Finishing the job.
Keith Richmond, West Sussex
After four years, I resumed my travels by bicycle in Africa in November 1991, at Bujumbura, Burundi where, in 1987, a double bout of hepatitis had temporarily halted my progress. The objective was still, as it had been from the very beginning to cover every inch of a route between Tunis and Cape Town under my own steam. Health and travel funds restored, I set off and immediately from Bujumbura had the longest uphill push ever.
That first day I only covered 35kms but ascended 1400m. Things could not get more difficult. Rwanda, too, was hilly, but I was already "up there" when I entered the country across the Akagera River. The Rwandan customs officer asked me to go through my cycle bags. That was the last such thorough customs check on my journey. It's amazing what you can get away with on a bicycle! At Kigali I turned east. My original plan was to reach Nairobi via Uganda and the north shore of Lake Victoria, but the continuing guerrilla war ruled that out.
The landscape opened up.
Oddly enough, the Ugandan embassy in Kigali was still issuing visas although one could not enter Uganda directly. Heading towards Tanzania, the eastern part of Rwanda was in some contrast to the crowded west. Instead of the road leading up to a "saddle" and down again on the other side (there was usually a village on top of the "saddle") it was a flatter route until near the border, when, above Rusumo, the landscape opened up and there was my first view of the open plains of east Africa. Shortly before this, when passing through a small town, a fellow (who may have been the local madman) jumped off the pile of earth on which he had been sitting and ran alongside me for a few yards, shouting out something incomprehensible. I laughed along with many of the townsfolk.
The next day, after a week in Rwanda, I entered Tanzania at Rusumo. Although a month had already passed since the Harare agreement to lift the ban on personal contacts between Commonwealth countries and South Africa, the Tanzanian immigration official, apparently unaware of world events, eagerly set about searching for evidence of visits to the latter, but after some seventy-odd pages he seemed somewhat disappointed when handing back my 'Clean" passport. Once out of sight from the border post I pulled off my long trousers, which I had put on over my cycling shorts before the border to look reasonably presentable. This is a normal practice and I think it helps matters.
A rest day at Kahama.
On that first day in Tanzania, I was troubled, for an hour or so late in the day, by tsetse flies for the only time in east Africa. The tarmac road ended after a few days and shortly afterwards I took a rest day at Kahama, a dusty town whose businessmen included some Asian refugees from Idi Amin's Uganda, who would never go back. From Kahama an Italian company is building a new road so that, soon, Rwanda will be linked directly to Tanzanian ports by a tarmac highway. I followed it partway as far as Tunduma, a railway junction, then turned NE to head for Shinyanga and Mwanza.
Between these two towns, I ran into the fiercest tropical storm, while crossing rolling plains. The visibility went down to a few yards but I did have the wind behind me. I was drenched very quickly, so decided to press on. The storm lasted over an hour, by which time I was almost at my destination, Mabuki. The next morning people were out early to dig over the soil and plant maize. Even school children were helping.
From Mwanza I took an overnight Ugandan Railways ferry to Jinja, a town in gentle decline, and on arrival in Kampala (which reminded me somewhat of Freetown) went to arrange a booking for the return trip. The Central Traffic Manager informed me that I should not have been allowed to travel on a UR ferry - no one is. I had been one of about thirty passengers. So, after a day or two in Kampala, I headed back to Tanzania along the Mask road. En route, I met another Transcontinental cyclist, Frank van Rijn, raising funds for a Dutch leprosy charity by riding from Dar Es Salaam to Dakar. He was looking for a way into troubled Zaire.
Proceeding to Kenya.
Back in Tanzania, I arrived in Bukoba a few hours before the Mwanza ferry departed. I didn't like the place much and it was crawling with police informers who were trying to help the government enforce the ridiculous overvaluation (75%) of the currency. That did not prevent me from making "realistic" financial arrangements, however. At Mwanza I rejoined my main route after the week-long side-trip, and proceeded to Kenya which I entered west of the Serengeti Park at Isebania. It was like entering the land of milk and honey. Suddenly buildings were brightly painted and shops full of goods I was riding on tarmac again and wondering what the Tanzanians had been doing in recent decades.
For a few days, I continued north-eastwards, past vast tea plantations, "European" landscapes and people with milk churns, to the main highway at Mausummit. From there a morning's freewheeling, which could have been through a mist on Bodmin Moor, brought me to Nakuru, a large industrial town, from where I joined a three-hour trip (£12) around the National Park formed by the Lake and its shoreline. Water buffalo, flamingos, cormorants and, at a distance, rhinorus were seen.
Hippopotami.
The next stop was Lake Naivasha, and both my nights at Fisherman's Camp were disturbed by the hippopotami emerging from the water and moving around the site with a thumping, squelching, and waddling noise. One sneezed near my tent (so a night watchman later informed me), but never even tripped a guy rope I was warmer than usual in my sleeping bag. From Fisherman's Camp, Hell's Gate National Park can be visited on foot or cycle.
It is an area of spectacular landforms and also the site of a geothermal power station, which provides a fair portion of Kenya's electricity. On my visit to Mount Longenot, an extinct but almost complete volcano crater, a ranger with a 1942 Lee-Enfield rifle accompanied me. The weapon, he said, was "for shooting 'predators'". I later discovered that the 'predators' were human: a VSO told me that several months earlier some tourists had been held up while walking on the mountain.
Nairobi is growing so quickly that the water supplies cannot keep up with demand. Certain districts, including the River Road budget hotels area, suffer as a result. From Sunrise Lodge (130 shillings or $4 a night) a pickup was sent somewhere every day with some jerrycans. Only on two days was there running water, and that was because the factories were closed for the holidays. A visit to a family I'd met in Bujumbwa in 1987 was cut short when they had to visit in hospital some friends who had been attacked in their home a few days before Christmas.
A rogue tour operator.
My first night back in Tanzania was spent in Longodo. The policewoman on duty warned me about the only guesthouse in that small Masai village. Anyway, I had no choice and took the only vacant room. In the courtyard four elderly men in traditional tartan cloaks were sitting around a table, drinking beer and smoking pipes. There was no problem although the owner of the guesthouse later tried, unsuccessfully, to put someone else into the room I had rented. At Arusha, I joined an American and two Australians on a two-day safari with "Taurus " a rogue tour operator (although we did not know it at the time).
The fiasco included a defective vehicle, which broke down on the hill between Manyara and Ngorongoro National Parks. We were stranded until midnight, and the final straw came the next day when entry was refused to Ngorongoro. Back at the Taurus office, we managed to get half of our money back, in dollars, which the poor fellow had to go and buy back at free market rates. Taurus is banned by the National Parks Authority, but that does not prevent it from running an office in the high street in Arusha. People shopping around for a safari should first visit the secretary of TAT0 (Tanzanian Association of Tour Operators), Mr. Limo.
Although TAT0 has little power, Mr. Limo should be able to advise on operators to avoid.
The summit of Kilimanjaro.
Things were better in Moshi. After waiting for a cold to clear, I joined a successful trek to the summit of Kilimanjaro. A tour operator said that 90% of those on 6-day treks reach Uhurn peak, the summit, while only 70% of those on 5-day trips succeed. The extra day is worthwhile for acclimatisation. Many visitors to Moshi choose to stay at the YMCA, probably because it is the first accommodation they see on arrival in the town- It struck me as crazy since, firstly, payment there is required in one's precious dollars and, secondly, there are guesthouses of reasonable quality near the market, where you can pay in shillings and stay four or five nights for every night at the YMCA.
Similarly, the tour operator at the YMCA, "Kibo", charges perhaps $100 more for a "Kill-trip" than other operators in Moshi. Probably a few years ago that company had the monopoly on trips but has yet to wake up to the fact that it now has half a dozen or more competitors in Moshi. People staying at the YMCA should also be aware of that fact.
A run past the picturesque mountains on the border brought me to Tanga and my first sight of the Indian Ocean and dhows. After a few days' rest there I headed inland, not to see the sea again for five months.
The Great Russha River.
Thirty years of neglect has enabled Tanzania to have new roads financed by gullible European governments. I passed several of these stretches on the main north coast southern highways. I went through some spectacular scenery, up the valley of the Great Russha River and the south-western uplands around the Sao Hill conifer plantations. I circumvented the Mikumi Park on unsurfaced roads: I think it was tie right decision for the weather was overcast and the animals may not have been in the shade of the trees at midday. In Tangagiardia had been diagnosed but a week's course of tablets could not cure it, so I tried the traditional method: a couple of days riding without food burned it off.
In Southwest Tanzania and parts of Malawi, I encountered a certain phenomenon for the first time since the francophone countries: that of "cadeau", a much abused French word. This phenomenon is, to my mind, a symptom of too much economic aid from abroad. On the badly kept road from Uyde to the Malawian border I was met by a hail of "Give me money", "Give me fifty shillings", called out mainly by children, but also by adults.
Early in February, I entered Malawi. At the border a northbound hitchhiker was turned back into Malawi because he had been to South Africa and had refused to pay US$80 for this to be overlooked. It was then four months since the Harare agreement and a few weeks since Tanzania and South Africa had signed a joint mineral exploration agreement.
Either instructions were still awaited from Dar or the officials were making the best of what time remained before too many people complained. At first it was a relief to be in Malawi: good infrastructure, friendly people and a lake safe for bathing, but after a couple of days at Nkhata Bay I could not believe my ears while following the unsurfaced road along the lakeside for the next few days to Selima. Every single village brought forth more cadeau: "Give me five Kwacha", "Give me money, and soon". It was more intensive than even in Tanzania. This must have been a different tribe from that in the very north of Malawi.
A major mechanical problem!
My first major mechanical problem was a cracked rear wheel rim. It began to appear in Tanzania but I managed to nurse the bicycle to Lilongwe before any cracks reached right across the rim, and collected a new one, sent from the UK, from the post office. It was alloy so could not be welded. The new rim was tied to the existing one; the spoke ends transferred one by one, the wheel trued. From Lilongwe to Lusaka, it took me just over a week, and I passed fields of drought-hit maize, unspoiled, almost uninhabited hilly Savannah bush and last October's political slogans painted onto the road.
In Lusaka I camped in the Salvation Army's compound, surrounded by broken class and coiled barbed wire atop a 12-foot high wall. One of the highlights of my journey was a visit to the Victoria Falls, then (March) coming up to its peak annual flow. Entry to Zimbabwe was via Kariba where I was asked to present an air ticket. Owing to the nature of my journey, I did not have one, but the appearance of my credit card and a few photocopies of bank and savings account statements did the trick.
The drought.
In Zimbabwe, the drought was worse than in it's neighbouring countries (selling last year's grain surplus did not help matters) and Bulawayo and Mutare both had water rationing.
After a bout of malaria in Harare, I headed south towards Bestbridge. The first two nights I slept at police barracks, after the campsites shown on the tourist board's map materialised in neither Beatrice nor Chivhu. I later noticed that the map was dated 1984. The vegetation became sparser as I moved further south, the cattle were thinner and roadside curio displays became more frequent as farming folk sought an alternative source of income. On the communal lands fences were down and goats eating every piece of vegetation in sight.
Most of the tributaries of the Limpopo were completely dry. The Zimbabwe ruins provided some relief to this depressing scenery. For a foreign visitor Zimbabwe is good value for money, for campsites and eating out, as well as for stocking up on clothing for use in South Africa or for sending home. A two-kilogram parcel can be sent anywhere in the world (by surface) for the equivalent of one US dollar. In South Africa, I found prices similar-but the figures applied to a different currency.
In splendid isolation.
Drought-hit farmland continued as far south as the Free State in South Africa, and the weather became colder down to the coast. In Transvaal I had to contend with some of the most dangerous drivers ever, in addition to headwinds, and on arrival in Johannesburg I bought a cyclist's helmet and handed the police a long list of registration numbers and details of incidents in which I had been forced off the road. In Cape Province, drivers were more considerate. I chose my route out of Johannesburg carefully and emerged onto the rolling plains of the Orange Free State, reminiscent of the small-town, mid-western United States, where communities live in grid-pattern settlements c
That degree of isolation became evident one morning soon after I had left Lindley. Word travels fast around a town, and I was surprised when a traffic policeman pulled over in front of me. What had I done? Well, he'd heard I was in town, at the municipal campsite, and had pursued me in furtherance of his hobby of collecting key-ring holders.
Obviously, I, a lone cyclist, was for him a rare contact with the outside world. I said I would see what I could do and pedalled off. The final stage of the journey was the ride from Port Elizabeth to Cape Agulhas and Cape Town along the picturesque Garden Route. In Transvaal people had said, "You'll suffer" on that south coast in winter. I did only one day of rain, a couple of days of headwinds, and many gloriously sunny days.
Agulhas, the southernmost point, lies at the tip of a flat peninsula. Sometimes, after such a journey, there is an anticlimactic feeling. "Is that it?" one thinks. I had the same feeling a few years ago on arriving at Land's End from John O'Groats. It did not last long, for a couple of day's later Table Mountain came into view. I went straight past the city and down the peninsula to the Cape of Good Hope and Cape Point before settling in for a few days. As the train back to Johannesburg crossed the Karoo, I reflected that it had been a good decision to follow the Garden Route. After so many years, my objective had been achieved. It 'would have been better to complete the trip in one hop, but that is something that Africa rarely permits, either politically or medically.
Keith Richmond
Globe September October 1994 vol. 42 No 5