Mbeya. A town that exists, I can only presume, as a hooker stop for truckers ( somewhat like Beaufort West in that respect) and possibly as a dust mine. The word Mbeya probably means rude fucking people in Swahili, and really, short of the fact that its a major stop on the Tazara line, I cannot, for the life of me, figure out why this place is even on the map. I while away my evening in a restaurant near to my hotel, with staff so unfriendly I suspect they might be South African expats. The food, however, is quite something, in a sort of mildly condescending, African way. That is to say, it consists of huge chunks of meat, burnt over charcoal and then sliced, served with a mountain of salt, lemon and chilli, and the standard plate of freshly fried hot chips. Not exactly complicated; the most refined component is the salt (ha ha!), but it is tasty. My stomach, however, is still in knots from the last few days cheerful news, as well as the ship-in-a-storm lurching; walking like a drunk man; cannot take a shit while Im being thrown around a puppies chew toy, train experience. I havent taken a shit in so long Im amazed I havent started burping turds. So, in retrospect, I guess I wasnt in the best of moods when I arrived in Mbeya.
Its a relief to leave. In the morning, after a fitful nights sleep, haunted by images I probably shouldnt describe in detail for reasons I cannot explain(mostly phallic, mostly sexual in nature, in an ex-girlfriend nailing some other dude kind of way) I pack up my tent, bleary-eyed and ill tempered. So far, not digging Mbeya too much. I start cycling along the highway, get sick of it, get thirsty and hot, see a mountain ahead, and climb onto a dalla-dalla. To the border! After this shithole town, I cannot wait for Malawi.
At the border, after the customary ripping-off by foreign exchange touts, I meet Nils. A pro cyclist, Nils is on his way down from Addis Adaba, adding a few more kays to his 17,000 already completed. Nils has a fancy bicycle, and all sorts of proper gear. He is polite enough, in German terms, to cycle much, much slower than usual, and we make conversation. We are both relieved to be out of Tanzania, for much the same reasons. Sick of being treated like walking ATMs and sick of being ripped off in every transaction. In Tanzania, for example, if you ask a local for directions, take their photo, ask the time, or in fact do anything, you will be expected to pay for the pleasure.
After the border, we wind our way through the hills of Northern Malawi. Children come screaming, waving like were superstars. Mzungu! Mzungu! Literally, every child in every hut, in every village we pass come running to shout Mzungu at us, like its some kind of good luck to see a white person and remind them of their whiteness. But, it is charming. We ride past, on perfectly tarred roads, with no cars or wind, hummin along like conquering champions.
After some time (I cycle double my usual speed, Nils at half his) we decide to stop for a cold drink. We spot a village, and pull in. Some 100 people are gathered around, cheerfully shouting to each other like a colony of parrots. We ask a few people about sodas. They seem to not hear us, but then, we figure it out. The entire village are drunk as skunks. They are all shithoused, after drinking god knows how much Chibuku. Chibuku is fermented maize, another carbohydrate-heavy component in the African diet. It tastes, and looks, a lot like mielie-pap vomit. Only faintly alcoholic, it takes a strong stomach to drink enough to actually get pissed.
We spend the night at a campsite in some nondescript town. Dinner is the first of many of Nils and my own combined genius cooking experiences, a simple but sustaining mountain of spaghetti and tomato sauce, with home-made cheese. Eaten by headlamp light, out of a tin cup. Its tasty, but not a scratch on some of the culinary extravaganzas that Nils and I will compose, like beautiful and tasty music, in the next few days..
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