If it's 1992 then it Must be Angola
Long Ride to Kilimanjaro and other Tall Places.
Or How and Why I first Went to Mozambique - Mike Slater
It's hard not to admire those foolhardy folk who, 'gooi'-ing caution to the hyenas and rands to the fuel tank, take their 4x4's across that dark divide into the heart of the African renaissance and drive all the way to London - or to Groot Marico. I once tried this and found that after I had bought all the stuff it takes to make a Landrover look ready to take on a bit more than the sleepy suburban sidewalks I had no money left for less fashionable things such diesel, and temporary import permits. So I sneaked up on my Bridgestone MB5 mountain bike that had tried to hide in the corner when I mentioned the option of selling the Landy and then cycling from Cape Town to London, and dragged it out.
No, I didn't cycle to Cape Town, but got there courtesy of Louise Brugman, her Golf and Nick Cowley's roof racks. No, I didn't spend months training for the trip; it wasn't a race and anyone in a hurry should cycle to their nearest Travel Agent and purchase an air ticket to places yonder. I did initially cycle with Mark, a cousin from Zim who soon found that via Paternoster, Alexander Bay and Ruacana is not the shortest route to Harare and so he took another route once we got as far as Volstruisbaai or somewhere.
I know that a trip as grand as this should have been preceded by months, if not years of planning but my idea of preparing for 'Africa' was photocopying and laminating the Eastern side of the Michelin maps of Africa, and learning to drink warm beer. The maps were never used as I initially (not sure why, but perhaps a lass called Kimberly who was working at Baumgartsbrünne in Namibia had something to do with it) spent two months churning through sand-strewn diamonds and enduring temperatures (at Ochta in the Richtersveld) of 52° up the west coast and then through the Namib desert, hitting tarmac for the first time 22km west of Windhoek. By the time I had been deported from Angola by Unita for having a government visa and had trundled across to the East Coast, I had lost the maps. Highlights of this leg? Fish and chips in Hondeklipbaai, working on Coen de Beer's small, leaky diamond-diving boat from Port Nolloth, drinking a litre of water an hour between Rosh Pinah and Aus, cycling between the dunes to Luderitz under a full moon and a Lucky Dube concert at Windhoek soccer stadium.
Pedaling in sand that resembled heavy-duty talcum powder for weeks had ground my chain rings into a toothless state and Cymot in Windhoek kindly replaced these and provided a new (better-padded) saddle for free. In Windhoek I ditched my back panniers, benzene stove, lifeboat emergency rations, torch, spare takkies, helmet and spare derailleur, and bought a new long-sleeved button-up heavy cotton shirt. This shirt became my wearable 'curio' and main memento of the trip as, in each country that I passed through before I got to Sudan (did I mention London? nah! too cold, too expensive and too far!) I got one of the sidewalk tailors to replace a panel (sweat and sun are a corrosive combo) with locally printed cloth. The shirt finally shredded from my back while I was swimming in a cattle drinking trough in Somalia trying (successfully) to impress a nurse called Jeannie from Boston.
The main road north of Windhoek was empty, hot (I cycled through the 'Nam section mainly at night or early morning) and I camped mostly next to concrete reservoirs fed by windpumps on someone's farm. By now, as some sort of peace deal had just been signed between Unita and the Govt in Angola, the west African route became vaguely viable and so I braved the meandering mini-buses of Owamboland and the mixed memories of Ondangwa, Oshakati, Ogongo, Ombalantu etc up to Ruacana where I managed to convince the Angolan border guards that I would be able to cycle to Luanda in 48 hours where I would duly get my emergency visa endorsed by the proper authorities. Unfortunately they did not tell me that their forces only controlled as far north at Xangongo 20km after which I was arrested by Unita, put on the back of a Russian truck and taken via back roads back to Namibia near Oshikango.
Returning back the 350km to Grootfontein was quite demoralising, but I did manage the last 20km in well under half an hour, a stretch where I achieved an almost mystical unity with my bicycle and felt us lift off the tarmac and slice through the air in frictionless perfection. I got to town before the supermarket closed and could buy the fruit I had been fantasizing about for weeks. Grootfontein municipal camping ground must be the only one in the world that can boast an Olympic-sized swimming pool complete with OktoberFest – sized Germans.
Between Grootfontein and Rundu, a two day ride, I saw no-one and was passed by perhaps a dozen cars, but as I turned into Rundu I met two cyclists who were doing Africa east coast to west coast sponsored by some intermediate technology group in England. They complained that during the crossing of the Caprivi they had managed an average of only 15km/h (luxury! in the powder sands north of Helmeringhausen my worst was 15km in a day!). Not being keen on the 300km of corrugations between Rundu and Katima Mulilu, I bought a mokoro dugout boat near Rundu, tied an inflated inner tube to my bike, and then put it upside down in the unstable and leaky little boat and paddled about 100km down the Cubango (Kavango) river, nearly losing it all in some rapids before Bagani, and abandoning my mokoro at Popa falls (ever tried portaging a 100kg lump of dead wood?). I cycled to a little lodge on the Kavango called Skimmer Camp near the Botswana border, and became very ill (possibly with malaria) after a few days.
I remember going to bed feeling pretty bad, waking up with my sleeping bag sopping with sweat and then dreaming that I would die if I did not cool down quickly. In my dream, I remembered that the rate of evaporation is proportional to surface area and that oil spreads to one molecule thick on water. There was clearly only one thing to do then - I melted, pouring myself through the mosquito netting on my tent entrance and then covering the entire surface of the earth to the thickness of one molecule. Cooling is very efficient over that sort of area, and when morning came I was weak but well enough to crawl out of the tent and have a shower. Skimmer Camp was over the river from Buffalo, the former HQ of 32 battalion, and I took a canoe across to see the ruins where elephants had retaken their territory.
Elephants! In the Caprivi elephants were everywhere. I had to wait hours for a herd to cross the road and one afternoon, when I was keen to get to water has my supplies were low (I carried 15 litres), a young bull would not move out of the road and so I shouted out the powerful incantation that is irresistible to all four-legged beasts, no matter how savage or stubborn - 'Voertsek!'. The elephant looked up with surprise, respect and recognition in his eyes, put his fly swatter of a tail between his legs, and walked apologetically off the road absent-mindedly pushing over a large tree before stopping and watching me pedal on by.
Most nights in the Caprivi were disturbed by the moanings of lion, the howlings of hyena and the snorings of cyclist. At a roadblock at the Cuando river bridge near Kongola (where 'Fort Doppies' used to be), a veterinary official refused to believe that I had cycled halfway across the Caprivi without being attacked by lions declaring that Namibia's lions were more dangerous than Botswana's or Angola's. I told him that, as I had not had the chance of a wash for three days, my smell was enough to frighten off even the most mean of the man-eaters. I found a little fishing camp (which I believe is now quite a fancy lodge) a few k's downstream, showered and drank a beer (which made me pretty vrot as I had eaten nothing but bananas and casava for a week) before eating ten helpings of the Spaghetti Bolognaise that the manager had prepared in anticipation of the arrival of a delegation from the United Nations. Lucky for them they did not pitch, as they would have found the cupboard bare.
A lovely piece of tar whispered secret promises to me as I rolled toward Katima Mulilo where I found the bottom-bracket that Linden Cycle had posted to me (before Angola I thought mine had begun to wear out, but I only replaced it a few months and countries later in Pemba, Mozambique.) Katima had a bloke making bicycles out of wood, a supermarket (I bought a huge bottle of peanut butter) and an Irish lass starting up a Ba'hai community that failed to appeal as they didn't drink much beer. The Katima campsite had a lovely view of sunset over the mighty Zambezi river and I sat watching the currents dance downstream, listening to the hippo having their usual farting and snorting competition, and remembering so many incidents and friends.
Close to where the Chobe barges its way into the Zambezi river I camped for last time in Namibia and was lulled to sleep by the comforting sounds of the Namibian and Botswanan armies exchanging fire apparently to decide which country owned a small seasonally flooded island in the middle of the Zambezi somewhere. At around 0400 next morning (my usual departure time), I met up with a French couple in an old Landcruiser-camper who were heading as fast as the heavy sand would let them in the opposite direction. Yes, I told them, I did hear the shooting but said that I supposed it was just a routine exercise. They turned around and when I caught up with them at the Ngoma border with Botswana, they were arguing with the guards about why they could not take yoghurt, milk and cheese across the border. They lost the argument and I had an excellent breakfast before having to again debate the relative ferocity of the Bot lions when compared with their Namibian and Angolan counterparts. The wildlife officials (this was also the edge of the Chobe National Park) insisted that I get onto one of their trucks which then drove about 200 metres before he driver told me to pedal to Kasane as he need to see someone on another track.
I got to Kasane without sighting a single large feline and decided to try to make it to Victoria Falls about 80km away before nightfall. The Zimbabwean border officials were also worried that lions would spoil my day and pointed out that indeed, their lions were far more notorious than those that slink around the other countries through which I had already successfully pedaled. They let me through as the sun was setting and I made record time to Vic Falls where, as I passed under the first streetlights that I had seen for weeks, I was joined by four or five spotted hyena grouped on the road behind me seemingly waiting for the right moment to bite. Thinking that a puncture or prang would be most inconvenient right now I was relieved to see the lights of a fuel station and turned in expecting to see pump-jockeys scattering in the wake of my stinking, slobbering entourage (never mind the hyenas). Chaos did not happen, the hyenas had left.
Too many tourists at Vic Falls so I rattled across to Kariba, skirted a lone lion on my winding way up to Makuti and then met up with Pete Green at Harare before clambering up Chimanimani and deciding to head for Mozambique to get away from tourists. (In 1992 Moz was still at war with itself). Mutare to Beira was straightforward - there were Zimbabwe army outposts every 10km- and we ditched the 10kg bags of maize-meal we had lugged from Zim on finding that the Beira Mercado Municipal was overflowing with fish, prawns and fresh produce of pleasing variety and vintage. Beira was like an inhabited ghost town (it still pretty much is) and after two weeks of bumping into over-opinionated and over paid aid workers it was time to head north. Problem - no one was using the roads up to anywhere - but this was solved in a 'trust a South African...' kind of way.
At a Red Cross jorl that Pete had got us invited to was taking full advantage of all the 'give to the poor' donations that you good folk out there make by drinking plenty of beer and wine when an apparition wearing a table cloth arrived at the gate announcing: "I have just sunk my boat, give me a beer". Chris, another South African of dubious credential, had been commandeering a stolen (from SARS) ski-boat called Xanadu and it had become wedged into the mud at Beira harbour by adjacent wooden fishing trawlers. Chris's sidekick a Kiwi called Roger (who had been travelling in Moz for 6 months on zero bucks per day) soon appeared covered in mud and soon left saying that he didn't know how to behave in the presence of so many Whitey's anymore (know how he feels).
Xanadu was refloated and with the only instrument, a GPS, still working (even the fuel gauges were "futida") Pete and I headed out to sea with Laurel and Hardy and a very reluctant local "Capitão" who did nothing much but say his "Hail Marys" all the way up to Quelimane, and yes! fabled Ilha de Moçambique where the museum guest book indicated that the last tourists had been that way in 1977. "Ilha" is no pristine white beach palm-lined paradise but was then truly a living museum so timeless that we met Sindbad and Blackbeard at a pub called "Reliquias" and for the price of a barrel of rum they told us of the good old days before all the tourists (us) arrived. Sort of like stepping into a fairy tale/tales of the High Seas/Arabian Nights/50's Coffee table book all in one. Not repeatable (but then is anything?).
Roger and Chris, sailors extraordinaire, spent most of the voyage below decks greenly puking their dark sea-sick little hearts out while Pete made coffee and pan-bread on his MSR stove and I piloted the good-ship "Losers" against the wind (and the local Skipper's advice up to Pemba, (then) the papaya paraiso. At night my method of navigação was to point the bow at the next way-point using the GPS, and then in order to preserve our non-existent stock of batteries to look up at the sky for a few stars that lined up appropriately, and then to follow the stars. As we had a lot of squalls and cloud, I sometimes ended up being guided by the incorrect constellation and we did miss a few reefs, wrecks and islands with metres to spare.
Pemba? In two months we met only two other travelers but partied long and hard with the S.A pilots who flew the precious "Development Types" to all their so-called projects around the province of Cabo Delgado on a daily basis. Needless to say, we saw a lot of northern Moz from the area and the mountains and forests were amazing. Pete need to see some "white babes" and so headed for Malawi via the train from Nacala to Cuamba, a journey on an open gun-carriage that took two weeks and involved several very slow derailments, while I took a dhow up to Ibo, where even the ghosts had left, and managed to get up to Mocimbóa da Praia before the winds failed. I lived like a fisherman for a while and when the local Immigration Officer decided to try to get a $100 bribe out of me, the entire village chased him away. This left me with a small dilemma as next stop was Tanzania but I needed to get my passport stamped out and Mocimbóa was my last chance. Senõr Migração would not oblige and so I went next door to the post-office, which I found unattended, and so made judicious use of their stamp.
In Tanzania I was given a police escourt from Msimbati to Mtwara that only lasted for a few hundred metres before the police landrover overheated and so I made it to the Immigration office alone where they viewed my S.A passport with some surprise (we were NOT allowed into the country then), before telling me they were happy that Mandela had been released, but had a problem with my passport. Luck, it seemed for me, had just dripped its last out of the seemingly plentiful supply but the restocking fairy must have arrived just in time as the problem turned out that South Africa did not appear on their list of entry taxes and was solved with "could you just pay us one dollar?" The south coast of Tanzania is stunning but the road was truly impassable and so I did what the locals did - pedaled on footpaths from village to village through the bush or hundreds of kilometres.
I was now in hurry to get to Dar Es Salaam, my first return to the tourist trail in six months, and so Mtwara to Dar took a mere ten days of mud, dust, corrugations, Tsetse and mosquitoes. Villagers en-route were partying every night, Mchinga (Chinga?) beach was Hollywood-esque, the Rufiji ferry crossing was daunting (now there is a 5km long bridge upstream). In Dar I found a cheap but really nice little guest house called the Al Aruba in a part of town Lonely Planet warned against and arrived slap bang in the middle of Diwali with all its food, fireworks and festivities. Got new tyres in Dar (the Continental "Town and Country's" I carried for thousands of k's and put on for the sands of southern Tanzania were real rubbish and only lasted a few hundred), met a German lass and bet her I could pedal the 650km to Moshi (base for climbing Kili) faster than she could bus it (I knew that the roads were almost impassable). It took me four days, she needed five (her bus broke down).
As soon as I arrived in Moshi I decided that Kilimanjaro was just a big milk-cow for the government, tour operators, touts and thieves that hang around her trying to milk climbers of their bottom buck without caring a sh*t for the environment. In fact, the same could be said for the throngs of label-laden European "Alpinists" that were blindly throwing dollars around and generally ruining the economy for the rest of us. After being told that just to camp at the Park entrance would set us back $40 pp, Karin and I decided to escape the trap and wander around the base of the mountain. Really nice little farming communities cling to the slopes growing coffee, fruit, maize, rice, vegetable all depending on the little micro-climates that prevail according to altitude, aspect and gradient. Now I've always maintained that every place (including your own back yard) holds secrets for those who refuse to be seduced by the obvious, superficial commercial k*k and at Kilimanjaro (stealy ma dolla) it was the Maua Seminary where Brother Frans not only fed us Koinjagi (Tanz Gin), showed us to an Austrian style chalet, but informed us (in confidence you understand) that seminarians were allowed to climb the huge hill for the price of a single guide only.
And so it came to pass that I went up Uhuru (and down) for the bargain-basement price of $125 (then around R300) and this included two nights at the Austrian Chalet. Our route only met the tourists somewhere halfway up the last day and I suppose I was quite a novelty with my veldskoens, track-suite bottom, borrowed balaclava and socks on my hands. It was freezing especially as the guide (Alois who was on his 100th ascent) insisted that I leave for the top at 0200! I summited at 0500 and, really scared that I would literally freeze to death by sunrise (scheduled for 0630), I headed straight down and crawled into my down bag (should have taken it up with me). Permit me a little tangent here - since the Moz dhow where I drank water from a diesel drum and ate coconut cake made with swamp water, I had had chronic constipation and it finally let loose near the top of Kilimanjaro. Couldn't help remembering the Clegg number: "Sh*tting on Top of Kilimanjaro" Oh Yeh!
Well, what is after Kili? I said goodbye to Karin, who had got quite sick up the mountain, and pedaled around to Oloitokitok where the Kenyan border guards decided that my bicycle needed to have a vehicle import permit. This was free but it did require that my trusty steed have a registration, chassis and engine number - no problem and surprisingly no mention of the Kenyan lions waiting for me in Amboseli National Park which I had to pedal through. At Sultan Hamud I met up with the main Mombasa to Nairobi "Highway" (in terrible condition) and had a memorable meal of Mkati Maiai, a Swahili dish made of coconut, egg, spices and onion. The food in Kenya was really good.
I made it to Nairobi, met up with Pete Green again, worked as a river guide on the upper Tana river, got up to Eliye Springs on Lake Turkana (one of my favourite places) and climbed to Point Lenana on Mount Kenya (really a far nicer mountain than Kili). With finances down to the last $100 London was not a proposition (it had ceased to be long ago), but a job was an urgent one. The first Aid Organization that I approached was CARE and the Californian blonde said leave your "Resumé" with the secretary and put in all the usual stuff leaving out, of course, reference to my illustrious career as a private in the Medical Services.
Next day a fancy byfour pulled into "Mama Roche's" backpackers (she died three years ago) and the driver invited me back to the CARE offices where the blonde asked whether I had done my National Service because if I had they had a position in Bardera, Somalia for me. Of course then I had to admit that I had single-handedly taken on all the flies and mossies that Owamboland could throw at me, and next morning I was on a Canadian C-130 laden with diesel barrels and me.
And my bicycle? I left it in Nairobi in the care of a Dutchman who kindly cycled it down to Joburg and left it at my folk's house. I still pedal it around the perilous pavements of Parkview.
| < Prev | Next > |
|---|
