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.

Into the Heart of Zambia - Destination Kasama.

A Morning in Lusaka

A familiar bird chirping in a tree outside my lodging window woke me. It was a sound I had heard so often but couldn’t tell the owner of such a sweet voice.  I knew I should be on my way travelling north, but I did not feel like getting out of bed. These were holidays and sleep was part of the adventure. I drifted between sleep and being fully awake as I thought of the 1000 or so kilometers that lay ahead of the day’s trip.

It has always been my habit from high school to wake up at the second cock crow, something that has stuck with me even though I periodically treated myself to a good sleep. My way of life on this matter is that good sleep is a good antidote to one’s health. So, I insist on not less than seven hours of sleep. Generally I am an early bird to bed except in difficult circumstances. If the anecdotal evidence of my sleeping habit is anything to go by, I am grateful to God for a healthy body augmented by weekly exercises, a relic of my younger days when I played a mélange of sports: rugby, lawn tennis, football, badminton, and volleyball. I even tried cricket at one time many years ago.

I rolled out of bed. I had to type my ride report. My first problem was the sockets in this part of the world were the square-type. My computer had round a plug with round pins an oversight that was to affect the progress of writing my ride-reports. Frustrated, I went into the bathroom, which had the largest water dispenser I have yet seen — the size of a platter in rather a unique bathroom made of stone, wall to wall. It was also the first place I had a real encounter with mosquitoes on this trip. Fortunately I had slept under a net; however, in the office of the proprietor there were swarms of them. If I hate certain living things, I am not ashamed to say gnats top that list. I was not going, in the tradition of St Francis of Assisi, to call them brother mosquitoes. Don’t the statistics of the WHO say they kill more people than combined HIV/AIDs, tuberculosis and a host of other anti-human vermins? These thoughts preoccupied my mind until I left the bathroom.

I had left the bike unpacked the previous evening and so it was easy to get ready and going. In the meantime, I wanted some more of Zambian Kwacha for petrol and so I had to find a Bureau de change. Zambia is one odd place where the use of the dollar is not an offence. I paid my lodge rent with a 20$ bill, but I was not sure this would be the case up country, so the need for Zambian Kwacha. The goodness of the human heart came to my rescue. I asked John, who had watched over my bike in the night. The man had been extremely kind. He loaned me his phone to send some test messages to my various contacts: Andy and family. I wanted to send just two text messages. But he said I could have the phone for the entire night. I was humbled. I remember joking – if you girlfriend calls and you don’t reply or some strange voice answers, what would she think of you. He laughed and said “you are my guest; take the phone”. The following morning he also cleaned my screen and helped me perform my routine ritual of securely tying everything on the bike. At this point a small crowd had gathered. After many words or appreciation, I set out to find the mall, which was on my route out of the city.

I arrived early; the mall was to open at 8:15am. I struck conversation with a well dressed security man like you would find in any metropolitan city. Our topics were diverse. Every time, I chatted with someone, the conversation would begin with the bike. For most folks, it was fascinating to find, a ‘black’ man touring on a bike. In general, and only from anecdotal evidence, tourism is considered a ‘white’ man’s activity. I often wondered whether the enjoyment of the good things of life is the preserve of certain races. Well, the question that was asked repeatedly went something like this:

“You mean you have come all the way from South Africa?”

“And I enjoyed every moment of it”, was my standard answer.

“On a bike”, the conversation would continue.

"Yes, in flesh, bone, blood and metal" I would reply.

This was usually followed with the nodding or shaking of the head, to which I would put a positive interpretation to imply agreement or wonderment. In the meantime, the Bureau De Change opened and the security man literally led me by hand and explained that this man is travelling and needs some kwacha. No paper work just the exchange of currencies – my 100$ for an equivalent in kwacha. Loaded, and in the company of my new acquaintance, I went to ShopRite and stocked up on water, samosas, rolls, and biscuits. It was now about 8:30am and I was anxious to set off. I bid my guest farewell thanked him with a 5000K and was enroute to my next destination in northern Zambia.

I eased myself into the journey gradually building up speed. Zambia is a unique country. The fact that it is wooded right from Kazungula provided such a contrast with the familiar South African Veld. T2 is the highway cutting though Zambia from south to North (part of the Great North Road) passes through tropical forests that stretch as far as the eye can see — different from the wooded shrubs of Northern Botswana. While I drunk in all this beauty with my eyes, and breathed in the clean air, most of this part of the journey was hard core riding on a very good road through Momba, Kabwe and Kapiri Mposhi where I stopped to have a good meal and rehydrate. I know I don’t make much fuss about eating but when I have a chance to eat, I never do it the military style, namely in a hurry, for it was most certainly the case that my next meal would be the next day.

After energizing myself, I set out to enjoy the ride and Scorpion eagerly and impressively yielded with her excellent performance. Man and machine churned away miles and miles of road. We travelled northeastwards, through Mkushi, Serenje, Kalonje and at Mpika, I turned northwards off T2 into M1. Along the way I found lots of honey on sale. I bought a litter. Anyone who has eaten unadulterated honey, as God intended it to be, will know that it is the sweetest stuff one can lay hands on. I also came across the biggest mushrooms I had ever seen — as large as a medium size tray. I remember taking photos but I don’t know what happened. Well, after refueling, now late afternoon, I set off. I was anxious it was getting late and my eleventh commandment is never to ride at night. Surprisingly the road was tarred and great. My target was to reach Kasama — the provincial capital of the region. In this part of the world, the sun sets early and by six o’clock it was dark.

On a clear day with the stars bright in the sky looking down on mother earth, I came across hundreds of young men and women hanging out on the road chilling away the evening. What a contrast! What would the young stars in a city such as Johannesburg be engaged in at this time? This was Bembaland and Bemba was the lingua franca. I speak English, but not everyone speaks it as I soon discovered. In one place, I stopped to enquire the distance to Kasama — my GPs had given up its ghost, a terrible inconvenience. Well, we could hardly communicate. The 20 year olds could hardly speak a word of English and neither could I speak Bemba. In next place I stopped they simply bolted away, every one scattering into different directions. I was intrigued. I could not understand why they ran away: was it the bike, the manner I was dressed, the fact that I spoke English or some unknown superstition. I chuckled and rode off.

By now, the Zambian Sun had completely disappeared behind the horizon and the pitch darkness enveloped me like a blanket. I had reduced my speed to a moderate 80km. I realised that my tall screen was actually a nuisance. For some reason it was obstructing my sight and vision to the extent that I stood to look over it. How odd? It was pitch dark that I decided that I was quits riding tonight. I would stop where my heart told me to stop as soon as possible.

I came across three teens and decided to try my luck. After salutations and pronouncing my names, I requested to see their father if he was at home. The house was good looking and tucked behind a green hedge. The teens response was “yes”. Promptly one of them ran off. Soon an elderly man came up to me. I presumed that the youngster had communicated my intentions. When I said I was requesting permission to pitch my tent, he said there was a primary school three kilometers down the road. Meanwhile, the youngster had returned with a glass of water in beer glass which I gladly accepted but it mystified me that he had brought water. I never mentioned water anywhere in our conversation. I drank the water and thanked the old man for his time, water and rode away into the darkness.

“Why didn’t the old man reject my request?” I was angry, but did not know why. I didn’t think the old man's refusal to be my host was anything worth losing one temper over. But combined with the fatigue of riding, a hot day, hunger anything was possible.  I settled in the saddle and took the old man's refusal as an omen to reach Kasama. I resigned myself to this task. I might have ridden for 70km before I started seeing lights in the distance. I consoled myself the day would nevertheless come to an end. It was a relief to finally reach my destination. I had ridden 865km and had run out of enthusiasm to go any further.

When you arrive at a destination after the sun has set, it is kind of hard to figure out the geography. I decided to follow my heart — ride through the town until your heart tells you to stop — something like tossing a coin but even better. That I did and came to a brightly lit place which I assumed was some sort of lodging. I went to ask if they could give me permission to pitch my tent. The guard went to fetch the manager. Good fortunes smiled on me. By now sleep was beckoning. The manager, Richard a soft spoken and a very polite man personally directed and helped me to pitch the tent under a lamp post in a secluded area of his compound, of course, after he had heard my story that I was a tourist travelling through eleven African countries. His property was a hotel facility still under construction.

Nearby the aroma of roasting stake wafted through the air — how the mind works when it smells good food. I simply had to eat and an order was without further ado. Meanwhile, the guard showed me the ablutions and where to find water. Even though I was dog-tired, I did not want to appear rude, so I spent some time chatting with them about the places I had visited. The stories flowed helped by a local beer who name I don’t remember.

They were kind enough to realise I was tired and allowed me to retire to bed or rather my tent. I had no cares whatsoever. I just wanted to sleep. My philosophy of performance is ‘one day at time’; sleep is all I wanted to do now. I lay down to say thank you Father for the wonderful ride and some where in the process  I promptly passed out.

The Good Folk of Lusaka

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In Mbala just before leaving for Tanzania

I sat in traffic jam as time crawled by.  If you think Johannesburg is gridlocked with traffic jams, wait until you get to Lusaka.  I was very thirsty, hungry and was beginning to feel very hot.  Cities can be intimidating, even though I live in one of the biggest on the continent, I felt uneasy in Lusaka.  Where do I spend the night was the question that was beleaguering my mind?  I could sense eyes peering at me from the windows of the cars around me.  I could also sense the respect from the drivers, for every time I moved or tried to change lanes, even taxi drivers let me pass.  It was humbling to know that there was lots of goodness around me.  It was as though they were telling me: we know you are tired.  How enlivening!

Scorpion Always attract People in Mbala

I went around central Lusaka for a while. My purpose was either to locate a place to pitch my tent or find some cheap place to lodge.  What was immediately noticeable was that there were massive construction projects in Lusaka.  I could also see from the well manicured lawns, modern houses, high walls with electric fences and well groomed guards.  I knew I was riding through the posh suburbs of Lusaka.  It was entirely accidental.  If there was any resemblance with the city I live in, it had to do with shopping malls. 

I recall denouncing the words of an Australian Jesuit priest who unashamedly told me that Johannesburg was like Brisbane or any large city in Australia.  I asked him why it was not the other way round.  In other words Australian cities set the standard.  It is common to find folks who insensitively make themselves or their issues reference point.  It is extremely irritating. 

To return to our story, I could feel the pangs of hunger urging me to find something to eat.  I had drunk lots of water but had not a morsel of bread since Livingstone.   First I found an internet café and sent a few emails and posted on my web-blog.  Eventually, I turned into a mall and what do I see: Debonair’s Pizza.  The world was indeed a small Place.  If you remember the comedy "The God's Must be Crazy 1" and the Coca-Cola bottle dropping from the sky, you know what I mean.  I ordered a medium size Pizza. In the interim, as is my custom, I approached a man who introduced himself as Lukas.  He said “you are unusually dressed”.

“Thank you Lukas,” said I.  “I am a rider, just arrived from Livingstone.  Would you know of a place I can pitch my tent or find some decent but cheap lodging?”

“There are plenty of places but you’ll have to look around” said he.

“And what is the security situation like,” I asked?

He spent the several minutes painting a bleak picture of Lusaka’s security problems which I listened to half-heartedly.  Don’t forget I live in J’burg.  It seem like security was his favourite topic.

I collected my pizza and was on my way out, when  I met two white men having a beer.  I introduced myself with the intention of asking them if I could pitch my tent on their grounds.  Once I said I was from Jozi (Johannesburg), it was all smiles. They even offered a beer which I declined.  The older man, Mr. Van Niekerk man was from Jozi and the younger one Mr. Smith was from Zimbabwe.  Both offered to help.  Van Niekerk made a few phone calls and said there was a place I could lodge if I so desired.  Mr. Smith offered to drive me to a campsite.  In the end, a woman sitting on an adjacent table drew my attention and introduced herself as Maria. She said she overheard our conversation and wanted to help.  She called a number and said the proprietor had said there was a place called the Goldengate down the road for 97,000 kwacha (19$).  Some of these numbers can be huge, but with very little monetary value.

Meanwhile, I thanked the white gentlemen.  Just before I departed, they asked me why I trusted “mzungu” (Whiteman).  I said sometimes I trust them, sometimes I don’t and left it at that.  I was tired and part of my mind had shut down to even consider such an idealistic subject.  The active part of my mind was thinking about tucking me in a warm bed.

Maria gave directions.  After giving her my card, I thanked her and arranged with a taxi driver to guide me to the lodge for 15000kwacha.  Goldengate was co-owned by a German married to a Congolese lady.  He was a soft spoken man who was also very polite.  It was a short drive from the mall.  I was so excited to have a room for the night, a hot bath and my pizza.  How everyday things can bring so much joy.  I recalled Alistair, back in the 1990s, an English  tourist driving across African in a 1970 Landrover, to whom I offered some tea, with bread and jam.  He said he had not tasted jam in since he left the UK.  The joy in him was simply total.  It was of such purity that you could not doubt its sincerity. 

Well, just before I slept, I used the night guard’s phone to send couple of text messages. Every time I used someone’s phone I gave them 5$ worth of airtime. I had my phone on roaming but the last time it worked was in Gaborone.  All I remember was thanking the good Lord for being my protector. Sleep so sweet, and sweeter than the sweetest thing was the only thing on my mind.  Sleep beckoned; I yielded drifted off yonder into the unconscious.