Ubuntu Page 5

  What if the bike broke down? What if I had an accident? But I was not even giving myself a chance, I argued, as I tried to quell my mind, which raced with multitudes of horrendous scenarios. Why could I not believe that the coincidences and chance encounters would continue to unfold as if the universe or God or something was giving me a helping hand? Why couldn’t I take that first step again, as I had done to make the ride happen in the first place?

  Throughout South Africa, despite having the freedom of motorcycles, we had ridden on a well-worn backpackers’ trail. Zimbabwe was no different. Victoria Falls, where the sleepy Zambezi River is 1700 metres wide and plunges a hundred metres into a narrow chasm, is well-established on the travellers’ trail of southern and eastern Africa. Here on the border of Zimbabwe and Zambia, all manner of businesses catered to the adventurous spirit. There was no shortage of things to do, from white-water rafting and micro-light flying to sunset booze cruises and horseback game-viewing safaris.

  As our motorcycles rumbled through the gates of the Victoria Falls campsite, I looked ahead for others like us. The grounds were crowded with overland truck tours, 4×4s – mostly Land Rovers, South African tourists I guessed – and the multi-coloured tents of backpackers. We spotted three motorcycles, all Yamaha XT600s, parked in the shade of a cluster of stunted, bushy trees. Next to the bikes and their tents, three men sat drinking beers. We rode over and I hit the kill switch, stopping the TT’s engine and allowing myself to hear the thundering of the falls that sounded no more than a stone’s throw away. Two of the bikes had fixed metal panniers and were easily identifiable as German (Germans always had fixed metal panniers), and the other motorcycle – rusted, beat up, with bald tyres and no panniers – belonged to a smallish unshaven young man with matted brown hair who looked to be in his early twenties. He sat with slumped shoulders and looked like he was homeless and in need of a good meal and a wash. He said hello and his accent pegged him as South African.

  The two Germans told us they had ridden down through North and West Africa, across Zaire to Kenya, and were on their way to Cape Town. We told them about the German couple we’d met near Kimberley; yes, they’d met them too. I asked them about travelling through Zaire.

  ‘The only problem with Zaire is the mud and the immigration official at Bondo. He rip everybody off,’ said the tall, thin German, slightly bald except for a few tufts of brown hair. I guessed he was about fortyish. His friend looked the same age, but was a little shorter, and I thought they might be brothers, though I later learnt they weren’t. ‘You go through after December, you have no problem, no mud then,’ the taller one said, his hazel eyes glinting with a cheeky sense of adventure.

  The South African said he hoped to ride to Nairobi but was unsure he would make it without a carnet and very little money.

  ‘I make it this far. I am still riding my motorcycle. This is lekker for me,’ he said, spreading his arms and turning his palms skyward as though offering his humble thanks to the God of Travellers, or whatever it was that kept a watchful eye on us.

  This trio had been at Victoria Falls for the past week but would move on in the next day or two. I looked around the large, open campsite with its perfectly placed clusters of shade trees. It sat in the middle of the town, close to shops, bars and the mighty Victoria Falls. What pressing need could there be to leave? For the Germans, their motorcycle travels through Africa were nearly over so they were in no hurry to leave this idyllic place.

  But two days later they did move on. The Germans headed south, while the South African rode north to Kenya through Zambia.

  ‘Zaire is good place. It is real Africa, do it,’ said the shorter of the two Germans before they rode out of the campsite.

  After I’d said goodbye to the Germans and the South African, I joined Dan at the campsite of a group of about a dozen Australian and New Zealand backpackers. They suggested we accompany them on a boat trip along Lake Kariba to Mana Pools National Park and camp on the banks of the Zambezi River, where the game, mostly elephants and hyenas, were free to roam around us. They’d met a white Zimbabwean who offered a budget tour of the park in his campervan. We’d leave our motorcycles at a hotel outside the park and spend a few days of early-morning walking safaris (no guide needed), sunset game-viewing from the roof of his camper, and afternoon canoeing on the Zambezi – with hippos, if we carelessly ventured too far from the shore. Our journey would begin at Binga, where we would take the mail boat for the three-day trip on the 250-kilometre-long lake to Kariba, where a gigantic dam built across the Zambezi River harnesses hydro-electric power.

  Mana Pools lived up to all my expectations and we had several near-death encounters with game: an angry bull elephant mock-charged us one morning; our Zimbabwean guide found himself being stalked by a pride of lions as we hid behind a thicket of bushes; and the canoe I was in with three others drifted too far from the shallows and hippos surfaced all around us. But unhurt, we left Zimbabwe and rode north to Malawi, crossing Mozambique on a highway cleared of landmines following the end of a civil war.

  Malawi was the halfway point on the travellers’ trail of East Africa, and the township of Cape Maclear on the 580-kilometre-long Lake Malawi was its epicentre. Backpackers and those from overland tours, as well as overlanders in 4×4s and motorcycle travellers, stopped at this giant inland sea at the southern end of the rift valley. The lake is seventy-five kilometres at its widest point and 700 metres at its deepest. Gentle surf breaks on beaches of fine golden sand and the clear waters are abundant with fish. Cape Maclear attracts divers and backpackers seeking cheap scuba courses or cheap marijuana in the form of Malawi Gold. Aptly named, Malawi Gold is the gold standard of marijuana and is apparently much sought after for its potency – its long-lasting psychoactive effects were just as appealing to visitors as the cheap diving.

  We rode into this backpackers’ haven just after the sun had set, as a huge orange orb beyond the calm waters of the lake. This small township was made up of thatched huts dotted with a few low cement buildings haphazardly knocked together to accommodate the needs of those wanting a bed, a cold beer, a hot meal or a learn-to-dive course.

  Emmanuel’s Campsite, at the far northern end of the township, was preferred by motorcyclists. Once I got used to the persistent calls of ‘How about BBQ? How about spliff? How about washing?’, life at Emmanuel’s was comfortable, in a warm and fuzzy kind of way.

  A fence provided privacy from the hustlers, who viewed all travellers as ‘business’. A thatched shelter on the beach provided shade, and also doubled as the campsite’s lounge and dining room. All our meals – mostly salad, chips, and fish cooked on an open fire – were eaten there. I spent hours sharing tales of adventure with travellers from all over the world. We snacked on pineapples and pawpaws – sweet and juicy with the flavour that only comes from just-picked, naturally ripened fruit – purchased from the local kids who called out to us from an imaginary no-go line that Emmanuel had drawn in the sand for the comfort of his guests. I still had the heavy string hammock, and it more than justified its weight, as next to our tent were two trees perfectly spaced for it to be strung up. The hammock became a much sought-after spot in the shade where one could be gently swayed by a cool breeze blown in across the lake. Everybody was happy, the travellers because we could relax and the locals because they could earn a living.

  I had heard about people staying at Cape Maclear for weeks, with those weeks drifting into months. We had also planned to stay a week or two as, after all, there was no schedule. We were free to go anywhere we wanted, anytime. But events made the decision for us when Dan crashed his motorcycle riding into Monkey Bay to buy supplies at its supermarket. The day after his accident, he agreed to have his wrist X-rayed at the hospital in Mangochi, which involved a one-hour, bone-jarring ride as my pillion on the TT. His wrist had a hairline fracture, but the hospital was out of plaster. The doctor advised he continue to strap it with the two sticks we’d used as improvised splints and the elasticised bandage from my first-aid kit. The bruising and grazes on Dan’s fractured right wrist – his throttle wrist – forced us to stay another three weeks at Cape Maclear.

  Emmanuel’s Campsite got busier and busier by the day, peaking at twenty multi-coloured tents and twelve motorcycle travellers. Only at Cape Maclear would you see so many in the same place at the same time. It was here that I met Leo and Myles, both from Melbourne. Over three years, they had ridden their Yamaha XT600 Tenere motorcycles through Asia, the Middle East, Europe and down through Africa. After a rest at Emmanuel’s, they would ride to South Africa and then board a cargo ship from Durban across to Perth just as we had done.

  In this pair of unlikely travelling companions I found an understanding ear, and they nodded knowingly when I opened up about the lack of compatibility between Dan and me.

  ‘We can’t stand each other either,’ said Leo. He was a smallish dark-haired man about thirtyish with boyish good looks. ‘He does his thing and I do mine. Before I got here, the last time I saw Myles was in Nairobi and before that Cairo. The next time will be at Vic Falls.’

  ‘Fuck off, mate. You’ll be lucky if you see me again when we make it home,’ said Myles, who was about the same age but gangly and scruffy with thinning brown hair and a quick wit that matched Leo’s. ‘I can’t stand that bastard either. We went our own way when we reached Europe. I reckon if we spend any more than an hour together, we’ll kill each other,’ Myles grinned. ‘Travelling companions are overrated. You’re better off travelling alone. Best thing we did was doing our own thing.’

  ‘But how come you’re both here together?’ I asked, puzzled, but I knew the answer because even though they professed to detest each other, they still shared a camaraderie that Dan and I never would.

  ‘Just a
nother of those chance meetings,’ Leo replied. ‘Funny thing. It happens all the time. I reckon Myles is stalking me.’

  ‘Best thing you can do is talk it out then go your own way. Your trip won’t be anything until you do that,’ Myles said and looked me straight in the eye as though he knew exactly the turmoil that festered inside me.

  ‘Yes, I know. I reckon we’ll go as far as Nairobi. We share a lot of gear. I need to get my own tent, petrol stove and a heap of tools,’ I said, deflecting the conversation to the more practical aspects of our travelling partnership to avoid picking at the emotional stuff, which sat raw and painful just under the surface.

  ‘You’ll know when the time is right,’ said Leo.

  ‘Yes, it’ll reach the point when you won’t fucking stand the sight of each other and doing your own thing will bring the greatest relief,’ said Myles, giving Leo a friendly pat on the back. ‘Isn’t that right, mate?’

  ‘Fuck off,’ Leo replied and we all laughed. They with a shared acceptance of their incompatible travelling partnership and I because they filled me with confidence for the time that fast approached when I’d travel alone.

  Motorcycle travel transcends all cultures, genders, ages and physical disabilities. The other motorcycle travellers at Emmanuel’s were Bernard the German, on a Suzuki DR650; Swiss guys Philippe and Yvan, also on DR650s; and Gary, another Australian, on a Suzuki GSXR 750 road bike. There was also a Japanese couple, Atsuko and Heroaki, on Honda CT110 ‘postie’ motorcycles. Heroaki had an artificial leg. They had ridden all the way down through the Sahara, West Africa and across Zaire and each carried a twenty-litre jerry to give their little bikes a range of 1000 kilometres. A few days later, it was a welcome surprise to see the Israeli boys, Romie and Ari, ride into the campsite. After selling his motorcycle, Ariel had returned to Israel from South Africa to do his mandatory military service.

  While I enjoyed the conversations with the steady stream of new faces that drifted in and out of Emmanuel’s, I craved physical activity. I’d become a little bored with spending my days under the thatched beach shelter with the overlanders and an assortment of backpackers passing around yet another spliff. One day, as I gazed out at the lake, I realised that I could easily swim the kilometre to Thumbi Island using my dive fins, which were still strapped to the handlebars of the TT. This small rocky outcrop offshore from the campsite was surrounded by clear water that teemed with fish. My swim became a daily routine that toned my muscles and kept me strong and ready for the ride ahead.

  Dan’s wrist healed, his grazes stopped festering, and finally it was time to leave the warm embrace of Cape Maclear. Romie and Ari joined us for the ride up to the Tanzania border. From there, they would ride back to South Africa, to sell their bikes and return to Israel.

  We rode on to Mbeya, an easy ride before nightfall. It was hard to believe things were so different only a short distance away in Malawi, which did not enjoy the same economic benefits. Here in resource-rich Tanzania, we rode on smooth tarmac across an undulating landscape devoid of the poorly constructed thatched mud huts that were commonplace back in Malawi. Mbeya was a provincial township with low cement buildings lining streets that bustled with people, traffic, street vendors and a few goats feeding on the scraps of paper that littered the ground.

  We found a local hotel with a basic room. It had a restaurant that overlooked the town’s busy bus depot and we ordered a meal of chicken, chips and gravy. While we waited, we drank cold beers in silence, watching the rush of people moving to and from the buses which pulled up and drove away in clouds of black smoke. Over the past month we had always been in the company of so many other motorcycle travellers coming and going from Cape Maclear that Dan and I had found no reason to communicate. At Mbeya, though, it was back to that uncomfortable feeling from which neither of us could escape. We had not yet spoken about the route we would take to Nairobi, but before leaving Tanzania we both wanted to visit the Ngorongoro Conservation Area and its deep crater teeming with wildlife. I was keen to get off the beaten track, and especially off the ‘travellers’ trail’. Since Zimbabwe, I’d felt an impenetrable divide had grown between me and Africa – I was in it, but I was not part of it. Secretly, my preference was to take the back roads through Maasai lands, but as we waited for our meal, I agreed with Dan that it was best we stay on the tarmac to avoid further injury to his still-fragile wrist. Although he didn’t tell me, I knew it still pained him, and riding over a potholed dirt road would be agony. Our food arrived and we ate in silence.

  The following morning we headed north on smooth tarmac, passing through dry savannah and the lands of the Maasai. The plains of brown grasses gave way to sparse woodland dotted with baobab trees. Maasai men herding cattle stood staring at us as we passed. When we stopped at the towns for fuel or to eat spicy grilled meat cooked fresh by the side of the road, groups of Maasai youth adorned with brilliantly coloured neck and arm beads surrounded us to inspect the two travellers on motorcycles. These proud young men were very striking, with their hair entwined with ochre rope and lengths of bright-red cloth draped across their lean, muscular bodies. They seemed to radiate an inner beauty that touched all who came near them. I felt a strange kind of uncontrollable happiness well up inside me from these brief encounters with the Maasai, who valued their traditional life and shunned Western influence.

  It was a warm afternoon and I rode wearing only a T-shirt, enjoying the cool breeze through the thin cotton. As I overtook an overcrowded old bus with many broken windows, the few passengers standing on the rear step cheered me on. They stretched out their hands and I returned the gesture, lightly touching the tips of one man’s fingers. We both laughed with exhilaration and I opened the throttle, the bus disappearing behind me.

  In the last of the fading light, I pulled over to where a village hugged the main road and waited for Dan. It had everything we needed – a guesthouse, food stalls to buy our dinner and a bar with cold beers. It was nearly dark and I was determined to keep the promise to myself and to the TT that I would never again ride at night with only the faint glow of the six-volt headlight to light my way. Dan pulled up beside me and I suggested we stop there for the night.

  ‘There’s a sort of major town only twenty kilometres further on. We can get some decent food and a shower,’ he replied. ‘I read about it last night in the Bible.’

  I reached into my Gearsack for the Lonely Planet guidebook. I now considered this weighty tome both a blessing and a curse. While it was helpful in capital cities to find embassies for visas, its recommendations of places to stay and eat meant that we were caught on the travellers’ trail of East Africa with no escape.

  The Good Book confirmed there was, in fact, a hotel catering for backpackers up ahead with steaks, hot showers and cold beers. I reluctantly got back on the TT and rode slowly into the darkness.

  A common sight on Africa’s roads was broken-down trucks. One was parked up ahead and I approached it with caution, as a large group of onlookers were milling around. Just as I was about to pass, a man walked in front of me, and then stopped in stunned amazement. I braked but did not swerve, as I anticipated he would surely jump to the left or right to avoid impact. But no, he just stood there and then went flying as I hit him. I went down and the TT slid along the road.

  Wasting no time, I limped over to my bike, yelling at the confused people to help me move it before it was mangled under the tyres of the next speeding truck. With the TT safely dragged out of danger, I looked for the man. He was sitting stunned next to the broken-down truck. I held out my hand to help him stand up. It appeared his injuries were only minor: a few grazes and bruising. My shoulder ached and my elbow was badly grazed, due to not wearing my motorcycle jacket. I would also be limping for the next few days, as my right knee had taken a bad knock. Worse, I would not be able to kick-start the TT.