From Lusaka

Guy and I set off along the flat highway out of Livingstone into the open bush and big blue sky at an easy pace. We have enough food to last a few days and little idea of what lies ahead. As the air around us heats up we come to a section of the road that is being re-tarred and must ride a dirt road parallel. Each time a car passes it kicks up a cloud of orange sediment that sits in the still air ahead, choking us as we rattle into the dust. We push our bikes through the trees to our right, back on to the newly laid tar and see the tracks of our wheels leave two long straight lines stretching back through the soft black road behind. While we stop to eat in the shade, a van passes sprinkling water to set the tar. We run under the spray and take a cool shower under the midday sun.

We ride on through the afternoon past conical huts with straw roofs that jut out from the clumps of green acacia bushes and dry yellow grasses that line the road. At four, we turn off down a thin path which winds past small plots of maize and sweet potatoes, opening out onto a dusty yard in the middle of five small huts. Three women are sitting on short wooden stools sieving ground nuts under a mophane tree. They bring us a purple cushioned stool each to sit on and are happy for us to camp here. There is a rainbow arching faintly in the sky above the largest rectangular hut and I get up to try to photograph the shadow my body casts on the hut’s sandy walls. As the sky pales and the thin white crescent of the moon becomes visible above the pink clouds to the east we cut wood and pull our stools around the fire.

One of the younger women, Rose, speaks English and asks about life in our place, where we come from. We tell her we are from London and she turns her head to the north and says, ummm.. oooh.. from that side.. and what is it like there? Do you live on farms, that side? We tell her we buy our food from shops and live in houses made of bricks. Oooh.. And do have a car, on that side? We tell her most people do, but we prefer to ride our bicycles. Oooh.. yes.. ummm.. on bicycles, you do prefer, by your own legs.. She nods and smiles and adds some more maize to the pot of boiling water. Gradually kids of various ages approach out of the dusk and perch beside us around the fire. They stare at us and whisper quietly to one another. We smile at them and slowly say our names and they look startled and search for Rose’s eyes across the low flames.

When the food is ready we each wash our hands in a bowl of water and share nshima which we dip in a paste made from ground nuts. It is very dark now and the sky is clear. Rose tilts her head back and tells us that here, this side, they do often enjoy to look up at the stars. We all stare upwards and I tell her that where we live the stars have been turned black by the lights in peoples’ houses.

The next morning we wake to a rooster calling loudly just outside our tents and set off early, heading for Choma, a town 120 km north. The road is flanked by little corn fields and small huts and waving children, calling out as we pass. We check into a motel in town and get an early night ready to ride 200 km the following day.

We wake to pouring rain and set off under heavy black clouds. As we leave town the road rise gently onto a low plateau above valleys of fertile green forest on both sides. To the east the escarpment on the western fringe of Lake Kariba is just visible through the thick grey air. After a few hours of riding in steady rain, the clouds begin to hail and I can barely make out the headlights of oncoming cars not twenty feet ahead. The hail ricashaes off the road and the tar is flooded with thin torrents of water that rush towards the muddy verge. The sand roads off the highway have turned dark brown and the rivets on the tracks are filled with puddles of murky water. We ride on past small towns made up of single rows of dilapidated buildings with faded facades offering butchers, spices, investment services, and groceries. At half past ten we stop at Monze for a cup of tea, having covered 100 km in four hours. As the clouds lighten and the rain subsides the road through Monze begins to fill up with rickety bicycles, carrying logs and bleating goats, and women wandering to market in brightly coloured sarongs with babies tied snuggly to their backs.

After a long break we set off again and the ride begins to wear me down. The road undulates over rolling hills and my legs are weary even on the shallow climbs. It is getting late and the roadside is fenced on both sides; there is nowhere to camp. Eventually we turn off down a muddy track onto a cattle ranch. The mud on the road down to the farm is thick and our wheels churn slowly and sink to a halt, refusing to turn. Guy falls and we are both exhausted and our bikes are soon covered in the thick red earth. The workers say it is ok to camp and we trudge back up to the track and pitch our tents in the dark. Guy cooks us both noddles and beans and we go to bed wet and tired, but knowing we will reach Lusaka the next day. We leave at first light and climb over the Mantumi Hills, across the Kafue River, into the heavy Lusaka traffic. The sun is bright and it is a good feeling to weave our way through the busy city streets, having ridden 550 km since leaving Livingstone four days ago.

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.