Marc and I were barely 10km from Babati when we had to stop. Marc’s back tyre was flat. We jumped into action and whipped the wheel off and repaired it in no time.
We had been warned not to stop, but the bad road surface was taking its toll on our steel horses.
It is desperate times now. The rains have been scarce and crops have failed, and according to some people this has caused an influx of bandits on the Babati-Dodoma road.
Back in the saddles we rode on through the desolate mountain pass to Bereko, passing through villages where the inhabitants just glared at you with a emotionless glaze in their eyes and greeted with an unwelcoming tone.
Fighting the bad road surface riddled with corrugations, we rattled down into the dry central lowlands of Tanzania. The road narrowed out and became thick sand path with a rocky middle. Every time a vehicle would pass you would be forced off the road, coming to dead stop in the sandtrap while being choked and blinded for 10 seconds in a dustcloud.
This was fun and games until buses came past.
A close call with two buses made us rethink our safety on the road. Two buses came past one behind the other, the first hooting while the other was just riding blind in the other’s dust cloud. I managed to get off the road and the first bus gunned past, blinding me, and leaving me only with my hearing, half deafened by the hooting, to gauge the distance of the second. It came so close as it passed that stone debris from the tyres hit my legs and ankles. All I saw then was a faint glow of brake lights in the dusty haze and heard the bus creaking to a stop.
In this dusty blind confusion I imagined the worst, and thought how on earth would I explain our stupidity. The dust settled and Marc and I were both off the road looking at each other, red with dust but white with shock and fear.
We rode on silently for a few minutes before we both put our pride in our pockets and realised that we are cycling on a death trap. We reached a place to rest with reception and phoned Jonathan in Babati. He managed to contact a friend on the road to Dodoma who was a mere 5km behind us. We loaded the bikes and gear into the double cab and were on our way to Dodoma.
While travelling to Dodoma our pride was giving a good dose of reality. The road turned into a rock scattered obstacle course of loose gravel, while the terrain became more mountainous. The earth was so dry that some villages were abandoned and even they were more than 50 kilometers apart.
While the sun beat down on the packed double cab, I sulked, wanting to ride every damn inch of the road, but as we battled into Dodoma I realised that our pride would of been our fall in this scenario, and in the bigger picture, we will achieve so much more by arriving home safely.
This educated decision has been the hardest one Marc and I have had to make on this tour.
