On Being White in Africa

or "Don't call me mzungu, bwana" (with apologies to Mbongeni Ngema)

During my trip i was almost always seen as a white, foreigner, on a bike (in that order). This was expected. But that didn’t make it any less irritating. In the same way that i would object if a black person travelling in a predominantly white country was addressed with ‘Hey black’, ‘blackie’, ‘Mr. Black’ or anything similar, so too did i resent being characterised primarily by race.

Now of course, that kind of comparison is simplistic. It fails to take into account the role and actions of white men (and i use that gender-biased word intentionally) in these countries in the not-so-distant past. The fact is, no matter what your family did or didn’t do in the past, white people have a lot to answer for in this particular part of that world. If you want to travel it, or indeed live in it, that is a small burden you really should be prepared to bear. That said, it never fails to amaze me how little resentment there is. Given what I know about colonial history I sometimes think that if i weren’t white i would be a racist: making statements along the lines of “Look, some of my best friends are white, but…”. And that’s the thing. If I really believed that this kind of attitude was a derivative of post-colonial resentment, then I could live with that – not happily, but if that’s the price to pay for wanting to live in Africa as a white person then so be it.

But actually, I don’t think history has much to do with it all. It is largely, in my view, a kind of lazy xenophobia – a sloppy generalisation of people in small communities that mocks and tries to undermine ‘the other’, the outsider. It applies not only to whites, but (often, sadly, even more so) to Indians, Arabs, ‘mulattos’ and black Africans from other countries. And it angers me. Personally this goes back to nursery school in Mozambique, where I apparently came home on at least one occasion and said to my mother “Why are they calling me ‘mzungu’ at school. I’m not mzungu, I’m Sean”. And I couldn’t say it any better now; I’m an individual in my own right, as a people who were oppressed for the mere colour of their skin you should know better than to generalise in this way. (In fact it’s dissapointing how often that happens: witness what Israel has been doing to the Palestinians for the last half-century or so).

This applies to both positive and negative generalisations. In Malawi I found it harder to deal with the often-obsequious friendliness of some Malawians to whites, than the initially somewhat guarded reactions I got in Kenya and Tanzania. Interestingly, whilst I never – not once – felt actual hatred in the latter two countries, I did in Malawi on more than one occasion…

Ultimately, one shouldn’t need other people’s acceptance to feel that you’re at least as African as anyone else on this continent, but I do get angry if people explicitly or implicitly refute that claim. The need for this kind of acceptance is not common to all white people in Africa however. Whilst travelling i realised that there are broadly four kinds of white people in this continent: The passer-through; the expatriate; the white settler and the white African.

In ‘passer-through’ I include everyone from drop-in travellers, to overlanders, all the way through to volunteers who might stay for up to two years. These people are as diverse in their views and attitudes as any group of white people, but ultimately what they share in common is that their presence on the continent is transitory. Most importantly, they know this and that affects their attitudes. They do not call the continent their home, and therefore have no reason to resent being seen as outsiders – they see themselves as such. Of course there are exceptions, like the writer Paul Theroux who I’ll get to in a moment.

The ‘expatriate’ is similar in some ways to the passer-through in the sense that ultimately their ‘allegiances’ are to a country outside of the continent. They are often private sector or aid-agency employees. They may express, and feel, love for the continent and its people but it is often of a more-or-less subtly patronising kind. These people – by definition – often, at greater cost, recreate the life to which they are accustomed back ‘home’ in a kind of enclave. Again, they might object to being characterised by race but not to being considered non-Africans.

The ‘white settler’ is arguably the most interesting of the four groups. These individuals certainly consider themselves ‘Africans’, and will react angrily to any suggestion to the contrary, but they won’t necessarily take offense at being characterised by their race. This is because whilst they wish to be seen as people of the continent, with no lesser emotional ties than their fellow black citizens, they have little inclination to mingle with other racial (or, indeed, cultural) groups. ‘Separate but equal’, as someone once said. There are a lot of these in South Africa.

Then you get the ‘white African’, which for lack of a better definition is someone who fits into none of the groups above and is a citizen and/or resident of an African country with a strong affinity to the continent. Contrary to what the deputy of the Pan-Africanist Congress here in SA implied in a recent article, they don’t need to dance like Johnny Clegg or Brenda Fassie, eat pap and mopani worms and drink ‘umqombothi’ – that’s like saying that to be British you have to drink Earl Grey tea, like yorkshire pudding and talk like the Queen.

A book has just been published here in SA dealing with precisely this issue (and titled ‘White Africans’) but from one extract it seems the author doesn’t ‘get it’. He thinks the white settler is a thing of the past.

This post was in fact delayed because I wanted to finish reading Franz Fanon’s ‘Black Skin, White Masks’; a book that anyone who wants to understand racism – black or white - and its effects really should read. Amongst many things, he addresses the experience of being told “You’re not really (one of that race), you’re one of us”. In such a situation, it is tempting to take this as a compliment – especially as a white person who is told “You’re not really white” by black compatriots. But this attitude just enforces, albeit subtly, the idea that people, in all their complexity, are defined by the colour of their skin. In the same vein, it is folly to suggest that ‘black people have rhythm’ or ‘white people are more rational’.

Racism is deeply ingrained in so many aspects of society that it is a continuous struggle to remain uncontaminated. But being aware of that is, is suppose, at least as important as succeeding in it.

To emphasise this point, let me end with the last line of ‘Dark Star Safari’ a highly-acclaimed book written by the travel writer Paul Theroux (who lived in East Africa for at least two years in his youth, and the title of which he seems to have ‘borrowed’ without acknowledgement from the much better Polish writer Kapuscinksi): “The best Africans are still bare-assed”. You don’t need to bother reading the rest of the book to find out how he reaches this conclusion. It is a return to the ‘noble savage’ view of the colonial era which finds no justification in his actual experiences, from a man who cannot say he doesn’t know better.

I won’t wish you a white Christmas…but happy holidays.

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.       

Blantyre to Beira: Through the furnace, over the bridge

So here i am in Beira, the town where i was born. In fact, i´ve been here for five days already but unable to write this update for reasons which will soon be made known.

Distance: 408miles Days: 12days in total

The route i´ve taken to cross from Malawi to Mozambique, as with some of the ones in Tanzania, is a little odd. It arose from a combination of wanting to get to Beira, and seeing ´Longest railway bridge in Africa´and ´Shire Valley´(sounded like where the hobbits stay in the Tolkien books) on my Michelin map. Suffice to say that other than the very beautiful Elephant Marsh - which i did manage to get onto early one morning after haggling the previous day with the boat owners in the shade of a broken-down little house next to where the fishermen go out from, and which itself had taken a good half-hour´s ride to reach on small paths through a sprawling village - the Shire Valley region is nothing like the Shire area in the Hobbit. As you descend into it from the relatively cool, lush tea and coffee estates that stretch south and east from Blantyre towards the Mulanje Massif, the heat hits you very much as if you had opened the door to a furnace.

The ride to Thyolo, where the road forks to either Mulanje (tar) or Bangula (dirt) was fantastic: rolling green hills and river courses, incredibly smooth tar road and cool, overcast conditions. Spot the mistake. This is supposed to be the beginning of the part of Malawi hardest hit by the food crisis. Even after Thyolo down to Bangula and finally Nsanje, the land was not noticeably very parched - to the untrained eye at least - but there was the incongruous sight of long queues for maize at the Admarc distribution centres whilst right next door women were selling plentiful quantities of mangoes, tomatoes and bananas. I was told however in Nsanje that the price of maize is currently three times the normal one for this time of year (you won´t have any trouble finding any at a market so presumably the problem is affordability), and that apparently 23people had died the previous week in the local hospital of problems related to lack of food. I did see a corpse being wheeled-up the hill in a cart, covered in a white sheet, in the midday heat from the hospital in the village of Muona towards Thekerani (half-way between Thyolo and Bangula) but whether that was unusual or not i can´t say. The long and the short of it is that this is not one of those Somalia-like famines where it's all there for the world to see on their TV screens, but one can only take the local medical workers (who unlike the NGOs don't really have vested interests) at their word.

On Saddle Sores

In order to avoid this turning into one boring, long tale of agony, let me just note at this point that since just before Blantyre i had been having some more problems with these particular things than usual, to the extent that it was uncomfortable to sit down never mind ride a bike. So i went to see a doctor at Blantyre's finest private hospital who prescribed some mild anti-inflammatories and told me i could carry-on immediately. Showing uncharacteristic faith in the medical profession i did just that. Suffice to say he was more than a little wrong, and the problem worsened to the extent that i was forced to rest in Nsanje for 3days before i carried-on, due more to budget concerns than improved comfort, and despite having been resting for 5days now and on antibiotics for three it is still painful to sit and write this update. To have a fully accurate idea of what this last leg was like you may want to keep that in the back of your mind.

Into Mozambique

One advantage of taking such an obscure route is that there are no long queues at the border post, which in both cases was just a collection of small buildings and a couple of shops otherwise in the middle of nowhere in particular. After buying my last Sprite in Malawi, as much to get info from the shopkeeper on accomodation and money-changing on the other side of the border as to finish-off my small change, i crossed into Mozambique without any trouble. I was however immediately struck by two things: the fluttering flags at the border post (the national one and the blood-red Frelimo one) and the fact that all the buildings on the Mozambican side were pretty much just shells of buildings, some occupied and some not.

By early afternoon i reached Mutarara after having cycled largely on my own for most parts of the ride, ocassionally going through smallish villages which seemed more spread-out than the ones in Malawi. Needless to say it was boiling hot and a cold Coke (supplemented with salt) was always the first thing on my mind. From my guidebook i had expected that accomodation would be both unpleasant and expensive and was therefore surprised to get a room with fan and (basic) toilet for about $5 (100,000meticais) at a place overlooking the magnificent Dona Anna bridge straddling the River Zambeze. It seemed to be the only significant structure other than the school still standing, but on going-up to the bridge i discovered that the main part of the town was on the other side.

The tricky issue from Mutarara was whether to take the new tar road or the old dirt road to Beira, with my having heard that the latter might be very sandy (aargh!) but that the former is much longer. Fortunately i stayed at camp owned by a South African operating a forestry concession in the area and managed to get enough info to persuade me to take the dirt road. It was three days of beautiful, rough cycling through fairly intact woodland - which also meant a decent amount of shade. The birdwatching was great and it would have been an ideal stretch other than the serious lack of accomodation and now constant acute pain. The second night i stayed in the most basic resthouse so far; a 2x3.5m mud thatch cell with a corrugated iron roof with the washing facilities being two thatch conical structures without roofs where i could stand on some stones and pour water over myself in full view (well, the top third of me) of passers-by who very politely pretended not to see and managed to order a chicken and chips (often the only thing available here supper).
 

Black and white

 

As far as i`m concerned, Mozambique is a country that can only really be seen in black and white, and the innumerable gradations of grey in-between. Bombed-out, broken-down, abandoned houses and buildings; some reoccupied by people who daily live in the shadows of the past. Rusted, twisted railway tracks nd their many derailed engines, carriages and wagons, wheels in the air like dead steel insects. The people lean and proud, different shades, many shades, more often than not gleaming with sweat from the heat or exertion - often both.

 

Ocassionally one must add a splash of colour. A blood-red Frelimo flag fluttering in front of a house or dusty village; a little girl in a bright pink dress picking her way through some rubble with friends; the rich orange flesh of a mango as it`s sucked by eager lips; and in the cities of course, the somewhat incongruously gaudy advertising hoardings selling everything from airtime to soap.

 

But in all, i would disagree with the author of my guidebook who suggests that it`s almost impossibe to see the signs of the war. Coming down to Beira that was all i saw. Nevertheless, this does feel like a country òn the up` and that`s saying something.

 

Beira: life`s displacement zero

Getting to Beira was great, but the previous day when i eventually met the tar road just outside of Dondo, i had what i've come to call a 'Forest Gump moment'. It's in the movie when he's been running around the USA for a long time for no apparent reason (the suggestion is it may be to do with a broken heart but it's not clear), and he suddenly turns around and says to his 'running disciples', "I'm tired. I wanna go home". Well, i wasn`t only tired after a very long day`s ride on corrugated dirt road, but covered in tsetse fly bites (oh, did i forget to mention that there were thousands of these things in the woodland?), with something on my butt like a hot, painful half-ostrich egg, staying in dodgy over-priced accomodation.  

 

Since arriving here and doing an internet search on my condition (and seeing a doctor friend of a family friend who confirmed my self-diagnosis and treatment) i've been popping antibiotics like sweets for the last 4days and my condition has not improved markedly. 

 

I really like Beira - the cafes, the street sellers, the open suburbs and breezy sea air - and it is great to have an opportunity to explore my 'home town'.  Furthermore, to be here is of course special too because it means that to this point, for all intents and purposes, my life`s displacement (as opposed to distance travelled) is effectively zero. However, there is only so much you can do if you can only sit down at the cost of great pain.

End of the Road?

So is this the end of the road? I think it may be.

Every hour i spend here eats away at my willpower to carry-on; the route via Beira and Maputo was only ever one of necessity rather than attraction; from what i've seen so far the tar road is pretty heartless; and from what i've heard there are apparently very few facilities of any sort between the tourist spots (which themselves are reputed to be very nice). I really wanted to live that dream of cycling up the hill to our family house in Joburg, but there is no point in being stupid about this and five weeks (minimum, excluding at least a week here to recover) of punishing myself is not what i need.

By my next update you'll know, one way or another.

Malawi: Mangoes, Missionaries and Magic

The full update, as promised, made possible by virtue of my currently staying with some very nice family friends in Blantyre whose PC I'm using to write this. [But beware, it is necessarily a little long]. I have to say that in this regard it's a great change to be staying in someone's home rather in the usual travellers' accomodation.

As I mentioned in the last post, everything went perfectly to plan with the ferry from Mbamba Bay, which I reached after two days of hilly but pleasant cycling from Songea via a nice, if unremarkable, place called Mbinga. Arriving at Mbamba was a notable event because it was my first opportunity to view the Lake from ground level. It was also during this 111mile stretch that I realised that I was beginning to make my way out of Tanzania; as the churches began to outnumber the mosques and – for the first time since I started my trip – I saw people keeping pigs in addition to the usual chickens, cows and goats. After a day and a half of mostly lounging around I boarded the ferry on a Saturday afternoon, and it left only half-an-hour late; largely because whilst much is imported to this little village its primary export seemed to be empty bottles, so there wasn't too much to load in the way of cargo though there were a fair number of passengers.

The trip was as beautiful as various other accounts have said, with the blue Lake stretching ocean-like into the distance in the west and layers of hills and mountains towering over the eastern shoreline which were lit-up at the end of the day by a blood-red sunset and a golden yellow full moon. At the beginning in fact it was all too ocean-like, and I had trouble keeping my plate of stew and rice first on the table, and then in my stomach, as the boat (the MV Songea, apparently the biggest on the Lake) lurched from side to side in a strong wind. My already tiny cabin became even more so when I was joined in it by a tall young German man who had been visiting friends doing volunteer work at a Mission hospital in an isolated village called Liuli on the shore. We arrived at Itungi 'port' (two basic wooden shelters on a small sandy beach) at 7:30am the next day and whilst the Germans climbed onto a minibus going North to the town of Mbeya, I first offloaded and then packed my bike and set-off (after asking directions) to Matema Beach in order to take a couple of days rest, despite the fact that this meant a rather rough ride going away from the Malawian border. There I stayed at the Lutheran Mission right on the beach, did my first snorkelling in the Lake – seeing numerous, fabulously-coloured little fish – and went on a canoe trip to a small village called Ikponde, renowned for the pottery it produces (though I had missed the pottery market which happens on Saturdays). I eventually dragged myself away from the great sunsets and swimming – helped by the fact that my visa was expiring in a few days – and set-off for the Malawian town of Karonga via the Kaporo borderpost.

It was on this day that I realised the strangeness, not to say absurdity, of borders. Having cycled for almost two months through Kenya and Tanzania (very similar countries culturally and linguistically), in the space of less than 5kilometres the dominant religion and language changed, as did people's attitudes. Whilst the Tanzanian side was a little stressful with loads of money-changers chasing me around, and not taking 'No!' (or 'Hapana!') for an answer, the Malawian side was positively laid-back by comparison. It was only the next morning that I discovered why, and that I had erred in not changing money at the border. With still a fair amount of Tanzanian shillings left I had assumed, incorrectly as it turned out, that since the Tanzanian banks changed Malawian kwacha that the Malawian banks would change shillings. I only discovered my mistake when I went to the bank in Karonga the next morning, though only after making something of a fool of myself by hammering on the glass of the local National Bank of Malawi branch, which seemed to be opening over an hour late, only to discover that I had crossed a timezone without realising it and that they were opening on time… (I did apologise to the bank manager after I discovered my mistake whilst sitting waiting for the traveller's cheque rates to come through). In the end I had to take a taxi back to the border post where I was able to change my shillings formally at a recently opened small forex kiosk on the Malawian side that I was told about at the bank.

It has taken me a little while to adapt to Malawi and its people since then – in particular the hordes of children screaming 'Mzuuuunguuuu, helllloooo! Give me money!'; much worse than anything I'd had previously. It's a generalisation of course, but I have found that whilst Malawians are more 'friendly', it seems to be a more obsequious kind of friendliness, and I find that hard to relate to. Perhaps it comes from living under a dictator for some time after breaking free of colonial rule, the influence of vast numbers of missionaries and the too-friendly relationship with South African apartheid governments in the past. Furthermore, I have lost the 'upper hand' of being able to surprise people with my knowledge of their language (Swahili) and instead now have to get used to being linguistically more 'accessible' to others via their (admittedly rather poor) knowledge of English.

That said however, I have found Malawi attractive enough that I have been dawdling rather too much at the various lakeside towns, national parks and other attractions. It would have been possible to cycle through in three, or perhaps even two, weeks but in all I anticipate passing through the border with Mozambique slightly more than a month after arriving here.

From Karonga I gradually made my way down to Mzuzu, the largest town in central Malawi, whilst trying to refrain from taking too many diversions. I did however visit the small mission town of Livingstonia perched scenically high in the hills (in an attempt to avoid the missionaries' scourge of malaria), and took some back roads to and from Vwaza Marsh Game Reserve where I camped and cooked amongst hippo tracks and elephant dung. I discovered from some other travellers near Livingstonia that a local cyclist had been killed at Vwaza by an elephant a few days before I arrived and a man was apparently killed by a hippo the day I was there, but fortunately I didn't bump into any of these large beasts during the night in the unenclosed campsite, despite many disconcerting grunts and rustles around my tent.

The main roads in Malawi are pretty good, but only if you stick to them, which I didn't do until after Mzuzu when I followed the thrillingly fast tar road through the hills to the justifiably popular lakeside town of Nkhata Bay and thereafter decided to stick to the Lake shore, and tar road, all the way to its southernmost tip.

In Livingstonia I stayed in the 'Stone House', a national monument with magnificent views over the mountains and Lake, but with the downside of unhelpful but ever-present staff and schoolchildren trooping through on school outings. It was a strange place, an anachronism really, with its monuments to European missionaries; eucalyptus, pine and jacaranda trees; tiny run-down 'groceries' (which sell biscuits, soap and the like but no fresh produce of any sort) and very small market (about 5 stalls selling the ubiquitous tomatoes, onions, beans, etc.). Here I met some Irish church people out for a few weeks on one of a number of visits to build various facilities for the local community. I was a little disconcerted walking with one woman when a young girl passed us and said 'Give me banana' (we had just bought some at the market) and she said 'You want a banana? Okay, here you go.' The girl gave a slightly smug smile to the other children around us who had not asked. I was unable to hide my shock and disapproval. Why? Because when you've been mobbed by kids day after day saying 'Give me money/sweets/food/…' you think to yourself, 'This is really weird, because surely this kind of thing doesn't work on anyone so why do people keep doing it?' Now I knew. Well-meaning do-gooders from Europe can make an entire generation into beggars.

And this is what I really want to write about. The travelling has actually been a lot of fun, with great scenery, good places to stay (that are very affordable if you have a tent) as I've resort-hopped down the Lake, and many interesting other travellers and good roads – only the hot weather has been a little trying. But I think too much for this kind of superficial pleasantry to entertain me for long. Malawi is one of the poorest countries in Africa, indeed the world, and if you are at all interested in development you have to look around and ask 'Why?' Until I travel through the last, southern, part of the country – the most densely populated and reportedly famine-hit – these comments will be preliminary but I think they are unlikely to be invalidated.

From soon after Karonga I noticed four interesting things: lots of mangoes; lots of churches and missionaries; many, individual, aid projects; and lots of dry land near to plentiful water. In Mzuzu I stayed at a CCAP (seemingly the largest Malawian church group) guesthouse. On the wall at the entrance were a number of rules of residence including number 7 along the lines of: 'No magic powers to be used on the premises'; a reminder of the still very 'primitive' beliefs that mingle here with the many variations of Christianity. I also witnessed the amusing sight of some American missionaries interacting with their Malawian counterparts and showing off their latest palmtop computer, on which you can do Google-type searches of phrases in the various books of the Bible; no doubt a critical tool for uplifting the impoverished masses. So that's the first thing; Christianity is everywhere here – every tiny community has a church of some sort.

Mangoes, at this time anyway, are as plentiful. All the way along there have been mangoes everywhere for sale, lying on the road and hanging in the trees. In the northern and central parts they were not even allowed to ripen before being picked; this is in part a cultural thing (a lot of people prefer green mangoes) but seems to be also analogous to the development of Malawi's people - not given the opportunity to develop to their full potential by virtue of a lack of money and educational opportunities. Even further south, where ripe mangoes are available, there is no sign of any processed mango products: dried fruit or juice for instance. An expatriate running a backpackers/guesthouse in another popular place on the Lake called Senga Bay told me how she was planning on starting a mango-drying project, after piloting it with her staff last year resulted in enough preserved mango that they and their families had not finished it before the new season arrived. Despite the plentiful crop of mangoes, many areas are clearly suffering from a lack of water for the land and crops. The disconcerting thing about this is that many such areas are right near to the Lake or small rivers. And at various places all the way along the road are signs for different aid-funded projects by different donors; a laboratory here (even though the powerlines merely bypass the school), an irrigation scheme there, a road-upgrading initiative somewhere else.

No doubt your frame of mind will determine how you interpret these things, but to me the case is clear-cut. Almost all of the many volunteers – medical students, teachers, doctors – and aid workers I have met (especially the former) have expressed serious reservations as to the long-term benefit their presence is imparting to the country and its people. It is hard to disagree. Malawi is a beautiful country with good people that seems to suffer from having no seaport, very little in the way of value-adding industries and perhaps most importantly a, now ingrained, excessive reliance on outside assistance.

Enough said.

I should also mention that from Senga Bay to Zomba, the ex-administrative capital, I cycled with the Dutch couple I mentioned previously who are on holiday cycling around Malawi for a few weeks. It has been nice to have some company, and has made dealing with annoyances much easier. My Afrikaans has returned to a reasonably good level, and they are quite pleasant people. That said, they cycle a little too fast for my liking (only stopping for their Coca Cola fix) and start very early – good for the heat, but bad for me since I, packing-up on my own plus doing half-an-hour of stretching, take rather longer to get going in the morning. I may seem them again here in Blantyre but from here they are heading back up north to Lilongwe so we will not cycle together again.

In a couple of days – after sorting out a number of things here - I'm going to be heading south towards the least-used of the borderposts with Mozambique, primarily because I want to pass the Elephant Marsh (very good birdwatching apparently) on the Malawian side, and Vila de Sena (the longest railway bridge in Africa at 3.7km's long) on the Mozambican side. Likely difficulties are currency, which I'll probably have to change on the black market; temperatures, which apparently peak above 40C in some areas; and language, since most people in Mozambique speak only Portuguese or a local Bantu language. Given that southern Tanzania was quite taxing perhaps it's just as well I've taken it fairly easy over the last few weeks.

I hope the next update will be from 'the town where i was born' (that's also a line in the Beatles song 'Yellow Submarine'); Beira on the Mozambican coast.

 

Brief Missive from Malawi

By popular demand...

I have been told that some people are a little curious, not to say concerned, about my whereabouts. Although i've been keeping the family informed (largely so they don't send the army out looking for me, which would be embarassing) the main reason for my not posting an update is because internet is neither widely available here, nor particularly affordable.

At this very moment i am writing from Cape Maclear, at the very southern tip of Lake Malawi, having cycled all the way down from Matema in Tanzania on the very northern tip where i disembarked from the ferry which arrived 36hours after i did in Mbamba Bay (don't you love it when a plan works perfectly).

Malawi is very different from Kenya and Tanzania and i have yet to really make up my mind how i feel about the country. There are many beautiful, relaxing places - especially on the lakeshore - but other aspects are less attractive; in some ways it is a little too like South Africa for comfort. More interestingly, i have been travelling with two Dutch cyclists for the last 2days and will probably continue to ride together for at least a few days more. As my luck would have it, he is a firefighter who competes in the World Firefighters' Olympics and they both ride mountain bikes competitively, so i'm rather glad i've had two months of cycling already... Still, it's an interesting change from my usual solo exploits.

More from Blantyre in a week or so.

Hills, dirt and more hills across 'wild' south-eastern Tanzania

Okay, i've finally given-up on providing a day-by-day breakdown of the trip. As the gaps between emails becomes longer this becomes a little taxing. I've also come to realise just how difficult it is to fit such a massive variety and quantity of experiences into any kind of frame - even one as big as my own mind, never mind just a few (thousand) words. So i'll start by giving a very basic breakdown of my days and distances followed by something of a narrative.

{Mtwara-Newala (via Nanyamba): 47miles on both days
Newala-Masasi: 46miles
Masasi-Tunduru: 2days, 131miles
Tunduru-Namtumbo(via Matemanga): 40 and 90miles respectively
Namtumbo-Songea: 47miles}

Originally i had intended on cycling from Mtwara to Masasi in two days, because although the second one would entail a 124km ride the road is apparently good tar. However, i would have had to retrace 80km's back towards Lindi and when i then discovered that Masasi was on the 'Makonde Plateau' (making the chances of doing the distance plus an ascent seemingly unlikely) i decided to rather take a more leisurely route on dirt roads via Newala.

It was a good decision, as those three days were some of the best cycling i've done to date. Although the roads weren't fantastic they weren't too bad (i rarely had to push), especially taking the side-paths available to cyclists. Now, although i've taken side-paths made by local cyclists before, the ones i was alerted to soon after i left Mtwara were in a different league altogether. They were almost wide enough for two bicycles, which was just as well because there was a lot of cycle traffic (including some cheeky motorcycle taxis), and they often ran through groves of cashew nut trees. Cashews happen to be my favourite nut, but i had never actually seen a cashew tree before this trip. To appreciate why they are often quite expensive you need to actually see where they come from; each nut comes from just one 'cashew apple' which can be red or yellow in colour (or at least the fallen ones i saw were) and is at least as large as a normal apple. Anyway, it was fun cycling with the biggest dangers being other bikes and hitting my head on cashew tree branches. When the sidepath came out of the trees it passed through small villages, with the locals rather surprised to see an mzungu on a bike whizzing by their front door. Another highlight of the three days was the very good breakfast i had at the 'Country Lodge' in Newala, where they even had fresh honey (to contrast with the 2slices of stale bread and one small banana i got at the otherwise very good Lutheran Centre in Mtwara).

Masasi is indeed 'ringed by granite koppies' as it says in my guidebook, but the Makonde Plateau isn't much of a plateau in my view because in the end i didn't have to do much climbing to get there. In Masasi i was guided to a good guesthouse recommended to me by the English girl in Kilwa, but otherwise had somewhat less success with my other endeavours. Bottled water was only available in small, very expensive, quantities but after much searching i found a 'duka la dawa baridi' (basically a pharmacy) where i bought some 'Water Guard' to purify water. After managing to stuff all my supplies - which i knew i would need for the next two days to Tunduru - into my panniers, i discovered that the 9l fold-up water bottle i had been carrying for such situations had a leak... I decided to sleep on it (not the water bottle, which i strapped to my rear rack) and see how much water had been lost by the morning. It wasn't more than a litre, so i set-off. About 5hours of cycling later, seeing some spectacularly-shaped huge granite outcrops, i decided to transfer what water remained to the bottles i had been drinking out of, and managed to salvage about 3litres. Fortunately i came across a village with a water pump late in the afternoon, where i was allowed to the front of the (admittedly short) queue and managed to get another 4litres which i knew would allow me to get through the next day to Tunduru without too much discomfort.

Soon afterwards i started searching for a suitable place to pull-off the road and pitch my tent. This was complicated by there being a fair number of small villages - i didn't have the energy to go through a whole rigamarole of getting permission, etc. to camp int hese so i did what most people do and tried to avoid them - and, more to the point, a disconcerting number of small veld fires burning in various places. Finally i found a place where there weren't any fires very nearby and also seemed to have been burnt-out not too long before, and managed to pull-off the road without being observed. Initially, i camped behind a small granite outcrop that obscured me from the road, and cooked-up a basic supper of pasta boiled with a stock cube (so i could drink the water) - which was complicated slightly by discovering that my bottle of olive oil had leaked and my vitamin pills had exploded in the heat inside the pannier. (It's not a pleasant sight and i still haven't brought myself to fully deal with it).

However, in the middle of the night a strong wind blew-up and i decided (with fires lighting-up all but the northern horizon) to move-up onto the rock. As it turned out the wind blew the fires away from where i was and i woke-up in the morning not burnt to a cinder, which was a relief. Other than a few strange noises in the bushes whilst i was cooking i didn't see or hear any animals. I left a little late (cooking breakfast and packing-up is something that i've never been very fast at), surprising some men on the other side of the outcrop who had come to chop wood, which became a problem as the road deteriorated and i hit soft sand in 30C+ heat. At some point i managed to find a cold soda, and whilst drinking this and wondering if i would make it to Tunduru i met a local man who himself was about to set-off for the same place. I left first, but he passed me on the way which was very fortunate because for the next 1-2hours i was able to follow him onto various obscure sidepaths that were mostly cycleable - unlike the road. In the end we parted because i was tiring a little (okay, a lot) but only after i had ascertained that i could follow the main road all the way to Tunduru and i shared some of my remaining water (i had filled-up at another village pump earlier)with him. I eventually arrived in the 'dusty mining town' of Tunduru at just after 6pm. It wasn't a very friendly place at that time and i couldn't find the guesthouse, but as usual a local man who i stopped to ask spent 20minutes of his time helping me to find the place, get a room and even move my bike in.

Although i was feeling incredibly tired by this time - the sand having killed off my mental determination at least as much as my physical strength - i had managed to establish from a number of locals (at the guesthouse, shopkeepers, petrolstation attendants, etc) that there was a place called 'Matemanga' about 40miles away on decent road with guesthouses. I decided that it would be preferable to continue on, thereby breaking the 200km's into 3days of not more than 70km's each rather than doing two days of 100km's each after a days rest. So I left Tunduru a little later than usual after managing to find two 5l hard plastic water bottles (after finally ditching the fold-up one after it got another hole) and various other supplies, although i was feeling a little unwell as if i was coming-down with a cold. It turned-out to be a good decision as the road was good and i reached Matemanga in mid-afternoon, providing an opportunity to get some much-needed rest.

From there i was expecting a really difficult two days to Namtumbo but they never materialised. Although i started-off with 16litres of water, the road was good enough that after a while i started thinking about pushing-through to Namtumbo in one day. The scenery was fantastic, with small hills and woodland on all sides and the road was generally smooth with the exception of some huge depressions. Whilst these might trap vehicles they are actually quite fun on a bike and they didn't slow me down too much. At some point i discovered - thanks to a raodside sign - that the gentleman at the Tourist Board in Dar had slightly misinformed me: i wasn't passing through a 'control zone' of the Selous Game Reserve but the 'wildlife corridor' between Niassi in Mozambique and the Selous. Perhaps it's a matter of semantics but to me this is like the difference between a fire escape and the main corridor of a building, which can be a problem if you are trying to avoid people (or animals in this case). However, i have to dissapoint you by saying that i only saw some baboons and elephant dung, other than some strange howls at one point there was nothing to really disconcert me. By 4:30pm when i had intended to get off the road and camp i was so far along that i decided to go the full 90miles to Namtumbo in one go. Considering how loaded-down i was it was pretty amazing that i managed this, and i was pleased to have another day to play with in my timetable.

I was warned in Namtumbo that there were some 'very humungous' hills between there and Songea but i decided to carry-on (again) despite now feeling really grotty and rest in SOngea where there would be more facilities and i would have some chance of finding out about the ferry timetable. There were some very nasty hills but i managed to grind up most of them - much to the amusement and/or amazement of the locals - and the mountains i expected never materialised which was something of a relief. The scenery wa even more impressive now, on a fairly cool and overcast day with large hills and mountains spreading out like waves in all directions. A few last hills ('kilima' in Swahili i discovered) on tar road brought me to Songea where i've been since yesterday.

My first attempts at getting ferry information threw-up some rather negative feedback but a priest i met at the internet cafe yesterday (whose parish i'm supposed to stop at tomorrow for some tea) and the port authorities i finally got through to this morning seem to indicate that the ferry is running and shouldn't leave before Saturday so hopefully i'll be able to make it. Songea is a relaxed place, the people are friendly, it is well laid-out and the main road runs close to where i'm staying down towards the hills that stretch to Mbinga and Mbamba Bay on Lake Malawi (called Lake Nyasa here) where i'm headed; so in all it turned out to be a good place for a rest.

When next you hear from me i will with any luck have taken at least one and maybe two ferries into Malawi on the second of the two major landmarks i saw all those days ago (it seems like an age) when i flew to Nairobi.

At this point itmight also be apt to mention that i have seen - just before i left Mtwara - what happened in New Orleans, and the irony of people there having to worry about water-borne diseases there was not lost on me in my current context. There is a lesson here, which is that whilst what i'm doing has some risks - 'known unknowns' as Donald Rumsfeld might call them(this quote, that "there are known knowns...known unknowns...and unknown unknowns" for which he has been widely savaged, is in fact one of the most lucid things said by anyone in the Bush administration) - some of the greatest risks are unknown unknowns. So why let yourself by constrained by small risks which you can at least calculate?

At times i have thought i wouldn't miss Tanzania; when i was cycling up hills on bad roads, in boiling hot weather, with the local idiots shouting rude comments in Swahili and/or English. However, those moments are hardly representative. I'll miss the culture - especially of the coast and the Muslim influence - the cyclists (i doubt there are as many in Malawi), the chai, the chapatis, being able to speak a little of the local language. Malawi is going to be very different i suspect, and i know for a fact that Mozambique will be.

Lake Malawi here i come.

[By the way, thanks for all the emails and apologies for when i take a little long to reply but have no doubt that i will eventually so keep 'em coming]

Along South-East Coast of Tanzania

Dar es Salaam – Kilwa Kivinje: Did Someone Say ‘Sand’?

[Distance: 198miles; 3days]

In the afternoon of my last day in Dar es Salaam I managed to make contact with Riaan Manzer, a South African man who has almost finished circumnavigating Africa (i.e. going round the entire continent) by bicycle – and you thought I was nuts! He is about a week ahead of me on the coast, and had just rode into Lindi (about 500km’s south) when we spoke. According to him, the road from Dar was mostly pretty good dirt. “But”, he said, “watch out. There is 50km’s of sand before a place called Mohoro.”

“Five zero?!”

“Ja… Ag, but don’t worry, you’ll handle it.”

To be honest, I don’t think I really absorbed the significance of what he said. Partly because on my map there are two possible routes to Mohoro, and I thought that perhaps he had ended-up taking the secondary rather than main road. If I realized the full import of this information I might have changed my route….

Still, I didn’t have much of a detailed idea of the road quality going south even after this conversation, and so I started out from Dar with 3 possible destinations for my first day that should have guesthouses (i.e. rooms with beds, shared hole in the ground and bucket showers). Leaving Dar was only slightly less hairy than entering despite it being a Saturday, but the road was fairly good tar for the first 40km’s which helped to speed me up a little. From there it was ‘under construction’ – which has apparently been going-on for at least ten years – but at least that meant fairly decent stretches of dirt and gravel for much of the way. As it happened the second of my possible destinations (74km’s down the road) didn’t have any ‘gesti’ but I was making fairly good time and so I pushed on to the very small settlement of Bungu; after 114km’s I arrived at just after 5pm. I had been told that there were better guesthouse further on in Kibiti, but there was little chance of my making it before nightfall so I decided not to push my luck.

I managed to set-off fairly early the next day after picking-up some chapatis (having bought some bananas and the previous day). I had also loaded-up on water the night before (in Dar I made a strategic decision – based largely on my starting to run out of water purification tablets – to start buying bottled water. This is not too expensive if one buys in large quantities, which I generally do unless stopping for something cold). Other than some mistakes on my map, such as distances in miles being given in kilometers – not for the first time either – and bad dirt road for the 17km’s to Kibiti, it was fairly good going until about 40miles. After passing the Mkapa Bridge – named after the current President, though nobody seems to be bothered by the signs saying “Danger: high winds” – the road became rough again until I reached the village of Nyamwage. There the cycling stopped. For the next 20km’s I had to push the bike through thick sand.

Let me just take this opportunity to reflect on what pushing a loaded bike through thick sand is like (I have had lots of time to do so myself). At best it is hot, sweaty, tiring and not very rewarding work. At worst, it requires adopting something like a rugby scrumming position just to get the wheels to move under the glare of a burning hot sun with a steadily diminishing water supply; then becoming completely bogged-down when you have to move-off the centre of the road for a passing vehicle. What goes through one’s mind at such moments? Well, expletives, self-doubt, anger, songs (all kinds of strange songs have come into my head on this trip, from Britney Spears to the Beatles, national anthems and a song from Sarafina), more expletives, thoughts of death by dehydration, and slowly but surely a kind of meditative calm. More to the point, what stops one from taking a lift with a passing truck or bus? I don’t know; perhaps because it would be admitting defeat, but it was a question that I asked myself a lot for the first 5 or 10km’s.

Anyway, after that I reached Morohoro. Of course, one can’t rest on one’s laurels and after that 60mile day I still had to get out and buy provisions for the next day. In doing so, I discovered why there was so much sand, because on my way to buy fruit I had to cross a small wooden bridge over a partly dried-up river-bed in which I saw a number of small sailing boats. Taken aback, I remembered that this was the Rufiji region which becomes completely flooded during the wet season and is the main obstacle to completing the road south from Dar (they haven’t even started on that section yet).

Nevertheless, I went to bed feeling optimistic that I would reach the famous Kilwas the next day and that at least things couldn’t get any worse. I assumed that Riaan had misheard me and meant 15km’s of sand. Ah, what folly… Because of course a cyclist is less likely to forget a distance than, say, the name of a town. So it was that the next morning I realised, after pushing through sand for over an hour, that he must have meant 50km’s before Somanga, which is the first settlement 30km’s south of Mohoro. Ah well, no doubt it was penance for past sins. I reached rideable (in fact, good tar) road 30km’s and about 6hours later. Despite what you might think, I was in rather good spirits after reaching tar and so I decided to still try and make Kilwa Kivinje (62miles from Mohoro), stopping in the junction town of Nangurukuru only if absolutely necessary. To cut a long story short I made it to Kivinje (beating off a competitive local teenager on a last, long hill) though the stretch to Nangurukuru had been more difficult than I thought, and I arrived not long before sunset.

The Kilwas

Kilwa Kivinje could have been a fairly pleasant, very small, place to hang-around in, with its ruined German colonial and Arab buildings, small dhow harbour and reasonably relaxed atmosphere. However, it was very hot and humid, the guesthouse was rather basic, and I was bloody tired and a bit tetchy so I decided to cycle – on to Kilwa Masoko 26km’s further along the coast (though one has to go back inland first). It was all I could to do pull myself and the bike out and get on the road, but it turned out to be the right decision as the Hilton Hotel/guesthouse (yup, pretensions of grandeur) was better equipped – fan and running water in other words. There I basically just collapsed in a heap – other than a short foray out to the market to buy fruit, and where I was pleased to also manage to sniff-out some fresh granadilla (everyone calls it passion fruit here) juice by exploring the shops around a pile of husks.

In Kivinje I had met an English girl who I then met again in Masoko who had just finished 6months of volunteer work, and had come to Kilwa via Mtwara and Songea – my route! She was able to give me a lot of information on pretty much everything (guesthouses, internet, etc.) other than road condition, which most passengers never really pay much attention to except to the extent that it disturbs them so that wasn’t surprising.

The next day I went-off with Rosie (the English girl) and a young couple from Madrid, after much hanging-around to get permits that we only manged to get on the island in the end, to visit the highlight of the region: Kilwa Kisiwani (‘Kilwa the Island’) and its Omani Arab ruins. Although the day hadn’t started well, with my having to begin a course of antibiotics I’d brought along for severe stomach complications – I wanted to keep them for use in a more remote area, but I had no faith in the nameless pink pills proffered by the local medical store attendant – the ruins were amazing. Aside from the fact that they are scenically situated on a small island reached only by dhow, this is essentially because they are not as ‘ruined’ as other ‘ruins’. My personal favourite was the Great Mosque, with its multi-domed roof supported by stone pillars still intact and the roots of a giant fig tree growing through one of the walls of the adjacent ‘Great House’.

Kilwa-Mtwara: Mozambique or Malawi?

[Distance: 200miles; 3days]

Apparently it is possible to camp amongst the ruins, which must be incredible, but I had to keep moving. So the next morning – stomach only slightly improved – I set-off once again. This time heading towards Mtwara, the largest town in south-east Tanzania, via Mtandi and Lindi. As it turned-out I ended-up stopping in a place called Mandawa, about 8miles before Mtandi, because it turned-out (I asked people along the way as always) that there were no gesti in Mtandi. Other than being the first place where I can remember hearing Swahili rap – and very popular it was too – there was nothing particularly remarkable about this small, truck-reliant place.

I set-off a little late from Mandawa because I had trouble finding chapatis early enough, which was a little irksome as I had asked the previous evening what time they’d be available. I soon hit road ‘under construction’ and it was fairly good going until I got to Mchinga, other than becoming intimately acquainted with a new kind of powdery white sand that I haven’t seen before as I hit some at speed and took my first fall for a while. This time I landed on the other side, and hit my knee not my hip, but this only troubled me the next day. At Mchinga I finally saw the sea again, and was almost tempted to go in for a swim. Because it was being used as a base by the road constructors I also managed to get a soda baridi (cold) by virtue of the presence of a small generator – they even had Redd’s! – after cycling through soda moto (hot) territory for the previous 40miles.

During my descent into Lindi – which was very rewarding at the end of the day, with the sun going down and the town sprawling next to the sea below (when I was able to glance-up from the incredibly rutted road) – I was pulled-over for the first time at a police roadblock. One of the three policemen had the kind of expression on his face that suggested they might be thinking of shaking me down for some cash, but if that was their intention they soon became more interested in hearing about what I was doing and who I was.

At this stage I knew I had decided to try to go across the wild route to Malawi (see below) for which Lindi would be a better starting point than Mtwara. However, running short of money I knew I was obliged to carry-on to Mtwara where Rosie had told me I would be able to do this (I’ll find out tomorrow morning). Though Lindi was a pleasant enough place, except for the presence of lots of road construction vehicles at work, I carried on the next morning.

Other than the first 10km’s the road to Mtwara was almost without exception very good tar or gravel. My body however was more interested in the distance and started to flag the further I went. It was the usual day of small villages with screaming children, curious locals and either interested or competitive cyclists. The terrain was also quite undulating, with some very large hills. The highlight was cycling into Mikindani, 10km’s north of Mtwara, where the sea actually laps against the side of the road, rustic dugout canoes bobbing on it, and passes underneath into the small mangroves that stretch up to the local village. After some trouble finding accommodation – the recommended guesthouse was full – I ended-up at the rather good Lutheran Centre, where I collapsed after a brief foray to look for food and (unsuccessfully then) internet. I’m feeling completely exhausted, even though I’m fitter than I’ve ever been, and at the back of my mind I suspect that I’ll have to hitch some of the route to Lake Malawi (or Lake Nyasa as it is apparently still called here).

The REALLY Tough Leg

My last day in Dar was used productively, getting information on the intended route to Lake Malawi via Mtwara and Songea from the Tanzanian Tourist Board (although the first person I spoke to there told me that the road to Mtwara had been completed and was tar all the way, which I knew was almost certainly untrue). A rather jovial elderly gentleman who I was then directed to and had traveled the said route gave a wry chuckle when I told him that I was intending to do it by bike. “Yes, well, it is a very interesting region. But from Tunduru ask for local information; there are wild animals there you know.” The Bradt Guide does call the route in question ‘wild’, but that is often just a way of saying that the author hasn’t taken it. However, in this case it is apparently an apt description because the road runs through what is referred to as the ‘control zone’ for the Selous Game Reserve. What that basically means is that there is nothing physically preventing the animals (including the ‘big five’) from roaming in that area, just that mostly they stay further north. This is only a problem because I am almost certainly going to have to camp for at least one night on the way to Songea. However, I gather that it should be okay provided I am in my tent at night if/when any animals do come prowling. If I can do the 200km’s to Namtumbo (75km’s east of Songea) within two days water and food shouldn’t be a problem.

(Incidentally, I just spoke to a Peace Corp volunteer in Mtwara who had taken that route and told me that it was so bad from Tunduru to Songea that people were throwing-up in the vehicle. They also saw a lot of animals including wild dogs…What am I getting myself into?)

So, from here I need to get to Mbamba Bay by Wednesday (or is it Thursday the 13th) to catch the ferry to the border on the north of the Lake. My intended route runs via Newala (2days), Masasi (one day, where the President is from), Tunduru (2/3days), Namtumbo (2/3days), Songea (1day) and Mbinga (1day). Add that all up and you get a very tight schedule; never mind the lions, extra 10kg’s of food and water. Now this is what I call an adventure!

Don’t bother waiting-up…

Odds and ends

Okay, so yesterday was a bit rushed and i have decided to stay in Dar another day. Today is Alhamisi (the day of rest) after all, and it will be more pleasant to cycle-out on a Saturday. So here are a few things i've been thinking of posting for a while.

Vocabulary

'bonking': not what you think. This is cycling terminology for what happens when you exhaust your muscles' glucose supply and you collapse in a jellyfish-like heap. Hasn't happened to me so far, though on the Namanga-Arusha stretch it did occur to me.

'hard shoulder': in theory this refers to the quality of the surface at the side of the road - onto which cyclists are often forced - but which can also refer to what i do on occasion to local cyclists who are a little too full of themselves. It involves waiting for a large steep hill to cycle-up very hard, taking advantage of having a wide gear range, and leaving pompous cyclist in my wake (this is a character flaw on my part i know, but i never said i was perfect).

'saddle sores': contrary to what i once thought, this does nto refer to chafing but rather painful lumps caused by burst blood vessels that result from excess saddle pressure on the spot in question. They can be painful and uncomfortable, for obvious reasons.

'pre-emptive strike': not the same thing as America's dodgy justification for various invasions, this is what happens when as a cyclist you keep messing things up by trying to pre-empt problems (e.g by changing the tyre, tightening brakes, cleaning/replacing the chain, etc.). One then goes on a pre-emptive strike, refusing to do anything until something breaks or malfunctions enough to make cycling difficult or impossible.

'test the mzungu': this takes many forms, but one of the most common and popular is "how much can we get away with charging this mzungu for these bananas/oranges"

'shikamuu'd': a good thing; 'shikamuu' is a respectful term meaning 'i hold your feet' that should be used by children to me (as an elder and better) and is sometimes also used by women of various ages - which i find embarassing and generally manage to politely indicate that it's unwarranted. The correct response is 'marahaba' meaning 'i'm delighted'

'The 'm' and 'f' words': mosquito and flea respectively. Need i say more?

'third-hand loneliness': when you wish you had a cycling partner so that you had a hand to hold: the sleeping bag bag, sleeping mat bag, bike whilst you put the panniers on, etc.

'the 11th commandment': tho shalt not covet thy neighbours bicycle (especially if he needs it to get home); that way you won't want to steal it.

'street cred': what you get from locals for pedalling up a very long steep hill fully loaded with a 1kg stick of sugar can ('muwa') strapped to the rear rack

Sand, slaves and Swahili history

Leaving Tanga there are two ways, by land at least, to Dar es Salaam: the main tar road which runs inland and connects to the main road from Arusha, and a supposedly gravel road that runs along the coast through Pangani, and the Sadani Game Reserve to the town of Bagamoyo from where there is a recently-surfaced tar road to Dar. As some other cyclists have done before me (see for instance: www.trafalgarsquaretocapetown.com if you are interested), i decided to take the latter route - knowing that in many parts it would be more beach sand than gravel. Why would anyone forsake a perfectly good tar road for the prospect of pushing a 50kg bike through sand in the hot sun? Well, first, i didn't really know what i was letting myself in for. However, in the context of the journey so far it should not be a surprise: if i had continued south from Mombasa, rather than taking the train and starting from Nairobi, i could have been in Tanga within three or four days rather than the 3weeks i ended-up taking via Arusha and the mountains.

Tanga to Pangani (via Peponi Resort)

[Distance: 30miles]
Leaving Tanga i had made-up my mind to go straight through to Pangani despite a glowing account (from the forementioned cyclists) of Peponi Resort about two-thirds of the way. However, after some rough and sandy road - compensated for by beautiful scenery travelling through coconut palms and sisal plantations with occasional glimpses of the ocean a few kilometres to my left - i decided to at least take a look. Inevitably i succumbed to the campsite under the palms right near the beach, and the prospect of snorkelling on the reef the next morning followed by watching the Sprinboks playing in the Tri-Nations rugby in the afternoon. I spent the rest of the day swimming in absurdly warm water and lounging under the palms consuming fruit bought from the village nearby. The evening was spent talking rubbish with some other travellers, which was actually rather enjoyable. The snorkelling trip involved going-out on dhow with about 12 other people first to the small reef and then to a 'sand island' (large sandbar) where we lazed for a while before returning. There were some very beautiful small fish, with incredible colours and some with trumpet-shaped snouts, and other than a little excitement with small jellyfish and one British medical student who stood on a sea urchin (for some reason it always seems to be the medics this happens to on my trips) it was very enjoyable. Then South Africa won a slightly nail-biting rugby match thanks to my new favourite player (Brian Habana) and i covered the remaining 10miles to Pangani thereafter in good spirits and without too much pushing.

I stayed in the slightly run-down Pangadeco Hotel, and went looking for food after doing some exercises (these are stomach exercises aimed at taking some of the pressure off my back, but it takes a lot of discipline to do them regularly after a long day's cycling). I was initially unsuccesful until a young man i asked at a street samoosa stand spent the next 45minutes finding me a decent place to eat (pilau with meat, and chai), waiting until i was finished (refusing my offer of food) and helping me find fruit for the next day's long journey. In that time i found out - largely because his English was very good - that he was originally from Mombasa but had decided that he liked Pangani and had met a local woman with whom he was now staying on his shamba a few kilometres out of town. A young man, just like me, trying to make his way in the world. This kind of generosity from people i have experienced at various places along the way and it always amazes me.

Pangani to Sadani
[Distance: 57miles]

Anticipating a very long day (92kilometres according to my map) on bad, sandy roads i arrived at the ferry across the Pangani River at 7am. The ferry driver was in no hurry however ('maybe if a car comes then we go') so i took a small wooden motor boat with about ten locals and four other (unloaded) bicycles. It was only a couple of hundred metres to the other side (also called Pangani), and after finding my way out of the small settlement there i set off accompanied by a young teenager on his way back home from buying kerosene in the larger Pangani. We cycled together on the rough roads for about two hours to the village of Mwera where i picked-up a couple of chapatis as a second breakfast and bought him one as well (it seemed like the right thing to do, and they were absurdly cheap - i could have bought 30 for $1). Thereafter he dissapeared at various intervals as he stopped to greet friends, and i eventually left him behind as i tried to take advatange of the cyclable roads whilst i could.

The rest of the day after that was somewhat of a blur of pushing the bike through thick sand in the boiling sun, cycling hard on the stretches of vaguely solid road and stopping at a small village (but with electricity!)somewhere for a cold soda. By my calculations i was on track time-wise after around 60km's when i was passed by a South African couple and their daughter on their way back to Dar - where they are resident - from a weekend away. After a brief chat i discovered that they thought it was another 80km's to Sadani! This disconcerted me, so i took a 4km detour to a luxury safari camp a few miles down the road where i met them again, and bought some cold water at an exorbitant price but managed to find out that it was only 30km's as i had thought. The road deteriorated again from there, and other than stopping to ask once for directions - scaring the teenager as i approached his hut in the maize field [6'4 mzungu in bright red top, shiny blue cycling helmet and dark glasses would freak me out too if i was in an isolated maize field in Tanzania; maybe 'crop circles' are made by aliens on touring bicycles...] - and being passed by the SAns again (who made-up for misinforming me by returning the sarong i dropped on the road) i was alone.

At some point i must have entered the Sadani National Park (until very recently a game reserve) but there were no signs or fences, and other than one ranger i met near what i later discovered was the rangers' accomodation there was no way of telling. After much more pushing, sand, mud (thre had been rain and the road was seemingly being upgraded, forcing me to go through the mud by the sides) and sweat i came to the 'rest house' in Sadani. From there i was redirected to a park official at the nearby Safari Lodge who wanted $20 for a night at the Rest House and another $20 'entrance fee'. Now, to be honest, i had known of the possibility that i might be asked for an entrance fee. But when i realised that the only reason i was having to pay was because i was actually staying in the reserve - if you just pass through there is no way of charging you, and there were some Americans in a 4x4 at the lodge who were going to do just that - i went into righteous mode: why should i have to pay this amount just because i'm on a biycle and therefore unable to get through the park in one day? After much to-ing and fro-ing, and my making analogies about people putting guns to my head and demanding $20, i was rewarded with an informal arrangement that bypassed the said official and allowed me to stay at the Rest House without paying the entrance fee. Although it was still way beyond my budget that was almost compensated for by the location in the Park, with the sea lapping the beach no more than 10metres fom my window. Despite 5litres of water and a Sprite i was still dehydrated when i arrived, and i was glad when i finally got settled in my room almost 11hours after i left Pangani. Despite the fact that there are apparently lion, buffalo, leopard and elephant I only saw a few duiker, some warthog and some baboons and monkeys - which was probably just as well.

Ater chatting with one of the rangers (who was guarding the hotel and rest house that night) whilt watching the sun go own over the thorntrees about his ambitions to become an advocate for the anti-poaching unit, and various other things about our respective lives, i had a supper of rice, beans and cabage prepared by the caretaker/chef and went to bed.

Sadani to Bagamoyo
[Distance: 50miles]

This was the day where the impossible was possible but i didn't do it. Despite asking about 8people the previous day and two more in the morning i could not get any consensus on whether it was possible to take the road directly to Bagamoyo. Here is a sample of a particularly aggravating conversation i had in the morning:

"So, it's possible to go straight to Bagamoyo from here?"

"Yes, it's possible"

"But how do i cross the river? River Wami. It is possible to cross the river; there are boats?"

"No, it is impossible."

"So it's not possible to go on the road straight to Bagamoyo."

"Yes, it is possible."

"#*$#!"

After that repeating itself a few times i gave-up, bought five chapatis (to follow-on the two i had for breakfast; i've become an addict) and set-off on the one route everyone thought was 'possible', didn't involve going all the way inland to the main tar road and (perhaps most importantly) i knew had been done before. This was to go inland for about 5miles to the railway line, along which ran (for most of the way) a very narrow dirt track which i would have to follow until i got to a large dirt road heading east to Bagamoyo. The long and short of it is that it was longer than i thought along the tracks, the track disappeared in places or became to sandy to ride so i had to go on the line, it was boiling hot and i had set-off carelessly without enough water. Fortunately there were a few railroad settlements along the way , each of which had a small well. The first i stopped at i made the mistake of asking for 'maji ya kunywa' (water for drinking) and was directed to a bucket of previously boiled water of which i could take 'kidogo' (a little). The only catch was that the bucket had about 20 bees in or on it, but i was so thirsty i barely hesitated, dipping the tin cup in and draining it in two gulps. At the second stop, which turned out to be 5km's before the road, i filled-up all my water bottles directly from the well, adding purification tablets - much to their interest and amusement. This allowed me to consume some more food too - chapatis are great fuel, but a little on the dry side.

Inevitably, the road was under construction but fortunately the only downside to this was the rather large number of trucks whizzing by and blowing sand in my face. Finally i arrived at Bagamoyo (known as something like 'crush your heart' by the slaves who were forced to trek there from the interior, after which they were sold - though it was apparently originally called 'Bwagamoyo' by the caravan porters, meaning something more positive like 'rest your burden/troubles') where i got a little lost because there is no map in my guidebook, but eventually booked in to the slightly pricey Badeco Hotel. Despite an excellnt location on the beach i was unable to get more than 5hours sleep because of squadrons of blood-suckers. I had however decided to say for another day because the town is such an atmospheric place with its sandy roads, crumbling old Arab-built buildings and century-old Catholic monuments (the church in Bagamoyo was the 'mother church of East Africa'), bustling night market and many dhow fishermen made all the more fantastic by the coconut palm sunsets an fiery red sunrises. I moved to the chaper Bagamoyo Beach Resort, but spent far too much time walking around exploring to get much rest during the day so made for an early night but was slightly delayed by the owner of the place who tuned out to be a Frenchman called John Do (which he pronounced like 'Doe'; a little suspicious i dare say) who's passionate - like only a Frnchman can be - about cycle travellers. "Yes, you are ze real people", he said kissing his hand. "Not like these blah, blah", waving a hand at the 4x4s of a recently arrived expedition. He gave me a free beer so i was happy to listen to him, and especially to hear about the the other cyclists (one couple, and a German baker called Petro travelling the world for 12years) who had been through there in the past.

Bagamoyo to Dar es Salaam (Haven of Peace)
[Distance: 47miles]

After another amazing sunrise (i'll become clase about them eventually) as i did my stretching in front of my very rustic bungalow, i made a relaxed exit at around 9am - hopin to be in Dar early enough to get some cheap acomodation. It was a fairly unremarkable ride on good road, though my body was still aching from the exertions in th sand and the lack of rest. As always with the large cities, getting into Dar was a little hairy in parts - not quite as peaceful as it once was - and i then got thoroughly lost for about 45minutes before finding the YWCA [so i have the 'YMCA, you got to stay at the YMCAaaay' song running through my head] where all the single rooms had been booked-out a day in advance so i took a double (lucky bike).

That was yesterday. Today i spent sorting out a few things, getting information on my route south (it's sounding promising), buying a bike stand (trying to find somthing to lean it against is such a schlepp) which i hope lasts longer than the bell that i discarded ater two days because it dinged over every bump and indulging in a large buffet lunch (much to the amusement of the restaurant staff). I also changed the chain on the bike - a rather mundane activity or some but the first time for me and i was rather worried, but it seems okay; since i'm hoping to leave tomorrow i suppose i'll find out then. Lucky there was no-on to see what i was doing in that room; what with shaking bike chains in plastic bottles with petrol, bike oil, chain links and tools strewn on the floor and a very dirty bike, i think the receptionist and claining ladies would have apoplectic fits.

Dar is a rather confusing city and i have been lost most of the time, but people have been very friendly and helpful and so far i have not felt unsafe even at night. (Hopefully that will continue with my walk back to the hostel from here).

From here it is down to Mtwara via Kilwa (which could take up to 2weeks) and from there i will have to decide whether to head west to Lake Malawi or south into Mozambique.

On Roads Less Travelled

Moshi – Tanga [Total distance: 331miles in 8days]

I set off from Moshi on Wednesday the 10th refreshed and relaxed, having spent the previous evening on the roof of the New Kindoroko Hotel (who’s better value sister, the Hotel DaCosta – yes, Ant i have a picture of the sign for you with Kilimanjaro in the background - I had moved into from the Buffalo) having tea whilst watching the peak of Kilimanajaro acquire a golden glow in the sunset. The same morning i drew a small crowd at the market whilst I tried to find a pair of sandals my size; this had been difficult enough to do in Cape Town, but after about 30minutes of people running around to various shops I ended-up with a rather nice pair of nubuck upper ‘Kickers’ made in France at a fairly good price. The cycling was pleasant in slightly overcast conditions, though I was a little disconcerted to see a sign after more than 20km’s saying ‘Same 82km’ because I had misread my maps (embarrassing, I know) and thought I would have an average 80km day. The road was smooth, however, and without too much traffic considering it’s the main route to Dar es Salaam, and after a brief lunch stop for chapattis, beans and a ‘soda baridi’ (cold soda; did I mention that Coke is cheaper than water here if you can’t drink from the taps?) I passed by the Northern Pare Mountains on my left and made my way into the dry and dusty settlement of Same where I stayed at the very basic guesthouse recommended in my guidebook.

At the ‘Parrot Africa Restaurant’, where I was able to get a reasonable supper and breakfast, I managed to find out that to get to Mbaga in the Southern Pare Mountains it was better to carry-on along the main road for an unspecified distance before taking a turn-off to the left. There was no sign, so I missed it, but fortunately asked a local cyclist going the other way with whom I cycled back to the right spot. From there the road became dirt, deteriorating into sand or rocks or both, and I had my first fall – just a minor gash on the elbow and a rather bruised hip. It was tough going to Mwembe, which was just a few dozen houses/huts until I came across the market square which was filled with women in brightly coloured wraps trading their various wares. Whilst I had already gained some altitude it was here that the real climb started. The combination of bad road and steep ascent reduced me to a 5/6mph crawl, and occasionally I was forced to dismount and push. The reaction of children to me was amusing, as they would often scatter off the road (well, to the edge at least) or say ‘Shikamuu’ (meaning ‘I hold your feet’; a term used for elders/superiors) when they saw me but then chase me up the hill as soon as I had passed. Adults on the other hand, mostly women carrying wares, generally greeted me with a "pole ya safari" ('condolences for your journey'!) From the dust and baobabs, with odd drum-like things hanging in them, i ascended into plantations perched on the hillsides surrounded by banana and kumquat trees. It was only a 30mile day, and I was disappointed to see on the topological map at the Tona Hilltop Lodge that I had only climbed 450metres from Same (which is at 847m above sea level) – I had thought it might be closer to a 1000, but it was probably the hardest cycling so far. I felt much better after a 'chips mayai' (essentially a chip omelette) which was all that was available for a hard-earned late lunch. My appetite has become increasingly voracious – which is saying something considering that it was quite voracious to start off with – and I polished off a very large supper and a Safari lager a few hours later looking down over the plains from the balcony of the lodge (which was more expensive than I expected, but there weren’t any alternatives).

From Tona i headed-off to Kihurio, where i had been assured there should be some guesthouses and which involved a descent to Kisiwani on the northern side of the Pare Mountains, followed by a fairly flat route through the villages (i can't really call these places towns) of Gonja and Ndungu. As one might imagine, the 9mile descent was quite rough, crossing small streams and even an improvised bamboo pipe carrying water - which shows how few vehicles use that road. From Kisiwani the road alternated between sand grey and rocky red track, with the former being more treacherous but the latter more uncomfortable. I only fell a few times, on occasions when i failed to stay on the fine 10cm line between rocky centre of the road and the sandy sides. The last one before Kihurio took two of the panniers off the bike and two local cyclists kindly stopped to help while i reattached them. As it happened, there was only one guesthouse that i found in Kihurio charging about 2000shilings/night (less than $2). A local cyclist there was amazed to hear that i had cycled to Manka and said "Man, that is tough job. Not even i would do that".

"Yeah," i thought, "street cred at last".

Finding food was difficult and i ended-up eating pieces of somewhat stale fried bread and a bowl of beans. I also made the mistake of asking for chai ya maziwa and i swear that they actually sent someone to go and milk the cow and boil the milk before it was delivered in a thermos by bicycle 2hours later in time for supper. After refusing the offer of the services of the laundry lady/sex worker for the night ("Why," said the man "are you tired?", as if there would be no other reason) i shut myself in my room and made an early exit the next day.

I had hoped to carry-on into the Usamabara without returning to the main road but a lack of local information made this impossible so i made my way to Mkomazi, much of it with another young cyclist seemingly going to fetch water, on a very bad track - pushing the bike for the last mile - until i got to the beautifully smooth 'lami' (tar) where i rewarded myself with a chai and a couple of donuts and stocked-up on some water [yes, note the contrast here with the local's predicament]. From there the cycling to Mombo was excellent, with the Usamabara Mountains on my left flank running off to the coast in the distance. In Mombo i had a large chicken lunch to compensate for any substantial food in the previous 36hours and then started the climb to Soni, which is actually in the Usamabara. Surprisingly the large lunch didn't cause any problems, and the recently tarred road was so good i relished the ascent during which i got many thumbs-up from the few matatus, tourist vehicles and coaches that did pass by. The great views into the valley and onto the lower slopes were even better for having got up there under my own steam (at one point i was actually steaming as i got hotter and the air cooler). The Soni Falls Hotel where i had hoped to camp had become a dump and the woman at the new Soni Falls Resort laughed in my face when i asked if i could pitch a tent, so i settled for Mawezi Farm 2km's further on a dirt track diversion.

Although they charged $10/night just to camp, it was worth it for the location next to a small man-made lake, below steep cliffs, surrounded by light forest and (most importantly) the included breakfast with fresh juice and home-baked bread. It was here that i first filled in the 'Tribe' column that all Tanzanian guestbooks seem to have. My tribe: "Cyclist".

Deciding that i needed a rest day, i continued onto the slightly larger town of Lushoto, only 12miles down the road and not too much of an ascent. There i enjoyed walking about town (which takes about 30minutes), buying some fruit and veg at the market and getting a little information at the local tourist office(open on a Sunday afternoon!) from a guy who runs cycle tours in the area. He was able to tell me that the road to Mlalo was good dirt, but knew nothing much about what to expect from there [in fact, i'm supposed to send him an email about what i found out]. At the very reasonably priced Kilimani Hotel i took the opportunity of some fairly clement weather to do some laundering (of clothing, not money) and change the tyre on my rear wheel to the more rugged spare in anticipation of the bad roads and thorns to come. Thereafter i rewarded myself with a cheap large meal and a Serengeti Lager. [For those interested in beer, i have now had Tusker, Safari, Serengeti, Pilsener and Ndovu - not many of either, but a good variety so far].

After a breakfast of peanut butter sandwiches and oranges i left, with a large stick of 'muwa' (sugar cane) that i had acquired the previous day strapped to my rear rack; this is what the young (you need good teeth) local cyclists chew on for energy on their rides, hacking of the outside with their machetes. The ascent out of Lushoto was quite tough, although the (now dirt) road was good and i was cheered-on for a little while by a bakkie overloaded with tourists on their way to start a hike (ha!) that was struggling almost as much as me. As often happens, a local cyclist took exception to my passing him on the climb with a heavier load than his and pushed past me until i stopped for a drink of water, soon after which he got off his bike and pushed it the rest of the way up so that in the end we reached the top at the same time. I was really putting off a lot of steam because it had got quite chilly, so i followed his example and put on my windbreaker which i ended up keeping on all the way to Mlalo. Aside from a few stops on the descent to take a better look at the view (it wasn't that good a dirt road), i also stopped in the small village of Malindi (a different one to the large town in Kenya) for a much-needed chai and andazi before a short climb and then another long descent into Mlalo.

As with so many such settlements the hub of the place is the bus terminal (read: 'large dirt are where buses park and load and offload passengers and goods'), and nearby i found the Afilex Motel with the usual very basic facilities but alsowith a very helpful manageress who provided me with hot water for washing, drinking water, a machete for my sugar cane (which she ended-up wielding because i didn't know how) and got two other locals who i was able to consult about my route. In that regard there was still a lot of uncertainty, and for the first time on the trip i actually felt lonely - in part also because i had dreamt of going to Pick 'n Pay and buying peanut butter, bread and apples only to wake-up to the reality of having only managed to find bone soup and stale chapatis for supper,and resorting to chapatis with peanut butter (not too bad it must be said) for breakfast.

The climb outof Mlalo was not as bad as i expected, and the beginning of the descent was good enough that i was almost tempted to think that the warnings had been wrong. Of course they weren't, and the 13mile descent took almost two hours with the brakes being held down hard the whole way down. At the worst point of the road where i was forced to walk a short way, a man came running down the hill with a machete. This gave me rather a fright and when he didn't seem to respond to my greeting i set-off down the trail at a reckless pace, not daring to look back and see if he was following. Now, although most of the locals working the shambas carry machetes my suspicions were further aroused when the route expert of the previous day appeared behind me at the very bottom of the road in Mngaro in his CIA-agent mirror sunglasses with his lip trembling for no apparent reaon (except perhaps a very rapid descent in my wake). But perhaps i'm thinking too much like a South African...

The area around Mngaro was very pleasant, with smooth roads and lush fields in which i got excellent photos of a Long-Crested Eagle; and the Masaai boys on their bikes were as interested in me as i was in the bird. The smooth road didn't last - it never does,does it - and soon i was back into sand and thorntrees punctuated by the occasional tiny settlement (though the route was so little travelled that no produce was available for about 30miles). On the way i stopped a roadside bicyle repair hut - every village has at least one - where an oldman who spoke very good English told me that i was better off heading to Kibaoni rather than Mkwajuni (called Mkujani on all my maps) were i had intended to go because there was a guesthouse in the former but none in the latter. This turned out to be sound advice, and i reached Kibaoni a few kilometres after Mtoni Bombo where i unsuccesfully tried to get some food (thoughi'm surei could have if i'd really wanted to). I won't go into further detail about more efforts to get food,but suffice to say that the place was better provisioned than Kihurio; though at 1000shillings/night it was the lowest i have got on my 'Guesthouse Index of Smallness'. Small-scale mining seems to be a popular concern in that area and i met a number of men who said they were their visiting their mines. Whether it's legal or not i don't know;is suspect some is and some isn't.

I had been told that from Kibaoni there would be lotsofvillages on the way to Tanga and that all i had to do was follow the road 'moja kwa moja' (literally 'one by one', but it means 'straight') about 70km's to Tanga. This i did,and with a shortcut recommended to me by a passing driver got to Tanga after 46miles (and the tar road a few kilometres before that), most of which was on red clay roads that were mostly rock hard but occasionally - there had been some heavy rain - turned into mudpits. The scenery was much more lush as i approached the coast, with fruit literally falling off trees next to the road. Approaching Tanga i passed dozens of cyclists going in both directions who were generally very interested and encouraging.

That was yesterday. Today i spent relaxing in Tanga - staying at the highly recommended and very good value Ocean Breeze Inn with a view of the harbour from my room - and doing a few things before i head-off down the gravel coast road through Pangani and the Saadani Game Reserve (where there are reported to be lions) to Bagamoyo and Dar es Salaam, which i expect to reach in about a week.

Tanga is i think my favourite town so far, with the relaxed Swahili coastal town atmosphere of Lamu and Mombasa but with the wide-open streets and spaces of Moshi (perhaps due to the German architectural influence here, i'm not sure) and very friendly people.

So far i have not had any punctures,but that can't last and from what i've heard this next stretch is very likely to be the one that starts that particular count. I just hope the lions haven't figured-out how to push over thorntrees...