164 CYCLE TOURING MALAWI (2)

 

Shenanigans on a bike - By Leana Niemand

BETWEEN DUST AND WATER

MALAWI
Km 650 – 55 Days
10 May – 4 July 2022

PDF

VOICEOVER

PHOTOS

 

 

CYCLE TOURING MALAWI

 

 

Chapter 1: Into Malawi

 

Border crossings

The border lay scarcely twenty kilometres from Chipata, yet it felt like a passage into another world. A slip of paper, twenty dollars, and a perfunctory nod were all it took to cross. No queues, no PCR tests, no fuss. Africa has its own way of smoothing the edges of bureaucracy, and I found myself pedalling into Malawi with a stamped passport and a sense of curiosity.

Malawi is a sliver of land, narrow and elongated, hemmed in by neighbours and dominated by its great lake. I had imagined it would take little time to traverse, but the country immediately proved otherwise. Borders are not just lines on maps; they are thresholds of culture. Within minutes, the scenery shifted. Sugarcane appeared in abundance, stalks clutched in every hand, chewed with a rhythm that seemed to pulse through the villages. The potholes deepened, bicycles multiplied, and the cadence of life slowed into something distinctly Malawian.

At roadside stands, meat sizzled over open flames, chips fried in battered pans. The smell of sizzling oil drifted across the dusty roadside, and as I handed over a few kwacha, the crowd pressed closer, curious to see how the foreigner would eat their everyday food. It felt like the entire neighbourhood gathered as though a circus had arrived. Children shrieked in delight, their voices rising in a chorus of “Azungu, azungu!” — wanderer, foreigner, spirit. The word carried echoes of history, once used to describe restless spirits, now applied to anyone with pale skin. Their laughter was infectious, though tinged with awe, as if my presence cracked open a window to another world.

After 90 kilometres, midway to Lilongwe, I surrendered to the lure of a rest house. The walls were unpainted, the bedding tattered, the bathroom a hole in the ground at the far end of the yard. Yet the rate was four dollars, and the door closed firmly. In Africa, my comfort is often measured not in thread count but in the simple luxury of privacy. I told myself I would shower in Lilongwe.

 

 

Chapter 2: Smoke and Birdsong

 

Barefoot Lodge and Kindness

Dawn arrived with the crowing of cocks and the squeak of doors as guests shuffled to the latrine. Smoke hung low over the village, fires stoked for breakfast, children walking to school, women tending chip stands. The smell of smouldering wood was unmistakably African — earthy, sweet, and alive. I brewed coffee on my stove, watched by curious eyes, and set off once more.

The road narrowed, winding through villages where every purchase became a spectacle. Nearing Lilongwe, a sign pointed to Barefoot Lodge, a place another traveller had recommended. I veered off the main road and found a haven: cottages, a campsite, dorms shaded by trees. Rudolph, the owner, welcomed me with a smile and offered cyclists a free night if they paid for one. I pitched my tent, grateful for kindness, and spent the next day in idleness, though I should have done laundry.

 

A hop and a skip to Lilongwe

Birdsong woke me the next morning, a gentle chorus that felt like a blessing. I loaded my bike slowly, for the day’s ride was short — only fifteen kilometres into the capital. I chose a rural path, weaving through traditional villages where life unfolded in rhythms far removed from the city. Children followed, wide-eyed, their laughter trailing behind me. In Lilongwe, I found Mabuya Camp, a backpackers’ lodge shaded by trees, but empty of travellers. The absence was palpable; international tourism had not yet returned to its former pulse.

I walked to the city mall, withdrew kwacha — one US dollar equalling a thousand — and bought supplies for the journey south. The streets were alive with informal trade. At traffic lights, vendors sold jeans, brooms, fruit, vegetables. Commerce spilt into every corner, vibrant and unrestrained. I loved the ease with which people moved, the improvisation of daily life. Back at Mabuya Camp, I repacked my panniers, preparing for the road to Blantyre, where Caron would join me for three weeks of shared adventure.

 

 

Chapter 3: The Road to Blantyre

 

The Road to Salima

The road from Lilongwe to Salima was a narrow 110-kilometre ride, hemmed in by hills that demanded patience and strength. Each incline slowed my pace; children ran alongside, their voices rising in a chorus of “Muzungu, muzungu, give me money!” At first their demands grated, but I discovered that a simple greeting — a smile, a question about their well-being — dissolved the tension. Connection, even fleeting, was stronger than coins.

The final descent carried me toward Lake Malawi, the country’s beating heart. The air shifted, cooler and damp, as the horizon opened into blue. Villages along the way revealed rectangular huts, a legacy of colonial encouragement to build “proper” European-style homes. Yet, I thought of the circular huts I had seen elsewhere in Africa, their geometry echoing communal life: circles around fires, circles of elders, circles where no one is hidden. Round walls resist the wind; they resist exclusion too.

Salima offered a courtyard guesthouse, inexpensive and unpretentious. My laptop gave up the ghost that evening, a cruel twist for a writer on the road. I hoped Blantyre’s repair shops might breathe life back into it. For now, I surrendered to the rhythm of the land.

 

Ceremonies in Dust

A 80 km bike ride to Kolomoti carried me past baobabs, their trunks swollen like ancient guardians, and women balancing baskets of pumpkins on their heads with effortless grace. Men herded cattle along dusty tracks, and roadside markets spilt colour into the landscape.

Then came the ceremony. Drums thundered, dust rose, and dancers stamped in unison, their bodies adorned with masks and tribal cloth. The air vibrated with energy, a spectacle both mesmerizing and intimidating. I longed to capture it with my camera, but the crowd pressed close, demanding money for each click. The atmosphere shifted from celebration to claustrophobia, and I slipped away, carrying the rhythm in memory rather than pixels.

That night was spent in a modest lodge down a dirt road. I paid 7000 kwacha for a room. The scrutiny of villagers was intense, but the door closed firmly, and I was content. Privacy is a currency of its own.

 

Headwinds and Silence

Breakfast was a feast: chips, eggs, salad, porridge, coffee. I needed every calorie, even though the road to Balaka was short only 85 km it was punishing. A headwind pressed against me, relentless, and each kilometre felt doubled. Villagers reacted to my presence with fear — a woman dropped her bundle of wood and fled into the bushes, children carrying water buckets scattered at the sight of my camera. One slipped down an embankment in panic, a moment that left me stunned. I tucked the camera away.

Yet amid the unease, there was peace. The countryside carried a rhythm of its own, unhurried and self-contained. Life here was not harder, I thought, merely different. The concrete jungle has its own burdens; the rural path its own serenity.

 

Toward Blantyre

From Balaka to Zalewa, the road climbed steadily. I bought mandasies — fried dough balls — for fifty kwacha each, and the purchase drew a crowd of curious eyes. Every transaction was theatre. Later, the asphalt ended abruptly, replaced by uneven gravel. Vendors sold grilled mice on sticks, bamboo cages with bright birds, curiosities of survival and trade.

The wind rose again, and fatigue pressed hard. I surrendered to the lure of an upmarket guesthouse, pricey but promising a warm shower. Blantyre lay only sixty kilometres ahead, and Caron would not arrive for several days. I had time to pause.

In Blantyre, I waited for Caron, and after her arrival, we ambled into town for a SIM Card and a few needed items.

 

 

Chapter 4: Mulanje — The Mountain of Spirits

 

Across the tea plantations

We pedalled out of Blantyre well-fed and rested, panniers bulging with supplies for the days ahead. The road toward Mulanje carried us past tea plantations, their luminous green stretching endlessly, workers bent low as they plucked leaves with rhythmic precision. The chaos of market towns gave way to quiet paths, and by evening we reached Likhubula, where guides and porters waited beneath the shadow of the massif.

Mulanje is no ordinary mountain. Its granite shoulders rise abruptly from the plains, cloaked in cedar forests and mist. Legends speak of spirits dwelling in its ravines, and as we arranged our hike, I felt both anticipation and reverence. Vincent, our guide, greeted us with calm authority, and a porter shouldered our bulging pack. We were ready.

 

Day One: Into the Clouds

Fog lay low as we set off, walking sticks freshly carved and engraved. The trail wound upward through dense woodland, damp earth releasing its scent beneath our boots. Soon we emerged at a waterfall, its spray cool against our faces, before climbing higher still.

By midday, the mist parted, unveiling peaks that pierced the sky. Chambe Hut awaited us, a simple refuge with a caretaker who brewed tea and heated water for washing. Caron took the shower gratefully; I chose to remain unwashed, content to sit by the fire with a Carlsberg beer, watching the sun sink behind the ridges. The mountain had welcomed us gently.

 

Day Two: Fragrance and Fellowship

The morning dawned bright, and we set off at a leisurely pace. Shrubs brushed against our legs, releasing herbal fragrances, while cedar trees perfumed the air. Birds sang unseen, their melodies weaving into the silence.

At midday we paused at a hut, sharing lunch with two hikers from New Zealand. Later, at Tuchila Hut, we met a Belgian traveller who had brought not only a guide and porter but a cook. Her meal included dessert, while ours was instant noodles. We laughed at the contrast, envy softened by camaraderie. Travel humbles and delights in equal measure.

 

Day Three: The Break

The morning was glorious, sunlight spilling across granite outcrops. We descended into fern-filled ravines, the air cool and damp. Then came the slip. My foot lost grip, and I fell hard. Pain shot through me, and when I looked, my wrist bent at an unnatural angle.

It is a terrible thing to see your own body betray you. I wanted to cry, to rage, but neither would help. Caron’s holiday shattered in that instant, yet she remained calm, steady. Vincent tried to push the bone back into place — agony beyond words — before fashioning a splint from tape and wood. We cooked pasta that night, speaking little. I felt the weight of guilt, of inconvenience, of fragility. The mountain had turned from companion to adversary.

 

Day Four: Descent

The final walk was slow, each downhill step a trial. My shoes lacked tread, my wrist throbbed, but the scenery remained magnificent. Tea plantations stretched luminous and endless, a reminder that beauty persists even in pain.

At the trail’s end, Vincent arranged a ride back to Likhubula. The hike was over, not as planned, but complete, nonetheless. Mulanje had given us vistas, fragrances, fellowship — and a broken wrist. It was a lesson in humility, in the unpredictability of journeys. We stowed our bikes and began to plan the next stage, knowing that resilience would carry us forward.

 

 

Chapter 5: Casts and Kindness

 

Zomba

We left Mulanje with my wrist bound in a makeshift splint, Caron steady at my side. Pain pulsed with each movement, but there was nothing to do except soldier on. A small car carried us and our bicycles to Zomba, its backseat crammed with panniers and frames. The driver laughed at the improbable load, yet somehow it fit.

Pakachere Backpackers welcomed us with dorms and camping, and I slowly pitched the tent, each task a reminder of my injury. Caron, ever resourceful, arranged a day trip to the plateau while I sought medical help.

The hospital was a labyrinth of ramshackle buildings, patients bleeding and limping through corridors. Equipment squeaked, offices resembled storerooms, and yet care was given freely. X-rays revealed the fracture, and a half-cast was applied. “Return in three days,” they said, “once the swelling subsides.” The bones did not align, but concern seemed minimal.

Zomba itself was cool at 1000 metres, the air crisp. We borrowed blankets, wandered dusty markets, searched for food and a backpack for my bus journeys ahead. On the plateau, Emperor’s View opened wide, named for Haile Selassie’s visit in 1965. Rastafarians still climb to honour the place, pipes in hand, smoke curling into the sky.

Back in town, I returned reluctantly to the hospital. The swelling had eased, and a full cast was applied. My arm was heavy, awkward, but secure. We ended the day with beer and chips, small comforts against the weight of circumstance.

 

Liwonde — Hippos and Elephants

Caron set off bravely on her first solo ride, pedalling toward Liwonde. I followed in a minivan, my bicycle stored safely in Zomba. The road was rough, potholes deep, but kindness smoothed the way. A helper carried my bag on her head, laughing at my astonishment.

Bushman’s Baobab camp was closed, but fortune intervened. Across the road, a half-built lodge offered us a vast room at the price of camping. We settled in beside the Shire River, lulled by the grunts of hippos in the night.

At dawn, we set out by canoe. The riverbanks teemed with life: elephants moving with gentle grace, hippos surfacing with snorts, their skin glistening in the sun. They cannot sweat, I learned, but secrete a reddish oil that acts as sunblock — the origin of the myth that hippos sweat blood. The air was alive with birdsong, the water rippled with movement.

Here, amid wildlife, my broken wrist seemed insignificant. Nature carried on, vast and indifferent, yet profoundly soothing. The elephants reminded me of resilience, the hippos of adaptation. I watched them for hours, forgetting pain, remembering wonder.

 

Monkey Bay — Edge of the Lake

From Mangochi, Caron pedalled onward while I wrestled with the unpredictability of public transport. Minivans sputtered, broke down, and transferred passengers mid-journey, each hiccup a reminder that riding a bicycle could be simpler than relying on engines. By the time I reached Monkey Bay, Caron was already there, smiling despite fatigue.

Mufasa Lodge sat at the water’s edge, a haven of simplicity. Our days dissolved into idleness: chasing monkeys who tried to steal our food, watching the lake shift from silver to blue, debating whether its waters were colder than legend claimed. Lake Malawi, part of the Great Rift Valley, stretched vast and ancient, home to more fish species than any other lake in the world. Its immensity humbled me.

 

Cape Maclear — Nets and Sunsets

A short ride carried us to Cape Maclear, where Fat Monkeys Lodge offered shelter. The village pulsed with activity: fishermen mending nets, children splashing in the shallows, women washing clothes in the lake. The wind was strong, boats stayed ashore, and we watched as the rhythm of life unfolded in communal tasks.

We joined the crowd at sunset, beer in hand, as the sky blazed red. The lake mirrored the fire above, and for a moment, everything stilled. Malawi’s beauty was not in grand monuments but in these ordinary rituals, shared and repeated across generations.

 

Chapter: Domwe Island — Silence and Solitude

Caron paddled across the bay in a kayak, her strokes steady, while I followed by boat with our gear. Domwe Island lay only five kilometres offshore, yet it felt worlds away. The camp was rustic, perched on wooden platforms beneath thatch, and we were the only guests.

There was little to do but listen: to the wind rustling through trees, to the lap of water against rocks, to silence itself. We tried swimming, but the lake’s chill drove us back quickly. Instead, we lingered in hammocks, grateful for solitude. Two days passed like a dream, unmarked by clocks or obligations.

 

 

Chapter 6: The Ilala Ferry across Lake Malawi

 

A Floating Theatre

Monkey Bay’s pier was alive before dawn, a hive of bodies and bundles. Bags of tomatoes, potatoes, and maize flour balanced on heads, children clutched chickens, traders shouted over the din. Caron and I joined the throng, tickets in hand, and were swept aboard the MV Ilala.

The ferry was old, more than seventy years, and famous for delays. Its cabins were crowded, its decks chaotic, but it offered a perspective no road could. At each lakeside village, the Ilala’s arrival was spectacle. Only a few harbours had piers; elsewhere, fishermen’s boats ferried passengers and cargo through the waves. Goods were shoved, lifted, balanced, shouted over. Boarding and disembarking became theatre, performed in the glow of lanterns or under the stars.

By the time we reached Nkhata Bay, it was two in the morning. Disembarking was slow, bodies pressed together, bags tumbling. At last, we stumbled into Mayoka Village, a cliffside lodge overlooking the lake. At four a.m., exhausted, we collapsed into bed, lulled by the sound of waves against rock.

 

 

Chapter 7: Cliffside Kindness
 

Nakata Bay

Back on terra firma, I received the heart-wrenching news that my mother has passed away, and it struck me profoundly how a mother embodies unconditional love. Despite my tumultuous journey and frequent missteps, she remained my unwavering anchor, always there, steadfast and solid as a rock, offering support and warmth.

Mayoka Village clung to the cliffs above the lake, its huts and terraces tumbling toward the water. For three days, we lingered, doing little but watching the rhythms of life unfold. Caron paddled kayaks across the bay, her strokes steady and sure, while I sat with my cast, listening to the waves slap against the shore, thinking of my mum. Always there, never demanding, never loud.

The lodge itself was a marvel of ingenuity. Showers were heated by “donkeys” — fires lit at sunset, keeping water hot until morning. Toilets were eco-friendly, ash and sawdust replacing flushes. It was simple, sustainable, and oddly luxurious.

Each walk into the village brought encounters with curio sellers and Rasta men offering “meditation cookies.” Tourism had not yet returned to normal, and their optimism in the face of hardship was humbling. Seeing my arm in plaster, they instinctively placed their hands on their hearts, saying softly, “I’m so sorry.” Their compassion was immediate, uncalculated. Malawi’s kindness was everywhere, woven into daily exchanges.

 

Chapter: Mzuzu — The End of the Ride

Caron’s time in Malawi was running short. We loaded panniers once more, she on her bicycle, me in a shared taxi. The road to Mzuzu wound through hills, fifty kilometres of effort for her, a cramped ride for me.

Umunthu Lodge welcomed us with comfort and good food, a fitting place to pause. For Caron, Mzuzu marked the end of her cycle ride. Ahead lay buses, schedules, and the return to Lilongwe. For me, it was another reminder of how journeys shift — from wheels to feet, from freedom to farewell.

Just when I believed life couldn't possibly take a darker turn, I received the heartbreaking news that my dear friend Dawn's husband, Dan, had passed away. During the long, isolating nights of the two-year COVID-19 pandemic, we spent countless evenings together, laughter and stories shared over frosty beers. They were more than just friends to me; they were true comrades, an inseparable part of my chosen family. The loss hit me like a thunderclap, leaving me utterly devastated and grappling with a profound sense of emptiness.

Caron and I walked to the bus station together, the air thick with diesel fumes and chatter. The ride south would carry us back toward the capital, but the memories of Malawi — its lake, its mountains, its ceremonies, its kindness and my losses — would remain etched deeper than any map.

 

Lessons from Malawi

Malawi was never just a line on my route. It was a country of contrasts: potholes and laughter, ceremonies and silence, hardship and losses, but also generosity. It was the place where my wrist broke, where I lost my Mum, lost a trusted friend, lost a member of our COVID tribe, where Caron’s resilience shone, where strangers carried my bags on their heads and offered sympathy without hesitation.

Travel is not about perfection. It is about surrender — to breakdowns, to delays, to kindness, to awe. Malawi taught me that fragility and resilience coexist, that our time here is fleeting, that beauty persists even in pain, and that the simplest gestures — a smile, a hand to the heart — can carry more weight than money.

As we boarded the bus south, I knew the journey was far from over. I did not conduct myself well. But Malawi had left its mark: a chapter of dust, sadness and water, of laughter, regret, loss and struggle, of kindness that lingers long after the road ends.

163 CYCLE TOURING ZAMBIA (2)

 

Where the Falls Roar

Cycle Touring Zambia

PDF

VOICEOVER

 

Chapter 1: Crossing into Zambia

 

Bicycles Everywhere

The crossing itself was seamless, the new bridge spanning the Zambezi like a promise of connection. Gone was the old ferry, a relic of slower times. As we rolled into Zambia, I felt a surge of excitement, as crossing a border always comes with a new rhythm of life. This was a country where bicycles were not curiosities but lifelines. Men and women pedalled past us carrying sacks of charcoal, bundles of sugarcane, even passengers perched on the back racks. For the first time since Cape Town, I felt surrounded by fellow cyclists, part of a larger rhythm of movement.

Roadside stalls burst with colour: squashes stacked high, pumpkins glowing orange, sugarcane piled in sweet abundance. Charcoal waited in neat black bags, ready for cooking fires. Each stall was a testament to resilience, to the way people coax life from the soil and turn it into sustenance. And everywhere, smiles—warm, curious, welcoming. Zambia greeted us not with grandeur but with generosity.

Livingstone was our first stop, a town that hummed with energy, its streets alive with markets and chatter. We checked into Jollyboys Backpackers, a hub for travellers, where stories from across the globe mingled like the languages spoken around the communal tables. But the real draw lay just beyond town: Victoria Falls.

 

The Smoke that Thunders

The next morning, Linda and I set out, excitedly. The summer rains had swelled the Zambezi, and the falls thundered with a force that shook the earth. Water plunged in torrents, mist rising in thick clouds that drenched us as thoroughly as any storm. We laughed at the absurdity of it—renting raincoats only to discover they were no match for the deluge. Yet there was no frustration, only awe. To stand before Victoria Falls in full flood is to feel small, humbled, and exhilarated all at once. The roar was deafening, the spray blinding, the sheer scale beyond comprehension. It was less a waterfall than a living force, a reminder of nature’s power to overwhelm and inspire.

That evening, back in Livingstone, we sat with cold beers, still damp from the day, replaying the images in our minds: the endless curtain of water, the rainbow shimmering in the mist, the laughter of strangers equally soaked and equally awed. Travel is full of hardships—headwinds, potholes, fatigue—but it is also full of moments like this, when the world reveals its magnificence and you are lucky enough to be there, present, alive, and grateful.

Chapter 2: Riding Solo across the Savana 

 

The Freedom of the Road

Livingstone was still buzzing with the roar of Victoria Falls when Linda packed her bags for her journey back to the USA. I watched her leave with a mixture of gratitude and sadness. For weeks we had shared the road, the laughter, the small comforts of guesthouses and campsites. Now the rhythm would be mine alone and there is an immense freedom in that. The road stretched ahead, more than a thousand kilometres to Malawi, and I resolved to take it slowly, savouring each ride as a chance to absorb Zambia’s warmth.

It was well past midday when I reached Zimba, a small community that felt like a world apart. The Trekking Guesthouse welcomed me with rooms so affordable they seemed a gift, and the staff treated me like family. In solitude, kindness becomes magnified. A smile, a plate of food, a gesture of welcome. I have long learned that riding alone did not mean being alone; the road itself was populated with generosity.

 

Welcoming Smiles and Dry Havens.

The next morning dawned crisp, winter edging closer. Hills rose and fell, the wind pressed against me, and I fought to keep my pace. Villages lined the route, their roadside stalls stacked with vegetables, their bicycles laden with goods and passengers. I marvelled at the skill with which Zambians balanced their loads, weaving through traffic with ease. Grass was being cut and dried, destined to become sleeping mats or the walls of huts. Tradition here was not nostalgia but necessity, woven into daily life.

By the time I reached Choma, 100-odd kilometres down the drag, clouds gathered and rain threatened. Relief washed over me as I found shelter at a basic guesthouse. The storm passed outside while I rested within, grateful for timing that spared me a soaking. Travel often feels like a negotiation with the elements, and this time I had won.

 

The Road to Monze

The road to Monze was just over 100km and it carried me through villages alive with greetings. “Welcome to Zambia!” they called, “Have a safe journey!” Their words lifted me; each smile a reminder that the road was not mine alone. Roadside markets offered pottery, drums, and wooden sculptures, but I carried no space for souvenirs. Instead, I carried the memory of their curiosity, their astonishment that I had cycled from Cape Town. In Africa, I was simply “the white woman,” a description without malice, only fact. It reminded me of Belize, where identity was equally direct, stripped of pretence.

In Monze, a kind man walked me to a guesthouse and then to the supermarket, his presence drawing questions from curious onlookers. “Where did you meet the white woman?” they asked, and he laughed at their fascination. I laughed too, realising that my journey was not only mine but also theirs, a story unfolding in the eyes of those who watched me pass.

Solitude on the road is not silence. It is filled with voices, with laughter, with kindness, never lonely. Riding alone, I discovered that companionship does not always come from fellow travellers. It comes from the people who greet you, feed you, guide you, and remind you that the world is full of connection. The road to Malawi was still long, but already Zambia had shown me that solitude could be rich, textured, and deeply human.

 

 Chapter 3: The Road to Lusaka

 

Potholes and Butterflies

I dragged my heels a tad as I waited for the sun to warm the air; as a result, it was well past 9 o’clock before I pointed the bike in the direction of Lusaka.

The sun came out, and so did the butterflies and the flowers, making for pleasant biking. Sadly, the excellent road enjoyed to date has deteriorated into a narrow, potholed affair. Still, the pleasant conditions prevented me from losing my sense of humour, and I stopped numerous times to snap a few pics. Taking pictures of people usually resulted in them running toward or away from the camera, mostly to ask for money.

Villagers were cutting and collecting the tall grass growing by the side of the road. The African savanna contains a diverse community of organisms that interact to form a complex food web and provide ample grazing for livestock. In addition, the grass is widely used in rural housing and to make brooms, brushes, and other household items.

 

Nshima as a staple

I was nearly fooled into thinking the ride would be downhill, but alas, that wasn’t the case. There weren’t as many villages as the previous day, and I pushed on to Kafue. The laughter of children chanting “How are you?” in sing-song voices softened the edges of the day. Informal markets sold woven baskets and mats. The main reason for overnighting in Kafue was spotting a Pick-n-Pay supermarket, as it seemed all I did was cycle and eat.

Stocking up felt like victory, though the real prize was a plate of nshima, Zambia’s staple food. Made from maize flour and eaten by hand, it is the daily rhythm of meals here, accompanied by relish of vegetables or stew. I found myself developing a taste for it, appreciating the way food connects you to place. That night, the mosque and the disco seemed locked in competition, their sounds clashing across the town, a reminder that life here is never quiet, always layered.

 

Goats on the Pedestrian Bridge 

For the first time, I met another cyclist pedalling in the opposite direction. He, too, had to break his Cairo to Cape Town journey due to the Covid 19 pandemic and spent two years on home soil in Australia. He had resumed his quest and, much like me, was ambling along in no hurry to get anywhere.

Cycling into Lusaka carried its own tension. African capitals are notorious for chaos, but the ride was surprisingly straightforward. Pavements overflowed with traders, traffic jammed bumper to bumper, and yet there was humour everywhere. I watched a man herd goat across the city centre, guiding them up and over a pedestrian bridge. All but one goat obeyed, the lone rebel refusing to climb. The scene was absurd, hilarious, and utterly African: chaos that somehow works, disorder infused with patience and smiles.

At Broads Backpackers I found peace beneath thatched roofs, a sanctuary from the city’s noise. I stayed longer than planned, servicing my bike, searching for camping gas, and simply resting. One day I set out, only to turn back after five kilometres — the headwind was too fierce, and I refused to fight it. Travel teaches you when to push and when to yield, and that day I chose surrender.

In Lusaka I met Dimitri, an extraordinary adventurer circumnavigating the world by human power alone. If he cannot walk or cycle, he rows. He planned to bike to Cape Town and then row to Brazil. Listening to his story, I felt both humbled and inspired. My own journey seemed modest beside his, yet I realised that scale is irrelevant. Whether rowing oceans or pedalling through potholes, the essence is the same: persistence, curiosity, and the courage to keep moving.

 

Chapter 4: Companionship on the Road

 

Hot Spring and Fellow Cyclists

The sun was shining as I finally cycled out of Lusaka, a tailwind at my back. The road carried me eastward, and curiosity drew me toward a marker promising a hot spring. What I found was no polished resort but a raw, natural wonder: boiling water bubbling from the earth, too hot to touch, too fierce to soak in. Locals used it downstream to wash clothes, laughing at the irony of a “hot spring” that scalded instead of soothed. For me, it was a reminder that beauty does not need embellishment; it exists in its own form, unpolished and true.

That evening, as I pitched my tent, two familiar figures rolled in: Peter Gazzard and Phillip. Peter had been circling the globe for eight years by bicycle, following a route very similar to my own. Phillip had joined him for a stretch, sharing the road’s joys and hardships. Meeting him in person after years of online connection felt like reunion and revelation. We sat together as dusk fell, swapping stories of broken chains, border crossings, and the strange humour of life on two wheels. In their company, the road felt lighter, the miles less daunting. Companionship, even brief, is a balm for the solitude of long journeys.

The next day, Peter and Phillip headed south, and I churned my way up the hills alone. The road deteriorated, potholes yawning wide, villages scattered thin. By evening I found Gambit Guesthouse, a modest place run by Deborah, whose kindness transformed the night. She walked me to the market, inspected the food, and decided it wasn’t good enough. Instead, she bought ingredients and cooked herself: nshima with relish made from rape leaves, peanuts, onions, and chilies. The meal was simple, nourishing, and infused with care. In Africa, kindness often arrives in the form of food, and Deborah’s generosity reminded me that hospitality is not about abundance but about intention.

 

The search for cash with a baby on my lap and chickens at my feet.

The following day revealed the challenges of rural travel. ATMs were scarce, supermarkets non-existent, and my lack of planning caught up with me. I boarded a minivan to fetch cash, squeezed in with babies on laps, chickens at our feet, and luggage piled impossibly high. The journey was slow, chaotic, and endlessly fascinating. Each stop was a social ritual: greetings exchanged, wellbeing checked, passengers shuffled. My presence was equally a spectacle. Children giggled, adults stared, some shy, some bold. To them, I was not just a traveller but an event, a story to be told later. A white woman doesn’t easily fly under the radar here.

By evening, I returned with money in my pocket and coffee in my bag, ready to tackle the final stretch to Malawi. The day had been exhausting, yet it left me with a sense of belonging. In the cramped van, in Deborah’s kitchen, in the laughter of children, I was not an outsider but part of the fabric of daily life. Companionship on the road is not only about fellow cyclists; it is about the countless strangers who, through kindness and curiosity, become companions in their own way.

 

 Chapter 5: Toward Malawi

Deja Vu

Leaving Gambit Guesthouse, I set out with renewed determination. The road east was anything but flat, despite assurances from locals. Hills rose relentlessly, headwinds pressed against me, and the pavement crumbled into potholes large enough to swallow a car. Villagers harvested sorghum, others stacked charcoal in neat black bags, and children erupted in laughter each time I stopped to refill my bottles. Their sing-song chorus of “How are you? How are you?” followed me through the countryside, a soundtrack of joy that softened the strain of climbing.

At Luangwa Bridge Camp, I found familiar ground. I had camped here before, years earlier, on my way from Cairo to Cape Town, and memories returned as I plunged into the pool, clothes and all. Travel often loops back on itself, reminding you that journeys are not linear but circular, each place layered with past and present. Fellow campers shared stories, and the evening carried the easy camaraderie of strangers bound by the road.

 

In the morning, the climb out of the low-lying Luangwa Bridge snaked uphill, through dense woodland where villages were scattered thin. Still stopping to fill up with water got the village kids in near hysterics.

By the time I reached Kacholoda, only 65 kilometres away, fatigue had set in. The guesthouse was simple, with its bathroom a corrugated-iron hut with a squat toilet, but the French fries I ordered were crisp and comforting. Hospitality here was not about luxury but about presence, and the villagers’ curiosity turned my arrival into an event. Privacy was scarce, but friendliness was abundant.

 

African Sweeping Sickness

I reached the busy market town of Nyimba after a mere 45 km. On spotting the Taitana Lodge, with its bungalows shaded by trees, I couldn’t resist. I arrived before noon, desperate for a shower, and was soon served nshima and a cold Mosi beer. Women swept the yard at dawn, their brooms raising more dust than they collected, yet the ritual carried dignity. Watching them, I realised that daily routines, however small, are acts of resilience, gestures of order in a world that often resists it.

 

Chipsi Mayai

I emerged early as ladies started sweeping the yard; it’s what they do in Africa. I sat on the steps drinking my coffee, wondering if the dust created was worth the few leaves collected. Eventually, I saddled my unwilling iron horse and proceeded towards the Malawian border.

I wasn’t far from the overnight stop I had in mind, and it gave ample time to stop, chat and take a few pics. I thought it astonishing the responsibility these young kids have. Never in a million years would a child in Western culture be saddled with the responsibility of looking after babies or valuable assets, e.g., cattle. I meandered on, watching ladies doing laundry in the river; others were collecting water from a communal well or winnowing produce. All this happened as kids, called the by now familiar greeting of “How are you? How are you?”

Seeing I was hungry upon arriving at my intended spot, I ordered Chipsi Mayai, a popular street food consisting of a chip omelette. It was precisely what the doctor ordered!

 

Colonial Echoes

Further east, the villages shifted. Huts bore traces of colonial influence, sun-dried bricks introduced by missionaries a century ago. Zambia’s independence in 1964 had not erased these echoes; they lingered in architecture, in customs, in the tension between imported methods and indigenous traditions. I felt a quiet sadness at how much had been imposed, yet also admiration for how communities adapted, weaving foreign tools into local life.

Kasane brought bicycles in abundance, squeaky cycles carting drums of homemade beer, stacks of eggs, even passengers perched precariously. Bicycle taxis were everywhere, slow but affordable, a testament to ingenuity. At Tiko Lodge, a community-run project, I found warmth and chips and eggs — simple pleasures that felt like feasts.

 

Misconceptions

Chipata was my last stop in Zambia, a bustling town where I changed money and prepared for the border. Misconceptions abounded: locals believed cycle tourers were paid by their governments to ride. I laughed at the idea, imagining myself pedalling into old age on a government salary. In truth, every kilometre was paid for with hard-earned cash, every meal a choice, every mile a gift of persistence.

 

Transition across Borders.

Crossing into Malawi was seamless, yet the change was immediate. Sugarcane was everywhere, chewed by nearly everyone. Potholes deepened, bicycles multiplied, and roadside stalls sold grilled meat and chips. Children shouted “Azungu! Azungu!” — wanderer, foreigner, spirit. Their voices carried both fear and fascination, laughter and awe. I stopped for fries, and the entire neighbourhood gathered to watch, as if my meal were a performance.

The rest house where I slept was basic, its walls unpainted, its bedding worn. Yet for a few dollars, it offered shelter, and I knew I could shower in Lilongwe. Travel teaches you to adjust expectations, to find comfort in imperfection, and to recognise that arrival is not about luxury but about continuity. Zambia had carried me with kindness, resilience, and laughter. Malawi awaited with new rhythms, new voices, and the promise of another chapter.

161 CYCLE TOURING NAMIBIA (2) - PART 2

                                                 Shenanigans on a bike - By Leana Niemand

 The Compass Points North

NAMIBIA (2) – Part 2

1 490 Kilometres - 21 Days 

PHOTOS

PDF

VOICEOVER

 

 

Chapter 1: Into the North

 

Northward, with Termite Mounds as Compass

We rolled out of Windhoek for the 70-odd kilometre ride to Okahandja, with the kind of optimism only a first day can bring. The city’s bustle faded behind us, replaced by the wide shoulder of the highway and the steady rhythm of our wheels. A tailwind nudged us forward, as if Namibia herself was offering a gentle push into the journey. The road sloped northward, and with each kilometre the landscape grew greener, more generous, more alive.

It wasn’t just the vegetation that caught my eye. Along the roadside rose enormous termite mounds, some taller than us on our bicycles, their tops mysteriously aligned to the north. Everyone seemed to have a theory—prevailing winds, magnetic fields, some secret language of the earth—but none explained the uncanny precision. I found myself pedalling in silence, wondering if these mounds were nature’s compass, pointing us toward something larger than geography.

However, besides the enormous termite mounds, we encountered massive mushrooms. Known as Omajowa, these mushrooms grow at the base of termite mounds in Namibia’s central and northern parts.

The day ended in a campsite with bungalows, a stroke of luck as the north wind picked up and rain swept across the plains. We were grateful not to be in tents, listening to the storm from the comfort of solid walls. Travel teaches you to appreciate small mercies: a roof, a hot shower, a dry bed.

 

A cold wind from the north

The following morning, the weather turned against us. Cold rain soaked through my skimpy clothes, and I cursed my lack of preparation. My sister’s twenty-year-old rain jacket—thrown into my bag almost as an afterthought—became my salvation. Teeth chattering, we sped down the road, stopping only when necessary. By the time we reached Wewelsburg, 92 km from Okahandja, we were half-frozen but relieved. The farm campsite greeted us with a menagerie: a massive dog, peacocks strutting like royalty, goats bleating, cattle grazing. The owners fired up the “donkey,” a wood-fuelled boiler, and the hot shower felt like redemption. Amanda and I claimed the old bus as our shelter, while Linda pitched her tent. That night, wrapped in blankets, we surrendered to sleep early, the rain drumming its lullaby.

 

Kindness of Strangers

Fog hung thick the next morning, but soon lifted, revealing a landscape unchanged yet somehow softer. My clothes were still damp, clinging cold against my skin, but the ride carried us steadily toward Otjiwarongo. The monotony of the road was broken by kindness: a traffic officer stopped us, not to reprimand, but to hand out high-visibility belts. His gesture was simple, practical, and unexpectedly moving. In a world where cyclists often feel invisible, here was someone ensuring we would be seen.

Otjiwarongo offered respite. Amanda, ever resourceful, found a self-catering guesthouse at a fraction of the usual price. We shopped for food and beer, then lazed about, grateful for rest. For Linda, it was only her third day of cycling, two of them long hauls, and I thought the pause necessary as journeys are not measured only in distance but in the balance between effort and ease.

 

The Meditative Cadence of Cycling

The road beyond Otjiwarongo stretched 123 kilometres to Otavi, like a ribbon across the plains, long and lonely, yet strangely comforting. There is a particular rhythm to days like these: the hum of tyres on tarmac, the horizon unbroken, the body settling into a cadence that feels eternal. The landscape offered little drama, but in its quiet way, it was beautiful. Each kilometre was a meditation, each breath a reminder of how simple life becomes when reduced to the essentials of movement, food, and rest.

Otavi appeared like a mirage, where Amanda found a rest camp with a tiny swimming pool. We dangled our feet in the cool water, sipping Windhoek draught, and laughed at the absurdity of luxury in miniature. It wasn’t the size of the pool that mattered, but the ritual of reward: a cold beer, tired legs, and the satisfaction of distance covered. Travel teaches you to celebrate small victories.

 

 

Chapter 2: Into the Green, Toward Etosha

 

Elephants in Bwabwata, and the constant presence of wildlife.

The following day, a stiff breeze slowed our pace, but the scenery shifted. The further north we rode, the lusher the land became. Trees thickened, grasses grew tall, and the air carried a sense of abundance. Tsumeb awaited, a town I had heard of countless times but never visited. Amanda, ever resourceful, found inexpensive digs, and I knew I would miss her when she returned home. Her knack for finding hidden gems had saved us more than once.

We lingered in Tsumeb for a reason: Etosha National Park. Linda arranged a guided tour, while Amanda and I opted for a self-drive tour. Etosha was not just a park; it was a revelation. The summer rains had transformed the land into a banquet, and the animals responded in kind. Elephants lumbered across the plains, giraffes stretched impossibly toward the treetops, and antelopes darted like shadows. Birds filled the sky, their calls weaving a chorus that seemed endless. I grinned until my cheeks ached, snapping photographs until my fingers cramped. It was abundance made visible, life in its rawest form, and I felt humbled to witness it.

 

Waving goodbye to Amanda

In Tsumeb, Amanda waved goodbye and return home to daily duties, her absence felt heavier than expected. Linda and I continued toward Grootfontein, where the Hoba meteorite lay in wait. At sixty tonnes, it is the largest single meteorite on earth, a relic from the cosmos that landed here some eighty thousand years ago. Sitting alone beside it, eating jelly sweets, I wondered what people made of it millennia ago. Did they see it as a gift from the gods, a warning, or simply a curiosity? For me, it was a reminder of scale: how small we are, how vast the universe remains.

I continued to Grootfontein where Linda had already uncovered accommodation so affordable I suspected she had quietly sponsored me. Our host served gin and tonic, and we laughed at our luck. Later, we dined at the Kitchen Café, sitting in the garden until late, talking of routes and possibilities. Travel is not only about landscapes but also about the generosity of strangers and the unexpected gifts of hospitality.

 

Sharing stories around the campfire

We left Grootfontein with the ease of travellers who knew the road ahead would be gentle. The 60 kilometres to Roy’s Camp slipped by almost unnoticed, the tarmac smooth, the air forgiving. By early afternoon, we were already there, greeted by a camp that offered everything a weary cyclist could want: easy camping, a bar, a restaurant, and even a short bush walk. We saw no animals, but the silence of the bush was its own kind of company. That evening, the staff lit a fire, and we sat with other campers, drinking wine and sharing stories. It was one of those nights where strangers became companions, bound together by the glow of flames and the simplicity of travel.

 

The Lapas of Africa

“Come have a look”, Linda whispered, pointing towards the tiny dik-diks in camp. They were no more than 30-40 centimetres high and couldn’t weigh much more than 3 or 4 kilograms. To begin a day with such creatures felt like a blessing. We lingered over breakfast, leaving past nine, knowing the distance to Mururani Camp was manageable. A slight headwind slowed us, but it kept us cool and mercifully kept the flies away. Butterflies, however, seemed to multiply, fluttering around us as if escorting us northward.

Mururani Camp was a mere 70 km away and was laidback with a lush lawn shaded by a large lapa where we cooked and lounged. A shop on the main road sold cheap beers and snacks, and we spent the afternoon in easy contentment. These were the days when cycling was less about endurance and more about savouring the rhythm of life along the road.

 

 

Chapter 3: Between Rivers and Wilderness

 

Rhythm of the Road – onto Rundu

The ride to Rundu was long—137 kilometres—and demanded focus. We pressed on, each pedal stroke a small act of persistence. By the time we arrived, exhaustion had set in. Linda chose a more upmarket guesthouse, while I opted for the Backpackers, a choice that suited my budget and my taste for simplicity. Rundu itself felt like a frontier town, perched on the edge of the mighty Okavango River, where Namibia brushes against Angola. It was a place of contrasts: potholes and muddy puddles, yet also the promise of river sunsets.

 

Along the Okavanga

Leaving Rundu was delayed by errands—shops closed on Sundays, money difficult to draw on Mondays. By the time we finally pedalled out, it was nearly eleven. The road led us through rural settlements where traditional huts dotted the landscape, smoke rising lazily from cooking fires. Children walked to school, their classrooms little more than tin shacks. Life here was stripped to essentials, and yet it carried a dignity that humbled me.

Seventy-seven kilometres down the road we found Mukuku Rest Camp, where the owner offered us a boat ride along the Okavango River. We accepted, and as the sun dipped low, we glided across the water. Birds settled into treetops, their calls fading into evening. The river shimmered, reflecting the sky’s fire, and I felt an immense privilege to be there, suspended between water and sky, witness to a moment that belonged to no one and everyone. Travel is full of hardships—rain, wind, exhaustion—but it is also full of grace, and this was one of those moments when grace revealed itself.

 

Into the wild

Leaving Mukuku Rest Camp felt like embarking on an adventure that would immerse us in the heart of rural Africa. We navigated our bikes along sandy paths that crunched beneath our tires, and was relieved when the dirt road eventually transformed into smooth pavement.

The ride unfolded like a vibrant tapestry—110 kilometres brimming with life. Villagers dotted the landscape, skilfully gathering firewood and showcasing their colourful handicrafts at roadside stalls, their warm smiles inviting us to pause and connect with their world.

As the sun began its descent, we veered off the main road towards Camp Ndurukoro, which nestled itself along the tranquil banks of the Okavango River. The sunset was nothing short of magical; the sky erupted in hues of orange and purple, casting a spell over the landscape.

As night fell, we crawled into our tents, the sounds of hippos grazing nearby creating an enchanting symphony. We couldn’t help but chuckle at the thought of these massive creatures nudging our tents, the lawn offering them a soft invitation. With the whispers of the wilderness surrounding us, we drifted into sleep, hearts full of adventure and a hint of excitement for what lay ahead.

 

The locals know best – Learning the hard way.

Although our kind hosts at Ndurukoro Camp suggested a campsite further along the river,to view Popa Falls but Linda had hoped for a view of the Falls at another campsite. The ride was manageable, though the approach to Rainbow River Lodge tested our patience; still, we dragged our bicycles through the thick sand to the campsite that sat quietly on the river, the falls hidden from sight. Travel often teaches us that expectation and reality rarely align. Sometimes it’s best to follow the advice of those who know the area. Yet even without the view, the river offered its own serenity. Water moved with a quiet insistence, reminding us that journeys are not always about spectacle but about presence.

 

Through the Bwabwata National Park

The next morning, we pushed our bikes back to the main road, stocking up at the supermarket before heading deeper into Bwabwata National Park. The road stretched long and slow, lined with traditional huts and women gathering wood. Children walked astonishing distances to school, their classrooms little more than tin shacks beneath trees. Life here was stripped to essentials, yet it carried a resilience that humbled me. In the distance, elephants appeared—two grey silhouettes against the horizon. Even from afar, their presence was monumental, a reminder that this land belonged first to the wild.

We spent the night at Omega Police Station, where officers' friendliness softened the place's austerity. Their hospitality was genuine but straightforward, and I marvelled at how kindness appeared in the most unexpected corners.

 

The long ride to Kongola

The following day was a slog: 139 kilometres to Kongola, each pedal stroke heavy, each kilometre a test of endurance. The road offered little drama, only the familiar rhythm of huts, women carrying wood, and the endless horizon. In Kongola Linda chose a more upmarket guesthouse, while I settled into a local joint for 150 Namibian dollars. The room was basic, as expected, but the warmth of the people made it feel rich. Africa has a way of reminding you that comfort is not measured in amenities but in human connection.

 

Rivers, Rest Camps, and the Rhythm of Kindness

By morning, Linda decided she’d had enough of long, lonely stretches and opted for an excursion along the Kwando River. I lingered in Kongola, waiting for the single shop to open so I could draw money and top up my internet. Things move slowly here, and patience becomes part of the rhythm. Cycling out of the village, I noticed the sign to Camp Kwando and realised it led to my friend’s lodge. I turned back, curiosity guiding me, and soon found myself at Ivory Camp.

The camp sat directly on the Kwando River, within a hunting concession where hippos roamed freely. Koen, the manager, welcomed me with warmth, advising me to keep my bike inside lest the hippos grow curious. Later, I took a taxi into town for food and beer, the journey itself an experience. The driver stopped at each household, checked on people, offered rides, and ensured everyone was cared for. In the village, passengers were dropped off one by one, collected later with the same patience. It was community in motion, a living example of how interconnected life here remains.

That evening, Koen prepared a meal, and we sat outside listening to the wilderness. Hippos grunted in the river, birds called from the trees, and the air carried the weight of silence. News arrived that a neighbour had died of malaria, a sobering reminder of fragility. I realised I had yet to begin my malaria tablets, a lapse that felt reckless in the face of such reality. Travel is not only about discovery but about vulnerability, and Africa never lets you forget that.

 

 

Chapter 4: Toward Katima — Land Without Owners

 

Return to Kongola, and a rural ride to Katima Mulilo

I left Ivory Camp with the sounds of hippos still echoing in my ears, their grunts a reminder that wilderness here is never far away. The sandy track back to Kongola was lined with peaceful settlements, smoke drifting lazily skyward as women collected water and children carried wood. A stiff breeze slowed me, and I realised I would not reach Katima that day. Instead, I stayed another night in Kongola, a village perched between modernity and tradition. Electricity flickered uncertainly, water was scarce, and yet life carried on with a rhythm that felt timeless. I drank the local water, trusting my body’s resilience, half in defiance, half in surrender.

 

Onto Katima Mulilo

The next morning, I set out for Katima Mulilo. The road was long—120 kilometres—but effortless in its way. Women carrying wood and water looked at me with disbelief, their faces breaking into smiles once the shock passed. Children waved, their laughter chasing me down the road. The termite mounds that had towered further south were absent here, their soil repurposed into huts that stood sturdy for years. Along the roadside, makeshift stalls sold milk and meat, their freshness a mystery and their presence a testament to resourcefulness.

Nguni cattle dotted the landscape, their sleek hides shimmering in the sun. Indigenous to Southern Africa, they are hardy, adaptable, resistant to parasites, and tolerant of extremes. Watching them, I thought of resilience—not just of animals, but of people, of communities that endure despite scarcity, despite hardship. The cattle seemed to embody the spirit of the land: strong, unyielding, quietly dignified.

Katima Mulilo appeared at last, a town worn at the edges, sad-looking yet alive with possibility. I bunked down at the ABC Guesthouse, grateful for its simplicity. Africa’s slow way of life had seeped back into me, and I realised how much I had missed it—the unhurried pace, the acceptance of what is, the kindness that surfaces in unexpected places.

The following day, I lingered as Linda caught up but needed rest, and I had errands to run. Conversations with locals revealed something profound: here, land is not owned as I had always understood it. It belongs to everyone, a communal resource rather than private property. If I wished, they said, I could speak to the chief, and with his permission, build a hut. The idea struck me deeply. To belong not through ownership but through community, to be granted space by collective will rather than individual claim—this was a vision of home that felt both ancient and radical.

As I sat in Katima, I thought of the termite mounds pointing north, of elephants in the distance, of hippos grunting in the Kwando, of children walking miles to school. Each image was a fragment of Namibia, stitched together into a tapestry of endurance, kindness, and belonging. The road had carried me here, but the land itself had offered something greater: a reminder that home is not always a place you own, but a place where you are welcomed.

 

Crossing the Border into Botswana

Shortly after 8, Linda and I cycled out of the sad-looking town of Katima en route to our final ride in Namibia. The area was pan flat, and one could understand why the Chobe River forms such a considerable Floodplain. Nevertheless, going was effortless, and we reached the border early. Crossing into Botswana was smooth sailing. We continued to Mucheje Camp, situated on a large swampy area sporting an abundance of birdlife. Linda had had enough of pitching her tent and chose one of the permanent tents, which came with a few luxuries. Her upgrade was likely due to the campsites being grassless and pitch-dark at night.

Later, we cycled to a nearby shop, bought a few beers and sat on the viewing deck until darkness fell.

 

 

Chapter 5 – The Road to Zambia

 

By Car through Botswana

Since cycling through Chobe National Park was off the table and Linda not keen on biking in Botswana either, she arranged for a pick-up to whisk us away to Kasane. Once there, she opted for a comfortable place to stay in town. Still, I found myself drawn to Thebe campsite—where the lush lawn and covered area provided a delightful retreat under the African sky and right on the banks of the Okavango River. Here wildlife wandered freely and it wasn’t unusual to find Hippos in camp.

The morning unfolded, I filled my day with rest-day rituals—laundry, organising gear, and snagging a local SIM card to stay connected in this beautiful land.

 

Arrival in Zambia

With the first light of dawn breaking around 8:30 AM, I stepped outside Thebe Camping to meet Linda. Our bikes were ready, and excitement bubbled as we set off for a short ride across the stunning new bridge connecting Botswana and Zambia. This architectural marvel had indeed made the old ferry service a relic of the past, though the crossing took a bit longer than we expected.

Once we entered Zambia, I was immediately entranced by the vibrant landscape. For the first time since leaving Cape Town, bicycles were part of the daily rhythm of life. The locals had not only embraced cycling for commuting but also for transporting goods and people. Lining the roadside, colourful stalls overflowed with squashes, pumpkins, sugarcane, and charcoal—the essence of a bustling local economy. The warmth and friendliness of the Zambian people wrapped around us like a cosy welcome mat, making us feel right at home.

With the thrill of discovery pushing us forward, we glided effortlessly towards Livingstone, arriving eager to dive into the backpacker vibe at the lively Jollyboys. This place was alive with laughter, stories waiting to be shared, and faces reflecting the spirit of adventure.

The next day was nothing short of magical. We set off to witness the majestic Victoria Falls, nature's grand spectacle. Thanks to the abundance of summer rains, the falls roared with untamed power, and we were quickly enveloped in a mist that felt like nature's embrace. Those rented raincoats proved our trusted companions as we ventured through thick fog, our senses awash with the sheer magnificence of the cascading water—an awe-inspiring reminder of the earth's raw beauty.

 

Livingstone to Zimba

As Linda packed her bags for her return flight to the USA, I was excited for the adventures that lay ahead. While she turned towards home, my journey led toward Malawi, over 1000 km away.

Leaving the bustling markets behind, the day unfolded as a quieter ride, punctuated by charming roadside markets brimming with fresh veggies, charcoal, and exquisite carved wood.

Each person I met along the way radiated genuine curiosity. Their friendly smiles and questions about my journey painted a warm backdrop to the day as if they were part of my story. By midday, I reached Zimba, a quaint little community that welcomed me with open arms. Finding basic lodgings at the Trekking Guesthouse for just 150 Kwacha felt like striking gold—an unmissable opportunity. With helpful staff eager to share local wisdom, I knew I had found the perfect place to rest and recharge, readying myself for the adventures that awaited in Zambia.

 

Interlude: On Kindness

Kindness on the road is rarely grand. It arrives in small gestures: a traffic officer handing out reflective belts, a stranger offering a hot shower, a host pouring gin and tonic at the end of a long day. These moments are not planned, not owed, not expected. They appear suddenly, like butterflies on the roadside, and vanish just as quickly.

Cycling teaches you to notice them. When your body is tired, when rain soaks through your clothes, when the road stretches endlessly ahead, kindness becomes more than comfort—it becomes sustenance. It reminds you that the world is not indifferent, that people still see you, still care.

I have learned that kindness is not measured by wealth or circumstance. It is measured by willingness: to share, to notice, to give, and it's nowhere more visible than in Africa.