Since our last entry, we have cycled over 2000km and left east Africa and entered southern Africa. We ventured into Malawi from Tanzania, and now find ourselves in Lusaka, the capital of Zambia. From here we will venture south to visit the famous Victoria Falls, and then we are on our way down to Gaborone in Botswana where we will take a much-needed ‘long’ rest. Our friend from Mansfield, Robbie Jackman, is teaching at an international school there so we are going to spend some time at her place. While we are there, we will take a bus to Johannesburg to visit Ross’ mum and dad who will be at the end of a South African holiday. So we have some exciting plans to look forward to, but it is still over 1500km to Gaborone and plenty of long days in the saddle.
Speaking of long tough days, we have had plenty on our way to Lusaka as well as encountering some very interesting people. It feels like so much has happened, and I could almost fill a book just about the last stretch. Instead, below are just some of the adventures we have encountered.
The rough road
Before leaving Dodoma in Tanzania, we had a choice to make about which route to take. The two options were: the long way; 588km along a nice sealed road, or a short cut; 274km along a rocky and sandy road, which was simply known to the locals as ‘the rough road’. We took the rough road and it turned out to be quite an adventure.
Day 1
Distance: 117km
Time: 7 hours 38 minutes
Diary: We found it hard to get back on the bikes. Mainly because we had spent the last 7 days off the bikes (our longest rest so far), but also because we were staying in a lovely guesthouse that served delicious food. We knew that there would be hardly any towns or shops along the way, so we stocked up with food the day before. We were lucky to find this little gold mine in a small supermarket that stocked lots of healthy snacks. Even though Dodoma is the capital city, it doesn’t have a supermarket of the kind that we know in Australia. But this small shop was filled with just what we needed - high energy and filling treats.
We left town and immediately hit a quiet dirt road. The first 10 or so kilometres were tiring, and the legs felt heavy. The bike also felt like a tank, and it took a while to adjust back to cycling with a heavy load. We soon got into a rhythm and it felt nice to be back on the open road.
For the rest of the day we rode through a remote landscape that was oddly quite beautiful. The road wasn’t too bad, but we often opted for the local single track that ran alongside the main road. These tracks are used by locals to link up villages, and they made for a pleasant change as we wound along smooth sandy paths. Sometimes though, they took us through corn plantations making navigation and visibility challenging. As we simply ‘followed our noses’ at any junctions, we often became lost and stumbled upon surprised villages to ask for directions back to the main road. It was quite an adventure, and we discovered a network of fascinating community life away from the main road making the getting lost part worth it. At one stage we ended up in a school that was quite a long way from the main road, and the looks on the faces of the students was priceless. Initially, their jaws dropped as they glared wide-eyed at the two Mzungus that had somehow simply appeared in their peaceful and remote school grounds. Their initial shock soon turned to excitement and curiosity as they forgot about school for a while and followed us as we attempted to find our bearings.
Getting lost along the single track through corn plantations.
We often popped out into small villages, schools or in this case, a lone and empty mud house.We rolled into a small village in the late afternoon and discovered a guesthouse. Nobody seemed to own it though, and we still wanted to cover some more distance, so we decided to get some water and pedal for another 10km or so and find somewhere to camp. There was no water here; in fact water was very hard to come by in this hot and dry region. We had to buy bottled water, which was going to be a bit of a waste to use it for cooking and bathing, but it was very cheap and we had no other option. As we bought about 9lts of water, the locals had gathered to watch us pour it from the bottles to our water bags. Bottled water is a luxury nobody seems to afford here, so it was a little embarrassing to be buying so much. The empty bottles were popular as the kids snaffled them up at our offering, and we pedalled off in the hot afternoon sun while the village all went back to what they were doing before we arrived … nothing.
Down the road we realised how hard water is to come by when we crossed a dry sandy riverbed. In a deep hole we could just see a man’s head popping out above the surface, and he was painstakingly scooping water from the hole, one small container at a time, to fill a bucket. He had dug the hole with a shovel, and it looked like an extremely inefficient way of gathering water. Inefficient as it might have been, it was probably the only choice in such a harsh environment.
We had little problem finding a nice spot in the bush just off the main road to camp. We washed and cooked in peace, and went to bed early mainly because we were tired, but also because it got dark and we only have one torch between us (the other died in Uganda).
Our campsite in the bush for the night.Day 2
Distance: 112km
Time: 9 hours 37 minutes
Diary: We woke early, packed up and were on the road by 7:30am. It was hot, the road had become worse and we were in for a long and tough day. We had no real plans for today, but to just plod along and see what unfolds. This type of planning, or lack of, is what usually leads to an epic day. Every so often we have days which are long, hard and filled with turns of adventure, and we call these days epics. Today was an epic.
We battled along the terrible road at a snails pace. When you are on the brakes and crawling down hill at 10km/hr you know the road is bad. It was so rocky, and the road was seemingly endless. The sun was scorching, and we were drenched with sweat. Our warm water from our bottles just didn’t quench our thirst, it was tough going and to be honest, not much fun at all. We managed to ride 50km before stopping for lunch under the shade of a big tree. Some curious kids came to initially watch, but then to annoy us. They weren’t really annoying, but after a draining morning we just wanted some peace under the tree. When I politely requested for them to continue on their way, they thought this was a fun game. So as I hurried them along, they would run away only to return as I sat back down. Very funny for them, but irritating for us. To top things off we saw some more donkey abuse. If there is one thing in Africa that really makes us not want to be here, it is the total lack of compassion towards animals. This teenage boy sat on his horribly ill fitted cart as two old and beat up donkeys pulled him along. They were moving along fine, but he liked to whip them with his huge stick to ‘keep them in a straight line’. When I frustratingly questioned why he needed to hit them all the time, which apart from inflicting pain on the donkeys just confused them more on what they were doing wrong, he looked at me as if to say “who are you to tell me how to treat my donkeys”. He was probably right, and he demonstrated his way of life and power over the donkeys by proceeding to whip the donkeys harder and continuously. I only wish I could get his stick and give him a few whacks to see how he liked it. We don’t see it that often, but we hate seeing the cruelty and lack of care towards animals. So we had quite an unpleasant lunch, and although the conditions were trying, we were happy to get back on our bikes and leave.
We battled along and the road got worse and the sun hotter. Everyone, including the herds of cattle, was taking refuge under trees to avoid the stifling sun. Even the Maasai, who are normally so comfortable and unfazed by the heat, were resting in the shade while keeping a close eye on their herd. We were the only people silly enough to be in the sun.
A group of young Maasai boys were curious at the two Mzungus who rolled by in the scorching sun.
Opting for the smoothish single track rather than the bumpy road.As we crawled along the valley floor, we finally came to the other side. Although we were relieved to get out of this hot and harsh valley, getting out meant a steep climb on a rough road. We were already very tired, so mustering enough energy to climb up wasn’t going to be easy. As we grinded up, we passed a broken down truck. The driver told us that our next available sleeping option, apart from wild camping, would be a Catholic Mission about 20km away. We liked the idea of a possible shower and bed after a tough day, so we set the Mission as our new target. We were going to be pushed though, because it was nearly 5pm and the sun was fading fast. We slogged our way up as families of baboons watched curiously from their trees. All of a sudden Christine began to feel sick and had terrible stomach pains, possibly from something we had for lunch or a bad dose of water. We resorted to pushing our bikes as the bumps were making it worse, but this meant that we were moving very slowly. It was now almost dark and we were still going up the hill. Camping wasn’t an option for two reasons – we were on the side of a mountain and there wasn’t any flat ground, only dense hilly jungle, and we also didn’t have any water to cook dinner with.
Crawling up out of the valley.We finally arrived at the top of the hill and by now it was pitch black. We were now cycling along with the aid of one dull, and fading quickly, head torch. This wouldn’t have been too bad had the road been smooth, but we had spent the past two days with our eyes fixed to the road constantly trying to dodge the holes and big rocks in search for the smoothest part of the bumpy road. Now we were relying on luck and a dull torch. Just to spice things up some more, the black clouds had rolled in accompanied by some lightning and eventually rain. We kept going, hoping to see some lights in the distance, or even a village or person to tell us where the Mission was. We finally arrived at a small village that had one light where the locals had gathered for the evening to eat dinner. There was also a guesthouse here, and given that we were very tired, and now wet, we lowered our standards and decided that we would take almost anything. Well, almost anything. The young lady lit up the room with the aid of a lantern, and I couldn’t see much, but I’m sure she showed me the chook pen instead of the comfortable and cosy room we had dreamt of. There was a bed in there, but the dirt floor was wet, there was rubbish in there, the room smelt terrible and it was windowless. And this was my observations as I was straining to see from the dull lantern, so I hate to think what I would have seen had there been a proper light. Even though it was 8pm, we decided to push on and try and find the Mission. A young boy said that he would take us there, and from our confused and broken discussion we estimated that it was between 3 and 10km away. He jumped on his bike, grabbed our head torch, and off he went as we battled to keep up with him in the pitch black. He occasionally stopped to let us catch up, but was unfazed by the rough road as he bumped along on his battered up old single speed. We kept going and going, not seeing anybody or anything, and we were starting to get that feeling. But we trusted this boy, and the worst he could do was ride off with our torch – not a great loss. When we turned off the main road to take a narrow track that was no longer rough and rocky, but slippery and muddy, we started to question the boy. He just kept going, and we nervously kept following. Then in the distance we saw some light, and sure enough we rolled up to the Mission. We were expecting a small Mission like we had seen in Kenya, maybe a church and a couple of houses. But this was a huge community with a church, school and many houses and buildings. We entered the compound as the boy went to fetch the Father. It was now 9pm, we were absolutely stuffed and needed some hospitality. And this is exactly what we got. Father Angelo and Father Lorenzo, two well-fed Italian missionaries, greeted us. It was a classic encounter to end such a long and hard day. In true Italian and Catholic fashion, we were given a basic but adequate room and were made to feel very welcome. We gave the boy about $3 and he disappeared back along the road minus our head torch. It would have been a challenging 10km for him back to his village in pitch black, but he didn’t seem to mind. We scoffed down some biscuits for dinner, tried to wash ourselves with 1ltr of water, and collapsed into bed.
Day 3
Distance: 43km
Time: 3 hours 26 minutes
Diary: We woke early to the sound of church bells, and were greeted by a flat trailer tyre. I quickly changed it and we rode the 3km back to the main road. We didn’t see Father Angelo or Lorenzo, but we left a small donation for their hospitality. We were so tired, and it felt like we were pulling a truck along behind rather than a small trailer. The legs had definitely not recovered after yesterday’s epic, and finishing at 9pm meant that we were back on the bikes in less than 10 hours. We pushed on slowly throughout the morning, and thankfully it wasn’t too hot. We stopped for breakfast before rolling in to the substantial town of Iringa around midday. We found a decent place to stay, washed 3 days of dirt and grime off under a shower, and treated ourselves to a big plate of vegetable curry and rice.
It was a tough, yet rewarding 3 days. We only saw a handful of vehicles throughout the 270km, and only passed through small villages. It was a harsh and remote environment, and certainly tested us physically and mentally. It was definitely the road less travelled.
We stopped to clean off some of the mud that had baked on, and had a little friendly observer. 
She eventually disappeared down a quiet and lonely road with her little sister. Pepper Spray
When we met German man back in Ethiopia, he was telling us how he escaped an attempted robbery. While cycling in to the capital city of Kenya, Nairobi, his path was blocked by 3 burly Kenyans. They proceeded to wrestle his bags from his bike, in full daylight and view of bystanders, before he whipped out his secret weapon. He sprayed them with a small can of pepper spray he had bought in South Africa, and the 3 men instantly hit the deck screaming and rubbing their eyes. German man cycled off unharmed and with all his possessions.
We have never felt threatened like this, nor have we ever felt a need to carry such a ‘weapon’. But we thought it would definitely help reassure us and make us feel safer if anything was to occur. Obviously we avoid potential danger at all costs, but sometimes things can happen when you least expect it. So when we entered a gun shop in Iringa, a largish Tanzanian town, we saw a can of pepper spray for sale. We thought about it for a while, and while carrying such a weapon goes against our personality, values and reasons for bike touring, we decided that it wouldn’t be a bad emergency and last resort escape option should anyone untoward ever present themselves. So $20 later, Christine now carries a small can of pepper spray in her handlebar box. We hope, and honestly believe, that we’ll never have to use it. But Christine now feels more comfortable, and I also feel better knowing that she can get out of trouble if she needs to. It sounds very extreme and unnecessary, but it is more of an insurance policy that you hope you’ll never have to use. It is a little unnerving knowing that Christine is now armed and dangerous though, and I have had to warn her on several occasions that it is not to be used on kids who harrass her for money, or sleazy young men who make kissing noises and call out “I love you”!
Other two-wheeled adventurers
A couple of Mexicans we met along the way in Tanzania. We stayed with them one night and cycled with them for a bit. They were very funny and interesting.One day in Malawi we were slogging it up a hill in the scorching sun when a voice from behind crept closer chanting “keep going, keep going” in an unmistakable Aussie accent. Up ahead, Brian was stopped under a tree waiting to meet us. He is travelling around Africa on his motorbike, and was as Australian as they come. He was an older fella, clad in jeans and work boots and sporting a Santa Clause length beard. He was very interesting and funny, and it was quite strange to meet up with such an Aussie character in the middle of Malawi. As we were chatting on the side of the road and exchanging stories, a polite young Malawian gentleman rolled up on his motorbike and the proceeding conversation was a classic:
Malawi man: “Welcome to Malawi”
Brian: “Thanks mate”
Malawi man: “I want to meet you, and know where you are going. We have safari just down the road if you would like to stay. You can follow me if you would like?”
Brian: “Nah mate, I don’t do that shit. I’m not into safaris and National parks and all that tourist crap … bugger that”
A very confused Malawi man having not understood a word of what Brian had said: “OK, well again, welcome to Malawi”
Brian: “Well next time bring some beer and we can make it a proper welcome ha ha ha ha”.
It was very funny, and the Malawi man rode off confused at what he had just encountered, but he was still smiling. Brian only spoke in one language … Australian!
We ended up meeting him a few days later and enjoyed his company while we rested in Lilongwe (the capital of Malawi). He had many stories and was very funny and interesting. He also fixed a couple of punctures for us which we had been battling with for many weeks (which actually only lasted a few days, so if you’re reading this Brian, your repair job didn’t last!). The people you meet in the middle of Africa!!
Brian Into Malawi
After rolling up and down the hills in southern Tanzania, we knew at some point we would descend to the shores of Lake Malawi. Our last night in Tanzania was at an altitude of 1500m. We woke early the next morning and the next 40km were a bikers dream; all down hill on a smooth road with hardly any traffic and beautiful views. While we sped down, wind whistling through our hair, we had time to reflect on Tanzania. We had spent a month in this pleasant country, and had become very comfortable. We would be sad to leave. We also had time to think about Malawi. We hadn’t been able to find a guidebook for Southern Africa so we knew nothing about Malawi. It was strange to be entering a country without reading up about the landscape, culture, costs, etc that we normally do in preparation for a new country. We were pondering questions such as; will the kids chase us, will they ask for money, will they throw things at us or will they simply smile and wave; how much will food and accommodation cost, what standard will it be and how available will it be; what language do the people speak, and how prevalent is English; what is the currency; if the people will be friendly, welcoming and honest, or if they’ve been spoilt by aid and handouts and view us simply as rich white givers; and has anyone told the people how to make bread that can be chewed and swallowed normally and that ice blocks can be made to accompany drinks to make them cold when the weather is ridiculously hot. All questions which the answers make a huge difference to our daily enjoyment and comfort. We were definitely entering a bit of an unknown pocket of Africa.
We approached the border in quick time and were immediately swarmed upon by the moneychangers. “Hello my friend/sister/brother, want to change money? I give you best deal” was the line used by about 50 young men all waving wads of cash in our faces. We knew that there was an official place to change money so we weren’t going to risk the potential of fake notes just for a slightly better rate. The moneychangers here were also notorious for cleverly ripping people off and we had been warned to steer clear. They were persistent buggers though, and we nearly had to run a few of them over to proceed to customs to get our passport stamps. We gave them a bit of a hard time too, telling them that we don’t speak English and couldn’t understand them. We also told them that we had already changed our money and got a better deal than what any one of them could match. This frustrated them so it was nice to finally shake them off. Securing business in Tanzania is based on ‘first in best dressed’. In tourist areas there are always pests harassing and hounding you and offering “best deals” and “very cheap” safaris, bus tickets, exchange rates, taxis, hotels, etc. Next time I come back to Africa I am going to have a t-shirt printed that says: “I have already been on safari, I have already booked my bus ticket, I already have a hotel room, I don’t need to change money, and no, I won’t be buying you a soda”.
We entered Malawi and the most noticeable change was the climate. It was seriously steamy and humid. Gone was the cool and crisp mountain air that was so comfortable to cycle in. It now felt like we were cycling in a sauna. It was flat though, the scenery pleasant with lush green fields and patches of jungle, and the people friendly. There was some miserable “give me money” calls coming from some of the kids, but the majority were just happy to wave and chant “hello”.
For the next few days we cycled along the beautiful Lake Malawi, had fantastic campsites and were welcomed by (mostly) friendly and happy people. But we found ourselves to be frustrated, tired and a bit over it all. We were confused by these feelings, and couldn’t work out why we felt like this when Malawi is almost perfect for bike touring. One day we sat down and nutted it out, and decided that we were having moments where we were all ‘Africa’d out’!
Africa’d out
In our last diary entry I described the romanticism of Tanzania. Well Africa is not always like that, and we found ourselves in Malawi sometimes worn out, frustrated, miserable and depressed … Africa’d out. In Malawi we had our moments. I’ll tell you why.
In can be very depressing being in the thick of poverty, day in day out. Yes much of the people are happy, and this is evident by friendly smiles, a simple and relaxing lifestyle and warm hospitality. Often we cycle past women singing and whistling as they go about their daily business of cooking, taking care of the kids and working in the fields, and I often think that anyone who is singing and smiling must be truly happy. But there is so much poverty; kids who can’t afford to go to school, lack of food, disease, tatty clothing and footwear, dirty drinking water, neglected or non-existent infrastructure, lack of medical access, no transport, makeshift shelters, no electricity, unemployment and lack of basic education. We see this every single day, and it isn’t nice to see. What makes it worse, is that often we get the feeling that nothing is improving, that there is no hope and that sometimes communities are spiralling into more poverty. Progress is stagnant and life is a daily battle to survive. Thinking about the future, improving quality of life and planning ahead are principles that seemingly don’t exist. Coming from a so-called ‘modern’ country makes this hard to accept sometimes. Why do these kids have to live a life of struggle and without hope when a child born in Australia will live like a king or queen in comparison? Sometimes we just feel like escaping, but we can’t. We don’t have any windows to wind up, a house to lock ourselves in or a car to speed away. We are immersed in poverty every day. We can’t really help, and don’t feel like we should help. We would simply like to see hope, and the people helping themselves, but unfortunately this is not always the case. Malawi presented many depressing moments. It is the third poorest country in the world, and has the highest child mortality rate in the world. Kids are always dying from lethal diseases such as malaria, but also from what we would call a minor illness like diarrhoea. If a child makes it to 5, then they have made it. Such is the high chance of a young child dying in rural Malawi the parents don’t name their new born until they are three months old. If the child has a name, then it is perceived that the parents have a closer attachment to the child and therefore losing the child will be harder. Many children die without a name. When a lady dies, she is buried with her washing bucket as her head stone. This is how the village best remembers her. Kids in rural Malawi are hungry. Can you imagine seeing kids that are hungry all the time? Food is scarce and unreliable. The hunger that many kids battle was evident one day when we stopped at a mini supermarket for a rest. We bought a drink and managed to find a muesli bar. We had three young boys hovering around ensuring that we couldn’t properly relax and eat our snack guilt free. No sooner had we disposed of our wrappers in the bin had one of the boys retrieved them to see if we had left any crumbs. Being hungry cyclists, we devoured every last scrap, so the boy resorted to licking the inside of the wrapper to taste the flavour that was left behind. This highlights desperate times in a poor country. So in between the beautiful sandy beaches, crystal clear and warm lake water and relaxing campsites, was a poor and desperate country. One minute we were witnessing hungry kids and extreme poverty from our bike saddles, but we then found ourselves relaxing on a beautiful beach listening to the sounds of the waves and watching boys trying to catch fish with their homemade nets. We met a truly amazing Australian lady who lives along the lake, and she has raised money to set up a nursery school in a small village. She also feeds porridge to all the kids each day. We went to visit her and the swag of kids that she cares for, and it was a great insight into the real Malawi. She was an incredible lady doing amazing things. I won’t write too much about her, simply because I can’t accurately describe the amazing work she is doing, but if you are interested then please visit her website at http://www.mphatso.org/.
Relaxing at the beautiful beach and campsite masked a very poor and desperate Malawi.
Rest stop. 
Another beautiful spot where we lazed the day away.
We sometimes get sick of the people. Every single person we cycle past says hello, waves, whistles, yells out, chases and wants to know our name and where we come from. Of course this is friendly, and it sure beats the abuse we received in Ethiopia. But can you imagine greeting every single person you see in one day? And there are plenty of people strewn out along the road in Malawi, all seemingly our “friends”. We must say “hello” at least 50 times per day, wave about 100 times and tell about 20 people that we are from Australia, our mission is tourist and what our names are. Just to break up the monotony and to laugh at ourselves (sad I know), we now tell people our names are the names of couples we know from home. So if you are a couple, and we know you quite well, there’s a good chance some random Malawians think that we are you. Sometimes we get sick of the attention, and would love to just cycle along enjoying the scenery and observing the way of life in peace and quiet.
Christine collecting water from a water pump in a small village.
Nothing works in this part of Africa. The people expect nothing to work, so when it doesn’t nobody seems to care. If something goes smoothly and successfully, it is considered a bonus. You can’t buy anything, and every shop will tell you to try another. Because they like to help, Malawians are the world leaders in giving you the run-a-round. And if there is something you need, you can end up looking for it for months, visiting 100’s of stores in the process and travelling 1000’s of km. All the time with helpful locals telling you to try such and such store, or come back next week. Corruption is rife. A package we had sent to Tanzania was weeks late because apparently the truck was broken down. We now have to get a friend to collect it as we are now two countries away, but the post office is claiming ‘customs taxes’ of over $100. This is a massive amount in Tanzania, and has been created because they know the package is important to us and they know we are white – therefore rich. And this is a country we are raising money for to help them move forward. Corruption is the devil of a country.
We are constantly worried about safety, particularly of our belongings. We can rarely relax and are regularly taking precautions against theft. This becomes tiring sometimes, and makes us trust nobody.
We get sick of seeing the animals suffer. You know an animal is well cared for when it has a shiny coat or feathers, and looks well fed. Most of the animals we see, cows, donkeys, chooks, goats, pigs, dogs, look as though they have had a life of misery. They are mistreated, look unhealthy and are never cared for. We even sat down to a meal in a tiny shack-come-restaurant one day to see a baby monkey chained up as a ‘pet’. It had a little sad face and could only dream of the freedom of jumping from tree to tree, eating a natural diet and being with it’s mother.
Some days we battle on, frustrated and impatient, with no end in sight and no rewards for hard work. We get home sick, and long for the luxuries and comfort of home. We miss our families and friends. And although everything I have mentioned happens at home in some form, here it is so real, and we are right in the middle of it every day, with no way to escape. Sometimes being in Africa is just bloody tough.
Depressing enough? We don’t cycle along feeling like this every day, but rather we just have our moments where we are a bit Africa’d out. I don’t want it to sound as though I am complaining or whinging, because I am not. I am simply telling it how it is. I just wanted to explain the not so pleasant side of cycling in Africa that co-exists with the amazing, spectacular and beautiful side that I wrote about in the last diary entry. They balance each other out, to make for a very authentic experience, an experience of the real Africa. It is this type of experience that we love and we learn so much from. And when we venture further south into the more modern Botswana, Namibia and South Africa, we will have a much different experience of Africa.
One day we were cycling along having one of these ‘moments’ where we were sick of being in Africa and sick of the people. Up ahead we saw a group of scruffy kids by the road not doing much at all. They had a bag of oranges, which looked like they would be a nice change from the stale bread and disgusting biscuits we had been consuming for most of the day. We stopped and pointed to the oranges indicating we would like to buy some. The kids were shy, respectful and polite. They instantly gave us an orange each, but one of the young girls disappeared. She returned in about 5 minutes time balancing a tray with two cups of cold water on it. She offered us the water, and it was just a special moment that made us so happy to be in Africa and to be on our bikes. After we ate our oranges and drank the water, we cycled away to the smiles and friendly waves of the kids. They didn’t say anything to us, didn’t annoy us, and didn’t want anything from us. They simply offered us oranges and water, and this was coming from some very poor kids. It was a classic example of how our days can vary so much, going from depressing and homesick to special and unique in the blink of an eye.
Very poor, but so generous. These kids just gave us water and oranges, and were very respectful. A lovely bike touring moment.
These kids chased us, but were harmless. They looked so poor and scruffy. We gave them a bit of bread, which they were over the moon about. 
I was being a sticky beak as the village distributed the day’s catch of fish. The lake has been over-fished and therefore decent fish are hard to come by.
Sometimes, cycling in Malawi was just beautiful and almost perfect for bike touring.
Back at home, the Hopkins clan organised a garage sale with all funds going towards our chosen charities.
Hallelujah (by Christine)
It was a challenge getting back on the bikes after two days rest at a very nice campsite in Lilongwe. We could have stayed there a week but we are on a pretty tight schedule for the next month in order to make it to JoBurg by early May. After 120km we had reached the Zambian border and it wasn’t long until we learnt from the friendly border staff that they too have ‘mob justice’ in Zambia for criminals. If you find yourself being targeted by a robber, all you have to do is yell out ‘thief’ and they will be caught and beaten to unconsciousness. “But a word of warning”, said the man, “don’t make the mistake of pointing your finger at the wrong person as one black man looks the same as another!”
The 6-day stretch from one capital city to the next was physically harder than what we had expected. We spent many long hours in the saddle as the hills were exhausting, and along the way met some very interesting people: an American guy on a tandem bicycle who rides along and picks up random children to ride at the back, then once he arrives at the next village he pays for their bus fare home and picks up a new kid; a lone Japanese cyclist whose skin was literally falling off from his severe sun burn, who spends every night wild camping in the bush; 3 South African motorbike tourers who were doing a quick 8,000km trip in 19 days on the most luxurious BMW touring bikes; and finally a weird Russian guy known as the ‘bare-footed traveller’ who walks and hitch-hikes around the world … barefooted!
The American guy with a young Malawian he had picked up along the way. He is also making a TV series about his trip and has a video camera mounted to his helmet.
We awoke at 2:30am on Good Friday morning and were on the road by 3am. We had a big day with many hills and so we wanted to get as many kilometres under our belt before the intense sun sapped our energy. As we sat on the side of the road and ate our stale peanut butter rolls, we pictured everyone at Ross’ house, sitting around the table devouring Graham’s home-made hot-cross buns, fresh out of the oven with a dollop of butter on top. Instead, our jaws were working overtime trying to chew our rolls, not to mention the effort in swallowing them!
We stumbled across a ‘camping & chalet’ sign in the middle of nowhere and decided to call it a day. It turned out to be an orphanage and the money we payed for our ‘shack’ went straight into feeding the 100 or so orphaned children. Being Good Friday there was a service in the church for the whole village, which went from 8pm until 6am the following morning. I soon found myself sitting in the front row of the candle-lit, mud brick church, which also doubled as a classroom by day. No sooner had I sat down that the whole church erupted into singing and dancing. I felt like I was watching a scene out of a movie. There was plenty of “hallelujah’s” and “praise the lord” being yelled out. The aisles were packed with men, women and children, all singing and dancing. Just as I had finally perfected my African shuffle, the room suddenly went quiet and more than 150 sets of bright white eyes were now on me! After it was finally translated to English for me I found the blood rush to my face and the pin pricks of sweat conjoined to then run down my forehead. “We want you to sing and teach us a church song that you sing in your churches in Australia?” I felt that it wasn’t a good time to tell them that Easter for me is about receiving Easter eggs and eating them until I feel sick, that this was my first ever church service and that I cannot sing. So my response… “Oh, we don’t sing songs in our churches, we just pray”. The night continued with more singing and dancing and preaching. It was an unforgettable experience. At 11:30pm my eyes were popping out of my head, so I was escorted back along the dark and narrow tracks to our room where Ross was sleeping away. He was too tired so didn’t come, and he certainly regretted it as I attempted to explain the surreal and powerful experience I had just had.
A young Zambian girl.
Buying bananas on the side of the road.
Some happy kids in Zambia.
