Under African Skies
by David Lemon

Please read this first

I would love to say that cycling from Nairobi to Cape Town was the fulfillment of a long-standing dream, but that wasn't the case at all. The trip started as a vague idea, which gradually nurtured itself until -- almost without realising it had happened -- I found myself confronting a Kenyan customs officer in Nairobi, my hand wrapped nervously around the crossbar of Harriet the Horrible, my garish mountain bike.

It was a moment I had dreaded. In Britain I had heard nothing but horror stories about the pitfalls awaiting The Traveller in Africa. Tales of long delays, unfriendly officialdom and the need for continual bribery had done little for my confidence.

The man at the customs desk brightened noticeably when he saw me standing in front of him. "What are you going to do with that?" He jerked his chin at my bicycle and invested the pronoun with considerable disdain.

"Ride it to Cape Town," I told him. And it did sound ridiculous. There was a gleam of pitying amusement in his eye as he studied my rumpled appearance, sparse grey hair and decidedly middle-aged figure. "Mzee," he said quietly, using the respectful term of address reserved for the elderly. "Africa is full of fools on bicycles, but they are usually mtotos (babies). Why don't you leave such idiocies for the young?"

As cheerfully as I could in the circumstances, I agreed with him that (a) I was too old and (b) I was being very foolish. Satisfied that his views were vindicated, he stamped my customs form and wearily waved me through.

In the weeks that followed that day in June 1992, Harriet and I covered 6954km, passed through six countries and had 54 punctures. During our four-and-a-half-month journey I was arrested twice as a suspected 'saboteur-scout', beaten up by Tanzanian soldiery, robbed by panga-wielding youths and had a bad fall which cause considerable damage to my hands, by bicycle and my dignity. I also endured amoebic dysentery and occasional periods of extreme thirst. At one point I even managed to get myself deported.

Trouble with the police
It happened on my last night in Tanzania, when my little camp in the bush was surrounded by local police and I was hauled away in their version of a Black Maria -- a blue Land Rover -- to the police station. There I spent an uncomfortable night being questioned, punched and pushed around. The officer in command of the district told me that I had been arrested because "white people don't sleep in the bush", therefore I had to be up to no good.

In the early hours of the morning, I had had enough and threw a tantrum. Taking a calculated risk, I demanded to be locked up, shot or set free. I raved a bit and brandished my British passport as a trump card until nobody was quite sure what to do with me. The upshot was that I was bundled back into the Land Rover and driven 24 kilometres to the Zambian border, where I was handed over to a reluctant immigration officer. I was so tired and crotchety that they were just glad to be rid of me.

Despite such difficulties, I had a wonderful time and met with nothing but kindness along the way. The citizens of Africa must surely be among the most hospitable in the world and if they though I was in any way eccentric for undertaking such a venture, they were usually too polite to say so. I made many new friends and was sometimes embarrassed by the generosity shown to me by complete strangers.

Hospitality I
One instance that springs immediately to mind was the evening I spent with Eric Kingsley Nyirenda, a Zambian villager who, having shown off on my bike to his friends, invited me to spend the night in his krall (village). As supper was being prepared in a smoky kitchen hut, I noticed one of Eric's numerous offspring disappearing with a bag of grain on one shoulder. Innocently, I inquired where he was going, only to find myself horrified, yet strangely touched, by Eric's reply: "I know all you wazungu (white people) like steak. So I have sent him to barter the grain for meat." When I protested, he was adamant. "You are my guest. You like steak, so in my house you will eat steak."

The logic was irrefutable, but I reflected a little sadly that in famine-torn Zambia a bag of grain represents food for a fortnight in the average household.

Yet Eric's generosity was no isolated incident. I was seldom allowed to go hungry and I sampled a number of unexpected delights including fried caterpillars (which taste like sweet sausages), porridge made from triticale, a cabbage-like vegetable, and a relish made out of groundnuts and pumpkin leaves.

But hospitality didn't end with food. Although I spent occasional nights in hotels or official campsites, many more were spent in isolated draals or farm homesteads. I even spent on night in a Masai manyatta -- or village -- not an experience I would recommend to the fastidious. The Masai sleep in small crowded huts and their toilet habits are not the most sanitary; eventually I crawled outside and slept under the stars. But the nights I enjoyed most were those spent beneath a convenient wayside tree. It was awe-inspiring to sleep beneath the vast night sky of Africa, and I only had minor problems with the wildlife. In Tanzania, a leopard wandered along to check me out and, on another occasion, two hyenas displayed an unhealthy interest in Harriet. But my nights were generally undisturbed and my sleep was both peaceful and relaxing.

If the nights were enjoyable, days spent cycling were often hard, hot and exhausting. Water was sometimes scarce and the hills seemed to grow longer and steeper as the sun grew hotter. Whenever my spirits were flagging and I longed for the comforts of home, some little incident of interest or human friendliness would lift me up and keep me pressing onwards.

Hospitality II
Typical was one sticky afternoon in the Western Transvaal, when I was tired, sweaty and out of sorts. I was merely going through the motions of cycling and progress was minimal. As I pedaled, I cursed the world in general and myself in particular for getting into such a pickle. When a big, blue car pulled up in my path a short distance ahead, I cursed it too, only to feel thoroughly ashamed of myself when I came abreast of the stationary vehicle. A hand clutching an open, frosted bottle of beer was thrust into my path

"You look as though you need it," said the owner of the hand. When the contents of the bottle had disappeared 'without touching the sides', he pressed another on me "for later on".

"Vorster's the name," said this kindly Samaritan, shaking my hand. Then he was gone, leaving me revived and wondering again at the generosity of the human spirit.

This kindness was not confined to ordinary folk either. Officialdom (with the exception of the constabulary in Tanzania) could not have been more helpful. Border crossings were conducted amid much cheerful banter and my papers were seldom given more than a cursory glance. Not once did I need to resort to bribery and the only time I was at all anxious was when a Botswana customs officer took Harriet for a ride, to the accompaniment of much ribald encouragement from his colleagues and a sickly smile from one decidedly apprehensive traveller.

Throughout Africa the rate of violent crime is horrific and, prior to my departure, I received many dire warnings on the matter. I took along two excellent locks for my bike but, despite the warnings, they remained unused. I left Harriet unattended in towns, villages, beside the road and in thick bush. On occasion, I left her for hours at a time, yet my kit remained untouched. It certainly says a great deal about the basic honesty of the folk I passed among.

One aspect of the trip that did terrify me was the traffic. The road conditions varied considerably: Tanzanian roads were dusty and so full of potholes that it was often easier to get off the bike and walk, while roads in South Africa were wide, fast, tarmacked and very busy. Twice I was blown right off my bike by the slipstream from passing juggernauts and some drivers, particularly in Zimbabwe and South Africa, seemed to take fiendish delight in passing so close to me that I was left wobbling frantically in their wake. Yet I also received much encouragement in the form of friendly waves or a double toot on a horn.

I arrived in Cape Town to a champagne reception at the Mount Nelson Hotel, and I couldn't help wondering what the Kenyan custom chappie would have said had he seen me at that moment. He had been right of course. At 47, I was far too old for such a venture -- but if I hadn't done it, I'd have missed out on a great deal. Now that it is over, I shall forget the difficulties and the times when I was lonely, frightened or uncomfortable. I will remember the magic moments -- spectacular scenery, crystal dawns, elephants beside the road and the taste of fruit on a hot, dusty day.

Now that I have discovered the joys of cycle touring, there will be other journeys. Europe, America, perhaps the Far East or Australia. Africa certainly has an irresistible appeal. I don't suppose it will be long before Harriet and I are back on long dusty roads, eating mealie meal with caterpillars and roast fieldmouse on the side and sleeping beneath lonely baobabs.