An alarm wakes us and Jordan constructs an incredible Futurelife, peanut butter and banana breakfast. I spend some time strapping the bag to the bike and when we pull out of Mafusa camp. The bike experience is a lot more comfortable than when we arrived.
We make a quick stop off at an ATM and shop and then hit the road. The bustle of Lilongwe quickly turns to more peaceful residential areas and then industrial areas and finally arid farmland. The silhouettes of two mountain peaks in the distance beckon us.
Metta is slow - reaching a maximum of 60km/h on a flat road and down to 40km/h on the uphills. Luckily I do not see a sign indicating a speed limit of more than 60km/h so we blend into the traffic well. There is a fair amount of traffic on this main road our of Lilongwe but the going is good.
It’s a 200km drive to Monkey Bay and it’s going to take several hours. Small villages replace the brown African landscape occasionally and many an empty petrol station appears with traffic cones blocking the entrance indicating the lack of fuel.
After a few hours we turn off the main road and descend down a truly beautiful mountain pass that rivals some of the most beautiful roads to drive a motorcycle through on the famous Ho Chi Minh trail in Vietnam. We find a petrol station and fill the tank again - 4.4L goes in and we’ve traveled 77km; not too shabby for fuel efficiency.
We’re driving up a small hill with a left turn when a truck passes us. We’re driving on the yellow line and suddenly the truck is right next to us - it has swerved left to avoid an oncoming car. Out of the corner of my eye I see the back corner of it clip the right handle bar; yanking it forward.
The yank of the handlebars to the left basically causes the bike to fall away underneath us and we’re sliding on the tar. It’s quite surreal and then suddenly we’ve stopped and are on our feet. Jordan and I both immediately check in with the other person. We’re ok.
I pull the bike off the road and walk it off, still a bit dazed. Jordan, bless her, immediately takes off her helmet and puts a hat on. We look at each other in disbelief. I can’t really remember what we said. But I do remember how calm I was.
We do a body scan to assess the damage. Jordan’s hand and knee is grazed. I mainly focus on her, but upon finding that she has nothing broken or bleeding freely I begin checking myself. A small graze on my knee, a large graze on the hip and a little one on the shoulder. Then I take my torn jacket off and find a rather perfect hole in my elbow that bubbles blood on the heartbeat.
I really commend the way we handled this situation. We just sat down and began cleaning and treating wounds as if we were chopping vegetables. I wasn’t at all phased by the elbow hole and whipped out some superglue and wound closure strips and Jordan closed it up after giving it a good clean.
I can’t really remember the order of events here too clearly, but there definitely was a Malawian mother breastfeeding her baby while she asked us things in a concerned voice in a language that we didn’t understand. Some other people were there too but we did manage to put their worries at ease when we sorted out all the scrapes. A local doctor appeared with some iodine and a bundle of things but we satisfied that we had treated things well enough.
Jordan had a little cry and we talked things over a few times. We ate some food and a nut butter then smoked a cigarette. The truck drove away and we later found out that this was normal in Malawi. Vehicles that hit a motorcycle and stop are often subjected to an angry mob that can turn nasty for the driver.
Potholes appear. Potholes that make the roads in KZN blush. It’s enjoyable but tiring driving as I weave through them with a successful dodge rate of 99%. And then we’re there! Driving down the main road of Monkey Bay; small shops and a village surround the main road. Smells of cooking, music, noises from the markets and the calls of Fish Eagles creep into our helmets. We exit the village and ride down a small dirt road to arrive in the paradise that is Mufasa Lodge.
There is a small private beach and bay that the lodge surrounds. The water is dead flat and countless Fish Eagles soar overhead. We unpack our bags and wake into the idyllically warm and soft water. Tropical fish nibble at our legs and we giggle at the absurd beauty of this place.
We clammer onto a rock to watch the sun set. We shake off harrowing drive and watch tropical fish flash their silver underbodies as they flit between the rocks. Dinner arrives and is delicious. We sit at a table with a funny Dutch couple and the owner of the lodge who tells some rather abrasive stories from her life out here. The dutch woman is a nurse and takes a look at us. She calls our wounds “superficial” which provides a lot of comfort.
We slip into sleep easily with the sounds of wind waves lapping the shore.