The End at the Beginning

As the small, sleek SAA JetStream aircraft began its descent through the dark grey storm clouds to Johannesburg International Airport I wondered to myself – in between continuously, if largely unsuccessfully, trying to shift weight off my left buttock – what failure really is. I suppose it could be failing to reach one's objective. But that assumes of course you have a discrete objective. This trip – in spirit and in mode of transport – was always one 'about the journey' and not the destination. Cycling to Johannesburg would have meant a lot, it would have been an achievement, and it would have been interesting to experience the massive contrast between South Africa and the other countries I've travelled through from the vantage point of a saddle rather than an aeroplane seat. But that transition would also have been only ten days.

 

As it is, ending the trip in Beira I cycled 5,188 kilometres over 4 months, through 4 countries. From the tiny island of Lamu in north-eastern Kenya; through the dusty plains populated only by the Masaai; to Arusha and past Mount Kilimanjaro; on incredibly rough, steep roads through the Pare and Usambara Mountains in north-eastern Tanzania; all the way down the coast - palm-lined beaches, the rich Swahili culture, Dar es Salaam, the fantastic ruins at Kilwa and roads of bike-swallowing sand; then inland through the 'wild' and undeveloped south-eastern Tanzania, camping in the bush and carrying upwards of 15litres of water; Lake Malawi and the ferry across it before cycling most of the way down its beautiful western shore – with a few rough, tough diversions up steep hills and on dirt roads to Vwaza Marsh and the Livingstonia mission; and finally down through Blantyre into the Shire Valley across the longest railway bridge in Africa, on rough but beautiful road to Dondo and then Beira. (And all that without a single puncture – just goes to show the value of quality tyres).

 

I've been mistaken for an American, an Englishman, an Israeli, a (US) marine, an Italian and a citizen of Portugal, but only very rarely recognised as a South African. A teller at a forex bureau in Blantyre perhaps summed it up when she saw my passport and said, "But you don't look like a South African", and then proceeded to describe what seems to be considered a typical (white) South African in many of these countries: a large, rude, Afrikaans, khaki-clad male.

 

I've been called 'mzungu', 'mazungu', 'gringo', 'branco', 'Mr.White' and just 'you!'. Because of my somewhat unkempt appearance and non-cycling khaki clothes I've also been called 'Jesus', 'Osama' and 'Taliban' (there's an irony for you). I've drunk at least twelve different kinds of locally manufactured beer - one of the few things that actually is manufactured locally – and eaten more than 6 brands of peanut butter. The bike's been taken on trains (Nairobi to Mombasa and back), a bus (to get to Lamu), a plane (Lamu back to Malindi, to avoid the bus again!), a dhow (getting to Lamu) and a ferry (on Lake Malawi).

 

Along the way I have met people from all walks of life; from zany fellow travellers to local government officials, aid workers and volunteers to sapphire dealers. But more than anything else I have met and interacted with 'ordinary' local people. Fellow cyclists (often struggling with a much larger load on an inferior machine in order to make a living), subsistence farmers, informal traders and school children (when they weren't chasing me). People who were often eking out a living under difficult circumstances, but doing so generally with good humour and great generosity of spirit. A lot of them may be spending an inordinate, economic growth-destroying, proportion of their meagre incomes on cellphones, alcohol and second-hand clothes but that's something for a later email.   

 

All in all it's been one hell of a ride.

 

It therefore seems somewhat mundane to end it because of an infected saddle sore; a broken leg or bicycle frame perhaps, but a mere skin infection?! Well, I won't go into the gory details but suffice to say that having been to see my GP and got his opinion – immeasurably more valuable than that of the doctor in Blantyre because he's actually a cyclist himself - I suspect staying and trying to carry-on would have been unwise.

 

As I sat looking out of the aeroplane over Johannesburg, the signature grey skyline of Ponte and the Hillbrow Tower in the distance, the sole light in the cabin coming from the glow of the 'no smoking' and 'seatbelt on' signs and the final dying red rays of the setting sun bouncing off the habits of the two nuns in front of me, I couldn't help but laugh. Because despite everything I've seen and done it didn't actually feel at all incongruous to be in a jet plane over a fully-developed urban centre. More than anything else that just says a lot about growing-up in South Africa; one's mind becomes used to making the transition from wealth to poverty and back on a daily basis.

 

Needless to say, it still feels really good to be home. 

 

Not Quite the Last Post

 

This is, necessarily, the last post of a distinctly travel-related nature. However, I've accumulated quite a few reflective emails (of the "On…" variety) in my head that I was unable to send at the time, and I'll be sending out a few more of these before I bring this blog to a close.