One year on and a bit of time to reflect.
I still firmly believe that the trip was one of the best things I;ve ever done. It's molded me in to a much happier individual and hopefully a better one too. As a result of my knee problems I've taken nine months off the bicycle but this Friday I'm off again. Not on anything nearly as daunting or as exciting - just 10 days in Ireland with a buddy of mine. I've been asked by many of you 'would I do it again?', well I wouldn't do the same trip. I've been there and it wouldn't be the same second time round but I suspect in a few years time if life allows me the draw of adventure will allow some place, some trip t On Friday 19th March 2010 I finally managed it. I reached Cape Town. Its taken me over six months to cycle nearly 17,000km through 20 countries. An incredibly arduous and rewarding journey. It took me a further three days of battling hangovers to limp down to the Cape of Good Hope. Its just as well I've finished as I'm not sure how much puff I've get left in me. I'm physically and mentally exhausted. My knees which began to moan buckling under my weight crossing the Alps have now become excruciatingly painful. But its been worth it. My first glimpse of Table Mountain reduced me to tears. There is no way I've been able to write or even express all I've seen on route. Knowing what it's like to go to be hungry, or so exhausted you struggle to talk, to live for days at a time in the bush, to spend hundreds of hours alone or spend weeks unable to sleep at night because of the pain your in and hundreds of hours in your own company teaches you a lot. Africa is a magical place. A place where you have the freedom to live your own adventure but have to watch your back whilst doing so. A place where the rules you abide by are those set by nature rather than bureaucrats. Cycling its length is a massive challenge, meeting its many diverse and incredibly warm people (except those ruddy Ethiopians!) a great experience. It has provided me with the most amazing set of memories. I will miss it tremendously. I'll miss waking up and heading off for a new adventure each morning. I'll miss the space and freedom, the piece and quite and the closeness to the environment but I can't say I want to cycle back home. I'm ready to finish and face new challenges at home and its probably the way it should be. I've had the most incredible few months, I've done what I've set out to achieve – the cycling, the thinking, the adventure. So worthwhile. The final part of my challenge is to help raise funds for Hazel Footprints Trust – to help give other people a fraction of the opportunities I've fortunate to benefit from so do please visit the Charity page on this website. TRIP STATS Time – Left Northamptonshire 9/11/09, Cairo 6/1/09 Arrived Cape Town 19/3/10 and Cape of Good Hope 22/3/10 Countries Visited – England, France, Switzerland, Italy, Slovenia, Croatia, Montenegro, Bosnia, Albania, Greece, Egypt, Sudan, Ethiopia, Kenya, Tanzania, Malawi, Mozambique, Zimbabwe, Botswana and finally South Africa. Biggest Day – 289km in Sudan. Tar roads with a tail wind. Smallest Day – 25km battling food poisoning in Ethiopia followed by 49km climbing the Alps No of Punctures – I think only about five or six true punctures and a few failed repairs No of Wheels – I managed to go through nine yes nine rims. Original tyres though Highest Mountain – 3900m in the Alps but spent a week at virtually 3000m in Ethiopia Crashes – A few. I got hit by a bus in Tanzania, had a wheel collapse in Ethiopia and 50km+ blow out in South Africa Cycled since - No. Hitched hiked the 60km back from the Cape of Good Hope. Didn't een cycle out the car park! I was a little skeptical about visiting Zimbabwe, a country that has had a lot of bad press over the past few years and understandably so. But having spent a few weeks having a pretty easy time of it (well, easy compared to the toils I'd faced further north) bumpling along the well trodden tourist route in East Africa and Malawi I wanted to get back to seeing Africa and its people. More importantly the most direct route to Cape Town takes you through Zimbabwe and when your starting to run out of puff you don't want to make your life any harder than it has to be. Asking around a bit and talking to the many Zimbabwean ex-pats who have left the country I got the impression that the country was slowly starting to find its feet again and would be safe enough to go through. I'd been warned about the frequent police roadblocks. Just in case Uncle Bob forgets to pay these entrepreneurial chaps have developed a cunning second income by taxing drivers as they pass by – their own version of a toll road. I've got to say it looked like they were doing a roaring business. These type of small business initiatives are hardly uncommon in Africa but almost everyone I asked for advice on the country seemed to got very excited about it. I'd been warned. I've managed to develop the knack of talking my way out of most of these roadblocks without being persuaded to pay any notional fines / taxes / tolls all the way through Africa and wasn't really too concerned. But I must say the chaps in Zimbabwe they did seem particularly enthusiastic at getting money out of me. When I approached them I can see their eyes light up thinking that this is going to be the payday to end all paydays. Normally what happens is that when I roll up the chap in charge starts asking me a few questions whilst everyone else goes into a huddle to discuss how they're going to spend my money. The chap in charge is used to dealing with tourists in vehicles. I guess he normally sets about finding something wrong with either the vehicle or the vehicle's paperwork threatens a big fine and agrees an on the spot fine without any receipt would be much easier to organize and as a result settle out of court for a few dollars before bidding you on your way. A very straightforward, quick and easy transaction. A tourist on a pushbike presents a few problems for the chap manning the roadblock. First of all as a tourist I'm sure he's expected to produce at least double the normal bribe. Anything less would be seen as failure. The second problem is that there aren't really any laws for for bicycles so you can hardly create a fine for not being in a roadworthy condition and there simply isn't any paperwork to get wrong. In addition cyclists tend not to be in too much of a hurry and when they're as idle as I am are looking for any excuse to put their feet up and not have to do anymore pedaling. I can see the panic in the man's face. He's under pressure to perform here. He has got to produce something. Then comes the list of questions; what are you doing? whats your profession? (don't ever say surveyor or they'll have you out inspecting Chinese roadworks), are you a journalist? Are you sure you're not a journalist? Paranoia sets in amongst the policeman that I'm an undercover British journalist who Uncle Bob has banished from the country. Bugger James Bond this is serious stuff. The problem the chap now faces is that he hasn't got any proof that I'm actually journalist and more importantly he hasn't managed to extract any cash out of me yet. Nothing happens for the first hour or so and its mid afternoon. I'm happy watching the world go by but they're getting nervous. Everyone who passes asks about me, what I'm doing. People come along from the next village for a chat and I explain that I've not been allowed to continue but that it's not a problem as I'm in no hurry don't really see the point in trying to bribe my way out of it. It was only when I started to pitch my tent and set up for the night that the policemen changed their tune. Suddenly they realised that there would be none of my dollars discreetly coming their way and they were starting to get concerned about the number of people asking questions about me and that I'd give their whole game away. Eventually they managed to banished me to a local hotel. One of the most fascinating aspects of Zimbabwe's recent past has been the economic turmoil that Uncle Bob's economic policies managed to create. Turning a country that was once was known as the bread-basket of Africa into a bankrupt state where a loaf a bread costing a mere 100 billion dollars today would cost 200 billion dollars next month. Pretty amusing for those of us not inflicted by it but very tough for everyone trying to live and operate in the country. Fortunately last year Mugabe ditched the Zim Dollar and permitted the use of foreign currency – legalising what was already happening on the ground. The result is that the country now officially runs on a combination of US Dollars, South African Rand and Botswana Pula. Makes life somewhat confusing when shops list their prices in three different denominations. The exchange rates between these three currencies is a matter of debate amongst your average Zimbabwean. Those in Harare insist you get 10 SA Rands to the US Dollar whilst 450km down the road in Bulawayo they swear its only 8. I'm not sure if thats how a free market economy is supposed to work? Surely there must be people driving up and down swapping cash and making a killing. The best fun is when you go into a shop and pay up in US dollars. As only US Dollar bills have reached Africa there's no way of giving you change so you get given it in penny sweets. Two cents for a mint, three for a toffee... I don't complain. I've seen people sell them back to the shop as well so it works both ways – who needs currency when you've got penny sweets? Although I didn't really go off the main routes or manage to see the whole country I didn't see any real food or fuel shortages. Yes sometimes shops run out of things and you have to hunt around and I'm sure it didn't use to be like this but its a lot, lot better than some of the other places I've been to. I always managed to get something to eat which is more than can be said for parts of Sudan and Ethiopia. Whilst I did see some poverty in comparison to what we're used to in Europe it's not poverty compared to what I've seen elsewhere in Africa. Thats not to say it isn't a disgrace the country finds itself in the position its in. The most adhering thing about Zimbabwe was the people. They don't complain about the tough time they've had and seem so positive about the future and absolutely delighted to see me. They and the stunning scenery made it one of my favorite countries on this trip. Those of you traveling around Southern Africa please do give Zimbabwe a chance. Things aren't perfect but they are a lot better than a few years ago. More importantly you will meet some of the world's most charming people and by spending your dollars in their local restaurants and shops you'll help them get back up on their feet. After spending days battling with the hills in Southern Tanzania cycling the flat shores of Lake Malawi was much easier. The lake’s shores are stunning and well set up for tourists. Every night I was able to eat well, drink cold beer and have a hot shower. Simple things but after months living like a local they really do seem like great luxuries.
Malawi seemed to be stuffed full of other travelers – I’d see a new bunch most nights. Whilst it can be refreshing to have a conversation with someone from home a lot of the people I met just made me relieved that I’m doing this by bicycle. A lot of travelers in Southern Africa are on organized tours crammed onto a bus for the day, forced to stick to a tight timetable and spend their days jumping from one tourist hot spot to another and their evenings having organized fun. I don’t quite see how passengers on these Butlin’s style tours can really get to know Africa – some couldn’t even remember the places they had been. Travelling by yourself on a bike is certainly a lot tougher but you get out what you put in. I really do get to a feel of each country rather than watch it go by out of the window. Whilst Malawi felt like a holiday, slowly moving from one luxury camp to the next Mozambique and Zimbabwe have been very different. Compared to the rest of Southern Africa few tourists come this way these days and mean I have the place to myself. The locals take much more interest in you and seem delighted to welcome you to their country. It’s in these more out of the way places where you get to experience Africa’s wonderful hospitality. People are genuinely surprised to see a tourist and refuse to believe it’s possible to cycle all the way from Europe. Its here that the children have never seen a white person before and run away terrified, crying to their mothers who in turn invite you into their homes to show you their lives. This is Africa at its best. No begging, no demands for money just warmth and hospitality. It was in one of these out of the way towns in Northern Mozambique that I had a brainwave. Having only changed a little currency at the Malawi-Mozambique border (pretty sure I got given the world’s worse exchange rate) I’d realized I didn’t have local currency to see me through to Zimbabwe. All over Eastern and Southern Africa I’ve seen local boys offering themselves up as taxi men – not with cars but with bicycles. Each bike has a makeshift seat over the rear wheel and at times seems to be able to carry countless passengers – an ingenious and cheap way of hopping around town. Having made this discovery a few weeks back I couldn’t help but kick myself – think how much easier it would have been to cover the thousands of kilometers sitting on the back of my bicycle as someone else did all the hard work. With a bit of foresight I could have welded an armchair to the back and just sat there reading my newspaper, watching the world go by, as someone else did all the puffing and panting. I’m sure it wouldn’t cost too much and once each boy started to get tired and slow up I’d simply trade them in for another one – I reckon I’d have whizzed across Africa in no time and be chilling out on a beach in Cape Town by now – still too late for that now. Anyway, I digress. The idea of earning a few extra pennies as I travel has always appealed to me and with all the necessary equipment and an afternoon to kill I was ready to make the big step and properly become Mozambique’s first every white bicycle taxi driver. Now there’s a claim to fame I felt confident of making a quick buck, cash in hand with no chance of the tax man getting his mucky paws on it. What’s more I thought it would be a good way to get to meet some of the locals. Having dropped off my tent and panniers at a local guesthouse I set off to work. I rolled up at the taxi rank and joined the queue. My rivals didn’t seem to feel too threatened by the new competition in town – they simply told me that I wasn’t strong enough and wouldn’t be up to the task. Well balls to that - I’ve cycled all the way from England don’t you know and my luggage weighs the same as a small person. Besides I’ve got a couple of dozen more gears than all my rivals put together so I told them to pipe down and admire me as I whizzed around town stealing their business. After an hour and a half of doing what all young men seem to spend their time doing in Africa – sitting around doing as little as possible I’d reached the front of the queue. The next passenger was mine for the taking. Along came a tiger. Well not literally but a mama in a concerning tight leopard print outfit – not that I was in a position to start passing comment about peoples attire. Besides I don’t think it’s really the done thing to start imposing dress codes I’m not running a luxury limousine service after all.. First things first, agree where we were heading. I couldn’t even pronounce the destination let alone have a clue where or more to the point how far away it was. Not to be put off I set about opening up the discussions on the fare. Best to agree a price up front I thought – don’t want any awkward moments the other end. Now I must confess to being slightly out of touch with the going rate for a lift between my taxi rank and the place I couldn’t even pronounce and now had completely forgotten the name of. I thought I’d start fairly high at around a dollar in the expectation of being knocked down if it was too outrageous. Surprisingly Miss Leopard Print readily accepted – I really must have received a terrible exchange rate at the border. After pedaling around for a good 15 minutes I’d managed to work up a decent sweat. Meanwhile my passenger was having a great time waving to everyone, stopping to talk to friends and the extended Leopard Print family. She was having a great time. Now whilst my passenger wasn’t the biggest Mama in Africa by any means she the smallest either. I’m sure she wasn’t doing it deliberately but she was become a rather awkward weight to carry. I think she found the concept of being chauffeured around by a white man a little too exciting and kept waving and laughing to every Tom, Dick and Harry we went past. Whilst she was slightly more docile than my last passenger (a kidnapped goat in Ethiopia) it did make for tough going and once or twice I feared we would capsize. Another 10 minutes later and I was beginning to regret accepting the fare up front. I could hardly start renegotiating at this late stage and I couldn’t really drop her off now without completing the journey even if I returned the fare. I’m sure that would be a breach of cabbies etiquette. Eventually we pulled up to Miss Leopard Prin’ts house to be greeted by the whole family – or the ones we hadn’t met on route anyway. I did my best to recoup some of my losses tucking into homebrew and cake but suspect the whole exercise wasn’t the greatest of financial success. I’m now in Bulawayo, Zimbabwe. Zim has been a great place to travel – I seem to have it to myself. Unfortunately dear Mr Mugabe isn’t overly fond of the British at the moment and in particular British journalists. I have been stopped and quizzed a few times on this by the police and with that in mind I’ll report on my travels here from the safety of Botswana. With less than 2,500km to Cape Town I’ve booked my flight home (April 6th) and organized a few days watching rugby and drinking beer with one of my cousins who’s based out in South Africa. With best wishes George Compared to the bitter roads of northern Kenya – not to mention the torment of Ethiopia the cycling has been straightforward. More importantly the people have been wonderful – so welcoming, so much so that at least twice a week I’m invited out for supper or given a bed for the night. It’s been so refreshing after the torrid time in Ethiopia.
With my bike taking a battering since Addis – all in all eight new rims where bought I decided it would be prudent to spend some time and money in Nairobi getting it properly fixed. I couldn’t really keep buying new wheels every 100km or so to Cape Town and even good roads become uncomfortable when your axel is off centre. After much running around town trying to track down parts I finally got it sorted – its actually running better now than it has done in months. Big relief. (Cyclists – I’ve put some practical info on getting your bikes fixed below) My original plan had been to head due south from Nairobi, past Mount Meru, through the Tanzanian capital of Dodoma and onto Malawi. The road south from Nairobi was initially brilliant and with the bike back running well it felt really good to be back in the saddle. This is Africa (T.I.A.) however and which means things rarely go to plan. Once over the Tanzanian border I started asking questions about the condition of the road ahead to be told that it was in poor order at the best of times and the recent rains had washed out bridges and making it terrible. With my bottom still able to freshly recall just how uncomfortable riding along bad roads can be I didn’t fancy it. Instead I took a rather lengthy 1200km detour, flirting with the foothills of Kilimanjaro, down to the coast via Dares Salaam and Zanzibar before heading back in land towards Malawi. Cycling down on the coast and around Zanzibar was incredibly hot and humid. As anyone who had the dubious privilege of sharing an office with me can vouch I don’t like the heat (now safely the other side of the world I confess it was me who used to nudge the air conditioning down to 16 degrees… Sorry.) I find cycling when it’s anything over 25 degrees hard going but when it’s a humid 35 degrees its incredibly tough work. Just sitting in the shade makes me sweat and pedalling in the hot sun is so exhausting. Even at night the temperature scarcely seems to drop. The upside of my detour was cycling through Mukumi National Park. I assumed that cycling through a National Park that contained lions, leopards, elephants, buffalo would be forbidden. Apparently not - maybe the park wardens assume that no one in their right mind would attempt it. I set off towards the park half expecting to be pulled over at each police roadblock and told I wouldn’t be allowed to cycle through. Quite sensible – we don’t want any tourists being eaten now do we, bad PR. Unbelievably no one did. I cycled past the sign warning me “WILD ANIMALS NEXT 50KM” and with the park gate unmanned I was in. The next 50km were amongst the best cycling I’ve done so far. I cycled past countless antelope, had giraffe so close I could nearly touch them, crept up on elephants not 20 yards away, skirted round a huge herd of buffalo, pedalled alongside a family of zebra. It was incredible. Whilst in Kenya I’d seen hyenas, ostriches and far too many monkeys and baboons to recall I’ve not seen any large mammals and certainly not in this density before. I think on a bike you go so slowly you see much more and so quietly it possible to creep right up on the animals without them noticing. I’ve got to admit whilst it was a wonderful experience it was pretty nerve wracking. Every time the bushes around me rustled I’d turn round fearing lions. I must have looked like easy pickings. At the back of my mind I recalled that someone had described my black and white profile and eye-like reflectors as looking like a giant zebra in reverse. Definite lion fodder. What really got my adrenaline pumping was the realisation that I’d spent far too long enjoying gazing at all the animals that I’d not noticed dusk was drawing in and that rain clouds had appeared on the horizon I started to recall my conversation with the locals the night before. “You should be fine cycling during the day so long as it’s dry – the lions won’t come up to the road.” Does that mean when its dark and wet they do…? Time to pedal a bit faster. There’s nothing quite like fearing being eaten by a lion to encourage you along. Lance Armstong himself couldn’t have covered the last 10km any quicker. Well I’m writing this so I’ve made it through – but if you ever want an adrenaline buzz skip bungee jumping go cycling in lion country. Whilst in Northern Africa I scarcely met any other travellers – only the hardiest overlanders brave it. East Africa has however been awash scarcely a day goes by without seeing someone drive by. I’ve not bumped into anymore cyclists but it doesn’t concern me. I’m really enjoying the independence and freedom you get travelling alone and being anti-social for days on end. Strange as this was my greatest fear before leaving home. Having had to make a considerable detour already I’ve given the final section of my route some more thought. Originally I was going to head from west from Malawi through the Caprivi Strip and down through Namibia to Cape Town. On talking to people coming north I’ve heard good reports that Zimbabwe slowly opening up again for independent travellers so the latest plan is to skip through Northern Mozambique, Zimbabwe, cut the corner of Botswana and belt it down to Cape Town. I’m down to my last 5,000km (I think I’ve done around 15,000km now) and the extra couple of thousand through Namibian desert just sounds too much like hard work. Take care George Advice for cyclists. There is a TREK shop / franchise in Nairobi (out towards Karen Nukumatt opposite St Christophers School). It stocks a limited range of spare parts but as of January 2010 not many of these were of particular use for touring bikes. They do however have chains (including 9 gear), brake pads, clothing. Most the stock they have is more geared towards mountain biking. Their manager is called Joyce and her Kenya no is (+25)(0)721496217. The shop didn’t actually carry out any repair work themselves. The shop did put me in touch with a great guy called Kinjah. He’s one of Kenya’s top cyclists and runs a really good programme for young Kenyans to try and get them into cycling. He aims to produce a top Kenyan cycling team known as the Safari Simbas. It’s run as a charity and well worth a visit. One of the roles Kinjah takes on is training the young boys in bike mechanics. I took my bike there and they did a great job. Kinjah also has a good collection of bikes and is really helpful in tracking down parts for you. His number is (+25)(0)722620623. He’s located a few kilometres out of town and his base is hard to find so give him a call. Elsewhere the whole of Northern and Eastern Africa has been awash with bicycle mechanics – normally found under a tree in most towns. There are almost always parts available – even if you end up doing what I did and just buy good parts of local cyclists. The problem is the parts are normally pretty poor quality and the workmanship is variable. Watch everything they do to make sure it’s done correctly. Labour is cheap and so are Chinese parts – but don’t expect to get too far before they fail! Firstly apologies for the radio silence - took me an age and a half to get back to civilization.
I don’t really no what to say about the rest of Ethiopia. Quite simply it went from bad to worse. Terrible place to cycle. I don’t recommend it. The locals continued to hound me and whilst they calmed down a touch on the stone throwing side the tirade of abuse continued. It started as soon as I walked out my hotel room and went on until it gets dark at which stage can’t work out if you’re a local or not. I think the secret to my success in stopping the stone throwing was flashing the whip I’d confiscated off a donkey cart driver who’d used it against me. It soon sends the kids scattering. Nothing demonstrates what you’re up against cycling through Ethiopia better than my visit to a small town a couple of hundred kilometers from the relatively civilized Addis. I don’t think many foreigners have this place on high their list of tourist destinations. I suspect very few if any even bother to wind down their windows as they drive past. I pedaled into this town (can’t remember the name it’s not important they are all as bad as each other) and was surprised to find that for the first time in days I was not the center of attention. Brilliant. No chants of ‘YOU, YOU, YOU, MONEY”, no stones to avoid, no sticks to dodge. I felt like a celebrity hounded by the paparazzi slipping out the side door. I crept on, keeping my head down hoping to glide pass unnoticed. It was quite exciting. I really felt I might just, for once, cycle right through the middle of a town unnoticed and unscathed. I didn’t really pay too much attention to the throng of people running around across the road from me. They appeared to be chasing something, perhaps there was some kind of festival or celebration on. Quite frankly so long as they weren’t chasing me I couldn’t give a monkeys. Only when I’d nearly got past the main crowd did it seem to turn and lurch towards me. Rather strangely at its head was a naked woman. Not as pleasant sight as it could have been. I did briefly think this was rather odd but didn’t think either me or my bike was at risk. I guessed it was some type of local festival or celebration – one to look up in the guide book later. By the time I realized that this crazy lady was heading right for me it was too late. Whilst I have in the past had some limited experience of young, topless maidens throwing themselves at me none have attempted it with quite the ferocity or determination as this particular one. Whilst I was enjoying polishing my ego at being the chosen, the most handsome man in town she was taking a full hop, skip and jump on to my bike. It was unfortunate that she was not either particularly sane or particularly light. Her efforts managed to buckle my rather flash and expensive rear wheel send both the bicycle and me tumbling. Once she'd wrestled me to the ground her attack continued. It was a bit of a tricky situation to find oneself in. The last time I got into a tussle with a girl was an epic fight with my elder siste and I can’t have been much over 10. Matts v Matts in a tent in Salcombe must rank up there alongside Ali v Frazier in the Thriller in Manila. For the record she only won as a result of a maliciously aimed kick. I haven’t fought a girl or been on a camping holiday in England since. To be honest I’m not sure if I’ve ever really been in a proper fight – absolutely zero man points for me I know. I was in a bit of a Catch 22 situation. I could either put up with being punched by some crazy, naked women who had already wrestled me to the ground or try and fend her off. Fortunately the crowd came to my rescue and dragged her away leaving me with a knackered bike, a few cuts and bruises and very little dignity. Having dusted myself down and assessed the damage in true Ethiopian style the woman returned and instead of offering to make some type of contribution towards repairing the bike demanded that I gave her money. The cheek. I don’t think she was so crazy that she failed to understand the jist of my response. Having broken one flash, expensive wheel I set about installing a local one. 50km later that one broke so I fitted a new one that nearly manage to last a further 20 km and so it went on until I’d bent, shattered and broken four wheels in nearly as many days. To make matters worse I got knocked for six with food poisoning. Trying to force down the Ethiopian delicacy and normally the only food available of raw meat and injerra (looks like a dirty dish cloth, tastes worse) four or five times a day is hard enough at the best of times but with a dickie tummy is impossible. Nearly six weeks after I entered this god forsaken country I finally managed to escape over the border to Kenya. My experience was sufficiently terrible to warrant a letter of complaint to the Ethiopian Tourism Commission. I very much doubt it will be of any use but it gave me an outlet for my misery – I attach a copy of it below for your amusement. Leaving Ethiopia and entering Kenya was a cause for celebration and besides being whipped pretty hard with a stick by a young boy a few kilometers in from the border (probably an Ethiopian immigrant) the Kenyans have shown themselves to be so much more friendly than their Ethiopian counterparts. They are very welcoming and seem really pleased that you’ve come to travel to their country. There is one problem with Kenya and that’s the road which immediately greets you as you cross from Ethiopia. It runs from the border town of Moyale, through Marsabit to Isiolo and is one of the worse in Africa. It’s 500+km of unpaved hell and has a reputation amongst overlanders for destroying even the most hardy of vehicles. With the seemingly endless corrugations (basically bad bumps) even vehicles with decent suspension get rattled apart. To top matters off there’s a few local bandits and Somalian baddies lurking around to pick you off. The question of whether or not to attempt to cycle this stretch of road has plagued me since I started planning this trip. I did look into taking a pretty major detour to the west and following a pretty isolated road down Lake Turkana but the food poisoning, broken bike, rumors of an outbreak of cholera and long distances between water stops put play to that. I'd changed my mind almost daily as to what the best possible route to take or whether to take it at all. Almost all cyclists jump on a truck. One Norwegian cyclist who’d attempted a few months earlier had ended up in hospital and the locals later informed us that they hadn’t seen a cyclist for three years. This might have had something to do with the description one of my Kenyan buddies gave of the situation ‘At the moment there is a bit of trouble up north with Pokot warriors… they seem to be having gun battles with AK-47s…” Hmmm... Friendly. Whilst I think the situation with regards being plucked off by some African wielding an AK47 has improved slightly over the past few months its enough to make you think twice. The Foreign Office suggests it would be pretty foolhardy to travel without an armed convoy and travelers coming north all recommended I loaded the bike on top of a truck and bused that part of the trip. Its times like this that I think you need to be very aware of your weaknesses. As much as I would love to claim to have cycled every inch of the journey from Cairo to Cape Town I didn’t want my pride to draw me into a situation I would regret. I do after all want to make Cape Town in one piece. It’s the type of situations where I’m sure I would be absolutely fine to cycle it 99 times out of 100 but there is a small but significant possibility that it could all go tits up. The result was a compromise. I ended up on the roof of a cattle lorry for the first 250km from Moyale to Marsabit. I gave a great deal of thought as to whether or not I would look back and regret not cycling this small section. I don’t think I will. The reason I’m doing this journey is for an adventure, is to see Africa and meet its people, is to ensure I don’t drift through life without ever challenging myself and to take some time out to figure out how to live the rest of it. I don’t think hitching a couple of hundred kilometers will change that – it might dent my bragging rights but to be honest cycling 15,000km across Africa is still a bloody hard work. In hindsight I don’t actually think clinging to the roof of a cattle lorry as it hurtled at 60km down Africa’s worse road is actually much safe than cycling through bandit country but the ride itself provided an adventure of a different type. It did though come at a cost as the vibrations resulted in a broken axel, cycle computer, mudguard, gears and brakes but at least my wheels somehow stayed firm. Having hitched through what I understood to be the worst of the bandit country I jumped off at Marsabit with 250 odd kilometers of terrible road to cycle until the tarmac at Isiolo. I think this section of road is actually worse than the section I hitched. It was or so I believed bandit free and couldn’t be harder than doing battle with Ethiopian children. As it turned out I was only half right. It was actually this section that had the bandits. On appearing in one small village the locals started to get quite excited warning me not to go any further as I was at risked of being hijacked (for a bike?), robbed or worse. Only when I explained I was going south did they look slightly surprised, calmed down and told me the coast was clear from now on but not to cycle that stretch again. I assured them I wasn’t tempted too. To cycle along scarcely above walking pace over sharp bumps from dawn to dusk for three days on end with a solid leather saddle and no suspension leaves you with a rather tender and sore arse. It got so bad I began to fear that I might have done some serious damage. It not just your buttocks that feel the strain. Falling off your bike and having to pick yourself back up again three or four times an hour in boiling heat is also pretty exhausting. It is this section that Ewan McGregor and Charlie boor man struggled with during their ‘Long Way Down’ trip and they were on motorbike. The road really was atrocious - at times we just road alonside it through the bush just to escape the corrugations. Still anything is preferable to those damn Ethiopians. I know a couple of you (not everyone - perhaps just my Mother) were feeling guilty that I’d be pedaling through the middle of nowhere eating nothing but beans and bread as you settled in for Christmas turkey. You really shouldn’t have. I clocked in with friends in Gil Gil assisted with the dramatic but humane slaughter of Dave the Turkey courtesy of a hockey stick (there is a video of the incident somewhere but not sure if it’s suitable for public viewing). Dave’s life was not lost in vain. When mixed with roast potatoes, gravy, banoffee pie and some adventurous baking he tasted very good. Having cycled pretty much continuously for two months and completed what I suspect will be the hardest leg of my trip the chance to put my feet up for a few days and take up the boys’ invitation for a trip down to the coast for some New Years Eve partying was too tempting – especially when the other option is to struggle on with a broken bike and a sore arse. To the coast it was. I was incredibly well looked after crashing first in an incredible house where you sip your cold beer in the pool over looking the Indian Ocean (you guys enjoying the snow flurries at home…?) before chilling out on a yacht. This was certainly a more civilized way to live than a bike with a tent strapped to the back of it. New Years Eve took place on the beach just north of Mombassa. Having been promised by my friends that the Kenyan know how to party I wasn’t disappointed. I had to be dragged off the beach long after dawn having brought new years day in with quite some style. The party definitely deserved ten out of ten. I’m now in Nairobi running around trying to get my bike fixed. Like most things in Africa it seems to take longer than you expect but today I finally met with the mechanic purchased wheel number six, a new axel, reclaimed 22 of my 27 gears (hard work climbing hills with only five!) and repair the rest of the damage that’s been inflicted on it over the past 9,000km or so. With luck I’ll be fleeing Nairobi on Sunday morning and speeding south towards Tanzania. Dennis, the Swedish cyclist who shared the joys of Ethiopia with me cracked on ahead of me over Christmas and I suspect I’ll have to go like lightening to catch him up again. I have though completed the hardest leg of my tour and it must be down hill to Cape Town. I still don’t really have a dickie when I’m going to finish or even which route I’m gong to take to get there but I'm sure it will continue to be an incredible experience. Good news on the fundraising front – I’ve now hit the big 1000 pounds on and off line with Gift Aid on top. Many thanks to all you generous bods who’ve chipped in. If you would like to help me support Hazel Footprints Trust – a very worthwhile cause the easiest and most painless way is by visiting http://www.justgiving.com/Cycle-to-Cape-Town . Whilst I may have put my feet up over Christmas and the New Year the cycling has been incredibly tough at times and I am still proudly sporting my Lycra. If you’ve managed top plough through all the above – well done. It should be easier to update the blog more regularly from now on. Wishing you all a belated Merry Christmas, Happy New Year and best of luck with your snow shovels. Georgex LETTER TO THE ETHIOPIAN TOURISM COMMISSION Dear Sirs I have recently completed a six week cycle tour through Ethiopia from Metama to Moyale. It was miserable. On the plus side the roads aren’t too bad and the hills whilst bloody hard work to climb provide some really breath taking views. The problem is the people. Bearing in mind that us Westerners cough up nearly $2 billion a year to you guys I was expecting a dose of hospitality and a warm welcome. Possibly even a demonstration of how grateful the Ethiopian people are for the money they receive for doing bugger all each year. If for example I received a steady allowance that size I'd show as much charm and good grace as I could muster to my kind benefactors. I can't really say that I've come away feeling that you’re thankful for all this wonga that gets thrown at you let alone that it done any good. Allow me to enlighten you as to the moments of my Ethiopian travels that really stick out. Those special times that will forever stay with me and I will recall for years to come. The first not altogether pleasant surprise was that the rather innocent looking Ethiopian children have a liking for pelting tourists with stones. I'm not sure who taught them this trick - it seems to be common nationwide but it can be pretty terrifying. Perhaps it’s okay when you’re sitting comfortably in a Land cruiser or gazing out the window of a bus but its bloody terrifying on a bicycle. I became nervous, even scared when approaching a group of children and wished I'd packed my body amour to deal with the onslaught from all sides. Even if I put the stone throwing routine down to some type of obscure tribal welcome routine I really did struggle to enjoy the verbal harassment I was constantly subjected to. I don't mind hearing the occasional chant of "YOU, YOU, YOU, MONEY" but I had it thousands of times a day. It does start to grate a touch. Who on earth do all you Ethiopian's think I am? I must have had tens of thousands of demands for money - bit much for a scruffy looking bloke on a knackered pushbike On the subject of knackered pushbikes I must tell you of one most memorial incidents during my visit. Whilst quietly cycling through a small town in Southern Ethiopia I got attacked by a crazy naked woman who broke my bike. In proper Ethiopian fashion rather than offering to pay for my rather smart $200 wheel she did the usual trick of demanding money off me. The cheek. This is true - you can't make stories this unbelievable up. Its not just your average Ethiopian, or the crazy naked ones who make a tourist's life a misery it’s also your hoteliers - you would have thought they at least would have a vested interest in encouraging tourism. Once you have agreed a price for a room and lugged your bicycle up the stairs into it the room price suddenly increases at a remarkable rate. There not even discreet about the reasons why 'we charge double because you are white'. It doesn’t matter if you’re rich or poor just because you’re white. Not only does being on the receiving end of this treatment piss me off me but its a bloody rip off when all your getting is the use of one of the worlds worse toilets and a flee infested bedroom which you have to lock yourself in to protect yourself from the equally flee infested prostitutes clawing at your door. I'm not quite sure what you can do to rectify the situation but until you come up with some bright ideas and buck up your act I think your better off discouraging western tourist altogether. At least that way they are less likely to discover what they are wasting the $2 billion on each year and divert the funds to people who deserve and will be grateful for receiving it. If there one thing that I will take away from my Ethiopian experience it is that I shall try and ensure that when I give to charity my donations go to the millions of equally poor but incredibly welcoming folk elsewhere in the world. Having endured far too many days of misery cycling through the hell hole that is Ethiopia I'm afraid I really can't recommend the experience to anyone. I've traveled to nearly 50 countries and I can comprehensively say that none are as bad as yours I do hope you have found this feedback beneficial. Please do feel welcome to circulate it - I shall. Yours faithfully George Matts PS - Not even sure if your advertising slogan of "13 months of Sunshine" is correct. It rained during both November and December when I was there and I saw bugger all in the way of sunshine. Having put my feet up for 24 hours at the Blue Nile Sailing Club and tracked down plenty of spicy chicken (think knock off Nandos) and settled into a Juice Bar it was back on the road.
The remaining kilometers from Khartoum to the border were a long hard slog. After leaving the Sudanese capital the roads were incredibly busy with buses hurtling past forcing off the asphelt onto the adjacent sandy track. After 200km I was able to turn off the main road and headed into the desert only to be met by a strong cross wind. At least I was able to sleep out under the desert stars and benefit from the fantastic Sudanese hospitality – I even managed to get invited to spend the night with one family. The crossing into Ethiopia was pretty straightforward. Within a few kilometers the gentle ascent I’d made through Egypt and Sudan started to get much steeper cumulating in a 10km stretch of steep climbing forcing me to push the sections that were not tarred. The beautiful scenery, so different from the Sudanese desert, provided an incredible backdrop and after a few thousand kilometers on the flat it was good to have a change. Once the climb to 2000m into the Highlands was complete the cycling became much easier. The country is a patchwork of high plateaus which undulate between 1800 and 3200m. Climbs rarely exceed 5km. The exception to this comes when you have to hop across from one plateau to the next the most notable being the Blue Nile Gorge. In terms of scale this deep gorge is in the same league as the Grand Canyon. At the bottom lies the Blue Nile – the last time I’ll see the river which I have followed on and off since Cairo – just 800m above sea level whilst the top of the adjacent plateau is over 3000m. The 20km descent took over an hour as I had to ensure the heat from my brakes did not cause my wheels to warp as in the Alps. The ascent took much longer. The steepest section of the climb was a 25km section to 2400m and took four hard hours. Once complete the road continues to rise on and off for another 50km until your at over 3100m. At this height even gentle slopes become difficult and as with the mountain passes in Switzerland the thin air made me feel increasingly light headed. Ascending nearly 2500m and cycling 100km made for my hardest day on the road so far. Whilst the cycling here is physically tiring it is nothing compared to how mentally draining Ethiopia has proved. The country’s population is located around the roads and everywhere you look there appear to be people watching you. There is no peace. Bush camping becomes a local tourist attraction. The local children are incredibly inquisitive. When they see you cycling along they will run to the road shouting at you. Their chants of “YOU, YOU, YOU, MONEY” initially seem harmless but after you hear it thousands of time a day it does push your patience. It’s not just what they are saying but the aggressive tone they say it. Whilst I can forgive them for their continuous shouting, pelting me with stones and throwing sticks into my spokes is harder to understand. Whilst it is the minority who do this – perhaps only a couple of dozen a day none of which have cause any serious harm it is infuriating. What really riles me is when your struggling up a difficult climb desperately trying to ignore the cries of the kids running alongside you – they really can run here – the little gremlins eventually start to run out of breath and rather then give up simply grab onto your bike to stop you. At times it almost seems like a war – me versus every child under the age of 12. The past few days I’ve been pushed too far. On one occasion I jumped off my bike and tried to hunt down one of the kids who had pelted me. After five humiliating minutes running around the hillside effing and blinding in front of an increasingly large crowd I gave up. The cumulation of a day of abuse had manage to really work me up and determined to teach this particular boy a lesson I rounded up one of his goats he had left unattended when he scarpered strapped it to the back of the bike and tried to set off down the hill. The plan to drop it off a few kilometers down the road unfortunately had to be aborted when I realized that having a live goat wriggling around on a bike with you makes for pretty tricky cycling. Another gremlin who threw one stone to many also ran off but made the fatal mistake off running into his house only to find himself corned in his bedroom by an angry, sweaty white man seeking revenge. Eventually I handed the little brute (all 3ft 6 of him) of to his mother and the police for a ticking off. One down several million to go… Travelling through Egypt and Sudan I’d met overlanders heading north who proudly told tales of capturing the stone throwers. I was pretty horrified – taking on a 10 year old Ethiopian kid is hardly fair game. Having spent a week feel continually wound up by the brutes I can entirely sympathize with them. Whilst it is difficult not to feel sorry for these kids who have such difficult lives I fear my overwhelming memory of this beautiful country will be the feeling of being continually harassed by an army of 10 year olds. Something must have gone badly wrong if these children who have been brought up on a diet of western handouts pursue every white man they see with demands for money, clothes, pens rather than make any effort to earn it. The saving grace has been that soon after entering the country a met a Swedish cyclist also heading south so at least we can laugh about it all over one of our six meals a day and a few beers in the evening. I’ve now cycled just under 7,500km and according to my GPS I’m now closer to Cape Town than Northamptonshire. I suspect though that I have only completed the easiest art oof my journey From here in Addis I head south to Kenya – I hope the natives prove more friendly. All the best George xx The cycle from Luxor to Aswan was straight forward. The police finally seemed to get bored of following me leaving me free to pedal along at my own pace. I checked out a few of the temples and tombs all pretty impressive favourites include Edfu and Kom Ombo.
I'm not quite sure why Aswan has become a tourist destination. Besides the dam there really is not that much to see. It just pretty hot and full of Egyptian touts trying to flog you rides on their fellucas. If however it is your last stop before hitting Sudan so there are some important things to organise namely eating and drinking. The guidebooks I've read suggest that I might not be able to visit many decent restaurants between Egypt and South Africa which is a long way to go without a decent meal. For two days I trudged around town filling up at every opportunity. At times it was almost embarrassing and people on the next table began to take interest - some Egyptian chic even took a photograph of me - pretty hard to tell if she was a hottie or not under that burka! Besides stocking up on food a good deal of time was set aside for beer. Fortunately the overlanders (www.montythelandrover.com amongst others) I'd met in Luxor were staying at the same place so could keep me company. Sudan is pretty strict and is governed by Sharia law (not sure they are going to find George wearing lycra as amusing as you guys seem to) so booze is banned. My view was on this was to make hay whilst the sun shines and I wasn't alone. The Hotel rooftop proved to be a good base and cold Stellas (the local brew rather than the Belgian wife beater variety) taste pretty damn good. On our final night a plan was hatched. If Sudan won't bring us beer we will bring the beer to Sudan - cue another trip to the off-licence to stock up on supplies. Sudan is a pretty big country and we might be there for a while. Having stayed up until nearly dawn cuddling our beers helping the Egyptians celebrate winning in the football (really incredibly manic - they managed to form a marching mob large enough to close the main road, just as well they haven't discovered alcohol) breakfast at seven was a bit of a harsh surprise. Not only did I discover that the ferry was 20km of hungover cycling away in the already blazing sun but also that perhaps this beer smuggling wasn't too wise. In order to get on and off the ferry passengers and their bags are searched - whilst I'm sure we could have risked it the forty lashings dished out by the Sudanese didn't tickle my fancy. Apparently the usual lines of I'm a foreigner or I didn't know the rules don't get you off the hook. My derriere has held up well to the cycling thus far but I think being on the receiving end of a good whipping is more than it could cope with. I'd heard reports about the ferry between Egypt and Sudan being a real nightmare It was fine, frustratingly long but fine. As testament to the improved efficiency of the Egyptian immigration and customs it only took us a mere nine hours between boarding the boat and leaving the port not bad considering some of the stories I've heard. At least getting on first we were able to bag a decent enough spot and rig up the tents for some shade. After a 15 hours voyage (taking in Abu Simbel - the temple that was taken apart piece by piece and rebuilt on higher ground to avoid losing it when the High Dam was built) we rocked into Sudan and after a mere two hours of unloading and a day hanging around to register my presence in the country I was free. In the months leading up to this trip I'd expected Sudan to be one of the hardest places to cycle. I'd estimated rolling into Khartoum around Christmas with my travel limited to just 50km a day on the sand roads. I was couldn't be more wrong. The Chinese have tarred over the country meaning that what I'd had described to me as "poorly marked desert pistes" are now (or nearly save for a very few kilometres of pushing through the sand beside the roadworks) brand new, flat asphalt. With a decent northerly breeze (I pity the three chaps I met cycling into it www.bikeafrica2009.com - still that's the Irish for you) and little in the way to do apart from pedal I've been able to cover the 1000km from the border to Khartoum in just six days. At least every 100km there is some form of shop to stock up on food and water. The 15l of water I set off with was a gross over calculation I could have got away carrying less than a third off that amount. The food was a different issue. Knowing how much I eat when cycling I'd stocked up on biscuits, cakes and fallafel sandwiches before leaving town. These disappeared pretty quick and so I was at the mercy of the local restaurateurs. Whilst the maitre d's are all very charming the menu is pretty limited and despite my repeated requests I've yet to be handed a wine list. I think the chefs could be a little more adventurous and perhaps look further a field when sourcing their ingredients. For the best part of a week I've been living on beans and bread, if I'm lucky I'll get a raw onion. They aren't even Tesco's bargain basement baked beans let alone Hienze, I'm pretty sure they stew up the same beans which are fed to cattle at home. Even I can't finish a bowl of the stuff its so bland. More than once I've started eyeing up passing livestock craving food. First it started with goats then after a few more days of beans and bread camels started to look pretty damn good. I'd catch myself wondering how much it would cost to buy a goat, just a small one to tide me over. Fortunately I reached Khartoum before any passing nomads tempted my palate. On the subject of passing nomads the Sudanese are absolutley charming. The change is especially noticable when compared to the Egyptians who particualrily in the tourist hot spots come across as being more interested in trying to sell you something than getting to know you. Perhaps the Sudanese just don't have anything to sell but they seem quite happy just to chill out let you camp next to there houses and try and make as much coversation as the language barrier permits. Odd to think that Sudan has spent much of the last 30 years in international exile. Khartoum is where the White and the Blue Nile meet. Tommorrow I head off East roughly following the Blue Nile into Ethiopia. The good news is I'm told the border crossing comes complete with a bar (apperently some Sudanese go to the border post for day trips...) the bad news is I'll have to introduce myself to some monster hills... I've managed to upload a few photos - out of order I'm afraid but broadband speeds are pretty steady. All the best GFWM Having taken the bike for a quick spin around the Pyramids an the Spinx much to the amazement of the coachloads of tourists I hit the Nile and headed south.
The police escort I ha been dreading took some time to materilise. It was only half way through my second day having bumped into a team of Polish cyclists that they caught up with me. At first I tried to loose them with some success cycling off through traffic and down back streets in the towns. The next morning however a policeman greeted me at breakfast and he told me I had to wait five minutes for the police car to arrive to escort me. There are two (well probably a fair few more) things that are liable to get me particularily grumpy 1 - Farting around aimlessly (FYI - Land Agents do on occassions end up doing something...) 2 - Being told what to do The poor policeman was in a pretty tough position. After an hour and a half wait for the police car to make an appearence I just decided to bugger them and set off. I felt a bit sorry for the poor chap who had been asigned to wait over me - he even made a brief but valiant effort to keep up with me on foot. I took the back roads out of town to avoid the road block and escaped into the desert. My freedom did not last long. 50 km later I could see a road block ahead. I tried my best to blag my way past but they were having none of it. Believe it or not but its pretty hard for an Englishman on a bicycle wearing that rather special combination of lycra and a panama hat to succesfully pull off being a local. Whilst at times the police escorts are not a problem (indeed it can be fun whizzing through town with your own motorcade) letting you do pretty much what you want they can be pretty tiring. On my third day of cycling I decided I would head for the town of El Banyan around 120 km from where I was staying. At each check points the police team change and I ended up with some real idiots. They would drive along right up behind me to trying to get me to go faster and preventing me from stopping shouting at me through the load hailer each time I took a break. Whilst I managed to lose them for a while - driving along in the desert het at 25km an hour had caused their truck to overheat they soon reappeared. Their masterpiece in how to destroy a cyclists moral was still to come. After 120km I reached the town where I wished to spend the night feeling hot, tired, dusty and pissed off. Only then was I told that I would not be allowed to stay there but that I would have to proceed to the next town 75 km away. I was that livid I nearly I nearly threw all my toys out of my pram. The conversation that then occurred would have been brilliant YouTube material. Fortunately I didn't completely loose my cool but got my head down and kocked off the extra kilometers before dusk escorted by a new team of police who couldn't have been nicer encouraing me all they way. Whilst the police escorts are supposed to make tourits feel safer after Islamic terrorists targeted them a few years back they have proved to be at best an inconvience. I have felt very safe wandering around - I am far more at risk from being run over than becoming a terorist target. Most frustratingly the police presnts prevents one of the things I have loved the most about cycling which is that it is so much easier to meet the local people who outside the main tourist areas are very welcoming and hospitable. Something that is so much harder when your cacoombed in a bus or have half a dozen policemen and a gun (not sure what the others do if we start getting shot at) wandering around after you. After four big days cycling, covering over 700 km I've reached Luxor, put my feet up, been round a few more tombs and temples had a few beers and more excitingly met a crowd of fellow overlanders. For the first time since leaving home I've been able to chat to other travellers who are doing or done a similar trip to me (albeit in 4x4s rather than on bicycles). Talking to them has given me a real sense of the adventure ahead. Visiting the tombs in the Valleys of Kings, Queens and Nobles has been great fun despite the coaches stuffed full of package tourists. Each tomb has a group of lowly paid Egyptian guardians looking after it to make sure everyone behaves themselves. That is unless you are touring them by yourself, wthout a guide and look like your prone to bending the rules. I seemed to fit into that bracket. On entering the tombs I was given a piece of cardboard to fan myself aginst the humidity inside. Bit of an odd but kind gesture I thought. It was only after a couple of tombs that I started to realise that it was code. The chap at the door gives the cardboard to all the people who look like they easily corrupted, once inside the tomb the guardians pulls you aside when no one else is watching, gets you to jump over a few barriers gives you a flashlight and takes you round a whole network of rooms and corridors that arn't open to the public. Not only is this game of hide and seek great fun but to be able to escape from everyone else and sit in the private rooms is an absolute delight and well worth the few pence tip they demand. I have about 200km to pedal before I reach Aswan my final spot in Egypt. Here I will catch the ferry across Lake Nasser and into Sudan. Having expected the Sudanese sand roads I had read about to be the first real test of my stamina travellers coming north have told me that all the websites and books I have been reading are now out of date and what was described to me as a poorly marked desert track is now a 200km strech of fresh tarmac. This will mke a huge difference to how I'm able to progress. Sorry about the lack of photos they will be up once I find a card reader. Separately a friend of mine died sudenly last week whilst out on a training run with his regiment and I know many of you guys will be heading to his funeral. Rous - you are in my thoughts. The world will be a worse place without you. God bless buddy. Gxx |
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June 2011
George MattsHaving long dreamt of travelling the length of Africa Overland at the age of 25 George bought a bicycle, handed in his notice and set off from Northamptonshire to Cape Town. Categories |