The Road Via Hell

 Peering over my broken screen

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To say I was thoroughly shaken to the marrow is an understatement of my mortal condition on that road. I am not a hero. This sort of incident could spell disaster; I mean real trouble that could have become a nightmare of disproportionate scale to deal with. Our Lord at the Garden of Gethsemane was terrified of the prospects of his suffering. I had joined these ranks. I was genuinely terrified of the scenario of a certain eventuality to come. It has been days since I had communicated with anyone in the ‘civilised world’. Much as I was enjoying the odyssey, “Wake-up”, I told myself. This fleeting transition, as engendered by the fall, from the atmosphere of idealism to realism was precise and brutal. Further persuasion was unnecessary. I heard the message. 

Within the Human anatomy are hardwired mechanisms to cope with any inexorableness although the scope and degree varies for each person. As it were, in spite of my state of affair and still shaking like a leaf in the winds, I reckoned it was to my profit to ride on the crest of the wave rather than its base, for to allow anything to dampen my spirit was like to give an open invitation to Master trouble. I decided without the slightest hesitation that a positive spirit was a better and much preferred companion. It was also reasonable to reduce my speed to 60km per hour, but by the reckoning of subsequent events this was way still too fast as I would soon discover.

Unlike my first tumble, whose cause I had to figure out, I was more or less aware of the circumstances that led to this tumble. It was therefore necessary to carry out some post-mortem.

But in the interim, my mind was preoccupied with my environs. It was a beautiful morning with a clear azure sky, with huge cotton-like clouds adorning the heavens. The air was crisp, clear and clean. It was simply a magnificent countryside ideal for riding. I was entering a wooded area that was not dense with undergrowth. I slowly breathed in the air. I could feel the crispiness as the air rushed through my nostrils. I loved it; I loved the trees; I loved the birds flying across the road; although, sadly one had blindly flown into the bike and got killed. For a while, I allowed nothing to disturb this mood. This is what I needed. Besides, a great spiritual saying teaches us that while we are in consolation, we ought to gather as much of it as we can in preparation for desolation. I suddenly realised that I missed my family, my friends, my colleagues at work and my home. I checked myself momentarily. Where is this 'missing' stuff coming from?

I did not want to think of loneliness. It was not a palatable subject at the moment. Thinking of the reasons that caused my fall was of practical import to me to learn from the experience. As it were, it is rarely true that a single factor will wholly explain an accident. My first suspect was speed. Riding at 100km per hour on such a treacherous road was a massive risk although this was not immediately impressed on my mind when started this leg of the trip. I had also noticed that this red mud apart from being slippery like a mud fish, it also stuck on the tyres. This means that it clogged all the thread patterns thereby affecting traction. In addition, the Anakee II Scorpion was wearing were not suited for this kind of road conditions. I am not an expert but I have wondered whether wearing knobblies would have made any difference. That I had very little traction was an idea that was to be proven right in a short while. But before I discuss this proof, the third suspect was the general condition of the road. Like I said earlier on, this road was recently graded and there was a lot of loose earth which was turned into mud by last night’s rain. In my view these were the causes of my tumble.

I rode on grateful that the odyssey was still on. My speed was reduced even further to below 40kms per hour since the mud was now a real menace. This red mud! All my riding skills were out of the bag: sometimes standing, sometimes sitting, and sometimes my feet helping with the balance. I was grateful that my off-road Garnae riding boots were a very good investment. For the first time I appreciated their true worth, yet they had one terrible weakness: water tended to seep into the boot through some crevices I have not been able discern to-date. The predicament was a health one. If they boots were soaked and wet inside, a whole day was necessary for them to dry. Sometimes I did not have a whole day. I was obliged to wear them wet. But bacteria, leather, moisture, socks and flesh are a bad combination. The first sign of this trouble was the petrifying reek. It was so potent that it has the potential to knock you senseless by merely depriving you of oxygen.

Ammonia is nothing compared to smelly boots. I remember, in 1979, I was visiting my friend Maloba who was studying at the same primary school with me. His elder brother Wekesa was also visited by a friend who was a soldier. He arrived while we were all in the parlour playing Scrabble. That smell was like nothing I had ever come across. At first everyone was polite about it, I looked at Maloba and we knowingly looked at the offending pair of legs. Soon everyone was at the risk of fainting, for this was not just about the overwhelming acrid smell, but there was most probably a chemical reaction producing a noxious gas. Shortly, I developed a headache. The poor soldier was soon dispatched to wash his boots and feet. Considering the matter in retrospect, I think the soldier boy was not even aware of the problem.

It was while engrossed in these thoughts that I went down the third time. At least I saw this one coming. I said that I was riding on the crest of the road. The simplest way to imagine the shape of this road is to imagine the keel of a boat, albeit a gentle one. Well, there was a truck coming in the opposite direction. I always give way to these trucks which I did with this one. I was riding downhill and battled to bring the bike to a gentle stop but somehow it was a battle. I went down. It was an insignificant fall; a fall nevertheless. The tuckers reached me as I was going down. They drove around me and kept going.

I realised that I needed a healthy respect for this mud-road. In less than 15kms, I was down the second time. I was determined to continue my trip, nothing, not the state of the road was going to stop me.

The Road Via Hell

The Scenary I 

It had rained hard the previous night as a result the conditions of the road had changed.  This implied that the riding strategies would equally have to be adapted.  It was the first time I was going to ride in these wretched circumstances: mud, rain, sand, hills and valley coupled with distance, loneliness, fatigue all fermenting in the same pot at the same time.  Unbeknown to me, the balance of the odyssey, my courage, endurance, physical fitness, was going to be tampered with: stretched and, tested beyond anything I had experienced in a novel way.  It is for this reason I called it the “Road from Hell”.  The real difference is that I emerged from this hell shaken but grateful to be alive.

The Sun was glorious waking up from its sleep; its golden arrows streaked the Eastern skies making it glow in a melange of beautiful strange orange-golden colour.  The problem with this east at Mitumba was that it was not the one at Jozi.  It was a relative east, to borrow from Einstein.  Yet I knew it was east since the sun always rises from there, and nothing in recent science had suggested that this thesis had changed.  But what kept me wondering even more was whether our sense of direction has something to do with the Circadian Rhythms?  As I pondered these matters, I brushed my teeth and doused my face with cold water.  This was inevitably the third day I was doing without a bath; it was alright.  

In spite of the experience I had gained over the days packing the bike, it still took me about an hour to tie-down every pieces of luggage.  As usual the local citizens were milling around me.  I know I can start a conversation with any one and talk about atoms, politics, the laws of supply and demand, enzymes, cooking or my favourite theme ―bikes, yet there were instances when I would give preference to being a monk ― a few moments in the morning.  It helps shuffle stuff in my mind: meditate or whatever name you give to it.  Right now I was thinking about the road ahead, yet it was impossible to avoid my hosts.  Rashid was here to introduce his wife to me: Huyu ndio shemeji, he said (It is a complicated to translate a local language directly into English since some of the words have no equivalent.  In this case, the literal meaning was brother here is our sister-in-law).  In the way he had said it, he regarded me as a brother, member of the family, and thinking about it later I was amazed by the extent of the inclusivity of our African languages, of which I speak ‘treasurably’ but modestly a good many of them and understand by extension the various dialects.

It was time to go ― the chief.  I had to request his permission to depart.  After a while, I found him among women who were sorting rice, either for a big feast or for the eating house.  I said to him I had slept very well. I inquired how he had slept.  After exchanging salutations, I said I was very grateful that he had hosted me.  I prayed that he will be kind to many more who come his way, and that I was asking for his permission to continue my journey.  He said indeed he rendered me his blessings and that I should travel with Allah.  As was my custom, I slipped a gift secretly in his hands. He said he accepted it and was very pleased.  I said I would come back one day, nearly letting a tear roll down my cheek.  I had already been warming the motor for about ten minutes and with a crowed to bid me well, I rode off in a very jovial mood saying Asante!  Asante! (Thank you).

The Scenary II

That was my first mistake.  Riding off in a jovial mood, now that seems odd to say.  It was not a bad thing in itself.  The problem was it clouded my immediate judgement to details of the changed road conditions.  This might seem a contradiction but it is how it happened.  But I rode off in same attitude I had ridden yesterday: speed, not exactly understanding that the rain has made the terrain a dangerous place.  It was the volcanic soil that is as slippery as oil.  As I began to breathe in the air, I began encountering pools of water on the road.  My good senses advised me to slow down: I climbed from 120kms to just below a 100kms.  This portion of the road evinced recent road improvement activities.  The road had a convex shape and my idea was to ride on highest part of the convex presuming it to be hard, safe and would provide traction.  In the middle of the road I pushed on desiring to cover as much distance as was possible today. 

It happened without warning.  My second tumble came to pass this moment.  Replaying the scene in my mind later, it was like in the movies, the frames had been slowed down a thousand times, the bike turned vertical from travelling horizontally, and begun to lean to my right at the same time sliding to my left and reducing the 180 degrees faster than I could blink. I separated from the bike and was thrown clear into the middle of the road.  I heard my screen snap, and then silence for even Scorpion had switched off.   I lay there waiting.  I don’t know what I was waiting for, just waiting fully conscious.  I was still in the vicinity of human habitation but it was early in the morning about 10kms from where I spent the night. 

The Road Continued after my Second Tumble

In times of tragedy, and I think this is true of Haiti in the wake of the earthquake, one of the sweetest sounds you can ever hear or long for is the human voice.  I don’t remember whether my eyes were closed or open but the voiced said “pole” (I sympathise or emphasise with you) and she held my muddied gloved right hand.  Slowly I sat up.  No pain, good I thought!  I moved my legs and hands no pain, good! I leaned forward and supported by her I stood up.  All this was happening in silence.  I was covered in the red mud from the top of my helmet to the toe of my boots.  It was like someone had soaked me in the red mud.  My riding gear is normally impressive, at least in the photos.  The red colour had replaced the black and yellow.  I could not stifle a chuckle.  Then I burst out laughing thinking that even my own mother would not have recognised me in my new outfit.  I said to the Angel Lady Asante!  I remember mumbling something like “journeys are sometimes like this”.

I inspected Scorpion.  It seems she has sustained some damage.  The screen was broken from the fame holding it into several pieces: it was irreparable.  I retrieved the road licence which was stuck some place on the inside.  I stood Scorpion on her feet.  The evidence was clear: the aluminium panniers had absorbed most of the shock and had acquired a new shape.  In addition, more reflectors had fallen off.  Scorpion herself was unscathed.  I stood her on her side stand and waited for her to take some breath then hit the Start black button.  She roared into life without hesitation.  That sound was really uplifting, the second sweetest sound I had heard that day.  I could not hold back a tear that decided to roll down my cheek.  I realised our bond was a very special one. I was glad the helmet was on to shield my face.  I had removed it temporally to clean the mud off the visor.  I shuddered to imagine Scorpion not starting; what would happen?  I mean not start in a serious way. I was about 3500kms in the middle of nowhere.  I believed at that moment that I sat on Scorpion, waved and rode-off.  That was the first of the more than fifteen falls I would experience that day on a stretch of about 280 kms.  I normally cover 100kms in 50 minutes.  Today was a new experience; I would spend exactly 15hours and 17 minutes on this stretch of road, for hell had just broken lose, but and it is a big one, I knew that the Lord was travelling with me as pillion.

A Night at Mpanda Ndogo Mpanda

I remained sitting on the bike for about thirty minutes, the motor idling and the bike on parking lights.  My heart, as it often did, suggested to me that this was the place to stop for the night.  I waited for the owners of Mitumba to come to me.  Anywhere I stopped; there was never lack of people who came to scrutinize this unusual visitor, to satisfy their curiosity, to fondle the bike – that is what they did. About ten people were around me.   It had one advantage; it always gave me the occasion to start a conversation.  In this case, I requested to know if there was a headman or chief of the area.  It was a very small trading post.  In chorus, they pointed to a shop directly in front of me.  When they learnt that I speak fluent Kiswahili, they said Karibu, which means welcome. He is in there, they said.  I promptly dismounted from the bike and approached the shop. 

 An African  A Market Day -- Bananas

Shikamoo baba I cried.  This is a Kiswahili greeting to a person of respect (elder).  In his case I added baba, (daddy to spice it up), thus elevating the respect I was paying him to even a higher notch.  Shikamoo has Arabic origins and can be translated as I hold your feet.  After the salutations, he asked me to sit.  I patiently waited until he had finished his business for audience.  He eventually sat beside me and in this manner, I introduced myself, my purpose and why I wanted to see him.  He was a very kind man in his late forties.  Having understood my purpose he promptly showed me two places where I could pitch tent.  He said the one nearest to his house was the best since I would be in his compound.  I said I speak fluent Kiswahili and I also understand the cultures of the region. For this reason I did not find it difficult to blend with the folks of the town.  After parking scorpion and pitching tent, I went to find company and some food.   Rashid was a citizen of the area I invited him to join me.

  A Market Day -- Pinapples

These people are amiable folks and terribly welcoming; it was like I had come home.  We sat in small eating place and ordered grilled chicken and Ugali (pap or maize meal).  As we waited, we sipped Kilimanjaro, the local bottled beer.  Two extremely beautiful ladies joined us.  I subsequently learnt that the village headman was their uncle.  They operated the eating house.  I noticed it was predominantly Muslim.  On this note it is necessary to point out that one reason why Islam is very successful is because it tends to blend and fuse with the local culture; this makes it appealing.  Islam has blended so well with Swahili as a culture since the days when the Arab dhows came to the East African coast to trade in ivory, spices, slaves and the like.  In fact in my own social origins, to have a cousin who is a moslem is common place.  It was easy for me to notice all this marriage in the surroundings around me.  I need to mention that Kiswahili as a language is spoken widely in the Great Lake Region (Tanzania, Kenya, Uganda, Rwanda, Congo (DRC), Burundi, Somalia and parts of Southern Sudan) although in a multiplicity of dialects. 

As conversation flowed oiled by Kilimanjaro, we spoke about a variety of subjects: marriage, relationships, and politics.  My favourite theme was education.  I learnt that my host was married.  He said he had three boys.  I am a teacher and naturally was inclined to speak about the value of education to the generation of tomorrow.   I was able to extract a promise from my host that he would educate these boys and the ones yet to arrive, for he had indicated that he was going to have two more children.  Although I was tired and would have loved the company of my tent; presently, I loved the company of these ordinary folks.  I had become one of them at least in attitude.  They spoke from their hearts, the simplicity of their manner, the generosity of the rural environment was way different from what I was used to in the metropolitan of Johannesburg.  For me it was a way of reclaiming what was lost or rather what the metropolitan had dispossessed me.   I knew that with wide ears and open eyes there was something to learn from them folks.  

It was the coming of a storm that signaled my time to depart and take up residence in my tent.  And so it rained so hard that night in a manner I had not experienced during the entire trip so far.  It was like the heavens had simply opened all its taps.   I was secure and nothing disturbed my peace; I simply drifted off into the land of sleep.

Into the Heart of Western Tanzania

To Mpanda Ndogo Mpanda

When I set out on this odyssey, numerous friends prayed for the success of my trip.  I knew it was blessed by the Devine and that it was meant to be.  There are many reasons for saying this but an outstanding reason was that this trip was initially planned for December 2008, it simply failed.  Although everything had been taken care of, it seems certain mental preparations had not been met adequately.  I subsequently realised this in retrospect.  I supplied a bona fide but incomplete explanation to explain this state of affair on the Wilddog Forum.

Saint Ireneus once said that God works through nature.  I am not a theologian and will not give treaties on this subject, but my simple faith demonstrated this in a very ordinary manner.  I did everything as far as it was humanly possibly to prepare for the initial trip but it simply failed.  How many times does something fail to work in your favour but you are hard-headed and insistent that it must go on as planned?  How many times do you ever listen to yourself and the circumstances surrounding you?  In the subsequent preparations, which preparations were even better including trying to arrange for Travel Insurance from a reputable firm, one day after a long delay and on the eve of my departure, I was inconveniently informed that my trip was too risky and could not be insured.  In short, I departed without this facility.  I had done lots of travel preparations by trying to cover every conceivable contingency.  My Wilddog Forum colleagues were instrumental to this end either by way of advice, such as from the late Ibele Kruger, supplies from Kurt Beine among others, actual work on the bike, from my buddy Andy.  Among others, TravelGravel, for instance, sent her phone number saying that if ever I wanted to communicate she would provide this avenue.  It is not possible to enumerate every act of kindness that was offered but suffice to say that God works in mysterious ways.  Of all the preparations I did, neither my friends nor I remembered to think about the appropriate tyres for the trip – knobblies.  I had discussed every detail for most of the trip but hardly anything about tyres and even where I did it was more out of curiosity.  For some reason I assumed that Anakees would do.  As I pointed out previously they are good tyres but only to a certain point.  At this point of the trip these tyres were a none-issue. This oversight would result into many tumbles so that after  the fifteenth event, I stopped counting.

Just passed Mpanda Ndogo Mpanda

I did not spend much time in Sumbawanga.  I rode down its main street – the only tarmac portion of the road – filled up on petrol and headed for Mpanda Ndogo Mpanda about 250km to the north.  A full tank would cover this distance.  I wish to alert the reader that petrol in this part of the world was approximately two dollars a litre. As I left that town behind me, the sun was beginning to go over the horizon; I was anxious to reach Mpanda before it was dark.  On tarmac this was an easy trip, but on dirt road my first real test of my riding skills on this sort of terrain was an ordeal.  As I gathered speed, I realised that the road was not as firm as the one I had just ridden on into Sumbawanga.  A close look determined that a grader had recently levelled this road.  This had many implications such as lots of sand collected together but disguised.  I could tell from the way Scorpion was dancing on the road that there was a lot of loose earth beneath my tyres.  In addition, if it were to rain as it did that night, the entire road become one big pool of mud that would make it very treacherous  to ride on.  Towards the equator the sun sets quickly.  I decided to maintain a decent speed to cover good ground before it was dark.  I was also worried by the fact that Katavi National Park was between me and Mpanda.  I decided that the first town I came across, I would call it a day.  

A Land Cruiser was in front of me and the amount of dust it was raising was blinding me, and some of it was entering my air vents in the helmet and obviously my mouth. When I had a chance to pass it, they never saw me again.  It was not until 7:45 that I arrived at small town called Mitumba; by then it was pitch black; I could not see my hand in front of my face. I was tired, hungry but glad that I had enjoyed this portion of the trip although it had started in the morning with a tumbled. 

To be continued…

Livingstone Falls

Livingstone the Falls- Zambian Side

Livingstone the Falls-Zambian Side

Livingstone the Falls- Zambian Side

Livingstone the Falls-Zambian Side

Livingstone the Falls-Zambian Side

Welcome to Tanzania

 The Road Ahead toward Sumbawanga

I am now riding on a typical African ‘dirt’ road: rugged, portholes, sand, loose stones, and generally not maintained.  Let me mention that I did not have knobblies for tyres; I had Anakee 2 which had handled the paved road surface as well as on firm dirt road so far very well, but that is about it.  The story takes on a new twist when I begun to encounter different dirt road conditions as you will soon learn.  In hindsight, and ever since I returned from this trip, I changed to 50/50 tyres.  These are good both for paved and unpaved roads to some extent.

Part of this trip was to relish the riding on different road surfaces.   This being the aim, my first encounter on the dirt road in spite of my first tumble had wetted my appetite for more.  I picked up speed gradually climbing to 120km per hour.  I man the machine and Scorpion mans the road, it is a perfect scene for the duo to perform a perfect rode dance.   It is about 2:00 pm, my destination is Sumbawanga a small dusty town located about 200km from the border.  To say that the stretch from Mbala (Zambia) to Kasesya border post (Tanzania) was a bad road is an understatement.  It was the beginning of the road from Hell. If truth be told then it is that I tumbled so many times that after the 15^th tumble, I stopped counting.   Well the next stretch from Kasesya for the next 200 kms was firm dirt road with loose stones and lots of dust.  It was thrilling to leave a cloud of dust trailing behind me.   You see, the little joys of life are in the little links that make life worthwhile and leave ones face creases with a smile.   My delight was to be on this odyssey with all its attendant factors.   

A Market Day -- Pawpaws

Although riding required 110% of my attention to which I committed myself to the extent that I decided not to listen to music from an Ipod a generous friend had lent me, I always allowed myself a little serious thought.  I did not want this to be a trip just for its sake: the fact that I was riding alone was a great source of pleasure.  It allowed me considerable measure of time to be alone and therefore room for some deep thought on many personal issues.  2009 was particularly a good year if such a thing can be said.  Part of the ride was to say thank you.  I was grateful to the Divine that I had received many blessings one of which was that I had landed a permanent job as a lecturer.  Yet in the midst of all these joy and laughter was raw pain, heart rending pain that left me sometimes numb and asking “why” to which I did not have answers.   I will return to this point shortly.

In the meantime, I wish to say that all my life I had spent time doing things for people, and one of them was to seeing my 4 siblings through school.  My mother had died when I was only 21.  That is the age when you want your mother around since it is the point when you are making some life-time decisions.  And even though you make the decisions, you need a trusted one to listen, to endorse, to question and even sometimes to remonstrate with you.  It is that time of transition from being a teen to being an adult.  It is an important time that makes or breaks you.  I was very close to my mom; she was my best friend and mentor.  I trusted her; I confided in her; I depended on her.  One day she summoned me to her bed side in hospital.   Without much ado she said to me, you are going to school – I was a just beginning my year as a sophomore – you will not find me when you return next vacation.  To cut the long story short, that is how it happened.  I remember the day vividly.  One day I met my neighbour Alfred on a street in Kampala – it was a clear hot and dusty Kampala day.  He called me by name and offered condolences for the passing of my mother.   I remember sitting by the roadside and crying like a baby.  

In our discussion at the bedside, mom’s desire was that I marry a beautiful lady and have a family.  I wanted to join the priesthood; it was therefore necessary to obtain her blessings.   She had gone silent for an hour when I disclosed my heart’s desires.  In the end she said no.  I had to take care of my siblings when she was gone. 

In 1993 I found and feel in love with a girl I adored so much.  Juliet, for that was her name, was everything a man desires in a woman: kind, hard-working, intelligent, beautiful, funny, and the list is endless.  I visited Juliet on the 24^th of December 1993.  That was the last time I saw her alive.  She was tragically shot and killed on the 1^st of Jan 1994. She was the second beloved person I was lost in a space of two years.   What was the meaning of these happenings?  First it was mom and now it was Juliet.  I cried so much until I had to beg God to stop the tears.  The tear stopped; I never cried again about Juliet to this day. 

In June 1995, I joined the Jesuits for priesthood training – for the next eleven years I was in the training for priesthood against my mother’s will. 

In 2006, I quit.  In October 2008 I got engaged to a Xhosa girl – a great person, very intelligent, a great soul.  We planned to marry on 28^th Feb 2010, but alas it was not to be!   She told me one day, she was not interested any more in the relationship.  She left the engagement ring on the table.  I subsequently disposed of it at Livingstone Falls.  It was painful – but what could be more painful than the loss of mom and the loss of Julie?  I had to learn to live with such pain.  Lots of friends gave me strength.  In this manner, delving deep in my life experiences, I covered ground to reach Sumbawanga about mid-afternoon without realising that I had covered nearly 200kms.  But my pains were not yet finished; a new wave was waiting somewhere in the realm of the unknown.

Arriving at Sumbawanga

The First of the Many Tumbles

Kasama with the Manager my Host

It was a dump night. I could tell by the heavy dew on the tent. I was up early to prepare for my northward trip. I was finally leaving Zambia today into my third country since I embarked on this odyssey. Tanzania is laid back peaceful country that I came to love since my first visit in 1995. I subsequently studied at the University of Dar es Salaam, and lived and worked in Dar as well as Arusha for a couple of years. If such a thing can be said of a country and its people, Tanzania is a gentle country. So, unlike Zambia which I had visited for the first time, Tanzania was not foreign. Yet western Tanzania was some place that always fascinated me. In this region was one of the longest and deepest lakes in the world. My dream to see Lake Tanganyika was just about to materialize.

In the meantime, Richard the proprietor of the property arrived at 6:00am. He as well as John gave me a hand in securing my luggage onto the bike. My itinerary was to take me as far as Ujiji, a sea port on Lake Tanganyika, where H.M. Stanley is reputed to have found Dr. David Livingstone. As it turned out this was not to be the case.

In the interim, just before I departed, Chief of Police arrived. As it were, he had a big heart for big bikes. Obviously he was interested, and the normal battery of questions followed: where was I coming from; where was I headed and mostly about the bike. He said he had ridden police BMWs and it appeared he would have given this yellow bike a spin had it not been that I had emphatically expressed my intentions to depart. He settled for a photo opportunity. After this event, I emptied all the Kwacha in my pocket into the manager’s basket and tipped John 5$. We hugged and bid each other farewell.

The Police Chief of Kasama Biding me Farewell

People in this part of the world are generally good-natured. It is therefore not out of place to be treated like a long lost cousin returned with warmth and goodness. But it would be a mistake to think that everyone is good. There are two forces governing, namely, good and bad embraced in an eternal battle, and each is vying for a place in the human heart. Classic examples of this battle have been seen in recent history in the story of Mother Theresa of Calcutta as well as the Rwandan genocide of 1994 of which I will speak about in my Rwandan leg of the odyssey.

Mbala was my current destination 160 kms from Kasama. I wasted no time in covering this distance. I travelled through beautiful country side lush with green forests as was most of Zambia adorned with lots of savannah grasslands, especially the elephant grass. It was also the mangoes season needless to mention, I gorged myself on this yellow fruit.

So far it has seemed a flawless trip, but that was about to change. My real problems started on this leg of the odyssey. I arrived in Mbala to discover that although there was a border crossing, the Immigration office was in Mbala and customs at Mpulungu, and not at the border. I discovered this when I stopped to refuel and in conversation extracted this information – good fortunes. At Mbala, I easily located the immigration office. It was locked and a notice on the door said: call Mr. Mpalula. Two numbers were clearly written on the door for this purpose. The assumption was that you, of course, have a phone. I didn’t. I went to a municipal office in the vicinity and a guard agreed to help me. I bought airtime and he called the numbers on the door. The officials promptly arrived. One technique I seem to have mastered well on this odyssey is to display my most charming-self even when commonsense dictated self-defense, to put it bluntly. In dealing with any immigration and custom official or any authority for that matter, a combination of politeness, salutations, introductions, and stories were valuable assets in getting things done. It was a strategy I used to simply my life. At Mbala, my particulars were entered into the ‘big book’, and my passport promptly stamped. Just when I thought I was done, the immigration official said I had to ride to Mpulungu at the foot of Lake Tanganyika to clear customs. It meant another 90mins return trip in the opposite direction. Not having a choice I settled to this task. It was not a totally wasted effort. It was a beautiful country side. I encountered my first mountains and afforded me the first glimpse of Lake Tanganyika.

Mpulungu is a typical one street port at end of which is a pier. Apart from fishing, this was a port of travel between Kigoma on the Tanzanian side, Kalemie, on the Democratic Republic of Congo side and Bujumbura of Burundi. I arrived at customs to find the officer had gone for lunch. It was an hour before he returned but only because I had complained that I was not happy with the waiting. Another official had volunteered to call him on his cellphone. In the meantime, I espied the lake. The water was green and according to the immigration official stationed here, it was so thick that it was not good for anything. As I mentioned above, Lake Tanganyika is the deepest lake on the African continent and formed as a result of volcanic activities. The immigration official said that throughout the year, a number of tremours shake the vicinity. I need to say that at this point, my camera had stopped working. So pictures in this part of the word are lacking to corroborate my adventures.

It was about noon. My custom clearance involved the official’s signature and stamp to make it official. I departed. I needed to refuel once more. I found a petrol station attendant who accepted my dollars in exchange for fuel. I had not eaten since morning. I wanted to be out of Zambia. So I gave up seeing some water falls in the area. I followed what was more of a track than a road. It was the third time I would be riding on dirt road. This was particularly a very bad stretch which in due course resulted into my first tumble on the Zambian soil. What a way to depart a country!

I had travelled for some 27 odd kilometers, of this 40kms section when I reached a section of the road which had been traversed by trucks. It seems to have rained such that the truck left very deep tyre gutters on both sides of the road.

It happened so fast. What I clearly remember is the swaying motion of the bike from one side of these gutters to the other and in what was violently forcing me to ride from one side of the road to the other. Imagine the gutters. The bike was out of the gutter onto the other surface of the road then back into the gutter and as if in slow motion, I went down on the left side of the road. I was probably doing 50kms. There was dust everywhere. Scorpion switched off. It was my real first tumble since 1992. I was in the middle of nowhere. When I managed to extricate myself from under the bike, I assessed the initial damage. Myself – none. Scorpion – none just an injured ego. But what had really happened: I am a mindful rider! Then to my horror I noticed that my topbox was missing. It contained most of my immediate tools: all spanners, foot pump as well as and my travel documents. I never use profane language but f I think I did use some of it for my mouth seemed to have retained the ugliness of having used foul language. I remembered a friend’s words: buy a net and wrap it around the topbox. Why had I ignored such simple words? Where was my topbox? Who has picked it? Why did I not hear it falling off? My mind was working furiously.

I knew I had to remain calm, for I still had a long way to go. A stable state of mind was vital and requisite for the entire trip. I was thankful that I attended the Honda off road riding course. They had practically taught me how to lift the bike. Believe me folks, Scorpion turned out to be so heavy beyond anything I had ever imagined. But in one clean move she was up. Second assessment, the left side pannier had lost its reflectors, had taken some pounding but other than that Scorpion has survived her first character check. Just then at the corner my eye I saw something in the bush on the left side of the road from the direction I had come. I blinked several times to ensure my mind was not tricking me. I made a full turn and looked at the place; surely I could not deny it was the topbox. “Thank God I” whimpered in relief.  I was so overwhelmed that tears rolled down my cheeks. I sat down and held my head between my hands. The thoughts that had run through my head were suddenly wiped away. Then it suddenly became clear what had brought me down; it was the top box. The sideways motion had forced me from one gutter to another and the roughness of the road simply multiplied the swaying motion that in turn aggravated the imbalance that finally brought me down. I was carrying about 20 pounds of stuff in the top box.  The rest is history. Sometimes we don’t learn from our mistakes. Because I paid less attention to the top box, history was to repeat itself twice.

For now, I fetched the topbox. The rack had come off and so needed fixing it back on the bike. When I ignored any attempt to understand what had happened. It was bad judgment that created environment for a subsequent disaster. If I am well, it is only by the grace of God.

Roadside Market selling the abundant Mangoe Fruit

In the course of fixing the top box, three sojourners, my country men from South Africa, travelling in a Toyota Hilux, arrived at the scene of accident. They inquired if I was ok. If truth be told, I was tired, sweating, and hungry. In addition, I would have gladly done with some company following the tumble. It is human nature to require company when afflicted by calamity to reassure us that we are not alone. Well, for some reason I don’t know even after considering the matter, I said I was ok; they continued their journey. I was later to find them at the Tanzanian border post.

A Market Day -- Non-GM Tomatoes

Sometime about 2:00pm I came to the border post very dusty, shaken but alive and full of enthusiasm to continue my adventure. I never said it was going to be a smooth odyssey. Tumbling was inevitably going to be part of the trip with certainty because Scorpion has only two wheels. This trip required stamina, courage and gusto. I was not in short supply of these motivations.

The border post consisted of a closed gate and a small house with a two flags on the roof and someone manning it. I was cleared and allowed to cross to the Tanzanian side.