And to stand there, completely alone, is surely one of the most joyous things a person can ever do.

---

The three of us walk up the harbour pier towards immigration. It’s a relatively quiet pier and not the mad scrabble of passenger and porters I’d imagined. We go through immigration fairly quickly and sixty-five dollars buys me a two-month visa. Were just about to head out of the gate and into the street when an official points us to another building. I walk into the customs building and talk to the guy. He wants to search all our stuff. I tell him its difficult to unload my bike and bring all my bags in. I’m kind of expecting him to say not to worry and wish me on my way, but he doesn’t, he tells me to bring my stuff inside. I unload my bike and drag my bags in. Tom and Alice already have half their stuff over the floor and the search is actually being taken quiet seriously. This is one of only a few times I’ve been searched on the whole trip. Previously its been a question of simply open your bag peer in and then, yes it’s ok and you can leave. But these guys are different, they’re actually going through all our stuff. They ask stupid questions,
“What’s this?
“Wash bag” I get a blank look.
“For washing”
“What’s this?”
“Stove - for cooking”
And on and on.
I’m out before the others and load Harvey back up. Tom comes out five minutes later but were still waiting for Alice for at least another fifteen minutes. She walks out looking a bit flustered. I ask if she’s alright, “Walk” she says. We past through the gate and out in the street. Alice tells us her story.

The customs guys had found some over the counter anti allergy drugs in her backpack. No problem she thought, until they then informed her they were an illegal substance in Zambia and bringing them into the country warranted a forty-five day prison sentence. She had quite literally shit herself. Luckily this seemed to fluster the customs official as he obviously didn’t want to put a sweet looking American girl in prison. Just as panic was setting in another official barged into the office with his gun pointed at another man. They’d found a “proper” smuggler. A fish had been found full of drugs! At this the customs officer realized he had some proper work to do and told Alice to pay more attention to the laws of the country she was traveling to and let her go. She’d hesitated thinking a “fine” would be required but nothing was suggested so she walked out a free woman. As a first introduction to Zambia it’s a bit weird. But Zambia is a bit weird, we just didn’t know it then.

Another weird thing, where are all the money changes? We see none at the port or on the road into town. Nobody approaches us and we see no one else change money. We walk into town and find a suitably grubby brothel/hotel. Alice seems quite excited to be staying in proper brothel, the novelty for me has long worn off. Its five dollars a room which is pretty pricey for what it is, but we all take cold bucket showers and its feels good to be clean. We walk into town in the heat. It has all the features of a border town. Lots of cheap brothel/guesthouses, lots of bars, nowhere to eat anything decent, dust and dirt and lots and lots of dodgy people. We still haven’t found any moneychangers but Alice has been given the name of one from her missionary friends in Kigoma. He’s a good Christian moneychanger she’d been told. Just ask anyone in town and they’ll find him for you. As far as I’m concerned all moneychangers, like taxi drivers, should never be trusted, Christian or not. We ask in a shop if they know him. The woman comes out and tells us to follow her. She walks off the main street, through the market, around some huge piles of rubbish and through a few more narrow alleyways then walks around the back of a bar and points into the distance across a rubbish strewn field. She’s tells us to walk in that direction and then wanders off.
“I don’t think she understood did she?”
We all burst out laughing. We find our good Christian moneychanger in the end hanging out outside the post office. He still try’s to rip us off but we change money and head for lunch. We haven’t seen anywhere decent to eat and settle on more fish and rice.

After lunch we head off for a beer. We find a small bar and order three beers. The girl puts them on the counter but doesn’t open them. I motion for her to open them, but she tells me she doesn’t have an opener. I ask whether anybody has one. “No” she replies. “Could you get one” She gives me a blank look. I want to say, “But you’re a fucking bar how come you can’t open the bastard drinks”. But I control myself and ask one of the degenerate drunks sitting around whether they can. I guy opens our beers with his teeth and then demands us to buy him a beer; I ignore it and walk outside. I old pissed guy comes and sits next to Tom and starts to chat, I promptly ignore him and talk to Alice. I know that within anything from two to twenty minutes he’ll want us to buy him a beer. Tom chats away to him although to be honest I’m not really sure if he can understand want he’s going on about. Its nice to have company and conversation, sitting here alone I would be the drunks main attention. The old guy whips a small dead fish from his top pocket.
“How long has that been dead?” Tom asks.
“Four days.”
“So it’s fresh?”
“Yes, they are fresh after four days. Buy me a beer.”

Buy me a beer. I knew it. Tom says no but the drunk continues and I just ignore it safe in my own private conversation with Alice. It gets dark and we head for dinner. The half decent-ish place we went for lunch is closed and looks like we’ll have difficulty finding anything to eat. We find a bar with some snacks for sale. Its really quite disturbing. I eat soggy chips from a plastic bags that have been heated in the microwave and chicken from a plastic bag which has the same treatment. Is this what they think progress is? Plastic bags and microwaves! We venture out the back after the greasy food for another beer. There’s a band coming on and we drink in anticipation of their sounds. When they finally start playing its ok, but really its just one ten minute song over and over. A crazy guy is dancing frantically on the stage and after a while gets off and walks straight up to me.
“Buy me a beer” He’s far too close to me and his breath actually manages to smell of shit.
“GO AWAY”
“Buy me a beer”
“GO AWAY”
“Buy me a beer”
“GO AWAY”
“Buy me a beer”
“GO AWAY”
“Buy me a beer”
“GO AWAY”

He gets the message and walks off. Two well-dressed guys walk up and say “Remember me” I don’t but Alice immediately does and says hi. It’s the custom’s guys from early today. He asks for her to buy him a beer but then quickly says “No corruption, no corruption” We crack up laughing and Alice rushes off to the bar to buy him a drink. She obviously thinks that any man who doesn’t put you in prison for forty-five days deserves a beer. She comes back and we drink with them and chat a little bit. They’re both young and well spoken, probably annoyed that they’ve been posted to this god forsaken town. Tom heads off to bed. He worried about his HIV thing and says that the more alcohol he drinks the more anxious he gets. We both try to reassure him, but he still looks scared. I can’t help feel for him. We know were in the most happening bar in Mpulungu but it’s a bit dead and we think about seeing if there’s anything more lively. The one song over and over has worn very thin so we head down the dark road looking for something else. We not hopeful but happen to bump into the Pink Bar. It’s just a small room painted pink, a small mirror circles the room at head high, a few 1950 couches lie beat up against the walk and fairly lights to top off the ambience. South African pop videos bang from the TV in the corner and we sit at the bar and order a drink.
“Water?”
“No’
“Coke?”
“No’
“Sprite?”
“No”
“Orange Fanta?”
The bartender nods, digs around in the cooler and put two purple Fanta’s in front of us. She then goes back to one of the old couches, curls up and goes to sleep. Two men are dancing in the bar, staring at themselves in the mirror. We get up and join them. A small crowd of people come into the bar and stare at the dancing Mzungus. Some of them start dancing, two women, one with a baby strapped on her back, sit on the very old couches drinking beers and gawking at us. We realise this place is suddenly happening! It’s awesome. Were dancing, and its cool. I teach Alice the big fish, little fish, cardboard box dance and she shows off her years of ballet. We thank the friendly owners and walk out dubbing it one of the best bars in the whole of Africa.

Tom’s threatening to leave the next day but after explaining that we really all have to watch the FA cup together he decides to stay. This town really is such a godforsaken shit hole, but we’ve laughed constantly for the last three days and really none of us really want to leave.

We walk down to the lake to see if there’s anywhere nice to swim. Most of the shore is covered in rubbish and human shit. We find a small bar come hotel on the shore. We walk in and a clearly crazy woman walks over. Her dress is pulled right down so half her bra is showing and she has what Alice tells us is thrush around her mouth.
“Do you sell soda’s?” I ask.
“I love you” she directs this at Alice.
“Can we have one Fanta orange and two cokes please”
“I want you to be my partner” she’s still looking at Alice.
We go and sit down. This country is mad. Forty-five days in prison for over the counter drugs, no money changers at the border, food coming in plastic bags and microwaved, bars that can’t open your beers, men who eat four day old fish, drunks who’s breath smells of shit and crazy gay women who are riddled with thrush. Thrush woman comes over and gives us three Fanta’s. We don’t mention that she got the order wrong.

We watch the FA cup in last nights bar that afternoon and drink more beers and laugh more and more and I point out that Alice is the only woman in the place. We all decide that this is definitely in one of the most surreal towns any of us have ever been to. Tom show’s us his unbelievable amazed talent of Free styling (totally improvised rap) and me and Alice stand gob smacked as his voice echo’s around the bar, himself standing proud in the DJ box.

The following day were all hung-over, tired and drained by the booze, the heat, and the exhaustion that constant laughing actually causes. It’s a forty kilometre ride to Mbale but a thousand meter climb. I’m quite scared at the thought of a 1000 metre climb since I can barely walk without wanting to suddenly sit down. We all munch down fish and rice and by noon I’m just about ready for my short but possibly difficult ride to Mbale. I wish Tom goodbye and arrange to meet Alice in Mbale.

I push out of town and into the quiet countryside. There’s very few people about, but those I do see stare with wide eyes. The landscape is dry. It’s the hottest weather I’ve cycled in in a long time. I stop after just a few km’s and drink two litre’s of much needed water. The roads not steep just a gentle slant uphill. I’m searching the horizon for where a huge climb will start but see nothing. I carry on and on through the yellow and brown bush. An hour goes by and I’m still see nothing steep. I turn around and look behind. I can see the water of the lake shimmering far below. I impressed at how high I’ve climbed with out really noticing it.

I’m climbing gradually up and up. I’ve been lucky not having a steep climb as it really would have been too much for me. I hear the noise of a bus engine and as it passes I see Tom and Alice hanging out the window waving. Its only a few minutes more to Mbala and when I arrive Alice is still walking around the one small street town. The ATM and internet café we were hoping to find are still a long way from here but Alice had checked out the hotels and got us a on-suite room with TV for $10.

I pour cold water over myself in our on-suite bathroom and take some of the heat from my body. This town is cooler, the thousand metre difference from Mpulupu has left the air clean and the scenery greener. We take a walk down the main street. Were looking for a restaurant but don’t see much. The town is so quiet, for the big-ish dot on the map its just a village. There’s only ten million people in Zambia and it’s a huge country, I’m guessing this will leave peaceful countryside and quiet towns. It makes a welcome change from the last few countries I’ve been in. Uganda, Rwanda and Burundi all have some of the highest population densities on the continent. We wander up the road, its beautiful and quiet. The suns coming down and the views over the surrounding fields are expansive. We hear singing and figuring that it’s a Sunday think its coming from the church but at arriving at the church there’s no sign of life. The church has all the trimmings of a turn of the century rural English church. We follow the sound through some fields and see a football game in the distance. We head on and find the match. It’s the local police force against a local secondary school. The drumming and singing is coming from the thirty or so supporters of the secondary school. The sun goes down and we watch the last few minutes of the game and the eventual pitch invasion in celebration of the school’s win. As we walk back I comment to Alice that this is how I thought Africa would be - quiet and peaceful with beautiful sunsets, touches of colonialism and drumming and singing in the street. I find it funny that I’ve been on this continent for over a year and just found my imagination’s version of Africa.

We find only one restaurant in town and eat chicken and nshima. New country same food, just a different name. Ugali, posho and now nshima. I force down my matched up corn flower and we both head to bed. We watch a dreadful Nigeria soap opera on our one channel TV before falling into a much needed sleep.

I’d needed an ATM and Alice to use the internet, but nothing of the sort can happen here. I’m not so short of cash so its not so important. I’m enjoying the company and my stereotypical Africa of which I’ve found. I leave early the next morning and tell Alice I’ll see here in two days in Kasama. That really is a big dot on the map and the capital town of the Provence. I’ve 170kms to Kasama and nothing in between - no dots on my map.

I head out of town and see a dead python on the road. I’ve been lucky with snakes, having only of ever seeing one on this trip. I’m worried that snakes like to lie out in the sun on the roads and although may move for a noisy car will maybe be taken by surprise by a bicycle. It’s a short fat python which I’d recognised from seeing in the “museum” in Bujumbura. Only about two foot long but looking as if they’ve just eaten a deer.

I cycle on and on all day, the roads flat and I’m finding it boring. The heat is building up and the vegetation is losing its green as the suns rays grill it to brown. I pull in at a truck stop for more chicken and chips, served out of a plastic bag, and head along the straight roads. There’s villages completely lining the road and although very quiet there’s not a lot of space to hide and camp. Its approaching 5pm and I need a place to camp. I find a few places but everywhere there is tracks which I know people will end up walking along. I’d been told in the truck stop to ask for the head man of the village and they will always put me up. I pull over to a small group of people and ask about camping. No problem I’m told but I need to ask the head man. I’m walked down the main road by a teenager in a green felt robin hood style hat, we pass through the scrub like bush, past a small area of already harvested corn maize and into a small area with a few mud huts. The Robin Hood hat teenagers introduces me to Solomon the head man. I shake his hand and try to be polite as possible. Its so hard to judge an Africans age but I put Solomon at about fifty. His grey hair signals this but his mannerisms make him seem a lot older. He shows me a spot to put my tent and goes and gets me a hammer. I smash the pegs through the concrete like mud.
“Do you have a camping mattress?” He asks. I amazed at his perfect English let alone the fact he even knows what a camping mattress is. He lights a small fire a few metres from the tent and bring two chairs over. Once I’ve finished getting the tent sorted I go over and sit and chat.

I comment on Solomon’s amazing English and he’s tell that as Zambians speak over seventy-two languages English has become the national language. Unlike other East African Countries, like Kenya and Tanzania, there isn’t one single African language which all of Zambia speaks. “No Swahili equivalent” I’m told. Solomon tells me he worked for many years for a white South Africa geologist. They were looking for gold and minerals in the area. Nothing of any volume was ever found so no mining operations ever took place. Solomon says it’s a shame as it would of brought much needed revenue to the area. He tells me of the years of working for the South Africa and the great friendship they had. He tells me that the geologist was killed in a car crash a few years ago and now he has no pension. I don’t really understand why that would effect things. I push him a few more times on this issue but never quite understand why this would effect a pension. What I assume about the pension is that it was just a personal gift given each month directly by the geologist, now he is dead it is obviously no longer. The smoke form the fire is keeping the mozies at bay and luckily there are very few around. I don’t want to be bitten at all, but I won’t sit in front of Solomon and put on mosquito repellent. Its just doesn’t seem right when Solomon has to live with malaria as a part of life (and death) that I should plaster myself with repellent. I decide another dose of malaria would be better than how I would feel putting on repellent. It just seems another example of the unfair state of play which mankind has created - I have money I will not die of disease, you do not so you may die.

We talk and talk, Solomon tells me all about being the head man and how difficult decisions can be. He constantly complains about how the uneducated make things difficult. Before coming to Africa I had no realization that a lot of the things I take for granted come from education. I thought many things were simply life skills. Only now do I realise that they’re things our society has learnt. He talks passionately about the future of the village and of development. Is land an issue? No I’m told, they have plenty of land. Water? It’s not a problem either, they have a good spring in the village which stays full all year round. Location? Their only 50km’s from Kasama a big city and commercial centre with a good quality tar road gong to it. But what they don’t have is the skills or knowledge about commercial farming. Solomon tells me they are looking for money from donors to build an irrigation system, but the other men in the village just want this money to put in their pockets. Why this greed? “Because they are uneducated” he keeps saying. There’s a large coffee plantation just a few kilometres away. Solomon says it shows that with money and know how their land could be used to create a sustainable and prosperous society. But they have neither the money or the know how. I ask about the coffee plantation, he says it’s a good thing as it supplies jobs during the picking season but really most of the money goes back to the US and the government doesn’t spend the revenues on the village. We talk more and more, Solomon never once asks me if I’m married or my profession or age and its so refreshing to sit and talk about things other than “Is your country hot or cold?”. Solomon continues to talk about education, he says than when he was young his parents never thought about his future or even about tomorrow. “We Africans we only thing of today, never tomorrow”. But he tells me his children’s future is important, he has the deeds to his property, for his children’s security. “A big bride I had to pay for those.” Corruption. Is it any better theses days? “No, no, just as corrupt as ever. The president spends 4,000,000 kwacha on one suit! Where can such expensive clothes even exist?” I don’t tell him that five hundred quid for a suit isn’t such a bad price. He talks about world events and referrers to things as “I have seen it with my own eyes, on television”. He tells me the village will get electricity by the end of the year. “Everybody will buy an electric ring to cook on and maybe some people will buy a television”. I stare up at the warm African sky and see the thousands of stars un-obscured by street lights and un-hindered from the intrusive noise of television. I say goodnight and climb into to my tent relived to see not one mosquito bite.

I wake the next morning and make coffee for me and Solomon. He shows me the spring a couple of hundred meters from the house. Cold, clear water bubbling out of the ground, I fill my bottles and as we walk back he shows me the different crops he has. I pack up my tent and we both walk to the road. I say my good byes and hand him 20,000 kwacha (about US$5). He excepts it’s gratefully and tells me it will go toward the children’s education. He wouldn’t have asked me for a thing, but I’m glad I gave him something, I really did have one of the most fascinating evenings of my entire life.

I’m pulling into Kasama by 11am and give Alice a call to see where she staying. I go to her hotel only to be told she’s not there. “I spoke to her two minutes ago, she told me she was in her room”. A few blank looks and eventually I find her. How many times in Africa have I been told somebody in not in just because the staff can’t be arsed to look for them. I take a room and a hot shower. I ask about a good restaurant but Alice hasn’t found one. For the capital of the province there really isn’t much around at all.
We find out its African Freedom day, which would explain why everything is shut and everybody seems to be drunk. There’s a big party being organized at our hotel and the town is definitely in a festive mood. We take a stroll around and try to find something to eat. The best we can come up with is over priced chicken and chips, but its fresh, not microwaved, and served on a plate not in a plastic bag. We drink some beers and some more and end up in the local night club, “The Goove”. Its hot and sweaty and there’s a Five Star poster on the walk. We both like it. Its going well but Alice is convinced that the over friendly couple forcing us to dance are trying to rob us. We try to leave but the girl suddenly keeps appearing and physically stopping us. She bends down to tie her laces and we make a run for it. It’s a shame as we were having a good time. We think that maybe the party at our hotel should still be going on, but when we get back its all shut up. We decide on our own party in the room but we’ve really lost the atmosphere. I walk down the street to get us some beers and find a little room/night club. I walk back to Alice’s room. She’s sitting on the step looking glum and playing “Helpless” by Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young, a great song but unbelievably depressing. “Turn this depressing shit off, I’ve found us another place, It’s dirty, banging, and probably full of pickpockets. So it’s our kind of place.”
We walk to the dirty club and I head to the bar and ask if they sell whiskey.
“No”. I’m told.
“What’s that?” I ask pointing at a small plastic bottle on the shelf.
“Whiskey”. I buy the small plastic bottle, a coke and am given two polystyrene cups.
Me and Alice sit on a beaten up couch on the veranda of the building. I pour two ample measures from my plastic bottle and then look at the label. “Boss Whiskey” Ingredients: Edible Alcohol, Whiskey favouring. I make a toast “Here’s to Zambia and Freedom Day” and I wonder how I can ever give up this life style.

The next day I’m in the reception of the hotel asking about directions to Isoka.
“Very dangerous” I’m told. “Impossible by bicycle”.
“Look I’m fucking sick of people telling me its impossible, dangerous or just dam right stupid. Could you please please please just tell me which fucking way it is?”
But I don’t say that, I bite my tongue and refrain from swearing and just laugh and tell them I’ve cycled from England and really I’ll be fine. The receptionist admits she has no idea which road it is. Luckily a bread seller on the corner isn’t quite so pessimistic and tells me which road to head out on.

I’ve a strong head wind and although I’m surprised the road is sealed the wind keeps me at a slow pace. The wind dies but so does the tar and I bump along the red gravel road. I see something moving on the other side of the road but can’t quite work out what. As a approach a realise its a snake, black and about a metre long heading off the road in the other direction. It startles me a little but brings home where I actually am. The road follows on and on. Its flat and the dirt road has few corrugations and rough patches so it’s fairly easy going. I stop in a small village and see a few stalls selling things. I look for a Coke but they have none. A man pulls out a dusty orange drink which is more hot than warm and I gulp it down, a crowd of children standing around me wide eyed. I like being in this Africa, away from the tar roads and commercialism that’s goes with them. It make’s me chuckle when I hear people say that Coca-Cola has reached every corner of every back water on the globe. It many ways it has, but leave a tar road in Africa and you won’t find it, you’ll find surprised eyes and cheery waves, dirty children and thatched roof huts.

The road rises up and on each side a swamp appears. I worry about crocodiles until I see dozens of people wading through the water with long fishing nets. The road carries on like this for miles and miles. Long reeds grow on each side of the road and as the road narrows to just a path my panniers and shoulders bang into the reeds shattering their seeds all over me. I push through the grasses and arrive at a river. I start to laugh, “ How the hell am I to cross this”. Luckily someone has spotted me and is climbing into a dug out canoe and paddling across. He arrives on the my side and helps me place Harvey into the canoe. “One hundred” he says. I nod in agreement. I guess he means one thousand (which is twenty-five cents) but I’ll pay more as long as we don’t capsize, now I’ve seem the precariousness of the operation. I arrive safe and dry on the other a few minutes later and go to give the boat guy a one thousand note. He refuses it, stating he wants more. He doesn’t speak English but a little kid translates and tells me to give ten thousand. “No bloody way, you said one thousand” I direct this at the little kid. “Don’t shout at me I’m just give you the message”. I apologise to the little kid and smile and wink and luckily he smiles back. I go to give the boat guy the one thousand note again, but he shuns it. “Oh well” I put the money back in my top pocket and turn around and start to leave. At this the crowd of on lookers bursts out laughing. I’ve totally humiliated the boat guy, but am sick to death of people going back on agreed prices. He scurries up to me and I give him the one thousand. The swamp has disappeared but more villages have turned up. I cycle along looking for a suitable place to camp. I pass one village and hear a shout “Mzungu, Mzungu come over here” I cycle on a bit but then realise this would be a good place to camp. If they’re friendly already they shouldn’t have a problem with me putting up my tent. I push up the track to the village and am greeted by several men. They’re friendly if not a bit drunk. I ask to camp and one shows me where to put the tent. He’s all over me trying to hell but being of no use. A guy comes over and says he’s the head man, but he seems very weird or very drunk or both. I ask if its okay to camp but he just reply’s by asking me my occupation. Once the tent is up the guy who “helped” asks me for money. I look towards the head man thinking if I should pay anybody then it should be the head man. He just stares back blankly. I thank them for letting me camp and give the head man some money, he gestures to give it to the “helper” I do and they all walk off. I look around the village. Its in a bad way, all the men appear to be drinking and a few dirty kids run around. There’s very few women around. Its just not a nice place. It was such a bad decision to camp here. I can’t believe I didn’t suss the village out before I asked. I’m genuinely worried about my stuff and am annoyed at myself for such a bad decision. I start to cook and a few drunk men come over, they are annoying but not aggressive. The head man walk over and tells them to leave me alone. I’m glad he’s intervened. I try to make small talk and ask how many children he has. “Seven, but two died” he says before walking off. Its already dark and I climb into the tent and fall straight to sleep. I wake up a while later unsure of how long I’ve been sleeping for. I can hear voices outside the tent and hear a hello, hello. Then I hear a voice in English “Let him sleep, let him sleep”. The voice sounds sober and obviously has authority. I hear the other voices fade away. I fall straight back to sleep.

The following morning I’m greeted by another middle-aged man. He tells me he’s the head man of the village but was away yesterday and wasn’t back till later. “They wanted to wake you up to see me, I realised you would be very tired from cycling so its was best that you slept”. He’s a nice guy and I thank him without telling him that the voices woke me up. I pack up and head off remembering to pick my choice of villages more wisely.

I’m in Isoka by lunch time and find a cheap hotel and go and eat more chicken and chips. The next morning I’m on the main highway heading up a few kilometres before pulling off down a dirt path which I know will be dirt for days and days and days. Within minutes the scenery’s beautiful. It’s like it’s kept itself hidden from the main road. The scrub bush has been replaced by lush greenery. Hills have appeared and the road winds up and down thought the hills and dark blue sky’s. I push on and on through small and infrequent villages, down rough dirt tracks which twist and turn with the hills. The roads are getting steeper and the gentle up hills are now turning into big climbs. I’m pushing Harvey for the most of it and constantly turning back over my shoulder to stare out at the savannah as it gets bigger and bigger with altitude. To stand completely alone, away from noise, away from vehicles and buildings, away from friends and lovers, simply to be alone and to stare at the African savannah, its thickness, its intensity and its enormity gives a feeling like no other, a feeling of total physical insignificance but of heightened awareness, as if your senses are magnified, as if the savannahs deepness allows you to experience all emotions at the same time, its something that has the power to confuse, but to enlighten, to scare but to pacify and to change your perception of the world. And to stand there, completely alone, is surely one of the most joyous things a person can ever do.

I walk on and on pushing and pushing. I roll down slowly, sacred that if I get too much speed I’ll skid in the thick stones that I ply through. A vehicle heads towards me and slows down, the driver unwinds his window. The normal pleasantries take place and then I ask the question I ask two thousand times a day. “How far is Chama? “Oh, Chama let me see” he’s thinking. I can almost hear the cogs. “About twenty km’s” he says. I know that’s a lie as I’ve estimated about 50kms from what others have said. I thank him and watch his back wheels spin as he try’s to start the car on the steep gravely track. I bump down, relieved to see that after several attempts he finally manages to start. I’d only been able to find one map of Zambia and its awful. It doesn’t have a scale and the dots on the map are more suggestions of where places are than where they really are. I skid down and down, at a meagre walking pace and struggle up hill dragging Harvey with all my might. The day’s drawing in and I’m still crossing the mountains. It’s a beautiful place to be. All the things that I thought Africa would be like are here. The vastness, the emptiness, the lack of cars and people, the blue sky, the deep green of the vegetation covered mountains, and the peace that only Africa can give you.

I pass several villages along the road but there’s little about and I’m looking forward to camping in the bush and watching the sun set over the savannah. I’m pushing Harvey up a hill when I’m joined by two men. There both pushing their bicycles up the hill and I pass comments about how hard it is to cycle on such rough roads. They look at me like I’m some kind of weirdo, which to be fair I probably am. We push and push. We ride some flat bits and the odd down hill but soon were always back pushing together. I’m expecting them to disappear to a nearby village but nothing has appeared and when I ask where there going, they give a name I don’t know and a distance of “not far not far”. Were walking again and I realise its getting quite late, the sun is beginning to set and the mountains are turning into a deep deep green. They ask where I’m going to stay and I ask if its ok I sleep in “their” bush. The answer is 100% predictable. Of course I can’t sleep in the bush, I must come back and sleep in their village. I ask how far it is. Two kilometres I’m told. We walk and walk. Twenty minutes later I ask whether I can sleep here. There’s an area of long grass, flat enough to put the tent up and offering stunning views over the mountains. No I’m told, I must come to the village. I knew they’d say that, and I feel selfish for being ungrateful for the offer. I just want to appreciate the mountains, the scenery, but I realise its more than that, I just want to appreciate where am I now and to be completely alone. I put my selfish thoughts aside and walk with my new friends. We walk and walk, the sun has now changed the colour of the mountains, the vegetation and it seems of the air to. We walk and walk. The road is in far too bad a state for my new friends to attempt to cycle their single speed steel Chinese bikes. We cycle for a bit and pass a village I stop and point but they shake their heads and we continue. The two kilometres I was told has more than doubled but were back walking and I’ve relaxed into the situation. Every time I turn my head I see the most unbelievable view. It’s the sort of picture you see in magazines, colours you’ve never seen before, shades you didn’t know excised and a feeling of peace that only that can give you. I’d like to take a photo, but I won’t take out my camera in front of my knew friends. To show such wealth seems insensitive, arrogant and rude. We keep walking and walking. A thought comes to mind, why cycle when you can walk? This walk appears to be the calmest thing I’ve done in ages. We all walk, myself in my new blissed-out state. The light has almost disappeared and by the time were ready to get back on the bikes its dark. My new friends connect there dynamo lights and we start to cycle. Its steep and I can barely see a thing. I’d thought about getting my head torch out but didn’t want to show my new friends my flashy western gadgets. Their lights are good and give them more than enough light to see the track. I follow close behind it almost total darkness. We finally arrive in the village. What they had said was two kilometres has been an hour and a half journey. They chat away to someone in the village who then tells me I can put my tent up next to his shop. My new friends disappear into the darkness. I try to thank them but they almost seem embarrassed by it. I guess what they’re doing, in their minds, is what any normal person would do. My new shop keeper friend shows me where to put up the tent. He collects some sticks and starts a fire. With the fire lit and my dinner cooking we sit and chat around the fire. I offer him some of my pasta and to my surprise he accepts. Another man has joined us and I offer some to him as well. He accepts to, and although I really don’t care about my food my cooking pot is only big enough for one and without a huge meal, I’ll be tired and hungry tomorrow. I cook my pasta, squeeze by sachet of tomato paste onto it, grate sweaty cheese over the top, grind an unfeasible amount of black pepper over it and stir in for a quality meal. I divide about one third of my meal between the two of them and we sit and eat. Luckily its too dark for them to realise I’ve got a much bigger portion. They both look disappointed and smile as I finish my meal still hungry. They don’t finish their portions and say they want to share it with their families, which I only half believe because their faces have the look of, “This is bloody awful, how can anyone eat this shit”. “Its okay we’ll give it to the chickens when he’s not looking”. I climb into bed and sleep, sleep, sleep.

The next morning I can see where I am. The village is big. The shop I’m camped next to is in a prime position on the main road, but the main road is a dirt track which would be lucky to see a vehicle a day. I make myself and the shop keeper a coffee. I take a look inside the shop thinking a might be able to pick something up for the journey, but there’s nothing. A few second hand grotty looking shirts, some razor blades, the odd comb and some dusty bars of soap. The shop keeper asks for the pasta and I give him the rest of my bag and explain how to cook it. It doesn’t really bother me but I feel like its almost like he had to ask me for something.

The sky’s clear the road has flattened out and I’m moving along at a good speed. No vehicles have passed all day which is sheer joy. I pull into a one street town mid afternoon, its not on my shitty map so it’s a nice surprise and is the biggest place I’ve seen in ages. I pull up to the shop and walk in. There’s a fat woman singing and dancing inside. She’s wearing the bright and colourful clothes of the stereotypical Africa of which I rarely seem to see. She’s laughing with the shop keeper and stops to talk to me. I ask her about accommodation. She tells me the shops is also guesthouse. I’m taken around the back and show a room so small the red cross would surely condemn it if it were a prison cell. I thank her and she tells me if I’m hungry I must come to dinner at her restaurant tonight. She points across the street, “Wise Beginnings Restaurant”, I see the sign. I tell her I’ll be over at 7pm. I have a bucket shower and put on some vaguely clean clothes and wander over. She slaps her thigh and then her chest to ask what part of the chicken I want to eat. I choose the leg and she dumps it and some cold and congealed rice on a plastic plate. “We Africans, we do not know how to cook rice”. Never a truer word spoken I think. We chat over my dinner. I ask about the restaurants name. “Its because I am the only wise person around” she says. Slightly egotistical but she does seem pretty smart. We chat and she goes on to tell me a story. It’s a bit weird and I can’t quiet follow but she tells me about someone in the village who dies and leaves a six week old baby. The father brings the baby to me she says. “Because I am wise”. But the baby dies she tells me. I ask why the father couldn’t look after the baby, but she looks at me as if this is a stupid question. Her English is perfect so there’s no language barrier to distort the story I just don’t get it. I ask again why the baby dies but she just says because it didn’t have its mother. I’m guessing because it wasn’t breast fed, but babies survive at home who aren’t breast fed. I let it go and finish my dodgy chicken and congealed rice. I pay her $2.50 for the meal. Its an extortionate price seeing as I’m in the middle of nowhere, but Zambia seems to be the worse value for money country I’ve ever been to. I tell her I’ll be back for breakfast.

I force down an omelette with more congealed rice for breakfast as she tells me more reasons why she is the only wise person in the village. I’m just about to head thought the national park and I’m warned about elephants. “Lions” I ask. “No lions” I’m told. With my belly full I set off. I pass a football field and some more huts but as soon as the village ends the forest begins. Its nice to ride in the cool of the trees. A see some elephant shit on the track but no elephants. I ride all morning still covered by the cool of the trees. I stop and stare up at the sky. I love looking up through the branches of trees into the deep blue sky, its something that never fails to move me. I push on down the dirt track. I haven’t seen a single person or vehicle all day.

I feel something on my back itching me and go to scratch it but it stays and is joined by more itching. I realise I’m getting bitten by something. I cycle on thinking I can out run the fly’s but can still feel my back being bitten through my t-shirt. I stop to swipe them away but as soon as I stop I hear an enormous buzzing sound all around me. I’m in the middle of a swarm of tsetse flies, I swipe frantically and rub my hands all over my body trying to remove the flies. It feels like I’m being pierced by a thousand little needles. I’m starting to panic and jump back on Harvey and start to cycle. I’m standing up pushing the pedals as hard as I can. I try to out run the flies, but they easily keep up and are still biting me. I stop again and grab a long sleeve shirt out of my pannier. I button it up and put the collar up, trying to protect my face. A hurriedly pull some trousers and grab some long socks so I can tuck my trousers into them. I start to cycle again. I’m going as fast as I and at twelve miles per hour can just about keep the flies from being in my face. I slow down but as soon as I go any slower the flies are buzzing all around my face. I’m panicking and cycling as fast as possible. I can see the shadow of the swarm of flies reflected on the dirt red road. The flies are all over the panniers, just sitting there riding along. I can feel them constantly biting through my socks. The rest of my clothes seem too thick to bite through, but my thin socks are an easy target and I try to swipe the flies off as I feel the tiny needles pushing through. I keep riding as fast as possible just hoping that I’m not going to be faced with a serious uphill. The flies are diminishing but there’s still enough around to seriously disrupt me. I scared that the entire area will be like this. I’ve hundreds of kilometres to go before I’m out of the bush. I had been warmed about tsetse flies in this area, I just didn’t think they would be that bad. I’m starting to leave the forest and am hopeful of human settlement nearby, but there’s nothing. I know that as soon as I see a village there will be no tsetse flies as no one would ever, or could ever live in an area with lots of tsetse flies. I see some huts, but then notice they’ve been abandoned. There’s more abounded huts along the track and I can still hear the buzzing from a few hardcore tsetse flies that have managed to keep up. I stop to see if how many flies are still around, but easy start to cycle again as they attack my face. Please, please let a village appear, I’m thinking, as soon as a village appears there will be no flies. I see a man on the track and stop. I realise then that the flies I have around me I’ve brought from the forest. I ask the man about tsetse flies and he says there are none here. I’m seriously relived and feel guilty as one my hitchhikers bites him on the leg. I cycle on swiping at the few remaining flies.

Crops appear in the fields and a few kilometres later a small settlement appears. There’s a large barn and bails of a crops all wrapped in cotton. I pull up under a tree. There’s a bunch of people sitting about. Two fat guys are sat on empty coke crates, playing draughts with bottle tops. One offers me a warm coke from the crate he’s sitting on. We chat and I complain about the tsetse flies. Someone gets bit by one of my hitchhikers and everyone laughs. I’m glad to be out of the forest I really had started to worry that the tsetse flies would carry on for hundreds of miles. I drink another warm coke and chat to the fat guy. He’s a tobacco trader, the stuff in the barn and all the bails are tobacco. He’s from Lundazi a town a hundred or so kilometres from here. I ask about testee flies. “Finish” I’m told. “Just elephants and lions”. They all laugh accept me.
“Are there elephants and lions” I ask.
“There are elephants where you just came from”
“Is it dangerous?” I ask. But everyone is laughing and I don’t get a proper response. Just the word “Lions” makes me shudder a little. Where I am? He says the other side of the road is Malawi. I ask about Chama? Fifty kilometres I’m told. I was told twenty kilometres two days and about hundred and fifty kilometres ago. My map makes no sense and out distances are important to me than ever. I trust his judgement. He’s drives a truck, drives around the area, probably knows the distances. I push off hopefully to get to Chama to stock up on food.

Hours later and Chama is still far away. I haven’t seen a vehicle all day and its really is Africa at its best. But I can’t get “Lions and elephants” out of my head. I encountered the elephant in Uganda and it was by far one of the best moments of the trip, my life even. But now I’m being warned about them has put a different perspective on it. The Africa of BBC documentaries is rarely seen. In neighbouring countries the national parks seem so far away from the dirty towns and villages that make up the majority of the country. But out here in Zambia is it different. With only ten million people the villages haven’t turned into towns, and the expanses of Africa bush seems a lot less tamed. I’d planned camping in the bush tonight, but now the thought of lions has made me rather nervous about it. I think Chama is near but with directions ranging from ten to a hundred kilometres I can’t be sure. The suns going down and there’s plenty of bush around for camping but I’m nervous. I keep making up excuses to myself about why a certain spot isn’t suitable to camp on. I cycle on hoping to maybe find a village and sleep there. I’m cycling hard and fast and telling myself there are no lions, there are no lions. There are no lions. The suns almost down and the days been long. I come to a fork in the road. There’s two guys lying around. I ask the direction to Chama and the distance.
“Only twenty kilometres, you can make it”.
I’ve done at least sixty since being told it was only fifty and its almost dark.
“I can’t make it, I can barely stand” I tell them. I ask them what they’re doing there. Waiting for a lift I’m told. How long have you been here?
“Two days!”. They’ve got a fire going and are settling in for the night. They invite to camp with them and I take up the offer. I’m still thinking - Two Days! Sitting on the side of the road, sleeping in the dirt for two days! At home people can’t stand being kept waiting for two minutes. Didn’t someone once say to me “You westerners you all have a watch but no time”. A horrible cliché but I guess its true. They invite me to stay with them.
“Very safe, very safe” he keeps saying.
“No-one will get you here”
“Good” I smile. The fact that there no one here and a vehicle hasn’t passed in two days should make it pretty safe shouldn’t it? I sit down and warm my hands over the fire but then suddenly a truck pulls up, and within seconds my knew friends have jumped on and I’m left all alone. I see a collection of huts in a maze field across from the junction. I decide to go and ask them if I can camp there. I walk and speak to teenage boy. No problem, he points to the other side of the maze field by the road and I put up my tent. I walk over the road and cook my dinner on the fire the guys left. I’m sitting on a log next to my tent after dinner when two people walk out of the darkness. Police I’m told. I can’t camp here as it might be dangerous for me and I must come with them to the police station to sleep there. Police stations! Bad people! Where the hell are all these things? I’ve seen one vehicle all day and that was only a few minutes ago. Luckily I manage to plead with the policeman to stay put. He agrees and I climb into bed. Its sweet of people to look after me if not some times a little annoying.




I finally arrive in Chama early the next morning but as I’m learning with Zambia the “Mayor Town” dot on the map doesn’t acquaint too much. I hadn’t hoped for much this dusty outpost of few huts and a lot of sand is less than expected. People swat in the shade of a few crumbling buildings and just about arise to stare at me. ‘Cold drink?” I ask. A man points me down a side street. I find the place and quickly slurp down a couple of Fanta’s. I walk around the small market and buy fruit, but when I ask about bread nobody seems to know. I’ve been living off bread rolls and would be quiet lost without them. It’s the only available source of carbohydrate which doesn’t need cooking. I find nothing. I go back to Harvey where I’d left him outside the cold drink stop. In a place this small I wouldn’t worry about thief, but when I return my hat is missing. I’d left it on my seat, like I do everyday and have done for last two years. I look around to see if it fell off when I was wheeling my bike around, but see nothing. I’m mad. Mad at the theft, Mad at myself for leaving my hat on my bike. I walk around frantically looking for it but see nothing. I loved that hat. I bought it in Turkey when I realised that a bicycle helmet was no use for keeping the sun off your head. I’d bough towel and got someone to sew it into the inside of the hat to soak up all my sweat. I’d developed a relationship with it where it was more of a good friend than a simple object.

I leave town with fruit and lots and lots biscuits. I not happy about my losing my hat and my helmet seems more uncomfortable than ever. The roads largely made of sand, its slow going and I’m little progress. My mood isn’t good, the road isn’t good and I’ve got “Some bastard stole my hat” going over and over in my head. I truck pulls up and asks where I’m going. “Chikwa” I say. I ask how far and there’s a small discussion about the distance. Thirty kilometres.
“Be careful with Elephants”.
“Are there Elephants?”
“Yes, but you will be fine”.
I don’t feel fine though, I feel quiet scared

This the Africa I wanted. This is the Africa of my dreams. This is the Africa of adventure, and everything I wanted is here, including my own fear. I’m worried that as I get deeper and deeper into the bush there’s no turning round. If the are really animals around I have to deal with it. I’ve seen two vehicles in two days so the chances of a lift are thin. I continue through the sand road. Fear and frustration are getting to me. I’m a bit worried I haven’t enough food for the journey. I’ve reckoned it would take me two nights and three days to reach Mfuwe, the gateway town to the South Luangwa National Park. But with roads like this progress is going to be a lot slower than expected. I skid in the sand, again and again. My helmet is no protection from the sun, sweat pours down my face and my cheeks burn. I get some speed up on a rare smooth bit but suddenly hit deep sand and am thrown from the bike. I’m unhurt as the sand does at least offer a soft landing. I take off my helmet but the strap gets caught up with my shades and snaps not just the arm of my glasses but the casing around the lens as well. FUCK. FUCK. FUCK. Great! Now I have no hat or shades.

More sand, more crashes and less patience. I’m too exhausted and frustrated by the sand to worry about elephants. If I did see one I’d probably just tell it to get the fuck out of the way. I crash again and rip my helmet off and throw it into the bush. I lie there for a few minutes staring at the sky. I get up and brush myself off. Something catches my eye and as I look up I see a two metre snake weave its way across the road about ten metres in front of me. Its yellow and by far the biggest snake I’ve ever seen. I take a deep breath climb back on Harvey and cycle on, leaving my helmet somewhere in the great Zambian bush.

More sand, more sand and more sand. But tracks have appeared running parallel to the road to cycle on. They wind through the trees and I clip branches as I pass though. I meet three other cyclist on the track and we cycle together for an hour or two. They ask for biscuits and I lie and feel bad and say I don’t have any. They tell me there is a guest house in the village and I can stay there.

I arrive in the village late that afternoon, hatless, helmetless and with broken shades. It’s a big village, but nothing more than village. I see no signs of a market or any businesses. I’m pointed to only brick building in the place. I cycle up and see a group of people sitting around, it seem like some kind of event is happening. There smartly dressed and all look like the village elite. I big middle aged guy comes over and introduces himself as Matthew. He tells me he’s a school teacher in the village and tonight they are having a regional meeting. The brick house is indeed a guesthouse that belongs to the school, but as there is a meeting on tonight the rooms are full. I tell Matthew I’ll camp, as there’s more than ample room for my tent. The headmaster has since come over and a discussion about my accommodation has started. My pleads to camp are quashed as I’m told its too dangerous. I ask several times why its too dangerous. Animals? People? But I don’t really get a straight answer.

Matthew organises some water for me to wash. There’s a circular wooden washroom in the court yard of the guesthouse and I head over. To my amazement the water is hot and there’s a large bucket of it. The only thing I don’t understand it how your suppose to get the water over you, soap up and rinse off. I’ve never in Africa encountered a pan or bucket to use to pour water over yourself like in Asia and India. I normally use my cup but have left on Harvey so have to scoop up the water with my hands. The lack of bucket or pan in such washrooms is in my opinion one of the wonders of Africa. I’m clean and when I emerge from the washroom, dinner is being served and I’m invited over. I sit next to Matthew as huge piles of nshima and small bowls of chicken are brought out. Everyone pulls off huge piles of nshima and scoffs it down. I’m trying to be polite so only take a little, but within minutes every ones finished and the bowls are cleared away. I’m still hungry and will remember in the future to be less polite. Myself and Matthew chat after dinner. He’s a really nice guy with a wicked sense of humour. He tells me he’s from Lundazi and has four children. He been based in the village for two years now and likes the quiet life.
“You must miss your wife and family?” I ask.
“Well yes yes. Well no, no not really” We both burst into laughter at this.
“Well I have been married for over twenty years. When your first together you want to spend all your time together, and you think about them all the time. And as the years go by its not quite like this. So no I don’t really miss my wife or my children.” I’m still laughing. Its not often I hear an African make a joke like this. He’s not being misogynistic, just honest. We talk about animals. Yes he says there are lions and elephants around here. Elephants are the more dangerous but I will be fine. I won’t see any. He shrugs off any notion of risk and continues to tell me I’ll be fine. Matthew’s a nice guy I really like him, he’s friendly and honest and I trust his judgement. Twilight has settled in and the headmaster comes over to show me my room. We walk back over to the school together. He shows me a store cupboard which he’s put a mattress on the floor. Its really kind of him. He wishes me good night and I sit in candle lit room staring around. There’s lots of boxes and some piles of books on the shelves. There’s a lot of cobwebs about and I dread to think about the amount of insects in the room. I hear a mozie buzz past, then another and another. In my tent I’m safe from mozies and the disease they carry. I cover my hands and neck and face with repellent, cover myself with my sheet and fall straight to sleep.

I’m up early the next morning after a surprisingly good sleep. I’m sitting on the step of the store room drinking coffee when one of the elders from last nights meeting comes over. He’s wearing flared cords, a old t-shirt and a blue pin striped jacket. We chat away and he tells me he’s a retired policeman. I think he looks a lot more like an indie rock star than a copper. He asks whether I’m stared of lions. Of course I’m sacred of lions, I’m shitting myself about lions but everyone says I’ll be fine.
“Two people were eaten by lions…” I don’t catch the end of the sentence.
“When. Last year?” I ask.
“No, no. Last month” My heart misses a beat. Matthew turns up.
“Are there Lions? Is it dangerous” There’s a panic in my voice as I direct this at Matthew.
“No, no it is fine” I tell him that the policeman/indie rock star has told me two people were eaten by lions last month. They chat away in the local language. Matthews face drops a little bit, but then he turns to me and says “Yes, but they were not on a bicycle!” I’m suddenly really really scared.

We chat and he reassures me I’ll be fine. The lions only come out at dawn and dusk and I’m told during the day I’ll be fine. I set off a little more than apprehensive. The roads the same as the previous day, but luckily there’s more tracks running parallel to it which avoid some of the worse sand patches. I’m seriously scared of animals though and can’t get this out of my head. The bush is so thick I could be only metres away from elephants or lions and not see them. But I take Matthews advice on board and realise that these people have lived for thousands and thousands of years with the animals and if it was that bad they simply wouldn’t exist here. The road is running parallel to the North Luangwa National Park but I try think that the animals know their place and will firmly stay in the park, at least for the next few days. I push thoughts of the animals out of my head. I do think about turning around but I’m so far out in the bush it would be days and days and days along the same roads to get back to the main road.

I arrive in a village at lunch time. It’s a big place similar to where I’d spent last night, but still with very little. I soon have twenty kids stood around me staring. I take out my water bottles, gesture with my hands that I need drinking water and a little kid grabs my bottles and runs off. I bitch and moan about Africa, but I’ve never been refused water. If there’s a queue at the well I’m always pushed to the front, and often not even allowed to pump. The kid comes back with full bottles. I ask about lions but get blank looks. I walk through the village a little unsure of what to do. Further on there’s a large building and people milling about. I see a guy in a green uniform and ask for advice.
“The road to Chifunda, are there animals? Is it dangerous?”
“Yes, yes, many animals, very dangerous, very dangerous”. My heart sinks.
“If I cycle this afternoon will I be safe”
“Yes, yes, very safe, very safe”
I think I’ll get a second opinion. There’s more people around and it seems a large meeting is taking place. I ask a another group of men who tell me not to cycle this afternoon as after 4pm it could be dangerous. I’m more than welcome to camp in the village and if a leave in the morning I’ll be fine. I’m glad of there honesty and for the first time all day I feel secure.

“Come, come” I told. I’m taken behind the building where a meeting is taking place. A chairs pulled out and I sit down and feel uncomfortable as everyone stares at me. Within a few minutes the meetings adjourned and its time for lunch. I’m taken away from main group and into a small hut. There’s two village elders sitting on straw mats on the floor. I realise then that I’m to eat with the top brass away from the others. I feel a little uncomfortable with this. Foods brought in and water to wash our hands with.
“You don’t say grace?” They take me by surprise.
“Err yes, but just in my head” Well saved I think. We all put our heads down and I say to myself “Dear God, Please ignore previous misdemeanours and don’t let me get eaten by lions”. “Amen”. I say that out loud. They give me the best bits of the chicken and I don’t make last nights mistake and pull a large piece of nshima off the communal plate. It still takes me twice as long to eat as them but I’m really really grateful for the meal.

They’re found me a ride, of sorts. Three of the men in the meeting are cycling back to Chifunda this afternoon and I can go with them. It may not have been safe for me to go alone but apparently I’ll be quite safe with them. Its about a forty kilometre ride which takes us all afternoon. We see elephant shit on the road but nothing else. Is a good ride. The guys pull out sweet sorghum from the side of the road and chew it all up within minutes. It’s much like sugar cane but thinner, but still takes me ages to eat. We wade through shallow rivers and I’m grateful to have help pushing Harvey up the steep sand banks.

We arrive in the Chifunda in the late afternoon. I’m taken to see a young guy. He’s well dressed and lives in the only brick built house in the village. David tells me he works for the Zambian National Park service. I ask about camping but he tells me lions wander through the village at night and I am not safe in the tent. I argue the point knowing that a lion (so I’ve been told) will never try to rip through a tent, but I’m laughed at. I’m to sleep in his brothers hut. There’s no mattress just a dirt floor. Apart from the discomfort I don’t like the mozies, so I put my tent up inside the hut which luckily doesn’t feel rude. I offer David some pasta. He asks what it is but turns his nose up when I show him the packet. We chat while I cook and he tells all about life in the bush. Yes there’s lots of lions and elephants around. David shows me his chicken coup. I lion broke into it a few weeks previous and ate all his chickens. He tells me people around here can’t keep goats as the lions will eat them. Elephants trample the crops and life is very difficult. It’s the first place I’ve been in Africa where people live so close to the animals. There’s safari lodges a hundred or so kilometres to the south but David feels that the revenue isn’t spread well throughout the communities which live here. He tells me some people in the village have to rely on food aid for part of the year. “And it is not because people are lazy”. He says this several times. “We want to grow rice but rice it likes water too much”. Whether its a lack of water or just no irrigation I’m not sure. He tells me that people were encouraged to grow cotton. “They said these cash crops would be better for us” But he goes on to say that the price of cotton dropped and people are angry. “You cannot eat cotton” He says. Its not safe to sit outside at night even in the moonlight so we head to bed early. In the morning David shows me the lions foot prints just outside the hut where I slept.

I cycle on and on. It’s the same track. Same sand, same bush and same fear of animals as the last few days. I wade through shallow rivers and drag Harvey up steep sand banks. I’m worried about food. I only have a few stale bread rolls left and a few packets of biscuits. I’ve my pasta but that’s too difficult to cook during the day and takes too much water. I eat my stale rolls with the last of my peanut butter and hope I can find more food along the way. I arrive at a big village at lunch time. There’s suddenly a wide graded road and some brick built buildings about. It looks hopeful that it may have a shop and hopefully food. I stop under a tree and a lady comes over. We chat and I ask about a shop to buy food. “If you need food I can make for you”. The words are magic to hear. Being in a place where food is in such short supply I would never feel comfortable to ask a villager whether I could buy food from them. The situation here with food is very fragile and although I could offer good money for it, what good is money when there is nowhere for hundreds of kilometres to spend it? I take up the offer and Maggie invites me over. I ask if I can give her some money. “That is how you people see it. But no it is not necessary”. I’m a bit offended by her comments, but very grateful for the meal. There’s a couple of huge pots over a fire and she appears to be cooking for the whole village. There’s ten or so kids standing around staring at me and a few other women sitting about. She starts to chat. She tells me she’s a court clerk. She points to an old brick building across the street. “That is the court house”. There’s a tree growing through it.
“When I arrived in the village the men were not happy at a women working in the court. They refused to work with me. But now it is different.”
“They have accepted you”
“Almost. But men in Africa, very lazy, very very lazy. Men in Africa like beer too much”. I agree. You may have no access to food, clean water or medicine but you can normally buy a beer.
“My husband is dead. He drank too much. One day someone comes to get me and tells me he dies in the bar. Us African women, we need to be strong. And slowly slowly it will happen. The women in the village I tell them things, they listen to the radio, things will change”. She serves up a fish stew with nshima. I ask about lions. “Elephants, elephants. Lions will not hurt you, but elephants very very dangerous. Many people die because of elephants.” She tells me not to cycle this afternoon and to camp at the entrance of the national park about one kilometre away. I thank her for lunch and head for the Luambe National Park.

The guards at the gate are friendly and tell me to cycle tomorrow after 8am and I’ll be fine. I’m given another hut to put my tent up in and pass the afternoon talking to Sonkwe. He moved to here from Lusaka with his wife and young baby. He talks about the national park and poaching and the difference between city life and here. I ask about the state of the road. He says it good. Its been graded he tells me. I breath a large sign of relief. I ask several times to see if a get a different answer, but each time I’m told its been graded and it’s a good road. I have to get to Mfwue tomorrow. I have enough pasta for tonight’s dinner and only three packets of biscuits to last me all day tomorrow. The afternoon passes by slowly in the shade of the trees. The children from the camp hide behind huts to stare at me and soon run off when I look at them. You can always tell how common the sight of a mzungu is by the reaction of the children. If there common place the kids will ignore you. If you’re a rarity they’ll stand three metres away and stare, but if they’ve never seen a mzungu before they’ll run and hide.

I cook dinner on the fire with Sonkwe’s wife. I’m finding it difficult to regulate the flames. “I’m no good at this” I say to her. To my surprise she responds in English. “Neither am I. Life here is very difficult. My father is a policeman and my mother a teacher.” I’m guessing this is her way of saying that she’s middle class and used to cooking on a gas stove. “Life here is very boring”. I just smile.

I’m just about to go to bed when the head ranger comes back. To say he’s completely shit faced would be an understatement. He sits down around the fire with me and Sonkwe.
“It will cost you thirty thousand Kwacha to camp and twenty for hire of pots and pans and the fire”. I look at Sonkwe with a “Is this guy a fucking arse hole or what” look on my face. Sonkwe just looks embarrassed.
“But I used my own pots and pans” I tell him.
”What about fire, what about fire?” He leers at me.
“For thirty thousand kwacha I can get a room with a TV and on-suite bathroom”. I’m biting my tongue. “That what it costs”. He’s drunk, greedy and an arse hole.
“Okay I’ll pay but I need a receipt for this”.
“We have run out of receipts and are waiting for some more”
Another guy turns up, who is so pissed he actually makes Mr arse hole seem relatively sober. “Mzungu, mzungu”, He keeps shaking my hand and trying to hug me. His wife appears. “My wife” he points. She’s standing there with her arms folded looking very disapproving of him. “You must be very proud” I direct her. I get up and go to bed.

Its the next morning and I’m hoping the head guard will have forgotten his drunken ramblings. He’s sheepish, but I’m friendly and shake he hand and try to look like we never had an argument. I pack up and am ready to leave. I ask Mr Arse Hole about money.
“Yes, its thirty thousand kwacha to camp”
“But this isn’t even a proper campsite, and anyway I need a receipt”
“We have no receipts, they will arrive in a few days”
“Okay I pay in Mfwue”
“But how do I know you pay in Mwfue”
“You can trust me”
“No, no you must pay here, its very important”. He’s starting to look pissed off and disappointed that he won’t get his money.
“But I need a receipt”. I being purposely difficult
“We will get new receipt book next week but for now you must pay here”
“There are no receipts as this is far from a proper campsite, so don’t lie to me.” He just smiles.
“You must share this money with everybody here.” He can see the note in my hand and nod’s.
“Everyone here, okay”. He almost looks like he’s being told off. I hand him a Fifty thousand Kwacha note (US$12). It a massive amount of money but I have no smaller notes. It could be a month salary or more, and I can think of nicer people I’d of given the money to. I reiterate the sharing of the cash and push off.

The road has been graded and its super smooth clay which is heaven. I am quite panicky about animals but the guards were more than sure by this time they were all asleep far away from he road. The Luambe park is beautiful. The shrub bush is much the same as the last few days cycling but seems wilder and less tame. I ride for a few kilometres on the smooth road. All my senses are alert, I constantly thinking about what I would do if I come face to face with a lion. I’ve been told to just stand there and retreat slowly. I decided a few day as ago that if faced with an animal I would grab a big stick, rip my shirt off my back and tie it around the end, grab my fuel bottle and pour petrol over the end of the shirt, then light it. I reckon it would make quiet a good weapon, if it wasn’t for the fact that I may of already been attached by the time I’d found a decent stick, let alone managed to get my shirt off only to then have to fumble around in my bag for a lighter. I pull into a large clearing. Its nice to see distance, the first in days. I hear a vehicle and to my amazement a safari jeep full of tourists pulls up. The drivers German and looks at me with a “What the hell are you doing here” look. I ask distances and am told eighty kilometres.
“You do know that there are lions and elephants around here?”
“Yes but its okay around this time isn’t it?” He doesn’t look 100% sure.
“Yes probably, but be careful I don’t want to be scrapping you up”
He drives off and I panic. What the fuck am I doing? What the fuck am I doing? To hear its dangerous off a European seems so much more real than from an African. Is that racist? Should I feel bad about it? I’m regularly told that thinks are dangerous or too difficult when there not. I’m constantly told that thinks are too far when they ten kilometres or very near when there fifty km’s. After so long in Africa its like I don’t really believe what people say anymore. Like I just believe what I want to believe. I’m suddenly very very sacred. More scared than I ever have been. I try to rationalise. If it really was that dangerous he’d of insisted I took a lift with him.

I cycle on. The road turns to shit. It has been smooth but has been broken up in the wet season by elephants and hippo’s and then dried in the sun. Its like cycling on a concrete road which has been smashed up with a jack hammer. I can barley cycle. I get off and push but that’s hard to. “You’re a fucking city kid, how can you say this is a good road? How can you say this is a good road?” I’m shouting into the wind. “Sonkwe you’re a fucking city kid, have you even been here”. Tears are in my eyes as I shout into the bush. I push Harvey over the bumpy road. I scared, tired and frustrated. I’ve eaten two packets of biscuits all morning and I’m running on adrenaline. Its getting hot at ten am which makes the pushing hard but at least makes me think that the animals will definitely be asleep by now. I sit under a tree in the shade. I really really want a cigarette. Just something to ease the fear that’s running through my body. More tears come into my eyes. I feel stupid for putting myself in such a vulnerable position. I get up and carry on although I’m not sure how. The roads a little better, less concrete like but more sand. I head down a steep bank and wade through a few metres of muddy waters at the corner of a large pond. I have a good look around before dragging Harvey across. It seems the perfect place to see lions. Luckily I see nothing and carry on. I come across some National Park huts a few more kilometres down the road. It good to see human faces. They all tell me I’ll be fine. The roads a lot more sandy than I’d expected and its hard going. But I’m out of the official national park now so I feel better. The days long and I’m hungry. I eat my biscuits and now know I’ve no food till a get to Mfwue. I pass through another small section of national park. It’s a massive wide plane strenching to the horizon, I’d love to see some elephants in the distance but there’s only zebra’s and the occasional speeding warthog. I push on and on and on. I’m tired, hungry and have been worn out by too much adrenaline. The road turns to sand and I push and push for the better part of an hour. The days goes on and on and I can’t remember a longer days in months and months. Suddenly villages appear and lots of tracks with it. I follow a teenager on a bike who’s heading the same way. We both push through two rivers and more sand. And then as if out of nowhere a sealed road appears. I can’t believe it. I repetitively ask my teenage friend how far, how far. “Soon, soon” he says. I carry on and see the signs for the safari lodges. A few more miles and I finally arrive at Flatdogs campsite. I can barely stand. I go to put up my tent and see an elephant walking around the campsite. All that cycling, all those days of fearing animals, all that fucking effort and I finally see one just walking around the campsite!

I head to the bathroom and catch a look at myself in the mirror. I haven’t washed in days, my clothes are repulsive and I’m burnt by all the sun. I stagger into the bar and although I know I’m dehydrated and my lips are chapped and I should drink about ten litres of water with rehydration salts in, I order a cold beer and it tastes like one the best things I have ever tasted.

I spend a couple of days on the campsite recovering before heading for a long long day to Chipata. The road in a much worse state than I’d expected and what I thought would be an easy day turns out not to be. I arrive at my destination in the dark, to then be ripped off at an over priced campsite run by the Zimbabwean equivalent of a chav. The following day I’m on an asphalt road with trucks buzzing past me. Its easy but not the same. I’d loved my trip in the bush. I’d covered over a thousand kilometres on dirt tracks. I’d met some of the best people of the whole trip and been more scared than ever in my life. I love the simple beauty of life out there. Unhindered by everything human beings seem to strive for. But it’s a harsh life. People are poor, die of disease and struggle all there lives for basic needs. It seems that to have freedom from a material lifestyle and to live in a environmentally non destructive way you have to live in abject poverty. I reach the border post and I’m stamped out of Zambia.

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