A few of the schools in my zone are 20+km away, up bush paths which are rugged, to say the least. Even during dry season, the rutted surfaces and rickety pole bridges have conjured images of imminent injury and my friend Huy.
Huy is a cleancut, straight-edge American of Vietnamese descent who likes to think he's edgy because he pursues extreme sports. Specifically, if I'm not mistaken, he loves snowboarding, rock-climbing, and trail cycling. He rides treacherous paths in national parks and recreation areas all over California because he likes, as far as I can tell, flirting with death.
I, however, prefer to avoid such intimacy with Death, at least for the time being. More than once I've thought to myself while attempting to reach my destination, "You've got to be kidding me." Yet I continue winding through the cornfield I've gotten myself lost in, or navigating the rutted-out road, or carrying my bike over the slippery branches that serve as a bridge. Still I set out, again and again. Recently, I was visiting several volunteers while en route to a meeting in Serenje. I left Mpumba, where Rae stays, despite a steady drizzle and a warning call from Joe--40 km south--that the roads were mucky from an all day rain. Rae's bike--which she kindly lent me--is two sizes too small for my frame, and the brakes were minimally functional, but I was optimistic.
Off I set down the first stretch--30 km of tarmac. The rain stopped after half an hour or so, and despite irritation in my knees due to the bike's small size, the ride was rather pleasant.
Joe had told me to call him when I reached the signpost for his school--his turnoff. When he phoned to check in, I was just a few kilometers away, happy to be almost three-quarters through the ride after nearly two hours.
When I reached the turnoff, though, I lost all coverage, and remembered that Joe used another network for specifically that reason. Feeling confident, I started off down the path. I'd been to his house once before, a year prior, in a Peace Corps Land Cruiser, and in my memory it was a pretty straight shot from the road.
My memory was rose-tinted, however. Bush paths seemed to spring up constantly, and at times it wasn't clear which way was straight (not that I was at all certain that I should be going straight). Whenever I passed a house or people, I called out, asking if I was headed in the right way to find Ba Joe--the white man--the school. But Kalonje is Bemba territory, and while Mambwe and Bemba are related, they're not the same, so at least one person responded to my muddled attempts at Bemba inquiries with a look of confusion. Even more disheartening, there were several long stretches with no houses and no people. I recognized some of the rock formations I passed, and I held on to the hope that eventually, all roads would lead to Joe.
Eventually, I crossed a short parade of women and children headed to the field. Two young girls rushed over to escort me, so I dismounted and released my helmet strap. We walked a short way, and they directed me to turn onto a path to the left. Thanking them, I remounted and went on my way.
Despite the rain, the path was filled with sandy patches, and I thought, "It'd be just my luck that I'd hit a patch of sand, slam into a tree, and get hurt because my unstrapped helmet (which Peace Corps strictly requires us to wear) flies off." Better to stop now and prevent such an occurrence, I figured, but the brakes were ineffective. "No matter," I thought; "lots of Zambians' bikes have no brakes. I'll do what they do," and I slid my left foot against the front tire.
Except it slid up into the bike frame, and in a split second, the bike did a 180, flipping quickly (aided by my cargo on the over-wheel rack--my personal bag and buns picked up from a roadside market) over my head. Before I even knew what was happening, I was on the ground, still on my bike, which was now on me.
"Well, that's ironic," I thought, noting gratefully that my helmet was still on, and untangling myself to resume the ride. Eventually I reached Joe's, but he was at the roadside, still awaiting me. Luckily, Val, another volunteer who was visiting (with the proper cell phone network for the area) called him to inform him of my arrival. When he made it back and I described parts of the paths I'd taken, he was bewildered. "I think you've charted some new territory," he said. Exploring the backroads of Kalonje: why not?
The path we took back to the tarmac the following day was, in fact, much less treacherous. This time, I kept my helmet secured and my bike firmly beneath me. Huy would be proud.
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| With Rae, just before leaving her house for the bike ride to Joe's |
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| The day after my bike tumble, working with Joe and Val on Joe's World Map project |
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| Biking adventures continue: Dec. 30. 2012 |
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