April 26, 2016

Today marks nine months since I left San Marcos, Texas on this trip. It seems like yesterday. The places I’ve seen, the people I’ve met, the memories I’ve made….it all flows together and feels like it could go on forever. 

I spent two days and two nights in Kasane, Botswana at the campgrounds of the Chobe Safari Lodge, which allowed me time to take a three hour game drive in one of their vehicles through the northeastern end of Chobe National Park. I saw a lot of buffalo and impala, a couple of lions, some giraffe, and an elephant. But still no leopard. Of the “Big Five”, that’s the one I’ve missed. 

I did see a lot of guinea fowl though, and I saw them in Etosha as well. But here they call them Chobe Chickens.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

As I was packing up to leave Kasane, the baboons made an appearance at the camp. The wildlife just in the campground is pretty amazing, if you can be satisfied with warthogs, mongoose, monkeys and baboons walking around you at all hours.

I also met a family from Rhodesia (now Zimbabwe) who were traveling together in a 4×4 on a two month journey. Baz saw my bike and the Texas registration, and stopped to talk. While his sister, brother, and sister-in-law still live in Africa, he’s lived in Canada for 25 years, working for Toyota, and has an XT250. Like most others, he never thought of riding it any long distance. Now he’s having other thoughts. 

I headed back across the border to Zambia on the Kazungula ferry, and east to Livingstone. As I left Kazungula, the road condition improved and I had nice pavement with painted stripes all the way to Livingstone, where I intend to camp for two nights.

On the way into Livingstone I see a t-shirt with a great saying on it:

In America, they call it SURVIVOR.

In Africa, we call it CAMPING.

 

 

April 27, 2016

I’m staying on the edge of the Zambezi River, just about one kilometer up from Victoria Falls, known as Vic Falls to the locals. The river here is wide, with islands in the middle. On the other side is Zimbabwe. There is an island in the middle of the river, right at the falls. Apparently, this is where David Livingstone stood and first viewed the falls that he named for Queen Victoria of England. 

On the other side of my tent, about 200 meters through the trees, is a runway. I’ve been listening to helicopters and micro-lights take off and land all afternoon, so I decide I’ll go check it out. 

Rather than spend the money, time, and hassle to take the motorcycle across the border to Zimbabwe, where there is a better view of Victoria Falls, I decide to do a 15 minute helicopter flight over the falls. It’s possible to go through immigration and get a pass to walk out onto the bridge that connects Zambia and Zimbabwe in order to view the falls from this no-man’s land, but I’ve decided the best overall view is from the air. It’s a big bite out of my budget, but I’ve been saving quite a bit by camping every night, so I reward myself with the helicopter ride. 

It is definitely worth it. I don’t think I would have understood the geography of the falls without seeing it from the air. Victoria Falls drops into a canyon that, unlike most waterfalls, runs perpendicular to the river above the falls, and zig-zags back and forth several times before continuing on into Zimbabwe. Each of these canyons was once where the falls were, but over time the falls have edged back to where they are today. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The bridge connecting Zambia to Zimbabwe has a bungee platform, a swing, and a zipline. Tempting, but I’ve spent enough here already. Tomorrow I’ll pack up and start heading north towards Lusaka. 

I shot video with the GoPro from the helicopter also, but I’ll have to find some better wifi before I can upload it. I’ll add another post once I get it uploaded.

And one more photo tribute to Lloyd…I don’t recall if he ever made it here, but this is definitely another one of his kind of places.

April 28, 2016

As I ride along north out of Livingstone, Zambia I’m listening to Red Dirt music from home — Turnpike Troubadours, Josh Abbott, Rob Baird, Whiskey Myers. It feels a bit odd listening to Texas music while riding through these small African towns where I am the only white face and the only motorcycle, but it also has some comfort to it. I’m thinking of the answer to a question I’ve been asked several times over the past few months: What do I miss about home? 

The short answer is “not much”. I’ve adapted to this lifestyle, and I don’t feel like I’m lacking or needing anything in particular. But to be fair, if I think about what makes me happy and comfortable, there are a few things I miss. 

1. My buddy Dexter. My cat is incredibly cool, and a great friend. He acts more like a dog than a cat sometimes, which is okay. He loves to hang out in the shop or garage and be around bikes. And he loves people. 
2. A couch. Ok, my couch. A couch that I can really just plop down on, put my feet up and be comfortable. Yeah, I’ve sat on couches since I left home. But they’re not the same as the couch you call your own…the one you come home to every night. I had this brown leather chair that was really comfortable. I sold almost everything I owned before leaving home, but I kept that chair. I’m looking forward to sitting in it again some day. 
3. My guitar. Odd, since I haven’t played in a couple of years. I didn’t realize I missed this until about the twelfth time through the Turnpike Troubadours album, when I realized that I had most of the chords to the songs figured out and just wanted to sit and strum along. 

So if I could sit on my couch with my guitar and Dex, I’d be good. But honestly, right now, it would only take a week or two before I’d be missing the road again. I may have to re-think the trip….a sidecar would allow Dexter and the guitar to come along. The couch, well, that’s gonna have to stay home. 

April 30, 2016

I traveled the Great East Road from Lusaka towards Malawi for two days. Just past the Luangwa River bridge the road turned to fresh pavement. 

 

 

Of course, it only looks like a racetrack. In Africa, fresh pavement means fresh potholes. But they were fewer and farther between than before. And for the first time in weeks, I had curves in the road as well as hills. It was a nice change of scenery. I saw a lot less wildlife, but a lot more goats and cattle crossing the road. This part of Zambia is heavily agricultural. Besides the goats and cattle, there is a lot of corn, sugarcane, soybeans, cotton, and other crops.

 

While the agricultural lifestyle and economic situation appears similar to Central America from my very unprofessional view, there are definite differences. In Central America, most families rely on public transportation — collectivo vans — to get them to town and back, and there were very few personal cars; you almost never saw a house with access from the road for a vehicle. Here in Zambia, there are more cars and less public shuttle vans. But the overwhelming choice of two-wheelers in Central America and Zambia is quite different: in Central America there are many, many 125cc to 200cc motorcycles and scooters. It seems more than half of all families have one for transportation. In Zambia, there are very few motorcycles. The family transportation tends to be a bicycle, or on foot. There are hundreds of bicycles on the roads, usually very heavily loaded with large sacks, lumber, even goats, on front and rear racks. Some of the loads tower above the rider, and in some cases, the man (or boy) ends up using the bicycle like a wheelbarrow, simply pushing the bicycle with the large load on it. I also saw bicycles being used by women, although more rarely, with small children. More often, the woman was a passenger, sitting on the back rack of the bicycle, side-saddle. 

Riding down the road, it’s common to suddenly see a person or a bicycle emerge from the bush and onto the road. Closer inspection reveals a small footpath disappearing into the bush to a house or houses. I can’t recall how many times I stopped on the side of the road to take a photo or have a drink, thinking I was in the middle of nowhere and there was nobody else around, only to have people emerge from the bush in all directions. It’s very rare to have a moment that you do not see someone on the road, either walking or on a bicycle. Here it is common for people to walk for miles on the road. In Latin America, it was much less common; they typically waited for a collectivo to pick them up.

The sheer quantity of people is hard to fathom, especially after coming from Namibia, where the population is so much less. The number of children you see under ten years old stands out as well. I suppose this means that the population here is still growing in large numbers.

May 2, 2016

A few nights ago, I camped on a farm not far from Choma, Zambia. I asked the woman when I got there if they served any food, and she said yes. I planned to walk back to the main house after a couple of hours, when I finished setting up my tent and settled in, to see about dinner. It was almost dark already. I hadn’t decided whether I would cook tonight or see what they had to eat.

After pitching the tent, and spending time with the local wildlife, I climbed into the tent to relax and read for a while. 

About an hour later, I hear a voice outside my tent.

“Sir, your dinner is ready.”

Really? I wasn’t expecting that. I unzipped the rainfly, and there’s a guy standing there with a glass serving tray, with my dinner. Wow. Room service. Or tent service. For 50 kwacha (about $5.00). 

May 2, 2016

Today I unintentionally set a new personal record for miles ridden in a day on this trip.

I had checked Google Maps last night in Chipata, Zambia, and I knew that the route I wanted to take was different than the one my GPS would select for me. I knew I needed to head towards the capitol of Malawi, Lilongwe, and then north on the M1 road towards Mzuzu. So while I did that, it turns out I missed a couple of “shortcuts” that would have reduced the miles but possibly added hours due to conditions. 

In the end, my route took me 387 miles, or around 626 kilometers, which is about 3 miles more than my previous longest day in South America. 

The border crossing into Malawi is smooth and simple. It would have been quicker but Immigration has trouble finding change for my visa payment, which has to be made in US dollars. It takes about 30 minutes for them to come up with the change. Malawi has just recently changed their visa policy, but there is still some confusion between what the country’s website says is required and what is actually requested at this border crossing. I had printed out the visa application form previously and filled it out last night, but when I arrive the immigration officer hands me one to fill out, so I didn’t really need to have it in advance. That form, and the $75 visa fee, is all they require. No copies, no additional photos or information. I am also required to purchase insurance for my motorcycle, which runs $13 for a 30-day policy (the shortest time frame available). 

As I walk back to my bike, a security officer approaches me with a very friendly greeting. 

“Hallo! All of your paperwork is done? Where are you coming from?” he asks.

“Today, or originally?” I’m never quite sure what they are asking when I get this question. “Today, Chipata. Originally, the United States.”

“Are you traveling alone?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Huh?. I haven’t been asked this question before. I don’t have a prepared response, like I do for almost everything else I’ve been asked hundreds of times, and I prefer not to spend time exploring my past with a border guard turned psychologist.

“Um, because I like it?”

“No, seriously. Are your friends ahead of you or behind you?”

“No, no. It’s just me.”

“Why? Where are your friends?”

“At home. They all think I’m crazy.”

He slowly nods, seemingly in agreement. “Hmmmm. Well, safe journey.”

I head towards Lilongwe, then take the M1 north towards Mzuzu. I had expected a real highway with a name like “M1”, but I should have known better by now. Just another two-lane road, filled with potholes, goats and cattle. And people on bicycles. The small houses in Zambia, made of branches and sometimes mud, have been replaced in Malawi by red brick. Just slightly larger than their Zambian counterparts, the homes still have a thatched roof, and are often in groups of ten to twenty. There seem to be more personal cars, but bicycles and pedestrians still dominate the road.

Today is a holiday, and the small villages are filled with people. Large markets are set up. I see mostly vegetables, clothing, bicycles and bicycle parts for sale. This is definitely not a market that caters to tourists, and it’s obvious by the stares I get all along the road that I am a very rare sight here.

 

I pass through several police checkpoints, which are usually a few 55 gallon drums and a couple of orange traffic cones strung across the road. Almost always, the officers just wave me through; they seem to focus more on the large trucks. But a couple of times I’m stopped and asked to show my driver’s license and proof of insurance. 

At a checkpoint just outside Kasungu, the officer simply asks “Where are you coming from?”

“Chipata”, I reply.

“And where are you going?”

“Mzuzu.”

“Are you traveling alone?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Oh, man, I have got to work on an answer to this.

Instead, I just say, “Is that unusual?”

“Very.”

Further north, things are getting green. I realize I’ve been climbing for a while, and I find myself in a forest. I check the gps, and it says I’m at just under 6,000 feet (1800m) elevation. It begins to drizzle, and the fog and clouds settle in. 

I ride along through dense forest and even denser fog for over an hour. Rain falls intermittently. Occasionally there are patches of thick, slick red mud washed across the road, which is unsettling in the limited visibility. Eventually I begin to descend and the fog and rain clear.

Mzuzu is not as large as I had expected, but I have no time to explore. I still have an hour to go and it’s nearing sunset. The road out of Mzuzu towards the shoreline of Lake Malawi turns out to be just barely more than one lane wide, and although there are a lot of people walking on the road, the traffic, while fairly rare, is moving very fast. Cars approach me at 50mph, seemingly aiming directly for me, leaving me barely more than a tire’s width of pavement to avoid a head-on collision. This is perhaps the most frightening traffic since northern Peru. I have to get to my destination before dark.

The road widens a bit and painted stripes return — a welcome sight — although few drivers obey them. Usually their wheels are well across the center stripe into my lane. I pick up the pace and race the sun, but I lose. By the time I find my turn-off, it is dark. At first, I’m unsure this is actually it. Yes, there is a sign that says “Kande Beach”, with an arrow pointing down the path, but it is hard to believe that cars go this way. It’s barely more than a footpath between two buildings and through the jungle. I start down the path and see a young boy, no more than 8 or 9 years old. He points ahead and nods, seemingly knowing what I am going to ask. 

It’s a long two miles down this sand path in total darkness. My headlight illuminates the way, but there are forks in the road, and I’m left to guess which one is correct. In the daylight I’m sure it’s much more obvious. I’m thankful for the earlier rains, which have made the sand easier to negotiate, but the rain has also caused some puddles that I’m unsure of their depth.

I arrive at a large steel gate. The guard on the other side hears the bike, opens the gate to let me in and shows me the way to “reception”, which closed about 30 minutes earlier, so he has to go in search of someone to help me. I can hear waves on the lake, but I can’t see it. As wet as it is from the rains, I decide to take a tiny “cabin” instead of a campsite. The cabin is nothing more than a twin bed and a chair with just enough room to walk beside one side of the bed, for $14 a night. On my way to the cabin, I have to walk across what looks like nice beach sand, and past two small catamaran sailboats, so I’m pretty sure the lake is right here. 

During the night I awaken to heavy downpours, and am glad I’m not in the tent tonight.

 

 

 

May 4, 2016

I’d heard and read the stories since long before I left on this trip about the corrupt cops. They’ll find any reason to fine you. They want payment. A bribe. I’ve been told to refuse to pay. Wait them out. Ask for a receipt (this apparently is difficult for them to produce). Any number of ways to avoid paying for an unsubstantiated infraction.

None of that happened to me today. I was stopped by a police officer standing in the road. This has been very common. He was wearing a clean, crisp Malawi Police uniform. As were his two fellow officers: the man standing behind the radar gun on the side of the road, and the woman with the receipt book and pen. I had no doubt that they were real cops. I had no doubt I was speeding. The radar gun said 63 kph, in a 50kph zone (so, basically 39mph in a 30mph zone), and I believed it. I had no doubt that I was going to be fined, and that the fine was real and not just a bribe. The woman’s receipt book was full of similar receipts, all for the same amount, all made out more-or-less properly, with a carbon copy, with the offender’s name and violation (all excessive speed).

It’s a pretty efficient system actually: one cop calls out the speed, one cop puts his hand up and stops the vehicle, pointing it to the side of the road, where the third cop writes out the receipt and collects the fine. Production line. Much faster than the US system of one cop having to clock you, pull you over, write you the ticket, and then you have to spend a lot of time and effort to go pay the ticket. These three probably wrote five or six “tickets”, and collected the fines, in the time it would have taken a cop to write me a speeding ticket in the States.

I paid my 5000 kwachas (about $7.50) and I was on my way. 

I’ve been told again today that it won’t be like this in Tanzania and Kenya. It won’t be civilized. It won’t be straightforward or honest. and it will be a hassle. Fun times ahead. 

May 4, 2016

In preparation for crossing into Tanzania, I decided last minute to spend one more night in Malawi, a little closer to the border, and get an early start for the crossing. I’d been warned that the border crossing can take quite a while, and it’s a good 490 kilometers to my next camp from here, so tomorrow would be a long day. 

I found a campsite and lodge on Lake Malawi near the town of Chilumba, just 100 miles north of Mzuzu, and about 75 miles south of the border. Founded by Mark, a British ex-pat, and his wife, a Malawian doctor, it had fallen into disrepair after being leased to new operators until Mark moved back from Lilongwe and took it over again. He’s making strides in getting everything up and running smoothly again. 

 

 

 

 

 

I was unaware until I arrived that Ewan McGregor and Charley Boorman had stayed here during their filming of “Long Way Down”. Mark mentioned that a number of motorcyclists have stayed here, but nearly all have been on BMW 1200 GS’s. He was quite surprised to see my XT250, and even more so when I explained that I had already ridden it to the bottom of South America and was on my way back up Africa now. It’s still fun to see the reaction on people’s faces when they hear this. Usually it takes two or three times before they seem to grasp or accept that I’ve done this on the same 250cc motorcycle, with no major mechanical issues. For some reason, most people initially think that I bought the bike in Cape Town and started from there.  Even after explaining, they have trouble with the idea that I’m on the same 250 that I rode the length of Latin America.

About 4am the wind began to blow and the rain started. The rain didn’t last long, but the wind continued through the morning. Skies were dark and the waves on the lake increased.

The bad weather was coming from Tanzania, so I decided to hang around another day. Mark offered the use of his workshop to change my oil, so I rode into the local village to buy some oil, but finding only the local brand (Stanley) straight 40 weight mineral oil, I decided I could wait a little longer, and would look for oil in Karonga, about 70 km up the road, tomorrow. 

May 6, 2016

I stopped in Karonga for fuel, and after checking all of the service stations in town, again found nothing but straight 40 weight motor oil. At least it was Mobil brand, so I decided to go ahead and change my oil. I had only been about 2500 miles since changing it in Swakopmund, but it was looking and smelling bad, so I decided to take the chance. I hated the idea of putting mineral oil back in it after using synthetic for the last 20,000 miles, but I figured I could change it again in Nairobi or later, which wouldn’t be too far. I bought three bottles of oil (it comes in 500ml, or half-quart, bottles which was perfect, since I needed 1500ml), rode around behind the station, changed my oil, and gave the woman at the station my used oil.

The border crossing was easier than I had expected. There was no line of people waiting, and the immigration and customs guys were very friendly and curious. I had been told (and read on the internet) that I had to apply for and obtain my visa for Tanzania in advance. When I presented it to the immigration officials, they looked it over for a long time, then asked where I got it. I told them I had applied at the Tanzanian embassy in the US. They asked why I paid $120 for it (the price is printed at the bottom), and told me that the official price is $100, and pointed out that there is a visa window right next to them, and they issue the visa right there. Oh, well. Live and learn. Regardless of what the official government policy is, it is usually something different at the actual border.

Once across the border, I was instantly inundated by Chinese motorcycles. Hundreds of them. They are everywhere, and many are used as taxis. I’m not sure why there is such a huge number of them on one side, and virtually none on the Malawi side, but I’m guessing there is some kind of import tax or duty in play. There are still bicycles in use here, but the numbers are greatly reduced, and replaced by Chinese 125cc bikes that almost all appear to be copies of a 1985 Suzuki GN125.

 

Between the border and Mbeya, I climbed into the mountains to over 7500 feet (2300m) elevation, and passed through beautiful green jungle hillsides before descending into Mbeya.

After Mbeya, the road became straight and full of potholes, although for quite some distance they had removed the asphalt altogether and it was simply dirt while they built a new, wider road. The “dance” with the buses and large trucks, which never slow down and take all the road they want, was exhilarating to say the least. Brushing my elbow against the side of a bus going the opposite direction at 60mph, with no room left on my side of the road and a very large pothole approaching, will definitely get the heart rate going.

I climbed again past 6500 feet elevation into a thick forest that appeared to have been re-planted, as the trees seemed to be very evenly spaced. This area looked like it had been harvested and replanted in the last 10 to 20 years.

I found my campsite for the night just before dark. The temperature dropped quickly and I had to put my fleece pullover on before setting up camp. I hadn’t envisioned being cold in Africa, but then I had no idea that the mountains around Malawi and Tanzania were so tall and so abundant. It was a nice change to sit in the dark, in the cold, and sip hot chocolate (one of the luxuries I carry with me) at my campsite before going to bed.

As a side note, I will be shutting off access to my “Where Am I Now” tracking for the next couple of weeks. Those that know me, know that I am heading towards an area that is a bit more dodgy and I prefer not to have the ability to pinpoint my immediate location. I’ll turn it back on in a couple of weeks when I feel I’m in a better area.

May 7, 2016

 

General observations:

There are a lot of large (“18-wheeler”-type) transport trucks in Tanzania and Malawi. It seems like more than half of them are petrol or diesel tankers.

There are no large tow trucks or wreckers.

So when a large truck breaks down in the traffic lane, the first thing that happens is the driver pulls out his machete and chops some tree limbs to put in the road ahead and behind the truck to warn other drivers. This is the equivalent of the red reflective triangle or orange traffic cone.

Since there are no large wreckers, there is no way to tow the truck off the road. Ever. Thus, the truck will remain in the traffic lane until one of two things happens:

1. It is repaired. This could take days or even weeks. I’ve passed trucks with tarps set up next to them while people worked on them in the road. It’s common to see multiple pairs of legs sticking out into traffic from under the truck. I’ve seen gallons of diesel fuel and oil running back down the mountain road from where the truck sat, and I’ve even passed two trucks now which had the entire engine out and sitting in the traffic lane in front of the truck. All of the other pieces necessary to remove the engine were scattered all over the road as well. OR
2. It is completely stripped, piece by piece, until nothing remains but the bare frame, at which point the frame is either dragged into the ditch or loaded onto a flatbed. I’ve seen lots of cars and overturned trucks in the ditch being completely salvaged, until nothing remained but a truck frame or a car uni-body. Literally everything was gone: there wasn’t a piece of wire or plastic cap or bolt left on the car chassis.