Blog – Travel log

Botswana – Heat, Wind and the Big Five

Wildlife galore!

I let out a big sigh, the strong wind had changed direction again and I was pedalling furiously against it, progressing very slowly and getting very tired. Head wind saps my energy and I need to stop fairly regularly to recoup my strength and be able to keep going.

Often I found the perfect excuse to stop!

No one had mentioned the wind when talking about Botswana. I had read about the long distances, about having to sleep in the enclosure of telephone masts to be safe from the wild life which is everywhere in the country but wind, wind wasn’t in my consciousness and here I was battling against it.

It was true about the wildlife though, I experienced it on my first day in the country  from the safety of a boat in Chobe National Park. Hundreds of birds, a matriarch  leading a herd of elephants by the waterside, baboons playing, buffaloes, crocodiles… We got very close to some huge crocodiles feeding on an elephant carcass but had to move on quickly as the stench of the roting flesh was unbearable, making us gag.

Huge crocs feeding on an elephant carcass
Sunset at Chobe National Park

From Chobe I decided to have a brief foray into Namibia where I began to experience the heat, the wind and the long distances without water. In spite of that, I loved the Caprivi Strip, the trees there have so many different shapes, heights and colours. The trees and the interesting traffic signs provided amusement to the otherwise flat landscape.

Not the traffic signs we see in Europe!

I left the Caprivi Strip at Divundu, still in Namibia, to follow the Okavango River to the Okavango Delta. The Okavango Delta is a swampy inland delta formed where the Okavango River reaches a tectonic trough in the Kalahari. All the water reaching the delta is evaporated and does not flow into any sea or ocean.

Fishermen in the Okavango river

The Delta is in Botswana and as I re entered the country, the wind became less predictable, constantly changing direction, but the flatness of the terrain allowed me to get a rhythm, the rhythm of the road: I cycled for about 30 Km, had second breakfast; cycled another 30 Km, was hungry again and had lunch, usually leftovers from whatever I had cooked the night before; kept going for a bit longer and by about 80 Km I began to get tired, pushed on for a while looking for a safe place to stay the night and as soon as I found one stopped.

I kept riding until I found a safe place to spend the night

There was something different about Botswana. People didn’t ask me for money as I passed by, a first after months of constant demands. Only then, by the absence of these demands, I realised how stressful it had been at times. How in other countries I had avoided stopping by the side of road anytime I saw people because I didn’t want to get asked for money, food, water, my bike…

Proud of her people’s traditions, she kindly let me camp by her house

Botswana is one of the less populated countries in Africa and it is their Government’s policy to give everyone a piece of land where to build their house, keep cattle or open a business. The villages in Botswana looked very tidy, round or square huts with grass roofs. Often hidden in the bush they had signs to indicate their location and huge water tanks with drinking water. Life felt easier than in other countries I’d cycled through. Maybe that’s why the attitude of the people was different.

You always found something like this by the side of the road to indicate people lived nearby

It was great to be able to find drinking water anywhere there were people but with temperatures over 40 Celsius, the water got warm really quickly in my bottles. I was drinking more than 6 litres a day and the water wasn’t quenching my thirst, I drank and drank but my mouth and throat were always dry and my tongue stuck to my palate, I had to find a solution. Asier suggested wrapping my water bottles in wet cloths and it worked, the water stayed cool for longer, what a relief!

Wrapping the bottles with wet cloths and keeping them wet made a huge difference

I met with Asier in Maun, the heart of the Okavango Delta. On the road you get close to people really quickly and by now Asier was my pal. We had met  for the first time in Nakuru in Kenya and our paths crossed again in Malawi and in Zambia where agreed to meet in Maun, cook a Spanish omelette, have some beers and explore the delta together.

Time for Spanish omelette!

The Delta was everything it promised to be. We drove through deep sand to get to a campsite in the middle of the Moremi Game Reserve. The BaTawana people concerned by the rise of hunting in the Okavango Delta declared the area a Game Reserve in 1963. It was the first wildlife sanctuary to be created by an African tribe in their own area and now wildlife thrives in the Reserve.

It was just four of us and out guides in Moremi

We were setting up the tents when some elephants decided to walk through our pitch and we had to make a run for the vehicle for safety. A whole family of elephants went by, two babies with fuzzy downy hair still covering their heads were playing with one another in the middle of the herd, their small trunks going all over the place. I love how uncoordinated they look, how funny.

Moments later we were running to our vehicle for safety!
Baby elephants are really funny

It was late in the evening when we heard a conmotion amongst the elephants and it was only in the morning that other campers told us there had been lions in the campsite trying to hunt the baby elephants and the adults had scared them away. The lions must have been very close to us because before going to sleep Asier had told me how he had seen some yellow eyes reflecting back the light of his torch when he was walking to the tent. In the light of the morning I thought how in the middle of the night I had gone behind the tent to relief myself and  shivers run down my spine.

The lions were still very close to the campsite in the morning and we managed to get very close to one of them. He didn’t seemed to be bothered by us, he just sat there watching us watch him and in his own time, stood up, turned his back on us and walked away.

The night before he’d been marauding in the campsite
He turned his back and walked away

It was not only the elephants that had new babies. We saw a newborn wilder beast, the umbilical cord still hanging out of his mother who hadn’t yet expelled the placenta, baby jirafes, baby impala. All the animals giving birth just before the rains when food would be plentiful. I just hoped the rains would arrive in time because throughout my months in Africa, the pattern of the rains seemed to be broken, raining when it should’ve stopped and having dry weather when it should be raining. Climate change exposing its ugly face.

Our guide looking for animal tracks

The lack of rain would also have a huge impact on the communities living in the delta. We had a chance to go into its heart when we took a mokoro trip through its narrow canals. The mokoros are the traditional canoes used in the Okavango Delta. They are propelled forward by standing in the stern and pushing with a long pole. The traditional mokoros were made by digging out the trunk of a tree but now they are made of fiber glass. Dreamer, our mokoro punter, still had one of the traditional ones in his village right in the middle of the Delta.

Today’s mokoros are made of fiber glass

We silently moved through the water keeping an eye for hippos which are known to position themselves under the mokoros and pushed them up to overturn them. We didn’t see any but we glided pass beautiful water lilies and water birds.

The canal was barely wide enough to get through
Birds flew as we went by

After these wonderful times together, Asier and I said goodby at a cross roads hoping to meet again in Namibia in 2019, little did we know that we would meet again briefly once more before leaving Botswana.

Time for farewells (thanks Asier for the photo)

There was, one more thing I wanted to do before leaving Botswana, I wanted to pay a visit to the Khama Rhino Sanctuary in the hope to see the last of the Big Five left for me to see.

Cycling long hot days in relentless wind I arrived at the Sanctuary and went on the search of rhinoceros with one of the sanctuary’s guides. It didn’t take long before we found them by a small pond – a huge bull, two females and two younger males.

Young bulls relaxing

The bull came really close to the hide where we were, he was huge and covered in mud. He went over to a tree  to sharpen his horn. I was speechless and very moved. The whole scene was bathed in a beautiful light:  impala coming for a drink, warthogs wallowing in the mud whilst the rhinos relaxed by the water. I don’t know how long I spent watching these incredible animals in silence.

The huge dominant bull came very, very close!
Impalas shared the waterhole with the rhinos

For a while I’d been trying to decide where to enter South Africa, should I go to Zimbabwe or enter via Botswana? I met so many South Africans who told me to avoid the Zimbabwe border that in the end I’d decided to enter through a small border near Gabarone, the capital of Botswana. At the Rhino Sanctuary I met yet more South African campers who told me I had made the right decision AND I was to avoid Pretoria and Johannesburg at all costs!

I crossed the Tropic of Capricorn getting closer and closer to South Africa, the southernmost country on this trip. The plan was to spend New Year’s eve with Lucy and Liz, a mother and daughter pair I had met in a campsite 300 km from the border.

At the Tropic of Capricorn

It was really nice to know I’d meet some friendly faces soon after going into South Africa because now it was not the wind or the heat that worried me. I was worried about being hurt.

 

 

Off the beaten track in Zambia – cycling the Old Petauke Road

Their bodies were bullet shaped and when they landed they folded their wings on top of their abdomen, one wing on top of the other so that the shape remained. They buzzed manically around our heads looking for a chance to land on us and bite. Riding became quite dangerous as, in a panic, our hands would leave the handlebars to stop them getting to us. We were totally surrounded by them and even though it was very hot we had to resort to head nets. Tse tse flies were everywhere in the Old Petauke Road.

Keeping the tse tse flies away from my face (thanks to Karen for the photo)
I got off lightly but the tse tse flies really went for Karen!

Karen was coming from the UK to cycle with me in Zambia and in spite of warnings from the locals that the many elephants in the area made it a dangerous place to go, we had decided to ride this very remote dirt road that follows the Luangwa River, instead of taking the main road to Lusaka.

The only reason that would stop us from taking this route would be the rain, as in the wet the road would be impassable. At one point it was touch and go as furious thunderstorms hit the South Luangwa National Park. One night I laid in my tent in awe, waiting for the thunder to arrive as huge lightenings made the night become day. When the sound came, it was so powerful that I could feel the ground under me shake and my stomach vibrate. The sound went in one direction and then turned around and came back the other way. I was being treated to nature’s surround sound. Luckily the tent weathered the storm and I was safe and dry.

The day after the storm the sunrise was spectacular

I had been at Croc Valley Farm for 12 days waiting for Karen. In that time elephants had come to visit, people overlanding on big trucks had come and go, I made some lovely new friends, spent a day with Asier, another basque cyclist that I’d first met in Kenya and twice in Malawi, got a surprise visit from Dakin with whom I’d sailed on Lake Tanganika and every night the hippos sang not-so-gentle-lullabies to help me go to sleep.

Elephants coming for a visit
After so long the monkeys felt at home on my bike
The hippos were particularly noisy at night!!

Karen arrived full of smiles, friendship and precious goodies impossible to get in this part of the continent, Xmas had arrived early. As I teared open plastic bags exposing tyres, filter bottle and spare parts for my panniers and stove, I let out shrieks of excitement. Finally I could repair my ailing panniers and be sure I had enough kit to make it to South Africa where I whould be able to get any parts I may need.

It was wonderful to see Karen again!

We didn’t delay and soon left  the safety of Croc Valley and took to the road amongst the persistent warnings from the locals about the dangers of wild life on the Old Petauke Road, in particular elephants. Asier was ahead of us and had sent us the location of places where we could get water and find a safe place to sleep. He had done the whole 176 Km in two days but we knew it would take us much longer.

Leaving Croc Valley Farm

We were really excited when we hit the beginning of the road: this was it, we were entering the Old Petauke Road! Ahead of us were a few days of adventure.

Leaving the main road (thanks to Karen for the photo)

It was hot, extremely hot, waves of heat could be seen on the path ahead of us. Very quickly we had the feeling that we were somewhere very remote, the sandy road, the low thorny vegetation, the absence of villages. Scattered dung and trees and shrubs stripped bare told us that there were plenty of elephants around. We constantly looked right and left for their presence, we didn’t want to be caught by surprise.

Bare trees means there are elephants around!

We were excited and euphoric and to start with the heat didn’t seem to matter but after 40 Km of cycling I began to get terrible leg cramps, my ears were buzzing, light spots appeared in front of my eyes and waves of nausea came and went. I had to stop every few hundred meters and rest on my handlebars before I could continue. According to the coordinates Asier had sent us, we had five Km to go before we reached the first settlement where we could spend the night and there was no option but to carry on. I was thrilled Karen was with me, lovingly supportive. I didn’t feel at all well and it would have been a scarier experience if I had been on my own.

A happy Karen on our first day in the Old Petauke Road

The place in the map was a Conservation College. They welcomed us and after pitching our tents, one staff member escorted us to the bore hole which was a couple of Km away. The principal was worried that we may come across elephants and didn’t want us to go on our own. Pushing Roberts, Karen’s bike, we walked through thorny bushes, crossed dry river beds and finally arrived at the pump. With Roberts loaded with 10 liters of water we went back to our tents, this time a different way through the bush. Everything had thorns and we had to be careful to avoid fallen branches that would have resulted in a puncture.

Sometimes the best way to carry water was taking the bikes to the pump

Back at the camp we had a shower under the stars in a grass enclosure with a pipe pumping water directly from the river. It was bliss to let the water run over me and get rid of the salt covering my body.

Once again the road had provided what we needed and the following day it even had a gift in store for us. Very early on the day, a herd of jirafes crossed the path in front of us. The light was beautiful and they were beautiful and majestic. We stopped to admire them and more and more kept appearing, big and small, we counted around 30.

The magic of the road! (thanks to Karen for the photo)

And the road continued to provide, throughout the day,  we foraged the fruit of wild mangoe trees to create a delicious chick pea and mangoe coconut curry that evening that we consumed under an incredible starred sky in a village chief’s compound.

The third day on the Old Petauke Road was the hardest, the gradients became steeper and the surface of the road more difficult with big rocks, sand and loose stones. A fair amount of pushing took place. I love Foxtrot but she’s not easy to push uphill. Push, brake, rest, push, brake, rest. At times like this I go inside myself, all my energy focused on the next five steps, it was a question of mind over matter and I knew I had plenty of energy left because I could still appreciate the beauty of what was around us.

Push, brake, rest! (thanks to Karen for the photo)

We still had the hardest hill to climb when a couple in a 4×4 stopped and after telling us we must be mad tackling a road like this, they offered us a cold drink. A COLD DRINK!!!!! That cold coke was pure nectar after three days of tepid water. I love this spontaneous encounters with other travellers on the road.

Spontaneous encounters on the road

As we approached the ‘main road’ the distance between villages got less and we were able to buy some radioactive looking drinks. They were still tepid as the villages didn’t have electricity but they provided some sugar and a break from the tasteless water.

We consumed a few of these radiocrive drinks!!!! (thanks to Karen for the photo)

It was in one of these villages that we stopped on our last night,   this time we camped next to the water pump and the madrasa with dozens of children watching our every move.

Children in the villages were always curious about us

One more day and we would be in Petauke where we would find tarmac again. It had taken us four days to cover the 176 Km of the Old Petauke Road.

After the Old Petauke Road, Karen and I had more wonderful days cycling together. We went up and down hills, stayed with newly made friends, met Blanca and Oscar also cycling the length of Africa, got thrilled at finding stalls on the road to buy ingredients for our dinners, enjoyed ‘homely’ guesthouses with lovely landladies and laughed at my first ever clipper hair cut.

Always a treat to meet cyclists on the road but meeting Blanca and Oscar was extra special
Something to cook with tonight – YES!!!
With our lovely landlady in Kalomo

I do enjoy my own company but sometimes I miss someone to share my experiences with and being with Karen was a real treat.

Sitting having dinner in Livingstone the day before she left, we talked about our time together on the road and when and where we would be cycling together again. At that moment, our encounter with  the tse tse flies faded in the distance and was almost forgotten.

Malawi a land of inequalities

She was wearing a freshly ironed orange blouse and a matching navy blue wrapper with orange fishes swimming in it. Sitting on a bike-taxi riding in the hard shoulder just ahead of the white woman on a bike, her hair was an elaborate maze of small plats gathering at the nape of her neck to form an elegant bun. The woman was riding side saddle, her back straight,  she was looking with curiosity at this scruffily dressed white woman huffing and puffing as she pedalled up hill on her heavily loaded bicycle. After a while, the woman looked straight into the white woman’s eyes and rubbed her thumb against her middle and index fingers in that universal sign for money and in perfect English said “Give me your money”.

“Give me your money”, “Give me money”,  “Give me your bike”, “Give me one of your bags”, “Give me a bottle”, “Give me water”, “Give me food”. I heard those demands hundreds of times a day as I threaded my way down Malawi. They came mainly, but not exclusively, from children. They were never aggressive but by gosh were they persistent!

Give me your money!

Malawi is one of the poorest countries in the world, third only after South Sudan and Burundi and the only one which has not had a war. A country where one in ten of the population live with HIV/AIDS, where nearly 83% of the employed population live on less than the equivalent of 3.10 USD per day and where in 2015 it was estimated that nearly 60% of the population didn’t have access to proper sanitation facilities. I didn’t know any of these facts before I came into the country but as soon as I crossed the border I could sense there was a difference between Malawi and the other countries I had been to in Africa.

A VIP latrine by the road

There was the obvious physical difference, I was leaving behind the Tanzanian mountains with their beautiful tea plantations and cool, clean air to encounter a dry, hot, flat and dusty valley, but it wasn’t that, there was something about the place, about the villages with their grass roofed huts and the big cassava plantations that was rattling me.

Beautiful tea plantations on my last day in Tanzania
Village house

Aware of this feeling I made my way to Lake Malawi. I had reached the southernmost lake of the East Rift Valley which I had first joined in Kenya more than 3,200 km away. Lake Malawi is the third largest and the second deepest Lake in Africa and I was intending to have a holiday by its shores having heard from other travellers about its nice campsites, gorgeous white sand beaches and stunning sunrises.

Stunning indeed!!

It was in one of those campsites that I met Willie. Willie had opened a campsite popular with overlanding cyclists a few years earlier. A white South African man  in his 70s sporting a big beard, Willie had strong opinions which I got to hear when at 6 o’clock on a Sunday morning I sat with him to have coffee. I heard how he doesn’t believe in the theory of evolution, how the world was created in seven days just as the Bible tell us, how all the signs are here that the second coming in near. I heard about the corruption, ignorance, superstition and laziness prevalent in Malawi. On seeing the burning of the grass in the local mountains, I heard the red anger in his voice when he asked his employees “why do you burn the mountains? Why? Why? For six hours I listened to his theories being both fascinated and uncomfortable.

Saying goodby to Willie

” If you get a chance go to Livingstonia” told me Peter and Colleen, two cyclists my age from whom I have received a lot of help and advice. I said goodbye to Willie, jumped on a pick up truck full to the brim of things and people and bumped along an extremely steep ‘road’ towards the village. The pick up truck was slipping on the loose gravel, it had to do three point turns in some of the hairpin bends and at times, its wheels were too close to the precipice for my comfort. I breathed a sigh of relief when finally I arrived at my destination.

The ‘road’ to Livingstonia was terrible so I decided I would take local transport!!

Livingstonia, where the  missionaries of the Free Church of Scotland moved to escaping from the malaria mosquitos prevalent by the lake, looked as if it was suspended in the past with its small red brick cottages, red brick church and hospital. I was expecting to see the missionaries in their 1880s clothes each time I turned a corner but instead I was greeted by loudspeakers blearing out kwa ngwaru, a song I’ve been hearing everywhere since I entered Tanzania. The music was loud but it couldn’t detract from the views of the lake below and the terracing in the slopes around the village.

Lake Malawi from Livingstonia
Terracing in Livingstonia

Something other than the altruism of the missionaries was moving me now – the quest for a supermarket! Mzuzu, Malawi’s third largest town held the promise of one. I’d  been hearing about its existence from my first day in Malawi and I couldn’t wait to get there. Other than cassava, the only ingredients I found on the road were tomatoes and onions and nice as they were I was getting bored of pasta with tomato sauce, rice with tomato sauce, bread with tomato sauce…75 km of dirt road would be no obstacle to reach my objective!!

House with brick oven on the back road to Mzuzu
Cassava drying

I get very excited at the thought of a supermarket. The idea of walking down its aisles full of goods, fridges with yogourth and cheese. A place where one can buy breakfast cereals and were there is refrigerated meat that hasn’t been hanging in the sun covered with flies. Each time I find one I religiously walk down each single aisle even those that have items that I don’t want or need.

And finally, here it was, its interior full of goods beckoning, its cool air reaching me through its open doors, the glow of its fluorescent lights illuminating the “SPECIAL OFFER” signs.

Dirty and sweaty, I hovered at the door anxiously looking for a safe place to leave my loaded bike to be able to dive in and there was none. I must have been a strange sight as shoppers going in and out started giving me funny looks. Finally I had to admit defeat, turn my back on the door and direct my wheels to the campsite.

No baobab in Mzuzu to be able to park Foxtrot!

Like all the other Malawi campsites I stayed in, the one in Mzuzu was run by foreigners – white South Africans, Germans, Americans. Designed with mzungu clientele in mind they all were clean and comfortable, hot water, drinking water on tap, cold beers, varied menus, beautiful lawns and in all of them the prices, compared to local earnings were astronomical.

The view from my tent in one of the campsites I stayed in
And the fishing village just outside

In Malawi inequality stared at me on the face more than anywhere else in this trip and that’s why it didn’t come as a surprise when on my last day in the country, a little girl who had run from her hut to the road with huge strides said: “Give me MY money” as I passed by her.

Foxtrot goes on a cruise in Lake Tanganika

On the MV Liemba – Sunset over Congo (with thanks to Dakin for the photo)

When I heard the sound of the Liemba’s horn, I was in that in-between state when one is neither fully awake nor fully asleep. For a while I wasn’t sure whether I was dreaming, but when I felt the vibration of the anchor’s chain I knew I was awake: The MV Liemba was having its first stop.

Originally called the Graf von Goetzen, the Liemba was one of three vessels the German Empire used to control Lake Tanganika in the First World War. When the Germans retreated from Kigoma in 2016 , her captain sank it to stop the British getting control of it. It lay in the bottom of the lake until 1924 when a British Royal Navy salvage team raised her and in 1927 she returned to service as Liemba. Its history since then is fascinating.

The MV Liemba in all its full glory

I first heard about her from Dakin, a South African overlander that I had met in my first few days in Uganda. Right away it captured my imagination.  Wouldn’t it be amazing to go on a ‘cruise’  on the last vessel of the German Imperial Navy still actively sailing anywhere in the world? Now, here I was, leaving one of its cabins to see what was happening outside.

When I got out of the cabin the excitement of the other passengers  was palpable, the sound of  voices was becomig  louder, everybody was pushing and shoving to find a good place to see people and goods embarking and disembarking and instructions were being shouted left and right whilst the golden flood lights of the ship illuminated the whole scene.

Excitement was palpable in the air!

Around us, in the water small canoes were receiving those leaving the ship and bringing goods for us to carry down the lake. I was ribbeted, witnessing this made me instantly forget how hard it had been the bike ride to get to Kigoma, the Tanzanian port from where she sails.

We were surrounded by small canoes

I had crossed into Tanzania from Rwanda where I only stayed for a few days. Rwanda is a country full of bike-taxis going up and down its many hills loaded with passengers. The passengers get off and walk when the hill is too steep for the taxi and then jump back on when it’s time to go down hill. When they are not carrying people, the bikes don’t stay idle and they carry water or any other goods.

No passengers so the seat sits on top of the goods!
Water carrying

It didn’t take me long to get to Kigali, the capital, with its modern buildings and traditional cloth market. Rwanda has banned the import of second hand clothes to protect the local fabric industry. Other countries in the region tried that approach but the big foreign players didn’t want Africa to stop the huge imports of used clothes and accessories (Kenya alone imported 100 metric tons in 2015) and threatened to get the countries out of the African Growth Opportunity Act which grants duty free access to US markets for items like oil. Isn’t that a surprise!?

Out of four East African countries, only Rwanda stayed strong and maintained the ban and as a result, its markets are full of traditional fabrics and men and women sitting at old fashioned sowing machines creating all sorts of garnments.

Kigali – a modern city
The markets are full of beautiful local fabrics

I stayed in Kigali for a few days enjoying the company of Desire and Inmaculate, the friendly hostel staff and making the best of fast Internet access. I hadn’t had a chance to back up my photos since Nairobi and who knows when there will be fast enough connection again. There is so much we take for granted at home – you open the tap and clean water you can drink comes out, flick the switch and the light goes on, go to the supermarket and find exactly what you want. On the road everything takes ages: filtering water, washing your clothes, looking for ingredients to cook…but if there is something I have plenty off nowadays is time, so all is well.

Lovely Desire and Inmaculate

Eventually I peeled myself from the comfortable hostel in Kigali and began cycling towards the Tanzanian border.

As in every country I have been, it is amusing to see how men on bicycles are truly put off when they see an older woman overtaking them or steadily climbing up hills without getting off the bike (never mind that I don’t carry the loads they do and my bike has wonderful gears).

It happened each time – they just couldn’t bear to be overtaken by me!

One particular man stuck in my mind. He was wearing red trainers and a red top and his red underpants where showing. I passed him climbing up a hill and he tried to catch up with me, overtaking me when I stopped to take some photos. I kept going slowly and he kept on looking back, his calves straining, their veins and muscles bulging. At one point he was zigzagging wildly across the road and kept looking back whilst I continued climbing at my snail’s pace.

Around this time I began to get really annoyed with all the wolf whistling, all the heys and oys, all the cat calling I get from men as I cycle along. Such a difference from women who greet me or respond to my greetings in a dignified way. I decided to totally ignore their whistling, their heys and oys, their cat calling but they refused to be ignored and their calls got louder and louder and followed me as I cycled away from them.

Some of the roots of my annoyance were in the injustice of seeing women and girls in every country always working – carrying wood and water, washing clothes and cooking outside their homes, looking after children, working in the fields, whilst men sat in the shade of trees and bus stands, or in bars and cafés talking and seeing the world go by. Watching tiny girls carry heavy buckets of water on their heads whilst grown up men looked on made me angry.

Always just sitting around. This man wanted to pose for me

Firm in my resolution I reached the Tanzania border. As soon as I crossed the border the roads became pretty poor. The road I had to follow to reach Kigoma and the Liemba was a red earth road going through a remote area in the west of the country. Washboards and sand became my daily companions making the cycling hard. Each time a vehicle went by I was enveloped by a cloud of dust that got into my eyes and my nostrils, caked my skin and stuck to hair.

By the end of the day I was totally covered in dust

The road was kind to me though and at the end of each day, dirty and tired, I always found a place to sleep in the smallest of villages. The guesthouses where I stayed were very basic and more often than not I would set the tent on the bed to keep out unwelcomed creatures sharing the room with me. Every single day, I was grateful to have found a place and after having a bucket shower,  cooking and eating dinner with what little I had left in my panniers and inside the safety of my tent-cacoon I had a wonderful night sleep.

In this one rats and fleas were my companions!

Slowly the vegetation changed and huge golden bamboos and palm trees replaced the low acacia shrubs found in the higher ground. The huts in the villages didn’t change though, they continued to be small dwellings with corrugated iron or grass roofs and dozens of children around them that on seeing me would run to the road shouting “Mzungu, mzungu!!” Like a Mexican wave “MZUNGUUUUU”  followed me from hut to hut but if I stopped…if I stopped the children would run away in fear, the youngest crying and calling for their mothers.

The houses never changed
Children run away if I stopped!

As I approached Kigoma what changed was the road, the red earth  disapeared and grey tarmac replaced it. Without the red earth the villages suddenly felt less remote, it was as if I was back in the modern world and I hoped that the tarmac would bring an easier life for people in the region.

The tarmaced road took me to Kigoma where I could have a few days rest before boarding the Liemba. And, as luck would have it, I was going to have company too. Dakin, that more than one month before, had told me about the Liemba had managed to get Viv, his Toyota Landcruiser,  booked in the same sailing as me and we would be travelling together.

Dakin and Viv, his Toyota Landcruiser

It was nice having company. In the couple of days we had before setting off we cooked together, watched sunsets by the lake, went to the tailors, had a haircut (the second on the road) and tried to keep the vervet monkeys from stealing our food.

Sunset in Lake Tanganika with Dakin (with thanks to him for the photo)

Finally the day for departure arrived and from the platform by our first class cabin we watched anything and everything being loaded: hundreds of pineapples, avocados, tomatoes, flour, plasterboards, wicker baskets, jerrycans of fuel, soap, detergent, plastic chairs…The Liemba is the lifeline to the fishing communities that live in the shores of Lake Tanganika. Twice a month, it provides them with the only contact they have with the outside world. Not only it brings them things they need but by taking their bales of dry fish it gives them access to makets.

Anything imaginable was coming on board
Loaded and ready to go

After that first stop the Liemba stopped 13 more times before finally arriving at Kasanga, my final destination.  Each stop was as exciting as the fist one and after each stop the deck got a little bit more empty, the mountains of pineapples sold along the way to the fishermen that came to bring their fish and to take people ashore.

At each stop the cargo got less and less

Kasanga was another village lost in the middle of nowhere, the only difference between it and the others we had stopped at is that it has a road that links it to the outside world. A road I would take on my way to Malawi. It was time to say goodby to Dakin and take to the road.

 

In search of the Uganda mountain gorillas on a bicycle

 

“If you are going to your tent now, mind he hippo” told me the friendly Italian who, impressed by my bike journey, had invited me to a beer. I leaned over the balcony of the restaurant and sure enough a huge hippo  was happily munching grass just outside my tent. Nothing for it but to wait until hippo finished its meal whilst I continued my conversation about bike travels in Africa with Alco the Dutch cyclist also staying at the campsite.

Hippos come out of the water at night to feed. One of them found its way to my tent!

I was at one end of the Kazinga channel in the West of the country, very close to the Democratic Republic of Congo. The Kazinga Channel is a beautiful stretch of water joining Lake George with Lake Edward.

Close to the DRC border

Only three days earlier I had been in the Channel with Ngozi, a friend from London who had come to Kampala to join me for a few days. The channel is full of life – hippos and elephants everywhere. So much wildlife that I was like a child not knowing where to look, going from one side of the boat to another I wanted to take it all in, fix it in my memory forever .

We saw dozens of elephants at the Kazinga Channel

My encounters with wild life in Uganda started right on my first day when camped on the lawn of the beautifully landscaped gardens of a hotel I had a whole family of  blue balled monkeys greedily eyeing my bananas and not going away even when I tried to scare them off.  Monkeys  here don’t scare off easily, it was funny to see big lorries having to stop after noisily blowing their horns to get a family of baboons off the main road without success. I quickly got used to seeing them on the roads each time I went through  wooded areas and was happy to see that they didn’t pay any attention to me.

The monkeys didn’t pay any attention to me but people, in particular children, came running to the road to call out mzungu (White skin) and wave as did street sellers. Stalls selling fruit and vegetables where easy to find, as we’re the chapatti makers in the bigger villages. Chapattis in Uganda are not like the ones we get in Indian Restaurants in the UK, they are thick and oily and made with egg. I loved those gigantic  pancakes cooked in a griddle by the side of the road. The ready access to food made me feel at ease and relaxed.

Fruits and vegetables everywhere

The number of cyclists on the road also made me feel at ease. I saw bikes everywhere heavily loaded with everything imaginable charcoal sugar cane, maiz, mattoke (green bananas). The country is very hilly and the roads are a constant rollercoaster so I often saw cyclists pushing their bikes up the hills, their bodies nearly parallel to the road on the steepest ones.

Walking up hill

It didn’t take me long to come to terms with the fact that there would not be flat riding in Uganda, the ups and downs were constant. I have mixed feelings about hills, on the one hand I do find them hard to climb but on the other the hilly terrain makes the landscape more interesting and Uganda is a truly beautiful place. I was happy to know that I would be sharing its beauty with a friend.

Ngozi arrived in Kampala with her bike excited and apprehensive and after a day’s rest we were ready to go. She had never toured before and had to get used to her loaded bike and I had to get used to being with someone else. Together we had to find a rhythm that would suit us both. It wasn’t long before we found it – a good breakfast, some cycling, lunch of delicious avocados and chapattis by the side of the road, usually in a village, more cycling and at some point in the afternoon deciding where to spend the night.

Leaving Kampala

Being with someone who had never toured was like having a mirror put in front of me. I think nothing of the drop toilets and bucket showers found in the cheap guesthouses that are my staple accommodation, of camping in dusty police stations, of the uncertainty that fills each one of my days on the road. Seeing Ngozi’s reactions made me realise how used I have become to this way of life, how much I have changed. Living with uncertainty is no longer the challenge it used to be.

Where will we sleep tonight?

Not all is uncertainty though, I knew I wanted to go on a game drive and when best to do it than when I had someone with whom to share the experience with. It was really nice to  visit Queen Elizabeth National Park with Ngozi, to have someone to turn to when seeing a leopard sleeping in a tree, elephants walking by the water or hippos sunbathing.

An exciting moment: A leopard!

But then it was time for Ngozi to return to the UK and when I crossed the Ecuator for the third time I was on my own. The awareness that it would be months before I saw the familiar skies of the Northern hemisphere again hit me. For months to come the Southern Cross would become familiar company in the night.

Crossing the Ecuator for the second time with Ngozi
Third crossing of the Ecuator

It felt right to start this new phase of my journey crossing the National Park on my bike, first in a tarmaced road and then through 74 Km of dirt road. I was quite nervous when it came to riding the later. I had been told to be careful with elephants and  buffaloes that are abundant in the area as they are known to charge. And indeed there was a lot of evidence of their presence,  piles of dung and heavy footprints where everywhere. I keep on listening for them and was delighted when I reached my destination without any close encounter.

Elephant dung everywhere, luckily no elephants!

The ride was memorable, clouds of white butterflies feeding on the elephant dung took flight as I passed by and enveloped me, savanna, thick forest, monkeys, impalas…So much nature and wildlife all around me. At times I felt I was disappearing in the middle of it all, it was as if I was becoming part of the forest, the savanna, the river.

Wildlife everywhere I looked

The forests in Uganda are incredibly lush and their impossible slopes they provide sanctuary to the mountain gorillas, an endangered species, according to the last published census there are only 880 left in the world. How could I be in this country and miss out the opportunity to pay them a visit!?

To get to one of the only two surviving populations I had to get to the remote Bwindi Impenetrable Forest, climb steep gradients in dirt roads and then walk for hours into the forest. I knew I would find the ride too hard but was more than ready to push my bike for hours to get there so I was delighted when a local told me about the tea trucks that go to the very remote mountain villages to collect tea from small tea growers. I made up my mind: Foxtrot and I would find a way to get a lift in on one of the tea trucks.

The two of us waited patiently outside the Kayonza Grower’s Tea Factory and when the truck going in the right direction left the factory we managed to get on it. When empty of tea, the trucks provide transport to people from the remote mountain hamlets and settlements. Villagers and their possessions came on an off the truck in each of the hundreds of stops it did along the way.

Foxtrot settled in the tea truck

All around the red earth road, in impossible slopes, villagers  were clearing the forest for cultivation, carrying jerry cans of water, picking and carrying tea. On the lorry I was trying out my newly acquired local vocabulary to the amusement of my travel companions who laughed heartily, holding their sides, each time I uttered a word.

Going through the forest in the tea truck

It was unreal when the following day I found myself tracking the gorillas in the forest. The light was filtering through the huge tall columnar trees with bare trunks and a crop of leaves at the top. There was not a square centimeter that was not covered with some sort of vegetation. We crossed swampy terrain, climbed up and down incredibly steep slopes following the rangers that were opening the way through the forest with their machetes.

The encounter with the first gorilla was unforgettable, Kabandize a young male was lying down looking at us with lazy eyes that seemed to be saying “Oh bother, here are the humans!”

Oh bother, here are the humans!

Not far from him was Rukara, the silver back and leader of the group with the oldest female in the group and her baby, a delightful one year old.

Tindamanyire with baby Bajurizi

The gorilla group kept on moving fast through the forest and with the trackers hacking away at the forest with the machetes we followed on their path. After one hour with these incredible creatures we said goodby to them and turned back the way we came.

I spent one magical hour with the mountain gorillas

The feelings of the experience stayed present and I knew I needed time to let it all sink in. I turned my back on Bwindi Impenetrable Forest and reached a small island in Lake Buyonyi. Swimming in the second deepest lake in Africa (900 mt) surrounded by bird song and knowing that no hippos would come to my tent was the perfect ending of my time in Uganda.

Learning to let go in Kenya

By the time I got to the Guesthouse I was cursing myself. Why on earth did I buy that half a kilo of sugar? As I was paying for it I already knew that I didn’t need it because the day before I had bought some honey from one of the women selling it by the roadside.

My panniers were already heavy enough with all those just-in-case things I have with me. Why do I carry so many just-in-case things? Is it my attempt to live this nomadic life  by the standards of my sedentary life? or Is it my way to make ordinary this extraordinary journey? or do I need all those things to feel safe?

Pancakes for breakfast. Pretending I’m at home?

It was quite clear that I didn’t need to carry so much food in a country like Kenya where there are small roadside stalls and shops everywhere selling everything I need for my daily living, not to mention the cafés with cheap, delicious stews and milky sweet teas that I have become addicted to.

Fruit stalls by the side of the road

After Ethiopia, Kenya felt like a rest. The contrast between the two countries was staggering. From the  moment I crossed the border I entered a different world where people helped you with a smile and didn’t ask for money,  children waived as I went by shouting “mzungu” (white skin) and the prices remained constant.

Mzungu, mzungu, mzungu!!

One thing that strikes you right away about Kenya is how clean it is. Plastic bags were banned nearly a year ago with strong penalties to those disobeying the ban. The results are incredible, the roadside is clean, there are no plastic bags flying on trees, there are no more ‘flying toilets’ (people used to defecate in a plastic bag, tied and knot and and then threw it away) and people talk about how plastic is bad for the environment. I wish more countries followed Kenya’s lead.

Not a plastic bag to be seen!

Although roads are clean, the same could not be said of some guesthouses that looked seriously dodgy, particularly in small villages. When I felt my health would be better served by staying in my tent, police posts and police stations became my default camping spots. Their hospitality was fantastic. I was always received with a smile and given water to cook and wash with and in a couple of occasions they even gave me an empty room to sleep in.

These young policemen let me stay in an empty room and were wonderfully hospitable

Police posts provided continuity to the changes in landscape and people as I crossed the country. In the North I was struck by the traditional costumes of the Samburu people and their colorful jewellery. Sheperds would come onto the road dressed in full regalia with big machetes hanging round their waist and looking quite fierce as they demanded water, sometimes quite aggressively. I learnt to scan the scrub for livestock and listen carefully for the sound of the bells around the cattle’s neck. I would then get ready to throw one of the small bottles of water that I carried in my handlebar bag  as soon as I saw the sheperds coming towards the road and quickly make my scape.

In Samburu county I went to Umoja Women’s Village, a women only village set up 28 years ago to provide refuge to women victims of domestic violence, rape and female genital mutilation. The women make their money by selling traditional jewellery and by running a nearby campsite. They used to have cows but after the village got raid by cattle thieves it became too dangerous to own animals and now they have none.

Arriving at the village
Women sale the jewellery they make to earn some money

I stayed in one of the village huts. The hut was built with sticks and dung and had some plastic sheeting in the roof for waterproofing. It was very dark inside and at night small coppery crockoaches took over the place. It was sobering to experience the environment in which these women live and to be invited for tea at Rose’s hut and see how little they have and how they live one day at a time buying enough sugar and tea for that day. They don’t need just-in-case things, for them safety is about being together, away from their abusers.

My home for a couple of days
Having tea with Rose and her family was humbling

The meaning of what it means to be safe came up again to my mind during a big climb towards the Equator, in an area with huge farms protected by electrified fences and a tea shop that would be perfectly at home in Kent whilst  marginal farmers grow potatoes and corn in the barely five meters that separate the road from the electrified fence. That small piece of land where they could grow food was their safety.

I had tea in a Kent-like tea house next to marginal farmers

By the time I got to Nairobi something had shifted inside me, I relaxed and trusted that the road would meet my needs – a small cafe would appear at the right time, a place where I could pitch my tent, company when I needed it.

The beef stew and milky sweet tea in this one was pretty special

And it did! It was really nice to meet Guy again at Jungle Junction, a well known overlander campsite in Nairobi. Guy is travelling from London to South Africa on his motorbike and I had met him twice before, the first time in Gonder and the second in Addis. He was the one that saved the day by giving Amaya a lift to the airport on his motorbike when it was apparent that a taxi would not materialise.

With Guy at Jungle Junction

It was bliss doing all those ordinary things that normally I do by myself with someone else without  cultural or language barriers: deciding what to have for dinner, shopping, ordering take away pizza and cooking together.  I was tired and needed some down time and when best to have it than when there is good company.

By the time Ieft Nairobi I was re-energised and when round a corner I was regaled with the most amazing view of the Great Rift Valley I had to stop to take it all in. The view was breathtaking but it was the realisation that I was in Africa, in the Great Rift Valley that was joyful and overpowering.

My stunning first view of the Great Rift Valley!

The next few days were filled with the same  childlike joy especially at Kilimandege House, the place where Joan Root, the film maker and conservationist, lived and died. Sitting in her baranda at dusk I saw giraffes, hippos, zebras, water bucks, dik-diks whilst in the day monkeys came into the kitchen to steal bananas.

Thieving monkeys
Giraffe in the grounds of the house

Kilimadege House is a magical place where the animals roam freely without the restrictions of electric fences. The house is being lovingly restored by Joseph and is an oasis of peace. It was very special to see Joan’s bedroom where she was murdered for her commitment to conservation but also where dreams and plans for the wonderful films she created with Alan Root were born.

Saying goodby to Joseph

Maybe it was my new state of mind but things just got better and better – a meeting with Asier, another basque cycling in this amazing continent, pink flamingos in Lake Bogoria, majestic acacia trees, camping in a school where the girls were totally amazed by the whiteness of my feet and kept on touching them, the beauty of Kerio Valley, spending time with the Cheptebo community, dancing on the road with an older woman selling bananas, talking politics with a widow-mango-grower…

Hopefully I’ll meet Asier again further South
Lake Bogoria
Some of the team at Cheptebo

As for the bag of sugar? I hope it is being enjoyed by the old man to whom I gave it to after he helped me push the bike for a few meters in a particularly steep stretch of road.

 

 

Blanca off the bike in Ethiopia

 

The highlight of Ethiopia? The company of my daughter Amaya

When I opened the door of my room I saw that it was raining again. It was only four in the morning and it was still dark. “The rains are early this year” that is what everybody is saying. The rains transform the paved streets of Addis into chocolate streams and the feet of countless people convert the unpaved ones into sludge. Wim’s Holland House, the overlanders’ hostel that had been my Addis home on and off during my time in Ethiopia, is in one of the unpaved ones.

The streets become rivers

I pushed my freshly cleaned and oiled bike through the mud until I reached the paved road and rode to Meskel Square, where Foxtrot and I were to board a bus to Arba Minch, a town four hundred kilometers from the Kenyan border. From there I was planning to get local buses all the way to the border,  too scared to cycle in this country.

When I entered Ethiopia I was already feelings pretty apprehensive having read and heard accounts of other cyclists. Everybody talked about dozens of children running alongside you shouting “YOU, YOU, YOU” followed by “MONEY, MONEY, MONEY” and how some of them delighted in throwing stones at you. Tired of the harassment, the majority of cyclists end up getting buses at some point. Even those who cycle all the way through the country talk in terms of “It wasn’t too bad, the stones only hit us a  couple of  times” or as Teresie, a young Norwegian I met in Khartoum told me  “It was OK, the rocks were quite small and only once a herder used his cattle whip on me as I went by. I was furious, picked up a stone and and followed him only to see that he was about to throw a huge rock at me”

All those stories were playing in my mind when I reached the border at Metema. I hadn’t even crossed the border when I was approached by Ethiopian young men wanting to “help” me cross, get money and get a SIM card expecting payment for their “help” It took more than fifteen minutes of  assertively saying “No thanks” for them to get the message and leave me alone.

Entering Ethiopia

Not even thirty minutes later, at the ATM, another young man wanted to know whether my card had worked, whether I had Visa or Mastercard and whether he could help me get money out. I could sense how I was begining to build invisible barriers around me and how I was closing down. All it took was for a local to tell me as way of warning “don’t camp in the bush in Ethiopia, you are no longer in a Muslim country” for me to realise that what I was feeling was fear and I hadn’t even started to cycle.

By now I am used to having butterflies in the stomach caused by the excitement mixed with apprehension of entering a new country but I had never felt fear and I knew that unless I managed to control this emotion, it would dominate my experience of the country.

“Open your mind Blanca, open your heart” I said aloud to no one but myself as I pedalled along but however much I tried, I could feel the anxiety drying up my mouth each time I approached a  village. Predictably, I was instantly surrounded by children  shouting “YOU, YOU, YOU” followed by “MONEY, MONEY, MONEY” some of them grabbing at my panniers and although I was spared the stones, I managed to get myself into a real bad estate of mind.

Not all was difficult. These villagers were happy for me to camp by their houses

It all came to a head when on the third day I saw a group of older teenagers walking in the middle of the road. I was going downhill and decided to maintain the speed, thinking that they would get out of the way to let me pass but when I saw that they weren’t going to move I pressed the brakes and one of them punched me in the arm. It didn’t hurt much but the little confidence I had left just drained away there and then.

The landscape was wild and beautiful

As luck would have it, two Englishmen I had met a couple of days, earlier went pass on a pick up truck and offered me a lift to the nearest big town which I  gratefully accepted.  That was the end of cycling in Ethiopia for me.

The visit of my daughter Amaya was a godsend and the perfect antidote for the blues that were setting in. Together we explored the magical chuches of  Lalibela, stood at the mouth of  a volcano, walked through solidified lava fields, saw salt caravans, looked in awe at the incredible landscape of the Danakil Depression, slept under the stars, drunk honey wine, rock-climbed to reach one of the Tigray churches, trekked in the Simien mountains, explored local markets and talked  non stop.  I felt bereft when I saw her disappearing riding on the back of a motorbike on her way to the airport.

Amaya’s visit was a godsend
Exploring the Lalibela Churches
Together we stood at the crater of a volcano
The Danakil Depression was incredible
Trekking in the Simien Mountains was fun

Alone again I decided to explore Harar, a Muslim city in the East of the country, closed to the border with Somalia. It was comforting hearing the call to prayer once more and walking the narrow streets of the walled city.

Exploring the streets of Harar Old City

In Harar they feed the hyenas at night outside the walls of the Old City. According to the locals, they started feeding the hyenas during a 19th-century famine, when the starving animals began to attack livestock and humans and the practice continues until today.

In the dark I took a bajaj (tuk tuk) with Sisay, a local guide, and through bumpy dirt roads we went in search of the hyena man. We found him sitting in a stone with a basket of meat and bones at this side and over dozen hyenas walking around him. The man was whistling and making throaty sounds to get the animals closer. I sat on a rock next to him and he dangled a piece of meat just above my head. One of the hyenas used me as a prop to get to the meat. I could hear the wet chewing of the animal just by my ear,  feel her hot breath on my face and smell her foul breath. It was both scary and exiliariting, a unique experience.

foul,foul breath!

It was in Harar where I met Mengistu, an orthopedic surgeon who had studied for 14 years in Cuba and thus spoke perfect Spanish. When I arrived at his house he opened the door with a big smile in his face. Mengistu is one of those rare young professionals who has returned to work in Ethiopia to contribute to improve the situation of ordinary people in the country whilst a lot of his friends stayed abroad working all over the world as anything but doctors.

Mengistu’s wife, Magaris, made coffee,  my first coffee ceremony in Ethiopia, the coffee slowly roasted over red charcoal and then pounder with a pestle and morter before being brewed in one of the special Ethiopian coffee pots.

The very special Ethiopian coffee pots

I wish I had been able to meet more people like Mengistu and Magaris, maybe if that had been the case my experience of Ethiopia would have been very different. As was, I found it a challenging country, I got very tired of the constant hassle, of people’s rudness and aggression, of being overcharged (in a disproportionate way), of the harrassment everywhere I went.

And yet, when I got to Arba Minch I changed my mind and decided I  wanted to cycle the last few days in the country. I took a couple of buses from Arba Minch to a town called Yabelo to get closer to the Kenyan border and then started cycling. I was enjoying the ride but as it was getting late and I had run out of water  I decided to stop a vehicle to get to the nearest town, a place called Mega. A minibus stopped and the driver told me that he was driving all the way to the Kenyan border. I couldn’t resist the temptation and there and then  I decided I would stay on and go to the border.

When I sat on the crowded minibus I was overcome by a sense of relief and a lightness of heart that I hadn’t felt in weeks, a smile filled my face and I felt happy. I was leaving Ethiopia!

 

 

 

 

Heat and Generosity in Sudan

“Tap – tap – tap” I could hear them landing in the tarpaulin that I had spread under the acacia tree to lie down and scape from the unforgiving sun. I had my eyes closed and didn’t have the energy to open them or to move, even though I knew that if I did they would all go away.

Tap – tap – tap

Heat had been my constant companion since I entered Sudan, it was to be expected as it is early summer in this part of the world. In Wad Madani, as I was getting closer to the border with Ethiopia, the thermometer was reaching 46 centigrades at noon. Nothing and nobody moved and the smallest shade was always occupied by a person or an animal, even the long shadows of the electrical concrete posts were crowded, people neatly squatting on a long line along them.

It was so hot that at noon mini tornados appeared everywhere. Many of them together create a sandstorm

When I got to Wad Madani I booked myself in the poshest hotel in town, the promise of air conditioning and good WiFi too appealing to let it pass. The comfortable bed and the cool water from the fridge an absolute treat.

My night at the Wad Madani Imperial Hotel could not have been more different from my previous one spent in a village family compound. The sun was setting and I couldn’t find an obvious place to camp. I was beginning to get a bit anxious when I stopped at some water jugs to fill up my bottles. A couple of women were filling up too and I asked them whether they knew of a good place to pitch my tent, they pointed at the scrubland across the road but it felt too exposed so I decided to take the plunge and knock at the metal door of the compound next to the jugs. After knocking several times a woman opened the door, she looked at me, smiled and called a second woman.

I knocked at the door of a compound

The second woman was Tagua, she was  dressed in an stripy orange and black wrapper and had her little daughter resting on her hip. Tagua had lively eyes, and easy smile and spoke three words of English which instantly made her the interpreter. She readily agreed for me to come into the compound and before I realised I was surrounded by women and children.

The compound was encircled by a high cob wall and it had four or five square boxy buildings inside. Each one was a one room small cube, some were made of cob, others of bricks and they were building a new one of breezeblocks. Plastic sheeting was attached to wooden poles at one end and at the roof of the houses at the other to  provide shade to the beds scattered in the ground underneath it. A spotless common latrine sat in one corner of the compound.

The children were keen to help me put the tent up, so many little hands were making it a bit messy . Just at the right time the call to prayer arrived and they all disappeared for long enough to give me time to finish the job on my own. I was nearly there when I heard a chorus of “Blanca, Blanca, Blanca”  approaching from the other side of the compound. It was no time before I the women were asking me questions whilst the children thought it was great fun to jump inside my tent.

The children loved my tent

The women were all very different. There was Taiga, proud of her knowledge of a few English words and the status that gave her being able to ‘talk’ with me, then there was Umahmed always with the headphones on, very much the party girl, humming to the music in her ears and dancing in her black clothes with pink and blue embroidery, Ufag Ahmed Umkamal trying to be aloof and ignore my presence but the fist one to bring a chair to watch me setting the tent and Sutanifur, an older woman on a tie dye wrapper in blue and orange, offering me food and drink.

Umhahmed reading my Arabic phrase book whilst Ufag Ahmed Umkamal just watches on

It had been another hot day on the road and every inch of my body was covered in a film of salt. I needed a wash and Tagua taking control took me by the hand to her cube house an showed me to a concrete extension, gave me a bucket of water and closed the metal door. I took my clothes off and had the most delicious wash listening to the women chatter outside.

When I came out some of the women were lying down in their beds so I thought I could have some time on my own but it was not to be. They came back with me to the tent and watched me whilst I made tea admiring my stove, watched me whilst I eat peanut butter inspecting the tub and delighted that they could read the jar of my Khartoum bought spread. Eventually they all left and I crawled into my tent and had the most wonderful night sleep.

The next day I had to face the extreme heat again. Khartoum and my time with Ann felt like light years away although it had only been four days since I had left the city. I met Ann though a Khartoum Women’s Cycling Group and when she wrote to offer me her place to stay I was delighted. I ended staying with her for one week discovering how much we had in common, planting trees with the children of her school, going for the Wednesday evening women’s ride, doing some radio interviews, meeting some Spanish expats and cooking the first Spanish omelette of this trip.

Sharing a tortilla with Ann and Teresie another cyclist

Khartoum was truly very far away in this environment where the sun seemed to have bleached the colour out of everything, only women’s wrappers and mosques providing a respite for the white dust.

Colourful mosques in all the villages

In the North of the country I could still find some golden sands but here it was dust, scrubland and unbearable heat.

Golden Sands

Since I had entered the country I had found jars of water everywhere, under trees, in specially made water shelters, outside shops and houses. Whithout that freely available water and in this heat, it would have been impossible for me to cycle through Sudan.

Water is made available to everyone

The generosity in the availability of water reflects the generosity of the people of Sudan. Everywhere I went I got welcoming smiles and offers of water and food. I got help pushing my bike when it got stuck in the sand and got my meal paid on my last day in the country when I was totally stuck for cash.

A camel man help me push my bike in the sand

I never felt threatened or unsafe in a country that for a long time has lived and still lives with conflict, violence and war. In Sudan, millions of people have been displaced and the influx refugees from neighbouring countries mainly from Ethiopia, Eritrea, Chad, Central African Republic and South Sudan added pressure to their already limited resources. The economic situation made worse by the comprehensive US sanctions only lifted in October 2017.

A reminder of the recent and current situation is never far away

Life is hard for ordinary people, inflation run at 35% in 2017. Acute petrol shortages generates queues kilometers long at petrol stations,  yet someone had the generosity to siphon petrol from his car to my fuel bottle to enable me to cook in spite of my protestations and the fact that he had been queueing for over four hours and had a few more to wait before the tanker arrived and some petrol was made available.

Thanks to him I could cook for the rest of my stay in Sudan

And feeling safe enabled me to enjoy the country and its people, camp in the middle of nowhere and go to sleep under an acacia tree whilst dozens of grasshoppers kept me company.

 

 

 

 

 

Police Escorts in Egypt

Stereotypical but it had to be done

Tempers were getting frayed. A sandstorm was raging in the desert and dozens of cars and lorries had been stopped at the police checkpoint just after the Aswan Old Dam. The road was closed because it was too unsafe to go in the area. I parked Foxtrot and sat in the shade to wait for the road to open.

The sun eventually disappeared

The officer in charge exercised his authority with much shouting and gesticulating each time one of the lorry drivers approached him and tried to question the stoppage. By now I’d been sitting for more than three hours and I wondered how long they had all been there.

Questions were not welcomed

The sandstorm had started the night before as I was cooking my dinner in the roof of the dilapidated hotel that had been my Aswan home for a few days. I saw the cloud coming down the Nile and descending over the city, a thick fog made out of the finest desert sand was switching off the street lights as it advanced. Soon it was impossible to see more than a few metres in front of me and I retreated to my room with its yellowish paint peeling of the walls and the very dodgy wiring.

From the roof top I saw the Nile and the houses disappear

It had been unusually hot for this time of the year, the mercuy reaching 40C most days and the heat in the room was oppressive. I switched on the Air Conditioning and the old unit sprang into life filling the room with the sound of a car engine but the temperature barely shifted. What a difference this place was compared to Hannah and Trudi’s  beautiful apartment in Luxor where they had let me stay for a few days.

Saying goodbye to Hannah and Trudi

I was pondering about this and about the unconditional friendship I had been offered in Egypt by people I knew and people I got to know, when an offer of marriage woke me up from my reverie.  The most senior officer at the Checkpoint was standing near me with Am, the policeman in charge of looking after me. Smiling I asked what was the offer on the table, ‘three camels’ the man said. I feigned utter disgust and sounding extremely offended declined the offer explaining that I was worth much more than three camels. He laughed and very quickly up the stakes to 1000 camels. The bartering would have continued had he not been called away to deal with yet more lorry drivers.

Three camels!? No way!!!

Some lorries started to move and the officer looking after me said “you need to go back to Aswan” I smiled sweetly and very calmly told him I was not going back to Aswan the look on his face was one of “Oh no, this woman is trouble” I told him I was not in a hurry, had a tent and could sleep right there until the road opened. “You can’t sleep here, it is the police” he said “Well, I’m not going back to Aswan” Out came the phone and a call was made, no doubt to one of his superiors, and as if by magic I was allowed to go on.

No chance to be on my own but this time I was glad

I took to the road with gusto but it was very hot and I had lost more than 4 hours waiting for the road to open.I was determined to make it to a police checkpoint where I was planning to stay the night but a quick mental calculation told me it wasn’t  going to be possible. To make things worse there was a very strong cross wind and when a sudden gust put me on the other side of the road I felt shaken. I was lucky that there was no oncoming traffic as a collision would have been unavoidable. Reluctantly, I accepted a lift from my escorts. Foxtrot was loaded on the back of the pickup truck where it would be looked after by three young officers and I joined Captain Mohammad in the front, my feet resting by a machine gun and a water melon.

Captain Mohammad in charge of my safety

Luckily, I was dropped at the place where I had planned to stay and a young man took me under his wing. He chose a good place to pitch my tent away from the wind and where he would keep guard overnight, showed me were the toilets and the kitchen were, what was the right tap to get water for tea and generally made my feel welcome. The others, after the excitement of my arrival, carried on messing about either their guns and dusting their bullet proof jakets. It is amazing the ease with which they handle their weapons, the paint gone and the metal shiny from so much touching.

They invited me to eat with them but as I was too tired, they made me agree that I would have breakfast with them. Breakfast was simple but beautifully cooked: a small pot of refried beans, a salad of salty cheese and tomatoes and copious amounts of bread. I eat little as I was conscious of how little food there was and how these young men must’ve been ravenous.

Not much food but they generously asked me to join them for breakfast

For once, I was able to leave unaccompanied, such joy to cycle on my own and to experience how people related to me differently, lorry drivers blew their horns in salute and one reversed at full speed to offer me a water melon. I vividly remembered the day when I realised how much the constant police escorts had prevented me from  interacting with ordinary Egyptians and how much I missed that interaction. It was the day when I was on my own and had stopped at a village for something to eat. A group of villagers approached me, a man in a donkey cart with his children, a smiley teenager and a man who was a teacher and spoke some English. I was having a really good time talking to them when all of a sudden they all scattered in different directions, I couldn’t understand what was happening until I heard the familiar sound of the police car engine. Clearly they couldn’t be seen talking to me.

The few times I was on my own people would come out of their homes to talk to me

My every move was watched, they stopped when I stopped, they watched me whilst I drank, eat felafel, took pictures… Every now and again, childishly, I tried to get some minutes on my own slowing down to nearly a halt, knowing their engines would stall and that they would have to overtake me and wait for me a few hundred meters ahead and as soon as they did and were out of my sight I would stop and look in wonder at the silent desert without the sound of their engines in my ears.

The few moments on my own in the desert were pure joy

“It is for your safety” they would tell me and they were always polite, smiley and good humoured. When I saw several enormous electricity pilones knocked down to the ground by the massive sandstorm that had left Abu Simbel without electricity I realised that there was some truth in that statement on the day I sat in the shade for four hours getting an offer of marriage and waiting for the road to open.

The Return

 

Sitting in a hostel in Cairo with the sounds of the city below coming through the balcony,  I remembered how it was waiting on the coir mat as I came in from the shops one day and how I nearly stepped on it. The card was red and white with the box “Recorded Signed for” ticked off. My heart gave a summersault, I was sure this was it. I had been waiting for more than three months and finally here it was. I looked at the clock and it was past 4 o’clock, too late to collect it,  it would have to wait until the next day.

Seven and a half months earlier, at the end of May, I had arrived back in London after nearly two years of cycling from London to Far East Asia. Two years full of experiences, challenges, places, people and the newness inherent in the daily moving on. For two years I had been a nomad on a bike and here I was back in the house where I had lived for 22 years. I had come back to make sure that it continued being my home.

On my first day back, when I walked through the door and went upstairs to my room everything felt so familiar, so ordinary that in an instant it was like I had never been away. I had the odd sensation that  those two years on the bike had remained in the world of dreams where the cycling adventure had been conceived many years earlier.

There were things that proved to me that I wasn’t dreaming. There was a heatwave in London when I got back, the 21 of June was the hottest June day for 40 years, NHS England was urging vulnerable people to stay hydrated and keep cool and yet I needed extra covers at night. When I went to the shops and stood in front of dozens of different cereal boxes I was seized by anxiety and had to leave, I couldn’t cope with the choice. I looked at commuters in the eyes and smiled at them expecting a smile back, some responded but many looked away,  appeared awkward, shuffled in their seats and to avoid my eyes immersed themselves in their smart phones. The world around me was grey- grey in the clothes of people, grey in the buildings and pavements, even the sky was grey some days. My world a few days earlier had been full of colour.  I realised that I was looking at London with different filters.

Adjusting was hard and in those first few weeks friends and family were a lifeline.  I came back to live with my daughter Amaya and her partner John and having them around kept me sane and staved off depression.

I filled my days seeing friends in London and further afield and catching up on their lives, visiting museums and galleries, having meals, telling and retelling anecdotes of my travels that instantly transported me back to the places and situations I was describing. I realised I that it was my way to reaffirming that my travels had been real.

meeting friends was a lifeline

Getting the paperwork ready to apply for permanent residency in the UK, a country where I had lived and worked since 1980 was a journey on its own right. I spent hours and hours and hours gathering the evidence I had to submit with the over 80 page long form. I had to look for pieces of paper that had been sent to me by the UK tax officials in 1986, boarding passes to prove that I had not been out of the country for more than two years, the whole of my employment history including how much I earned when I started each job and how much I earned when I left it. It was a nightmarish trip down memory lane. Finally the form and the documentation went in and all I could do was wait.

hours and hours of work on the table

The only way I could cope with the wait was by keeping busy.  I did some frantic DIY in the house, got rid of bags and bags of clothes, poured over maps, read other people’s blogs. I lived with a sense that my life was in a  parenthesis and it wasn’t easy. If  I stopped my endless activity I felt lost.

You would have thought that I used the time to explore the UK on Foxtrot but I didn’t. I did do a few trips and whilst riding the bike in the company of dear friends felt good,  it made me yearn for the  life on the road that I had had to cut short.

I told anyone who listened that I was only in London for a while, long enough to sort out my permanent residency papers and as autumn turned to winter and my permit had not arrived, I decided I would stay for Xmas and leave early in the new year whether my papers had arrived or not. Once more, my daughters talked sense into me and convinced me to delay my journey until I was in possession of the permanent residency card.

I knew that the delivery note on the doormat held the passport to my travels that I had been waiting for. The following day I rushed to the Post Office to collect the package, I couldn’t wait to get home, I ripped the envelope open and there it was, a small blue card that to me represented the freedom to set off again. I was elated.

A couple of days later the flight that would bring me to Cairo was booked and I started to say goodbye to  friends and family.

On the flight I thought about how much I would miss my friends. I thought about how sad it would be not to be able to hug my daughters for many months to come and I also thought about how much joy I would feel exploring Africa from the saddle of my bike.

Tomorrow is day one of that adventure.