Chapter 7
Into Benguela.
Traffic lights...
I find a guesthouse run by an American. Her name is Nancy, and she welcomes me like an old friend.
There are a group of kids glued to the Shrike as I take the shit off the bike for another day.
They jump at the chance to go for a little joyride. I throw them one at a time onto the pillion seat behind me and take off.
It’s the first time I’ve ridden the bike without a helmet and jacket on.
This is living.
This is what riding bike’s was supposed to be about; There’s no helmet muffling the roar and thump of the machine doing its thing, no lid to stop the wind through my hair. It’s a feast for the senses. It’s freedom.
The kids are rapt with it. On the last lap I give the throttle plenty, and the bike misfires; it just skips a beat. I can feel it in a loss of power and hear the gap in the revs, and then it comes back on again, lurching onward like nothing happened.
It’s never done that before...
I reckon that’s enough horsing about.
I head into the guesthouse.
There’s a girl. She’s blond.
Blond!
It feels like I've never seen a blond person in my life.
What a novelty.
I introduce myself in a kind of “your white, I’m white, let’s be white together” kind of way.
She’s from Sweden. Of course she is. Swedish and stunning.
How cliché.
So stunning, in fact, that her name goes in one ear and out the other. I give myself an immediate mental kick in the arse - we’re five seconds in and I’ve already botched it.
She’s teaching English here, of all things.
She’s happy to chat.
Even moreso than the blondness, I'm being pulled in by the fact that for the first time in recent history I’m speaking English the way I would back home; not having to modify to make myself understood. It’s glorious. Conversation: So underrated.
It’s been a long time.
It’s also been a long time between pizzas.
And cheese.
I quaff the cheesiest pizza in the world for dinner and, admittedly, it’s pretty friggin good.
Alarm. In a dark room. On a sprung mattress.
Thwack. Shut up.
The last 24 hours have been full of “firsts for a long time”, and this one is the least pleasant by far: I don’t want to leave.
I really, really, really don’t want to get on that bike. It’s repellent, like trying to push together the wrong ends of a magnet.
I want to stay another day at Nancy’s. It’s been too nice. I’m not ready to leave.
But it’s day seven in Angola. And that’s enough; I have no choice...
I can feel how chilly the air is on the other side of the toasty sheets. The whole room is freezing.
But every minute I stay in this warm bed is another minute later that I’ll arrive in Lubango.
It’s that simple.
There's a pile of tarmac to chew today.
I get up and get going.
It’s cold enough to be heavily foggy. And that’s damn cold.
Jackets and jumpers.
I roll out, heading south east. Inland.
After an hour my fingers and hands have stopped working, and I can’t feel any of my toes. It's fucking freezing.
At around mid-morning the fog decides that it’s at the right temperature to vaporise off, and it all clears in the blink of an eye. It's beautiful to see the sun shine through the clouds, through the mountains.
"GOOD MORNING!!"
I start singing Jesus of Suburbia by Green Day. Because I can.
All is good in the world.
The bike misfires. Again.
I stop singing.
It cuts out and then cuts back in again, jerking me forward and then backwards.
Gives me the heebie jeebies.
What’s going on with the Shrike?
We’ve got a monster day today. Don’t do this.
There’s no one out here... Despite the goodish tarmac, the traffic is as sparse as the arid landscape. I’m guessing we're on some sort of high plateau.
The folks who built this road look like they’ve designed the route with a ruler.
Dead straight.
I start to pull the bike over to soak up some sunshine like a lizard on a rock, and maybe get some blood flow back into the extremities.
On the rundown the Shrike just gently, slowly, inexorably dies off by itself till the engine cuts out.
Silence. Dead silence.
Cue panic.
That’s never happened before. Ever.
I turn the key off. Then back on. It makes the normal pre-start hums and whirrs and I hit the ignition button.
Starter motor turns. Turns some more. Turning, turning, turning, still turning. No fire. Still turning round. I’m wiggling the throttle trying to catch the sweet spot.
Nothing but the rhythm of the starter.
It’s going to flood… Gonna flood, gonna flood, gonna flood…
Do I stop??
The Shrike splutters into life and then roars as it catches up to where I’ve got the throttle.
"What the fuck is going on??"
I leave it revving high till I think it’s done whatever it’s got to do to sort it’s shit out, and then gently roll off the throttle.
It winds down, never stopping where it normally happily idles, and just dies. Again.
My head’s a blur, clutching at straws. I need an answer. I need a why.
I jump off and do all the usual checks on the bike. I rack my brains.
I’ve got nothing.
No clue.
But I know that it’s bad. The shit’s going to hit the fan. Soon.
Or now...
I get back into the saddle and try to bring the Shrike back to life.
I ride the starter motor and and it's turning over again but won't fire.
Fuck, it’s definitely flooding. I stay with it.
It coughs and putts and then weakly rolls and then roars to life.
I stomp first gear, drop the clutch and go.
I don’t stop.
My brain is turning it over faster than the wheels on the tarmac; the backfires, the dying, the oil, the gearbox; but I’m not getting anywhere with it. I’ve really got nothing but a bad vibe and panic. And it’s coming closer...
I have to make a conscious mental effort to stay on top of it, because I can feel that it’s all close to the edge of unravelling. Badly.
I've got practically nothing to worry about these days.
Relatively speaking, I ought to be carefree.
But there’s always something.
It's pathetic.
Like worrying whether the tarmac will be excellent or just ok.
What a joke.
Now worrying that the Enfield is going to randomly crap out on me for no rhyme or reason.
What is that as a thing to be worried about?
Ridiculous.
I’d have thought that all this travelling would make me rise above the petty shit naturally, that I'd have some serious perspective when it comes to angst... But it's still a conscious effort to swat away the small stuff. Maybe it always will be.
But I can't stop it.
It feels harder than it’s ever been.
I’m not sure I’ve ever been more fragile. Brittle.
And I’m tired.
Tired of it all.
The day's moving on; I should eat. I pass many villages that look like they might have food. I ride right on by.
This happens all the time; unless food hits me in the face, I won’t eat it. It never happens and it's dumb and I know it.
So. Skipped lunch again.
Into the afternoon and I’m crapping out. Because of course I am.
Lethargy is coming on bad and I’m actually starting to feel hungry.
And I never feel hungry.
The brief window of warmth in the late-morning has gone back to chilly again.
I can’t focus on anything. Everything is tired from holding this same riding position for hours without break.
I have to stop.
I can’t not stop.
But I can’t stop either, because The Shrike might never start again...
But, I can’t ride for six hours straight either. I can’t do it.
Can’t.
I roll off the throttle and go down the gears. I hit first, pull the clutch, and hold my breath as we come to a stop.
The engine keeps rolling. Idling like there’s no drama.
No problem.
I put it into Switzerland and it’s happy there. No worries.
I turn the key off – devil may care – I’ve gotta take a walk to get my head back on my knotted, aching shoulders.
I take my jacket off and my skin isn’t really sure if it’s cold or hot. It’s both and neither. There’s a definite shivering chill in the cold air, but at the same time the sun is radiating down, mercilessly bright and warm. It’s like standing in a fridge with an electric heater a few inches away from your face.
It’s confusing.
Hot in the sun, freezing in the shade. What a weird place.
I'm in a sort-of bowl, with the land gently sloping up all around me. I can see for miles and there's not a soul on the road in either direction, nor a building to be seen.
I walk in circles for a bit, then head back to the bike.
Here we go, the moment of truth.
It turns three times and then fires. Normal. Perfect.
No worries.
What’s going on here? Has it just healed itself? Again?
Was this morning just some kind of abomination then?
Buggered if I know.
Off, then. Again.
The damage is done.
Trying to go in the saddle without a break or food has done me in.
The remaining distance and time stretch off to the infinite vanishing point that never seems to get closer. Minutes become small forevers.
Each handful of clicks feels like the first hundred did.
Eight-ish hours of scared, braindead riding, I cross the town limits of Lubango.
Knackered.
It’s properly cold now. All cold. Although there are no clouds in the sky, the pin-pointed, frosty sun is starting to feel every inch of its hundred million miles away.
I don’t like Lubango. It’s a hole. I don’t like the vibe of the place at all.
It’s very big and loud and busy. I’m surprised and jarred by the size and the traffic and the people. What are they all doing, all the way out here?
I don’t like it, especially because I can’t find any accommodation. Small villages are never a problem; there’s only a few options - if that, so you go there, haggle, and take a room. Easy. Middle and big villages are far, far more difficult. There’s always more variables, and the places to stay always seem to hide themselves in amongst the throng of people and enterprise.
Just like now.
I’m running on empty, slumped in the saddle.
I need a place. Quick.
I’ve found nothing but deal breakers and exhausting conversation. A mix of Portuguese, French and charades.
An hour of questions with nothing to show for it.
How do you tell someone without using language all the things I want to say?
Do you have a room available?
How much is it?
No that’s too much. It needs to be cheaper.
Can I see it?
Is there somewhere to keep my bike?
No?
Seriously?
Fuck this.
Do you know any other places in the neighbourhood?
Sorry? Where?
What’s it called again?
It's like pulling teeth, and I have to do it every time.
I’m in desperado mode as time ticks and it gets darker and colder, but everywhere I go I hit my same dealbreaker; I won’t keep the Shrike out on the road overnight. Never done it, never will.
But it’s looking like that’s the only way that I’m going to be able to lie down sometime soon.
And eat.
And that’s becoming more and more important by the minute...
Not to mention putting an end to these maddening conversations. They're turning me delirious.
Nah. That’s it. I give up.
I’m heading back to the least expensive place and keeping the bike out front.
I’ve had enough.
On the ride back I spot a joint that I didn’t spot before.
It’s seen better days, but I might as well try...
“The Conversation” ensues.
They have somewhere to keep the bike. That’ll do me.
It’ll be 6,500 kwanza. That’s north of seventy bucks. And that’s the haggled price.
Easily the worst value accommodation this side of London.
I don’t give a shit.
I unpack and collapse into the hovel.
The sun sets. It quickly gets cold.
Seriously cold.
Frosty, fog-your-breath-in-the-air cold. And I’m inside, for Christ's sake.
Are we still in friggin Africa or what? I don't have anything for cold like this...
I head to the shower.
I stare at the taps. Protuguese strikes again... No "H" and "C" here.
I reckon “F’s” gonna be cold, like the “F for froid” in French, right? But then what’s “Q”?
I give "Q" a long go, but the water's still coming out biting cold. So bloody cold it feels like it’s burning hot.
Gotta be "F" then...
I give it a run and it's just as fucking cold as the "Q".
I let it run for minutes.
Nothing...
I head out to the front desk and ask about it to a young bloke who’s pulled the night-shift.
Aaaaaand, nope, no hot water.
Seventy bucks a night in a freezing shithole and there's no hot water...
I fly right off the handle; the opposite of impressed.
Second time I’ve vented my spleen this bad in three days.
I must be tense.
But fair enough too; this is fucking bullshit.
Not here, not now, no way.
If it was cheap and nasty joint then fair enough, or if we were in Africa Africa where it’s hotter than the sun, then fair enough too. But in this place, this shitty little hovel, which has cost me a bomb, in this freezing cold dive of a fucking town? It feels too much of an injustice to just let it go and turn the other cheek.
It’s not this poor bastard's fault though, and I don’t think he can cog much of what I’m driving at either. Fucking Portuguese. Pretty sure he's figured out that I’m well cheesed though.
So I take him back to the room and run the shower taps and then shrug at him, incredulously.
He gives me the international signal to “wait here”; he’s going to do something.
Well, thank fuck for that.
A minute later he comes back into the room holding a kettle.
I have to laugh. And I do.
A fucking kettle.
Forget about it, mate. No problem.
What a shit end to a rough day.
I try to take a shower, but I can’t. I can’t will myself to do it. Doesn’t matter how gross I am or how much I need it. I’ve taken bucket showers in the Himalayas before, and that was pretty fucking cold, but this is beyond.
Trying to tell my shivering naked body to stand under those icy daggers is like trying to tell your leg not to kick when the doc whacks your knee with a hammer; the reaction to jerk away is pure reflex.
I hug myself and dance naked from foot to foot, psyching myself up and pep talking the inner monologue not to be a pussy.
Don’t think, just do!
Aaaaaand I wimp out.
Crawl into the thousand layers of dense, old and weathered bedsheets that look like they came from my Nan's place. I can feel with my feet that the bed's under sheet - the thing I'm lying on top of - is shorter than I am; My legs are on the matress.
I hate this place.
I settle in for a grubby sleep.
MmmzzzzzzZZZZZzzzzzzzz……………zzzzzzzzZZZZzzzz…………ZZZZZ
Fucking parasitic bastard malaria fucker! Been keeping me awake the whole night.
I’m tucked tightly under the heavy blankets. My face is freezing.
I can hear it but I can’t see it, it’s too dark and the light is all the way over the other side of the room. It’s barely warm even under the sheets. I don’t even dare move even an inch for fear of letting in even the slightest breath of that sub-zero air under the sheets.
Going all the way across the room to turn the light on, and then standing in the middle of the room naked to hunt down a single mosquito? Yeah, not gonna happen.
So instead of exterminating the persistent bastard I’m going to keep letting it eat my face.
I hate this place.