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.
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The Pathfinder |
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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.
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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!
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Spot the sofa accessory |
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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.
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The boys in Khaki |
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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.
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Room Party at the Kwacha Waterfront |
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Whiskey Tango Foxtrot? |
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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.
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Section!!!! |
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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!
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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!
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Steady..... |
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Bikes on boats! |
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Chain wash |
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And then... |
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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.