The last 200 kilometers have been challenging.
The icy cold mornings and wind have numbed our fingers to the handlebars, cut through our layers of clothes, played havoc on our joints and left us with cut lips. The persistent headwind has bogged down our average speeds and spirits, and driven me to the verge of insanity (swearing at the wind and challenging it to blow me off the bike).
The biggest danger of the wind fighting definitely has been the close encounters with buses. Trucks have been courteous on the road, keeping their distance and slowing down behind you in tight spots.
Buses, on the other hand, have been a nightmare. They come screaming past, hooting and not giving any room between them and you. Half the time you have to veer off the road into the bush and hope for the best. The worst is when they are overtaking and heading towards you, screaming head-on, horn blasting, with the drivers side tyres kicking up the dirt on your emergency lane. Playing chicken with them is not recommended: they are ruthless. Add the wind factor and bus factor together and you have an adrenaline fueled ride full of close calls. The kind where your life flashes before you to some cheesy song you wish you deleted from your iPod.
Iringa was supposed to be our salvation from rest houses and possibly get some emails sent and so on. The oasis of civilisation that is needed from time to time on the road. It is situated on top of a mountain pass, after 100 km of wind and dust you don’t want to climb mountain passes. Better news is that you can’t climb the mountain pass because they are blasting a new road. You have to wait two hours before they open the road. Even better news is that every decent place with accommodation is up a flight of stairs.
After climbing the unbelievably tough pass that was steep, long and congested with traffic, we found a place with hot water, minimal stairs and a restaurant. Unfortunately the water was cold until the morning and the beers warm and the staff unfriendly. Iringa was my personal image of hell!
This morning we cycled back down our mountain onto the Tanzam highway to Dar es Salaam. The wind battered us again and flung us all over the road, leaving us vulnerable and at the mercy of the ruthless buses. After 60 km of wind abuse, three close encounters with buses and numerous tantrums on my behalf, Marc recommended we call it a day. We found a decent rest house and were warmly welcomed in Ilulu with cold beer and warm showers, surprisingly at half the price and effort of Iringa.
