After three glorious days of rest and exploring “The Smoke that Thunders,” we prepared to leave Victoria Falls and cross the border into Botswana, the ninth country we would visit on our tour.

The day’s ride was short, only 50 miles, and despite a border crossing, we would arrive in camp early. Early enough to take an afternoon boat safari on the Chobe River, an excursion that was HIGHLY recommended by our tour leader.

We were crossing the border at a unique spot on the planet – a quadripoint – the only place on Earth where four countries meet. Africa’s Four Corners Region . . . sort of. The ‘quadripoint’ is a bit contrived and made possible by a long, narrow finger-like projection, a panhandle if you will, from the main body of Namibia. So Namibia, the driest country in Sub-Saharan Africa, whose western border is one thousand miles of the Atlantic Ocean, has an eastern border extending only a few hundred meters, giving the country access to the Zambezi River. The river, however, is one of Africa’s largest, and besides the fact that it creates Victoria Falls, if you are unfortunate enough to fall into it, you will be swept eastward until you’re in the Indian Ocean.

Unlike the Four Corners area of the U.S., where you can stand with your feet in four states, in Africa, there is nowhere you can stand with your feet in Namibia, Botswana, Zambia, and Zimbabwe all at the same time. For one thing, they meet in the middle of the river. And secondly, Zimbabwe’s border actually misses the point by about 500 feet. Nevertheless, it’s unique.

Until recently, the only way to cross the river from Zambia to Botswana was by ferry. I’m told it was a tedious process with long lines and slow progress across the river. But a uniquely African experience.

The bridge has only two lanes with a pedestrian walkway/bicycle lane outside. I missed the turn onto the bridge and had to backtrack to get on the bridge. When I did, I missed the bike lane and got on the main car lane. The bridge was not crowded, and there was not a lot of traffic, but a truck was bearing down behind me. He was courteous and not pushing me, but I was hauling ***. to stay out of his way. We were over halfway and on the downward slope of the bridge. I was pushing 18-20 mph and looking for an entrance to the bike lane. We were over the river and approaching the end of the bridge when I spotted one.

I signaled, then veered to my left through an opening, hoping to get out of the lane of traffic. I thought I was being clever and safe. The next thing I knew, I was flying over the handlebars of my bicycle. The opening in the side rail was for train tracks. Every cyclist, including me, knows you approach railroad tracks at a right angle. But these rails were buried in the concrete and virtually invisible. My front wheel got caught in the groove, and I went over the handlebars at pretty much the maximum speed I could generate.

I slid into Botswana headfirst, executing a nearly perfect three-point landing. First, my right shoulder and hip hit the ground, then time slowed, and I knew a split second later, my head would hit next. When it did, it was jolting and hard but almost pleasantly comfortable. Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t like hitting a down-filled pillow, but my ‘new’ helmet did its job marvelously well. I felt it surround my head and adsorb the blow with no discomfort. I never even got so much as a headache. But the helmet had deep dents and scratches. It had saved my tour, if not my life.

What the helmet couldn’t adsorb were the four-letter words pouring out of my mouth. I jumped to my feet, swearing, more embarrassed than hurt. When you are the oldest guy on the ride, people watch you, and now they were beginning to shake their heads . . . and asking, who is this guy?

And my road rash? I looked down and a thin trickle of blood was flowing into my socks. Half a day without bandages, and now I needed new ones. Miraculously, my bike received only cosmetic damage. It was good to ride. Passport control at the border was easy, and as planned, we were in camp early for the second disaster of the day.

The much-touted boat ride and water safari came off as scheduled at about 4 in the afternoon. We got a pontoon-like barge for $60 per person with lawn chairs set out in rows on a big flat deck. A canvas cover over our heads, and a makeshift bathroom was at the back. There was no food or drink available on board.

On a sunset boat ride a few days earlier at Vic Falls, for $60, we got a much nicer boat with an open bar. That all added up to free entertainment when a younger rider started heaving his guts out overboard.

But our ride wasn’t as accommodating. Oh, someone did catch a glimpse of a dark spot on a tree far away on the bank that someone else identified as an eagle of some kind. I took their word for it. Similarly, a couple dark spots in the water were identified as hippos.

By far the most entertainment was provided by two young elephants eating sea grasses. The only exception was mother nature herself when the skies opened up.

One of the boat crew tried to explain that it was too cold for many of the animals to be out, especially the cold-blooded reptiles.

But what about us? We arrived back at camp cold, tired, and in that particular situation, between hungry and angry – hangray.

Our cook picked the wrong night to mess with us. He had found some local tilapia, one each per person, and roasted them over an open fire. Head, tail, and all, they were small, maybe 10 inches long. Don’t get me wrong, I like a good fish dinner, even tilapia, but I’ve got this thing about having a dead carcass on my plate. Whether it’s fish, chicken, or even an in-bone steak, I don’t like having to dissect it to get my dinner. Even those riders who ate anything and everything complained about the paucity of calories served up in this diminutive banquet. I have significant doubt whether even Jesus could feed the multitude with this little fish.

To make matters worse, our cook decided it was time to try native African cuisine and served up a heaping portion of ugali to accompany the tilapia. Ugali goes by many other names throughout Africa but is basically a cornmeal-based porridge or mush. I thought it was mashed potatoes till I put the first forkful in my mouth. It was dry, sticky, and tasteless, nearly impossible to swallow. Africans, especially lower socio-economic Africans, eat some form of ugali for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, but it’s usually served with a side dish, maybe a stew or sauce, something else to give it flavor and palatability.

When Peter, our big, brawny, most likable guy in the world, Aussie Peter, went through the food line, his one allotted fish had half the meat missing from the tiny exposed skeleton. They reminded him of the ‘one fish per person rule’ when he complained. Not surprisingly, there were words, and the cook used some of his to throw the tour company under the bus. He told Peter that he only had a $7.50/person budget to feed the riders. Well, that explains a lot. Doing the math, that works out to $225 to feed 30 cyclists. Try that at your local fish restaurant.

Like many others, I went to the camp’s little bar and grill. Spoiled? White privilege? Ugly American? Yeah, maybe, I don’t know. But I knew I had 100 miles to ride the next day with two bad shoulders, a persistently sore hip, and a recent flare-up of my road rash. Not only did I need a full tank to start in the am, but I also needed comfort food now. Some of the old colonial presence still exists in this part of Africa, and I ordered a beer with pork schnitzel and fries. At home, we call that a tenderloin.

After experiencing ancient Egypt and following the Nile into Sudan, after innumerable children shouting “How are YOU?”, women along the road toting bundles on their heads, men on bikes and countless coke stops and roadside markets, after celebrating the halfway point in Lilongwe, Malawi we had now been on the tour over 2 months and were getting a little road weary. Hell, some of us old guys were getting just plain worn out. I, in particular, was having increasing pain in my left hip. I figured I had bursitis or arthritis; it didn’t bother me on the bike, but walking after a day’s ride was becoming increasingly painful. And it wasn’t going away as I had hoped.
Nevertheless, excitement was mounting. We were on an eight-day stretch through Zambia, averaging just under 100 miles daily. We had one rest day, but the thought of Victoria Falls kept us going. At the end of this segment, nearly 3,500 miles into our journey, we were to have a much anticipated three-day rest period at the Waterfront Hotel on the Zambezi River in Livingston, Zambia, just upriver from the world-famous Victoria Falls.

During one of these sunsets, I made a deal that may have saved my life and, for sure, the rest of the ride. Peter from Tacoma was a urologist and was a segment rider. He had only come to ride from Arusha to Victoria Falls and was going home. Readers may recall that I ‘lost’ my own helmet in Mbeya and had been wearing a broken down, ill-fitting helmet borrowed from the crew since then. The only thing this helmet did was fulfill the requirement that everyone must wear one; it offered minimal if any, protection. For the price of a bottle of wine and taxi fare to the airport, I bought Peter’s nearly new helmet.

His dream was not Mars; no, Cecil Rhodes’ dreams were much closer to home. He was an unapologetic imperialist bent on creating a new British Empire in Africa and connecting Cairo and Cape Town by rail. Today, he quite likely would be labeled a white supremacist. Arrogantly, he created Rhodesia out of a massive area in the heart of Africa. In fact, Zambia was known as Northern Rhodesia until the mid-sixties, and Zimbabwe did not shed the Rhodesia name until 1980. Fortunately, his most famous legacy, The Rhodes Scholarship at Oxford, once offered only to white males of the Commonwealth, has, since his death, been amended to include all genders and races from around the world.

It’s called an ultra-light, and I highly recommend the experience. I’ve done a lot of flying in my lifetime. Small planes, big planes, and fighter jets as a USAF Flight Surgeon, but this was, without doubt, the most fun. As we taxied down the runway, we picked up speed. We were airborne amazingly fast before the early morning sun turned hot, sending the wind scorching through the flat African savanna.

A quick left bank, and we were following the river towards the cataclysm that the indigenous peoples named Shungu Namutitima – ‘Boiling Water”. Victoria Falls extended a mile and a quarter beneath us. Broiling cold mist rose from the falls and stung my face as we entered “The Smoke That Thunders.” Then, magically, the sun penetrated the mist, and we flew through rainbows. Seongo or Chongwe – “The Place of the Rainbow.”

Soaring above the rainbows, the boiling water, and the thundering smoke, my mind questioned the world that would replace these beautiful native images with the stogy persona of an aging Victorian Queen.

Just as quickly as the rainbows vanished, the pilot pointed out a series of giant parallel gorges cut into the landscape. They extended from the current falls onto the horizon. These were the remains of ancient falls, where tens, to hundreds to millions of years ago, water had rushed over their edge and into the chasm. He then pointed out where the current falls was eroding and, in a few millennia, a new falls would appear. I wondered who, if anyone, would be around to name that new falls.

Passengers on the Ultralight were forbidden to take cameras, phones, or anything that might fall from their pockets. The tour company, however, had mounted a GoPro on the wing tip, which was pointed back to the pilot and passenger. They recorded this once-in-a-lifetime adventure and were happy to share it with you – for $40 US. My video arrived after I was home, and I excitedly shared it with my daughter Stevie. I ignored it and then forgot that the video was in a time-sensitive file. It has since evaporated from the cloud, much like the mists of Vic Falls.

It was like walking through a car wash.

We have talked about riding through the African landscape encountering roadside markets, wildlife, colorfully dressed women carrying their burdens on their heads and men on bikes. However, by far the best encounters were the Coke Stops.

Coke Stop was the name given to our rest stops. Before cellphones and the internet, it was the internationally recognizable Coca-Cola logo that identified many of these locations. Now, most were pre-identified from previous tours and marked on our GPS coordinates as locations that could be relied upon to provide a little shade and some cold drinks and snacks along the road.

A few resembled post-apocalyptic, dystopian stores with even the cheapest and most common goods kept behind bars and barbed wire. Fortunately, however, that was somewhat rare.

Further down the road a man was preparing “square donuts” from a corn based recipe. We might have called it corn bread but what ever the name they were mouth-watering, energy giving and most importantly, spirit lifting when you knew you still had 100 km to ride.

More often than not we would find some type of entertainment was available at these coke stops. People watching was the most popular and it went both ways, we drew a crowd where ever we went. Above, men are playing an ancient African game called Mancola. In Arabic, Mancola means “to move”, and while this explains the kind of game it is, the game has as many names and variations as places it is played, and some form of this game it is played worldwide. It is also one of mankind’s most ancient games. Ancient Egyptians are known to have played it and game boards carved into the floors of Stone Age caves have been dated back to nearly 6,000 years B.C.

In Malawi fresh baked buns were available roadside. I’m not sure if they were the buns used for their famous Lake Malawi Lake Fly Bugburgers but they were delicious just the same.

Every day while riding the roads through the East African countries of Kenya, Tanzania, Malawi and Zambia, we were face to face with people. Whether they were going to work, coming home from work or at work, the road sides were a bee hive of activity of normal everyday people going about their daily tasks.

Meanwhile, take a look just to the left of my elbow in the above picture, these are bags of charcoal. These lined the roads, sometimes in small groups like above, other times dozens lined the roads. Charcoal sales were a booming business along the byways of East Africa and the bags were always the same, slender white bags filled with charcoal overflowing the top. When standing upright hey looked like large five feet tall licorice ice cream cones standing in the hot African sun. The un-sacked, overflowing top was contained in a mesh, I guess to allow the buyer to see the quality of the charcoal.

Wood in all shapes and sizes and charcoal were common items but we saw just about anything imaginable transported on bikes. Stacks of vegetables, piles of hay and alfalfa, cartons of eggs and coups of chickens. There were pigs and goats and kids, lot of kids(the human kind) loaded on bikes.

We saw only a few women on bikes and when we did they were using the bike for transportation only with no cargo aboard. Likewise there were many men and kids on bikes along the roads. Occasionally, one would ride along with us, the kids we could shake after a while I think because they were getting too far from home. But the young men who challenged us had no problems, they could kick ***. . .

One of the most gratifying things a writer can experience is when their work generates a discussion and even better when something new is learned. That happened to me last week after writing a light hearted piece about biking down African roads and seeing women walking ramrod straight carrying almost imaginable loads on their heads.

Diane, an old friend from the cath labs in New Jersey, jokingly pointed out, as she is frequently known to do, that it was “all so surreal that these pictures are from 2023! No bending their heads to check their phones.”

That’s clever I thought and made a mental note to use that somewhere. Trying to recollect, I don’t recall seeing any women along the road with cell phones to their ears. Quite a few men yes, but no women.

It turns out, however, a woman’s access to a mobile phone in Sub-Saharan Africa is a pretty big deal. When I first thought about this issue I thought social media, but I was so wrong. Availability of smartphones, though still limited and subject to gender bias, provides African women with a method of leapfrogging the traditionally inferior educational norms and discrimination.

Karen, a film maker and educator, from Vancouver, B.C. and former Tour D’Africa rider who not only provided me with invaluable pre-ride preparation for my own tour, she was also the first to point out my knowledge deficit regarding cell phones in poor African villages.

“But you know,” she said, “ phones in those countries carry a different weight, especially for women. There is an app that tells you where the nearest clean water is, for instance. A phone allows women to be entrepreneurs and do business where face to face meetings with men are not appropriate. It connects women to health care, to education . . . It opens the world up to women who would otherwise know only the village around them. They are not wasting time on that phone. Oh, and I believe phones and plans are sometimes shared in a village, family or a group of village women. It’s something a woman might use a micro-loan for so that she can use it to start a business. Some of their businesses include phone rentals”.

Indeed, Women’s Empowerment? There’s a (Mobile) App For That, and it can be found at blogs.world bank.org. The article referenced here is 10 years old so a bit dated but helps explain the problem. “I have come to see the mobile phone as one of the most powerful tools for development, and in particular furthering development aims for women.” writes Alice Newton in 2012, “Not everyone agrees. . . try fundraising for projects to get more phones in the hands of women in the developing world, and many people will think you’re mad. . . Shouldn’t all that (aid money) be going to things like increasing food, production, medical care, or skills training? But through a mobile phone, a woman can increase her crop fields, go through childbirth with less danger, or become an entrepreneur, because of her increased ability to access information, services, and networks.”

I was discussing these issues with my thirty-year-old daughter who was concerned about the age of the above information so, within seconds, pulled up two more recent relevant articles on her smartphone.

The first article published in a 2020 issue in Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences reported that, “An international team of researchers has found evidence that shows giving women in sub-Saharan Africa smartphones leads to increase use of contraception, increased HIV testing and lower infant mentality rates.”

The second was a 2019 article by Matt Shanghainese and Oliver Rowentree, from the non-profit Global System for Mobil Communication (GSMA). Very briefly summarized it says Mobil phones have had a profound impact in Africa but women have benefited less than men, a finding more pronounced in rural areas. The most important barriers are affordability, literacy and digital skills.

As I read this last article I was reminded of a campfire conversation I had with a man who shall go unidentified but suffice it to say was quite well ingrained in African history and society. While discussing the seemingly unequal burden the rural African women bore while raising children, maintaining the household, cooking , gardening and field work, etc.. He said, “and now we give them the extra burden of obtaining an education”. I honestly think he thought he was being sympathetic.

Well, that explains that!

“Oh boy,” Karen says “that’s a bit like saying slaves have so much work to do it would be a terrible burden to expect them to learn to read”.

Next week we will further explore the gender gap when writing about Men on Bikes. This is the topic I had planned before going down the rabbit hole with a cell phone. . . but, as long as I’m here let me tell you one more telefano story that, if we really stretch it may be applicable here.

In Costa Rica there is a small “Beach Side Church” which really isn’t on the beach. Nevertheless they have an imaginative marketing plan that involves putting up attention grabbing roadside signs. My favorite is:

IF YOU WANT TO TALK TO GOD: PRAY

IF YOU WANT TO MEET HIM; TEXT HIM

Somewhere along the road, it was riding out of Nairobi and into the Masai Steppe; I got the feeling that I wasn’t seeing Africa. All I was seeing, I thought, was the asphalt and gravel roads ahead of me. But I was wrong. All I had to do was shift my gaze slightly to the roadside, where a seemingly never-ending parade of striking people, colorful markets, fields, and forests filled my vision.

The first image that sticks in my mind is of children climbing trees to watch and shouting out as we pass. What a picture that would have made.

Memory also reminds me of two Masai women wrapped in their traditional dress sitting along the road on a large flat gray rock. The early morning sun highlighted the women’s red plaid Shukas against the sparkling rock and glared off their shiny shaved heads. Massive amounts of beadwork of every imaginable color were draped around their necks and dangled from their wrists and ears. As I sped past, I bemoaned that I hadn’t stopped and asked permission to take their photos. But as good as the pictures may have been, my only consolation is that the image I have in my mind of these two Masai women will always be perfect.

The same can be said of the new mother with her baby strapped to her bosom with a bright blue wrap that was also draped over their heads. I spotted her just seconds after the red-clad Masai. As she walked on the bank above the road, the wind filled the fabric forming a vibrant multihued canopy allowing only soft gentile beams to highlight their young faces. Again perfect, a more perfect memory than any photo might record. My only consolation.

And then, only a few minutes down the road was the watering hole. The generally flat terrain had turned into low rolling hills, nestled in amongst them was a watering hole surrounded by cattle and goats of every description. Young Masai boys shepherded the livestock and mostly stayed out of the water while their herds exhibited no such inhibitions. But the real picture in the scene were two tall, slender, beautifully robed, and beaded Masai women walking ramrod straight along a small berm, each balancing a plastic 5-gallon pail of water on their heads. Once more, I have to console myself that my memory of the scene far surpasses anything my iPhone would have captured.

Women seemingly can carry anything on their heads and, more often than not, do not use their hands. I’ve seen women balancing 20-foot tree branches on their heads. Another memory is of mothers with young daughters in training, walking stiffly upright alongside the road with bundles atop their heads. Men, on the other hand, only very rarely employ this technique.

This all reminds me of a story from our family lore. It stems from the days of big family gatherings when aunts, uncles, and cousins shared the table, usually on Sundays or holidays. One of my older brothers had a new girlfriend at this particular time. When the fact became general knowledge at the dinner table, he had to endure the usual barrage of teasing and questioning. Who was she? How old? What’s she like? Is she good looking?

My grandpa, a pragmatic old Iowa farmer who lived to see his beloved team of white horses become obsolete, rarely spoke up on these occasions. But fearing he too may soon become antiquated, cleared his throat for attention and asked, “That’s all well and good, but can she carry a five-gallon bucket of water”?

Sure . . . but on her head?

It’s been a while since I’ve posted and there are a multitude of reasons which I may or may not get into in due time. I fully expect to document the entire tour but it has not been easy.

The following story however almost writes itself. It explains everything and it explains nothing. It explains Africa.

At least at its core it explains the Africa we are living on this 99 day adventure as we ride the length of the world’s second largest continent.

So, without a segue, let’s talk about duct tape – that seems reasonable doesn’t it? If there is one thing in life you can depend on it’s duct tape. There is not a man or woman on the planet that wouldn’t be proud to have the reputation of duct tape. It never lets you down. Whether your secure at home or wondering somewhere in the heart of the dark continent, there are few if any physical calamities in life duct tape can’t fix. Right?

On this trip already it has repaired my wallet and kept my I.D. from being lost. It has kept the straps on my sandals secure preventing me from throwing a shoe and it has reinforced the bottom of the small bag that holds my tent stakes.

My big black roll of the sticky stuff has been lent to fellow riders for similar tasks and never failed once. Though heavy and large, it was given a exemption when my bags were packed, it was ‘essential personnel’ for the trip.

So, on the 73rd day – of what I am now, under my breath, calling a questionably ill advised adventure for a nearly 79 year old man – when I reached for the duct tape, I did so with confidence.

The occasion was a spontaneous snapping of one of my tent poles. My tent is a North Face two person tent, meaning it has room for one normal sized person and a small midget. It’s a really nice tent, I like it as long as the midget is not along with me. It’s easy to put up and is supported by two long collapsible light weight aluminum poles. If you not acquainted with camping gear these hollow small poles are segmented into sections about two feet long, each one fitting into the next and held together with an elastic cord running down the middle. Fully employed the poles must be 12-15 feet long and the arch up from opposite corners with a bit of tension. It is from these poles the tent is suspended.

My tent was fully assembled and sitting in the hot afternoon sun a camp in Botswana called Planet Baobab named after the Baobab Tree

As I was arranging things in my tent and repacking my bags, I heard a loud SNAP. I wasn’t, near it, I didn’t cause it, it just happened. As I looked for the cause I saw a sharply pointed deformity in the rain fly covering the body of my tent. And then, like a chick hatching from it’s shell – or as I would like to think, a dinosaur – a broken end of a tent pole segment came poking through like a claw and made a sizable hole in the rain fly which enlarged as I tried to explore the cause.

I disassembled my tent and diagnosed the fractured end if a pole segment, there was no way in its current condition that it would support the tent.

My next step was pure genius.

After accessing my predicament I went to the camp bar and ordered a beer. I had quit drinking almost a year ago in an effort to try and retain whatever cognitive ability I still had left and I’m glad I did. Because, it didn’t take me very long to realize I had picked the wrong bike tour on which to quit drinking.

With my sweaty hand wrapped around a cool larger I poured out my woes to Karen. She was a new rider, from Australia, who had recently joined her friend on the tour. ‘Well,” she said, “I just happen to have a tent pole repair kit I brought with me – just at the last moment. You can use it until – if and when – my pole breaks.”

Karen is my new best friend.

The repair involved simply sliding a small metal tube over the fractured area of the pole and securing it in place with duct tape. Kinda like putting a cast on a broken arm but without the duct tape.

I put my roll of duct tape on my chair and reassembled the tent as the hot African sun tried to thwart me at every move. But I won, the repair worked flawlessly. Now all I had to do was tape the tear in the rain fly and I would have earned myself another beer.

Ha! Man plans, God Laughs.

I reached down for the duct tape and in the few minutes it took me to put the tent back up, the sun had turned my fix-it-tape into a gooey sticky unmanageable roll of African reality. Try as I may I could not peal off a strip of tape. The sticky stuff stuck to the wrong side of the tape.

I immersed the roll of tape in water to cool it down, spent a good thirty minutes pealing back sticky stuff with my thumb nail, tried a scissors to cut away bad tape and finally succeeded in repairing the rain fly. Functionally at least, if not esthetically.

That night, as a soft sprinkle of rain pattered on the rain fly I prayed Karen brought a strong new tent on this ride.