I have seen anywhere.  Unfortunately my dreams of a bed for the night were quickly killed as all rooms were full, and so up went the tents again, in record time.  Debbie and Gary lucked out, a last minute cancelation meant that they scored the best cottage in the place, up on stilts, with an open-air bathroom with a view of the lake, and a large balcony.  While we camped on the dirt below.  Bastards.

Tenere camo

Big sky over the lake

After being offered Malawi’s finest organic weed about 20 times in 30 minutes, the word quickly spread that we don’t smoke, and we were no longer bothered.  Happy Coconut, however, was determined to sell us something, and so the negotiations began for him to pimp my ride Malawi style.  I had been coveting Gary’s pannier art since day one, and so Happy Coconut and I sat down and made a deal.  He left with my pannier under his arm, and $20 in his pocket and returned a few hours later with a custom paint job that would make the Orange County Chopper boys green with envy! 

One of the three Tenors was lost in translation

My ride, pimped!

Gary and Debbie had been looking at the map and counting the days, and announced to us over breakfast that they would be leaving us at midday that day.  The sand had run through their hourglass and they would have to make tracks back to Kenya to arrive in time for the arrival of Debbie’s twin daughters flying in from the UK with all their mates.  Suddenly the reality of the end of our adventure was approaching, and it felt like a punch in the stomach.  Our motley crew had worked remarkably well, we had been through the fires of hell and back without any major (or minor) problems.  No diva moments, it just kind of clicked.  The Luangwa valley had been as tough a day as anyone could expect on a trip like this, the Congo had tried and tested us, miles and miles of tarmac, the salt pans, the delta and awesome Namibia.  Through it all there had been no sense of humour failures.  Considering that we had only met each other about 2 weeks before setting out on this trip – a real achievement and a lot of luck! 

Pete and I are opportunistic creatures, and so we quickly moved into Debbie and Gary’s room before they had even moved out.  We helped them pack and escorted them to the edge of town, shed a tear and waved them goodbye as they headed north to Tanzania.  Good luck G, D and Pavarrrrrrrrottii - its been an incredible experience.

Safari Njema guys!

The ride back to the Mayoka lodge proceeded a little less enthusiastically.  But we were saved by lasagne night, a couple of long island iced teas, a post-iced tea swim out to the raft and a movie on the laptop – Zohan – you are the man!

Our day started slowly without our team-mates, we set off along the lake mid-morning to explore, and what we found left us a bit speechless.  Lake Malawi is gorgeous, from the rocky shoreline of Nkhata bay we rode through a rubber plantation and then onto white sandy beaches, lined with palm trees, and the lake water breaking on the shore with waves that would make a J-Bay surfer happy.  The resorts we found were fit for the glossiest of catalogues, but there was not a person in sight.  We went to 4 different resorts, the staff all greeted us eagerly, and informed us that they didn’t have a single guest.  I seriously don’t understand it – the beaches of Mombassa and Diani are full at prices that make your eyes water, with mediocre hotels, poor service and beach boy irritations, but Lake Malawi which is easily as good a, and we think better than, the Kenyan coast and at a fraction of the price, but is completely tourist free. Malawi needs to market itself better!

Tanja and Daniella - how about our next holiday here?

Row row row your boat....

Swarming lake flies - we were reliably informed that you can eat them!

Is it a lake?

Picture postcard

The best outdoor bathroom EVER

After our strenuous day of resort hopping we had worked up quite a hunger, but with no guests, the resorts couldn’t offer us any food, and so we were pointed in the directions of Mum’s Restaurant at the local trading centre.  We were welcomed by Mum who cooked us fresh Chambo, the local lake fish, with Nsima – the local version of Ugali/Pap/Nshima/Sadza.  The best thing was that we sat in the village with village life going on around us, they can’t get many tourists here, but nobody bothered us, no shouts of “Mzungu” and nobody asked us for a cent.

Seemed an appropriate name after our trip

What's on the menu?

Mama's fried Chambo!

Finally found a good use for a Land Rover!

We’ve collected information, we’ve checked out the accommodation and we’ve made plans to come back with our families, this has to be one of the best kept secrets in Africa.  Malawi is paradise!

Faces of Malawi

Children of Malawi

The Heart of Darkness

We had decided that tackling Lusaka as early as possible on a Saturday morning was a better plan than trying to navigate it late on a Friday afternoon, during peak hour traffic ahead of a 4-day weekend.  It was probably the right decision, but it was still a culture shock.  After weeks of motorcycle heaven on the empty pristine roads of the Northern Cape, Southern Namibia and Botswana, the insanity of the Tenors meeting the oily, potholed, twisted, truck-infested, diesel smoke belching and rutted roads leading into Lusaka is difficult to describe.  We stopped for a breather and a 10am Nandos chicken and chips and pressed on through, filtering between trucks, busses and matatus, we were eventually on the other side, shaken but not stirred.

The Pathfinder

Just which one of us is abnormal?

For those of you who know me, you will have heard this before:  Africa is being destroyed by charcoal production.  Last year when Pete and I rode our bikes from Nairobi to Diani we went through vast tracts of land that had previously been covered by canopies of trees, but are now barren landscapes. 100-year old Acacias are chopped down and sold for $20 worth of charcoal. Zambia needs to take note – the drive from Lusaka to Ndola was in a haze of charcoal smoke, with charcoal trading posts pock-marking the landscape and selling tons and tons of cheap charcoal.  It is amazing to see, and if left unchecked it will lead to deforestation, upset the rainfall, and destroy the countries agricultural potential.

Charcoal destruction

The road took us north to Ndola, the capital of the Copper Belt, the heart of Zambia’s economy.  We had been warned that the traffic would be heavy, and that our trip coincided with the annual agricultural fair, but our trip up passed relatively smoothly, with just a few terrifying moments to add some spice.  We arrived in Ndola in the late afternoon and navigated our way through the roundabouts to Alistair and Gail’s house, a rambling cavernous structure which Gail was quick to point out had stairs in the wrong places, bedrooms that were too big and bathrooms that were too small.  Alistair and Gail were excellent hosts, friends of Gary and Debbie, they moved to Ndola about a year back and we were their first visitors.  We were wined, dined and entertained, ribs, a rack of chops, beef filet, beer, wine, whiskey!  Alistair helped us with our route planning for the next few days, he’s driven most of this part of the world, and if he hasn’t, he knows someone who has.  Local knowledge is golden. A big Thank You to Gail and Alistair!

Spot the sofa accessory

Bringing Bains to Africa!

The next morning the Three Tenors carried the Telly Tubbies north, we had decided that we would brave the Congo, the shortest journey across to the northern part of Zambia.  We were all a bit apprehensive, Pete had spoken to a German who told us it was impossible and we were stupid to even try it.  But Alistair assured us that it would be a relatively painless road.  What he hadn’t mentioned was the border officials!  We slipped out of Zambia as easily as my feet slip out of my boots after a long day’s ride.  Our entry into the Congo was immediately greeted by an official in an official’s hat.  He blabbered away in French – sure that he would confuse and disarm us – but our secret weapon, Peter P, put his best Québécoise to use, and blabbered back at our Congolese official.  We had been told that the transit visa would cost us $40, but at the border we were informed that the price was $50 per person, plus they needed a facilitation fee of 50 kwacha each.  I immediately demanded receipts, and so our progress ground to a halt.  Gary was called into the chief’s office and the door behind him was locked.  We had to produce yellow fever certificates, and pay 20 kwacha for another little Francophile to certify them.  Gary was eventually released, we were down on our dollars, but we were in the Congo. 

It is amazing how an arbitrary border can define a country.  The same red dirt, the same trees, but within 400m the whole world changed.  We were driving on the other side of a red dirt road that was ‘under construction’ with countless deviations.  It hammered our bikes, and rattled our kidneys, fesh-fesh flew, the bikes bottomed out, Debby and Gary were forced to ride standing two-up – an enviable skill.  The transit road across the DRC was only 85km long, but we got a real taste of the Congo, the sites, the smells, the dust, the hard knocks.  Our exit was proving to be as expensive as the entry and so I stood my ground and refused to pay anything.  This genuinely rattled them, I don’t think anyone has ever said “no” to them before!  It was a classic exchange in broken Frenglish:

Official:  “$30 for passport certification”

Me:  “No!”

Official:  “OK 30 Kwacha”

Me: “No! I will not pay you a cent”

Official: “But you must”

Me: “Give me an official receipt and I will pay it”

Official:  “There is no receipt, I just stamp”

Me: “I will not pay, I may not pay, you will not get your tea today”

Official, stamping the passports and shaking his head: “OK, then you must buy me Simba”

Me:  “What is Simba?”

Official:  “Beer, I am thirsty”

Me:  “Hahahahahaha, I’ve just inhaled half the dust in the Congo, I’m the one who is thirsty, how about you give me a beer?”

Amazingly enough we got our passports stamped, our bikes cleared, and didn’t part with a single extra dollar or kwacha, and everyone was in a good mood!  We ended up taking photos with the chief of immigration, and Pete has since been receiving twice daily text messages from the chief offering him special business deals, particularly in Uranium dealing.  I think Pete may be thinking about it…

In all my years of travelling around Africa and being in and out of police stations and border posts (for professional reasons only of course!!!) I have never seen such blatant corruption as those border posts in the DRC – the Dirty Rotten to the Core!  By contrast, the Zambians have been exemplary, we passed through countless police checkpoints and at every one the officials were polite and professional, and our biggest complaint is that they wanted to talk too much and ask about our journey.

The boys in Khaki

Its not all Makaa

We slipped back into Zambia far easier than my feet slip back into my boots to face a new day’s riding and headed up the road to Mansa where we arrived covered in Congo’s finest red dust.  A quick refuel and recce and we ascertained that we should move on as there was no where to stay.  We looked at the map, the time Gary and Debbie had left, and decided that we needed to head East towards Malawi rather than North to Lake Tanganyika and too many unknowns.  A good overnight stop looked to be Samfya – on Lake Benweulu that purportedly had a lovely camp site on its banks.  We plugged on the 100kms to get to the camp, and pulled into a sandy beach resort full of beer and brandy swilling, Toyota Vitz driving, boom-box thumping local yocals, throwing empty bottles of Mosi into the lake.  Just what we wanted for our chilled evening!!!! NOT…  So we went in search of something else and found the Kwacha Waterfront, a not-too-shabby little resort with reasonably clean beds. 

Room Party at the Kwacha Waterfront

Whiskey Tango Foxtrot?

Yeah right!

The next day we opted for tarmac rather than more unknown dirt roads.  We gunned it and covered over 600km to end up in Matumbo, a dusty little town on the edge of nowhere.  We found some boys selling fuel out of jerry-cans and filled the bikes, and headed down a dirt-track towards the Luangwa Valley.  We were following the advice of Emmanuel – a local guy we met in Mpika – who advised us that our plans to ride the Munyamadzi Corridor between North and South Luangwa Parks would not work yet – as the water levels were still too high.  He had advised our route, and he clearly knew what he was talking about.  About 20km out of Matumbo as the sun was setting we came across a Catholic Mission, and they allowed us to set up camp there for the night.  Army ration packs, and a miraculous bottle of whiskey conjured up by Debbie meant our evening was fun filled and spirited.  But the night was far from tranquil, with a cacophony of crazy cockerels piercing our sleep from about 2am. 

At dawn we were packed and headed into the great unknown.  We had this crazy idea to cross the Luangwa Valley from West to East, with the Luangwa River in the middle.  Following Emmanuel’s advice we headed out along a near-perfect road surface, which will link Matumbo with Lunda and eventually with Chama in Eastern Zambia.  The road quickly petered out after Lundu and we started to descend into the Luangwa valley, over baby-head boulders, then ball bearings, as we descended the temperature rose, until we hit the sand…  The dreaded sand…  We’ve all fallen in sand so far this trip, with Gary doing himself a nasty about a week ago in deep sand in Botswana.  We hit the first section, Gary and Debbie were in the lead, and Debbie had opted to walk the section, and was filming us from the sidelines.  I came through at a pace, standing on the pegs and following Gun-It-Gary’s advice:  Stand up, Eyes up, Throttle up!  I nailed it, the bike was going sideways, but I controlled it and aced that section!!!!  Pete was behind me and came down in a tumble of sand and giggles.  Did Debbie capture my heroics on film???  NO!  She was way too busy filming Pleitz’s tumbles.  That set the scene for the day, Debbie filming us falling.  I came down twice in rapid succession, the first was at some speed, caught me unaware, but I tucked and rolled with perfection, doing a perfect somersault and landing on my feet.  The second was silly, and I hit the ground hard, breaking my hand-guard and denting my confidence. 

As we were getting our breath back we heard a car approaching, a Toyota Hilux with 500 litres of diesel in barrels on the back – we offloaded the Debster and figured that it would be better to get through the thick sand using the democratic standard of one-man-one-bike. Gary quickly disappeared over the horizon having been liberated of his passenger.  The pickup hadn’t gone 100m and it was stuck up to its diff in the deep sand.  We then spent an hour trying to dig it out, Debbie wandered off to look for Gary, and we all went nowhere slowly.  After a few failed attempts to get the pickup free, Pete and I headed on, picking Debbie up about 4km further down the road.  We eventually met up with Gary and finally found the river at the end of a narrow dusty track.  The journey to the river had taken us through territory that is not on any map, and the villagers that we saw down there had never seen anything like us before.

Section!!!!

Innocence

Did I mention the Tsetse flies?  Oscar Mike Golf!  They could bite right through a

Cordura motorcycle jacket.  In fact – one bit Pete right through the carbon fiber protection on his enduro gloves.  Incredible!

Pete was the first to survey the river crossing and came back shaking his head…  no way!  There is a steep bank down to the river and the boat is like a canoe!  Sure enough the steep sandy slope looked completely unmanageable for our large beasts.  But riding back along that road again was not option either…  What to do?  Just then another bike pulls up – a 125cc with a man called Rasta at the helm, he simply rides straight down the slope and two guys help him pick the bike up and put it in the boat.  Simple!  Hahahaha…  this gets our confidence up – we can do that too!!!!  So with the help of about 10 men from the local village we gingerly guided Pete’s bike down the bank, and lifted it rear wheel first into the boat.  Imagine the scene – 10 guys all trying to do it their way, a steep sandy bank, a fast flowing river, a boat that has almost no stability and a bike that weighs almost 200kg!  On it went, the boat wobbled, Pete went a bit green, but then they were off, the captain paddling his vessel across the might Luangwa, Pete astride his Tenere, and half the village crammed into the boat just for fun.  They made it across, off loaded, and the boat returned to repeat the action with the next bike.  Gary and I had been concentrating so much on Pete’s bike that we hadn’t noticed that another group of eager young men had already started manouvering Pavarrrrrotttti towards the river – clueless about where the brakes were, and ignorant of the weight of that beast, we only just managed to rescue it from a certain drowning in the nick of time!

Change you can believe in!

Eventually we had all the bikes and gear across, and were putting everything back on the bikes, the heat was unbearable, we all dipped our heads in the water, put our helmets back on and zoomed off to Chama – another village of nothing in the middle of nowhere – but they had cold coke – the nectar of the gods after a crossing like that!

Steady.....

Bikes on boats!

Chain wash

And then...

All across

We could find nowhere to stay in Chama, and so headed off to Lundazi – only 175km away – but the GPS said it would take us 4 hours…  The road to hell began, the sun quickly disappeared but we plodded on down a heavily corrugated and sandy road, with trucks storming towards you with only 1 headlight, and refusing to give any space on the road.  Incredible!!!  We had to make regular stops to get our breath, and during these cyclist would pass by – silent in the night.  We tried to talk to them but realized that they were Zambian Zombie cyclists, and without any sign of us being there, they pedalled on.

Eventually we arrived in Lundazi and the GPS guided us to the Castle Hotel – we drove up to the tune of the Rocky Horror Picture Show:  Its just a jump to the left…  Count Drapirre met us at the reception and informed us that there were no rooms for the night and directed us off to a grubby guest house across the road – no problems – it had hot water and a bed.  After 13 hours on a motorcycle through deepest, darkest Africa we didn’t care.  But they didn’t have food – and so we headed back to the Castle to find a bite.  On our walk over we discussed the strange place and figured it must be a brothel – what else could explain the strange ambiance? 

The beef stew and nshima was mediocre, but filling, and as we were wrapping up the football started – Gary and Debbie disappeared off to bed, leaving Pete and I to watch the Germans give the Brazillians a waxing!  The waiter informed us that we didn’t need to watch on the 12” screen in the restaurant, they had a big screen on the other side of the castle, and so he lead us through vast cavernous spaces and past genuine elephant tusks mounted in the archways and into a lounge filled with locals watching on a giant screen.  We joined them, drank Mosi and watched in astonishment as the Germans destroyed the host nation.   At 1am we stumbled to bed, wondering where we would be watching the finals.