From Bovu Island

For the first time since arriving in Africa I am reluctant to get back on the road. Guy and I are on a small island on the Zambezi. The sun is slowly rising, burning thin clouds of mist off the surface of the water that flows past our open fronted hut. To get here we have ridden across the far northern corner of Zimbabwe, from Kazungula to Victoria Falls, and across the Zambian border to Livingstone. Riding into Zimbabwe we pass a long line of lorries waiting for clearance from customs. The drivers tell us they are taking cooking oil to the Congo and have been stuck here for 36 hours. They laugh at our bicycles and honk as they pass us later on the road. The ride from Kazungula is hilly and for long stretches the roadside is full of trees. At the highest points we can see sprawling vistas of green bush stretching out to the bank of the Zambezi to the north and can hear the water rushing over the falls in the distance. We spend a night In Zimbabwe before riding up to Zambia and west to Bovu Island.

On the banks of the island, papyrus stalks and white branches of water berry trees are partially submerged in the high water. The island is carpeted in near white sand, interspersed with beds of darker earth. The trees are so thick in parts that I cannot see the river which I hear flowing only a few feet away. There are vervet monkeys swinging on python vines that cling to the patchy bark of corkwood trees and woodpeckers tapping loudly somewhere in the leaves. In the day we read under the shade of the enormous Jackleberry tree at the centre of the island and when the sun drops later in the afternoon we fish in dug out canoes. On our first morning here, Brett, the island’s sole permanent inhabitant and the guy who opened it up to travelers, sends us off to help build a school in the village across the river.

We work with a handful of local guys and two young Irish volunteers. The work is hard and we are covered in sweat as we mix cement and deep red sand with heavy shovels. By midday we have finished a section of the wall and stop for lunch at a house in the village. We eat nshima with dried bream and sweet potatoe leaves before taking a canoe back to the island.

In the evening we sit up till late around a long wooden table with Brett and his girlfriend, Evelyn. Brett is tall and thin, with a Rolling Stone haircut and smashed up teeth. He smiles and smokes and talks constantly, getting up every now and then to pour another vodka and Coke. After supper he begins to talk about the old days on the island. He is telling us about three day parties at Equinox, about lanterns hanging from the trees and mushrooms and tall whisky glasses and billionaire heiresses floating round with frisbies full of a thousand types of acid. As he talks his hands dance around his face, making crazy shapes as he tries to make us see how it was. He tells us about his travels before the island: walking bare foot across Tibet in the 70s, hitching through Germany in light brown leathers and knee high pink fluffy socks in Ferraris racing at 200 mph.

There is quiet for a moment and I watch two small white moths fluttering gently around the flame that is burning off the paraffin lamp in the centre of the table. Brett tells us they are our ancestors, grandparents and such, dropping down amongst us and happy to see us enjoying life on the road. I tell him that is a nice thought and watch the last of the candles die slowly, dribbling soft white wax down the old wine bottle in which it stands. The only light is from the paraffin lamp now and I think the table will look sad in the shadows tomorrow morning, when all around it the island will be bathed in sunshine. Calexico is singing Bob Dylan’s ‘Goin to Acapulco’ in the background and we drink more and smoke more and talk about Africa and Brett’s childhood and bird-watching and the school he is building. Eventually we go to bed and in the morning Brett gives us a long hug and tells us to be all super-dooper and ride all the way to Ethiopia.