Motorcycle Diaries Day 6:

Day 6 was intended to be an easy day, just about 3.5 hrs of riding, getting a small jump on the next day’s trip.  The day began in Malawi with a relatively uneventful trip back across the border.  We left the hotel around 10am and hitchhiked our way to the border in a sequence of vehicles, some free, some not.  When we got to the border I needed to exchange some Tanzanian Shillings to US dollars to purchase a new Entry Visa.  I headed to an exchange on the Malawi side but the person working there wanted to first give me the rate of TSH to Malawi Kwacha, then convert that to US Dollars, basically allowing him to screw me on two exchange rates, instead of just giving me a rate on TSH to USD.  Needless to say I walked out of there, refusing to make the exchange.  I instead walked across the border and went into an exchange on the Tanzanian side and was able to only be screwed on a single exchange rate… I think I only saved maybe $2-3 but it was the principle of the thing, which is most important.  I refuse to be taken advantage of when I can avoid it.  

The bus ride(s) back to Matema were reasonably uneventful until we were halfway between Ipinda and Matema (you will remember that Ipinda was where I spent the night after my near catastrophic flat tire).  We were riding in the back of one of the most haggard Landcruisers I have seen, bumping up and down on near non-existent suspension and unpadded seats.  The poor old girl dragged her self along gamely until at last she faltered and called it quits.  I think we ran out of fuel because the driver’s assistant set off on foot with a jug.  About 100 meters from the stalled truck he managed to abscond with someone’s bicycle and set off in search of whatever liquid it was that he needed.  Lisa and I sat for a while waiting to see if some other vehicle would come along but after a little while decided that any forward movement was better than none and so we set out walking.  We were probably a good 10 km from Matema when we started but fortunately we had only gone at most 1 km when a vehicle came along the road and we were able to flag a ride.  In the end we arrived back in Matema probably around 2:00, all in all not too late in the day.  However, a simple 1 km walk could not appease the slight delay and complication gods.  On getting back I checked on my bike and immediately noticed that the back tire was once again flat.  I suppose I should just be thankful that it managed to get me from Ipinda to Matema a few days earlier and I had not ended up re-stranded, but it was still annoying.  I rolled my bike down the road to the Bicycle Fundi and left it with him to patch for me while we went for lunch.  Lunch was rice and beans, one of the truest of Tanzanian staple foods, and in this case with the option of small boiled lake fish, somewhat akin to sardines or mackerels.  I have never been a big fan of fish with all its bones and head attached, regardless of how small or soft.  I tried a few to be polite, and truthfully they didn’t taste all that bad, but still, they were small fish, bones and heads and all.  Just not my culinary style.

Food in Tanzania is one of my greatest disappointments in being here.  They have the climate to grow all the best fruits, veggies and spices that just about anyone could imagine or desire.  In fact most of the elements that make up the great tropical cuisines of the world, Thai, Latin American, Indian etc. are all present and accounted for.  Despite this, however, the food here is exceptionally bland and unimaginative.  This is not a problem across the entire continent to be sure, the Ethiopians know how to make drool worthy food, and some of the dishes common to Zanzibar are simply excellent, but mainland Tanzania is just plain uninspired.  The single most common staple dish here is something called Ugali, a starchy, flavorless, and texturally inferior cousin to grits or for our South African friends Pap.  It is made basically by adding flour to boiling water and stirring it into a doughy ball.  That is it.  No salt, no pepper, no seasoning of any kind at all, just a big ‘ol ball of starch that manages to be both without flavor and of a terribly unappealing texture.  Of course the Ugali is not served on its own, it is usually combined with some type of sauce, maybe some meat, and veggies.  Now you might be thinking that this does not sound too bad, almost a decent balanced meal, however, you are unfamiliar with the lack of diversity and creativity in the sides.  The sauce is probably made of onions, grated carrot and tomato.  The meat is cooked in onions, grated carrots, green pepper and tomato, pretty much the exact same thing.  The ‘veggie’ that is served is just a fried local form of spinach called Mchicha, simply cooked in way too much oil, maybe with a little onion again.  None of these things taste particularly bad, but they are all exceptionally boring and exceedingly similar.  Where is the garlic? Where are the spices? Where is the variety of fresh veggies, or the coconut?  When you are not eating Ugali you really only have two other major choices, rice, or chips (French fries).  Rice is rice is rice, so it is pretty hard to complain about that one, but it is worth mentioning that with the rare exception of a Pilau, which is due to the relatively large number of Indoafricans, rice is only ever just rice here.  None of Thailand’s tasty coconut rice, no succulent Mexican rice, not even India’s simple addition of cumin seeds to make jeera rice, just plain rice.  Ok well to be fair there are often little stones mixed in to add tooth-chipping flavor.  The chips are not really much better, served kind of soggy; having soaked up far too much oil for you to even pretend that they aren’t unhealthy.  One of the most popular dishes here for a snack is called Chips Mayai.  It is just soggy French fries put into a skillet with several eggs cracked on top, then cooked like an omelet and often served in a plastic bag.  French fry omelet, you either love it or you hate it, but regardless of your opinion you can’t say anything for this dish’s creativity or bold flavors, because they just don’t exist.  Moral of the story is that local food is definitely not one of the things that you can sell as an attraction to people considering traveling here.

We finished up our meal, I collected my bike, took a final swim in the lake and then I was strapping my gear on to leave.  I left Matema around 3:00pm giving myself what I thought would be plenty of time to reach Mbeya, my goal for the day.  I had arranged to stay with my Mwalimu wa Uyoga (Mushroom Teacher), whom I had studied with for a few days about 2 months earlier.  So I set out from Matema, feeling like for once I could relax a little, like maybe I had a little time to spare and appreciate the ride even more than usual.  I stopped and took a few pictures along the way, trying to capture some of the rugged beauty of the countryside.  I also decided that I should take a video or two of riding the dirt back roads, an almost disastrous decision.  

In order for me take a video while riding I would hold the camera with my left hand against my chest.  This allowed my right hand to both steer and maintain throttle on the bike.  So long as you do not need to make any major reactive correction, say stopping or swerving suddenly to avoid something, then this is a very easy task.  I was filming one small stretch of road as I bounced and rattled along, when ahead of me was a small group of cows wandering about on the road.  I slowed the bike, but continued forward, thinking to myself that it was a cool shot to ride through a herd of cows on the road.  One for the scrapbook.  The aggressive growl of my bike gave the cows ample warning of my approach and they were currently walking on either side of the dirt track.  On the other side of the road another bike was coming towards me, providing further motivation for the cows to stay to the sides of the road.  Aiming for a gap I proceeded, confident that the cows were not quite so dumb as to jump out in front of traffic.  Of course that is exactly what happened.  One cow decided that its current course was not to its liking and it would be better suited crossing to the other side of the road just then.  This was one of those moments where time slows down and the images are indelibly imprinted on the mind.  With only one hand I swerved left hard, almost to the point of losing control of the bike before reefing the bars back the right, slipping past the hindquarters of the cow by inches.

All in all I suppose I am impressed that not only did I not T-bone a cow, but that I also managed to keep myself and the bike upright, but it definitely got the adrenaline going.

Eventually I bounced and jostled my way back to Kyela and got back on the pavement.  I needed money, fuel and to have the chain on my bike tightened, so I headed into town in search of these things.  First stop was to be a bank as the trip to Malawi had essentially bankrupted my cash supply.  As I am sure anyone who has traveled in the last few years is aware the Interact card technology has fundamentally changed and greatly improved the traveler’s ability to have access to money in many parts of the world.  These days carrying travelers cheques is largely unnecessary in most places as it is easier, faster and often cheaper to just hit up the nearest ATM.  The catch of course is that not every ATM in the world is necessarily going to be friendly with your foreign card.  Unfortunately in Kyela I could not find a single bank that would play nice and give me some money.  I had about 20,000 Shillings, and I would just have to make it go the distance, otherwise I was pretty much screwed.  I stopped briefly at a Fundi to get my chain tightened and oiled and check the pressure in the tires, to make sure the patch was holding. Of course things being what they were the Fundi informed me that what I really needed was a new chain and new front and rear sprockets.  Motorbikes are nothing if not money pits, fun money pits and well worth it, but money pits all the same.   I couldn’t afford a sprocket and chain set on my meager 20,000 and so I figured I would wait until the next morning in Mbeya and deal with it then.  After paying the fundi I spent the rest of my money to fill up my bike and set out towards Mbeya hoping that the reduced weight of my wallet would be sufficient to ensure I would have enough gas mileage to reach my destination.

By this point it was about 5:30pm and I only had about 1.5 hrs of light left in the day.  I really have no idea how it became so late in the day.  It is a funny thing here the way time flows.  Some days seem to stretch on forever while others flash by.  I think on of the big reasons that time here seems to be so unpredictable is because you can never really count being able to accurately estimate how long any single action will take, regardless of how many times you have done it before.  A meeting scheduled to start at 8:00am may not begin till 10:00, if it happens at all, and no one here thinks that is strange.  What we would consider to be a quick and simple job, such as tightening the chain on a motorbike, which should take 10-15 minutes can easily consume an hour because the Fundi doesn’t have the part or tool he needs and must run around town buying them while you sit waiting.  A Daladala ride, which ought to take only 15 min, could take you an hour, with the Dala stopping every 20 meters, maybe catching on fire, maybe even turning around and going back in the opposite direction to pick up more passengers.  On the other hand, however, if you plan your day around things taking a long time, those are inevitably the days that things actually run like clockwork and suddenly you are finished.  All in all it tends to be both mind boggling and entirely unpredictable, but almost always working against your western sensibilities.  And thus on that particular day what I had thought to be lots of time to reach Mbeya from Matema, before night would set in, turned out to be about 45min too little.  There I was once again in the exact same situation I had found myself in when I had last ridden that stretch of road.  Night setting in quickly, swarms of bugs rising from the grass, and my weak headlight vainly fighting to hold back the encroaching darkness.  Fortunately this time I actually had some idea of the distance and time it would take, removing some of the stress of the previous journey.  This night, however, also brought with it a sharp edged cold.

I grew up and have lived nearly all my life in Canada, my favorite activity in the world is skiing, cold is something that I was effectively born and bred to, and yet that night I was cold.  My hands became slightly tingly, my cheeks burned slightly, and I shivered occasionally. I do not know how cold the night really was, perhaps it was cold by my usual standards, or perhaps I had simple become accustomed to a different standard.  What I do know is that it was wonderful.  To really feel cold, true cold that gets into you and sticks with you, after months of nothing but heat and sweat was truly beautiful, like a little taste of home.

Eventually my ride brought me to the crest of the hills flanking Mbeya and I began to descend into the valley.  I actually surprised myself with the ease with which I was able to find Gerald’s house through the warren of small dirt roads, but in short order he was opening the gate to his yard for me and I was rolling the bike inside.  It was very nice to visit with Gerald and his family again.  I had met Gerald a few months earlier when I was searching for a training course that would give me the proper skills and scope of knowledge on rural oyster mushroom production.  Gerald is an amazing character; highly educated, fantastic English, and a jovial and captivating personality, which draws people in, and makes him a fantastic educator.  Gerald has been involved in nearly every large mushroom production project in Tanzania in the last 20 yrs and his breadth of knowledge is very impressive.  What makes Gerald even better to talk to, than his vast knowledge, is how simple he keeps it.  I have met with other people of similar education and experience with mushroom production in the country, and invariably they seem to over-complicate and ‘acemedify’ everything.  Gerald has a real gift for keeping the process as simple as possible while still imparting all the critical knowledge to guarantee success.  It was a pleasure to spend an evening chatting with him, but the true highlight came in the form of a hot bucket shower.  The cold of the evening had stuck with me and to fill bucket after bucket with near scalding hot water and pour it over myself was a little taste of heaven on earth.  That night I, for the first time since coming to Tanzania, went to sleep under multiple blankets, snuggled in against the night chill and slept a deep and satisfied sleep.  

Support Poverty Alleviation Through Microbusiness Development: Rural Mushroom Production and Distribution

I would like to take a detailed look at the project I am involved in here in Tanzania and help you understand just how the process of growing mushrooms works and how it will help the impoverished.  Also I will offer you an opportunity to get involved and help ensure the success of the project.

(To the loyal readers of my 'regularly' scheduled Motorcycle Diaries I apologize for the wait and promise the next chapter shortly)

So what is my project?  I am teaching local villagers to grow Oyster Mushrooms and secondarily setting up a distribution network to sell those mushrooms fresh to local restaurants, hotels and individuals.

Whenever I tell people here about my project the first question almost everyone asks is, “Where did you get that idea?”  The idea came to me about a week after coming to Tanzania.  We were taking a two-week intensive beginners Swahili course and our teacher was going over the names of fruits and vegetables.  When we came to Uyoga (Mushrooms) she told us that we were unlikely to ever see them in any of the local markets here.  “People here don’t grow them, or eat them, there is a cultural stigma against them here in Northern Tanzania, and people generally don’t trust them, since there are various types that can kill.” She explained to us.  In that moment I had one of those epiphanies.  I realized that even if local people didn’t want to buy them I knew that I did, and there were a lot of other people like me out there who would too.  Northern Tanzania, Moshi and Arusha in particular, are home to an extremely high number of volunteers, tourists and expatriates, nearly all of whom are coming from Western and European countries where mushroom consumption is huge.  Thus there are a relatively large number of restaurants and hotels that cater specifically to the taste of the ‘Mzungu,’ and individual expatriates with the capability of cooking their own food.  Each of these makes a sizable and effectively untapped market for this product.  There are some mushrooms available but nearly no fresh of any kind.  There are occasionally dried Oyster and Shitake Mushrooms to be found, though they are not well distributed and generally less desirable.  There is an abundance of canned button mushrooms, but these are ill tasting, ill smelling and generally ill conceived. Thus there is a serious gap in the market waiting to be filled by locally produced, good quality, fresh mushrooms.

The second question I usually get is, “So, did you know anything about mushrooms before coming here?”  The simple answer is no.  I knew that they are fungus, I knew that they grew on decomposing organic material, and I knew that I really liked eating them.  That was it, the entire sum of my knowledge on the subject.  For the first two months of being here I did a huge amount of research, trying to educate myself and determine the feasibility of growing in the Moshi area.  The more I looked into it the more I was encouraged by what I found, but also I quickly came to realize that I needed professional help and training.  I found that help in Mbeya in Southern Tanzania, about 17hrs away by bus with a small company called Tanmush.  In mid December I made the trek south to spend three days learning all the academics and practical knowledge I would need to train others and to oversee a successful project.  

The knowledge to do something, however, is only half the equation.  I also needed to find a suitable group of people to do the learning and the growing as well as a local organization to partner with.  When I visited Tanzania to do preliminary market research for Royal Roads Microfinance Business Ideas Competition in the spring of 2010, I was introduced to Young Kimaro and the Mwika Development Trust Fund (MWIDEFU), which among many other things helps facilitate microloans in the their community.  Young and MWIDEFU were able to help recruit potential growers and eventually oversee the administration of microloans to them, giving them the resources they needed to purchase startup equipment.  I now have 10 growers in the village of Mwika, about 40km from Moshi, on the slopes of Kilimanjaro, all trained and in the final stages of preparation to grow.

The process of growing mushrooms is relatively simple.  We are focused on growing Oyster Mushrooms (Mamama in Kiswahili), which are exceptionally well suited to growing in tropical climes.  Oyster Mushrooms are grown indoors and thus require a small hut to be built for this purpose.  This hut or Uyoga Banda, allows growers greater control over temperature, humidity, light, airflow, and keeps away pests.  Mushrooms grow on decaying organic material or what we call ‘Substrate.’  In the case of Oyster Mushrooms we are able to use cheap, locally available substrates such as banana leaf and straw.  Some mushrooms like the Button, require that they be grown on carefully managed compost, greatly increasing the labor and technicality of growing.  Oysters, however, are capable of growing on pasteurized leaves, making the process extremely simple.  Growers simply put a few litres of water in the bottom of a barrel, fill it with chopped banana leaf and straw, cover tightly, and then put over a fire for a few hours.  This effectively creates a pressure cooker like environment and the steam will kill any and all microorganisms, which could interfere with the mushrooms growth.  The next day, after things have cooled the substrate is layered into large plastic bags with mushroom spawn.  The spawn must be grown in a lab, as spores are too difficult and unreliable to use for propagation.  Once the bags are packed full they are put into the hut and covered with plastic to create a dark, CO2 rich atmosphere, for two weeks.  During this two-week period the spawn begins to spread mycelium (think of it as mushroom roots) throughout the bag until it is covering nearly all the substrate.  At this point the bag is moved to a shelf in the hut where it will receive a little more light and good air circulation.  Within two to four weeks of coming out of dark the grower will have his first harvest or flush of mushrooms.  The first flush is always the largest and with the 5-kilo bags of substrate the growers use, can be as large 1-kilo of mushrooms.  After harvest the bag will continue to produce successively smaller flushes each 10-12 days for a total of 5 flushes.

I now have 10 growers trained and in the final stages of preparing themselves to grow mushrooms in Mwika, and a very promising list of interested clients.  It would seem that the pieces are all in place and the probability of success is very high.  What does success look like, however?  The impact of this project can be viewed from 3 perspectives: the growers, distributor, and the community at large.

The average blue-collar worker in Tanzania earns approximately 5,000 Tanzanian Shillings (TSH) a day, which roughly equates to $3.45 CAD.  With this money they help support their family, putting food on the table, keeping a roof over their heads etc.  It is not much but it is just enough for most people to get by on; no frills, no extras, but there are few people here who are starving to death.  There are, however, many obvious signs of poverty in the region.  Malnutrition, an HIV/AIDS epidemic, many families living without electricity in houses made of just mud and sticks, children whose parents can not afford to send them to school, the list goes on.  In particular, a majority of the people living in rural areas are farmers of some type, who work very long days for very little reward.

For the growers the project represents an opportunity to supplement their income by an approximate minimum of 3,300 TSH a day, an increase of about 66%.  Consider that each 5kg bag of mushrooms costs about 2,500 TSH to produce, and on average should yield 3-3.5 kilos of mushrooms.  These mushrooms are sold for 3,000 TSH per kilo yield revenues of 9,000 – 10,500 TSH per bag and a net income of 6,500 – 8,000 TSH.  Currently at the outset of the project growers are being encouraged to start a conservative 5 bags every two weeks to help ensure that a solid market exists and to have demand exceed supply.

For the Distributor this will become a nearly full time job.  Aloyce Maletho supports a family of 5 with 4 children ages 6 to 18.  Despite speaking English well and being a genial character, he has been without work for some time now and his savings have dwindled to dangerously low levels.  For him this job represents an opportunity to make enough money to continue feeding his family and continue paying the school fees for his children to ensure they receive a quality education.  Aloyce will purchase the mushrooms from the growers at 3,000 TSH a kilo and then deliver and resell at 5,000 per kilo to restaurants, hotels and expatriates throughout the Kilimanjaro region.  Initial projections of the market suggest that Aloyce should be able to net between 400,000 TSH and 600,000 per month, a decent Tanzanian salary.  As the market grows and production increases so does Aloyce’s potential for earning.

Non-monetary benefits to the growers, distributor, and community exist through the high nutritional value of mushrooms.  On a dry weight basis Oyster Mushrooms contain between 15% - 35% protein and are an excellent source of vitamins A – E, antioxidants, antibacterial properties, and have been shown to help bolster the immune system.  In an area where the average daily diet is rice, beans and maize, the addition of mushrooms has the potential to significantly increase wellness.  All of the growers I have trained thus far have expressed a keen interest to grow extra for household consumption as well as a commitment to introducing others in the community to this food source.  

A snapshot of a few of the people who are now involved in the project: 

Name: Fredrick Mori

Age: 57 yrs

Supported Family: Five Children and a Wife

Current Means of Support: Peasant Farmer
Project Involvement: Grower and Coordinator of Communications amongst growers in Mwika

Name: Frezer N. Shaw

Age: 52 yrs

Supported Family: Four Children and a Wife

Current Means of Support: Peasant Farmer
Project Involvement: Grower

Name: Alex Julius Mariki

Age: 40 yrs

Supported Family: Four Children and his Mother

Current Means of Support: Peasant Farmer
Project Involvement: Grower

Name: Lightness Stanley Kimaro

Age: 48 yrs

Supported Family: Four Children and her Husband

Current Means of Support: Livestock Farmer
Project Involvement: Grower

Name: Crisanta Humfrey Lyimo

Age: 50 yrs

Supported Family: Ten People

Current Means of Support: Peasant Farmer
Project Involvement: Grower

Name: Charles Sofari Nriyo

Age: 58 yrs

Supported Family: Twelve People

Current Means of Support: Peasant Farmer
Project Involvement: Grower

Name: Aloyce Maletho

Age: 43 yrs

Supported Family: Four Children and a Wife

Current Means of Support: Unemployed
Project Involvement: Distributor

How you can Help:

This project was originally funded through a very generous philanthropist in Victoria B.C.  He donated a substantial sum of money to Royal Roads University in a partnership to develop micro-business opportunities in the area around Moshi. I originally came with three other participants who completed their projects and returned to Canada.  I opted to stay on for an additional three months in order to complete the development of my project and better ensure its long term success and sustainability.  Additionally in order ensure the growers have sufficient funds to purchase equipment and build their growing huts we have had to extend microloans of 200,000 TSH to each.  To make these loans available we have had to ‘seed’ money into the local SACCOS (small community banks).  This expense and my extended stay have exceeded the funds granted to me at the beginning of the project.

As a result in order to successfully see this project through to completion I need your help, as do the farmers and distributor I am working with.  Funds are urgently needed in the following areas:

1. Subsidizing micro-loans for the growers - $1,500.  This money will eventually be paid back to MWIDEFU and sit in a revolving fund to support future farmers who wish to begin growing mushrooms.   
2. Partial purchase price of a reliable motorbike for the Distributor - $750.  The Distributor will match this contribution to buy a motorbike which will be used to travel between the village and the end-customers. 
3. Miscellaneous business expenses and supplies, such as travel, printing, additional training and follow up with growers, etc - $1000. 

To donate please follow the steps below

1. Go to http://tinyurl.com/5tf724u 
2. Fill out your contact info 
3. Fill in the amount you wish to donate and select “Tanzania Microbusiness 2011” from the drop down ‘designation’ menu 
4. After completing the process, donors will see a confirmation message on their screen, and receive a letter/tax receipt in the mail

Donations of $20 or more will be issued a charitable tax deduction receipt.

Please consider recommending this to others and thank you for your support.

Andrew Miller

Motorcycle Diaries Day 4 & 5:

That night a serious wind and rainstorm blew through Matema.  Rain pelted the windows like an army of suitors throwing rocks in an attempt to catch the attention of their sleeping interest.  It rained and blew so hard that the next morning I found my bike lying on its side in the dirt, the ground having become so soft that the kickstand had sunk in to the point of toppling over. Despite the violence of the storm I fell asleep rather easily, probably having something to do with being exhausted, and slept peacefully until it was time to leave.  If I thought 7:00 am had arrived ahead of schedule the morning before it was nothing compared to hearing my alarm chime at 5:00.  It is hard to describe the mixture of confusion, sorrow and loathing that can be felt when you are awoken, not fully rested and unable to correct the situation.  I groaned and flailed about under my mosquito net trying to silence the offending alarm.  I eventually managed to connect my hands with my phone and shut it off, sitting up in the bed and glaring into the darkness, eyes gummy and blurred with sleep.  Light was coming from under the door, a sign that Lisa was already up.  I crawled out from under my net and crossed the small room to the light-switch.  Closing my eyes in anticipation I flicked it on.  Suddenly bright light burned its way through my lids, turning my world from beautiful black to an ugly red.  I blinked my eyes a few times, and squinted at my room.  I had packed what I would need for Malawi the night before, and all that was left to do was brush my teeth, get dressed and head out.  I opened the door and walked down the short hall to the living room to find Lisa there with tea and Mandazi, Tanzania’s version of a donut.  I sat wearily for a while drinking scalding hot tea and picking at my mandazi, and not talking as I am wont to do in the morning.

I have never really been much of a morning person.  I never have too much trouble being functional, even highly functional in the morning if I need to be, mostly a product of stubbornness, but it is definitely not my best time of day.  Some people I know and have lived with always seem to greet the morning with enthusiasm and for some reason expect everyone else to share that with them.  There is no easing into the day; they simply hit the ground running.  I certainly don’t begrudge them this; I am perhaps a little envious, but what I cannot forgive is the talking.  I used to work at a kids summer camp on a small island in British Columbia’s Sunshine Coast.  For a number of summers I made my home in a small 8’ x 12’ hut on the edge of a small bluff overlooking the ocean.  It was an idyllic setting in the morning, the sun streaming in through the windows, which dominated the front wall, and the gentle sounds of the ocean against the rocks.  I lived there with one of my good friends Mark, and our morning rituals were highly complimentary.  A typical morning saw us up at around 7:30 as the small room began to become uncomfortably warm and bright.  We would usually stand on the porch for a while in silence until one of us would pull our shorts from the rail and head back inside to change.  From there we would make our way the few steps down the bluff to a small outcropping of rock at the waters edge.  Here we would stand for anywhere from 2 to 15 minutes, depending on how hot the morning was or if there was some pressing appointment; at some point, however, one of us, often Mark, would dive into the water, encouraging, or perhaps shaming the other into joining.  A brief swim followed by a showing under a hose to wash away the salt and we would dress for the day and head up the trail that led to breakfast.  Writing this, years later, this still sounds like a fantastic way to start any morning.  The thing that made it work so well was that through that entire morning ritual Mark and I would maybe speak a total of 10 words to each other, maybe.  There was nothing that needed saying, we just went about our business, appreciated each others company and had the luxury of easing into the day.  Years later Mark was replaced by Theo.  Theo is a passionate and boisterous character, Canadian by birth, Swedish by descent, and 100% big.  Big in personality, big in his actions, big in his words, and not exactly small in stature either.  The morning ritual didn’t really change much with Theo, although there was usually a little less standing around on the porch and the rocks; Theo was just more gung-ho to get going in the morning.  But the real difference was that Theo did not share Mark’s stoicism and reticence to speak in the morning.  If Theo’s eyes are open then his mouth probably is too.  Sometimes it is like a stream of verbal consciousness.  But Theo is also not content just to talk.  Being the friendly and gregarious person that he is he makes every attempt to draw you into conversation.  I would usually answer monosyllabically when necessary and opt for head shakes, nods and shrugs wherever possible.   I think Theo could never really understand why I wouldn’t talk to him in the morning, in the same way that I couldn’t understand how he had so much to say that early, and why he just couldn’t shut up…

So I sat there drinking my tea and not talking, and fortunately Lisa didn’t seem to have anything to say to interrupt my silence.  Pretty soon, however, I had to abandon my tea and finish getting ready to leave.  My bike needed to be picked up off the ground and re-settled, last minute additions to my bag, and then we were out the door and walking through the predawn dark to the bus.  As things are wont to work in Tanzania, because we were on time the Dala was late in leaving.  We sat for about 45 minutes, 45 minutes I could have been sleeping, waiting for the Dala to begin its trek.  I imagine I didn’t look all that awesome, still caught somewhere between sleep and consciousness.  I sat there with something of a blank look on my face, staring away into nothing, mind hardly active.  A couple of times Lisa asked if I was ok, suggesting I looked as haggard as I felt.  There was, however, no reason or need to make the effort to function at a higher level, and so I let myself wallow in my exhaustion.  

Eventually the bus did begin to roll down the dirt track, back towards Kyela.  We had only gone about 500 meters however when we lurched to a stop, unable to go any farther.  A massive branch of one of the trees lining the road had succumbed to the wind of the previous night, splintering from the trunk and falling to lie across the road.  It took them maybe another 15 minutes to clear the road and get us on the way again.  By this time it was just about light outside and the day was beginning in earnest.  Slowly over the next two hours we bumped and rattled our way back along the road to Kyela, eventually ending at a bus station somewhere in the heart of town.

There is surprisingly little helpful information on the internet about getting from Tanzania to Malawi and neither Lisa nor I had made much of an effort to really research exactly where we were going or how to get there.  Between the two of us, however, we had a pretty solid rudimentary grasp of Kiswahili and figured we would muddle through somehow.  Getting off the bus we were immediately approached by several ‘helpful’ locals, all asking us where we were going, did we want a taxi, etc… We were soon directed to another bus, which was apparently headed near to the boarder and hopped on just before it left the station.  The timing seemed excellent, which should have been an indication that something was soon to go at least a little awry, which of course it did.  We pulled out of the bus station and drove back out to the main road and headed onwards.  We had gone maybe 5 km picking up people every few hundred meters, when, abruptly, the bus turned around and began heading back in the direction from which we had just come.  Lisa and I just looked at each other and kind of gave one of those shrugs that speak volumes.  Here in Tanzania you really just have to be prepared to roll with this kind of thing.  It can be frustrating at times, especially if you have no idea why something is happening, but things like this are really pretty commonplace.  The bus headed all the way back to the station, still picking up more passengers along the way.  At the station we took a few more people and then again began to retrace our steps.  We had not even made it as far as our original turn around point when, once again, the bus switched directions, heading nearly back to the station before once again heading in the opposite direction.  By this point Lisa and I were laughing aloud at the situation.  The first time we had passed one particular hotel, Lisa had told me a conversational story about staying there one night.  Each subsequent passing of the hotel heard a retelling of that same story; not something that is really all that funny, unless you are tired and living through such a ridiculous experience.  Finally, however, we did actually leave town and began to head for the border.   

Not too long later the bus rolled into yet another small bus station about 2km from the border.  As we got off a new type of street vendor, offering to exchange our Tanzanian Shillings for Malawi Kwacha, immediately accosted us.  Being the savvy traveler that I am I steadfastly disbelieved anything they told me, generally assuming that exactly the opposite was true.  

“I give you really good rate.” 

Translation: I will rip you off so bad that I will be laughing about it for days.

“There are no Currency Exchanges or ATMs at the border.”

Translation: I need to make this sale quickly before you get there and see all the Currency Exchanges and ATMs offering fair and reasonable rates.  

The one thing that was called into attention at that moment was just how little I knew about where we were going.  I had no idea prior to that moment that the currency was called Kwacha, and even less idea what a decent exchange between my Shillings and the Kwacha was.  In fact I had no idea where we were going in Malawi.  I didn’t know the name of the cities, if there was anywhere good to stay, what language was spoken in the country… I didn’t really know anything.  To some this might seem like a bit of a traveling nightmare, or at least a semi serious slip up.  I have, however, always been a bit of a fly by the seat of my pants kind of guy.  I have no issue with making plans, and sometimes can actually be rather exhaustive in detailing the steps to be taken for certain projects. I have also learned, however, that one must never get too attached to plans.  Dwight Eisenhower is quoted as saying “In preparing for battle, I have always found that plans are useless, but planning is indispensable."  I like to think that this is true for all aspects of life, not just ‘battle.’  It is impossible to plan for every eventuality and almost impossible to stick to your plan once made.  The real key to success is in being able to roll with the punches, make it up as you go and adapt to ever changing situations.  Having thought through eventualities and formulating desirous goals will help direct which way you roll, as well as the speed and confidence with which you react.  The more knowledge you have on any given situation and forethought that has gone in the more likely that your reactions will be intelligent and well directed.  In this instance, however, I realized that I had never traveled in quite such an uneducated and unprepared fashion.  Truthfully it was both a little exciting and a little frightening, but I figured I have come this far, no sense in stopping or being over worried now.  

We walked the 2km to the border and low and behold, as predicted there were Currency Exchanges offering nearly double the rate the guys on the street were giving and that was still giving them a decent profit.  As it turns out the official exchange rate, which I found out later, is approximately 1 Malawi Kwacha to 10 Tanzanian Shillings, making for the easiest mental conversion ever.  As I recall it I think the guys on the street were offering 1:5… you do the math.  

After exchanging around 100,000 TSH we headed into the immigration office to get our exit stamps, and then walked across the bridge to repeat the process on the Malawi side. Inside the office we were stopped by two women at a small desk who demanded our yellow fever immunization cards.  I stared at the women, eyes a little wide.  My yellow fever card, an expensive little piece of paper, sat securely in my bedroom in Moshi where I had foolishly left it.  I explained this to the women, offering them my best contrite face and pleading eyes, hoping that we might be able to find some arrangement to work around this problem.  Technically yellow fever has the potential to be a rather serious issue and the need to guard against outbreaks very real.  In this case, however, I was fortunate enough to be in Eastern Africa and there are few problems here that a little money can’t help you slide around or blast right through.  In this case one women’s face took on a slightly furtive cast and she said softly, pitching her voice so it would not carry far,

“Maybe you can buy me soda?”

“I think I can manage that I said,” A little tension leaving my body, “where can I get you a soda from?”

“No no,” She replied and made the universal sign for money.

“Ahhh ok.” I said understanding.  Soda was simply code for raw cash.

I pulled out my wallet and removed 60 Kwacha, surreptitiously passing it across the desk.  The women looked down at the money I had slipped her, smiled and shook her head, continuing to look at me expectantly.  I laughed lightly and dug into my wallet again.  The next smallest bill I had was a 500 (about the equivalent of 5,000 TSH or $3.50) and handed it across to her.  Apparently this was sufficient as she smiled and tucked the money away beneath the desk.  When I later learned the proper exchange rate, and the local price of sodas I found that I had essentially given her enough to purchase 11 sodas but all things considered I still feel it was a small price to pay to bribe my way into a country.  At the next desk the man checked our passports and received a nod from the women at the previous desk, indicating that we “had” our immunization cards and that was that, we were in.  

We caught a car into the next town, kind of a mix between taxi and bus service, with people getting in and out all along the way.  The northernmost city/town in Malawi is Karonga, basically famous for well… just about nothing.  To be fair they have a pretty cool museum full of fossils from the rift valley, which we visited the following day, but it is not exactly enough to make this place a destination.  There are basically no hotels and only a couple of local style rest houses.  Of course we didn’t really know any of this.  We were flying blind.  We got into central Karonga and began looking for an internet café which could help us determine our next move.  We eventually settled into a café and began to try and search for hotels, resorts, or the like in the area.  Unfortunately no matter what variations of keywords and websites I used the only likely thing that I could find was located about another hour away.  We tried calling but no one was answering either phone and we had no way of knowing if they had space for us.  Also it was pretty clear that there was nothing else in the area, making a trip down to check it out somewhat risky.  I had noticed a sign for a hotel about 10km before we came into town but couldn’t find any evidence of its existence online to suggest what kind of place it was.  Fortunately we were joined in the café by a couple of German women with whom Lisa struck up a conversation.  They were apparently driving all the way down to the southern tip of Africa from Germany, and had stayed at the exact place that I was thinking of.  They told us that it was a decent place to stay, and thus encouraged we decided to backtrack a little and stay there, at least for one night.  

We decided to walk back, giving us a chance to see a little more of the country, and after all it was not like we were in a rush to get anywhere or do anything.  The walk took us at least and hour and a half under a blazing hot sun and by the time we got in, carrying our bags, we were thoroughly hot and sweaty. 





The hotel was nice, though nothing special, with a small beach area onto the lake, a bar and a restaurant.  Unfortunately the beach, unlike Matema as not really conducive to swimming with its shallow water, muddy bottom and a number of snails suggesting the presence of Schistosomiasis.  

We stayed there two nights, spending much of the time just hanging out on the beach, being gawked at by small children who would gather on the other side of the fence.  The little cove that the beach was in seemed to be a popular place for washing clothes and bathing, and there was rarely no locals around.  At times we felt a little like animals in a zoo, on display as exotic creatures for the amusement of the locals.  When we would walk outside of the compound we were greeted with a mixture of excitement, astonishment and demand.  From over 100 meters away children would yell and wave as we passed, jumping up and down in excitement to witness the mystical Mzungu.  Children closer to us would invariably echo the phrase, “Mzungu, give me money.” Once again proving that they clearly have no concept of student loans and crippling student debt in the developing world.  After trying a few different responses to this demand I eventually settled on, “No you give me money.”  This usually resulted in a slightly confused look, as though they thought that I had not understood the initial demand, and so to be sure they would repeat, “Mzungu, give me money.”  I would respond in kind and we might go back and forth once or twice more before it really sunk in that they weren’t getting anything from me and they would head off to find some other amusement.  

All in all despite seeing very little of the country I had a very favourable impression of Malawi and its people.  The few interactions that we had were quite positive and it was a very relaxing break from my arduous travels to get there.  Soon, however, I would be heading back and little did I know at the time that the most trying adventures were yet to come.  

Motorcycle Diaries Day 3:

7:00 am arrived much too early as it usually seems to.  I had only been sleeping for about 5.5 hours, after a long and tiring day.  Given the leisure to choose, I would probably have still been asleep, or at least serious about going back to sleep.  This day, however, I did not have that option available to me.  Even if I had been able to turn my back on my commitment to get up and attend to my bike, I don’t think that I would have been able to return to sleep considering the noise.  Out in the courtyard of the dingy guesthouse the television speakers were attempting to tear themselves apart, or perhaps burst forth from their plastic prison.  I suppose you could call the sound music, although the volume far exceeded the capabilities of the speakers and the resulting distortion rendered the strains of African Hip Hop distorted and broken.  My room still carried the slight but prevailing odor of sour rotten cabbage seeping from under the bathroom door, and despite the fan and early hour, the air was already beginning to warm.  I reached for my phone to check the time, sighing in recognition that my time for resting had ended, and placed a call to my friend from the night before to find him already up and waiting for my call.  Thus spurred onwards I got up and dressed hastily, wearing the same clothes as the previous two days of travel because, after all, it is just too much effort to unpack and repack. Besides why dirty fresh clothes when these are at hand?  Today I would finally reach my destination and there I will be able to shower and change.  In a way it was almost disappointing to know that I only had approximately 35km to travel that day in order to finish my southern trek through Tanzania.  On the other hand it was nice to be able to look forward to a very short day of travel and a long day of relaxing.  

First, however, there was a flat tire to be attended to, something I hoped would be a relatively quick and easy procedure.  Once I was dressed and my teeth hastily brushed, with water from a water bottle, I left my room and headed out into the courtyard.  The music went from annoying to just plain ridiculous in volume, making me shake my head in a mix of incredulous humor and annoyance.  The street outside was just beginning to fill with people going to and fro, setting up market stalls, and carting goods.  My bike was just down the way, still stuffed and shoelaced into the back of the Daladala from the night before.  We unloaded the poor girl and pushed her down the street a little ways to an open patch of dirt populated by several young men, a few bicycles and several cows; apparently the local ‘garage.’  Now that it was light out it did not take too long to discover the cause of my tires catastrophic loss in air pressure.  A small roughshod nail was firmly embedded between the treads, having been somehow picked up during the previous nights ride.  I still have the nail, saved as a souvenir of the trip, and a reminder of how even very small and innocuous things can have profound effect.  

In relatively short order the back tire was off my bike and the tube being removed.  Watching the Fundi work with a few screwdrivers on a patch of dirt next to a cow paddy, I was again reminded just how easy these bikes are to work on, and how few tools are required.  All these learning’s were being filed away for future use, particularly in relation to my goal of eventually taking a 6 or so month trek through Asia and India by bike.  

My dream for this trip had originated while watching a special episode of one of Britain’s greatest television exports, Top Gear.  In this particular episode the hosts are dropped in Ho Chi Min City in southern Vietnam and tasked with traveling to the north of the country, 1000 miles, in only 8 days and with the equivalent of $1000 purchase transportation. This leads them to purchase cheap local motorbikes and set out through some of the most beautiful landscapes in the world.  I won’t ruin the episode for you if you haven’t seen it, though if you have not I highly recommend you take an hour, track it down on Youtube or a Torrent and watch it, but suffice to say the adventure they have is humorous and epic.  Watching that episode I started dreaming. It started small, just thinking of recreating that same trip, but anyone who knows me knows that I rarely dream small.  Soon the dream developed into a lengthy trek covering northern South East Asia, up into Mainland China, downwards passing through Nepal and Tibet, and finally descending through the length of India.  In many ways I considered my current trip through Tanzania as a trial run, a proving ground and educational exercise.  

Overall, thus far, my experience in Africa was actually very encouraging for my future goals.  Despite all the small mishaps and issues I had encountered I was encouraged by just how manageable each was.  I was particularly buoyed by just how few simple tools were required to address most of the ‘common’ problems I could expect to face.  For instance to repair a punctured tube:

Equipment Needed

• 1 Wrench to remove back wheel
• 2 Larger screwdrivers to unseat tire from rim
• Small pliers to loosen nut on valve stem
• Scrap rubber tubing
• Contact cement
• Bicycle pump to re-inflate 

Repairing my tire took about an hour total, and much of that can be attributed to the slow and relaxed pace that people here tend to work at.  I passed the time sitting on a bench, occasionally talking with the people there and repeatedly denying the request of a street kid for money.  This boy followed me everywhere I went and had his hand permanently held out in a beggar’s gesture.  

Despite being in Tanzania for the purpose of development leading to poverty alleviation I also had a strict no handouts policy.  That may seem contradictory or harsh but I have good reasons for it.  The first time I visited Africa, nearly a year earlier I did not come with such firm and formed ideals.  On the second day of that trip, however, I had a series of experiences that served to change my perspective and began to form a basis for my rationale.  We were taking an overnight train from Nairobi to Mombasa in Kenya.  When we got up in the morning we found ourselves rolling through the plains of East Africa, passing many small-unnamed villages, remarkable only by their poverty, and then only to our wealthy western eyes.  Every village we would pass would invariable spew forth a small troop of dirty and ill-dress children who would run to the side of tracks, hand outstretched and wearing seemingly forced smiles.  On seeing Mzungus on the train they would begin to yell,

“Mzungu, give me money.” Or “Please money.”

The sight of these dirty but insanely cute children begging on the side of the tracks was at first enduring and brought forth several small coins, candy and other trinkets tossed in their direction.  These were quickly snatched up and disappeared into pockets.  As we carried on though, and began to run out of things to offer we began to see the uglier side of our thoughtless actions.  As the train would roll past children and we would have nothing to give the reaction of the children was not amiable, it was not even dejected acceptance, as I would have expected.  Instead it was anger, the kind of anger which children display when they feel they are not getting something they deserve.  Suddenly I was hearing choruses of,

“Mzungu give me money,” promptly followed by, “Fuck you!” This from a 10-year-old child…

One of the last pieces of candy to be thrown sparked a vicious fight between two boys, which left one crying and the victor running away, his prize clutched close, in a scene, which reminded me of Smeagol and Deagol fighting over ‘The Precious.’  Other children stared with malevolence as we passed, as though their situation in life was our fault, or at least our inaction branded us as traitors to the system they believed in.  Mzungus meant free things, we meant handouts and charity, but there was not an enduring sense of gratitude towards our charity.  Instead there was an ugly expectant sense of entitlement, not something I am interested in perpetuating.  The problem with this kind of charity is that it leads to all manner of abuse and is not sustainable.  When we rich foreigners travel abroad, carelessly shedding money like dead skin, it has a highly detrimental effect in two major areas.  The first is that it skews the impression of local people as to how much money we have and our ability to give it.  This is why people are constantly trying to rip us off, coming and knocking on our gate asking us to sponsor them or just give them money straight up.  This is why it is so hard to explain to people that we are not able to help everyone, that our money has very real finite limits.  The second problem is that this can have a very detrimental effect on people working in development.  Good development works to help people empower themselves; to make them self-sufficient so that when we are gone they will continue to prosper.  Instead there is an expectation that we will just hand them the key to their future and they will not have to take responsibility for their own self-improvement.  While it is true that we have access to many things that they do not, and need in order to get ahead, such as capital and education, in the end it is only their hard work and perseverance which will allow them to rise above their current situation and stay there.  There is a very good reason why you see a lot more people begging in tourist centers.  I do not mean to suggest that aid and charity are inherently bad, and that they are the source of all begging and development struggles, but they often do not help the way that we intend them to.  

It is experiences such as these, which has led me to take a slightly harsher stand on the issue of giving out money.  I do not like being looked at like a cash dispensary and I have no wish to perpetuate a system that does not truly help the poor, and at the same time is creating systems by which foreigners are taken advantage of.  Nothing is ever as cut and dry as we would like and I have made some few exceptions, however, I try hard to only ever give money which I know will be used to promote sustainable development, which will in turn help them to create more of their own money.  

Eventually my tire was patched and my bike reassembled, loaded up and ready to go once more.  I started out, praying that the patch would hold, and that today would be an issue free day for once.  After all I only had about one hour of travel, and it didn’t seem like too much to ask for.  Fortunately that day things were swinging my way and I arrived in Matema about an hour later, issue free.  The road into Matema leads practically right to the gate of the Lutheran Hospital, which was my destination.  My friend Lisa, who I met randomly on the ferry back from Zanzibar about a month earlier worked at the hospital there, and would be accompanying me down to Malawi the following day.  My instructions were to call Lisa when I got to the hospital and she would come and collect me.  I hopped off my bike and dug my phone out of my pocket, only to find that I had no network coverage at all.  

There are several networks in Tanzania and many people have multiple phones and or SIM cards, which allow them to access each.  If you are really intentional about it you can save quite a bit of money by calling people on the same network, avoiding cross network mark ups.  When I first arrived in Tanzania I bought into this concept but quickly became annoyed with multiple phones and trying to remember who was on what network etc and simply fell to using a single number and phone.  Of course the one that I had chosen, Vodacom, wasn’t helping me much now.  Figuring that it was a small enough town that people would know one of the only Mzungus around I walked into the hospital courtyard and asked the first person I saw there.  Fortunately he was a member of the hospital staff and even had her number in his phone.  She arrived a few minutes later and showed me to my room.  

What to say of Matema?  It is a small and idyllic town on the northernmost shore of Lake Nyasa (Lake Malawi).  A broad sandy beach leads to crystal clear warm waters and is flanked by lush green mountains on one side.  There is a tourist campsite a little ways down the beach, that I suspect does not see a lot of business, as Matema is not exactly easily accessible, as I had discovered.  The Lutheran presence was denoted by the hospital, a ‘beach resort,’ and a large church.  The population is largely rural farmers with a few shop owners and other services sprinkled in, and of course the doctors.  The German priests are forced to drink their beer in secret, if at all, as on the grounds of the Lutheran centre there is a no drinking policy.  Even the resort does not sell any alcoholic beverages, not exactly a selling point to most travelers I know.  All in all, however, Matema is a beautiful place, and worth the trek. 





Lisa and I spent the day alternating between swimming in the lake and walking through the surrounding countryside/villages.  It was nice to have a day free of stressing over my bike, and sweating in leather pants, and also nice to speak English without worrying about my being understood.  Lisa is German, but speaks excellent English and there are few words or expressions that she does not understand.  That night we ended up having dinner with the family of one of the hospital staff; him, his wife, 6-month-old twins and his 4-year-old daughter.  I do not really recall how it started but at some point his daughter, whose name I forget, decided to start teaching us Swahili.  She had a series of school exercise book with pictures of various items that were arranged to encourage basic math skills.  5 carrots plus 4 more gives 9, that sort of thing.  She would point at an object and demand that we name it in Swahili, and then point at the next, which was invariably the same object and repeat.  In the end you would end up saying something to the effect of,

“Karroti, karroti, karroti, karroti, karroti, karroti, karroti, karroti, karroti, karroti, karroti.”

It became a bit of game to see how fast you could say them all.  She is also clearly a believer in the old school method of teaching.  ‘Spare the rod, spoil the child’ is clearly an adage which she believes in.  Whenever I would make a mistake, she would rap me on the head with the pencil she was holding.  It is amazing the things that I will accept and/or put up with for a cute little girl…

We only had a few hours for sleep that night before we had to get up and begin our trek into Malawi, as the only reliable Daladala to leave Matema in the morning is scheduled for around 5:30am.  Thus, fed, educated, and chastised I was able to head to bed looking forward to crossing the border the following morning.  

Motorcycle Diaries Day 2 part b:

Going to Kyela does not actually require that you enter and pass through Mbeya, something that I wish that I had known prior.  The turn off towards Kyela and the Malawi border is located in Uyole, approximately 15km outside of Mbeya proper.  I rode almost all the way into Mbeya before stopping in at a gas station to inquire as to the proper route to take.  The attendant helpfully pointed me back in the direction that I had just come.  Going 15km out of my way might not seem like a very big deal, especially considering that I had already traveled hundreds of kilometers, however, there were several factors working together to make it so much more than just a simple 15km.  First of all I was behind schedule for the day, and night was coming on quickly.  By this time it was already nearly 7:00pm and the sun was nearly set and dusk had begun.  My bike for all its toughness and utility has one of the worst headlights I have ever had the displeasure of experiencing.  With the ‘highbeam’ on you are able to see about 25ft in front of you reliably, anything beyond that being guess work.  Riding at night was not something I really wanted to do a lot of.  Secondly the traffic in and out of Mbeya is some of the worst I have ever seen anywhere in the country, rivaling Dar es Salaam.  The only clear trump is Arusha at rush hour, but I was yet to experience that.  The short distance I had traveled had been slow, and slightly treacherous going.  There are only two lanes in and out of Mbeya and they are clogged with countless slow moving Daladalas, cars, trucks, motorbikes, and foot traffic.  15km of weaving, dodging and braking sharply is tough on the nerves and takes significantly more time than one would like.  Eventually I made my way clear of the press and back to the missed turn off, clearly marked by a sign I should add, and began winding my way up into the hills.  Have you ever experienced the true flexibility of time but to your detriment?  Kyela is only a little over 100km from Mbeya, a journey which I figured should take about an hour.  In truth I have no idea how long the journey took, one of the downsides of having no watch and my phone being securely in my pocket while I rode.  What I do know is how long it felt like forever.  Night came in quickly, as it does here and brought with it all manner of complications.  With the descent of night the air quickly began to fill with all manner of bugs.  Small dragonflies, mosquitoes, and other assorted insects rose up in waves from the shelter of the grass on either side of the road and hurled themselves towards my face.  I think if I had ridden with my mouth open I could have had myself quite a decent meal.  The seemingly obvious solution to this problem would be to simply put the visor on my helmet down and ride on.  My helmet, however, has a slightly tinted visor and combined with a poor headlight it becomes nearly impossible to ride with it down once the world begins to dim.  Normally I only ride with the visor down when I am going fast enough that it is catching the wind if up or if I am following behind another vehicle on a dusty road.  When I am not wearing the visor, however, I have my sunglasses to keep things out of my eyes.   This was of course not an option that night and thus the constant small slaps to the face had to be endured.  I had to slow my speed significantly to ensure that I would be able to avoid running into the back of a pedestrian, bicycle or perhaps a cow.  It was difficult to see far enough ahead to judge corners, and more than once I found myself in the wrong lane.  If it was difficult to gauge my traveling speed before, it was particularly difficult now in the dark.  I was moving slower, but I had no idea just how slow.  It is also strangely difficult to gauge the speed at which time is passing at night for some reason.  I don’t know how long it actually took me to make the trip to Kyela, but it felt like it took way too long.  I stopped on numerous occasions to question random people that I would come upon on the side of the road.

“Kyela, ipo wapi?” (Where is Kyela?), I asked over and over again.

Invariable I would receive some variation of the same answer with them pointing me further onwards.  Thus I slogged onwards, eyes squinted against the dark and the bugs, constantly convinced that my destination must be just around the next corner and constantly wrong.

Finally I reached a ‘T’ in the road and saw a sign pointing me to Kyela and the Malawi border.  I pulled in at the gas station there and filled up, also trying to get directions to Matema.  The attendant rattled of some complicated directions in Kiswahili, and I left having understood that I needed to go some certain distance and turn left…  I set off, trying my best to look for a landmark or sign, which would steer me in the right direction.  I knew from my friend Lisa, who lived in Matema that I should follow the signs to the Crazy Crocodile Campsite, a task which would have been exceedingly simple had the sun still been above the horizon.  As it was I passed the turn off in the dark, without even an inkling that it was there, and continued a good 15km too far into Kyela.  Eventually, after again stopping to ask directions, I realized my mistake and headed back in the direction I had come.  A few more stops to ask directions and make sure I had not passed the turn yet again, I spied the sign I was looking for and made a quick right turn onto the dirt road.  If riding on paved roads at night was difficult on my bike, the choice to proceed on dirt roads was probably just a little stupid.  However, as I have mentioned I have a stubborn streak and have a strong aversion to quitting, so press on I did.

I knew that Matema was about 45km up this road, and was anticipating needing at least an hour to reach it, though in retrospect I should have planned for longer as there is little chance that would average anything better than 25 – 30 km/h.  Maybe 10km up the road I came the first fork and was fortunately able to make out a sign directing me onwards towards Matema to the left.  Maybe 50 metres past the sign my bike suddenly felt wrong, somehow soft, flabby and not tracking properly.  I pulled to a stop and hopped off.  As I killed the engine and the headlight winked out I was left in the kind of darkness that can only be experienced when there is either no civilization; that pure enveloping and crushing blackness, which requires not only the absence of civilization but also a cloudy night, blotting out the stars and moon.  I pulled out my phone and turned on the LED flashlight, something common to phones in Africa, probably because of darkness exactly like this.  In the white glow of my light I could see that my rear tire had suddenly and catastrophically lost all air pressure.

I was effectively in the middle of nowhere, kilometers from anything recognizable as a settlement and on a dark road, which led to very few places worth mention.  I figured my chances of help coming along were rather slim.  I killed my flashlight, taking a few deep breaths, calming myself and considering my options.  Suddenly to my left there was a brief small flash of white light.  The dark was so complete that I could not tell if the light had been tiny and close, or large and far away, but I stared in the direction waiting to see if it would make a repeat appearance.  Moments later it winked back into view low to the ground.  I stared at it and turned my light back on, playing it across the ditch next to the road. There was nothing but forest on the other side of the ditch and no way for the light to be coming from within.  I stepped across the ditch and again killed the light.  The spark was now just in front of my feet, and I bent to examine it.  I flicked my light back to life and found myself face to face with a tiny lightning bug, the source of what I had seen.  Despite the plight of my situation I felt my spirits rise somehow.  I had never seen a lightning bug before in my life, but that part of me which is uninterested in growing up and clings to the little boy within was ecstatic to be face to face with such an interesting and seemingly exotic creature.  I spent a few moments considering the bug before, my spirits somewhat bolstered, I walked back to the road and reconsidered my bike, trying to determine what I should do.  There was no help that I could call for, and even if there were someone who could send help I had barely any signal on my phone.  I tired calling my friend in Matema, if for no other reason than to simply let her know my situation and that I would be yet further delayed in arriving, but the signal was such that we were unable to have much of a conversation and resorted to text messaging.  Suddenly I heard the one sound for which I had barely dared hope, the engine of a vehicle coming towards me.  I stepped to the middle of the road and watched as a Daladala made its way around the corner and towards me.  

Daladalas are the major form of public transportation in East Africa, though they go by different names in nearly every country.  Daladala in Tanzania, Matatu in Kenya, Taxi or Excuse Me in Rwanda.  Most Dalas are essentially minivans with four rows of seating including the driver’s bench.  Thus far the highest number of passengers I have experienced in a Dala at any given time is 24, though that was also including some large bags of produce.  I have seen goats in Dalas, swordfish tied to the roof, and various carpets, baskets and giant bags of produce tied to the back.  Dalas almost never turn anyone away; somehow there is always more space to be found.  Dalas are usually owned by one person as an investment and then rented to driver and conductor teams who ply the various routes.  They pay a flat fee to the owner and profit by any fares over and above the daily fee.  For this reason it is in their best interest to cram in as many people as possible, thus increasing their daily take.  

The Dala, which came to my rescue that night, was only populated by four people, the driver and his conductor, and two passengers who were the proud owners of the Dala’s cargo, some 200+ pineapples.  The Dala pulled to a stop next to my bike and the conductor and driver got out to see what my problem was.  Strangely enough they didn’t really seem particularly surprised to come upon a lone Mzungu in the middle of nowhere.  They simply took everything in stride, listening to my story and began a rapid-fire exchange in their native language.  I had told them my tire was flat and asked if the knew where I might find a Fundi to help me with the problem.  My language skills were nowhere even close to being up to the challenge of understanding the ensuing exchange between them, so I stood patiently waiting for them to give me instructions or some response that I could follow.  Next thing I knew they had called out the other two passengers, grabbed a hold of my bike and were lifting it to the roof of the Dala.  This was far from the help that I had anticipated but I figured, ‘what the heck, just roll with it,’ and moved to help lift.  In short order my bike was precariously perched on the roof, lying on its side.  I snapped a picture, shaking my head slightly at the absurdity of the moment.  One of the passengers seemed enthralled with my camera and asked if he could use it to take a few pictures.  I handed it over and set about loading my bags into the Dala and making sure my bike was as secure as possible on the roof.  The man I had lent my camera too snapped a picture of me standing in the dark and handed my camera back.  It was not until the next day that I cycled through the photos on my camera, wanting to display the photographic evidence of the previous night’s adventures.  Much to my chagrin the photo of my bike on the roof of the Dala was strangely absent from my camera.  Somehow, or for some reason, the man to whom I had lent the camera had deleted it, leaving me with nothing other than a shot of me standing in the dark.

The conductor took up position on the roof, acting as a human cargo strap and I climbed in.  20 mins of painstakingly slow travel later we arrived in a small village I hoped was Matema.  Of course looking back I should have known that this was patently impossible, but hey in the night in the face of such adversity you tend to dream of impossible things.  The village was called Ipinda and was still about 30 km from Matema.  By the time we rolled in it was nearly midnight and I was finally beginning to feel the effects of a long, stressful and all round arduous day.  First item on the agenda was unloading the pineapples from the Dala.  Figuring I could help speed things along I stepped up and pitched in, receiving passes from one guy inside the Dala and passing along to the next who would stack them on the ground.  There was a ridiculous number of pineapples in the van and it was at least a half hour before we were unloaded.  At that point we took the bike down from the roof and stuffed it in through the back door of the Dala.  It was of course just slightly too long and the rear door could not be closed.  In true African, jury rig it form, the driver removed the shoelace from his right shoe and used it to tie the door closed.  By this time I was feeling a little exhausted.  I had once again eaten nothing all day, in favor of forward momentum, and had maybe drunk a total of 1.5 litres of water.  We had been joined by a friendly local who spoke relatively good English and encouraged me to join him for some food from a stand just down the way, outside a guesthouse.  The driver and conductor had wandered off to do something, I have no idea what, and at this point I had no idea what the plan actually was for me and my bike.  I walked over and ordered some Chipsi na Nyama Choma, fries and roasted skewers of meat, and got a nice cold Fanta Orange.  The Fanta lasted maybe 20 seconds before being fully drained and I gained some appreciation of just how thirsty and hungry I was.

I have ever been impressed with the adaptability of the human body to circumstance.  When I am at home and food and drink are easily accessible, cravings are frequent and often undeniable.  On the road, however, I am able to put my body into what I term ‘Travel Mode.’  Suddenly I can go all day with hardly any water, and no food whatsoever.  Of course with no intake, bathroom breaks become almost entirely unnecessary as well, nothing to stand in the way of progress.  As long as you are going it is easy to not feel the hunger, the thirst, and the weariness.  When you finally stop, however, the ‘cost’ is felt in full.  I ate with ferocity, and slugged back another Fanta in near record time.  Like dominoes of sensation, once my hunger and thirst were paid attention to barriers holding my exhaustion at bay toppled.  I think I could have easily put my head down on the table and simply fell asleep with near instantaneity.  That of course would not have helped solve my greater current predicament.  Rest would have to wait until I knew what the next course of action with my bike was.  Wearily I hauled myself out of the chair and walked back to the Dala.  The driver had still not returned, but from speaking with my English-speaking friend I was able to determine that they were prepared to drive me the remaining 30km to Matema, for the right price.  On the one hand this was an attractive option, as it would allow me to actually reach my goal, if not quite in the style I had hoped.  On the other hand I had no idea if I could find a decent Fundi in Matema to fix my punctured tire, and the thought of 30 more kilometers of crappy roads in a rickety dala held little appeal.  In the end I decided that it was time to throw in the towel, admit defeat and stay the night in Ipinda.  I had assurances that I would be able to have tire reliably fixed first thing in the morning and there was little I wanted more at that moment than for my head to hit the pillow and stay there for a few hours.  We tracked down the driver and let him know my decision.  He did not seem to mind not having to make the trek out to Matema all that much and agreed to let my bike spend the night in the Dala for security.  The guesthouse was the kind of place that most Mzungu travelers would warn others away from, dingy and not exactly clean, but it had a bed, and that was about as much as I was interested in at that point.  The bathroom smelled of sour rotten cabbage and none of the taps seemed to be functioning that evening.  Teeth unbrushed, unshowered, but too tired to care I fell onto the bed was soon asleep.  Not, however, before having a chance to reflect that, despite all the adversity, the day could have gone so much worse.  In the end I could count the whole thing as a win, after all I was still alive, safe, and not lost in the middle of nowhere with no idea how to proceed.  A few hours later I would awake and begin again, but for now I slept a satisfied sleep.  

Motorcycle Diaries Day 2 part a:

Day 2 started off pretty well, and held a few of the absolute highlights of my trip.  Riding the final 50km into Morogoro took almost no time at all and it was a nice sense of accomplishment to have achieved something of a ‘halfway’ point.  My goal for the day was to make it all the way to Matema, a small village on the northern tip of Lake Nyasa.  This would take me from Morogoro to Iringa, to Mbeya, to Kyela and finally out to Matema.  The route wound its way first through two national parks and over a mountain range, back up and through the mountains surrounding Mbeya, before finally heading towards Kyela.

Morogoro itself is actually located inside the northern boundary of Mikumi National Park, the second largest park in Tanzania, and shortly after leaving that park heading west you enter Udzungwa Mountains National Park.  The signs at the entry to the park advise driving with caution, as there are frequently animals on the road.  I had barely entered the park when I saw a small child standing on the side of the road from a few hundred meters away.  As I got closer I realized that the child was in fact a large baboon.  At my approach he ran across the road and jumped up onto the guardrail, staring me down as I passed.  I was traveling with my camera in the breast pocket of my shirt and was able to pull it out while riding to snap a picture.

For the next 50km I was fortunate enough to see several different animals, which most people pay big money to see on safari.  Zebras passed by in a small clearing on my left, and shortly after on my right a pack of warthogs played in the mud (they might have been singing Hakuna Matata, but I couldn’t hear).  I slipped passed a small herd of elephants lumbering across the landscape and thought that I should have stopped for a picture.  I debated turning around but it just didn’t seem practical, and so promised myself that if I saw more I would stop.  10 minutes later I was still carefully scanning the bush on either side of the road hoping to catch a glimpse of another grey behemoth when a large bush slipped out of my view and revealed a small family of three elephants grazing.  I was already passing them when I saw them as they had been hidden from my view until the last second.  This time, however, I was committed to getting the photo.  Gearing down and braking I spun two quick u-turns and parked my bike abreast of the group.  I hopped off and snapped several pictures of my bike and the elephants together.  Several trucks and busses passed me as I did this and I couldn’t help but wonder what they were making of me, a super white mzungu standing on the road taking pictures of his motorcycle.  My pictures taken I moved on, exiting the park shortly after and continuing onwards into my first mountain range of the day.  

The first half of the next 200km was probably the best riding of the entire trip.  Practically new asphalt heading up into the mountains winding back and forth, up and down, the perfect riding conditions.  I would occasionally pass small families of monkeys and baboons playing by the road and pass through the occasional small farming village.  The second half of this stretch was heavily under construction, most parts were still paved, but the pavement was pitted and in some places stripped in anticipation of the laying of new.  Other sections were just gravel and dirt, a giant dusty mess.  

My bike only has a 10-litre tank, and despite being only 250cc it can really suck fuel.  Over the course of trip I tried my best to calculate what mileage I was getting, however, with no working speedo, ododometer, or watch there was practically no way to reliably make distance, speed, or time calculations.  The closest I was able to come by the end of the trip was, that if I travel in 5^th and 6^th gear I travel about 100-110km/h and get around 135km to a tank.  If however I travel in 4^th and 5^th gear I go about 70-80km/h and can get upwards of 210km per tank.  The difference in fuel mileage depending on how fast I travel is ridiculous.  I had filled up in a little town called Mikumi, for those of you following along on Google Maps, just before heading into the mountains.  I figure I ran out of fuel and put in my 3 litres of reserve maybe 15km before Ikokoto.  When I pulled into Ikokoto I headed to the petrol station but was told that they had no fuel, a semi common problem in the small centers.  They suggested that I head back a few hundred meters and purchase some fuel from the kids on the side of the road.  If you are passing through a village in Tanzania and see any type of motor vehicle then you can rest assured that someone somewhere is selling fuel out of larger water bottles or has big plastic jugs of it stashed in the back of their shop.  Doing some rough estimates on fuel consumption and my distance to the next town, or at the outside Iringa, I purchased another 2 litres and headed off again.   In each of the subsequent two towns I stopped in there was again no fuel.  failing also to see any road side fuel stands I pushed onwards, nervously confident that I would be able to just make it to Iringa.  I was passing through the fields maybe 5km past Lugalu, about 10km outside Iringa when my bike sputtered and died; run dry just short of the goal.  While 10km is not exactly a great distance it is more than far enough to pose problems for a white kid in the middle of nowhere Africa with a loaded bike.  I couldn’t really leave the bike and walk and expect to come back and find it still their later.  Moreover, I had too much stuff to easily carry it with me.  There was a small group of men, women and children working the field right next to where I pulled up and they came to investigate.  In broken Kiswahili I was able to explain that I was out of fuel, and they in turn offered to take some money and head into town and bring back a few liters for me.  It was the best available option, so I handed over enough money to pay for a return trip by Daladala and 3 litres of fuel and hoped for the best.

To call someone a thief in Tanzania is the greatest and possibly the most dangerous insult.  There is no tolerance for stealing in the Tanzanian society and if caught out people will be ostracized at best and possibly stoned in some areas.  Despite this theft is as common here as in most of the rest of the developing world; not only African-to-African but especially towards us rich Mzungus.  While there was a chance that I would lose my 10,000 TSH I was comforted by two things.  First was that 10,000 TSH is only about $7.50.  Secondly was the fact that all his friends had seen him make the arrangement with me, and were hanging out with me until he returned.  I figured that the social pressure would be enough to keep him honest, at least honest enough to return with some gas for me.  About 45 minutes later he was back with my fuel and even some change for me.  I gave him a little money for his trouble, thanked him profusely and struck out once again towards Iringa.

I didn’t tarry in Iringa, in fact I never really entered the city, which sits atop a hill and requires an ascent along a switchback road densely populated by speed bumps and slow moving trucks.  I topped up on fuel below and pressed onwards hoping to make up a little lost time.  About 100km after Iringa I entered the Sao Hill Forest Reserve.  The entire day the southern sky had been filled with thick grey clouds, promising shade and possibly rain.  With my hands so badly burnt from the previous day I had been longing to reach this sheltering cloudbank for hours, often riding with my left hand tucked between my leg and the frame of the bike to shade it from the merciless sun.  For the last 150km I had been flirting with the edge of the cloudbank, but as I entered the forest reserve I passed fully under its sheltering presence.  The Sao Hill Forest Reserve is quite the sight to behold for a boy from British Columbia, now living in East Africa.  It is almost like a small taste of home.  Both sides of the road are lined with tall majestic pines, very closely resembling the Lodge Pole Pine of the Okanagan.  The whole area is a lush dark green, a very different green from that of the plants, which line the rivers and make up sections of verdant landscape.  If the scenery was not enough to invoke pleasant thoughts of home the temperature had dropped to a level that was nearly enough to make me feel cold!  It wasn’t long, however, before a few drops of rain began to escape the clouds above and make their way hurtling towards the earth.  Recognizing the likelihood of an impending deluge I stopped and took my MEC Gore-Tex out of my bag and suited up.

My jacket was purchased for me as a gift shortly before I left for Africa.  A practical going away gift of sorts, which could double as a birthday and Christmas gift as I would be away for both.  My Grandma is savvy enough not to bother selecting gifts like that for me, preferring instead to go shopping with me and let me pick out the right item that will suit my needs.  I was visiting in Ontario when she took me out, and it wasn’t until about two weeks later when I was back on the west coast before I finally had an opportunity to wear it.  At the time I had allowed the insurance on my car to lapse in favor of my Triumph TT600 sport bike.  I was working as a bartender for a catering company at the time and worked in different venues throughout the city of Victoria.  One of the last shifts I would ever take was in downtown for the grand opening of a new building.  I parked my bike against the curb in front of the building and headed into work for the next 6 hours.  When I returned at the end of the night I found my bike laying on its side, propped up slightly by the curb.  It was clear that some jackass had backed his/her car into my bike, toppling it over.  The last time that this had happened it was a hot girl who was very apologetic, and for some reason that made me much more forgiving.  The kickstand was actually snapped clear off the mountings, taking a chunk of the frame with it, amongst other damage.  Three days later I was on my way to an appointment with an ICBC adjuster to assess the damage to the bike.  Truth told I was hoping that they would just write the bike off.  I didn’t want to deal with repairs, and I knew from experience that ICBC won’t cover a fair hourly wage for bike mechanics which means that by the end you will be seriously out of pocket for any major work.  The bike still ran, but I had to lean it up against a wall when I parked it and there were several other bits of damage to it other than the kickstand.  This day I had decided to wear my new jacket, disdaining my riding jacket in favor of its waterproof counterpart as it was a warm day and the other is rather padded.  I had gone about halfway from my house to the claim centre when suddenly the driver of the car that I was riding beside decided that she desperately needed to be in my lane.  I swerved hard as the small white car came into my lane, and hit my brakes at the same time.  Physics took over and I was suddenly on the ground sliding and rolling with my bike on its side out in front of me chasing the offending motorist.  When the dust settled I was ok, save a few bruises and scrapes, but my bike was towed from the scene.



Further my brand new jacket had been ripped along the right sleeve somewhat defeating its waterproof purpose.  If dealing with ICBC is complicated for a single claim, imagine dealing with two simultaneously.  In the end I got my wish and the bike was written off, with ICBC giving me a very fair settlement.  They also agreed to replace my jacket and the jeans I had been wearing when the accident occurred.  The women I negotiated with over the phone told me that they would need to retain the ruined clothing as evidence for the settlement.  When I showed up to claim the cheque I had the items with me and placed them on the counter in front of the women while I signed a few forms.  As we wrapped up the paperwork she took her copies and promptly put her head down and went back to whatever other important work I had interrupted her from.
  

“Do you need anything else from me?” I enquired pointedly eyeing the bundle of clothing on her counter.

“Nope,” she replied curtly and put her head back down, clearly dismissing me.

I pause for one second more, considering the clothing, knowing full well that the jacket was essentially in perfect condition save for the single tear on the sleeve.  So I picked up the clothing, figuring if there were some mistake then ICBC knew how to get a hold of me; and besides what could they do, I already had the cheque.  The next day a brief trip to MEC, a $3 purchase and about 5 minutes with and iron at home and my jacket was almost as good as new.  I used the money ICBC had given me for it to buy another, even nicer, Arc’teryx jacket, which I left at home, and packed up my ‘free’ MEC coat for my trip.

As I set out again through Sao Hill, jacketed up, my mind replayed over those events, and I appreciated the rarity of getting better of ICBC.  Soon the rain began to fall in earnest, falling in that way that seems particular to tropical climes.  The drops were enormous, falling with the force of pebbles.  Combined with the speed of my bike the drops hit me with enough force to be felt painfully through my jacket and the two shirts I was wearing.  Across my chest and shoulders I was one large stinging mass as the rain pummelled me without mercy.  My hands, bereft of gloves, and terribly sensitive due to the sun, were positively in agony.  I considered slowing or even stopping in hopes that the rain storm would pass me by, but I was already behind for the day, and the sky above didn’t show any signs of offering respite in the near future.  I gritted my teeth and pressed on for another 20km or so before the stinging attack eased and finally stopped.

It was about 6:00pm when I finally made it to the outskirts of Mbeya, a good 2+ hours behind schedule.  I should probably have just quit for the day and pushed on the next morning, but I had a goal in mind have ever been stubborn about not quitting.  After all, quitting is for quitters and quitters are whiny little bitches.  Thus I pressed on, a decision I would come to somewhat regret that night.