Cycling through Africa on a £60 bike called Tuborg
I have just reurned from cycling from the top of Europe to the bottom of Africa. Here is my story:
The average inhabitant of Arctic Norway is a hardy type. Perhaps this is not surprising given that only a couple of generations ago, during WW2, entire families spent a winter living in tents, after the retreating Germans torched all. I arrived in still snowy spring. Conditions were better suited for ice fishing than cycling, and the no nonsense locals were quick to point this out. So it was with great satisfaction that I made it through to Finland where conditions quickly thawed out. I cycled almost nonstop through Europe until I ground to a virtual halt in Turkey. I had food poisoning and was suffering from the heat. I met up with a fast English cyclist. Desperately trying to keep up with him I resorted to cycling from hospital to hospital to rehydrate myself on saline drips, but I was fighting an uphill battle. I waved goodbye to my new friend and set up in an ordinary Turkish town to recover. I stayed for a week, in which time I not only recovered, but also met the mayor and the leader of the local communist party!
Syria was the first country I encountered where it was not possible to buy road maps at petrol stations. I had a sketchy idea of the country's geography and decided to follow the signposts to Damascus, where, after a day’s searching I acquired a map. In Jordan I entered the desert, and towns became spread further apart. My main memory is a sad one of my spokes being cut during the night.
The average inhabitant of Arctic Norway is a hardy type. Perhaps this is not surprising given that only a couple of generations ago, during WW2, entire families spent a winter living in tents, after the retreating Germans torched all. I arrived in still snowy spring. Conditions were better suited for ice fishing than cycling, and the no nonsense locals were quick to point this out. So it was with great satisfaction that I made it through to Finland where conditions quickly thawed out. I cycled almost nonstop through Europe until I ground to a virtual halt in Turkey. I had food poisoning and was suffering from the heat. I met up with a fast English cyclist. Desperately trying to keep up with him I resorted to cycling from hospital to hospital to rehydrate myself on saline drips, but I was fighting an uphill battle. I waved goodbye to my new friend and set up in an ordinary Turkish town to recover. I stayed for a week, in which time I not only recovered, but also met the mayor and the leader of the local communist party!
Syria was the first country I encountered where it was not possible to buy road maps at petrol stations. I had a sketchy idea of the country's geography and decided to follow the signposts to Damascus, where, after a day’s searching I acquired a map. In Jordan I entered the desert, and towns became spread further apart. My main memory is a sad one of my spokes being cut during the night.
I entered Egypt, and again had no map. I decided to head for Cairo, which was about 450 km from the coast. The Sinai Peninsula is a desert; there were no trees and no shade. I was a little unprepared for such long stretches of nothing but desert and ran out of water on occasion, but was helped by motorists. I also ran out of money, having been duped by money changers. Seeing I was in a pickle a local handed me some cash to get to the next ATM (300 kms away), which was jolly good of him, as I was running out of clothing to barter with! The Bedouin people, who reside in the desert, are famed for their hospitality, but to be honest I found them to be a little hit and miss. The good guys who gave me money were offset by the spoke cutting vandals, and the gun carrying drug smugglers I met.
I fasted during the first day of Ramadan, then ate and drank tea into the early hours. I was invited to birthday and engagement parties all in the short time I was in Cairo. I was escorted down the river Nile by numerous police escorts. Entering Sudan was a breath of fresh air after the constant haggling from street vendors in Egypt. In the North of the Sudan I was, without exception, welcomed inside, fed and given a bed. My highlight of Sudan was experiencing rain in the desert. At the time I was terrrified I would be struck by lightening, so I dropped my bike and lay on the ground. Later I realised how fortunate I had been to experience rain, as locals told me it had not rained in years. A small boy had seen his first rain that day!
Ethiopia was a different story. Children threw stones at me, tried to put sticks through my wheels and yelled abuse. To add to the fun it was really hilly and I kept getting sick. I recovered and fought back, picking up my own stick to wave at the kids. Having made it past the worst of the kids, I started hearing other travellers stories of a "bandit road" through the deserts of Northern Kenya. The prospect of riding all the way was fading rapidly. I had a long think, and decided to ignore all advice and ride on, this was exactly the type of adventure I had craved back home. Again I ran out of water, but due to the bandits the vehicles travelled in armed convoys and were not willing to stop to hand out water to a struggling cyclist. I wound up in hospital for a couple of days recovering from extreme dehydration. This was an eye opening experience. There was no clean water and no food. I shared food that families and friends had brought in for my fellow patients, one of which had been attacked by a leopard!
I cycled down a dirt road through the centre of Tanzania, the jungle like surrounds were inhabited by friendly tribal folk residing in small villages. The most respected and physically intimidating tribe, the Massai, were easy to spot, dressed in bright skirts and never seen without a wooden club (for hyenas), a big knife and sometimes a spear. These guys are tough, the men live in the bush herding cattle, when they come into a village they sleep in their wives hut. If the man doesn’t have any wives in that village he can borrow one for a night. To come of age a Massai boy needs to cut the tail off a lion (without killing it), normally a couple of mates distract the animal with spears.
So you may be surprised to read this. The Massai were scared of me! One fell off the crate he was sitting on, as I sat next to him. The kids were scared too. Think “white devil” in Ace Ventura. They were friendly, however, despite their superstitions. Curiously the Massai will not drink cold Coca Cola, fearing it will bring on pneumonia, a more likely cause is living in a smoke filled chimney-less hut alongside your prize goat.
I cycled down a dirt road through the centre of Tanzania, the jungle like surrounds were inhabited by friendly tribal folk residing in small villages. The most respected and physically intimidating tribe, the Massai, were easy to spot, dressed in bright skirts and never seen without a wooden club (for hyenas), a big knife and sometimes a spear. These guys are tough, the men live in the bush herding cattle, when they come into a village they sleep in their wives hut. If the man doesn’t have any wives in that village he can borrow one for a night. To come of age a Massai boy needs to cut the tail off a lion (without killing it), normally a couple of mates distract the animal with spears.
So you may be surprised to read this. The Massai were scared of me! One fell off the crate he was sitting on, as I sat next to him. The kids were scared too. Think “white devil” in Ace Ventura. They were friendly, however, despite their superstitions. Curiously the Massai will not drink cold Coca Cola, fearing it will bring on pneumonia, a more likely cause is living in a smoke filled chimney-less hut alongside your prize goat.
Malawi may be poor, yet it is beautiful, with a lake on one side and mountains along the other side of this narrow country. All this beauty being crammed into a small area led to me bumping into many tourists. Oh yes, I was living the high life, camping in organised sites, with proper toilets, and engaging in proper conversations in English.
Mozambique is an extraordinarily happy country, especially given the context of their poor existence. Maybe people are just happy for the civil war to be over, like the greatest generation after WW2, people are happy to just live, taking every opportunity to dance to groovy music pumping out of giant home made boom boxes.
I was not so happy. In the North it was hot (51 degrees), hilly, and I was having 8 punctures a day. Tyres were my bug-bear. It turned out that the size I required are largely just not available in Africa. (I got some 2nd hand ones in Nairobi, and some rubbish ones in Blantyre). So I was riding on worn out tyres, all ripped up, patched with car inner tubes, creating a bulge. Every rotation I went over the bulge, budum…budum, then eventually BOOM! The tyre explodes. The inner tube is ripped wide open. The tyre is re-repaired. The inner tubes were patched up, but the patches kept falling off, as the rips were just so large. Solution…. stitch up the inner tubes tears, then patch. This was at best a partially effective solution (hence 8 punctures a day, as the patches fell off). I couldn’t buy new tubes, I was in trouble, I even tried stuffing the tyres with grass!
Mozambique is an extraordinarily happy country, especially given the context of their poor existence. Maybe people are just happy for the civil war to be over, like the greatest generation after WW2, people are happy to just live, taking every opportunity to dance to groovy music pumping out of giant home made boom boxes.
I was not so happy. In the North it was hot (51 degrees), hilly, and I was having 8 punctures a day. Tyres were my bug-bear. It turned out that the size I required are largely just not available in Africa. (I got some 2nd hand ones in Nairobi, and some rubbish ones in Blantyre). So I was riding on worn out tyres, all ripped up, patched with car inner tubes, creating a bulge. Every rotation I went over the bulge, budum…budum, then eventually BOOM! The tyre explodes. The inner tube is ripped wide open. The tyre is re-repaired. The inner tubes were patched up, but the patches kept falling off, as the rips were just so large. Solution…. stitch up the inner tubes tears, then patch. This was at best a partially effective solution (hence 8 punctures a day, as the patches fell off). I couldn’t buy new tubes, I was in trouble, I even tried stuffing the tyres with grass!
Then the axel (QR) thing snapped, I hitched to town (of the several hitches I took 1/3 of drivers were drunk!!), deciding on the way that I would give up on Tuborg (the bike) and walk the final 5000 km’s if I couldn’t replace it here. I was so frustrated with constant breakdowns, walking represented an ultimate freedom, not being reliant on a machine. As it turned out the first street mechanic I went to had the part in his tool box. Onwards..
In Mozambique people speak tribal languages and Portuguese. I spoke neither, but I learned, by the end of the first week I could say good morning (“bondea“, which I used irrespective of the time of day) and thank you. This worked well, allowing me to camp in villages almost every night. I would always be taken to the village chief (in Africa this guy owns the whole village) and motioned I wanted to sleep. Easy. I also learned water pump (bomba), and motioned hand in mouth if I wanted food, life was that simple… well unless anything happens…
I hurt my back, it was bleeding a bit, so I showed it to a local who sent me to hospital. I greeted the gardener on the way in, who walked inside with me. No doctor appeared, I pointed at the gardener, “doctor”, I asked, he replied “no”, but continued to stand there. I pointed again, “medic?”, he replied closing thumb over forefinger, signaling "a little bit". Great. I visited another hospital, resembling a refugee camp, people were on beds inside UN tents. I also ended up taking unknown pills, as the “doc” spoke no English whatsoever. You just don’t want to get ill out here.
The Mozambique coastline approaching South Africa is developing way faster than the rest of the country. South African tourists boost the economy, and there is trade and movement of people over the SA border, generating wealth. People live in houses and have electricity or solar panels, they also speak a bit of English. All this got me very excited about crossing the border and reaching the spare parts heaven that is South Africa.
In Mozambique people speak tribal languages and Portuguese. I spoke neither, but I learned, by the end of the first week I could say good morning (“bondea“, which I used irrespective of the time of day) and thank you. This worked well, allowing me to camp in villages almost every night. I would always be taken to the village chief (in Africa this guy owns the whole village) and motioned I wanted to sleep. Easy. I also learned water pump (bomba), and motioned hand in mouth if I wanted food, life was that simple… well unless anything happens…
I hurt my back, it was bleeding a bit, so I showed it to a local who sent me to hospital. I greeted the gardener on the way in, who walked inside with me. No doctor appeared, I pointed at the gardener, “doctor”, I asked, he replied “no”, but continued to stand there. I pointed again, “medic?”, he replied closing thumb over forefinger, signaling "a little bit". Great. I visited another hospital, resembling a refugee camp, people were on beds inside UN tents. I also ended up taking unknown pills, as the “doc” spoke no English whatsoever. You just don’t want to get ill out here.
The Mozambique coastline approaching South Africa is developing way faster than the rest of the country. South African tourists boost the economy, and there is trade and movement of people over the SA border, generating wealth. People live in houses and have electricity or solar panels, they also speak a bit of English. All this got me very excited about crossing the border and reaching the spare parts heaven that is South Africa.
I stayed on an Afrikaans speaking farm on my first night in SA and met some of the friendliest people of the whole trip, they even set me up to stay with a sister-in-law for the next night! The day after this I was invited to spend the night on a game park (an awesome experience) by another super friendly farmer. After this I reached some backpackers to stay in, before heading out into the all-black Transkei area. I tried to camp, but was turned away by the village chief, translated by the young man who tried to help me as “the whites made us sleep on the street so we’ll make you sleep on the street”, slightly resentful then! The guy trying to help me was teased by his mates, no one was willing to let me camp, it got dark, then a teacher helped me out. I could stay inside provided he could search my bags for guns and knives. The search was clean and I slept inside (he reckoned I would have been robbed in the tent).
Race is an issue in SA. I tried to camp again with a similar experience. Nobody trusts anybody, is how I would sum it up. Everywhere is surrounded by electric fence. South Africa was the richest country I had seen in ages, but not the happiest. It was, however, beautiful, warm and full of surf spots and game parks, so overall a nice place to finish the ride.
I became a little philosophical as I neared the end, soon I would no longer get up with the reassuring conviction of knowing exactly what needed to be done in the day ahead; continue cycling towards Cape Town. What would I do when I reached the end of the road?
The end of the road came; it turned out that the Southern most point was Cape Agulhas, not Cape Town. Tuborg’s rear detailer had broken on the final day, and being totally broke I saw little benefit in fixing it, just to cycle for another two days across to Cape Town. My ride was over. After going down to the ocean and taking a picture, I considered my options over a beer. I had initially been inclined to throw Tuborg into the ocean, it seemed like a grand symbolic gesture, to mark the end of an era. Then someone suggested I burn the bike on the bonfire, but that seemed spiteful towards the bike, where as the ocean represented a dignified send off.
I ended up leaving Tuborg at Cape Agulhas backpackers, complete with panniers and tools, ready for someone to ride it back to Norway. I bought a last minute flight with my credit card and was soon back in the UK, ready to begin my post adventure life.
Thanks for reading & for your support.
Cheers,
Pete
Race is an issue in SA. I tried to camp again with a similar experience. Nobody trusts anybody, is how I would sum it up. Everywhere is surrounded by electric fence. South Africa was the richest country I had seen in ages, but not the happiest. It was, however, beautiful, warm and full of surf spots and game parks, so overall a nice place to finish the ride.
I became a little philosophical as I neared the end, soon I would no longer get up with the reassuring conviction of knowing exactly what needed to be done in the day ahead; continue cycling towards Cape Town. What would I do when I reached the end of the road?
The end of the road came; it turned out that the Southern most point was Cape Agulhas, not Cape Town. Tuborg’s rear detailer had broken on the final day, and being totally broke I saw little benefit in fixing it, just to cycle for another two days across to Cape Town. My ride was over. After going down to the ocean and taking a picture, I considered my options over a beer. I had initially been inclined to throw Tuborg into the ocean, it seemed like a grand symbolic gesture, to mark the end of an era. Then someone suggested I burn the bike on the bonfire, but that seemed spiteful towards the bike, where as the ocean represented a dignified send off.
I ended up leaving Tuborg at Cape Agulhas backpackers, complete with panniers and tools, ready for someone to ride it back to Norway. I bought a last minute flight with my credit card and was soon back in the UK, ready to begin my post adventure life.
Thanks for reading & for your support.
Cheers,
Pete
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E-mail: petemounfield@hotmail.com
