Today, Sunday, March 12, was our first full day of riding in Zambia, our sixth country on the tour.
Never in my life have more people been concerned with my personal well being!
‘How are you?”
I had decided yesterday that Zambia was the most civilized country we have yet been in. This observation was based not so much on their concern for my well being as it was that the road was smooth. There was a wide shoulder and most importantly the rumble strips did not extend fully into the shoulder. It was actually possible to avoid them. Zambia’s rumble strip maker was, apparently, a gentleman.
So, after our 37th straight day of oatmeal for breakfast – the Brit’s call it porridge – I was beginning to call it gruel, we set off with the rising sun.
Our first objective was navigating the mile or two out of our camp on a nasty, rutted, rocky road whose potholes were still filled with muddy water from last nights rain. Even though we still had 109 miles to go, when we turned on to the smooth highway, we were cautiously optimistic.
The scenery had leveled out from the highlands of Malawi and consisted mainly of farm lands chiseled out of the brushy savanna. Miles and miles of it. Corn was a major crop and my Iowa readers will be interested to know it was fully tasseled this sunny March morning. It was tall and at the end of its growth phase but still fully green with ears still developing. To that point, and again for Iowans, I was surprised to see several demonstration plots with the Pioneer and DeKalb Seed signs.
So it was with some relief when enough time had elapsed and the children in the roadside villages began stirring. At first it was a cute distraction. They would come running from their thatched huts to the road side shouting in a melodious chant, “How are you? How are YOU? How are Yooouuu?
They were cute, energetic, enthusiastic and excited. From toddlers on up but mainly younger children. They waved and grinned, held out their hands and sometimes attempted to run along side.
They were everywhere, no sooner had the echos of one group faded to the rear, another group could be heard up ahead. Some times there were opposing groups on both sides of the road. Sometimes a lone straggler. All chanting in shrill, high decibel voices.
“How are you? How are you? How are you?”
They were all alike and all different at the same time. Which is, I guess, what you’d expect when you assemble an ad hoc group of amateur occupellists. It was like the only three words they knew.
“How are you? How are you? How are you?”
They demanded to be recognized. If not their shouts grew louder and the inflection on the “You” became accusatory. And it was the repetition, the never ending repetition.
I felt obligated to respond, I was a guest in their country, on their road and in their villages. They didn’t rush wide eyed from their homes to see an angry old white guy on a bicycle. I needed to show some love, needed to show some respect. They would be talking about this circus coming through their village for days and maybe remember it for years.
“How are you? How are you? How are you? How are you? How are YOOOOOU?” It was unrelenting. It was universal, each new group picking up with new found energy. And it literally lasted for hours.
Evolution made children’s voice boxes small and shrill to alert mothers when their child is in need and annoy me.
First the novelty wore off, then it became obligatory to be polite. The next phase was fatigue. I was so tired I couldn’t raise my arms to wave yet their enthusiasm remained in diminished. I finally just lowered an arm to my side and wiggled my hand. They thought I was waving, I was hoping to restore circulation. We both were ‘happy’?
No, I was annoyed and beginning to get . . . I don’t want to say it but I was beginning to get p***ed and swearing under my breath at these cute little cherubs. And it wasn’t just me. All the riders felt the same, it was excessive. But I’m going to stop short from calling it psychological abuse – it was well intended. It’s just that . . .
Fortunately, two heavy thunderstorms in the afternoon gave us some much needed respite. Everything is relative isn’t it?
The next morning, 9 minutes and 11 seconds into out ride, it started all over again.
“How are you? How are you?”
How am I? HOW AM I?
Well, let me tell you.
It’s 8:30, maybe 9:00 in the morning. I’m a little over half way across the world’s second largest continent and have about 30 or so more days of riding before Cape Town. I’ve already done 50km this morning but I have 120 to go.
My hands are numb, I keep shifting positions on the handle bars according to where I’m the most numb. The ulnar nerve supplies my little finger and half my ring finger. The median nerve supplies the thumb, index and middle finger and the other half of my ring finger. My gel cushioned riding gloves help but don’t fully protect either nerve. I switch from pressure on one nerve to the other.
Sometimes I shift gears with my little finger, sometimes with my index finger depending on which one I can feel. But never my middle finger, this finger has an infected blood blister from changing a tire, and since the finger pads are one of the most highly innervated and sensitive areas of the body, the pain of this little wound is disproportionately high. The small lacerations on my left thumb and right index finger, left over from some mechanical bike adjustments are just beginning to heal.
Not so for the “road rash” on my right shin/calf. When my leg hits the road, the road always wins. Yes, I fell the other day, re -re- injuring an area on my lower leg that has had some form of abrasion for the better part of the last year. It doesn’t seem to be healing as fast in the tropics.
My butt, which has benefitted from its corpulent construction, has been historically immune from ‘saddle sores’, even from my first days of cycling 8 years ago. However, recently there seems to be some question as to the sustainability of that philosophy.
The shoulder I dislocated last February does ok with downward pressure on the handle bar but complains more than a bit when I try and elevate my arm and lift. The same can be said for my other bad shoulder. My left hip now seems to want to get in on the pity party too. And, it seems like someone has driven an Acacia thorn into my neck, or maybe it’s just a big nail.
And finally, as if that’s not enough, I have the suspicion that my malaria pills seem to be in contention with my prostate pills!
“How are you? How are you? How are you?”
Fine. Just fine. Don’t worry about me!
I’M FINE
.
Leave a Reply