Victoria Falls to Dar es Salaam

We awoke in the still dawn silence that is the great African bush. While sitting about in our crop circles of long grass and eating a breakfast of oats, a troop of baboons wandered past, plucking at grassy shoots and berries. The boss, a huge hairy beast, decided to come on over and investigate. He strolled right up to me, sat down and scratched his balls. Not knowing what to do, I carried on eating out the pot, clanking away a little more loudly with my spoon. Curiously he looked into my eyes. Only a minute change of circumstance between man and beast, we traded thoughts. Then he got up, grabbed Steff’s sleeping bag and tried to get away. She was up in a flash, shouting abusive German and tugging on the other end. In wide-eyed terror the baboon beat a hasty retreat up a tree. After much laughter, breakfast resumed without further incident but under cautious, watchful eyes.

Today was the day to leave Zim and cross into Zambia. We paid our 20 dollars each at the well-guarded gate and entered into a world of roaring mist. Victoria Falls is hugely impressive, the entire Zambezi river plunges 95 meters into oblivion along a kilometre long gash across the earth, whereupon it gathers itself and continues sedately round the bend. The falls can be viewed from various intervals along a dripping path winding through a rainforest. Umbrellas were deployed but here the rain falls in all directions and so eventually proved quite useless. After David Livingstone’s statue and eating a soggy lunch we headed across a bridge and to the Zambian border.
After having my bag searched and our passports stamped, we were in Zambia. A couple of hours and one lift later we were in Livingstone, the first town on the map. We booked into Fawlty Towers, a really nice place with a pool, DSTV and a bar. Unfortunately we had arrived in Zambia 3 weeks too late. Their debt had just been wiped clean – part of the first world debt reduction plan – one dollar got you 300 Kwacha, before, you got more. Ate a nice pizza around the corner for supper while kittens back at Fawlty Towers rampaged all over our tents, playing catch and perforating our fly sheets.

After unsuccessfully trying to book a train to Lusaka we bought bus tickets instead. Travelled in the super tinted, air-conditioned mega hauler all day, eating cheese sandwiches and watching confusing Nigerian movies on a little screen right in the front of the bus. One called ‘The Tome and Jerry’ featured two naughty boys who constantly played tricks on their poor blind grandpa. The bus was in stitches every time the old man’s seat was pulled from underneath him, his cane went missing or he sat on a drawing pin.

Eventually as the big red ball in the sky began its gradual descent through the layers of dust and smog, we hit Lusaka bus terminal. Miriam, an engineer and pilot who had been on the bus, offered us a free lift in a private taxi. We jumped, eager to leave the overcrowded, festering bus depot. After being dropped off almost on the edge of town we walked into the night and eventually came to Mumama Guest Lodge where we asked if we could sleep somewhere in the back for free. After much politeness and many attempts at leaving, they finally agreed and gave us a nice little patch of grass next to a duck pond, which was covered in shit. Beer, soccer match in the pub and bed, buggered.

Walked and walked all morning and then after 3 lifts ended up at some big river and camped in the bush. Got stopped by soldiers the next morning while trying to cross a massive bridge.
“Where from? Where going? Passports? Money?”

I gave the one guy a book, signed the cover, smiled patiently, sweat dripping from every pore and waited.

Across the bridge we walked, stopping halfway to throw sticks into the swirling chocolate mayhem. On the other side we waited for hours, entertained by dancing children who were meant to be walking to school, and taking turns to sit in the shade. Eventually a car came past going in the other direction – an overland truck, as usual filled with really bored looking European tourists. After listening to our stomachs singing something in B flat minor for a while, Steff volunteered to go back across the bridge to find some food. Ten minutes later she came back sitting in the front of a bakkie; on we jumped.

It was a convoy of 3 bakkies; we had a choice. The great hand of destiny had also ensured that these were Zambian beer reps, and so we sped stopping frequently to drink beer. This just reinforces my belief that if you wait or suffer long enough, something good always happens; always, without fail. It’s all about balance. The beer reps were off to a crop planting festival in Chipata, which is almost at the border to Malawi. Dropped outside Chipata in the dusk, many handshakes and thanks and then up a hill to a really terrible, bumpy camp spot in the dark.
Onward the scales tip. Walked all morning and eventually got to the border. We had crossed Zambia in 3 days. Well, no one needs a visa for Malawi – unless maybe you’re Russian – so stamps and then across the border we walked. Got hassled by all the usual suspects, mainly taxi drivers. One in particular wouldn’t let us go but kept pace next to us as we walked, begging and pleading.“Look, buddy, the only way I’m getting in your taxi, is for free”.

“OK”, he said eventually, so in we jumped (of course, now he had to pick up more people to make up for his loss).

We arrived in Mchinji a tangled mass of limbs, chicken and maize and after I’d removed someone’s foot from my ear someone else tried to grab Steff’s bag. She gave him such an earful of foul German at the top of her lungs that he dropped the bag and hurriedly hung his head. He was no thief, just another enthusiastic taxi driver trying to secure a passenger. On we walked until eventually we stopped on the side of the road to make lunch. Kids surrounded us as we ate and watched mouthful practically to stomach. A note on people: You are never alone in Africa. You sit down to eat, have a smoke and 30 people will be standing a meter from you, watching every move. After an unsuccessful attempt at a finding a camp spot near the road (ants everywhere) we climbed a hill, passing a few beehives suspended in trees, made fire, cooked, slept.Awoke to a storm, ran down the mountain to look for water, came back successful an hour later, soaked, and made breakfast under umbrellas. Dodged a herd of cattle and got back to the road where the sun came out and cooked us. Walked to the Kaysea Inn for lunch and then Dustin and I conducted a very dodgy, drug deal feeling, black-market money change in some dark little back room. More rain and it got late so we pitched our tents in the back for 500 Kwacha for the three of us. Fanny, as Steff is affectionately known, had developed a bad foot (we found out weeks later after that she actually had a broken bone). Well, the good people at the Inn liked us so much that they offered us a month’s free accommodation if we could organize seeds for their vegetable garden. We couldn’t of course so we left the next day and after hitching for ages we finally took a cramped mini-bus to the capital, Lilongwe.

We camped at a nice spot at the edge of town called Kiboko, getting invaded by ants on a daily basis. We visited the orphanage down the road and after playing some soccer with the kids got invited for breakfast the next morning. Patricia, the really nice Malawian woman and owner of the orphanage, cooked us a nice breakfast of eggs and beans and we ate while watching old cartoons on the telly. After buying supplies and haggling for tobacco we got a lift with John and Karen, two American lawyers who were attacked and robbed while in SA, us three squashed on the back seat of their golf with our bags on our laps all the way to Kande Beach. We had to walk the last two km of sand track, as the car was too heavy.

At last, Lake Malawi. The lake looks just like the ocean – white sandy beaches, small waves and you can’t see the other side. At the campsite we met Derek the overland truck driver again, with a new group of European tourists coming up from South Africa. Just as in Mozambique we bummed supper. Ah, South African meat and veggies. We all took a walk down the beach to check out the local dugout canoes. A Malawian dugout is not like a Mozambiquan dugout. There is no v-shaped hull; it’s just a massive hollow log that you have to sit on rather than in. I had a go on one and stability was definitely lacking. The whole of the next day was spent walking the beach, haggling for a canoe. At each small fishing village everybody gathered to watch the 3 mzungo’s (ma-zung-oes: ‘white man’ or ‘he who travels aimlessly’). Eventually at the end of the day we were the proud owners of a leaky log after capsizing in front of many laughing villagers, haggling for hours in smoky huts over cigarettes and salty fish and walking up and down the beach for ages. Something had to be done about the stability, so we worked late into the night attaching a windsurfer board as an outrigger.

The next morning, Dusty and I took our strange craft to the distant island for a test run and breakfast. Steff wouldn’t set foot in it. Many leaks but otherwise no problem. After fixing the leaks the local way – pushing bits of cloth and plastic bag into the cracks with a knife – we loaded the bags, convinced Steff she wouldn’t die and left to an audience on the shore. Having a large weight on one side of the boat made steering extremely difficult but we got it in the end and travelled reasonably straight. Steff sat in the middle with the bags; her job was to make lunch and bail out the steady inflow of water; Dustin and I alternated between front and back. It was heavy going so we sang songs and acted like pirates. When it was getting dark we beached the boat, set up tents, made a fire, cooked supper and then slept like babies.

We woke to the sound of many curious villagers poking around outside, packed up quickly and escaped to the lake where we ate breakfast. We had bags of this horrible porridge stuff where you just add water. We docked for lunch at some fancy beach lodge, ate, lay in the sun and swam. Suddenly this irate, twitching little man appeared and began screaming at us:“Your girlfriend’s in my shower!”

Reluctantly I went and fetched Steff. Two screamings in one day is not good. Then the weather changed; the rain came down, the wind picked up and the swells got big – really big. We were far offshore trying to round a huge rocky headland when the waves started coming in. Fearing death, we headed to the nearest beach where we hid miserably under umbrellas waiting for the storm to pass.

In the late afternoon, we rounded the headland and came to a small village where we were warmly greeted, pulled ashore and helped offload. A long line of scruffy fisherman and children trotted up the long winding path through the dim jungle all proudly carrying an item from the boat. The paddles branched off to that house, the ropes went to that one and so on. Too tired to protest and failing to be understood anyway, we followed the procession; we’d sort it out in the morning. It ended at Chief Goodwing’s hut. A fire was made and the whole village watched while we set up tents, cooked and ate.

The next morning it was raining and Dusty and I took a long, escorted (you’re never alone) walk to the distant village for some supplies. In Malawi, there are no real shops and so you eat whatever you can get. The rain slacked off in the afternoon, so Dust and I, sick of the constant stares and attention, decided to escape to the lake for a bit of fishing. Steff wanted to stay, being in her element (she is German after all). We took GO (Gretchen Odyssey) back up the shore for a bit and beached at a small lodge to look for earthworms. There we met Jim, a skinny drummer from the sixties with a crutch. He was the owner and bought us lots of beers as we sat on the deck and chatted. We got back to Steff in the dark, no fish but slightly piddled. After supper, chief Goodwing took out his rusty tin guitar and sang wedding songs to Steff at the fire – we definitely had to leave in the morning!

Early the next day, we fetched all our things from various huts through the drizzle and hit the lake again, much to the chief’s disappointment. Of course the whole village saw us off and waved until we were far in the distance. We actually found an empty beach that night. The next day the beaches became less and gave way to rocky, jungle-like mountains towering from the lake; little huts perched at intervals like vultures. Children would spot us from far away, gather together and shout: “Mzungo, give me money!”

This never stopped. After crossing some large bays, sometimes putting us three or so kilometres from shore, we came to a little muddy, grassy beach thing next to a small brown river. While recovering on our bags under the stares of all the usual people who spring up from nowhere, a man came up to us and began waving his arms about wildly. Rabies?
Eventually, he pointed up river and said, ”Crocodile?!”

Well that was the magic word, so we packed up and with burning arms and blistered hands we paddled further up the coast.

A bit longer than presently, we arrived at another beach with a big stone house on it. There we met mzungo Mike from Canada and his beautiful Malawian girlfriend. Mike had no more ganja and so we gave him some in exchange for letting us sleep on his beach. Next morning Dusty and I smoked a pipe on his roof and said our goodbyes and we were off. Camped in the rain that night in some wet bushes, cooking on the petrol stove. Next morning it was still raining and having no food I decided to walk up the coast to Nkhata Bay, the first town on our journey. We knew it had to be close. Steff was not happy, she wanted to pack up in the rain and paddle on an empty stomach. After an argument I left in the rain towards Nkhata.

Walked and walked, the sun came out and on I walked down the beach. Eventually I came to a large river and after looking right, then left, then right again for crocodiles, I waded across. Soon the beach stopped and gave way to steep rocks and cliffs pounded by the lake. It looked doable but I decided to rather go inland through the jungle. Along ancient paths up and down mountains I walked passing the odd village from time to time. Eventually by late evening I arrived at Nkhata Bay. Before I could do anything I had to change dollars for kwacha. After meeting a man who knew a man who knew a man, I ended up at the small harbour, shouting exchange rates to a fat Muslim sitting in a boat. Soon in front of fifty people we had a deal and then I was off, running for the shop before it closed. Filled the daypack with food, picked up a litre of petrol and then sat down for the first time that day, demolishing a packet of biscuits and having a smoke. Soon I was up running again – it was getting dark.

I decided to take the coast all the way back as I thought it would be quicker. I picked my way carefully up and down the rocks along the shoreline until soon I came to a big cliff; I would have to climb. Half way up it got dark and I began to get desperate. My umbrella sticking from my bag had hooked on a vine; I was stuck. Balancing really carefully I managed to gently pull the umbrella out and drop it down the cliff to the lake far below. Eventually, I reached the top and could breath easy again. Much later I reached the top of the mountain, breathing like a madman. My shirt ripped from thorn bushes. I sat down in the dense dark jungle and lit a smoke.

“What more could possibly go wrong?” I thought.

Then the rain came lashing down.

For hours I stumbled about blindly, sopping wet, until eventually I came across a hut. After scaring everyone to death and much discussion in very broken English, the old man gave me his three sons to guide me home. Up and down slippery mountain paths we trudged until we got down to the big river, waded across and then onto the beach. I reached our camp at one in the morning, paid my guides in cigarettes, said many thanks and then sat down for the third time since the previous morning. Buggered.

I found out from Dustin that Steff had left for Nkhata Bay just after me, having had enough of the stinking, leaking boat and that bastard Tim. The next day was Dusty’s birthday and we made it to Nkhata in the sunshine. Eventually we found a lodge with lake access and pitched the tents. The lodge was called Butterfly and we met Charlie, the owner, Julius and Mel. We stayed there for three days, stocking up on supplies and having much fun and insanity. Like the time we attempted and actually ate a ganja cake made on the petrol cooker.

Soon we began making our own bread on the coals, as there is none on the lake. At one village lunch stop we made a sail and the boat became the ‘Black Pearl’, after the colour of the sail – now we were pirates. We flew along before the SE wind, which blew most days, travelling further from shore and fighting big swells. After a few days we reached the town of Usisya for lunch but decided to head on to Charlie’s (lake access only) lodge somewhere around the corner called Ruarwe. After a crash landing and flooded boat in the dark, we stumbled into the bar and found the place deserted. Too tired to pitch tents we ate from cans and slept on the floor suffering much pain from over exertion. Deadbeat.

For a few days we recovered there, playing chess and reading. Eventually I caught my first fish with an earthworm. Then on, ever north we paddled, sleeping in tiny villages miles from any roads, now boiling and drinking lake water as there were no more boreholes. Oh ya, in Ruarwe, we also blew up a TV. The village chief from yonder hill came to hear of the two mzungos in town and so he sent his sons to come fetch us by canoe to tune in his TV. After paddling for a while and then climbing a large hill we arrived sweating at his hut. First the generator had to be fixed. The starter was broken and after watching ten men tinkering over the thing for two hours, I couldn’t take any more. I wrapped a rope straight around the motor shaft, pulled, hey presto, we had power. They looked at me with religious awe so I connected up the TV and began fiddling with the buttons and things. Soon Dustin said he smelled something burning, smoke was pouring from the back of the TV! We apologized but they didn’t seem too fussed. Thank God. There would be no lynching that night.

We left Ruarwe the next day. After some days and more crocodile warnings we reached Chiweta and found some cokes but no cigarettes. We had been smoking this foul local tobacco which you buy in wet leaves and then dry over a flame before crushing it up and putting in the pipe. The wind that had helped us so far decided to turn against us and so on we struggled with the sail down. We knew Chitimba lay somewhere close by and so decided to keep going until we got there as we had no food. Eventually after dark, we saw a bright light far in the distance.
“That’s got to be it”, we thought, our bodies groaning audibly.

Then the wind swung and increased in strength. Soon we were flying along; howling demented banshees, moths to the flame. Then we could hear the waves roaring on the beach.“Quick, the torch!”

Pssst. The bulb blew.

“Other torch...shit, no batteries. Change batteries, change batteries!”

Roaring getting louder; numb, aching hands fumbling over useless contraption.

Click. Light beam illuminates big waves pounding beach.

“Turn the boat, turn the boat! Shit. Too late. Out, out!”

Trashed, boat filling up.

“Offload!”

Fumble with knots, cut knots, big relay up beach to safety. Boat, bending and groaning, filling up quick.

“I’ll get help”.

I run towards the light, a dripping demented moth. Inside, mzungos sipping beer, eating the evening meal, not to be disturbed.

Wild eyed flapper-spraying water: “I need help!”

“You sure do, buddy”.

Roy the lazy barman gives me two kitchen staff. I run, they walk. Dustin half drowned trying to hold the boat straight.

“We have to cut the outrigger off”, they say.

Knives out. Start sawing away at the stubborn rope. I stab my hand. Blood, spray, rope. Outrigger off, we all roll the heavy log up the beach. Rest, breathe. Only one paddle lost, never to be seen again.

Haul gear up to the bar. Dripping, shivering all over the floor. Don’t care for curious stares, warm clothes on. Sit, relax, made it. Luckily there were two plates of food left over, meat and chips; they were gone in a second. Then a beer while we twitched all over. There was some kind of party thing going on so we drank some more beer and then much later slept where we fell.
Woke up in Chitimba Beach Lodge with a big hangover. Our boat was finished so it was the end of the mission. We had paddled from Chinteche to Chitimba, some 200 kilometres. Recovered all next day and met a crazy girl called Natasha and 3 gap year student teachers: Ellie, Mel and Jo, who were down from Dar es Salaam on holiday. In the evening, Natasha, Dusty and I walked to the village and haggled for a chicken. I carried the gibbering thing back home by its feet, butchered it into pieces and put it over the coals. It was bloody tough; they sold us an old hen.
The next day the girls and us went on a day mission up the mountain to a small town called Livingstonia. I had an infected foot from various wounds that had been in the lake for too long. It swelled up like a balloon and the last two hours down were the longest of my life. Well, I couldn’t walk so we got jobs behind the bar; no money but free food, accommodation and drinks.
The next day 70 cyclists arrived with their support crews from Egypt on their way to Cape Town. The ‘Tour de Afrique Cycle Circus’ was in town with cyclists competing from all over the world. They filled the campsite with tents as well as the usual daily overland trucks. For the next two days we were extremely busy, serving drinks and drinking. Some of the cyclists were pretty rude complaining about the lack of glasses and stuff.

I would point to a T-shirt hanging behind the bar, which said, “I’m not paid enough to be nice to you, this is Africa so fit in or fuck off!”

Eventually they left and things quietened down a bit. We met Mick and his girlfriend from the mushroom farm up the hill. Adele, Kevin from USA, Mike from Denmark and Ollie from the UK. Over the next 7 days we played volleyball during the day and served drinks at night. We had crazy conversations about fat people, Olympics and slaves and every night watched fantastic lightning storms over Tanzania. We did so well, John the owner offered us permanent jobs but we declined fearing alcoholism.

Eventually we managed to escape, signed the bar, said goodbye to all our friends and Steff, who had reappeared, and hit the road again. We had managed to sell the boat to an old fisherman for half the price we paid and two fish. We walked up the road to a quiet campsite with a bed in a tree, pitched the tents and hit the sack.

By the next night, after hitching all day and taking one taxi we had crossed the border and were in Mbeya in Tanzania. Electricity, lights and food! For 3 days we stayed at Silent Lodge (which was noisy as hell) while trying to organize train tickets to Dar es Salaam. Eventually we succeeded at 45000TSH (Tanzanian Shillings, 1 Dollar = 1000 TSH) each. Clackety-clack into the night, we shared a cabin with Godfrey and Fred, two Tanzanians. Dustin and I drank whiskey (it was my birthday the next day).

Woke up and saw giraffes, buffalo, zebras and other animals out the window – we were travelling through a game reserve. Well, we had no local currency and we were about to hit a major city in the dusk so Josh (mzungo) gave us 8000TSH.

“Don’t worry, my parents are rich”, he said.

“Shot bru”. A birthday present.

The train came to a stop and we fought our way off the platform into Dar es Salaam; the first leg of the journey complete.