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All money raised will go directly to the charities selected; we will be paying for all our own expenses.
Maghnus
The real highs I’ve experienced have, without exception, crept up on me. They have been as unexpected as they have been thrilling. To try and pick a single event or day is nearly impossible, even the seemingly mondain days can come alive, sparked by a song on my ipod, a conversation on Wana, or even the seemingly relentless thrill of not knowing where you will be sleeping as the sun plunges towards the horizon. As we cycled across Tanzania toward Malawi we entered Mikumi National Park and began a 50km cycle traversing an unfenced wildlife reserve. Having witnessed O’Shea nearly being run over by a giraffe, and narrowly avoiding an angry bull elephant I found myself cycling on a slight downhill with a herd of Zebra galloping alongside me. For five magic minutes we kept pace with each other as we raced toward an unknown finish line.
My biggest low also came in Tanzania. As we ate breakfast on a rodaside I heard screams coming from down the road. As I ran toward the screams I saw a boy lying on the tarmac with half his body obscurred by the long grass bordering the road. Upon reaching the boy it became clear that the cause of the screams was a rabid dog. After what seemed like an eternity the dog released his bite following a number of kicks from me and blows from a shovel swung by a quick thinking roadside worker. Before the boy could be helped the dog had to be killed and so I watched as the dog was repeatedly battered over the head until his body finally slumped lifelessy into the grassy roadside. Having cleaned and dressed the boy’s wounds we implored the group of locals who had now gathered to ensure the boy see a doctor. As he was led off we again repeated the words rabies and doctor. We cycled off in hope rather than confidence that we were understood.
David
Highs
I passed the 48km sign to Nkhata bay as the sun was starting to go down and immediately got a second wind. After eleven days on the road without a bed or a shower a break was finally in sight. Up until then I hadn’t let myself think about it for fear that it may require another half days cycling but that sign meant that I was going to make it, and the feeling of exhileration it brought was as unforgettable as the cycle that followed. For two hours my speed rarely dipped below 30km/ph, as I raced down the mountainside towards Lake Malawi singing and laughing all the way.
Lows
Quietly I said a prayer and wheeled the bike onto the road as the other lads gathered their thoughts. Today was meant to be a day of celebration as we completeted our last 80km in Zimbabwe to the South African border but that mornings conversation really shook us up.
“It doesn’t matter if you don’t stop, they have machetes and guns now and wont hestitase to use them”.
The final strech of road between Zimbabwe and South Africa has grown notorious with bandits attacking cars driving towards ‘South’ to do there monthly shopping.
The danger zone was apparently 50 km long with the worst spot in an isolated spot right in the middle. We moved off cycling one behind another in absolute silence each of us scouring the bush for any sign of a potential ambush and trying to visualise our response if something happened. The only communication being the raising of a hand by whoever was in front indictating a lay – by or person up ahead, both meant the same thing…increase the speed.
After two hours cycling in this fashion we crossed a police checkpoint which marked the end of the most mentally tiring cycle we have yet experienced. Strangely we didn’t even talk about it or shake hands as we sometimes do after a particularly tough day. We just continued cycling.
Alan
Highs & Lows
I always believed that the first couple of weeks cycling were going to be the toughest. I figured that it was during this period that a lot of questions would be asked and hopefully answered of my own ability to continue the cycle. Our preparation in the form of time in the saddle before the cycle varied from little to none at all. My biggest concern was whether or not the accumulative effects of heat, blisters from the rock-hard Brooks saddle and fatigue whilst cycling on consecutive days would force me to quit. This decision would never be taken lightly because of the time and effort invested in merely getting to the point of beginning. Nontheless, the possibility of having to make this decision was very real.
The first three days were managable, just. Then, that fateful day arrived on day four. We cycled from Aje to Sodo on rough, stone-covered Ethiopian roads not intended for bicycles. There were many hills to climb on this stretch also. Perhaps it was the notion of yet another hill to climb or maybe it was simply that my legs ached as they did and weren’t up to the effort that forced me to walk and push my bicycle up these hills over the stones. One way or another, I remember this being the first day that I started talking to myself in any meaningful way. I considered the hows, wheres, whens and whys of returning home to Ireland with my new bicycle after only a few days but continued walking nevertheless. I tried to hitch a lift from any vehicle that might pass. I think I kissed the ground as my knees gave way when a mini-bus eventually stopped and transported my bike and I for the last six km to Sodo. We stayed in Sodo on this particular night and as we pitched our tents my legs wobbled like jelly. I decided to take the next day off and catch a bus ahead to Arbe Minch where we were taking a couple of days off anyway. We rested, my legs and I recovered, we continued on but I’m glad to say that I haven’t had to confront this same situation again. Occasionally perhaps but never to the same extent. Whatever about the legs, I remember the idea of having to stop the trip prematurely as being much worse than the physical endurance of this particular day. Thankfully, things have gradually improved.
I can safely say that I cannot easily remember any other low points of any significance. The high points are many and varied. One comes to mind in particular probably because it is in direct contrast to the above ‘low point’. On day thirty, the day before we reached Iringa in Tanzania, we climbed 1500 ft over approximately five kilometers. None of us were too aware beforehand of the extent of the climb which lay ahead. The road winded upwards to the village of Myuat. I peddeled like mad in the lowest gear and meandered uphill hoping that every upward turn in the road was the last. Only the last one was. All the others in between seemed more ridiculous and steep than the one before. You’d try to sing a song to take your mind off the burning legs. Articulated trucks struggled to climb as well as descend. We were all in this struggle together. It all seemed delerious. As darkness fell and as the lights of the trucks light our way, you’d listen and hope for the sound of the gear-change of the trucks up ahead as they’d hopefully speed downhill or increased their speed on the flat at least. At last, at last, the hill we were looking for came…the last one! The relief was a huge one and a bizzare one as the village of Myuat was in darkness but for the moonlight and a couple of flickering fires & candles. Reggae music sang ‘Don’t worry…about a thing’. Exhausted and over the same moon, we bargained for a place to pitch our tents as a curious small crowd gathered. This done, we had a few beers almost like we couldn’t believe our luck!
Another great end to another great day. The fact that I was able to make it to the top of this hill without pushing the bicycle was a huge turning point for myself. Had I pushed the bicycle up this hill I would be arriving in Myuat around now. I had begun to climb, by peddling, various lesser hills over the previous week or two but this partciular climb made me realise that I wouldn’t be going home just yet. The following days freewheeling downhill was almost as enjoyable!
p.s. O’sheas article will be up in the next couple of days.
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“We’re just waiting for him to die.” As the former British colony of Rhodesia enters its 30th year of independence, the young nation of Zimbabwe finds itself searching for confidence, devoid of a currency and clinging to the hope of life after him. The ZANU-PF party led by Robert Mugabe still possess a stranglehold on Zimbabwean political, military and police power that appears unbreakable whilst Mugabe continues to breathe. The formation of a coalition government hinted at a potential weakening in this stranglehold but it would appear that any political attempts to improve the nation’s standard of living will have to emerge from a framework dictated by Mugabe, a framework that seems as changeable and unpredictable as the actions of the whimsical Mugabe himself. He is supported by a military top brass that has prospered on the pain of ordinary Zimbaweans, black and white, young and old.
As we travelled through Zimbabwe (entering in the North/East from Mozambique via Nyamapanda and exiting in the South to South Africa via Beitbridge) we were both cautious and fascinated. Cautious as to the implications of engaging Zimbabweans in political discourse and fascinated as to what would emerge from such discourse. I adopted a policy of feigning complete ignorance (it’s not a massive jump to feign complete ignorance when one is already quite ignorant!) and simply ask innocent questions that gave people an opportunity to either engage with issues facing the country or dodge any meaningful expression of opinion. The picture of a nation that emerged from these conversations was as diverse and intricate as the people who painted it.
As we sat in a restaurant annexed to a petrol station in the Midvelt the owners described the reality behind the oft’ repeated phrase ‘hyper-inflation’. “If you had ordered a breakfast here 18 months ago it should probably have cost you 20 billion Zim Dollars. Unless I had spent that 20 billion within three to four hours the ingredients alone needed for that breakfast would have been double its cost. Therefore I had to charge you 80 billion, give the money to my wife immediately to use the morning’s takings to stock up on as much food as our freezers could hold and then double the price again the following morning.” On separate occasions the government cut 13 and 18 zeros off the value of the Zim dollar thus rendering people’s savings worthless. In order to survive business owners began trading in foreign currency (SA Rand and US Dollar predominantly), the government response was swift; large fines were imposed for trading in foreign currency and businesses were shut for repeated offending. Mugabe’s reliance on the national mint to solve any monetary shortfall and complete disregard for all economic principles culminated in a forced de-monetization that even he could not oppose. Thus Zimbabwe now functions without a currency, prices are displayed in Rand and US Dollars and tattered dollar bills are exchanged with change given in the form of sweets (coins are conspicuous only in their absence). Yet people adapt; “What else can we do?” asks Pieter, a columnist for a national newspaper. “We have to pay for food, the price of which is inflated due to the continuance of the sanctions (U.S. sanctions imposed following the state sponsored land dispossession). Complaining doesn’t feed your family, and anyway, who would listen?”
At the turn of the millennium approximately 70% of the most fertile land in Zimbabwe was owned by about 4000 white commercial farmers. Whilst undoubtedly inequitable when one considers that Zimbabwe has a population of 13 million, (huge emigration to South Africa has occurred following the loosening of visa requirements by South African President Zuma, and thus the population is probably greatly reduced today) production under the previous land holding method placed Zimbabwe at the head of Southern Africa’s agricultural production table. Maize and Tobacco were exported by the ton and although poverty was still rife amongst the indigenous population, Zimbabwe had avoided famines that had devastated many of its neighbours. The scheme devised by Mugabe aimed at appeasing an increasingly frustrated working class population claimed to redistribute fairly the ownership of land, breaking the white monopoly. It was ostensibly an attempt to empower the downtrodden peasant farm worker, the reality was a bloody (both white and black Zimbabweans were attacked and killed) government orchestrated attack on innocents based on nepotism and bribery. Far from empowering the poor, land ownership was given to party members, senior army officials and to the highest bidders. The result has been a decrease of approx 80% in agricultural productivity and the in the ensuing years a country with fertile land enough to feed ten countries has struggled to feed itself.
A maize and tobacco farmer of Irish heritage explained how land was ‘transferred’; “We hid in our houses as soldiers and local farm workers waited outside our farm for the ok to enter. Friends warned us that things had gotten violent at a number of farms and that we should leave even before we were forced to. I packed a single suitcase and left 40 years of my past in a house that had been my home since 1965. Parents of children who I had fed, clothed and brought to school shouted and gestured violently at us as we drove out the gates of our farm.” Today, Maire and her husband live in a house belonging to their friends who have given them indefinite use of the house. I met Maire en route from South Africa where she recently collected supplies and clothes for a group of local children living near her new home. “The children have no guilt in what happened to us. I’m not going to change who I am because of it.” This courage and unwillingness to indulge in self-pity is representative of many ex farmers who were dispossessed. Their anger seems focused on the government rather than on those who supported what they believed was an equitable redistribution. However, many black Zimbabweans, who supported the policy, are less forgiving of themselves. As I watched a football match 180km from the South African border two local teachers told me of the embarrassment and guilt they carry with them as a result of the violence and hate that came to embody the policy. “We watched as good people were forced from their homes without warning and still voted for the man who preached a policy of hate towards whites. Now we have realized that we were naïve to think that all problems would be solved if owned our own land and the whites were gone. We are paying for our stupidity!”
Everywhere we went we were greeted with a welcome and warmth that made a mockery of the relentlessly peddled media story of a country still riddled with hate and distrust. Shops are often barren save for the bare essentials. A reliable water and electricity supply has, in many areas, become haphazard. Good farm land lies idle as irrigation schemes are left in disrepair. Political posters of Mugabe proclaiming “We did it in 1980, let’s do it again!” adorn street lights. Banks and ATMs no longer serve a purpose and workers sit idly at desks serving no-one. But hope still remains. Cautiously we were told that things are getting better. Shops are re-opening and people are now able to shop in Harare rather than go South to keep businesses open. Tourists have begun to trickle back and everywhere we went people greeted us with a thank you that was both genuine and inherently patriotic. We were invited into homes, schools and churches to sleep. Acts of kindness unheard of in the most prosperous societies were displayed almost daily. While a nation waits for him to die, we must not. Zimbabwe and its people are ready to be discovered now. Staying away will not weaken Mugabe, it will strengthen him. The only people hurt by the continuance of sanctions and the absence of tourism are average Zimbaweans, black and white, young and old.
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Experience has taught you that the climb may not be as steep as it first appears. Approaching a hill square on gives one the impression of a sheer rise which curves sneakily around a corner, as yet unwilling to reveal its true extent. Immediately mental preparations begin. A tactical decision is made and you plan your strategy for this particular climb. All the time, however, you are aware that the plan is dependent upon what awaits you after the road cowers to the left or right and out of view, the strategy must be as changeable as the length and degree of the hill.
Any momentum built up prior to the climb will serve to reduce the climb’s length and therefore you battle to maintain momentum for as long as possible. Once the bike’s momentum has ceased to be of assistance you realise that the only thing fighting gravity is the circular motion of your legs. You desperately try and find a gear and rhythm that suit.
You focus on the 5 metres in front of you, attempting not to glance further ahead, you stare at your muscles working, urging them to fight fatigue, you remind yourself that every inch climbed is one less inch of struggle, you consider stopping, resting for a few moments…………then, suddenly, nothing! Your mind has left the climb and has wandered far away. For an unappreciable length of time you find yourself pondering events past, you think of friends and family, you put yourself in scenarios yet to materialise, you daydream. What you think of on such welcome respites from the mental and physical battle with the hill, is as unpredictable and varied as what one thinks of when driving a car for miles only to realise that you don’t remember the road you have just driven. But as with the driver who awakes from his daydream to realise he still has another three hours before he reaches home, the daydreams are fleeting and often all too brief.
Two factors usually necessitate a return to reality. The first is the unfortunate insect that wanders across your path and careers into your straining eye. As you are standing and require both hands on the handlebars to remain upright, you are wholly reliant on the eyes own response of tearing to ease the irritation and clear the fly. You simply remain standing and cry.
The second iterruption is not unrelated to the first. As the climb begins to take its toll on your body, beads of sweat form on your forehead. You long to wipe them clear but are prevented from doing so by the same fear of losing rhythm that prevents you removing the insect. The sweat truly becomes a problem when it trickles into your eyes and its salt content begins to sting. The sensation is such that your mind can focus on nohting else. Suddenly, the climb becomes a race, a race to wipe the sweat from your eyes, remove any stubborn fly and pour some water to stop the stinging. You promise yourself a mouthful of the now warm water when you reach the end of the climb. The rewards for reaching the top and a stretch of flat road are endless; a mouthful of water, a sweat free brow and eyes free from salt and insects.
p.s. we write these blogs for a number of reasons. Firstly to update friends and family about how we are fairing and also to thank people who contributed to the charities and show that we are doing what we promised to do. However, we also write blogs hoping to keep interest in Bike Africa alive and in so doing to keep people donating. We are aware that the people who read the blogs on a regular basis are people who have already helped, both through donations and support at fundraising events. We have already asked so much, but if I can ask one more thing. Please tell anyone you can about the charities and the site.
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‘NJINGA’ or ‘Bicycle’ in Chichewa, the native language of Malawi. With a stretch, the word sounds a bit like the ring of a bicycle bell! It could be a voice exclaiming ’How’s the going?’ or ‘Watch out !’ as we roll into a new town.
Cycling for an average of 8 hours per day, I have noticed that the bicycle(s), with it’s many moving parts, has assumed almost human-like characteristics. This could be in the form of a tendancy to veer left or right for no particular reason! All these parts combine to form to what seems as one unit, whole or character, with quirks & eccentricities like those only noticable in a close fried or ally. Deflated, sometimes punctured tyres, empty water bottles, dusty panniers, unresponsive brakes, creaky chain, can be the condition of ‘njinga’ at the end of a tough days cycling. Such a day can involve dealing with heat, a strong headwind, bad road surfaces or ridiculous hills.
However, after a bit of a dusting down, tyres pumped or repaired and all finished off with a well deserved drop of oil, we’re as good as ready for road again after a good nights rest. Njinga sometimes does look great after a fall of nightime dew!
I do find that a few words of encouragement can work wonders when we’re about to climb a hill, for example. Ha! You’d think I was talking to myself if you heard such a pep-talk! No such thing, communication between njiga and cyclist is essential! We do rely on each other a lot.
This dialogue, or relationship, leads me onto another possibility touched upon in Myles na gCopaleen’s ‘The Third Policeman’. Whereby, having spent a certain amount of time cycling about tending to his duties, a process of molecular interchange gradually began to take place between the policeman and his bicycle. For example, when without his bicycle, the off-duty policeman would stand leaning against a wall with one foot placed firmly on the ground and the other slightly raised, crossing the first, not unlike the pedals of his bicycle in a similar stance. This same action would occur whenever the policeman would stand anywhere near a kerb. It is said that his bicycle, in turn, assumed an air of no-nonsense authority after a time. This is a debatable but worrying phenomenon nonetheless.
None of the following has ever happened. I did not notice my saddle developing a blister last Tuesday. Nor did I apply the appropriate medical remedy the following morning. I have never noticed that my bicycle has developed a rather perculiar suntan, has lost a few pounds and likes to take it’s time in the morning. For my part, I never sit with a bit of a slouch beckoning on people as they pass by my table. One thing I never do is conciously change gears while walking up a stairs. This scenario is rediculous of course! Perhaps the result of a delerious dream after a longish days cycling….or was it!?
The relationship between cyclist and bike is very visible as we travel through Africa. To many of African people the bicycle is much more than a convenient mode of transport as it probably is back home. It is used to carry an array of loads such as water, timber, goats dead & alive, chickens, sacks of grain, the mother-in-law and other family members. I passed such a family on a bicycle a few weeks back. Dad, Mum, the two young lads and baby sister all waved as they passed by in a low gear. Mum held a duck in her hand! Another day, some bloke struggled to keep control of his bike with it’s load of an 8ft piece of aluminium which was attached to the carrier sideways. I thought for a few seconds that I had maybe taken a wrong turn onto an airstrip of some kind. His manouvers brought to mind the maiden flight of the Wright brothers in their attempts to become airbourne.
So, as I park,…I mean finish, this blog, and as the eight of us pedal our way south, please spare a thought folks for this oft times taken for granted mechanical wonder….NJINGA!
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Unfortunately internet speeds have again returned to speeds experienced in Ethiopia so pictures and videos won’t be possible until we reach the South African border next week.
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I said goodbye to Brian and Maghnus on the night of May 13th when they left on the start of this venture. I met them again last Sunday evening on a crowded street in Mzuzu in the heart of Malawi. Having said our hellos and given updates from Ireland the excitment was great when we opened the package which contained Cadbury chocolate bars, Mars bars, Taytos, Biscuits, Fruit pastilles, inner tubes, pumps and an array of bungy straps which were badly needed to secure ailing bikes and gear – having completed 3500 kilometers of the trip. Next on the list was to see the end of the Open golf, we made our way to Mzuzu Golf Club (who we were told would have coverage) – there we met a great bunch of guys including an aid worker from Dublin (Donncha) and a senior Malawi politician Harry (christened by Maghnus as “Minister for the roads”) donated 10,000 Qwachas (50 euro) cash to the bike Africa fund…nice one Harry!
After a big breakfast on Monday morning the boys started out on a 50 km cycle (short one they said) to Nkhata bay on lake Malawi. I was the support car for this sector and what an experience to watch them cycle along roads and through villages that were full of very curious, poor but friendly men, women and children (also lots of dogs, goats etc). We all stopped in the middle of one of these villages and it was amazing to watch the ease with which the boys interacted with everyone. The bikes they are riding are 40kg (including all the gear). On average they are covering 100/110 km per day sometimes on extremely hilly and pot-holed roads -they are extremely fit, if a little lighter than when they started. We were greeted on arrival in Nkhata Bay by David and Alan who had gone ahead…great excitement as the four met up again after a few days of independent cycling. I might say at this point that the boys had just completed 11 straight days on the road and this was the beginning of a “rest” period – I had arrived in Malawi just in time.
We were all staying at the Kupenja Lodge, perched on the side of a cliff which dropped into Lake Malawi, stone footpaths led down the cliff to the galvanised roofed huts in which we stayed – basic stuff but wonderful in its simplicity, and the warmth of the owner and his staff, not to mention the spectacular views of Lake Malawi. Early Monday evening the five of us boarded an open boat at the base of the cliff and we headed for Myoko which is a local bar/restaurant on the lake frequented mostly by Mzungus – we were in the right place. What an evening of eating, drinking, dancing etc. and topped by the return boat trip at 3am….the sing-song on the boat was brilliant and noisy.
Tuesday was spent “pottering” around the town of Nkhata Bay with the boys. They all swam the Bay (for a bit of exercise, as if they needed it?), we had lunch, and late that evening I said my goodbyes again. This is a very closely-knit team, at ease with each other’s company, extremely commited to what they are trying to achieve and to be admired by us all for the sincerity with which they are going about the task. To finish I would like to thank Maghnus, Alan, David and Brian for allowing me to share just a small part of their Bike Africa – Malawi experience. Continued safe cycling, keep telling your story and good luck for the next phases of the trip.
Mike (Brians dad)
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One of the most refreshing if sometimes frustrating considerations when traveling in Africa is the pace at which everything gets carried out. Thankfully being self sufficient in terms of transport, cooking and lodging means we usually only see the good side of this, with locals always more than happy to help us out. In Dar however we had our first real experience with the frustrating side of “Africa time” as we tried to get our visas for Mozambique.
To get over a problem with people forging the Mozambique stamp the government decided to introduce a new sticker which had to be produced at its boarder with Tanzania. The impatient official at the embassy explained that they had run out of stickers two weeks previously and had only just placed another order, she supposed it would be another 2 or 3 weeks until this batch would arrive. The implications of this were that no one would be crossing the boarder during this period.
Although Dar is a pleasant spot to spend a few days none of us wished to delay the trip for two weeks, especially for a sticker that was probably going to be delayed even further. With this in mind we got out our maps and plotted out an alternative route through Malawi, Mozambique (on a 2 day sticker-less transit visa), Zimbabwe and South Africa.
We are currently 1200 km into this leg having a break beside lake Malawi, as it turns out the stretch down from Dar featured some of the most enjoyable cycling we’ve experienced to date as we passed elephants, giraffes and gazelles before hitting the boarder with Malawi and coming down the side of the lake. I don’t think we have in anyway regretted this change in plan.
Tomorrow morning were back on the road for a 14 day cycle towards Harare (Zimbabwe), we’ve met a few tourists who had been into Zimbabwe recently and although expensive the dangers of last year have passed. Entrenched fears instilled by virtue of Zimbabwe’s recent past are outweighed by the opportunity to witness first hand a country in transition.
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