The Finish Line

We saw the ocean. First we could smell it, and then off in the distance you could see a snatch of blue. It would fade in, fade out, and then it was just there.
I rode past one of the major coke stops today - people had found incredible chocolate cake. Instead we stopped at a little shop and visited with the elderly owner who told us about how yesterday the fellow who had done our whole route solo had just passed. He was trying to get into Cape Town at the same time as us, and man was he pushing it. I envy him and his solo adventure. He was keeping the same time as us while pushing all of his gear, doing all of his own repairs, and cooking for himself.
We got to our lodge today and many of us ate at the restaurant. I got a room. It's a trend. I keep doing it because I'm tired of hanging out with folk, but then the other folk who are sick of everyone keep hiding out in my room. A cleverer person would just give up. The nice thing was it provided a warm shower with fresh towels after my dip in the ocean. I joined the crew down at the beach for the gift-giving ceremony. I had drawn Peter, the Grumpy Dutchman's name. I made a flip book for him. It was called "Not a Terrible Day." Peter was infamous for coming into camp saying "It was TERRIBLE," or "The Hills! The Hills!" So I drew a flip-book comic of a man riding up hills with winds blowing in his face, and rocks everywhere, who finally gets over the hill and rides right into a bar where a fresh beer is drawn for him. Peter's favourite pass-time. It ends with him saying that "Today was not a Terrible Day!" Most of the gifts were along that line... homemade inside jokes, nice poems. It was a perfect sum-up to all of the stuff we had been through together.
I had crayfish that night. The restaurant showed pictures of crayfish during red-tide (you can still eat them then). They evacuate the water by the millions, and people go out and wade through a beach of knee-deep crayfish, filling their buckets and eating them until they are no longer able to stomach anymore of them. Everytime I think of them being a cockroach of the see, I sit back and wish that cockroaches were that delicious. Then I would move to New York. Or Hastings.
We woke the next morning and rode through the fall chill along the escarpment on the last bit of off-roading we would do on our trip. I got off my bike and kissed the pavement when I got to it. We were going to have bbq'ed fish that night with the friends and family of the riders. There were all sorts of surprizes - Family who had come from all over the world, some telling their kids/spouses they would be there, some not. We laughed and ate and drank. The crew from the first half of the trip joined us, along with some of the South African riders from the previous year. It was a lovely evening. And we got our shirts, which we were to all wear into Cape Town.
The next morning I was stressed about riding. We had to ride 82km by 11am, and there was a head-wind, AND I started my day off with a flat tire and a slow leak. I don't think I mentioned that I was getting several flats a day by this point. I couldn't get to lunch without at least one. I repaired my first flat instead of having breakfast. I repaired my second flat on the way back to the maid hiway from where we were camped. Fortunately, TDA had overestimated the distance on the map. We got up to the top of a hill and were stopped by paul who told us "Hey guys, there's only 10 more km to go, not 20. We had been hustling up to that point in order to not have to be picked up. I think it would have taken the plague to get someone on the truck that day.
We arrived in time for a beautiful picnic on the beach - no tuna today! There were cheeses and deli meats and fruit and chocolate and... oooh the joys of good food! Five different kids of bread! None of them crumbling! And the ocean! We frolicked, we took photos, we swam, we looked out at Cape Town and sighed.
At the last minute they swapped out my wheel when I mentioned that it was starting to soften up. Anyone who stopped would be thrown on the truck with no chance to ride in with everyone. It was at that point when I realized what a dream my own wheels were to ride on. This particular tire wasn't even true.
Our solo adventurer found us and rode into town with us. I was glad that he could share in the applause. And what an applause! It was embarrassing! We rode in to the Quay - there was the fanfare of a brass band, an awards ceremony for the full tour riders, and hundreds of people looking on at us, applauding and pointing. We walked into the mall to use the washroom and heard the hushed whispers of the surrounding people: "Those are the people who rode across Africa." It felt so completely unreal. All I could think was that it was just a bike ride, and we just did a little every day, and anyone who put aside that much time could do it, so it all seemed so very over-the-top.
That night we had a closing dinner, we drank, we danced, we stumbled back to our rooms to catch some sleep in the few remaining night hours. Over the next few days I went up table mountain, did a moonlight walk up the other Cape Town mountain (not to be confused with a BC mountain), went cage-diving to see great whites (they chomped at the cage, which was frightening, but they are such beautiful animals), I rented a car and visited wineries (here I got my first room on my own, thank goodness), and I went surfing. It was so beautiful, relaxed and serene. It was the perfect way to cap off my trip. And then I absconded to Europe for a month with Rob, got home, put together a wedding, and as most of you know, I am now here, home, on Hornby Island.
It's taken a while to finish these letters off. There wasn't always a connection in Africa. In fact, connections were rare. Time was rare. This was a very strange trip. I loved it, I hated it. I will never again do a group trip (unless a really special opportunity came up), and I don't think I would like to take part in a trip where I wasn't one of the primary organizers. But it was amazing, and I am so lucky that I got to do it.
So there you have it. It will be a while until my next trip... I'm guessing about three years, but until then, should you ever happen upon a small isle called Hornby, give us a call. We'll be happy to have you around.

Chasing Endings

Waking up in Felix Unite and knowing that we would be riding in to South Africa today was incredibly exciting. Erin and I raced around the room packing up in the morning. It was still dark, and quite cold. South Africa is coming into fall now, and there are never mornings where I don’t get up and put my leg and arm warmers on. It seems that every time we see a sign we get excited. They all have the distance to Cape Town on them now.
The crew organized another international face-off over the next couple of days. It’s not getting a huge amount of participation. Or maybe that’s my perception because I’m not into it. And the Dutch have abstained. We’re too close to the end. And the whole start of the day was 900m uphill. Our first downhill was at lunch, and at that point there was a rolling contest. Get to the top of the hill, stop, and roll as far as you can go. I was going to do this, but then as I started to roll past lunch, some folk shouted, and then I realized that I was going to have to go back up the first bit of downhill I’d seen all day. Didn’t really understand why they yelled, but then I sort of wished that I had kept going, just to see. My bike is still running so smoothly!
It was a sausage lunch, but Nazi Eric was on and limited us to one sausage each, and nothing else. Some people went up for seconds, and they would pile sausages on, but for those that he didn’t like, well, we weren’t to have any extra. I would like to see him turned into sausage.
Lunches are at roadside stops now, as the landscape is completely cordoned off still. “Civilized” Africa means no room to be free. Our stop included the wheelie competition. Even on the best of days I can’t pop one. One of those things I look at wistfully, like skateboarding and whistling. I met up with Erin at lunch and we rode in together. I saw the South Africans posing just short of the border, all nekked. They were doing well with their challenge. The border crossing was neither too easy, nor too hard, unlike the rest of Africa where it ranged anywhere from the five hour wait in Sudan to the barest of glances at the Malawian border.
We got into Springbok we hit the internet immediately. It was a rampant search – there were supposedly three shops (in reality, there was only one), all of them closing in twenty minutes. Some poor shmucks went to the campsite first. They looked crestfallen when they walked into the shop and saw all of the seats full. Some even tried bribery to keep the shop open for longer. With no internet for well over a week, most of us were desperate for some thread from home. The second most popular search was for Wimpy’s – the fast-food burger joint. I joined Claire there afterwards. It tasted super-salty. When I got back to camp I raced to get my tent up while others signed up for the protein-bar eating contest. It was vile. Tom (our 18-year-old trash compactor) won, but Judy was a close second. The rest of us stood on in awe. I haven’t eaten one of the tour issue bars since the first week. That’s not entirely true. I ate them in dire emergencies. Even I had to gag them down. This tour has taken away my ability to also eat peanut butter and jam, and oatmeal. I’m less keen on tuna fish as well. And I have a small addiction to Coke (a-Cola). Eric announced at the rider meeting that he had taken all of the photos we had given him over the past few months, and instead of putting them on-line as he was supposed to, he had put them on a cd and would sell them back to us at 15$ US a pop. Jerk. Some of us complained that we had not allowed him to profit off of our photos, and he simply answered: “Oh well.”
The next morning a huge group of us women folk left without breakfast. There’s a consensual revolt against breakfast. No more peanut butter! No more white, falling-apart bread! No more OATMEAL! You can’t blame the chef. There just isn’t access to food, and it’s way too much trouble to have to find both breakfasts and dinners within a strict time-limit set by super-fast riders. We found a breakfast nook, which wasn’t really a breakfast nook. It was a lodge run by a nice old fellow who had the world’s largest collection of trucker hats. We ate biscotti and tea, and he refused to let us pay. He had heard of us on the radio. We left some money behind anyhow, and carried on. When I got to lunch I joined up with Erin. She and I skipped lunch because there was a town not to far away afterwards, which likely would have nicer options. Unfortunately, the nearest thing we could find was just a gas station that had cheese sandwiches. I wound up having the same issue the next day, when Erin and I hooked up to have lunch at the town before lunch, and only found a gas station with chips. There were also the remnant bags of the other riders who had found the same gas station. Really, South Africa was becoming a quest for food. We were starting to be spoiled by the ability to find it anywhere and everywhere. There was the challenge of being able to come into camp and say “Hey, I found fried chicken and chocolate cake 10km back, and they served us free beer while fanning us and giving us foot massages.”
Arriving in Vanrhynsdorp, I was totally exhausted. Four months of wear and tear has lead to the end of the day being the end. Pure and simple. I tented that night, close to the truck, as always. I’ve always found it to be the nicest spot, because you get your own wake-up call in the morning, and you have less distance to schlep your stuff. We had dinner, and realized that we had blown it when we walked into the restaurant for post-dinner beers and saw clever riders having their roast-beef dinners cleared away and be replaced by fresh apple strudel with ice cream. They started quiz night. It was the one part of the war of the nations that everyone got into. Afterwards, Erin, Peter, Eric (the nice guy) and I sat up to chat about anything but bike riding or bike riders. It was a late night, but a good one. The next night we were scheduled to give presents to our secret friends. We had had a week to find/make something for them for under a dollar. My present was almost ready, but seeing as I couldn’t feel/use my right hand anymore, it was a little challenging. I sat up late that night finishing it.

Felix Untied

Today we rode to the Fish River Canyon. It is only a couple of days from there to the South African border. The canyon itself is the second largest in the world. Looking into its depths, I can imagine coming back here to hike it's length. Oddly enough, it made me think of the hiking trails in Alice Springs, Australia. Not for any physical similarity, but just for the sheer fact that they are two places that i will dream of walking through, but may never make it back to. Hard to say that right now, when all I can dream about is coming back. I'd like to come back with Rob, not a bunch of strangers, and to experience this land in the way that I would chose to, not as the morning map has laid out for me.
There was a break mid-day at a little lodge that served cheesecake. I bought a piece for myself, and then snuck a piece on the truck for Evelijn, whose birthday was that night. When I got to the end of day lodge, there was actually champagne there, so I bought her a bottle. There were so many birthdays on this trip that seemed to go unmarked, and Evelijn seemed to me to be a person who really loved her birthday. She, Erin, Peter and I sat up until late chatting, and passing around the champagne bottles (Peter had also had the same idea). This time we were far enough away from the campers, though I had been getting snide remarks about not putting my tent near anyone else's. I feel worn out by this whole adventure.
There was a little boy in the campsite who had mad a tin car out of pop cans. He rolled it along with the stick he had attached to it. I think of the toys in North America and how reliant we are on Hasbro or Mattel for childhood amusements. The one thing I have discovered from bike tours is that the best of the journey is the journey itself - the end is usually a let-down. I think of these kids here, who probably derive more fun from making their toys than playing with them, and I think that we're probably depriving our kids by just sticking them with the end result and not allowing them the journey. That would explain why the box is more fun.
The next morning I rode to Phelix Unite. Our last rest day. Our last day in Namibia. The following day we would be off to South Africa.
It was meant to be a rest day in the truest sense of the word. No nearby town, no food outlets other than our lodge. The road all day had been pretty bland. Hardpack with rough sections, hillish-mountains in the distance, headwinds. I was happy to get in. Others had stopped at the last grocery store. I wizzed past them. I wanted a room. I wanted privacy. I needed to be alone.
The pub that evening drew more remarks about our party. I left in tears. Peter, Erin and Simon swung by my room with a few bottles of wine and Simon's portable stereo. This time, the walls were soundproof. We danced on the beds and laughed and listened to music we all loved and had a great time. Forget the rest of the crew. They were good people, but good people can be frustrating when boredom and
close-quarters are in the mix. We had a great night. Erin wound up sharing my room, and in the morning we had a long, luxurious yoga session on the lawn overlooking
the river. We were literally looking over at South Africa. There is such a mix of emotions with the ending. I look on at the frustration of my co-riders, and can't help realizing that there is also a mix of frustration with this being the end of it. A few days left. We can make it, and it will be beautiful.

How to Make Friends and Influence People

We rode 151km from Betta to Konkiep. It was more of the same. Brutal roads, lots of sand, tons of complaints. Just after lunch we arrived in a little village that had the most wonderful apple cake. I arrived just after Peter (the Grumpy Dutchman) and Hinchy. I was trying to decide which store to stop at when I saw their bikes out front of a little hotel. It was run by Germans, had a very German garden, and was the perfect place to stop. Oddly enough, the town itself had 2km of paved roads – and then back to the dirt.
Simon showed up just as the guys were leaving, so I decided to stay a little longer. We sat inside on the couches. I hadn’t sat on a couch since Cairo.
I took off with Simon, but the roads finally turned into graded hardpack, so I unfortunately left him behind. I got into the hotel and joined the crew that was already sitting around the pool drinking beer. The hotelier was this lovely old woman who baked us chocolate cake for that evening. As the evening progressed she told us more and more about her life. They had bought the place as a farm, but her husband couldn’t farm on it. The lodge was her idea, to give her something to do, now that her daughter had grown. Her son-in-law worked there, and originally I thought he was her son, which was a little creepy – he looked like a blond-haired Norman Bates – even dressed the part. The husband was frustrated because her business was doing so well, and yet he couldn’t make a go of the farm, so he was selling the place.
Before dinner Erin and I hiked up the local mountain to check out the view. It was amazing. The ground moved in rivulets, making it look as if it had once all been covered in sea (probably had). The few roads that there were looked like unending straight gashes in the land. We made bets on if we were seeing the end of the road out there. We saw Lloyd coming in on his bike – he was the size of an ant. It was a nice hike, and even same easy scrambling made me wish for the rock climbing back home.
The chocolate cake kept people up later than usual – 8pm instead of 6. Peter (Rumbutt – or Rombaut as would be proper, but less fun for nicknames), Erin and I decided that tonight would be the night to stay up late and have fun. Hardpack the next day and only 130km. Why not? There were a few stragglers from our group at the bar – the sectionals and the folk who hadn’t come for the whole tour – and we kept ordering bottles of wine. We definitely drank too much. Near the end I kept ordering water, but the damage was done. Peter and Erin tried out Hakkestraand, a liquor with barbed wire on the bottle, and so they went downhill fast. At some point we got on the topic of how lame the group was. We were frustrated by the militaristic schedule, of being hushed if we were up talking past 8pm. Wasn’t it our trip too? We decided that we were going to have a sleepover and stay up all night. Peter and Exley had a cabin, we could joke and have fun, and in the morning we could watch how fast the rumours flew. It was a silly joke that we would regret the next day.
The following morning I officially decided that I would never again join a group tour. The cabin we were hanging out in didn’t have soundproof walls. The folk who like their privacy decided that instead of camping near the rest, they would camp by the cabins. We kept them up all night. They looked at us with disdain. Erin and I rode together. Peter rode off looking as if he hadn’t consumed a thing. He said he was hungover, but nothing seems to affect that man negatively.
When Erin and I got to the cake stop, Allan blocked us from getting through the doorway and completely reamed us out. Local people were trying to get in and out, but his anger made him oblivious to their presence. Finally, he left. We sat down and Simon told us that rumour were going ‘round about usual having participated in a wild orgy. We had kept a bunch of people up because of the lack of soundproofing. We were laughing and talking in what we thought was privacy, and not one of the frustrated folk had even thought to knock on the door and say – Hey guys, we can hear you and we can’t sleep. Anyone we said this to said they were too angry, or that we wouldn’t have cared, or just gone back around to the whole “well you shouldn’t have been up late anyway” argument.
I officially have burnt out on my fellow riders. I find myself almost exclusively hanging out with Erin, Peter, Simon and the sectionals. I’m tired of curfew. I’m tired of routine. I’m tired of there being puerile unwritten rules. We’re near the end of the trip and everyone is following this work-week routine of: slog through it, get in, drink yourself silly on the first night of the rest day, see a sight or an internet café the following day if all of your chores are done, repeat.
The ride was a beautiful one, and along the way Erin and I stopped for a nap. The timing was perfect. Right after that I was able to carry on. Erin laughed at how easy it was for me to fall asleep. We climbed up mountains and were treated to the most spectacular views. It was wonderful. Even in our muddy-headed states it was so joyous.
We got in that night and the Dutch had prepared a special event for us to celebrate their Queen’s birthday. We toasted her with a horrible orange schnapps, and they handed out beer (a few of us passed on those). It was a quiet night for our little group who had, at least for the night, become social pariah. South Africa, though, is just around the corner.

Namibia Means Nobody

Getting into Sesriem was nice. It meant getting to see some of the
world's largest dunes, and it also meant that I would be riding after
the rest day. Sesriem is the gateway to Sossusvlei. It is a tourist
set-up with overpriced campsites and lodges. Carola and Nick talked
the lodge into a cheaper price, so I shed my camping life for a day of
privacy. I didn't go back to camp once. The arguing about the road
conditions is pretty intense, with some going as far as to say that
"If you can't hack it, you shouldn't be here". I'm also just tired of
everyone. You burn out after a while. Nothing like a cozy bed with
meals included to help that.
I even signed on for a tour of the dunes through the hotel (from the
sounds of it, better than the one through TDA - it included lunch).
I've worked hard this whole way, and I feel without a little bit of
privacy I might crack. Dinner included wild game. I sampled zebra
and kudu, springbok and ostrich. I had enough little morsels of
formerly cute herbivores to make a vegetarian want to throw red paint
at me.
The sleek line snakes its way down the dune, ochre on one side, pitch
black on the other. A pilgrimage of tourists slog their way up to the
top. I followed. After dune 54, we went to big mama, across from big
papa. We were allowed to run down the side (any trace would be gone
by morning), and so I did. It was the best experience, bounding
through the pillow-like snow.
We went to Death Valley, which looks like a Gothic film-set.
Blackened trees spindle upwards looking like Lavinia, post-revenge.
The trees died thousands of years ago, but the hardened and cracked
clay formed a cement-like adhesion to the roots, not allowing bugs to
enter and start the process of decay.
We got stuck a few times on the way back. We played leap-frog with
other cars, all getting out and helping to push when someone else got
stuck. The only way in to Sossusvlei is along the sandy riverbed. We
did get out though, and i spent the afternoon swimming and eating.
On the following morning I rode. I can now personally attest to
having mixed feelings about Henry's decision to make us ride this
route. It is incredibly beautiful here. It is so beautiful that,
even though I had to walk much of the way since the sand got too deep
and the patches were too long, I still loved it. Occasionally I saw
an antelope. Zebra crossing signs were everywhere. There was an
absence of humans which made the scenery all the more impressive, but
at the same time it makes the country feel very empty. I looked out
at the antelope in the golden fields, once again realizing that
somewhere out there lurks a lion or two.
When I woke I took advantage of the hotel breakfast. I didn't race to
a start like everyone else. I'm tired of having to get up at the
crack of dawn and to hurry from point a to point b. My rash hasn't
entirely healed, and so I will take it easy, going at the pace I want,
focusing on not sweating. I took countless photos and played leapfrog
with Xiao, the Chinese Lonely Planet guy who suffered from flats all
day. He came in to lunch with Erin, who was on sweep. That surprised
me as I thought I had ditched sweep.
We got on the truck at lunch. It was packed. It was quite wonderful.
All the positive people were on the truck - the ones who had given in
to the fact that they can't keep pace with the hard cores, and are
quite happy with riding until they feel like they no longer can. We
chatted and laughed and told jokes. We kept tracking the ever
changing scenery with our shutters. Camp was another little roadside
lodge, similar to the one in Solitaire. I slept in my tent, though
the rooms were 10$ (compared to the non-reduced rate of 200$ in
Sesriem). The restaurant served amazing apple cake, and we sat on
lookouts watching the sunset eating Spaghetti Bolognaise. We seem to
be having this a lot more often. James hates cooking it, but
apparently it's good for the soul. Everyone is much happier after a
hearty Spag Bol.
I've seen almost every sunrise and sunset for four months. I think
that is one of my greater accomplishments in life.

It All Unravels

I woke up from the first decent night’s sleep in a long time. The cream made a difference instantly. Erin and I cruised around town, checking out cool venues as we went. I turns out that the film fest is in town, so we decided to check out a few flicks tonight. The funky cabaret venue next door was unfortunately featuring an Afrikaans show, so we gave it a pass. We decided to completely avoid the crew, as both of us are feeling the need for space. Honestly, I think everyone is. It’s been a long trip.
We went to the Olive for lunch – had pastries and bought wine, chocolate, sun dried tomatoes, olives, and just about everything western we could think of that we had been missing. We found a t-shirt for James (the cook). A weird Japanese-like t-shirt with a jar of peanut butter hugging a jar of jam saying, “Let’s come together”. Heh heh. Every morning James is greeted by people complaining about daily breakfast of pb&j.
I ran into Peter on my way to my room, but didn’t tell him about Erin and my plans for the evening. The other annoying thing about small groups is gossip. Because we frequently bike together, we get along, and because he is male and I am female, we must be having an affair (we’re both in relationships back home). When I told Erin about not mentioning it to him, she said, “They’re terrible, aren’t they! Well forget them, we’re inviting him.” Too true!
We went out and saw two terrible movies. They were rife with propaganda about Namibia’s environmental program. It was boring. I fell asleep through the second one. Studio 77 itself was quite cool, with woodcuts on the wall which, when you first looked at them, appeared to be a bunch of hammers pounding into the earth. Upon closer inspection I realized that it was also men in suits. We were going to go to a club beside the studio space, but it was empty and the music sounded lame. And so we decided to go out for food. We got some Paella which was delicious. Neighbouring Algeria was once Portuguese. Thank goodness.
We thought about dancing, but vegging to movies and sleeping seemed to be the better alternative.
The following day was more of the same. It may not seem interesting to you, but we were beside ourselves with excitement! Smoked salmon! Blue cheese! Champagne! Erin and I has talked about going out to the movies, but then it wound up just being a night of vegging in front of the tele. We all met up at Peter’s for a picnic. We drank the two bottles of champagne (I didn’t care, I wasn’t allowed to ride for the next couple of days anyway), and ate, and ate, and ate. I then disappeared into my room and watched another movie and slept. Sometimes vegetation is all you need.
I woke the next morning to mixed emotions. We ere meant to have pavement, but it all turned out to be dirt with headwinds. Everyone came in looking very broken. I was glad that I didn’t ride through that, but at the same time, we’re so close to the finish that it’s painful to miss a single day.
Nick, Malcolm and Simon pulled in just as the truck was packing up. All of the cyclists had left. Alex was on sweep and she was angry. Nick was still drunk. That would mean a long day for her. Everyone’s coming down hard on Nick. I can understand sweep being angry, but not anyone else. It’s his ride; let him do it how he wants. It’s not like he’s ever in a bad mood, or that he is anything but the sweetest fellow to all of us. People are really just getting on each others nerves, I think. It’s time for this to be over.
I was the only one on the truck, which was great. I had on my flowy skirt with my black, spandex biking legwarmers, tank tops and arm warmers, looking very Madonna-esque. With no one on the truck I could let the window’s breeze do its work. Speaking of which, it’s freezing here. I can’t believe how cold it is. I though Africa was warm. Namibia in the fall is not. We kept having to stop to wait for Shanny and Paul. The truck crew was pissed at them because they were: “acting like the runabout is their own personal cruiser.” Looks like the riders aren’t the only ones sniping at each other.
Our rest stop was in Solitaire. We drove through the most beautiful mountain ranges on the way there. They looked like Southwestern mesas. Solitaire was pretty much a one-horse town. It was a truck stop, lodge, and gas station with the most famous apple crumble in Namibia. I walked into the pale pink building, past the large prickly-pear cacti (they stood about 7feet) and got what was the best apple crumble I had ever had.
We left Solitaire with a full truck. Everyone was cursing Henry. The original route through Namibia was on paved roads. Because there had been so much construction in Sudan, and we had had so much paved route where we were meant to have dirt, he changed the route. He did a quick scout in a 4x4 with his mother, and declared the roads amazing. He had no clue. The dirt roads are still corrugated, and now because we’ve changed routes we are no longer doing 80-100km on corrugation, but 150-170km. Even some of the off-roaders are pissed. It’s also causing a bit of infighting between the road-bikers and the off-roaders. “You DID sign up for an adventure, didn’t you?” Statements like these cause unnecessary rifts between people. My personal favourite “It was MEANT to be hard.” Actually, it was meant to be an adventure, but adventure doesn’t mean hating every minute of it. I got to distance myself from a lot of it, because I wouldn’t be riding until after Sossusvlei. Ten minutes after we left Solitaire we had to turn around and go back. More people couldn’t get any further. My heart went out especially to the EFIers (Every fabulous inch). They had to keep motoring, no matter how hard. Over half of the riders gave up today. The staff was worried. The roads weren’t about to get better, but they would be getting longer. Word has leaked from the staff that Henry is a terrible planner in general. We all seem to agree.
Fortunately, camp was wonderful. It was our last bush camp. Shanny met the farmer when he was out scouting, and he is intending to turn the place into a campsite. He brought us a ton of kindling so that we could have a campfire. It was wonderful. We drank hot chocolate, slept under the stars, and everyone stayed up later than usual.

There is a Fungus Among Us

Two hundred and seven kilometers. I started my ride before daybreak.
The rash had kept me up all night, had been for a while, and so I felt
really disoriented. I started my ride with Hinchy (one of the
Kitchener crew - three retirees who do tons of adventures), Tom, the
most wonderful 18-year-old I have ever met, and Helen, our Lillipudian
Chief Inspector. I love Hinchy – he always has a joke. Helen was
doing poorly that day, though she’s usually tough as nails. She
started falling behind, so I told her to get behind me and I would
pull her. There was a headwind today and it was only going to get
worse. If she got through the morning she might get through the whole
day.
Psychologically, I sectioned the day off into five. It was 40km to
the right turn, 45km to lunch, 35km to the Coke stop, 45km to the
refreshment stop, 42km to the finish – border crossing at the end.
I pulled Helen to lunch, and then from there I caught a train – Mark,
Alex, Evelijn, Tom and Simon. We were doing between 36-40km/hr. Peter
and I pulled for quite some distance, pushing on beyond our turn right
into the coke stop. While I was in the washroom, the crew took off.
It was perfectly acceptable too do that, and if I were in better
shape, I might have even caught them. Peter later explained to me
that the way to catch up to people is to go one or two km above their
speed, so that you’re not killing yourself, and once you catch up to
them you can just take it down to their speed... it’ll take a while,
but you’ll catch up. I’ve never been able to catch anyone, but I like
the theory.
I rode with Peter for a while, and then Graham and Lone caught up to
us. I was near my breaking point. My rash was so painful. I decided
that I would hitch into Windhoek the following day and go to the
hospital. I couldn’t ride like that anymore. Nothing the nurses gave
me was working. Erin would be in Windhoek already, as she was going
ahead with Sharita, who had caught Malaria.
I stopped at the side of the road and Graham and Peter talked me into
getting on the truck. I sat for a while, and then a train came by.
Helen was in it, and she let me know that Eric was doing sweep. I let
them go, but tried to figure out what I was going to do. There was no
way I could spend more than five minutes with that arrogant jerk. I
decided to ride to the refresh, and if I could hitch a ride I would.
A few transport trucks passed, but no one who could take me. I
watched as the little side road markers clicked by. Little white
posts that told you every .2km you had gone. It was enough to make
someone batty. When I got to the refresh, the train was still there,
and so I asked if they could wait so that I could join them. By that
point I decided that I would carry on through. It was such a big day
for everyone, I couldn’t jump on the truck, no matter how bad my
thighs were burning.
We rode a decent pace – about 25km/hr. We stopped frequently. And we
got in. It was wonderful.
Everyone finished, minus Simon, who has diabetes and had a bit of an
attack. He seemed really down about not finishing. There were huge
rounds of applause as Texas John and Ernest came in – our two oldest –
72 and 69. The spirit in camp was great, and there was spag bol for
dinner – everyone’s favourite. I’m not a big spaghetti person, but
for some reason on this trip it truly tastes like mana from heaven.
I set up camp on the grassy grounds that were covered in beetles the
size of my fist. The bottom of my tent was alive with themovements of
them underneath. If it wasn’t the beetles, it was the corn crickets.
The next morning I woke up and got my stuff together to go to
Windhoek. I would take the truck until the first major town, wherfe
apparently it becomes easy to hitch from. I spoke with Shanny about
Eric. He said that Eric had already spoken to him, and that he had
intended to have a talk with me, as it is unacceptable to have anyone
swearing at his staff. I apologized for that, and then he said he
would speak with Eric. I went over to Eric and apologized for
swearing at him in front of everyone, but that I meant what I had
said. He said “Yeah, you shouldn’t have said that.” No apologies. I
started to wish that maybe one of those crazy Tanzanian drivers would
make it into Namibia and take him out. Then I decided that he wasn’t
worth thinking about.
I caught a lift from a truck driver, and laughed at all of the deer
crossing signs, but instead of deer they were alerting us to warthogs.
They cut the grass in Namibia back 500m so that you can see when the
animals are running for the road. Indeed, we did see a few warthogs
running for the road. All of Namibia is fenced in. It was all
partitioned off to farmers a long time ago. Mostly white farmers.
The landscape went from Botswana flat to hilly and gorgeous. Red
rocks and greenery. Windhoek is the first real city I’d seen in ages.
the fellow dropped me off in front of a bike shop (total
coincidence), and charged me five bucks for the lift. I went into a
coffee shop, had spaetzle – so German, and made my way to the hotel.
It was nice to be really and truly alone. I sat in the room, watched
a movie on the tele, and headed to a hospital. The funny thing was
that normally I would feel incredibly guilty for sitting inside on a
beautiful day. That disappears when you spend all day every day
outdoors. Not that I would want to do more than a day of it, but it
was nice for a treat.
I went to the Rhino Private Clinic – listed in the Lonely Planet.
They stared at me as if I had a second head, and then sent me to the
Roman Catholic hospital, where I had to go to the Casualties
Department – the Namibian way of saying Emergency Ward. I was so
lucky. My doctor was a cyclist who had ridden from Windhoek to Cape
Town. When he did it it had rained the whole way, so he recognized it
for what it was – I was moldy. Heh heh.
My prescription: “Knickers off, loose skirts, legs apart, and apply
this cream.” Mom would be proud. After a million questions about the
tour, he had one of the nurses escort me to the nearest pharmacy, out
of the building and down the block.
I went to Klein Windhoek, where the best restaurants are, had dinner -
I almost ordered a bottle of wine, and then discovered that what they
charge for a bottle is what they charge for a glass in Canada – and by
the time got back to the hotel, Erin and Sharita were just getting
back to their room. We made relaxed plans for the next day. Erin and
I. Sharita looked like death warmed over. Thank god I never caught
malaria.

San Afrisco

The rest day in Maun was a nice one. I missed out on doing the paddle tour of the Okavanga Delta. I was too wiped from the previous day’s ride. I just wanted a day of vegetation, and to get some errands done. When people miss things on the tour, the common thing is to say to them: “Well, you need something to come back for.” I like that. I know that I will come back to Africa some day.
The joy in Maun was that the ATM worked. I took out a large sum, even though we would be in Namibia in a couple of days. I just wanted to be sure that I at least had something to exchange.
The next day I started my ride with Evelijn. We chatted the whole way, keeping our minds off of the repetitive scenery. As we approached lunch, I realized that Eric was on sweep. I started to gripe about him – I have no idea why, but the man hates me. He is always making racist comments about natives to me, he makes fun of my riding, and every day he says to me “Are you going on the truck today? Why aren’t you on the truck today? Wow, you’re not crying today. You should toughen up. You should get in shape!” I’m not the only one he’s said this stuff to. The shitty thing is he’s staff. I’m actually paying him to treat me like shit. After venting to Evelijn, I rode in, made up my sandwich, and as I was eating, Eric turned to me and said “Are you going to get on the truck today?” I told him to f___ off, and we proceeded to gat into a heated discussion. I realized this was ridiculous, jumped on my bike and sped off.
I was so angry, and then I saw the turn-off for the San museum. Eric, the hurtin’ Albertan, disappeared from my thoughts, and I was brought back to first year university, where my big dream was to go into Linguistic Anthropology and study the San people. Said to be the oldest tribe in Africa, the San look incredibly Asian, only with very large bottoms – the kind you could set a drink on. The people’s faces reminded me of Vietnamese people. The museum told that Asian groups moved into Africa and populated the continent from there. Interesting. Everyone I talk to has a different story on what is the currently accepted “Cradle of Humanity”. I would tend to believe Asia over Africa, but then again, I’m just another voice.
John was at the museum, and as we sat about having a cold juice and looking at the corn crickets (absolutely THE ugliest insect on the planet), he turned to me and said: “You know who I can’t stand? Eric. I just had this big argument at lunch with him again because he once again started telling me how shit Americans are.”
Well, at least it wasn’t just me.
I rode the rest of the way with Mara, the Lonely Planet writer for Russia. It’s been fun practicing my Russian with her. I ditched her at the end to go into town and get myself strawberry shortcake though. By the end of the trip, new friendships come second to food. And everything comes second to strawberry shortcake. The funny thing was, coming into town, every building had a solar panel on it. Solar panels are everywhere in Africa, but nothing compares to how many are in Botswana.
At dinner they announced that the time trial the next day would be a World Team time trial. Because there are so many Canadians on the race, we were split into seniors and juniors, and because some countries are so much stronger than the rest (South Africa, and then a tie between Britain and Holland), there would be handicaps. There were a ton of additional tasks that had to be done so that even the slow riders didn’t feel left out.
The next morning was a flurry of entertainment, with people having to swap clothes, sing national anthems, pick wildflowers, race, and take funny pictures. For our group shot we staged an accident. It had a double benefit in that team Canada senior stopped to help us! heh heh. The best picture contest was won by the senior canucks, for a photo titled “Three Asses.” Two donkeys and Ernest’s full moon! (Ernest is our resident 69 year-old, and one of my favourite riders).
The one casualty of the contest was Peter (the young)… he lost his EFI because his drive train seized during the race. The lunch truck passed, but since everyone was riding there was no one to give him a bike. He missed out on 10km of the whole trip. Poor guy.
I rode with him in the afternoon. We played road games to keep our minds off of how boring the ride was. We named every country beginning with every letter in the alphabet, and promptly discovered just how poor our African geography was.
The following day we were to do the 207km. It also ended in the Namibian border. No one was sure if the border had a closing time, though rumours were circulating, since the only maps we had said the border closed at 6pm. I decided to get a room so that I wouldn’t have to deal with my tent or my locker. We would be hitting the road an hour earlier the next day. Imagine riding your bike for 200km starting at 5am. It didn’t even sound pleasant to me.

Planet Baobob

This morning I rode for a bit, but then when the truck passed, I got on. The rash on the inside of my legs is getting larger, and every pedal is agony. We passed three giraffes on the truck, and then where we were meant to have lunch we saw a poached elephant. It’s head was cut off – people buy the skulls for decoration. In Sudan you couldn’t smell the trains of dead camels on the roadside as the desert dessicated them, but here in Botswana the tropical heat encourages life in all odours, and it smelled for kilometers. After lunch I started riding again. It hurt, but the wind was not too bad, and the scenery was something else. As I rode I brushed my hand through the pink, bushy-topped grass. Ahead of me a car was stopped
by an elephant. I kept my distance, but zoomed in with my camera. I dodged the fuzzy caterpillars, lizards and millipedes that covered the road, knowing that the first vehicle through would take them out by the thousands.
I passed the Foot and Mouth checkpoint. We ran our tires through a disinfectant, wiped our shoes off on the chemical mat, and passed through. The truck had to hide the meat on it, as any meat gets confiscated at the checkpoint. In Nata I found the fellows who had done two days in one. They were relaxing by the pool with a beer. We stayed there, swimming and drinking, until dinner time at the camp.
The following morning was meant to be 130km, but I only did 100. Not because I jumped on the truck, but because we stopped at this crazy little place called Planet Baobob. For those who don’t know, Baobobs are typical African trees, and they are also some of the largest in the world. This particular hotel had one in the back about the size of a large mansion.
I got up in the morning and off to an early start with Erin. We did bike yoga on the way – put your ankle on the cross-bar of your bike and push your knee down to open your hips. The arms stretches are easy, though in the freezing cold morning air they burn. Erin and I keep a great pace together. Plus we chat the whole way, so it makes the ride a lot more interesting. When the dinner truck passed she got
on, as she had her duties to attend to, but we got a fair distance before it caught up with us. Afterwards I was passed by tons of bikes. My moral is low. I feel
like everyone is getting stronger and I’m weakening. My mood was switched around by lunch, where instead of the usual – cucumber/tomato/cheese, tuna or egg salad (they go on rotation) – they had prepared omelette sandwiches for us.
We rode the next 10-20km to Planet Baobob, a hotel marked by a 30 foot sculptural termite mound with a planet on top, covered in baobobs. Across the road is a gigantic ardvark. A few of the riders actually missed this.
We stopped for a quick break. The place was styled in 60’s African décor. Archival posters, covers from a famousAfrican magazine, an old Jetson-style screenprint advertizing L’afrique Noire, beautiful carved masks being used as lampshades along the building. We sat in circular cow-hide upholstered basket chairs drinking tea and eating chocolate cake. We looked on the pool with envy and went out to discover the 4000-year-old baobob tree (they grow a meter in diameter for every year). There were hammocks. John and I took them over, and were shortly joined by Simon. That’s where our plan started. If the others could do a double header, surely we could add 30km to our trip. It would mean riding just over 210 tomorrow, but we’re riding into a rest day. Surely we can do that. Both of us had ridden those distances before, and with a tailwind like today? We could probably get it done in 6hours. Surely we could.
Back in the restaurant we were greeted by the sweep. Alex, the nurse, thought it was a great idea. Paul and Eric discouraged it. They kept harping on how there would be no rest stop for us the next day. Or lunch. Or anything. In the end they had no real say. We stayed. The room was a funky little mud hut with two twin beds on either side. There were even towels! There was a little dining table in between
with a water jug and glasses, and on the back wall there was the smooth, rounded mud-shelving, made at the same time as they made the walls of the hut, with tin-plates hand-painted with red flowers. The cabin was just like the ones we had seen with the witch-doctor, though the shower and toilet were en-suite. We swam in our bike shorts, and sat up with some overlanders, drinking cheap wine by the campfire. We snoozed under the baobob, and just had an amazing day away from the crew.
The next morning we started the long trek to Maun. It was meant to be 210km, but by the time we finished it was well beyond that. We got up, had a massive, English-style breakfast, and went to the store 10km away from our hotel. Their only stock consisted of white bread, animal crackers, pop and water. We bought a loaf, a bag of cookies, 12 litres of water and two gingerales. The ride was excruciating. We had a headwind the whole day. There was nothing to see. Field after endless field. Not a single animal.
I was unhappy. John and I started singing tunes from the 90s. Only the baddest of the worst. That made our journey that much easier. My sugar level had fully depleted by the time we got to town. On the road we realized that we had no idea where camp was. We got into the city and saw a white man on a bike. We thought he was one of ours, but were wrong. He had seen our crew up by the Croc Farm Lodge. We
went to all of the lodges in that area. Then I emailed Toronto while John called all of the other lodges in town. He got the right one, we ordered a cab, and within half an hour we were sitting poolside, eating buffet, and shortly thereafter sleeping in our tents. Everyone else stayed up and partied, but I just wanted to be unconscious.

There Is No Ladies No. 1 Detective Agency

What to do with two days off? This was our second and last rest day. Since there was no possibility of rafting, I signed up for kayaking. Peter joined me in that, and it was our guide, two regular tourists and us. I felt bad for the guide. The others on the tour were an overweight Frenchman and his girlfriend who was, let’s just say “very delicate”. For every three of our paddles they took ten. The guide was having a rough go of keeping us together.
We rode past hippos, keeping quiet so that they wouldn’t charge us. Occasionally we slapped the paddle in the water to alert them to our presence. We didn’t want one to accidentally approach us. Birds flew overhead, and we drifted down the Zambezi, between Zambia and Zimbabwe. It turned out the others were only there for the half-day, and so after lunch we were on our own. We rode on and realized that they time the whole trip for relaxed tourists, and so after a few times of our guide catching up to us, getting us to slow down, we chilled out and barely paddled the rest of the way. The closer we got to the falls, the faster the river anyhow. We drifted past elephants grazing. The guide told us of how animals sometimes get caught in the current and get pulled over the falls. He and many others once dragged out a hippo and feasted on it afterwards. We went past the tourist area and he told us that last week, because of the height of the river (it was at the highest point on record in ages), one of the big paddle wheelers came off its moorage (I didn’t quite understand how), and then started drifting down the river. Someone saw it and they jumped in a motorboat and chased it down the river, managing to get it tied onto their boat. Unfortunately the rope snapped and the boat went over the falls.
Our guide also told us stories of Gnami-Gnami, the river god. In the ‘50’s they built a dam, but Gnami-gnami got angry because his wife was on the other side, and so he destroyed the dam to be with her. When they rebuilt the dam years later it lasted, because Gnami-Gnami had rejoined his wife on the other side.
The next morning was very exciting! The start of our penultimate stage. BOTSWANA!
It was an easy day. Only 80km, a few hills, some headwinds, but such a short day that it was barely noticeable. We had to cross on a ferry, and the line-up of trucks was unbelievable. Trucks have to wait for up to a week to get across the border. Fortunately overlanders get priority (they pay dearly for the privilege), and so our trucks flitted past all of the frustrated truckers, the ones who hadn’t gone off to visit their local prostitutes.
As you cross the border you can pick up handfuls of free condoms for customs. It is estimated that around 50% of children in Botswana are born with AIDS. It’s also one of the richest countries and most stable countries in Africa, thanks to their post-colonial discovery of diamonds. Its dollar is doing better than the South African Rand. We were shocked to see streetlights.
Most of us signed up for an evening sea-fari, where we glided down the river watching hippos, kudus, oryxes and many other antelope-like creatures, and then we sat back and watched an elephant bathing and eating, just meters in front of us. The sunset was beautiful, and we went to sleep listening to the sound of elephants, hippos and hyenas. Some brave souls in our group were headed off the next day to do a double-header. 310km! They’re nuts.
The human ones in our group woke up the next morning to a simple 160km ride. It was incredibly beautiful, but they had lied about the tailwinds. I rode the first half alone. A troupe of baboons crossed the road in front of me. No matter how many times this happens, I’ve never gotten jaded to it. It’s so beautiful to see them nudging along their young, slightly resembling school patrollers. To my right I heard a branch snap. An elephant was eating breakfast. That put me on alert for the rest of the day, but until lunch the only animals I saw were vultures. Paul caught up to me at one point. I had to laugh because the night before he had lectured us all on the dangers of elephants. “Do not approach them, do not take any pictures if you happen upon them at the roadside.” Those were his words last night, but this morning he came up to me telling me that he had had a pretty huge adventure. He passed by three elephants, right on the side of the road. He, of course, pulled out his camera, and the minute he got the elephants in the frame, the bull’s ears started to rustle. He knew to get out of there, but it was to late, the elephant, and then mama and kid started to charge him. He was scared, but at the same time was exhilarated by how cool it was, and started trying to take picks over his shoulder. When he almost lost control, he realized what a stupid mistake he was making, put the camera in his pocket, and jetted.
I rode through the tall grasses, looked at the distant acacia trees which converged miles ahead into a forest, and then diverged once again into tall grass fields. When in the grass fields I thought about what great lion territory this was, and when in the acacia trees I thought of what great leopard terrain it was. Millipedes and beetles covered the road, and I would see the occasional flattened snake, though nowhere near the amount I saw in Zambia.
I crossed into fields of millet, ripe red millet on the right, fresh green millet on the left, making everything look like an impressionist painting.
After lunch I joined up with John. We chatted for ages, until we heard a crack on our left. It was a giraffe that we startled. It ran with us for quite a while, feet first and then the waving rebound of its neck.
We stopped for a “coke stop” which have now, thankfully, turned into juice stops. Not the wonderful Ethiopian style juice, but juice in cans. Since we have returned to “civilization” coke comes in far-too-huge bottles (NAmerican size), out of plastic, not glass, and juice is available in cans, not fresh squeezed. I visited with Ernest, and he told me about his third wife, who’s ashes he scattered at Victoria Falls. When he and his ex-girlfriend broke up, they threw a singles dinner. It was a five-course meal, and everyone was set up in couples to make one of the courses together. After a few platonic dates with the woman he was set up with, he realized he was in love with her. “In my relationship with her I could have spent an hour, an afternoon, a month or a year with her and it would never be too much.”
After Zambia there seem to be a lot of complaints about it being too boring here, but I find it to be so beautiful.

Fly Me to the Moon

We went for a174km today. The distances are getting harder not physically but mentally. Zambia is filled with the sight of tall grass and dead corn. Every once in a while we’ll pass a tobacco plantation for interest. So the days are spent with thoughts of home, thoughts of stories, and thoughts of Rob. He left me with a few things to worry about on the last email, and small worries become obsessions which travel into a thousand different outcomes. Good outcomes are breezed over, since negative outcomes mean getting to strategize and think out ways to deal with the negatives. It’s all about killing time. And the pedals turn round and round.
The fact that we are right in the middle of the hump is obvious. People are antsy. Talk about home has already started and there are such mixed emotions everywhere. With this much time on our hands, all we can think about is the things we are inspired to do when we return. People talk about how when you return you are quickly reinstated into the hum-drum of the day-to-day, but it’s not entirely true. Trips like these inspire a billion ideas, and generally you wind up following through with at least one or two. So there is excitement at the idea of getting to start on it.
We reached Choma, a little town with a museum dedicated to the Tonga people. It was very small, but I picked up a few souvenirs and learned about the cultural structure of the tribe. I then found internet and found out that all of my worries were for nothing, and that life back home was indeed going on without me.
In the evening I chatted with Henry, the man who started the TDA. He was from the former Tchekoslovakia, and had worked since he was very young, starting out as a sheppard in Isreal. He co-founded CPAR (an aid organization) with another doctor, his own background being in engineering, and then moved on to other NGOs in Africa and the Middle East. At some point he dabbled in film making, and then started on the idea of making cheap, durable bikes for Africans. He partnered with another man who then backed out when he realized that it wasn’t going to mean instant profit. What did remain of that idea was the promotional strategy they had. They were going to have people ride the bikes across Africa in the world’s longest race. In the end, it morphed into the Tour d’Afrique. Our camp that night was a small dirt road that ran parallel to the highway, but fortunately there weren’t many cars driving through the night.
The next morning we had a short 164 km to get to Livingstone, where we would have two rest days in a row. The ride was awful. the morning was uphill with a headwind. I have a rash on the inside of my thighs which is spreading daily, and the pain from that is increasing. I’ve lost feeling in my right hand. It works mainly as a blunt instrument, but I am having a hard time doing things like using pens. Today my head was filled with thoughts of things that annoy me back home.
After lunch was construction, and where everyone else seemed to have been able to dodge back onto the paved road, people kept stopping me and sending me back onto the alternative road – a dodgy, corrugated, dirt road. It was hell. I got back onto the main roads when the lunch truck passed, but it was hot with countless potholes and another 80km to go. They thought there were water stops, but there weren’t.
People were in agony. Many of us ran out of water, myself included. Everyone got pissed off at the staff when we got in. I was glad that I was only one voice in the many. In the evening most left for the booze cruise, but I was far more interested in seeing the moonlight waterfalls at Victoria Falls. It only happens on the full moon, and they open the falls for three evenings. It was amazing. The falls are also fuller than they have been in a long time. all of the South African were amazed at their power – normally they had only seen them at a trickle. Some people were upset because the flooding meant that there would be no rafting. I was originally, but then I opted to go up in an ultralight to see the falls from above.
At first I started off over the nature reserve, seeing hippos, giraffes and elephants from above. the whole valley was filled with water, and entire islands were sunk. Suddenly the river falls off the edge of the world into a snaking canyon that goes on for ever. The Victoria falls need to be seen from above to admire their true magnificence. The nicest thing about an ultra-light is the sheer
exposure. You have the seat you are in, and a few mechanisms around you, but basically it feels like you are out there flying on your own. I would have loved to have been up there for hours, but 15 minutes seemed like an eternity.
The rest of the day was far more normal. I went to a mall, did internet, had lunch, and then a marching band showed up with American-style cheerleaders, which lead into tribal dancers who had the same feel as American Fancy-Dancers, dressed in their loincloths and sparkly plastic beads. It resulted in dancing and drumming in the
parking lot. I partnered up with Peter for day off food (now that we were hitting more westernized area, this was becoming more easy and restaurant food was becoming more expensive). The rest of the day was filled with pool lounging and chatting.

Face to Face with the Black Doctor!

I decided to take the scavenger hunt seriously, which meant that I had
to find one of the real challenges: a snake stone. First I had to
find out what it was. Apparently it is a stone that you rub on your
skin if you’ve been bitten by a snake. Where to find it? The only
place I coud think of was at a witch doctor’s. So my big quest of the
day was to find a witch doctor. We came across a sign that said:
Welcome
Face to Face
With the Black Doctor.
Dr. Mushasweni
I knew I had found my man.
We rode down the dirt road: Dave, Nate, Claire and Jolie-Ann were at
my side, and we came across a ton of mud huts, women working, kds
playing, and endless livestock. It turns out that the great Dr.
Mushasweni was an 80-year-old doctor who specialized in local
medicines and surgeries, but was not a witch doctor. I’m not certain
where the difference lay. We learned all about him as his wives
served us tea and bread with honey. He looked to be in his
mid-fifties, had five wives, four mistresses and 62 children. The
village around us were all his family. Nate asked what his secret
was. He said he planted lots of maize. I think that code for sowing
his seed.
Riding with the Lonely Planet guys was great fun. We had managed to
ditch sweep in the morning, and wanted to do the same in the
afternoon, especially since it was Eric – the most reprehensible guy
on tour. When we saw a cute little beer garden, we veered off. The
fellas contemplated getting a haircut. Cartoon pictures were drawn on
the outside wall of the barbershop, with the names of the different
cuts. We had almost convinced Nate to get “The Potato”. It turned
out that was a full head shave.
When we got into camp (our rest day) I was fully depleted. My blood
sugar had dropped, and none of us noticed as we almost zipped right
past the camp. Nate actually had to go and catch David. I headed off
to the mall and actually was able to get money out ofa bank machine.
it was our first mall since Sudan, and the fact that there was a movie
theatre was very exciting. That night I went out to dinner with
everyone – I had walnut and blue cheese salad and steak with gruyere
cheese and mushroom sauce, and a really lovely wine. It was the most
exciting meal I’d had in ages. It was for all of us. We went out to
some clubs with painfully bad music, and went to bed late.
When I woke in the morning I ran into a still-drunk Nick. I helped
him get to the mall (he had sprained his ankle the night before). I
filled him with breakfast and water, and we went to a movie together.
I got him even more water. Siobhan was being quite mean to him. It’s
strange, she’s taken to acting like a nagging mother, though they’re
only about 5 years apart. I figure that it’s his life, and he’s
managing to ride every day, and is always pleasant. Letters from home
got me down, and I spent the rest of the day chilling out, reading and
doing not much of anything.
On the next morning we headed off to Mazabuka. It was only 158 km. I
got off to a bad start. They moved the wake-up time by a half-hour,
and I thought it was a full hour, so I woke up when it was still dark.
At first I couldn’t find my watch, so I grabbed my headlamp and the
batteries were dead, so I grabbed my camera and used the light from
the display to find my watch, and then noticed that my watch batteries
were dead, so I grabbed my broken odometer which was only good for the
clock on it to see what the time was. Welcome to Africa. I got out
of my tent, packed everything, walked ten paces and fell into a hole,
twisting my ankle. It wasn’t a serious twist, but it was painful
enough that after 30km I jumped on the truck. Cars veered to try to
push us off of the road, and the tall grass on either side of the road
provided a double hindrance. First, it didn’t let you see any of the
views (or possible predators), and second, it got into your shorts
when you stopped to pee. I hate tall grass.
We stayed at the Honeymoon Camp. I set up a time-lapse from the top of
the truck since I was there early. They had newly opened a bar there,
so that night we got to hear endless motorcycles coming in, and the
occasional brawl.

I Pity Da Fool!

Leaving Nkhotakota was hard. Getting back onto the bike after beach life is not easy. Fortunately we were headed into a rest day. My credit card didn’t work at first. It turned out that when they called in to have it approved they had a bad connection, so rather than saying ‘Please call back’, the fellow simply declined the card. Fortunately, the woman at the desk was used to this, so she tried again. The bad thing was that we found out that Erin’s wallet had been stolen when she went to look for her card. It must have been when we were doing yoga. We had been lulled into a false sense of security, and while my stuff was still locked in the safe, hers was accessible to anyone who went into our room. The only time that could have been was when we were on the little strip of beach in front of our room. After many searches and much frustration, the manager would not even bring us to the police to report it stolen. Unless we paid 30$. Jerk.

We wound up hitching a lift to the road where we caught a metatu – a van with 10 seats which they managed to cram 21 people into. We drove to the flooding which had prevented the riders from going that route. It was easy enough to walk across – we went down a ways through a field and then crossed where the flood became a trickle, but there was quite a string of vehicles waiting to shuttle people back and forth. It had never been that the bikes couldn’t get across, it was just that our trucks couldn’t. Too bad for them.

We switched into a new Metatu, and bought freshly dug-up peanuts and ladyfinger bananas through the windows. We didn’t get to eat anything proper until we got into Lilongwe, where we ate terrible beans and rice, wiping away all of our good memories of the dish.

The road to the city had been hot and sweaty. Erin had the ticket-taker squashed into her lap, and I had a metal rod jabbing into me the whole way, but we made it, and as soon as we got into town we were lucky enough to see some of the riders walking around. After getting to camp, I set about picking up money from the Western Union. Between charges on Rob’s end, charges on my end, and the exchange rate, I wound up losing about 300$, and would then lose even more the following day when I tried to trade it for American. Gah. The city was agog with the rush of Madonna-fever, locals wearing t-shirts with ‘Adopt Me!’ written on the front. Paparrazzi were everywhere.

In the evening I caught up with Erin. She and I had been plotting for April Fool’s. We decided we were going to pull a few pranks. And then Ted joined in. I forced him to swap the contents of Bruce and Tim’s lockers with me – the two are best friends who came together on the trip and are virtually inseparable. While I was in the washroom, he chatted with Erin, and convinced her that we should turn around everyone’s seats. I was dead-set against that one, but after a while I got swayed into being devious. It was also very exciting. People were asleep in their tents, and we were turning their seats around virtually inches from where their heads were. When we finished with that little prank, Peter joined us... basically, he caught us, so we let him in on what was going on. There were a few people’s tents who we tied the flies shut on, so they would have to crawl or pull their pins to get out in the morning. And then the toilet paper! We had to use the bright pink toilet paper on the Canuck school teachers’ tents. We wrote up that there had been flooding on the Zambian border crossing, and to see Shanny (tour director) for more info. We moved all the cooking supplies into the chair storage and vice-versa. We decorated the trucks. The piece-de-resistance, though, were Bruce and Tim’s tents, which we unpegged, swapped positions, and then watched as they, totally drunk, got really confused when they went to bed. The funniest was that they had been sitting not so far away from their tents when we did it.

I woke up after only three hours sleep. I was like a kid at Christmas. It took everyone about a half hour to figure out it was us. Apparently our faces gave us away. I don’t know how. I guess neither of us can lie. They didn’t catch Ted or Peter, though. Now I know never to trust those two.

I spent the afternoon swapping my three inch thick wad of Malawian cash for American. I figured I’d get Zambian at the border with the rest. Big mistake. The funny thing was that in the hunt for money I was turned down at every foreign exchange. I wound up getting piecemeal bits – a fifty here, a twenty there. Africa is not investing in American money until the financial crash starts taking an upturn. At least, that’s what the bankers are saying.

I went to dinner with Peter that night, and we shared in a few bottles of wine, making the following day’s ride look like a nightmare. We were incredibly intoxicated on the way home. So much so that a sympathetic local stopped to give us a lift.

I woke up in the morning with a head as heavy as a stone. The ride was nice, though the headwinds made it tough. The scenery hasn’t changed much in a while, so people are starting to complain. Every time they complain, all I can think is, shit, we’re riding in Zambia. The same sparse trees dot the mountainside, and you can see much of the surroundings because the tall grass is all around us. It whistles softly as we ride by. And we’re riding in Zambia.

The border crossing into the country actually came at about 30km away from the end of the day. I was so hungry – the pangs of post-hangover munchies, but as there was no exchange at the border, I was stuck waiting until we got into town. Grey took over the sky just as we were getting in, and the minute we walked into the Forex, the skies opened up. Sheets of water came down. By the time we exchanged money, it had slackened off, and once we got to camp it was gone entirely. Since we had showers, I washed my clothes. Throw everything in a bucket and stomp on it while getting myself clean, then take it out of the shower and rinse until the water is no longer murky brown. It’s never really clear at the end, but I like to call it ‘Clean enough’.

I hung everything up to dry, and ten minutes later the rains came again. A final rinse.

I was happy to know that I was not the only one suffering on the ride that day. If Peter was hungover, he didn’t show it, but Nick had also gone out that night, and he was a wreck. Because he still had his EFI status, Tarin and Allan went over to the hotel where he was staying, put him in a cab and got him back to camp. Meanwhile, folk had taken down his tent and thrown his stuff on the truck. It was a mix of people helping him out and people being angry at him because he was, as they called it, being irresponsible. I think he’s been looking at the ‘EFI status’ as a bit of a curse for a while now, as he keeps trying to lose it and people keep pushing him back on course. I laughed at a few people who felt the need to lecture him. I’m glad I had time off from the group.

Living Yoga, I Presume

What is the first thing you do on a holiday? Sleep in. We did. Until 6:15. After months of waking up at 4:30 – 5:30, it was wonderful. And the rest of the day? Yoga! Hot showers! Omelette Breakfast! Adventures in town! Food, food and more food.

The breakaway from the group was exactly what I wanted. There were no schedules to be followed, and we even had a fighting chance of seeing the pace of life in one place. Maybe even talk to someone local. This trip is nothing like my other trips. I definitely notice the change of pace. It feels more like I´m watching a movie, rather than really getting to know any one place.

During yoga I felt everything that I had been doing to my body for the past couple of months. Bends which used to be so easy were now impossible. Slowly everything started opening up, and by the end I felt a million times better. A swim in the warm lake just made it that much better.

At breakfast we chatted with two Scottish fellows. They were father and son, though the father confessed that the few months of his son`s visit were the longest they had ever spent together. For decades now, the father had been coming to Malawi to set up special projects to help the locals. He had originally come to help in a local clinic, but when the local people started approaching him with questions on how to improve parts of their lives, he became an intermediary for them. One of his current projects with them has been to bring a boat over from Scotland, rebuild it in Malawi, and then have it transport medicinal supplies to all of the villages along Lake Malawi, since most of these have no access to roads. Two local engineers were sent to Scotland to learn how to do the reconstruction from engineers there. His son, an architect, is in constant contact with his dad, so that whenever there is a question of having something built, he comes up with an answer. Even building toilets is not as easy as it might seem. At some point we got on the topic of all the people we had seen at the side of the road, whose jobs were to break big rocks into gravel by hand. He said the worst thing he ever had to do was send a shipment of gravel back to have it broken into smaller pieces. Life is not easy here.

Around lunch we chatted with some Norwegians. They were stationed here to help out with the fishing industry, but half a year later were still unsure of what their task was. The wife of one of the men came over to live with him, and she was brought on to a local hospital (being a nurse), but since they hadn`t gotten permission as of yet from the local government for her to work there as a foreigner, she was given a local salary allowance. She was currently in pediatrics, and saw over 60 patients a day.

The Norwegians gave us a lift into town, and we got to use some of the fastest internet we`d seen in months. The Norwegians laughed, saying that it was the slowest they had ever used. It`s all perspective. They tipped us off to a local beans and rice place, which was good since the hotel was very pricey in regards to food. We checked out the local supermarkets, but all you could buy were cookies, soap, milk, meat, alcohol, chips and water. Veggies were available on the roadside – local women sold them for pennies. I guess the locals buy their grains from the bulk stores.

We hopped onto a local truck – pickups wait at the edge of town and will load up with hitchhikers to pay for their gas and vehicles. With so many stops and starts and waits for more people, it took forever for us to get going, and with all of the stops at local villages to pick up more people, we didn´t get to the hotel until the sun had gone down, which meant we got to take the long, 4 km walk to the hotel in the dark. A local drunk on a bike wandered with us until he realized we were walking faster than him. He then got on his bike and kept ahead of us, but then his bike kept breaking down and he kept falling behind. He seemed very frustrated at having two women move faster than him, but we were glad for every moment that he fell behind. Finally the rival lodge owner drove by, picked us up and brought us down to our lodge.

We got in and I grabbed a quick shower before we headed to dinner. I heard someone come to the door. It was giggler. Erin answered the door, and he burst out in giggles and eventually got enough control to be able to hold up the menus.

`You want us to come to dinner?`

More laughter and a nod.

`We´ll be there in half an hour, is that okay?`

Even more laughter and a nod.

James is great. He´s been teaching us Chichewa. And we can´t see him without breaking out into a smile. Mind you, he can´t see us without breaking out into great peals of laughter.



The following day we woke up and had a really long yoga session. It´s great to do yoga with Erin. We have basically the same start, and then go into our own poses, each one reminding each other of poses we like but might not have done for a while.

Our Scottish friends were at breakfast and offered us a lift into town where we could get our beans and rice, as well as supplies for the hitch the next day. He had visited the old slave trading village the day before. He told us about Livingstone, who had come over to Africa and was appalled by the slave trade of the day. He was only one voice of many of that time, but he was the only one who had seen the trade first-hand, so he became the voice everyone listened to. On the west coast, the slaves were being shipped-off to America, and on the east coast they were headed to the Arabic countries. Headmen of villages would sell off their villagers for a handful of salt in some cases. Life was cheap. I suppose it still is. When Livingston died, they put him in Westminster Abbey, and when they were going to erect a monument for him, they decided instead to put the money into missions to help with infrastructure so that the villages would have an income independent of slavery. So many good intentions. Up until now, all I´ve known about Livingstone were my own presumptions.

After breakfasting on beans and rice and then a grocery-shop that consisted of avocados, chips and water, we headed back to the lodge quite early, having learned from yesterday´s mistake. We got a lift from a boisterous local woman, one who I felt quite justified in giving the local greeting of ´mama´ to- greetings change between mama and sistah for people here. She owned a local lodge that had a real grandmotherly feel to it. We suddenly wished we had stayed there to support her instead of some British fellow who didn´t even live in that village. Hindsight. We walked from her lodge to ours, along beautiful white and black sand beaches. We watched fishers out getting their day´s haul, and young fishers sitting in rows of three, heaving in the nets. Some men were tarring the bottoms of their boats, others were fixing their nets.

We had dinner, chatting over wine about trees, fair salaries, and whether or not to have dessert. The answer to the last was the most obvious. We went for a long walk, talking to locals along the way. They were all out waiting along the beach to buy that evening´s meal from the fishers. We played games with the kids who followed us. In the evening we sat on the porch writing in our journals and reading until the bugs got to be too much. In three days we´d had ten hot showers each – with the general argument that it might improve our chances against bilharzia, but knowing it had more to do with the knowledge that we had a long way to go before we´d see warm water again. Every day we had the luxury of fish and vegetable instead of red meat and legumes. It´s been a dream.

This is Africa

After a luxurious rest day in Chitimba, filled with pig roasts, volleyball and lazing around on the beach, we got back on the road and headed to Mzuzu. The ride was beautiful to start, but then the headwinds started up and all I could think about were my few upcoming days off with Erin. A side-adventure was completely called for, what with everything starting to seem tedious and routine. It´s funny, I can usually lighten up with the thought that, wow, I´m in Malawi, but sometimes the wind blows to hard, or I just get sick of everyone´s competition to get up earlier and earlier.

The first ten km of the day were up an incredibly step hill, and so I rode with Fiona and Rana. We got Fiona´s life story out of her. Very white-bread and nice. We then all continued on with what we´ve done with our lives post 20. Whatever it takes to get you through the day. At the top of the hill we came upon a little wooden shack/shop where we bought cold drinks and guarded our energy bars against the store owner who was insistent that we give them to her. She then started talking about us in Chichewa to the neighbour. We wouldn´t have known except she kept pointing at us and rolling her eyes.

I rode down the hill with Tom, doing about 75 most of the way. We went through beautifully farmed valleys, passing by women in brightly-coloured dress, hampers on their heads and babies on their backs.

After lunch, the rolling uphills started and I waited to ride with Fiona and Rana again. By the last thirty kilometres I was done, and just was in no mood to ride. Fortunately Rana turned my mood around by singing bad eighties songs with me. She started up “Total Eclipse of the Heart”, and I was both shocked and upset that I knew all the words. It was all I needed to get me through the ride. One of the big advantages of riding with others.

When we got into town none of the banks would work for me. Again. I grabbed my last 200$ to exchange in case of emergency, leaving some aside for any visas, and decided to get Rob to pull money out of my account back home and send it via Western Union.

Camp was at a hotel, and dinner was spag ball (Spaghetti bolognaise), with a surprise desert (ice cream), and so everyone was excited. Then staff braced them for the news – because of flooding the route was being changed to go through the middle of the country instead of alongside the lake. People were disappointed. There were also complaints coming from American Ann. She seemed a little burnt-out of late, but then let us know that she was really sick of all the racers being congradulated, but none of the people who are out there every day trying their best. As one of those uncongradulated people, I didn´t quite see why it was that important, but I put it down to a cultural thing – it seems far more ingrained in the States that everyone should receive a pat on the back.

I went to bed and sorted out a pack for the morning. A new and very exciting adventure lay ahead! Attempting local transport in Africa!

Low Rider

After a luxurious rest day in Chitimba, filled with pig roasts, volleyball and lazing around on the beach, we got back on the road and headed to Mzuzu. The ride was beautiful to start, but then the headwinds started up and all I could think about were my few upcoming days off with Erin. A side-adventure was completely called for, what with everything starting to seem tedious and routine. It´s funny, I can usually lighten up with the thought that, wow, I´m in Malawi, but sometimes the wind blows to hard, or I just get sick of everyone´s competition to get up earlier and earlier.

The first ten km of the day were up an incredibly step hill, and so I rode with Fiona and Rana. We got Fiona´s life story out of her. Very white-bread and nice. We then all continued on with what we´ve done with our lives post 20. Whatever it takes to get you through the day. At the top of the hill we came upon a little wooden shack/shop where we bought cold drinks and guarded our energy bars against the store owner who was insistent that we give them to her. She then started talking about us in Chichewa to the neighbour. We wouldn´t have known except she kept pointing at us and rolling her eyes.

I rode down the hill with Tom, doing about 75 most of the way. We went through beautifully farmed valleys, passing by women in brightly-coloured dress, hampers on their heads and babies on their backs.

After lunch, the rolling uphills started and I waited to ride with Fiona and Rana again. By the last thirty kilometres I was done, and just was in no mood to ride. Fortunately Rana turned my mood around by singing bad eighties songs with me. She started up “Total Eclipse of the Heart”, and I was both shocked and upset that I knew all the words. It was all I needed to get me through the ride. One of the big advantages of riding with others.

When we got into town none of the banks would work for me. Again. I grabbed my last 200$ to exchange in case of emergency, leaving some aside for any visas, and decided to get Rob to pull money out of my account back home and send it via Western Union.

Camp was at a hotel, and dinner was spag bol (Spaghetti bolognaise), with a surprise desert (ice cream), and so everyone was excited. Then staff braced them for the news – because of flooding the route was being changed to go through the middle of the country instead of alongside the lake. People were disappointed. There were also complaints coming from American Ann. She seemed a little burnt-out of late, but then let us know that she was really sick of all the racers being congradulated, but none of the people who are out there every day trying their best. As one of those uncongradulated people, I didn´t quite see why it was that important, but I put it down to a cultural thing – it seems far more ingrained in the States that everyone should receive a pat on the back.

I went to bed and sorted out a pack for the morning. A new and very exciting adventure lay ahead! Attempting local transport in Africa!

Lions and Tigers and Bears!

he Ngorogoro crater is one of the most spectacular places on earth. It has both fresh and saltwater in it, and is one of the most species-rich places you will ever see.

Driving to the crater we first saw Thompson's Gazelle. They are adorable, with their ever-wagging tails. When we crossed the gates into the park we had a really awful lunch, which the driver told us we had to be careful with as the baboons are aggresive and will steal it. So we sat inside the car eating. At the end, Graham threw his banana peel in the bush. he got into a bit of a tiff with the driver, with him saying that a banana peel was not "food" Moments later the same driver tookout his lunch, set it on the hood of the car for not even two seconds, and in that time a baboon had stolen it. We all had to snicker.

The only animal you won't see in the crater are giraffe. One of my favourite moments was going past the water and seeing the veil of pink on the water. I have always loved pink flamingoes. Here there were thousands of them. We drove through and saw wildebeest, hyenas, secretary birds, vultures, warthogs, rhinos, hippos, water buffalo, ostriches, and the list goes on. And then we came across two post-coital lions. We had missed the activity by about two seconds. The way a safari works is that when one guide sees one of the "big five", they give a radio call to the other guides, and we all race over to that point. Our guide never found anything. He also had a particularly annoying habit of moving the car just a bit whenever we were taking pictures, so instead of taking just one picture, we would have to take 20. Thank god we live in a digital world.

It is so peaceful in the crater. Yes, there is a predator-prey existence there, but at the same time the animals simply go about their ways, eating and sleeping all day. We asked our guide about poachers. He told us that poachers and hyena are shot on sight. The Masai also used to be in the crater, but one of the hoops the government had to jump thorugh in order to get it listed as a world heritage sight was kick the Masai out. The belief was that the Masai would hunt the animals, but the Masai kill only their herded animals. If any of the Masai animals are killed by wild animals, the government compensates them in order to eliminate any desire for vengeance. The masai simply have tto provide the remains of the animal.

It took us a while to get out of the crater because some elephants were blocking our way. There's just no reasoning with them. When we got out, we headed to our lodge which was quite posh. It was on a cliff with windows overlooking the crater. The most beautiful sunset ever! And it had a buffet dinner with real deserts . We sat up until late telling jokes and trying to match up people on the tour.

The next morning took the whole trip up a notch. The lodge provided a champagne breakfast. How deluxe! We then drove our to the Serengetti.

While most of the animals we saw were the same, it was so wonderful to sit and watch them, and to be in such a vast expanse that is still so wild. And then we saw our first cougar. That was exciting right up until we saw a mother and her cubs a short time later. The mom was stalking a reebok. The slow creeping ended with a quick run, and the minute it did that our driver decided he would start the car and chase after it. Because we were standing, we were bounced around and so missed the kill itself (this was met with some frustration), but somewhere in there the cougar wound up on the other side of the water, the reebok escaped, and the cubs took down a gazelle which landed on the river. For the next while we watched as the four cubs took turns asphyxiating the gazelle, and then they realized that they weren't strong enough to pull the body from the water. The mother paced back and forth, trying to find a spot to cross the river (I guess with all the adrenaline going she didn't notice which way she came.) Suddenly, they all ducked. Far off in the distance a lion got up from under a tree. We could barely see it, but the animals could see it perfectly. It meanered around a bit, and then eventually laid back down. The cougars relaxed again, the mother got over to her cubs, and they began to eat their kill.

Down the road we saw the most elusive of the animals - the leopard. It was up in the highest reaches of an acacia tree. I have no idea how oone of the guides saw it. The drive along using only their eyes, and I only saw it with binoculars. I guess there are more ways of telling where they are other than just looking.

That night we stayed at a hotel inset in the rocks. It was even more beautiful than the last, and had little animals scurrying outside of my room - this little guy who looked part rabbit, part mouse. One was chased away by a monkey. Who needs television with that outside your window! In the evening I spied the eyes of a hyena looking in, and woke to the sounds of lions roaring.

After dinner that night we went for a midnight skinny-dip. We've since learned that that can get you into quite a bit of trouble here. Fortunately, we didn't.

In the morning we had another champagne breakfast, but after an evening of gin and tonics by the pool (yes, colonialism is alive and well in Africa), we weren't that enthoused. We headed off and saw all of the animals that had been killed in the early morning being eaten by lions. When we ran into the campers we heard some great stories. During the night Frank got up and went to the washroom. As he was finishing up he saw eyes looking back at him. He backed away from the lion annd went back to his tent. Moments later another lion ran through camp and made a kill (gazelle, not human). Nobody left their tents for the rest of the night.

Back in Arusha we raced through our chores and crashed. I was so happy with our tour, and the rest from biking

Albinos under siege!

Crossing into Namanga was our easiest border crossing ever. Unfortunately, going into Arusha was a gong show, and didn't bode well for the new crew. At 117 paved kilometers, it was meant to be an easy day. They told us it would be a breeze. With the gorgeous, yet still obscured views of Killi, as well as the very clear and wonderful views of Mt. Meru, it was - right up until we hit the construction. Uphill on gravel on our skinny tires in the heat. It was the end of the day and we were all tired. At lunch we had also had a change in directions. We were meant to keep a look-out for the BP station and turn right there, as the street name that they had given us wasn't actually posted anywhere. The big problem was that that was the story they gave when we got to lunch, but before that they had been telling everyone other directions - that it was three kilometers past the BP station and turn right. The sad thing was, it was 7 kilometers past the BP station, and the name of the street was posted, they had just given us the wrong street name. Our crew is usually very good, which I guess is why when they mess up it is incredibly noticeable.

I got into camp and raced over for food. Pacified, I was ready to organize my safari. I was going to go off and do one with Erin, but she had decided to do a 2-day, and I had my heart set on a 3-day. The safari was one of my trip highlights, so there was no way I was about to cut it short. I raced into town to get out some money. Standing at the gates waiting for a metatu, Mark, the owner of the lodge, pulled up and insisted he give me a lift. Arusha has a reputation for crime, though it seems it has slowed down since people have stopped going out on the streets at night. We drove to about 4 different ATMs before we found one which would dole out cash. I offered to buy him a drink when we got back but, owning the place, he offered to get me one instead.

We sat with some friends of his. One man was a scruffy-looking haggle-toothed gent who was a white Tanzanian, had been the milk man, but now had a carrot farm. He had a sparkle in his eye and the look of a fellow who had seen a lot and always kept a sense of humour about it. Mark told me stories about how there is currently a problem in Tanzania with witch doctors killing Albinos for body parts. They are apparently magical and very potent in spells. A few days later I saw them saying as much in the papers.

We moved on to visit "the glums". They were an Indian couple with a pub called "The Lively Lady". A bit of a joke, since the glums are so called because of their complete lack of enthusiasm for anything - but they are entertaining in their mere existence. The pub itself is by the railway, which is supposed to be the worst part of town. It's also where you find the clothing market. I think I may have mentioned before about how all the clothing picked up in church drives isn't actually given out to people, but is given to market vendors who sell it at stalls. This market is one of those, except instead of being from church drives, it is from the store remnants at the end of the year. If they cannot sell it, they can get a tax deduction by donating it to the third world. So for a buck or two you can pick up any designer label from this market. Fancy. In the middle of the night it was closed.

We went into the pub. It was painted orange and was decorated in 70's batik wall-lamps, the occasional celtic tattoo stencil, and framed pictures from the likes of "Haevy Metal" - Think '70's comic books with well-endowed women in chain-mail bikinis, big swords and generally either a castle, unicorn or Conan-like male in the background. There may have even been the ultimate one - a woman wrapped in a boa constrictor.

The glums themselves had just stepped out of the 70's. Mr. Glum and his brother were dressed head-to-toe in stone-washed denim. Mr. Glum was a tall, thin man with gold-rimmed John Lennon glasses and a salt-and-pepper mullet. His brother was huge, and with a greying afro. Mrs. Glum was decked out in stone-washed jeans, a black tank top, and had huge hair. All of them were covered in big chunks of silver jewelry, mainly skulls.

After a while they all went out for a joint. Mark started to tell me how most of the Tanzanian economy was run by pot. If you see a village with plenty of infrastructure, it was likely all paid for by the weed of weeds. They once got a new government in Tanzania who tried to crack down on drugs, but there was instant revolt and they backed off. If the government is going to pilfer from the coffers, they had better be ready to allow the people to find their own ways to make up the difference.

All of the buildings and compound gates on the way back to the lodge were covered in red x's. Everything marked in an x was going to be torn down for street expansion. Sometimes it was a person's home, sometimes a business. Sometimes it was only half of the home that would be torn down. I didn't know if they would be in anyway compensated or given new land if their home was taken down, but I believe it may not be the case. The red x's covered the compound wall of a former TDA fellow who had married and settled down in Tanzania after the tour. They came by one day to take down his wall, and his new inlaws drove them away. The following day they were back with guns, and

The next morning I was headed off on my safari. ANIMALS!!! How exciting is that!