Where the Falls Roar
Cycle Touring Zambia
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
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.
