38. Planes, Trains & Automobiles.

18.07.24 – 25.07.24 : Ngoma – Mbeya

I stared down in horrified disbelief, half wondering if this was the punchline of some cruel joke. Surely fate wouldn’t play such games. As reality sunk in, the wave of frustration that usually follows refused to swell. Instead, I floated calmly in the deep waters of sadness.

That morning, I’d set off to cover the final distance to Rwanda’s border with Tanzania. After the effort of the previous day's ride—an effort I’d hoped would drown the feelings of melancholy that arise in the wake of company—my legs were heavy, but they propelled me regardless, taking instruction from a far clearer mind than they had the day before. Onwards had been the right decision. The swarm of possibilities that buzz around your head as plans leap into flux tends to cloud your vision of the way forward. You find yourself blinded, unable to see beyond the inertia of indecision. But it’s surprising what a day of hard riding can do to recrystallise your focus, to reframe the distance ahead into hourly, daily, weekly, chunks. I’d plotted my line, my compass was set, now all I had to do was ride. And riding is the easy part. 

Especially jacked up on vitamins.

By lunchtime I’d zipped through the helpful Scalextric section of road that guides the return to right-hand drive, and re-entered Tanzania. The road quality immediately deteriorated and I began to appreciate just what a gift the smooth tarmac of Rwanda had been—when they hadn’t been in the process of ripping it up. Perhaps for future riders hailing from the border, this stretch of Tanzanian road will prove less of a jarring contrast, for it too was in the process of being ripped up. I let some air out of my tyres—determined to treat my new back wheel with Fabergéan delicacy—and floated along the scarred surface. Before long, my chain was squeaking in silt-soaked suffering so, once I’d escaped the roadworks, I pulled over to douse it in lubricant. As I set about refilling my tyres, my gaze settled on a dark line visible on the surface of the dust-caked rim. Surely not. My eyes scanned the rest of the rim and spotted another, then another. It couldn’t be. I dropped to my hands and knees, rubbing the dust furiously from the wheel, willing the lines to disappear with the dirt. But they remained. Its fate was sealed—the wheel was finished. I stared down. Reality sunk. The wave refused to swell. I floated. 

The sense of calm I felt was unusual. Perhaps it was because I couldn’t tell anyone about my predicament. Somehow, thanks to Sod and his legal precedent, I’d lost my Tanzanian SIM while all the others —now just a useless mosaic of coloured squares—remained. I’d only become aware of this fact once I’d snubbed the border’s touts and ridden long past the point of return. Communication was impossible, so the nightmare existed only in my own head. Being unable to share the news somehow preserved it beyond the realm of judgment. Maybe it would simply remain a bad dream until I spoke it into existence. Yet in the clear calm of this isolation, I felt far from frozen, in fact I had total omniscience. Three options sat before me, numbered boxes on a table. 

1. Go home. You did all you could. There’s no shame in calling stumps. You had the option to quit, and you chose to ride on. Now the decision’s beyond your control. 

2. Go back. Back to Kigali. Wait it out. Try sending the wheels again. Sure, you won’t be able to ride to Cape Town, you’d be on the bike til November. But what does that matter? Ride halfway; ride home; ride round and round the garden like a teddy bear. Plans can always change. 

3. Go on. Down to the next point, Lilongwe. Meet the wheels. Keep the momentum. You’ll get to Cape Town. Haul Madonna kicking and screaming into a truck. Brace yourselves to bump down the continent. South is the mission. The way is on.

Once I’d gathered myself, I bought a cigarette and lit it, drawing in the options, tasting, and exhaling them. I could see the ways forward, yes, but none of the paths struck me as particularly appealing. Going home felt impossible: a dark cloud on the horizon. What an anticlimax. How would I avoid slipping into a total pit of failure? Whatever story I told myself, whatever my rational veneer, the feeling of failure would run beneath the surface, like water beneath a frozen river. Going back felt equally gloomy. I’d be cutting the plumb line—that force that had been drawing me down the continent. I’d be thrust spinning into space without the grounding pull of gravity. And going on? This felt the toughest of all—like battling the forces of the universe. Besides the question of how to cover such ground with a bike—but without the familiar stroke of its pedals—how did I know that the wheels would even arrive? They hadn’t made it far last time, why would this time be any different? 

Still, I couldn’t very well stay here, by the side of an empty road in rural Tanzania, while I figured it out. So, with the sun low in the sky, I saddled up and rode gingerly on to the next town. There, I took a room in a cheap hotel and walked the streets in search of signal. An internet café came to my rescue and I phoned two of life’s ballasts for advice. Both were immensely practical, leaping immediately into action. My mum began to probe for Malawian contacts while Ellie delved into the bureaucratic web of UPS. I was still due a refund from the last failed shipment—something which, if it didn’t materialise, would rule out another attempt on the grounds of fiscal irresponsibility. 

By the morning, both had made progress. Ellie, after having firm Spanish words with UPS, had emerged victorious: a refund was on its way. Inroads had also been made by my mother, who’d pursued some contacts from days gone by. Cast your minds back to the porridge-fuelled fundraising of my fame-seeking youth, and you’ll remember that these efforts were made not only for a feature in First News, but also in support of a Malawian charity. Perhaps the same contacts may be able to help their aspiring poster boy nearly 15 years later. The progress on both fronts was promising enough to quell the morning’s burgeoning apathy, and I soon sprung into action myself.

After some forensic analysis of the route ahead, thanks to the satellite view of Google Maps, it seemed to me that the majority of roads through Western Tanzania were a rutted mess. This fact was confirmed by my digital network of African cycle tourers, who also revealed that the terrible roads, and their plodding progress, meant that trucks and lorries were scarce. It hardly seemed sensible to begin the thousand-kilometre journey based solely on the wishful thinking that one might just appear. As a result, I changed tack and soon found myself blessed with my first lift—a truck that was heading East. 

Safe as houses.

As I hauled myself into the cab and waited for the driver to join me, I marvelled at just how spacious it felt without my three hitching companions. At least there were some advantages to moving solo. This satisfaction was, however, short-lived. Before long, a young man clambered into the cab. He was then followed by an old woman, and her three bags. Then came a younger woman, who also had bags, and a baby. At this point, I began to imagine a snake of other passengers, queuing in pairs to board the ark. Thankfully, though, the baby shut the door behind them and we lurched into gear and off towards Kahama.

As we drove, I had a wonderful conversation with the young man. Allay might have been the baby’s father, but in this part of the world you can never be sure; as you know, it takes a village. He was fascinated by the fact that English footballers could play matches in the middle of the day. It was something he’d discussed at great length, while watching Premier League matches with his friends, and all agreed it was surely too hot. This brought us on to the concept of seasons—something that, beyond wet and dry, were a totally foreign concept to someone living near the equator. The subject of daylight soon followed, which, as you’ll remember, is punctual and predictable in Allay’s world. He was stunned by the revelation that daylight hours change in mine, and utterly baffled by the idea that, in yet further flung corners, the sun sometimes refuses to rise at all.

By the time we’d covered the complete syllabus of solar cycles and seasonal dynamics, our troupe had arrived in Kahama. Before Allay alighted, I asked him to facilitate a conversation between me and the driver so I could find out where he was ultimately heading. This bridge was necessary as my Swahili rarely ventured beyond asking the price of things, and the driver’s English rarely made it further than the topic of breasts—something which, despite its conversational prominence, still consisted mostly of mime. With the information obtained and relayed, I waved goodbye to Allay, and then helped unload the old woman’s belongings from the trailer. Piecing together the items as I passed them down—a sewing machine, mattress, table and chair—it struck me that I’d inadvertently entered the removals trade. Hitching your home a few hundred kilometres down the road is no mean feat. I can only hope she enjoys her new neck of the woods.

Luggage duty.

The information that Allay had been kind enough to provide revealed that the lorry’s final destination was Dar Es Salaam. This got me thinking. Despite being home to the best South Indian food outside of South India—the legendary Chowpatty’s; a haunt that provided more than half of my meals when I was last in Dar—I had a vague memory that a railway ran from Dar Es Salaam down to Lusaka, in Zambia. After some googling, this fact was confirmed, and after some more, I’d located a timetable for its weekly train. Allay had suggested that the journey to Dar might take three or four days, he couldn’t tell which. The trouble was, with three days, I could make the train, whereas with four, I’d miss it. At least I had the afternoon free to try and prise clearer information from the driver. 

We stopped at a lorry station on the outskirts of Kahama and, over lunch together at a local bar, I was told that we’d spend the night here before continuing tomorrow. Given it was midday, I’d wondered if the driver’s message had been lost in translation. However, when, after lunch, the driver ordered a bottle of a potent local spirit, dumped its contents in a large glass along with a top of the local energy drink, and proceeded to drain the concoction in several impressive gulps, I realised I’d heard crystal clear. After I’d posed for a picture with half of the local punters—with our shutterbug, the driver, swaying and staggering as he stretched to reach angles never before seen in the world of photography—I made my excuses and returned to the cab.

The best of the bunch. I suppose it’s artistic in some ways…

It was now 2pm, and there was no way the driver would be in a fit state to command a vehicle until morning, so I settled in for an 18-hour wait. Three hours in, just as I was nodding off, there was a knock at the cab’s door. I swung it open to reveal the driver, barely conscious, slung between two of his friends. After we’d bundled him into bed, I again made my excuses—which I’m afraid might’ve fallen on deaf ears—relieved Madonna of her bindings, and pedalled off into town. At 9pm that evening, a coach pulled out of Kahama bus station, Madonna safely loaded in its hold, and began the 20-hour journey to Dar Es Salaam. 

Jiggley.

The bus to Dar Es Salaam should really, in the interest of accuracy, be renamed the bus to 25-kilometres-outside-of Dar Es Salaam. I’m not sure the last time any of you sat down for 20 hours, but for those who are out of practice, the result is a complete deadening of the derrière. The very last thing you want to do when finally released from this infernal discomfort is to trade that chair for a thin and immensely hard sliver of saddle, and ride for 90 minutes through heaving traffic. It’s a shame I don’t make the rules. Still, there’s nothing a slap-up meal at Chowpatty’s can’t cure—a theory I clung to during my time in Dar. By the time it came to leave the city two days later, I’d managed to sneak in five separate sittings, something the serving staff found rather amusing. 

A Chowpattys morning: Masala Dosa.

The day of departure arrived and I rode out of town to the Tazara Railway Station—an overblown edifice on the outskirts of the capital. I’d arrived the day before to purchase my ticket: an anachronistic rectangle of thick cardboard, embossed with the details of my travel—Dar Es Salaam to Mbeya; 12:30pm; First Class. This would be the first time I’d travelled by train since Mauritania and I was taking no chances; I’m sure that anything would have been an improvement to the torturous ride of the Iron Train, but first class seemed a particularly safe bet. And the perks began well before the train. It appeared that first class also came with its own lounge—a small and mostly empty room that seemed to have once contained a bar, and might at some point have sported a door.

Luxury travel.

Inside, I met Bart Conrad, an American Eagle on the trip of a lifetime through Africa. We traded origin myths, before I asked if he might watch my bags. I’d spotted something downstairs that had piqued my interest and warranted investigation. While I’d been checking Madonna in as cargo—a process that involved weighing, pricing and releasing her into the hands of another man—I’d caught a glimpse of a bike. A closer look revealed a rack, mounts and a spare tyre: dead giveaways of a touring rig. So, after I’d entrusted my bags to Bart, I set off in search of its rider. 

Lorenz—a Swiss teenager also riding around Africa—sat waiting in the main hall. Having gone through the motions of a rather needless Where’s Wally—after all, we tourers aren’t too hard to spot—I welcomed him to join me and Bart in the waiting room. Time passed quickly in company, and we hardly noticed as the hour of our departure sailed by. By mid-afternoon, however, Bart—who was used to rather slicker operations—had become a little restless. A quick glance through the window showed the train sitting idly in the station. He was assured by the station staff that, once loaded, it would be leaving promptly. Cargo looked like it was making its way on board, albeit leisurely, so we settled back into conversation and let the hours tick on.

Evening falls in the First Class Lounge.

As darkness fell, we began to get peckish and Lorenz had the bright idea of ordering pizza, something that’s possible in the metropolis. Once that had arrived and been eaten—washed down with a beer sourced from a local bar by Bart—it was close to 9pm. By this time, restlessness had become the vogue, and a row had erupted in the main hall. In an attempt to appease the mob, the station staff announced that the train would not depart after 10pm—so not to worry: either it would be leaving shortly or not at all. 

At 10pm sharp, we boarded. Tazara’s rolling stock appeared to have not turned over since 1976, when it was first gifted by the Chinese. First class berths consisted of four bunk beds dressed in plastic sheets and itchy blankets. The extra £2.30 the tickets cost above second relieved its occupants of two additional companions, and allowed them to consume meals in the comfort of the cabin, not that a table is provided for such a task. But the food was good, the company was lively—I’d snagged a seat beside Bart—and, most importantly, the bar car was well out of earshot. 

Still, didn’t stop the occasional visit…

We travelled through a night, a day, and a night. I spent the day nestled in the lyrical prose of Leigh-Fermor’s travels through pre-war Europe, and slept through the nights with my head to the open window, lulled into a peaceful trance by the percussive progress of our procession. At some stations, we’d stop for an hour or more. I later learnt that the railway was the only ingress to many of these communities, and the bulk of the goods they consumed, beyond the food produced there, arrived with Tazara’s weekly service. Sacks of smoked tilapia, stacks of mattresses, and cages of bustling chickens were ferried on and off the carriages by another train of people. It was comforting to see that, here too, luggage duty struck a weekly beat. 

Sunset on the Tazara.

Our train reached Mbeya, its final stop in southern Tanzania, at 3am, after a 29-hour traverse of the country. We slept in the station’s First Class Lounge—eking out our perks for as long as possible—and woke a day’s ride from the Malawian border. Lorenz and I planned to ride on together to the border, leaving Bart to continue his journey of a lifetime. Unsurprisingly, on this continent of such inherent conviviality, it hadn’t taken me long to break beyond the bubble of isolation.