Cycling for Survival
Sally de Jager
together with two companions spent fifteen months cycling from London
to Cape Town. This is her story.
The journey from London to Cape Town -
through some of the most desolate and savage terrain’s, poverty
stricken and politically unstable democracies of Africa - had become an
alluring expedition for many travellers. Imagine experiencing this
adventure by bicycle, having to expend your physical energy, at a pace
not much faster than an ox cart and slow enough to become involved in
the daily lives of the villagers? The 25 000 kilometres, 14 border
crossings riddled with bureaucracy, the biggest desert in the world -
the Sahara, tropical jungles, military convoys and 62 punctures, had
become more than a challenge. For me and my cycling companions, Louise
Tong and Erik Feenstra it was an opportunity to explore remote regions
inaccessible by vehicles, immerse ourselves in the rich and unique
cultures that co-exist in our continent and a chance to discover what
it means to be Africa
The adventure was about forsaking the comfortable sofa of civilisation,
learning to survive on instincts and dealing with life on a more
fundamental level.
The trip was to raise funds and public awareness for the registered
organisation "Survival International". The organisation champions the
plight of tribal people around the world whose existence is being
threatened by the encroachment of modern cultures, globalisation and
the demands on our natural environments in the unceasing search for
resources.
It was the night before embarking on the most severe part of the trip.
The smoke from our small fire curled up into the deadly quiet night. A
lone jackal howled in the distance. We shared our meal of lentils with
a passing nomadic old man who was out herding his goats. He was wearing
only a loincloth and his skin was rough and calloused from years of
living in this harsh environment. I sat mending my worn back tire with
needle and thread, while we made strategic plans of how to avoid the
military post.
Lake Turkana, the largest and most northern of the Rift Valley lakes,
borders on the Ethiopian, Kenyan and Sudanese border. Our major
obstacle was the Ethiopian Police who forbid foreigners from entering
this region. Paying our way across this border was the only bribe we
had to pay on the whole trip! The other obstacle was to navigate our
route along the lake, which is surrounded by volcanic lava beds with
little or no vegetation, equipped with only hand drawn maps from the
locals. The alkaline water from the lake was barely drinkable, so we
each had to carry 20 litres of water as well as enough food to last the
two weeks. The decision to take the route along this desert lake was
not an easy one to make, we however all made a pact to be totally
prepared and committed both mentally and physically to the intrepid
expedition as our survival depended on each other.
The region around Lake Turkana has become famous as one of the great
sources of evidence of man’s earliest existence. A 1.6 million years
old skeleton, a specimen of the Homo Erectus called the "Turkana boy"
was found in this region. These days only a few tribal groups, who have
adjusted to the desert heat, roam these arid plains.
Soon we got our first glimpse of Lake Turkana; the Jade Sea as it is
also known as. A flock of flamingos took off upon our arrival. We took
a sigh of relief that we had finally arrived in Kenya, but still had a
long hard way to go. Being bogged down by sand and plagued by punctures
hampered our progress. At one stage, we thought we would die, not from
a lack of water, but from a shortage of inner-tube patches. We resorted
to cutting each patch up into tiny pieces, and in this way, mend all
our punctures. The dwindling road had deteriorated so badly from the
relentless wind that howled across the arid plains that we lost our way
numerous times. A few nomadic Desonage, who wear mud and feathers in
their hair would come to the rescue and lead us back onto the track.
Their villages look like a clump of roll bushes from a distance, but as
we approached we could see that they were made of grass and skins
stretched over, almost like desert igloos. Only a few fish and goat
bones litter their villages. No such thing as plastic.
The sun was unbearably hot; we would push our bikes through the sand
from the shade of one thorn tree to the next. I had a few scratches
from thorn bushes that had started to turn septic, but we didn't have
enough water for these hygienic purposes, only enough to survive. We
even had to resort to digging water out of the dry riverbeds with a
calabash, the way the locals do. The thought of getting to Illeret and
drinking a cold coke was the only thing that drove us forward.
Eventually, by the next afternoon, we saw houses on the hilltop in the
horizon. We took turns helping each other push our bikes through the
last riverbed and up a steep sandy ridge. Two little children walking
along the path with buckets on their heads took one look at us and ran
off dropping their loads on the way. Our request for coke was met with
laughter as we later found out that the only thing to purchase in this
small police outpost town, was goats meat!
With the assistance of the Military police and a fresh supply of their
truck patches, we arranged to cross the ferociously tempered Lake
Turkana. The crossing in a flimsy fishing boat cost the same price as
what 3000 dried telapia fish would fetch in Loyalung on the other side.
Once the howling wind had subsided and a peaceful calm pervaded the
boat; the fishermen stopped hauling and hoisting, and instead sat back
and lit home-grown tobacco pipes and started singing the most beautiful
tribal tunes that deep resonance echoed across the still water.
When I first came about the idea of cycling home to Cape Town through
Africa, I approached Louise, a Chinese-Australian friend whom I’d
recently met while living in London. Other than both being Accountants,
we shared a love for knobblies, spokes and pedals and a yearning to
explore the unknown. She has a strong vibrant personality and someone I
felt I could trust in extreme circumstances. Her immediate response was
yes, as long as we cycle from London to Hong Kong, her birth city,
sometime in the future!
In August 1998, after a year of fund-raising, researching and planning
we eventually left from Trafalgar Square waving good-bye to a group of
friends who had come to see us off. If only we knew what our bright
spanking new panniers and bikes would look like a few months down the
road.
In Gibraltar, we met our Guardian angel, disguised as a skinny
eccentric Netherlander called Erik. He spontaneously decided to change
his initial travel plans of cycling round Spain and Portugal, to
include a detour via Cape Town. A lucky decision on our part as our
bike repairs skills didn’t prove as good as we had hoped while
practising in our back- yard in London.
My first memory of ‘free’ camping in Africa was in the Rif Mountains
with a tribe of nomadic Bedouin Berbers. Close to sunset, we pushed our
bikes over to where a white robed shepherd boy was herding his flock
and asked to put our tent up next to their hand-stitched sheep skin
dwelling. He agreed and it wasn’t long before all the women and
children came out to greet us, first by shaking our hands and then
kissing their own. Our strange modern tents caused much amusement for
the Berbers and we struggled to keep them out. After our meagre meal
which we shared with the starving kids, we were invited into
their tents to have nana-cha (mint tea). Erik joined the men in their
tents and Louise and I were ushered into the Women’s. An elegant
elderly lady was sitting on her haunches cooking cous-cous over a warm
glowing fire. The smoke drifted through a gaping hole into the crisp
night. She had a face, I will never forget - high cheekbones, sharp
beady eyes, with huge gold earrings capping her weathered gypsy like
face. Her continual pleas for money and medicine for her sick children
made us feel very awkward, as we couldn’t help her. Eventually we
managed to politely excuse ourselves and escape to our private
sanctuary and breathed a sigh of relief when we finally zipped up the
tent flaps.
In our boundless enthusiasm to see as much of Morocco as possible we
pedalled over the High Atlas Mountains three times. First to explore
the outlying region of Errachida and to climb Erg Chebbi on the
Algerian border (the biggest sand dune in the Sahara). But we also
wanted to visit the Marrakech back on the northern side of the Atlas.
It’s Plaza Djejeema-el-Fna is renowned for its street theatre,
traditional medicine men, storytellers, snake charmers and lantern-lit
evening food stalls selling everything from smoked meats, curried sheep
brains to freshly squeezed orange juice.
To cross into Mauritania we were forced to embark on a Military convoy,
which escorted us through war-torn Western Sahara, which is littered
with landmines. The convoy lacked the flashing lights and big machine
guns that we imagined and instead consisted of two sandal-clad soldiers
who climbed into the first vehicle with all our passports in his
‘Moroccan briefcase’ - a black plastic bag.
Noudibou, the only port in Mauritania, is a strange place. It is not
linked to the capital by any road and so the only means of getting down
south for us was a three kilometre- long industrial bucket train. It
that leaves regularly to an iron ore mine stationed out in the middle
of the Sahara in a place called Zourat. The train, a dusty desert
dragon jerked and bumped us throughout the night. Because of the lack
of buffers between the carriages, everytime the train stopped or
started we would hear the familiar banging starting up front and
getting closer until the banging and jerking would hit. Nevertheless,
our adventurous candles ablaze with excitement, we made ourselves as
comfortable as possible huddling together against the chill. Ten hours
later we were dumped in what could be called the "ass end" of the world
- Choum a sad and dirty place where shacks are built out of rail
tracks, rude money grabbers linger and sickly snotty nosed kids beg.
Cycling through the endless barren landscape of the humbling Sahara was
daunting. Knights of the Sahara, the blue-cloaked Tuaregs would pass us
with their camel caravans and would offer us sweet camel’s milk. In
Mauritania, slavery was only banned in 1981; but it seemed the custom
still continues, as black slaves still herd the camels for their
Masters. Water became a precious commodity and our lives revolved
around getting to the next well which could be hundreds of kilometre’s
down the track. Rationing myself to a sip of water every five
kilometres, I thought dying of thirst must the most horrendous death.
Starvation is much more bearable. After sunset when the incessant heat
of the day abated, we relaxed around a little campfire, the Sahara
became the most peaceful and harmonious place under the stars.
The allure about Timbuktu (‘Tombouctou’ in French) is the journey
getting there rather than the final destination. Our original plan to
get there for New Years celebrations was delayed. Being on ‘African
time’, everything moves at a much slower pace. After recovering from a
short bout of illness, we bargained with a Pinasse captain to transport
up the Niger River. A Pinasse is a 25 metre long wooden cargo vessels,
arched branches from side to side covered with thick grass matting.
Meals for the passengers were cooked on a huge cauldron over an open
wooden fire. Our Pinasse was transporting cement, maize and furniture
to small Bozo villages dotted all the way to Timbuktu. Together with
the other passengers, we had to find the most comfortable spot to
endure the three to six day trip! Most of the time we spend sitting on
the roof, hoping to be the first person to spot a hippo. From now on,
we will always have an African New Years Celebration on the 24th of
January!
We had been cycling through Sub-Sahel French West Africa for five
months, most of the time in strong Harmattan desert winds. It was most
exciting to eventually arrive in English-speaking Ghana and to see the
vegetation change from dry savannah to dense canopies of tropical
Jungles from which strange noises sporadically emitted. Besides the
Fetish rituals, old slave forts on the beaches and colourful markets
filled with all sorts of strange delicacies such as fufu, yams, and
plantains, it was the over-exuberance, friendliness and hospitality of
the Ghanaians that made it the most memorable place. To describe all
the friendly and fascinating stories of Ghana I would need to write a
novel. Some strange incidents will always stick out in my mind though.
For example, the time in Obausi, when the policeman who I first thought
was going to give us a fine for cycling past the barrier couldn’t stop
hugging us and giving us ice water. "Aah from South Africa, you are my
African Sister then". Or the time, a schoolboy going past on his bike
said "Good Morning Sir. I think I shall come and help you."
From Ghana we flew back in time to Ethiopia. It was the 15th April 1991
on the ancient Julian calendar, eight years behind the rest of the
world. It might have been 100 years as the people live a primitive
life, tilling the fields by oxen and carrying water in earthenware
jars. From Addis Ababa, we cycled north along the historic route
towards Lalibela, famous for its underground Rock Churches. The
unforgiving gravel roads angrily wound their way over Mountains and
through the Blue Nile gorge. The continual pestering and stone throwing
by the children while we were pedalling our guts out was all too much
to bear. After a few tearful episodes we opted for hitching on food-aid
trucks driving into the interior.
From Nairobi, we headed down to Tanzania, cycling along the slopes of
Mount Kilimanjaro. Following a small track marked on the map, we passed
through a remote region - Maasai Steppe. The only information mentioned
in our guidebook was that the region was relatively uninhabited due to
the dreaded Tsetse fly! After our initial fear of venturing into the
unknown, we encountered tribal Maasai unfamiliar with Westerners and
our strange ways. Towards dusk, as the cattle were herded home, the low
bellowing and sound of the clanking cow bells could be heard from the
distance, we would approach a thorn enclosed ‘manyatta’. These proud
warriors welcomed us into their mud dwellings and shared their meals of
beef and sour milk. It was moments like these when I felt at total ease
sitting around a wood fire while watching a elderly Maasai lady
cooking, using all the traditional calabashes and wooden spoons, and
cute chubby children sat pressed up against me, with their small elbows
resting on my knees. We were even invited to build our own mud hut,
where our tent stood, totally out of place in these odd surroundings.
Crossing the inaccessible Ruvoma River proved no problem for us. The
bicycles were precariously balanced in dug-out canoes as we were poled
across to Northern Mozambique. Bush camping was no longer possible, due
to the civil war the land was plagued by remnants of landmines. Every
evening, after a long days cycle we would approach the chief of a
village and ask for permission to camp. Dependent on their hospitality
we sampled local delicacies such as braaied monkey.
Due to visa difficulties at the Tete Corridor in Mozambique, we flew in
a Supermarket cargo plane from Blantyre to Johannesburg. It was by no
means the end of our trip and we spent another month cycling in South
Africa. The last leg of our journey took us through the Karoo, visiting
forgotten outback towns. In Rietbron chirps like "Maar waar gaat die
fietsie wat so kwaai lyk!" amused us. If only they knew! The highlight
was pedalling over the Prince Albert Pass through the indigenous Knysna
forests. Still preferring to cycle on off road dirt- tracks, we
meandered from Swellendam, through the Little Karoo, over the
Franschoek pass and into Stellenbosch.
After 15 months in the saddle and having cycled 11000 kilometres, we
finally realised our dreams and arrived in Cape Town. Getting a glimpse
of Table Mountain again gave me goose flesh. However, our sense of
achievement was mixed with sadness as our expedition had become a way
of life. For we had after all become Pedalling Nomads.
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