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.