Ok this blog entry is going to be short on detail and photographs.

Having had a truly awful night I just wanted to get this day over with. I had booked a place to stay in Tukuyu, close to the Malawi border and I packed as much water as I could and started off on the circa four hundred kilometre journey.

The only thing of note during the day was once, when I was stopped at a police checkpoint, I realised that my insurance disc was missing. It must have been nicked out of my handlebar bag the night before. My own stupidity for leaving it there.

The policeman was pushy enough and got a bit confused when I handed him the ownership document, Form RF101. He got a bit irritated and when I then handed him my driver’s license and I changed the subject to the distance to Tukuyu. He wanted to demonstrate his expertise about the roads in this part of the country and started to lecture me about the best road to take – there actually only is one.

I let him go on for as long as he wanted, thanked him for being so helpful and said that the Tanzanian tourism chief should be proud to have such knowledgeable police officers. He had already given me back my license when I said that I really should get going because I still had a long way to travel. He saluted and wished me a safe journey. When I was a couple of kilometres further on I pulled over and searched everywhere for the disc. It was gone and I would need to be careful until I crossed into Malawi.

I got to the hotel, bought three bottles of 7Up, went straight to my room, showered, took some Imodium and Dioralyte, got into bed and slept through for thirteen hours….

While I was packing up Simba at the front of the motel I was entertained by a local diva who was dancing while lip syncing the words of a song which was being belted out over two enormous speakers, much to the enjoyment of the gathered locals.

My poor ears, it went on for about twenty minutes and I daren’t start up the engine as to do so would have incurred a glare from diva and the wrath of her entourage. Anyway after she was done I politely applauded which seemed to please her, and off I took.

On a side note, but one of important detail, my tummy cramps were getting worse and I just hoped that I would make it to Iringa without getting ‘caught short’. This was even more of a concern as I would have to ride through a National Park for about fifty kilometres. It is inhabited by wild animals that include lions and elephants so I certainly would not be stopping for any length along that section.

This section of the TanZam Highway, as it is known, is not very well maintained which is understandable as I’m sure that road crews would be nervous working here. A steady stream of cross continental trucks and buses ply their way daily from Dar es Salaam on the Indian Ocean past Lusaka, the capital of Zambia, and on to the Angolan border.

It was nice to come across animals roaming free in their natural habitat once again and, although photography was not permitted, I did manage to sneak a couple of shots.

Though mind you, I never stopped for more than a couple of minutes….

…. not even at a Zebra Crossing!!!

It didn’t take too long until the reserve was well behind me and then it was back to passing small villages and a steady flow of cyclists and walkers along the route.

I stopped at a roadside stall to buy a couple of bananas which I hoped would be easy on my system. However he would only sell me a whole bunch and this cost me the princely equivalent of fifty cents.

So I gave away what I didn’t need to a group of school children who happened to be passing and to their mothers.

The journey on to Iringa only took about another three hours over nice mountain terrain and this is where you will always come across crashed lorries. They crawl down at the same snail’s pace as they crawl up so I’m guessing that brake failure is the principal cause of accidents with these appallingly maintained juggernauts.

I arrived into Iringa early afternoon and checked into what I was told was a decent hotel. The AirBnb I contacted couldn’t take me but assured me that I would be comfortable at the Isimila Hotel.

The disgruntled “receptionist” couldn’t have cared less about me checking in and, after insisting that I pay up front (€25), she showed me my room. The building reminded me of the 1950’s Dublin tenements that I used to visit around Sean McDermott Street in the 1970’s, the only difference being that I was the only one there.

I threw my stuff on the bed, had a shower of sorts and headed out to find a tuc-tuc.

It wasn’t far to the main street and from there I started to meander about. Iringa is a busy town as I recall from my last stopover here and I went in search of something light to eat.

I was advised by a young Dutch couple I bumped into to try Hasty Tasty Cafe. So I did and this was something that I would regret for the next forty eight hours!!

At least I got some entertainment out of watching these two moslem women engrossed in an argument.

I wandered back through the busy streets until I reached the hotel and got myself sorted so that I could head off quickly in the morning. Before getting into bed I went back to the grumpy receptionist to buy some water and it was there that I met the night porter – African Norman Bates who looked out of his head.

So I upped my bedroom security and climbed into bed, not for the last time as I had to go to the bathroom eight times during the night….

I was in two minds about cutting out Morogoro and heading straight south to Iringa. As the crow flies it would have been easier and a guy the previous night assured me that it was all tar and that I could get there in about three hours.

However when I asked him when he was last on that road he couldn’t remember. So I decided to stick with the advice given by the Manchester guy a few days earlier and go to Morogoro.

I tried three atm’s before finding one dispensing cash and this is a common enough problem in these parts. They run out of money regularly. I parked up outside and when I came out of the booth a very well spoken woman spoke to me. She was in a flap about there being no cash in other machines and I assured her that I had left some for her in this one.

She seemed intrigued at meeting a white person in Dodoma and asked me to wait for a moment for her. Then, when she asked if I was living in Dodoma she replied “oh thank god” when I told her that I wasn’t. She is from the area but has been living in north London for over twenty years with her dentist husband. She was back with her kids to visit their grandparents but she couldn’t wait to board her flight back to London the next day.

I’m not sure why I am mentioning this conversation as it might seem a bit banal. Anyway I guess it’s just an example of the myriad of people that I meet on my journey.

The landscape was wide open barren bush and you could see for miles in either direction. And even on a Sunday there was a steady flow of lorries.

One thing that I always look out for is a decent tree offering shelter whenever I want to take a break. Invariably some locals are nestled under the shade but I do get lucky occasionally.

The day passed slowly and by mid afternoon I arrived at Morogoro.

It is the closest big town to Dar es Salam and is set against a magnificent backdrop of picture postcard mountains to the south.

I had been feeling a bit unwell for a while now and, without being graphic about it, my tummy had been upset for over a week. I asked for a plain omelette and some black tea with dried toast but even that managed to reappear later….

A strong wind howled throughout the night and the window and mosquito screen rattled incessantly. In my half sleep I imagined that it was raining but thankfully that was not the case.

I watched a nice sunrise over the lake as I got dressed. Over breakfast I toyed with the idea of pushing on past Dodoma as far as Morogoro to try to claw back a day but decided against it because I could never be certain about the roads. Anyway this trip is not a race and it’s good to take time to explore a town while there.

The wind got stronger as I rode out of the town into the open countryside. It was twenty degrees but felt quite cold and this was the first time in ages that I wore riding gloves. That of course is not something very smart to admit to as, in the event of a spill, your hands will cut to shreds on contact with the road. Anyway thankfully no spills and touch wood.

For about an hour I rode through these very weird rock formations. They were scattered everywhere over about a one hundred kilometre stretch. They can’t have been deposited by the ice age but, given that this part of east Africa is a volcanic region (Kilimanjaro is not far away), perhaps they are a result of eruptions. I must Google it.

An interesting sign which reminded me that every person’s home is their own palace.

And everywhere people carried on with the chores of their daily lives.

On my last trip through Africa I came across up to half a dozen wrecks a day. On one occasion I recall two people dead in a lorry that had just crashed.

So now this was starting to become a more frequent sight and served as regular reminders to adhere to the Kaylee option. The standard of driving is appalling and I have scarcely even seen a lorry or car use an indicator.

It only took about four hours to get to Dodoma which is a big crossroads town in the middle of nowhere. As the place where I was staying was on the far side of the town I parked up for a while and wandered about. I always look like an alien in the heavy gear and somehow or another I think that it spooks people. Once again I was likely the only white person around for miles but I was getting used to the unwanted attention by now.

After a while though it gets wearing so I headed on to my digs for the night and had a long shower as they had a luxury that has been rare for a while, hot water. They had a common room where I sat for a good while with a bunch of local guys who were getting very excited over a great game on tv between Chelsea and Arsenal. Stamford Bridge seemed like another planet…..

I got up around 7am and it was a lovely morning when I looked out the window.

I started putting my stuff together, packing up Simba setting sat nav etc. I then popped back in for breakfast and had a really delicious juice which was a simple mix of avocado and passion fruit. That might sound odd but it was delicious.

I left the motel, found an ATM, got a fill of petrol and hit the road. The manager assured me that the 320 kilometres today would be tar all the way. So fingers crossed.

He was correct and all was well until after about 50 kilometres, the Garmin sat nav was telling me to make a right turn at a busy little town. This seemed logical but was at variance with the flow of traffic and the quality of the road. I took a long look down the road that I was supposed to take but it was dirt road as far as I could see. Within about a minute I had about twenty young guys clambering all over Simba. I asked for directions but I’d safely say that none of them had even heard of Singida. It became a bit uncomfortable when a couple of them were competing to climb on back and I could feel the motion of the top box being interfered with. I gave a really loud rev on the throttle and they all jumped back with fright so I pushed away quickly, opting for the good road.

There were homesteads along the entire route especially where there was even the smallest tree offering shade.

I firstly pulled up to ask for directions from a lorry driver who had stopped at a weigh station but he hadn’t a word of English. Then after about half an hour I stopped at a police checkpoint. An older guy very courteously told me that I was headed in the right direction and where I would link up with the other road. The moral of this little story is trust your instincts and not the good people at Garmin.

Cattle rearing is a big part of this rural economy but I am at a loss to understand what they graze on.

There isn’t a blade of grass anywhere so presumably they eat some other type of fodder.

Life is hard and at subsistence level but you will still see elegant women walking in the middle of nowhere with their parasols.

As is the case throughout Africa, hope and the promise of a better life next time around is being peddled in the most humble of churches.

The miles rolled on and by early afternoon I arrived in Singida. It is a nice town beside a lake and I found a motel with a lovely view over it.

When I asked the very enthusiastic manager if I could perhaps swim in it he laughed, telling me that it was polluted by people and cows and that it had dangerous creatures that wouldn’t like me. So that put an end to that idea…..

Well so much for thinking that this would be an easy day of 325 kilometres. It didn’t quite turn out that way.

The day started when I woke up to discover that I had been joined during the night by an army of bedbugs. They must have enjoyed a good feed judging my the bites all over my body. “TMI” maybe but I’m trying to share everything with you.

Anyway, after a good dollop of Fucibet I took off for the border crossing. It was only about fifteen minutes before I reached the newly constructed ‘one stop’ border. It’s a new concept and makes crossing between Rwanda and Tanzania, and vice versa, so much easier. You go into one single building which houses both Immigration and Customs from the two countries and it even has an ATM. So there is no need for either the ‘official’ agents or money exchangers.

The counter assistant dealing with a particular matter is always from the relevant country. So there are personnel of both nationalities working side by side in a flow system that functions really well. The only short delay was when I was asked to take a seat while they considered my Tanzanian Visa application. I utilised that time by seeking out one of a small number of currency exchange touts who I had noticed earlier hanging around outside. One of them haggled over a switch of whatever Rwanda Francs I had left into Tanzanian Schillings and that job was done.

I stopped on the bridge over the river which borders the two countries to take a couple of photos.

There is a spectacular waterfall but it was hard to get a good angle for a photo. However it was opportune that I stopped because I bumped into a guy from Manchester who was traveling with his Ugandan wife. He advised me not to cut south from Dodoma to Iringa but to take the longer route by Morogoro. Looks like another day forfeited but that would be preferable to getting stuck in the middle of nowhere.

Anyway we parted ways and I had just one job to do which wasn’t possible at the one stop border crossing. I gave a boda boda guy a dollar to guide me to the nearest insurance office.

He duly obliged and brought me to Mr. Peter who got me sorted for €12 which was far better than what I had to pay in Uganda and Rwanda.

I rode off and soon after the torture started in earnest. I still had over 300 kilometres to go and it was already well past noon as there was now a one hour time difference working against me once I crossed into Tanzania. Within a couple of kilometres potholes started to appear, occasionally at first, but soon they were a constant. It’s hard to describe how bad they became but a lot of the riding involved competing with huge lorries as we would often both negotiate the wrong side of the road to try and find the easiest path.

Speed dropped to about 15 or 20 kph and for lorries it was even slower. Trying to overtake them invoked a lot of ‘Kaylee options’ and after a couple of hours I was getting concerned about making Kahama before dark.

The situation became worse when the dreaded roadworks started cropping up. These would go on for miles with diversions through bush villages and along rolled out dirt tracks.

It wasn’t possible to capture a decent photo of how bad it was and the above shot is of a very easy stretch. If I had stopped anywhere else I could well have been ploughed over because the dust being thrown up by lorries traveling in both directions reduced visibility to zero. At times I could not even see out of my visor.

Throw in on top of that the sandy and subsiding surface that I was trying to negotiate and it would be an understatement to describe these conditions as challenging. I needed to get some miles behind me so on occasion I elected to ride on the road being constructed. I got some good results out of this, only once or twice having to u-turn back which was somewhat disheartening.

Anyway, after about another three hours of this, some beautiful tar appeared underfoot and, whenever possible, I belted on.

I have not yet once on this trip stopped for a policeman’s waving hand but soon I was to come across a road blockade which could have been a much more difficult situation. I had read on blogs before traveling about pockets in this remote part of western Tanzania, which is very close to lawless Burundi, that are controlled by warlords and gangs. I was traveling away from this region but would not be clear of it for a day or so.

So at least I was mentally prepared for the situation as I rode up to a rudimentary barrier manned (boyed!!) by a bunch of kids who seemed high as kites. This was no army or police checkpoint and they were ordering the passengers to get off a bus stopped just in front of me. I glided slowly past the bus right up to the barrier, keeping both my visor and inner sun visor down because my eyes might give a clue to the brick that I was shitting.

As two young bucks were shouting at me in Swahili, I turned my head towards a serious looking guy at the other end of the barrier. He was a real bad looking dude straight out of a Hollywood movie. He had the shades, the dangling gold chains and all. Thankfully he was too far away from me to speak, although he wouldn’t have heard me anyway with the two babbling hyenas shooting their mouths off. Even though neither of us could see each other’s eyes, we held a stare for about ten seconds (which felt like ten minutes). He nodded, which I returned, and then said something in a very authoritative manner. Instantly, although I know reluctantly, the barrier was pulled back. Simba barely waited for me to apply the throttle and we took off out of there as quickly as possible.

The whole incident only lasted a few minutes but I’m not now going to be all macho and bravado about it, it unnerved me. I honestly didn’t expect to be let through, although I had previously decided that worst likely outcome of an incident like this would be that it would only cost me whatever cash and valuables that I was carrying. And I do have a reserve secreted away on the bike.

As shadows were lengthening, it was with a combination of both fatigue and relief that I eventually found this road in Kahama leading up to my digs for the night, the peculiarly named Submarine Motel….

Although the extra day was great, it was still nice to move on. The plan for today was to just ride the 180 kilometres to Kehere, the only place close to the border that has a guesthouse.

There was no rush to check out and I had an audience when packing up Simba in front of “Hotel Rwanda”. A few of the staff, including the duty manager, offered handshakes but they really just wanted a photo sitting on the bike.

I rode out of the city past the new National Convention Centre and headed east into the countryside. The road was initially as good as I had experienced here and the traffic was light.

The scenery was beautiful as the road rose up and down and it seems that everyone in this country is either busy working or is on their way places with a purpose.

No doubt they do take an occasional break.

The last 50 or 60 kilometres was a bit trickier as there was a steady run of roadworks until I got to Kehere.

However it was quite manageable because the traffic was light, but it did remind me to focus on my last experience of riding in Tanzania, which is next up.

It was also noticeable that the closer I got to the border the lesser the quality of housing, so I guess that nationally there are still lot’s of problems yet to be resolved.

Sat nav is not 100% accurate and I managed to get lost for a bit when trying to find exactly where the centre of Kehere was, never mind the guesthouse. I asked about and was, as is typical, given answers varying between 300 metres and 50 kilometres.

Then I stumbled across the weirdest sight. Bear in mind that it seems like I am the only mzungu wherever I travel. So there on the side of a pretty dirty stretch of road trotted four pristinely dressed white women, one carrying a parasol. I u-turned back to them and I got a distinct feeling that they were none to pleased to meet me. The older woman completely looked down her long American nose at me. However one of the younger ones helped me with directions and I was on my way. It had been like a scene from an African version of The Handmaid’s Tale.

When I had booked ahead I was told that there was only a basic €8 room available, which I accepted. However I now managed to persuade the grumpy woman who greeted me that I was deserving of one of their special €16 executive rooms.

I don’t want to know what the inferior room looked like.

Showering was basic in my “executive” bathroom and I counted eight bedbugs on the sheets and it wasn’t even dark yet….

When I woke up this morning I could hardly walk. Stiffness, just like after indoor soccer all those years ago, had left me as stiff as a proverbial plank.

There was no way that I was going to be able to rock on today so I asked the hotel to hold my room for one more night. Much as I was looking forward to pushing on and getting the Tanzania leg over with, there was no point in riding off like Quasimodo.

In any event, because of the election problems there, I am leaning towards giving Zimbabwe a miss in a couple of weeks time and cutting across Zambia from Malawi and on to the ‘pan handle’ of Namibia. This will be shorter and would make up for any time I delay now.

Before leaving home the only thing that I was asked to do was to be careful and to remember that I have a three month old granddaughter waiting for me to return and who would like to hold my hand into old age. So I have pretty well stuck to that commitment and, whether it’s traveling into Zimbabwe or even just overtaking a lorry, I try to invoke what I now refer to as the ‘Kaylee’ option.

Anyway she is keeping a permanent eye on both Simba and me.

As it turned out I was glad that I did postpone as I would feel much better by the end of the day. I first swam in the pool for a good while and then went for a decent walk.

By afternoon I felt up to riding out of the city for a spin into the nearby countryside where so much of the scenery is absolutely spectacular. I am probably repeating myself, but this is a very beautiful and progressive country and I would highly recommend that anyone who gets the opportunity should do what it now says on the Arsenal shirt, Visit Rwanda.

Around each corner I turned there were even more beautifully dressed women in colourful outfits going about their business.

I got back to the city and started putting my things together in preparation for checking out the next day. I needed to pop down to a local supermarket to pick up some toiletries and while I was there I dropped into a small tourist office to see if they could send to Ireland one of the walking sticks that they were selling and which were exactly the same as the one that I had been loaned while trekking in Volcano National Park. There I met a delightful young girl who is working as a tourism advisor for the summer. She is from Kigali and she will soon be going into her third year of studying mechanical engineering at University of Chicago. We must have chatted for two hours about everything from the Rwandan Genocide to politics in Ireland, global travel, engineering and everything else in between. Once again the pride that people here have in their country is tangible.

It was already dark and they were locking up the shopping centre so I said goodbye, left her to finish up, and headed back the short distance to the hotel. Over dinner I reflected on what had turned out to be a thoroughly enjoyable day….

Wow, what a day. This was one of those days that will live long in my memory.

The driver, Emile, arrived to collect me at 4:30am and we commenced the two and a half hour drive to the northwestern part of the country at the point where three countries border each other, namely Rwanda, Uganda and Congo. This is an area of exceptional beauty dominated by a range of volcanoes, some of which are still active.

The sun rose as we approached Rwanda Volcano National Park and the journey had been spent chatting about the 1994 Genocide. Emile was seven years old at the time and only survived by making his escape alone into neighbouring Tanzania. He lost ninety eight of his family in that Spring but does not now refer to either Hutu or Tutsi, saying that everyone is simply Rwandan.

I joined up with a very pleasant group of people for the trek, a Texan family of four along with a family of three from Edinburgh. There were several groups, each of whom would travel separately to different locations in the vast mountain range. Our two Park Rangers for the day sat us down to outline the do’s and don’ts for the day. No litter, no spitting, no feeding, no eye contact and no touching the gorillas (unless they touch you). If an adult gorilla advanced quickly towards you then you bow down with your eyes to the ground and slowly retreat walking backwards.

At about 8am we commenced the trek into the deep undergrowth assisted by four porters, our two Park Rangers and two armed soldiers. The rest of the group had also trekked on the day previously and had been exceptionally lucky to come across a family of gorillas twenty minutes into their trek.

Unfortunately this was not going to be the case today. Climbing through jungle terrain on a steep ascent into the mountains was about as difficult as it gets for someone with one knee replaced, one overdue to be replaced along with pins, screws and metal skewer in both shoulders. However I was pushed on and was determined to get a bucket list photo for my beautiful new granddaughter, Kaylee. Isn’t it wonderful where you can muster up strength from.

The armed soldiers led with machetes hacking a path through the dense undergrowth. There were times when you had to scramble on your belly up steep inclines or crawl when then the bamboos obstructed your progress. There was never any sure footing and mostly you were elevated about a foot off the ground trampling the thick vegetation. It would have been so easy to go over on an ankle.

It took three and a have hours and a tortuous climb of almost two thousand feet before the spotters, who had gone ahead earlier, radioed back that they had found a group of gorillas.

Our first sighting came about fifteen minutes later when we reached a family of five gorillas feeding in the bush. The porters had earlier stepped back from us so now we just had the two Park Rangers and two soldiers for protection.

The younger gorillas ignored us while feeding and playing with their mother.

However the Silverback eyed us suspiciously and boy was this guy huge. His hands were enormous and he was definitely someone that you don’t want to get on the wrong side of.

They would eat for a while and then move on as we followed them.

The Silverback led and we all trailed on after him.

“Watch out, he’s behind you!!”, except this isn’t pantomime.

We stayed for about an hour with these magnificent creatures quietly observing them eating and play acting before starting the steep scramble descent. I was totally exhausted by now and, just as I was thinking how I now need to be extra careful, my foot slipped off a dead bamboo and I stumbled forward flat on my face sinking into the vegetation. Thankfully nothing was hurt except for a bit of pride.

It was a couple of hard hours before the terrain opened up a bit.

We stopped for a break before pushing on for another hour or so until we reached open space and the jeeps were waiting for us. We had been on the go for almost eight hours, my legs were like jelly and I was exhausted. Was it worth it ? A resounding YES.

And apart from the whole wonderful gorilla experience, what did I learn from today ? That although my body is getting older I can still meet a challenge, but I’ve just got to start taking it a bit more ‘poly poly’ and I’ll get there….

I had been supposed to move on this morning but postponed because I had made the booking for a trek to find mountain gorillas on the following day.

The only thing of significance that occurred today was that I let my iPhone drop and shattered the screen. It literally just slipped out of my hand and I could hear the crack as it bounced off the hard ground.

So my day was spent running around trying to get it repaired and this was not made any easier by it being Sunday. The woman at reception contacted a friend, who couldn’t help but put me in touch with another friend, who also couldn’t help but put me in touch with yet another friend.

So I eventually met up with Jonathan at a city centre coffee shop and handed over the broken phone. I wasn’t sure if I would ever see either Jonathan or the phone again but it wasn’t any use to me in it’s present condition in any event. We agreed to meet back at the hotel later in the afternoon.

I then spent the next while wandering around this beautiful city before making my way back to the hotel. Two hours later and the bold Jonathan arrived as promised complete with repaired iPhone.

Thankful for small mercies I gave him an extra $10 on top of the 60,000 Rwanda Francs it cost me. He got excited at the sight of a U.S. dollar note and said that, now that we were personal friends, he would email me so that I could help him get into America….