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18.4.18
Allow me a minute, this one is meatier for those who want something to chew on, whether it be on the tube, the lavatory in the office or simply read in the morning first thing with your cup of Joe. There is no football chat and I am glad to hear that some of last editions readers got my irony, as I channeled the last person I met in Mathew Harding Lower - He had a few teeth missing and kept telling me his son threw stones at the horses in Ascot. I am now even more fearful of our next manager with Arsenal now in the hunt. Anyway….
This trip has not turned into my cross to bear, however if you have not sponsored Brake or to the Charlie Watkins Foundation as well, then the time has come as this trip has proved to be a huge undertaking (if it wasn’t already). It is definitely surmountable for me and by this account you will understand the cost both on my body and more. These are two outstanding causes and far outweigh any of my hopefully entertaining shortcomings that you will soon read about in this tale.
I have quickly learnt there are no low hanging fruit on this odyssey I have found myself on. The road giveth and the road taketh. These African roads (although mostly built by the Germans/Chinese - my props to them) are generous, but treacherous - a real dichotomy for those foolish enough to take them on with a bicycle.
My bike (a trek road bike) like me is a flawed character and not built for the terrain or its gainly passenger. So far in the naming rights, Bucephalus has been a front-runner and any other suggestions are welcome. I weigh about 95kg and with my bags altogether 120odd kg on the back wheel. The net result for my bovine bike has been 5 punctures and 1 crash. Hardly impassable conditions and I have been blessed with ground support.
Punctures so far have been like a pheromone and wherever I pull up on the hard shoulder, with a sigh of frustration, people have appeared out the bush either to watch or else to offer their assistance in my struggle. In terms of more lasting repairs, in my first turn through Arusha, I was helped greatly by a local mechanic and the bike was given some relief from its duty as a beast of burden and I was soon released back into the wild. Albeit shortly, to take on the contour ridden routes between Arusha to Dodoma. Arusha has become my new base camp and with one since forced return has proved a decent place to get running repairs to myself and my trusty mare.
I have been helped greatly by a WhatsApp group for cyclists in Africa - 50 members of like minded people, on the continent with their bikes and serves as a think tank for people like me without much of a clue what they are doing. I was put in touch with two people in Arusha on my first visit, one enthusiast and one mechanic. I called the mechanic, he came to my hotel, and fixed me up. As I was sitting outside the mechanics shop, the said enthusiast happened by and said hello from said WhatsApp group. Small world in cycling it seems in this large place called Africa. I must say a thank you to Tanya and Simon, who added me to this famed group. We met at Borana Lodge, Kenya - in the middle of their own 2 year long tour having cycled and rock climbed from Germany on to Durban - their respective hometowns. Good luck and god speed to them in Uganda.
Now, onto Tanzania and my first impressions so far, for me its been all about the changes from my Kenyan points of reference. I am no longer in the land of fluorescent pink ketchup and in the comparatively rich red sauced land of Tanzania. Gone are the copious offerings of ugali and now it’s chips mayai or chipsie mayai as a native would say- omelette with chips cooked in. No clue if its good or bad for you... This is found in Tanzania’s largest and smallest towns and what a combination! Even more surprising is that this kind of gluttony has come from this ex-communist leaning East-African country.
Arusha is a stunning city, set in the foothills of Kilimanjaro’s nephew Mt Meru and for my second night (the first in my Bear Grylls hotel read the 2nd post), I was put up by the kind and generous Charlie Mason. He was just outside of the city in Moshi; I had my route ripped up by the experienced Tanzanian head and by someone who had just sailed half of Lake Malawi. I was then put back on my way to Babati some 160kms away by Serena Mason. It was a beautiful day, sadly Mt Meru did not reveal itself, but I was gifted with views of the surrounding landscape. The warm day soon turned into torrential rain at about 80kms in, I could see the roads turn wet before me as the deluge got closer and closer. My only rest-bite was in between the rain clouds; I checked my kit, changed song or put my hood up before the rain caught up with me. However, through this elemental pursuit I made good time on the brand new Chinese roads and did about 150kms when light stopped play and I was picked up by a stretch Safari 4x4. I was greeted by one American pastor named Aaron. “I circled twice as I was like damn that’s gotta be a white guy.” Aaron said that he had seen people dead on this same stretch of road late at night, so to say I was just relieved would be under selling it.
Having avoided 10kms of steep incline to Babati, I was instead whisked up to Aaron’s family home to be greeted by his wife and seven children. The Von Trapp family in the flesh. A warm shower, wifi and sloppy joes for y’all. It was an American baptism, as we discussed our English idioms and differences - the classic: rubbish/garbage, chips/fries, holiday/vacation etc etc. We sadly only briefly touched on the NFL or Big Ben as Aaron was a Steelers fan. Very enjoyable nonetheless. I mean they even had a Great Dane called Cody. I was well set then for a monolithic ascent of 1500 vertical feet the next morning towards Kondoa, making my way to the desolate long ups and downs towards the capital Dodoma, both cities were due South of my current position. After a quick family prayer around my bike, sadly no rendition of ‘so long, farewell’, however a quick Adieu, and I was back in the saddle.
This was said looking at a picture by Ben, the son in the evening “Wow. His mouth is so big you could fit a hamburger in there”. God bless America.
I made the climb up, and up to the peak of the hills above Babati for what would have been my alpine chicane downhill stretch. Like Mallory, it would be the descent that would be my downfall. I had a pleasant recce next to some mommas selling fruit (cracked open a fresh passion fruit. wow.) I had a local in my slipstream for some of the descent before I got to the ill-fated chicanes.
From what I can remember through my minor concussion, the blow by blow was this. After making the long ride up the hill and taking it all in, I was well set to glide on down to Kondoa - a historically interesting place as a bygone Arab trading post with 50,000 year old African figure paintings set against stone age caves; Graham Hancock’s meat and drink. I was to miss this place and find a hospital instead.
I took one corner like Mark Cavendish and had just wheeled through it before I took on the next with the momentum of the last turn. This was my first of three mistakes. In a split second, I had seen a bus. It was moving up the hill. Stupidly, I looked at it (mistake 2) and had enough time to think of an expletive, before I plunged in to the ditch (mistake 3). This wasn’t a kind, cushiony, home-counties verge were you might be bucked into on Pony Club or a gymkhana; this was a brand new Chinese concrete crater next to the roadside with a significant drop. More like something from the Western Front and again, sadly not on the Allies’ side. I wasn’t even trying a Danny Hart tail whip, just me adding to my long, long history of cycling scars.
Watch all the way. Pure gold.
Incredibly on the same bus, the no. 32 to Babati, there was one man, a policeman, and who fortunately for me was bringing back a chicken in a box back from Dodoma at that exact moment. He with many others helped the tall and bloodied Muzungu out of the ditch and the otherwise would be roadkill, into the bus, and with the now broken bike to be rushed to hospital. In a blur the hospital seemed clean and had a good view out the window that I noticed just as I had an injection into my leg.
I was bruised, badly gashed and a bit woozy; but, thankfully the bike was not seriously damaged. The policeman aptly named Simba, a bit of normative determinism (google it) as this man truly was a Lion. Not only did he rush me through the red tape of the Tanzanian A and E, but made sure I had the TnT booster, as well as stayed the night in Babati to make sure me and my bike were fixed up to travel the next day. The picture is of my handlebars being welded back together and young girl in pink - who helpfully spat on it. * I have since heard from Simba and the Cuckoo (Swahili for chicken) was delectable. No doubt tenderised by the few hundred kilometres it had done in the bus.
It is hard to not have some kind of faith restored here in this ecclesiastical land either in humanity or something else. Simba and many others looked after me without question and showed decency without measure. There was something odd, definitely not mystical that happened after the accident. I went back to the crash site in a taxi looking for lost debris. The taxi driver had a phone call. It was Aaron the American Pastor checking if I was alright. He had heard from one of his flock and who also happened to be on the no. 32. The gentleman had seen a very tall and then bloody muzungu have a nasty accident and like Chinese whispers had found its way to the priest some 40kms away.
This was another touching gesture and shows what Tanzania is really about. The people are some of the gentlest and most generous you will come across. Maybe it has been all the praying I have been a part of, the knock on the head or else I feel that I got off lightly in so many senses with my first bike crash since the incident in the well named Death Road in La Paz. If you were there, this was an even more impressive tumble.
Barely a twelfth of the way there, could you sum up what so many people have now done for me and my efforts to reach Cape Town or should it now be called Damascus? Certainly, I cannot, but here are the words of someone else on the significance of good and true actions. ‘Herein doth consist the happiness of life, for a man to know’.
Deep stuff huh? I have had a near death experience so I am allowed to get philosophical and 5500kms to Cape Town I might need some more Meditations on the road.
Semper Fi
A E M
Update 22.4.18 - had some spare time being off games so here is some more of my soliloquies.
Morning has broken in many senses, as my wounds have scabbed and I have finally left Arusha after the back track. I am taking a bus to the ineluctable capital Dodoma. I was taken across the postcard countryside of Tanzania, a desolate, but green picture - with shrubs, rocks and acacias breaking up the swathes of opalescent sunflower fields backdropped by the great hills of Tanzania. Buses in Africa are an exhausting and interesting form of transport, as it seems people only get on and don’t get off until the last stop. Further packing an already full bus. A colonoscopy would have been more enjoyable yesterday. I was bounced along the roads to the capital sitting in the middle of the back row due to my gammy leg and sardined between six others for twelve hours, as I was put back on my feet by every bump the road had to offer. I nearly lost my cool, but I had unbeknownst grotty Dodoma to look forward to, the great John Renbourn’s music - fittingly called On the Road Again (tune) and a window to let my eyes roll at.
My hotel here in the capital reminds me of The Shining and the mosquito net is like a useless Miss Havisham cobweb. The stars shine condescendingly bright above the capital due to lack of light pollution and not much seems to happen here matching the sparing politics as the Government likes to play hard ball with its contracts. My key broke off in the lock of the door this morning, as I tried to leave my room and then had all my stuff carried into a new room through the window of my last. Number 213’s door doesn’t open fully as the bed is in the way. I was off to Colonel Gaddafi’s Mosque in the morning, supposed to be one of the great highlights of this place, it was just your usual right-arm orthodox mosque, nothing special - but luckily there was an excellent ancient Anglican Church, clearly converted from another practice some years ago... Fun. My lunch took a considerable amount of patience as I ordered countless times, each time the waitress returned to say they didn’t have it in the kitchen and finally asked me if everything was alright when I had my mouth full when my food had eventually arrived. I have taken up smoking again. I am not benighted yet by this place and am currently waiting patiently for 5pm for the FA cup semi-final and the Premier League rematch between Chelsea and Southampton. Tomorrow, I can book it out of here as fast as my recently un-stitched legs can peddle to Iringa and then Mbeya.