The Different Faces of Africa

 

My father-in-law appeared dwarf-sized in the distance as I waved goodbye one last time, as we left Namibia and pedalled towards the heart of Africa. Heat waves created mirages on the horizon, mixing acacia shadows with the silhouettes of ostriches, while my bicycle swayed to-and-fro under the weight of my panniers. A truck with Namibian number plate's sped past us, and blinded by a thick cloud of dust that was thrown up in its wake I crashed into Hendrik’s bicycle with a thud. As the cloying dust mingled with my sweat, I wondered if we would return from this journey unharmed.

 

We cycled eastwards into the Caprivi, the sun's rose-tainted rays dropping below the horizon as it hid itself too soon and left us stranded miles away from the nearest campsite. A neatly thatched kraal across the road caught Hendrik's attention, so he walked over and asked the two teenage boys lounging at the entrance to call the ‘chief’. An old man, bent forward by the years of his age and weight of his wisdom, appeared. His name was Moses. He couldn’t speak English, but he knew the language of kindness and, with the help of the two boys translating, he invited us to stay over at his kraal for the night.

 

Moses showed us where to set up our tent in the spacious kraal before we took off our sweaty shoes to walk barefoot on the neatly swept white river sand. Having never been inside a kraal before I was not sure what to expect. Possibly unusual sights and smells? But there were none, just the fragrant smell of dancing smoke around a black iron pot, in which porridge and onions cooked. The pot and a few kitchen utensils summed up the total of our host’s earthly possessions. Moses shuffled towards the fire, dragging a green plastic chair for Hendrik to sit on. Then he fetched a chair for me and lastly, one for himself, while his old wife sat on her haunches on the ground next to us. We sat in silence, which was broken by the call of a fiery-necked nightjar in the distance; Good Lord, deliverrr us, Good Lord, deliverrr us. We offered our hosts and their grandsons some suckers, which Moses happily sucked away on for what seemed like the duration of the entire evening, his toothless mouth moulding itself to the orb of sweetness. All the while the two teenage boys talked and laughed next to the camp fire, without a care in the world.

 

Then Engelbert, the son of Moses, arrived. If I could give him a tribal name it would be Happiness, for his blithe aura filled the kraal and when he laughed his teeth reflected white in the moonlight. He and Hendrik talked long into the night, and in the light of a torch Hendrik showed him on a map the route we intended to cycle: Botswana, Zambia, Malawi, Tanzania. At this point Engelbert shook his head and said, “Tanzania! A-TA-TA-TA!” No matter which country Hendrik pointed to, be it Burundi, Rwanda, Uganda or Kenya, the response from Engelbert was the same, “Tanzania! A-TA-TA-TA! After Engelbert departed, the old mother pulled two corrugated irons in front of the entrance. She slept on the ground next to Moses and the two boys, with only the Milky Way for a blanket. I felt incredibly rich and honoured to have spent the evening with them and experienced their world in which they had blessed us abundantly with the little they had. As I lay in our tent I searched for words to describe my emotions, and this came to mind: Love is simple, uncluttered. It furnishes an empty home.

 

Since that night we’ve cycled thousands of kilometres, been greeted by countless friendly faces along the way and experienced many more special moments. One such occasion that tweaked at our heart strings was a chance meeting with Berrit, the most beautiful little girl, on our way to the town of Nkhotakota, in Malawi. It happened on one of those beautiful, stress-free days, with people strolling along the main road still kilometres before the town, women carrying huge parcels on their heads, as well as people going about their daily business.

 

Suddenly Hendrik’s back tyre burst with a loud BANGGG. The next moment people were shouting in panic as they either fell to the ground or dashed for cover, convinced that we were shooting at them. I couldn’t help but smile. Once normality had returned, Hendrik set about changing his tyre beside the road and was instantly surrounded by a crowd of curios children, who studied his every move. Once finished, he asked his captive audience if anyone would like to have the burst tyre. Berrit stepped forward and received the tyre as if she was receiving a treasured prize. However, her moment was short lived when a jealous young boy snatched the tyre out of her hands and walked off without a backward glance. Berrit stood in absolute remorse. Having none of it, Hendrik retrieved the prized possession and gave the tyre back to her. Once again her little face radiated pure joy, and I could tell that she felt very special. I also wondered whether the burst tyre was perhaps the only gift she had ever received?

 

From Nkhotakota we cycled south along Lake Malawi towards Lilongwe before catching a bus up north to Nkhata Bay. It was a ride that imprinted many 'true to Africa' moments on my mind. The bus was scheduled to leave at 6.30 a.m. from the station, and as we only arrived at 6.20 a.m. we were worried that we were too late. Our concern grew as we looked at the hundreds of people who were already queuing in the long rows in front of us. Luckily our bus had yet to arrive, so we set our watches to 'African time', leaned against our bicycles and waited patiently. The bus finally arrived at 9.30 a.m. We were somewhat taken aback when asked to pay almost double the ticket price we had been quoted on the day before. But thanks to Hendrik's excellent negotiating skills he managed to secure a cheaper price and we hopped into the bus, grateful to be there and find a seat.

 

Greasy, fingerprinted windows blurred our view and the seats were stacked high with people and oversized luggage, with more people and luggage squashed into the pathway. I curiously watched the process of an old man, sitting at the back of the bus, buy air time from a man, standing in front. The money was passed to the salesman via a trail of hands, before the air time was returned via the same trail of hands. Then there was this big mama, holding a chubby baby and sitting three rows ahead of us, who would pass the gurgling child to her son, who sat two rows behind us on the opposite side of the path, in the same way as the air time transfer was done! And when the baby started to fret, the boy would return the child back to mom, via the helping hands.

 

Food was traded through the windows at every bus stop, with hands stretched out towards the windows offering soft drinks, bananas or peanuts. Other hands held up boiled eggs and miniscule paper horns filled with salt. It was a crazy but very effective way of doing business. I was thirsty, but didn’t dare drink much fluid for I knew the road to Nkhata Bay could get painfully long. By lunch time the heat and my growing thirst had become unbearable, so at the next stop Hendrik bought me a bottle of water, which I gulped down. I realised too late that it was a used water bottle with a Fanta cap on – so much for mineral water.