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
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