Backdated-Pt2

Disclaimer: For those who know me, this is in my top three craziest trips, definitely.

For a finale to my latest stretch in Africa, my friends, Everett, Noah and I had planned to try to make it to the DRC overland from Malawi. If you are looking at a map, we had considered several routes: Lilongwe-Lusaka-Lubumbashi. But that was going to take too long and we could spare just over a week from work. The Lilongwe-Lusaka-Lake Mweru route looked promising for while until we learned our hiking path was still “littered with land mines.” We finally settled on Lilongwe-Karonga-Nakonde-Mpulungu-Up the Coast of Lake Tanganyika. It looked doable.

We budgeted 8 days. 2 travel to Mpulungu, 3 days hiking along the coast, 3 days back to Lilongwe.

It began well on the first day as we left early in the morning to make the 8-9 hour drive north to just outside of Karonga. We stayed at a wonderful spot owned by an American friend. Although we hit a minor snag. After dropping our stuff to get a beer and go for a swim, I came back to find my tent slashed (although nothing was stolen). Luckily, they had extra tents, although it added considerable girth compared to my ultralight tent. Rest of the night was enjoyable however, as we ate fish and drank beers before heading off into the unknown.

We woke at 5, and made good time northbound by minibus for two hours and then switched to a cramped sedan (at one time, they put eight people in a five-seater). Making it to the border after a mere five and half hours of vehicle travel. Gladly, we walked to Malawi immigration and for 2 kilometers, filled out our departing paperwork and to their surprise, decided to walk the four kilometers of no-man’s land to the Zambia border where we hoped to catch a bus. But when we got there and checked in, it was clear from the location and the Zambian immigration official’s blankness at our questions that there would be no bus for a while. So we decided to start hiking up the road, 13k to the next village. Dry, remote and hot. We made it past that village, with still no sign of a car and so we decided to keep walking. We had made it about another 6 or 7k, before we saw the oncoming storm and villagers started racing past us on foot. In true, ignoramus arrogance, we kept walking until the last minute, when the rain started pelting down on the deserted road like a firestorm. Desperately we ran to the first settlement we could find and huddled into a dark, long hut packed with close to 50 Zambians. Tough to say what exactly it was: my guess would either be church or bottlestore (local version of a bar, but much rowdier, with the regional moonshine as the drink of choice). After about 30 minutes of everyone laughing at us for stomping in from the storm and being incredibly uncomfortable and soaked, they started to bust out the drinks and we bought a couple of Fantas while peering out into the muddy road, hoping for a passing car. Just when I was figuring out how we would settle in for the night, Everett jumped to the door, the fastest I’ve ever seen him move, and was outside hailing down a passing truck. Quickly we negotiated in the pouring rain with the driver to take us to the closest town with an inn and the three of us crammed into the filthy, covered back of the pick-up next to an enormous blue tank. As we took off, I suddenly put two and two together, and figured out we were in the back of a pickup with a septic tank perched precariously on cinderblocks. However, after taking off this was the least of our worries.

To accurately describe the road we were on is kind of like describing driving along the bottom of a river: you never knew what bouncing you would take and it was wet as hell. For five terrible hours we were bumped and bruised in the back of this truck, as this lunatic driver played pothole hopscotch. To top it off, the rain didn’t let up, and then it got dark (as in pitch black, rural-Africa-new-moon-no-lights-dark). Already we were breaking one of my cardinal rules of travel in Africa: don’t be out at night travelling unless its local.

Finally we made the main road, where the driver was passing willy-nilly on a possibly even more pot-holed tarmac road, this time without the comfort of not running into any person or vehicle as tractor-trailer’s rumbled past. But we made it, somehow, in one piece. Not to our destination, Nakonde, but another town, Isoka. The scene was pretty grim, still pouring, we navigated some dirty, scruffy looking, urban slum buildings to find our quarters: one queen size bed for three people (the option of sleeping on the floor was pretty much out of the question as the bed took up almost the entire room). The guy showing us the room actually giggled as he left. At least when we got there, we were able to secure a meal (our first in 28 hours) of chicken, nsima (corn maize porridge) and the greatest beer I’ve ever tasted. Went to bed soundly to the sound of Everett’s snores 16 inches away and Noah’s music echoing from his headphones another 2 feet beyond that.

After waking the next morning in a terrible fright next to two bearded, filthy guys, we were ready to hit the road again by 5 and got a good look in the daylight at the creature cave that we had inhabited. Think basically the scene of any depressing brothel or gang hideout from the gold rush era, except dirtier and you stand out like you glow in the dark. But we quickly negotiated a ride with a man who assured us that he, and not the man clearly drunk at 6 AM with a full one in his hand, was the driver. After we had negotiated an immediate departure we messed around town for four hours (this is the most frustrating part about group travel in Sub-Sahara) loading up the tiny sedan with as much crap on the top of the cab and people in the trunk that we could and then took off.

Another disgustingly long trip got us to our original destination of Nakonde before noon as we searched for yet another ride to our next destination, Mpulungu at the bottom of Lake Tanganyika. On maps, the road between these two places is clearly outlined, indicating it would be of good quality. In reality, only a supply truck and a sedan would be taking off for Mpulungu that day. We negotiated extensively with the drivers of both and were almost left behind, by a particularly rude lackey, but finally the three large white guys jammed into another trunk of a sedan with seven people occupying the usual five-person area. This trip also did not start well. In fact, it was a bit like a Wiley Coyote adventure as we tried to avoid “traffic” by taking a back route the driver didn’t know and getting lost, having to do a three-point-turn on the edge of a cliff, getting out, pushing and then watching the car slide down a muddy hill in the rain, miraculously breaking before going over a bridge made of sticks (not logs, sticks). Finally, the sedan got stuck on train tracks and we decided we were destined for yet another terrible trip. The rest of it only took 10 hours. Cramped in the back of a sedan, most of the time in the rain. Bouncing on a terrible dirt road. 

But finally, we got to Mpulungu by 1:30 AM. We befriended a local, David, in the car and he first brought us to one resthouse/bar to stay the night, which was utterly packed with drunk prostitutes and patrons, we were glad to hear they didn’t have any vacancy as we were groped from all angles. And after checking two other places and angering everyone else in the sedan extensively, we found a place, picked two VERY basic rooms and collapsed. Welcome to Mpulungu.

Three days, three meals, 54 of 72 hours in transit. A good start.

Next segment: By Sea, then Land,

Steve