May 2, 2016
Today I unintentionally set a new personal record for miles ridden in a day on this trip.
I had checked Google Maps last night in Chipata, Zambia, and I knew that the route I wanted to take was different than the one my GPS would select for me. I knew I needed to head towards the capitol of Malawi, Lilongwe, and then north on the M1 road towards Mzuzu. So while I did that, it turns out I missed a couple of “shortcuts” that would have reduced the miles but possibly added hours due to conditions.
In the end, my route took me 387 miles, or around 626 kilometers, which is about 3 miles more than my previous longest day in South America.
The border crossing into Malawi is smooth and simple. It would have been quicker but Immigration has trouble finding change for my visa payment, which has to be made in US dollars. It takes about 30 minutes for them to come up with the change. Malawi has just recently changed their visa policy, but there is still some confusion between what the country’s website says is required and what is actually requested at this border crossing. I had printed out the visa application form previously and filled it out last night, but when I arrive the immigration officer hands me one to fill out, so I didn’t really need to have it in advance. That form, and the $75 visa fee, is all they require. No copies, no additional photos or information. I am also required to purchase insurance for my motorcycle, which runs $13 for a 30-day policy (the shortest time frame available).
As I walk back to my bike, a security officer approaches me with a very friendly greeting.
“Hallo! All of your paperwork is done? Where are you coming from?” he asks.
“Today, or originally?” I’m never quite sure what they are asking when I get this question. “Today, Chipata. Originally, the United States.”
“Are you traveling alone?”
Huh?. I haven’t been asked this question before. I don’t have a prepared response, like I do for almost everything else I’ve been asked hundreds of times, and I prefer not to spend time exploring my past with a border guard turned psychologist.
“Um, because I like it?”
“No, seriously. Are your friends ahead of you or behind you?”
“No, no. It’s just me.”
“Why? Where are your friends?”
“At home. They all think I’m crazy.”
He slowly nods, seemingly in agreement. “Hmmmm. Well, safe journey.”
I head towards Lilongwe, then take the M1 north towards Mzuzu. I had expected a real highway with a name like “M1”, but I should have known better by now. Just another two-lane road, filled with potholes, goats and cattle. And people on bicycles. The small houses in Zambia, made of branches and sometimes mud, have been replaced in Malawi by red brick. Just slightly larger than their Zambian counterparts, the homes still have a thatched roof, and are often in groups of ten to twenty. There seem to be more personal cars, but bicycles and pedestrians still dominate the road.
Today is a holiday, and the small villages are filled with people. Large markets are set up. I see mostly vegetables, clothing, bicycles and bicycle parts for sale. This is definitely not a market that caters to tourists, and it’s obvious by the stares I get all along the road that I am a very rare sight here.
I pass through several police checkpoints, which are usually a few 55 gallon drums and a couple of orange traffic cones strung across the road. Almost always, the officers just wave me through; they seem to focus more on the large trucks. But a couple of times I’m stopped and asked to show my driver’s license and proof of insurance.
At a checkpoint just outside Kasungu, the officer simply asks “Where are you coming from?”
“Chipata”, I reply.
“And where are you going?”
“Are you traveling alone?”
Oh, man, I have got to work on an answer to this.
Instead, I just say, “Is that unusual?”
Further north, things are getting green. I realize I’ve been climbing for a while, and I find myself in a forest. I check the gps, and it says I’m at just under 6,000 feet (1800m) elevation. It begins to drizzle, and the fog and clouds settle in.
I ride along through dense forest and even denser fog for over an hour. Rain falls intermittently. Occasionally there are patches of thick, slick red mud washed across the road, which is unsettling in the limited visibility. Eventually I begin to descend and the fog and rain clear.
Mzuzu is not as large as I had expected, but I have no time to explore. I still have an hour to go and it’s nearing sunset. The road out of Mzuzu towards the shoreline of Lake Malawi turns out to be just barely more than one lane wide, and although there are a lot of people walking on the road, the traffic, while fairly rare, is moving very fast. Cars approach me at 50mph, seemingly aiming directly for me, leaving me barely more than a tire’s width of pavement to avoid a head-on collision. This is perhaps the most frightening traffic since northern Peru. I have to get to my destination before dark.
The road widens a bit and painted stripes return — a welcome sight — although few drivers obey them. Usually their wheels are well across the center stripe into my lane. I pick up the pace and race the sun, but I lose. By the time I find my turn-off, it is dark. At first, I’m unsure this is actually it. Yes, there is a sign that says “Kande Beach”, with an arrow pointing down the path, but it is hard to believe that cars go this way. It’s barely more than a footpath between two buildings and through the jungle. I start down the path and see a young boy, no more than 8 or 9 years old. He points ahead and nods, seemingly knowing what I am going to ask.
It’s a long two miles down this sand path in total darkness. My headlight illuminates the way, but there are forks in the road, and I’m left to guess which one is correct. In the daylight I’m sure it’s much more obvious. I’m thankful for the earlier rains, which have made the sand easier to negotiate, but the rain has also caused some puddles that I’m unsure of their depth.
I arrive at a large steel gate. The guard on the other side hears the bike, opens the gate to let me in and shows me the way to “reception”, which closed about 30 minutes earlier, so he has to go in search of someone to help me. I can hear waves on the lake, but I can’t see it. As wet as it is from the rains, I decide to take a tiny “cabin” instead of a campsite. The cabin is nothing more than a twin bed and a chair with just enough room to walk beside one side of the bed, for $14 a night. On my way to the cabin, I have to walk across what looks like nice beach sand, and past two small catamaran sailboats, so I’m pretty sure the lake is right here.
During the night I awaken to heavy downpours, and am glad I’m not in the tent tonight.