Lusaka to Lilongwe: 450+ miles, 7 days of Bicycling...

July 20th, Day 39:

We woke up to the sound of roosters and the smell of smoke burning over a coal fire. It had been a decent nights sleep considering the circumstances; we had found a safe place to pitch our tent and had eaten a decent meal the night before. When we emerged from the tent we saw the two local farmhands already warming up over the fire- it was around 6 in the morning and was very cold. They seemed content at the fire, but once we started dismantling the tent they quickly left the comfort of the coals to examine our actions.

Fascinated, they talked among themselves and the only words we could catch were the excited remarks about a “moveable house”, so we decided to give them a quick tutorial on how it worked. We also showed them our “movable beds” (sleeping bags and pad) in which they were equally fascinated. They kindly offered to let us warm ourselves by the fire to prepare for our ride and took great care to constantly gather loads of brush to keep the fire warm for us. We were very appreciative for their help, but had little to offer except for our old tires, but they seemed to quite happy to have them. I am not sure what they would use them for, but these were very resourceful people it seemed.

However, upon leaving them I could not help but begin to realize the difficulty of what life must be like for them. Unlike other rural Zambians we had met or that we would later meet, these two men were not working on their own land creating a sustainable lifestyle for themselves and their families. Instead they were working on someone else’s farm, waking early and laboring late simply for the bare minimum rations to survive. I thought of what my friends on the bus had been telling me before of the difficulties for the Zambian economy, and concluded that while it must certainly be difficult to be unable to get good jobs despite top educations, that this must be an even more frustrating existence.

The first ten mile segment of bicycling was particularly difficult for me this morning. After just five or so miles I began to feel very weak and nauseas- the consequences I suppose of our new lifestyle where food, water, rest and shelter were very limited. However, at the first sign of a village I made us stop to gather myself and put some food in my stomach.

It was a small village situated by the side of the road built mostly of thatched hut and the occasional mud-brick vendor hut selling staple foods and vegetables. We were immediately greeted by a host of Zambian people of all ages and sexes. A man named Aaron (turns out there are quite a few in Zambia) was particularly helpful to us, partially due to the fact that he was excited to meet his white namesake. He helped us gather water from the well to fill all of our bottles, and then showed us where to get food. However, after chatting with some older Zambian women, they offered us some freshly fried buns for free for us to eat. I scarfed them down, surprised by their kindness.

Feeling refreshed, we continued down the road to a slightly larger down some 10 more miles down the road. Since we were now going to be on our own in rural Zambia for a week, stuck to a rigid and extremely difficult bicycling schedule of almost 70 miles per day through wind and mountains with no hotels or guesthouses for some time, we figured we better load up on some local staple foods. We would be burning quite a few calories, but did not want to carry excess wait, so we had to find the most efficient calorie sources. After consulting with the locals we stocked up on maize meal (from which one can mix with boiling water in such a way to make nshima, the staple food for much or Southern Africa), soy (for protein), nuts, oil, salt, beans, and sugar. I felt a bit like I was back on the Oregon Trail, loading up on supplies for the great journey ahead, and I have to admit I felt pretty rugged.

While we were gathering up the supplies we began to get surrounded by staring young children, fascinated by our presence in their town. They would look at us, and then when we made eye contact start laughing and run away. It was a bit strange but after some time of gesturing to them we began to make some basic contact with them. We would play a simple game where they would dance around tauntingly, and then we would playfully chase after them, at which point they would laugh hysterically and scatter. Then after a few minutes they would return, and start taunting us to chase them again.

I decided that this seemed like a wonderful game of tag, and figured I would try my hand at successfully chasing one of them down. To do this I slowly walked towards the group of children who were some older women. I chatted briefly in small words and sign language with the women and we laughed about the situation with the children. One young boy in particular kept taunting me with all sorts of fancy little dance moves, so I decided to target him. I suddenly took off; all the children scattered in every direction and the men and women all started laughing with surprise. The kid was fast, but I was faster since I was at least 3 times his age, and I managed to close in on him and tap him.

“Tag!”

He suddenly burst out in tears, crying and screaming uncontrollably, and looked at me with complete terror. I was horrified. Suddenly my good nature and “fun” with the locals was shattered and I realized that these children were not completely playing when they scattered- they were genuinely scared of us. I felt ashamed and apologized to everyone in the village as best I could, but the situation had gotten too awkward to stay, so we quickly left the town, embarrassed by the misunderstanding.

Our journey continued uneventfully for the next few hours as we pedaled through beautiful mountains and thatch-hut villages until we passed a small wooden sign for a traditional “African Doctor”. Eric was eager to keep going, but I was dead-set on visiting the “witch doctor” to see first hand what they were like. I brought the camera in order to do a comprehensive interview of what techniques they used to heal their patients.

I was directed down a small dirt path towards a large tree in the distance where a young woman told me the doctor stayed. I felt quite out of place walking alone through a small rural village, and the stares did not help ease this. However, when I arrived at the base of the small tree and explained who I was and what I was doing I was greeted very warmly by the community. They all ran up to shake my hand, and cheerfully led me to the elder doctor who seemed to be held in very high regard.

He was seated on a small log stump and looked quite old; full of the wrinkles and scars of experience. He spoke little English, but warmly welcomed me and explained that he had retired and had taught his secrets to his son, who now was acting as the doctor. His son quickly arrived and spoke much better English and kindly offered to explain all of his methods to me.

If required good luck for something coming up, such as a job interview, he explained that there was a specific procedure to assure their success. A series of roots were gathered and lashed together with vines. These roots were then put into a boiling bath and soaked into the water. The patient was then to bath in the water, and do this same procedure every day for 31 days (when the interview, for example, was supposed to take place). Then, on the day of the important event the patient was to wipe lions fat on each side of their mouth, and on their nose, chin and forehead. Lastly, a small shard of a secret root was to be placed under the patients tongue, and then they were to go to the event with great charm and certain success.

He also taught me about how they treated the sick. An ill patient was given an assortment of roots and herbs particular to their condition. These plants were then placed in a fire and the patient was placed under a bed of blankets, positioned such that the smoke from the medicinal plants covered the patient. This procedure was followed every day until the patient returned to health.

I was a bit skeptical of these medicinal practices, but found them quite interesting. Also, some of their medicine made a great deal of sense. They treated wounds and burns just as we would, by cleaning them and rubbing fresh aloe on them. They also showed me the list of patients that came to see the doctor, and their were people from all over the world, including Denmark and South Africa, so clearly many people seemed to find these methods useful.

We continued our cycling journey and at every village we passed the children would run out from their huts screaming and waving. It felt like we were on the Tour de France, as we were constantly being greeted by people at every stretch of the ride, and this phenomenon was only to increase as we continued. We even got our own little bicycle team, “Team Zambia”, in which local villagers with bicycles would eagerly join us for sections of our ride.

However, despite the affection and friendliness with which the locals always showed us, it still remained a mystery to us why the children were both so fascinated by us, but also so afraid. Whenever we stopped we would quickly be surrounded by groups of smiling children, but if we took a step towards them they would scatter. It was so strange that I decided to conduct an experiment. I situated myself in a position where I was equally close a group of chickens and a group of young children. I then started slowly walking in a straight line to a point directly between the two groups to see which would scatter first. Lo and behold, the children were much bigger chickens and darted away much sooner than the actual chickens! This would continue to confuse us, and we still have not figured out why the children are so warm, friendly, and fascinated, but only from a safe distance. They truly are terrified of us.

We carried on bicycling for another hour or so, but it was getting quite dark, and then just before it was too dark to continue riding, my back tire went flat so we figured we better pack it in for the night. Luckily there was a small group of people around a fire and a small hut just a hundred meters or so from where I got the flat so we approached them to ask permission to camp.

We were warmly greeted by the man of the family, a very jovial fellow who seemed extremely excited by his unexpected visitors. He cleared out a place for us to set up our tent beside his chicken coop, and watched in amazement as we built our house in just several minutes. He then introduced us to his wife their many children, who at first were timid but soon warmed up to us. His wife gathered water for us, and then after we explained that while we had maize-meal and soy to make the local foods, we were novices and could use some teaching. The family found it uncontrollably funny that we were trying to cook their foods, and we all gathered around the fire together for the cooking tutorial which mostly consisted of the wife cooking us food, and the family laughing whenever I tried to help.

However, after we had finished cooking the Nshima, the wife left her eldest son, Edward, in charge of teaching us to cook the soy. Edwards looked to be about 15 years old, but kindly cooked the soy for us. However, after he had finished the wife returned with a very stern and disappointed look. She shouted at Edward, and he immediately vanished to sit alone on the other side of the camp. She profusely apologized and explained that Edward had forgotten to soak the soy first, and that it was all burnt. We tried to explain that it was okay, and that Edward should not be reprimanded because he was only trying to help but it was hard to communicate. The whole scene was quite comical aside for the sight of poor Edward sitting along in shame. However, we finally completed the cooking and the wife insisted on cleaning our pots for us while we ate.

We then all sat together around the camp-fire and Edward returned to join us. We spent the next hour or so singing songs as we were quite curious to hear some African camp-fire songs. Some other villagers heard us and joined in the party, and Eric even got out some small African instrument he had bought earlier and gave it to them to play. It was a beautiful scene and we all had a great time together, and despite the cultural divides and the language barriers nothing seemed too different about us that night while we were singing and laughing.

Finally we decided to head to our tent to get rest. I slept well, and thought about how interesting a day it had been. We were finally truly on our own in the African wilderness, forced to camp and survive off the hospitality of the locals, and it could not have been going better. Cycle for Understanding felt like it was really starting to prove a point, and I realized that even I was surprised by just how well things were working out. However, I also thought about the contrast between tonight and the night before. On the surface it seemed quite similar, we were sleeping and being taken care of by local villagers. However, the mood of the villagers was quite different. These people, despite lacking money, seemed very content with the simplicity of their lifestyle. They woke up each day, tended to their chickens for eggs and meat, raised a few goats, worked the maize fields, and lived a life of plenty in all the important things in life. The men the night before, in contrast, did the same work, but did not get to keep the fruits of their labor for it was not their own land. It seemed this defined the difference I saw between Zambia and South Africa. The men the night before seemed to have a life more typical of black and colored people in South Africa, forced to work for wealthier, usually white people.

However, I fell asleep well, happy to see a family that was able to live a happy and sustainable life, which seemed to be the norm in Zambia compared to South Africa. Life isn’t so hard if you are just able to live a life without outside interference, I concluded.