Goodbye Pangani

So its goodbye, Pangani. Its been cool, but its time to leave. A night or two, hazy from zol and shitty vodka, and Nadia makes my custom saddle bags for the bike. I should probably test ride them, and give the bike a bit of work too, but fuck all that! The highway calls!
Next morning I hit the road, after my last ever breakfast of fruit salad, chipati, coffee and fresh hard-boiled farm eggs. Goodness. Laters, Pangani! Laters, lovely, creaking old ferry; laters, chips and samoosa man; laters, groups of unfriendly German volunteer groups huddled together for safety (or so I thought!) ;laters, hippies who think aliens brought magic mushrooms to Earth to advance humankinds evolution!

The road is hot, and dusty, but its good to be moving. The bike is heavy, and as I ride, I constantly make a mental inventory of my wordly possessions, stuffed into my two new psychedelic canvas saddle bags. What seemed, on my back, to be fairly light, now weighs a ton! How much longer; how much sweating, puffing, heaving and panting, pushing the bike up hills, swearing and cursing before I throw my prize coffee pot and 500 grams of coffee into the dense, thorny scrub? Do I really need all this shit? Do I need 6 litres of water? I think so.

I hope that my last minute preparations are sufficient. A cheap, Chinese bicycle, worth about R450, a cheap steel luggage rack, a small basket, a dynamo. Me with no proper shoes, just flip-flops, feet already scabby from falls. No proper protection against falls, no maps, no protein bars, no shaved legs, no proper anything. Just a bit of enthusiasm, derring-do and some pot-luck, and I think I'll be fine!

Where the first day is chilled vibes, day two takes it toll. After a night spent pleasantly lounging on the coconutty beach at a friendly and sympathetic fishermans spot, watching the sun set bright rosy pink and fiery orange through the palm fronds, I set off through the Sadaani National Park. Me, on a bicycle, riding through a Tanzanian national park! Grinning ear to ear, I set a pace, determined to make it through the park, a good 40kms, and see a few animals too. However, luck is not on my side, and its only a giraffe or two, galloping off to hide from any prying eyes that I spot, besides a few distant buck and some monkeys. Still, how often do you get the chance to cycle through a national park?

After a quick stop for lunch, (boiled liver and ugali) I find another reason to curse myself for not bringing a camera. In the hazy, broiling heat of the midday sun, I spot, in the distance, Chumvi Village. Sea salt village, population apparently about six. An old man sits in the shade of an abandoned building, skin like an old dhow sail, withered from the sun. He doesnt look like he's moved all day, or even all week. I sit down in the shade with him and offer him an orange. He grunts in reply, maybe the most effort he could manage today. As I step out again, into the sun, it hits like an open oven door. My skin may as well be perforated; I can feel the moisture vapourising from my insides like a kettle left on the fire. The whole village, almost entirely deserted, it seems, has the overwhelming appearance of an old Polaroid photograph from the 1960's.

After some blistering miles, wrapped up in a sarong like a nomad, I make it to the border of the park. A small canoe comes, and across the river. After a lengthy wrong turn, I start off to Bagamoyo, about 70kms further on. Puff. Pant. The sun begins to dip down, dangerously low to the horizon, and people begin to ask as I wind my way this long, sparsely populated road, "Where are you going, mzungu?" I tell them Bagamoyo and they say, "Too far! Too far, mzungu!" But I dont listen, fuck 'em. What do they know? Im the king of the road! How far, I ask? "Five kilometres! Too far!"
Five kays? No problem! I ride on, undeterred. The sun sets. I shit myself. It turns out people around here have a poor perception of distance, and like Swahili time, Swahili kilometres are fairly arbitrary. A dalla-dalla comes hurtling along, a truck loaded up with people, beehives, mattresses, and the usual clutter. I wave, frantically. Desperation oozing out of every pore, mixing with the sweat, the sunblock, the filth, the food stains, the grime. Please stop. Please God, I cant camp in the bush with only one packet of instant noodles and a coconut for dinner. They continue down the road, undeterred. A little piece of me breaks inside, as it grows darker around me, the baobabs, the thorn trees no doubt concealing millions of leaopards, man eating mosquitoes, tigers, whatever.
But no! Someone only fifty metres away has stopped them! I race up, leap in the back and collapse, no doubt soiling someones brand new mattress, six months salary in one purchase, with my filthy body and sweaty slops. To Bagamoyo! Thank you, kind fate!

I toast my success in Bagamoyo, the kind mercy and gently hand of Providence, and all that, with a cold Kilimanjaro or two, a Portsman cigarette (I earned this shit, bitches!) and a plate of freshly fried chips, some tender, delicious mishikaki skwerers and salad. I ain't even lookin' at all the hookers in this dive bar, I'm just feeling good. A good days ride, with only a little cheating.