Zambia had the distinction of being entirely pleasant and, by the end, exceeding dull. I've finally lost my patients for roads so straight and flat. There wasn't even any wind to push me one way or another. I peddled in a tepid sea of still air, clouds blooming on the horizon in every direction.
Before the smooth road passing friendly little villages got the better of me I visited Victoria Falls, one of the largest waterfalls in the world. Recent rain had them flowing at full volume. The roar was intense and the spray coming up from below rained down in an endless shower, turning the walking paths into streams. The falls were so wide and the resulting mist so thick that I never saw to the far end of them. From every view rainbows cast about dancing in the froth. It was magnificent. I also visited the Kundalila falls. I suspect no one but the locals have ever heard of them, but they were spectacular in their own right.
The road north was dotted with tiny villages selling tomatoes, potatoes and on one day only, watermelons. I filled my water at the town wells and took my turn pumping for anyone else there. Many people spoke some English. The children would call out “How are you!” as I passed. “Fine!” was the response they were looking for and invariably was their reply whenever I turned the question back at them. I did a lot of racing in Zambia. Because the road was well paved and with a wide shoulder many people had bicycles. Any young man I caught up with would match my pace. It was never spoken but there was no way they were going to let me bike away from them. I would try to though. On their rusty single speeds with soft tires and sometimes carrying passengers on the rear rack, their wife and baby perhaps, they would keep up with me. I was never able to pull away from anyone. After 20 minutes, more or less depending on where they were going, they would pull off without a word and I, breathless with burning thighs, would relax my pace until the next challenger appeared.
I followed the highway for more than 1000 kilometers. On both sides of the road the grass was beaten back by men with a sort of bent machete, like a large grapefruit knife or a sharpened golf club. That is a corridor of grass, 8 meters wide, 1000 kilometers long, being mowed with sharpen golf clubs. As surely as I thought it strange for them to be doing that they thought it strange for me to be biking so far. I suppose neither of us were wrong.
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