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.

159 CYCLE TOURING SOUTH AFRICA (3) - A LAST RESORT

Shenanigans on a Bike - By Leana Niemand

West Coast Winds and Kindness

PDF

VOICEOVER

 

SOUTH AFRICA (3)

Chapter 1 - Homeward Bound

 

Bangkok, Thailand – Cape Town, South Africa

After two long years in Thailand—where the borders had remained stubbornly closed since March 2020 due to the COVID-19 pandemic, I was finally Africa-bound. It felt like a long-awaited escape and the idea of returning to my home soil stirred something profound: anticipation, joy, and a gnawing uncertainty. Would I even make it off the ground?

Eventually, I did. The flight was dreadfully long, but descending into Cape Town felt like a homecoming wrapped in jet lag and joy.

 

Cape Town Interlude

Cape Town greeted me with its usual vibrancy—sunlight bouncing off Table Mountain, the scent of the ocean filled the air, and the comfort of my sister Amanda’s cosy abode felt comforting. I indulged in local cuisine, sipped lovely South African wine, all before visiting the bike shop to gear up. The thrill of cycling in Africa again pulsed through me. I could hardly wait.

 

Pedals and Pals

Ten days after my arrival in Cape Town, I finally pedalled away from my sister's cosy abode, eager to hit the open road. On my way, I swung by my friend Caron's, and together we tackled the stretch to the main road. Our laughter and stories filled the air until she returned home, promising to meet up later with my sister and me in Yzerfontein.

My sister, Amanda, was all in for the adventure—just not on two wheels. She preferred the comfort of her car, which turned out to be a lovely way to spend evenings together after my bike rides.

The West Coast Road stretched ahead, a monotonous ribbon of asphalt. It felt a bit daunting with the traffic zipping past, though most drivers were surprisingly friendly, blasting their horns and waving as I pedalled on. I made a pit stop at Route 27, a quaint little farm stall and restaurant brimming with homemade delights. The warmth from the people there was heartening, and after a delightful chat, I hopped back on my bike, eager to continue to Yzerfontein.

The distance was short that day, only 60 kilometres, allowing me to arrive early. Amanda was already in camp, and we took advantage of the daylight to swing by the supermarket to stock up on essentials. Later that afternoon, Caron arrived and we set off to gather supplies for a barbecue. I couldn’t resist picking up a chair to make my camping experience more comfortable—definitely a luxury I wouldn’t want to haul on my bike.

But then, without warning, the weather turned icy, sending a shiver down my spine and a realisation that hit hard: I hadn’t packed for the chill. Ah, the joys of adventure!

 

Friendship and family, woven into the road.

Waking up to a biting chill and the grey promise of rain, I couldn't shake the feeling that venturing this far south might have been a mistake. Nevertheless, I unzipped the tent and brewed myself a steaming cup of coffee, all while reorganising my panniers, which seemed to have turned into a chaotic jumble. Around 10 a.m., I set off from Yzerfontein, the thrill of cycling towards Langebaan energising me despite the dreary weather.

The ride to the West Coast National Park felt ethereal—twenty windy kilometres flew by to where Caron, who had kindly pre-paid my entrance fee, awaited my arrival. The landscape was stunning, and our chatter filled the air as we pedalled along, taking a delightful break at a quaint restaurant for coffee and milk tart. Caron's generosity during our stop truly warmed my heart—thank you, my friend, your kindness does not go unnoticed.

As we rolled into Langebaan, the lagoon sparkled like a Caribbean jewel, its tranquil beauty banishing any lingering worries. Amanda was already at the campsite to greet us, ready to whisk Caron off to her car while I tackled the shopping list at the local supermarket. By evening, we gathered around the crackling fire for our nightly braai, savouring the flavours of the day.

 

Cold winds as a foreshadowing of challenges

In the morning, we took our time packing up, waiting for the dew on our tents to dry, before setting off around 10 a.m.. Caron headed back home, and Amanda took the picturesque route to Laaiplek, while I tackled the forty-kilometre ride. With the wind at my back, I sailed through the landscape, reaching the campsite just as my sister pulled in. The short distance was a blessing, especially since my bike's off-road tyres were a priority for the questionable roads ahead. With the bike shop in Langebaan closed on Sundays, and the one in nearby Vredenburg similarly unavailable, we decided to stay put the next day.

Life in these coastal towns is refreshingly quiet, but after a little exploration, we managed to find a spot to grab a bite. The next morning greeted us with an unusually still, misty dawn, coaxing us to stay in our tents until the sun bathed the camp in warmth. We took full advantage of the laundry facilities before Amando whisked us away to Vredenburg in search of those elusive off-road tyres.

To our delight, we stumbled upon a well-stocked bike shop—success! I snagged two off-road tyres and treated myself to a camping table and bowl for washing dishes—luxuries I rarely indulge in. A surprise visit to Pat, a friend from my running days, in Elands Bay filled our afternoon. We spent a delightful afternoon reminiscing and feasting on her delicious snacks, feeling completely spoiled. By nightfall, despite the howling winds, we crawled into our tents, warmed by both the food and friendship.

 

 

Chapter 2 - Iron Giants and Ancient Echoes

 

Elands Bay Cave

The wind whipped across the barren West Coast, carrying with it the smell of dust and salt. I had been riding for hours when a cluster of children appeared at the roadside, their arms flailing in excitement. Their laughter rang out as I stopped to take a few photographs, their joy infectious in the desolate landscape.

From the doorway of a weathered farmhouse, a woman emerged, a baby balanced easily on her hip. Her eyes were cautious but kind.

“Mevrou, waar gaan mevrou heen?” she asked softly.

“I’m cycling to Namibia,” I replied, still catching my breath.

She tilted her head, sympathy etched into her voice. “Oh… gaan mevrou daar werk soek?” For her, the sight of a lone woman on a bicycle, panniers bulging with worldly possessions, could only mean one thing: desperation, the search for work.

I nearly burst out laughing, the absurdity of it catching me off guard. “Nee,” I said, smiling, “ek ry sommer net.”

She repeated my words—“Ry sommer net”—with a weary shake of her head, as though the idea of travelling without purpose was both incomprehensible and enviable. Perhaps, in that moment, she measured her own life against mine and found it not so bad after all.

As I pedalled away, her voice lingered in my mind. That brief exchange, so ordinary yet profound, revealed the gulf between our worlds: hers, rooted in survival; mine, propelled by curiosity and freedom. And right there, amidst the wind and the waving children, I fell in love with the West Coast.

My ride zig-zagged along the Sishen–Saldanha railway line, an impressive 861-kilometre heavy-haul marvel. I had my sights set on the service road, a shortcut that promised to save me from a long detour. This remarkable railway line links the Sishen iron ore mines to the port at Saldanha Bay. Colossal trains, devoid of passenger traffic, transport a staggering 100 million tonnes of iron ore each year!

I marvelled at the sight of the enormous wagons, each carrying 100 tonnes, in a grand spectacle of 375 wagons. That’s right—these colossal trains are powered by ten robust locomotives, stretching an astonishing 4,000 metres long, making them the longest production trains in the world. It’s hard not to feel awed by the sheer scale of it all.

Seventy kilometres later, I reached Elands Bay, and found that Amanda had already claimed a stunning spot for camping. After setting up my tent, we eagerly set off to explore the nearby caves. Elands Bay Cave, rich with history, has served many purposes over the millennia. Archaeological evidence hints at a fascinating tapestry of human life, with people residing there between 4,400 to 3,000 years ago. The rhythm of hunting and gathering echoed in that cave until the 17th century AD—a testament to the enduring human spirit, etched in rock and time. It felt incredible to connect with such a profound part of our past.

 

Following the Oliphant’s River

We woke to a beautiful, wind-free morning, and I felt reluctant to pack up. Eventually, I got going, and my route took me inland over hills that offered views of vast stretches of nothingness, featuring only a lone farmhouse in the valley. This is indeed a sparsely populated area. The road stretched for miles ahead, adding to the area’s desolate feel.

Eventually, my path veered back to the ocean and Lambert’s Bay, from where I opted to cycle along the service road along the railway line. In hindsight, this wasn’t such a great idea. The road slowly deteriorated, becoming rutted, corrugated, and sandy. It took all my concentration to keep going. The poor bicycle took a hammering, not to mention my electronics. In the process, I lost the bike lock, the mirror and the phone holder, and the odometer gave up the ghost. These items weren’t designed for rough roads. Neither am I, for that matter! LOL

 

Fishing villages & Benguela Current: Nature’s rhythm shaping human livelihood.

After eighty punishing kilometres of rutted sand and corrugated track, I finally rolled into Doringbaai. The village was a scattering of houses clinging to the wind, but beyond it lay Strandfontein—a jewel perched above the icy Benguela waters. My sister had already found a campsite and, mercifully, a cold beer. As the sun bled red across the horizon, the bay shimmered with deceptive calm, its beauty masking the bite of the ocean. The cold water along the West Coast of South Africa is attributed to the cold Benguela Current, which flows northwards from Cape Town to Angola. The prevailing southerly winds produce upwellings of water from a very deep part of the ocean (200-300 meters) that move in line with Earth's rotation. Hence, the icy but nutrient-rich water. Thus, it is no surprise that the primary source of income for coastal villages is fishing.

 

Chapter 3 - Into Namaqualand

 

The Road to Bitterfontein

The day dawned wind-free but misty. Wanting to take advantage of the favourable conditions, I hurriedly packed and got underway, leaving Amanda to pack the car and clean up the campsite.

I was in no mood to take the service road and repeat the bumpy ride from the day before and, therefore, opted for the route to the dreaded N7.

En route, Amanda’s car appeared like a familiar beacon. She slowed just long enough to hand me a cold drink and a packet of jelly sweets. Such small luxuries—sugar fizzing on the tongue, condensation dripping down the bottle—felt like gifts from another world.

My route traced the Olifant’s River, its winding course breathing life into the valley. Vineyards stretched across the soil, heavy with grapes destined for wine and raisins. Fields of watermelon, beans, potatoes, beetroot, and pumpkins unfurled in orderly rows, a reminder that even in this harsh land, abundance could be coaxed from the earth.

The road, however, had its own temperament. A sudden hiss announced a flat tyre, but the sealant held true, sparing me the ordeal of replacing the tube. I pressed on, the pavement eventually surrendering to dirt and hills that rolled me toward the highway.

Sixteen windy kilometres later, Bitterfontein appeared—a settlement so small it seemed to cling to the edge of the desert. Amanda had already discovered a curious gem: the Art House, a cottage brimming with character. The town’s lone shop and petrol station had closed early, but the woman who greeted us offered what she could—a generous bowl of French fries and a salad fresh from her garden. We ate gratefully, the taste of salt and earth grounding us in this unlikely oasis.

Encounters with strangers: Shared humanity across borders.

As I left Bitterfontein, the landscape stretched out before me, reminiscent of the Australian outback—though thankfully less harsh and expansive. The sun blazed overhead, casting dark shadows as I pedalled onward.

Along the way, I had the delight of meeting Henk Horstink, a fellow cyclist from the Netherlands, making his way to Cape Town from Windhoek. We shared stories and laughter, bonded by our mutual love for cycle touring.

Later, I encountered Tania and her husband, who were returning home from the mesmerising Kalahari Desert, also known as the Kgalagadi. Their tales of the vast, sandy expanse were enchanting, and our conversation flowed effortlessly until they offered me a pack of dates—a sweet treat that added a lovely touch to my ride.

The road ahead was lonely and hilly, affording me plenty of time to savour the dates as I rode. Before long, I approached the small settlement of Garies. Here, Amanda had discovered a charming little cottage for us to rest, as the campsite was unfortunately closed. The promise of a cosy night in a quaint setting made the day's travels all the more rewarding.

 

Milky Way scene: Cosmic perspective

As I biked away from Garies, the sun climbed higher, which cast a warm glow on the landscape ahead. The journey to Kamieskroon was undulating, each rise revealing breathtaking panoramas of stony hills and a ribbon of road stretching into the distance. It was an exquisite stillness, occasionally broken by the soft rustle of a dassie darting into its burrow or the deep rumble of a truck speeding past.

On the downhill stretches, I felt a carefree grin spread across my face, a pure rush of joy in the wind. But as the hills rose again, that smile would sometimes falter, replaced by the rhythmic effort of pedalling uphill. Thankfully, the slopes were gentle, allowing me to glide into Kamieskroon with a satisfying rhythm, greeted by the charm of this serene town nestled amidst the stoic hills.

Amanda's message stated that she found Kroon Lodge, a delightful campsite, which we had all to ourselves. When I arrived, I found a hidden gem offering beauty and tranquillity. As evening fell, we gathered around a crackling fire—Amanda barbequed, while I happily indulged in my simple bread and cheese sandwich, savouring each bite under the starry sky.

As the night deepened, I lay in the tent, gazing up in awe at the brilliance of the Milky Way, its countless stars shimmering like tiny diamonds against the velvet night. I knew I was home when I saw the Southern Cross twinkling down.

 

Place names as metaphors for adversity and hope.

It’s an immense pleasure to emerge from your tent in this barren landscape at sunrise. However, the nights can be cold, and with a chill in the air, I drank my coffee, enjoying the peace of this unique area.

The scenery remained unchanged from the previous day, and the road stretched far into the distance over stony hills. Place names screamed adversity and hope. One couldn’t help but feel sorry for the people trying to make a living in this desolate and unforgiving part of the world. Still, a strange air of calm prevailed, and I enjoyed the ride up and over stony hills, with views of desolate valleys.

By the time I rolled into Springbok, Amanda had sent a message stating she was at the Springbok campsite, where she had booked a comfortable chalet. Good thing, too, as we’d a few things to sort out before crossing the border into Namibia, only 115 kilometres away.

 

Springbok Logistics: Preparing for Namibia

The following day, we did laundry and shopped for items we may need later; I found a new bike lock, chain tube, two spare tyres, and sealant. In addition, we stocked up on beer and crisps, as those are two things I don’t want to run out of. Hahaha. The main reason for stopping in Springbok was to get a COVID-19 PCR test before crossing into Namibia. The lady at PathCare informed us that the test takes up to 2 days, and it would be easier and quicker to conduct at the border. We were delighted with this news and returned to the campsite.

 

 

Chapter 4 - Namibia Beckons

 

PCR test chaos: Frustration, humour, resilience.

Getting underway early was due to my fear of encountering a headwind or intense heat for the 120 km ride to Vioolsdrift, but neither materialised. Barely 10 kilometres outside Springbok was the turnoff to the mining towns of Okiep and Nababeep. Okiep is the oldest mining town in South Africa. By 1870, it was the world's richest copper mine. Today, their glory days are long gone, and they are now only two sad-looking settlements.

Midday, I met up with an Italian cyclist, and we chatted nonstop to Vioolsdrift. The road to Vioolsdrift shimmered in the midday heat, the Orange River glinting like a silver ribbon between two nations. By the time I reached the border, my legs were weary but my spirits high. Namibia was just across the water, waiting.

The South African side was straightforward—stamps, smiles, and a wave through. On the Namibian—to our shock and horror, we learned they stopped testing at that location that day! I felt sorry for the chap who accompanied us, as it was his job, but he was unaware of the new arrangements. No amount of explanation could change their minds, as the person conducting the test wasn’t present. We’d no option but to return to the South African side.

After much deliberation, Amanda and I opted for a night at the overpriced Vioolsdrift Lodge.

In the morning, Amanda drove us back to Springbok, where PCR testing was only available between 2 and 4 p.m. My word, what a performance! Eventually, we returned to PathCare, where we waited in line on plastic chairs. The process became a jovial affair, and we learned the purpose of each one’s visit. The PCR results would be emailed, and there was thus no reason to hang around. Finally, we returned to Vioolsdrift, where camping was at Kwelanga, a lovely spot on the Orange River.

 

Crossing the Orange River: Symbolic passage into new terrain.

As we wrapped up our chat with Katy, the vibrant owner, I felt a mix of excitement and anticipation for the journey ahead. The dirt road loomed before us, a path back to the border checkpoint, but this time we were armed with our PCR tests, ensuring a smooth passage into Namibia.

Our first stop in Namibia was a quick pit stop at a petrol station, where we grabbed a SIM card and fuelled up with a hearty breakfast. After that, Amanda headed towards Aussenkehr, while I savoured the final moments on the blissfully smooth paved road. The stretch along the Orange River was a feast for the eyes—lonely yet breathtakingly beautiful, with the rugged landscape unfolding like a canvas painted by nature itself.

As Amanda explored the area, she stumbled upon a lovely resort, perfectly positioned right by the river. It was idyllic, but there was a catch: the internet connection was practically non-existent. This meant she had to make the trek back to find me and share the details. The little hiccup only added to the adventure.

The lodge featured a pool and a bar, and the sunset was spectacular as we lit a fire for a barbecue.

The Orange River shimmered. The road ahead was dirt. Africa was calling, and I was ready.