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.