Nyimba to Petauke

July 24, Day 43:

We were a bit disappointed when we woke up only the find that all of our clothes were still soaking wet despite the fact that the "laundry lady" had assured us they would be ready for an early departure. However, since we had several hours to kill while we waited for the clothes to dry, we decided to do some bike maintenance. Eric got out some supplies and we spent about an hours fussing with different parts of our bikes, cleaning them, and mostly importantly, greasing up and lubing the chains and cassettes.

Once finished, we decided we wanted a bite to eat. We searched through the town for any sort of restaurant, and unfortunately had to settle for the place we had been the night before; with the three inappropriate women... However, it appeared that they were on better behavior this morning- perhaps they had been drinking a bit the previous night. In any case, they served us a nice little plate with some eggs and bread. But then when they brought the "tea" we were a bit confused. They simply gave us a mug full of hot water. Had we not known better we would have just assumed that the word "tea" meant something different in this part of Africa, and that they just drank hot water rather than real tea. But we knew the area, and had had tea every day previously, so we asked what the deal was. She insisted that it was tea, and we insisted that it was just water, until finally she came over with some tea leaves and simply dropped them in our cups. The whole experience was strange because there was no hostility, it was not like she was mad at us, in fact they were making pleasant conversation the entire time. It was just weird.

After breakfast most of our clothes had dried so packed them up. The remaining clothes that were still wet strapped to the top of our bicycles to let them air dry. We then stopped to fill up our water bottles at the local tap. I was extremely thirsty and immediately chugged the water; forgetting to put in my iodine tablet first. Big mistake.

After just several miles of bicycling I began to feel quite nauseous. There was also a bit of a headwind, which did not help my situation. However, I was determined to keep up and kept pushing through, eagerly awaiting our first break at the 10 miles point. But at around 8 miles I heard a sudden blast and my bike immediately jolted to the side. Shocked, I looked down and saw that my inner tube had somehow exploded and blasted open a huge whole in my tire. I yelled to Eric to stop, and he came over to assist. By the time Eric had walked the 100 meters or so to where my tire had burst, I already had a sizable crew on Zambians gathered around me, curiously assessing the situation. 10 minutes later, one I had taken my rear tire off and began repairing, it seemed as if word had spread to every village in the area that there were two white people on the side of the ride, and a crowd of roughly fifty people had surrounded us.

It was a bit awkward working on my tire in front of so many people. Women and children looked on anxiously, excited about seeing such foreign people in their midst, but tentative to get to close for fear that we might bite. The men on the other hand were quite jovial and seemed to find out situation quite entertaining. After we broke the ice a bit with the crowd, it became a community affair. Some local men took over the repair duties and started creating a makeshift patch for the tire. The women and children started smiling and laughing, and Eric and I were just bewildered.

However, we were quite appreciative for the help, because it was a difficult thing to try to fix. The local men managed to make a makeshift patch and then escorted me with the bike to a local repairman several kilometers away who could do a more permanent repair that could hopefully last me until Petauke, our destination for the day, where I could buy a new tire. The local repairman immediately set to work and after about 20 minutes had rigged up something that looked a bit ragged, but seemed like it might hold.

Eric and I thanked everyone and continued on our way, again waving goodbye to the children that ran after us until they could no longer keep up. Still feeling sick, I was unable to keep Eric's pace and began to lag behind. Then, at about the 15-20 miles point, my tired burst again. The patch wasn't holding, and this time Eric was out of sight along with all the tools to put in a new tube. I was resigned to walk my bicycle. It was a pitiful sight, me walking several miles, hunched over, sick, warding off the constant greetings by the local people on the side of the road inquiring about my condition. I appreciated their concern, but I simply did not have the energy to converse with someone every 10 feet I walked.

After walking for a few miles, however, I caught a break. A local truck was passing by, one of the first I had seen on the road, and offered to give me a lift. They helped life the bicycle on the back, and I hopped up to join a 15 year old boy in the back for the ride to Petauke.

It was only 30 miles to Petauke, but I had unfortunately hitched a ride with the wrong truck. It took us 4 hours to get the Petauke, because it turned out I was on the local beer delivery truck. However, they were not distributing cans or bottles, they had instead brewed thousands of gallons of local "African beer", which is not beer at all but something entirely different, put it into a giant tank on the back (imagine an oil-delivery truck) and attached a small hose to it that could spray out the beer in bulk. The truck then meandered between every village between Nyimba and Petauke, rarely staying on the main road, and delivered beer to all of the bars and customers that wanted a cheap fix.

It was quite a sight. Villagers would run out from their homes with plastic buckets to fill with the "beer", and get 10 liters or so for only several dollars. However, after several hours the scene got a bit old, especially since at every stop we would wait while the drivers took turns drinking with the customers, which did not give me much faith in my safety. I also got a bit sick of the attention at every stop while everyone had to excitedly ask me all about what on earth I was doing on the truck and I had to politely answer the same question hundreds of times. Luckily for me, however, the boy on the back with me was quite nice and I spent my time having very simple one-sentence exchanges with him.

It was also funny to see us overtake Eric when we got back onto the road, only to have him pass us again while we stopped to unload our "cargo". But it was fun waving to him everytime we passed him. At the last stop another man, John, got on the back and started chatting with me. He lived in Petauke, he said, and would help e find my way when we arrived. This turned out to be quite useful, because when the truck finally pulled into the "beer plant" outside Petauke it was getting dark and I felt very lost. I realized then, for the first time, how much safer I felt being with Eric than alone. As soon as I got out of the truck, everyone in the plant was trying to offer me advice or telling me to go somewhere with them. I was overwhelmed, and worse, I could sense that some of the men certainly saw me as a great opportunity to make some money. Zambia is rarely I violent country, so I was not worried about any armed robbery, but I was nervous about having people harass me for money and demand to "help me" in exchange for money.

Luckily, John caught on immediately and grabbed me. "Come with me now. These people are not good, they are trying to use you," he said. It was pretty much the same thing everyone else was saying, but for some reason my instincts told me I could trust John, and sometimes instincts are all you have to go on. I rushed off with John while the driver of the truck yelled after us, telling John to stop "stealing me" and yelling at me to stop to "wait for his boss to come help". By this time it was getting dark and I was feeling a bit nervous. Also, I needed to find a place to stay and call Eric to tell him where to meet me before it got pitch black.

John insisted he was leading me towards the main town. I needed to find a radio station where I had been given a contact from the Lusaka Embassy for an interview, and he claimed he was leading me to it, but I felt like I was getting more and more lost. We had turned off the paved road and were walking deeper into the shanty-town, dirt road area of the town. I was started to get scared, and John sensed it. He kept explaining to me that I shouldn't worry, that he was a good Baptist, "John the Baptist", he said. But nothing would make me calm until I saw the radio station.

As we walked further it grew darker, but I had no options left. I had to trust John, for there was nowhere else to go. Finally, we emerged from the informal settlement into a paved road with a bank and a gas station and John triumphantly pointed to a sign down the road for the radio station. I thanked him profusely, and felt guilty for doubting his intentions. He then let me borrow his phone to call Eric, and I directed him to where I was. John then showed me to the local guest-house and got me situated. I was very thankful to him for rescuing me from a potentially difficult situation, and I gave him a necklace I had gotten from Victoria Falls to thank him.

When Eric finally arrived we made our way over to the radio station and arranged for a live 30 minute interview the next morning. We were both exhausted and returned to the guest house to get some food. Unfortunately, just as we got within a few meters of the door to the guest house, we heard a sudden jolt, and the entire town went black; pitch black. The power had gone out for the whole region, something which was not uncommon, and we had to stumble our way towards the door. We were given a candle with which to see our way by the guest house owner and given some nshima, cabbage, and beef to eat. We then went to our room to get some much needed sleep.

-Aaron