Across Mozambique, on the Carboniferous. To Eswatini, wave to the pig.

Let's start with the most important things. This trip had absolutely no justification. If I were invited to a podcast and the host asked, "Maciek, why Eswatini?"—I might at best answer, "because it's there, because I could." For some, such an answer would be obvious, for others, meaningless.

The plan was supposed to be a bit different, but laziness won out. Flights to Johannesburg are quite cheap. I thought I'd fly there, leave my bike case at a reliable hotel near the airport, and then cycle to Maputo, Mozambique, via Eswatini, and return by bus. But I'd already surpassed the stage of trying to figure out how to get my bike out of Johannesburg alive. It turned out the only way was by bus. I could get a lift to Nelspruit, where some amateur multi-day race was taking place, cycle through the surrounding mountains, and from there head to Mozambique, from where I'd return by bus. However, there were quite a few buses for a trip of just over a week. So I decided to fly Ethiopian Airlines to Maputo and from there do a loop around Eswatini.

I don't know how this post ended up being so long. I've had almost no adventures.

The plan had two drawbacks. The Mozambique visa is one of the most expensive in Africa, and researching it online is very easy: there's tons of information, unfortunately, each one different. Finally, after sending a small stack of documents, including a Polish bank statement, and paying $190 less 4 cents, I received a 30-day multiple-entry visa. It's important that it's multiple-entry, because I might be in for a surprise trying to bike back to my starting point. The second problem was that, according to the internet, Mozambique consists of a single, very long, and quite potholed, paved road, and otherwise, it's mostly sand. So I leave the Factor at home and take a Spec Diverge with 45mm tires.

I'm used to maps being deceptive, and yet they still surprise me. It turns out that Maputo, from Warsaw, is further away than Tokyo. Besides, no one knows where this whole Mozambique thing is, let alone Eswatini. This could be justified by the fact that Eswatini only got its name in 2018, and before that it was Swaziland, but no one probably knows Swaziland either. If it's known for anything in Poland, it's its king, who has already married 16 women and has 39 children. For details, please refer to to Wikipedia. Wikipedia also has this sentence, and I quote: "The rainy season is clearly visible. It lasts from September to October and from March to April." It's a pity I didn't read it before my trip at the turn of September and October.

Besides, for a while, Eswatini was British, so people generally speak English quite well, and Mozambique is Portuguese, so they speak Portuguese. People around town say that one of the reasons for the name change was that Swaziland was confused with Switzerland. Seriously, I'm linking the post to article from Vice, which begins with the sentence, "Swaziland is tired of being confused with Switzerland, so it changed its name." In an age of Shahaed homing drones, it's good to have a name that no one will accidentally enter into the system. It's the same as ordering dinner with an Uber. Of two evils, it's better to order a drive-thru of a very expensive pizza than a Shahaed missile.

People go to Mozambique for the beaches, and Eswatini is a side trip. For example, if a group goes to see lions in Kruger Park in South Africa, they go to see lions in Eswatini the next day.

I'd like to share a few more interesting facts about Eswatini from the internet, but most of them are as follows: Approximately 43% of the population is infected with HIV. The country has the lowest life expectancy in the world – around 50 years. One of its main exports is asbestos. So perhaps I'd better get to the point.

It's not worth it. There are many more interesting places to visit in the world, although I enjoyed it. However, this was the simplest African trip I've ever been on, organizationally, logistically, and "experientially." Almost everyone spoke English. Not a SINGLE person asked for money from me during the entire trip. I repeat: not a single one. Not a single "hey mzungu, give me money." I generally slipped by unnoticed. The bike was more surprising than my skin color, and I admit that outside of national parks, I saw absolutely zero white people. Instead of shouts and taunts, I mostly saw thumbs up at the sight of me. It's both a plus and a minus; it's hard to say.

It's so safe, stable, non-invasive, and unlike several other "exotic" countries I've visited, it's almost boring. As silly as that sounds.

The route itself isn't particularly exciting, as it was incredibly difficult to get off the road. In Mozambique, I'd get stuck right away, while in Eswatini, the off-road roads usually led nowhere, and the washboard roads effectively discouraged exploration. According to online descriptions, the roads in Eswatini are so bad that even getting stuck on a bike would still take less time than by car.

As for the weather: Wikipedia wasn't lying. Two days were boiling hot and sunny, two days were decent driving weather, though very windy, and the rest were pussy and downpours.

Other than that, I mostly ate at KFC, because the stores had practically nothing to grab a quick bite to eat except crackers, chips, candy bars, and Coke. I stayed in the most expensive hotels in the area, and they were still very affordable. Eswatini is half the size of the Masovian Voivodeship, but the landscape changes rapidly: there are savannas, mountains, and rainforests, so each day was completely different from the last. The roads are practically empty, and the drivers are friendly. Unless, of course, on the national road that cuts across the country and leads to the capital, which isn't the case. But I could have guessed that from the single-lane road with no shoulder and a speed limit of 130 km/h.

Overall, it seems like a great route for those with the "I'd love to go to Africa, but I'm a bit hesitant" attitude. Objectively speaking, simply cycling through the Mantenga or Mbuluzi reserves, and riding freely among zebras, wildebeests, giraffes, and maybe even crocodiles, is an unforgettable experience, and few places in the world offer this in such comfort and affordability as Eswatini. There are also few places where you can so easily encounter all of the legendary "Big Five" animals, and at such a low price. So, overall, I recommend it. Even though I started this chapter differently, I have the distinct feeling that I'm writing this blog for myself, to organize my thoughts.

From a desk in Warsaw to a bed in Maputo.

In the morning, I go to Żabka. I buy 10 sandwiches and Mentos. I'm hoping the cashier will ask me what the purpose of my purchase is. I'll tell her it'll solve the hunger problem in Africa, then quietly add "mine." The lady laughs, the bus driver comes in and applauds. Meanwhile, all I hear is, "You want Wojanek with that?" I wasn't ready for that, I don't know. For the rest of the day, I'm puzzled by Wojanek.

I leave work, or maybe even rush out, around 5 p.m. To make my flight, my colleague at the desk next to me has to give me a lift. For the 17-hour trip, with a stopover in Vienna and a transfer in Addis, I pay just under 4,300 złoty. It's a lot, but the hours are good too, because I fly out on Thursday after work and return on Sunday morning, so I have time to sleep in. A return flight on Monday morning, right before work, was similarly priced, but I'm too old for that. I don't buy any extra luggage. Not because I don't want to, but because Ethiopian doesn't offer sports luggage. I've tried in the past and know it's impossible. Unless you simply want to buy extra luggage and specify its size "on the TVs," then it's possible, but it's not a good strategy.

I approach the Okęcie airport terminal with a look of Silly John. It's somewhere between a smile and a complete blankness, a visible lack of reflection. After nine hours in an office where the word "agent" or "AI" was mentioned on average once every two minutes, it's very easy for me to maintain that expression. I hand the lady my passport and confidently toss the bike onto the scales. The lady prints a ticket and sends me to the oversized bike. Done. I paid exactly zero for the bike transport, so the ticket price suddenly became attractive, close to the version where I would have flown Qatar to Johannesburg. The vacation hasn't even started, and I've already won, and I'm in a good mood.

I land in Maputo around 1:00 PM the next day. The visa I printed and paid for turns out not to be a visa, but a confirmation that I can get one. A few very firm stamps later, and I'm a legal tourist for the next 30 days. I feel like there's a competition among the customs officers for the hardest stamp and the hardest slam of my passport on the desk. Somewhere along the way, I also get a WhatsApp message from the hotel saying they'd missed my transfer request but would be happy to send a taxi. It takes about 25 messages and three phone calls to understand that when a guest says he's inside and waiting for me at the exit, he means he's inside his car, not the building. By the time we're working this out, I could probably have caught any other taxi waiting at the terminal exit. Then I'll also know which country this is. I have learned to judge a country by its taxis – I treat taxi drivers as litmus tests: honesty, strength of persuasion, willingness to help and talk.

We almost die only once along the way. While making a left turn, we pass a car turning right head-on, inches from each other. My driver, laughing, says something like, "Heh heh, crazy people playing with phones!" and tells me to be careful cycling. He explains, however, that Maputo is very safe and I have nothing to worry about, and that Mozambique is a great country in general, the people are nice, and I'll be delighted. This doesn't quite resonate with the notification I received when I bought my insurance: „"There is a risk of military operations occurring in the indicated area. We suggest extending your insurance to include protection against their effects in the next steps."”. An online interview revealed this to be true, but only in the north, near the border. That's about three times farther than from Warsaw to Kyiv.

I then ask the same question to the guy at the hotel who walks me to my room. He says it's cool, relaxed, safe, everything's fine. I just want to avoid taking out my phone, keep it in my backpack, and when I leave the hotel, I'll walk to the right rather than the left. But that's very safe. I always prepare for potential confrontations by getting to know the most important person in a given city. You can always mention that you're a fan, hence the visit. In this case, it's the footballer Eusébio da Silva Ferreira, known as the "Black Panther." I know full well that under stress, I can go all Pink Panther.

For a night in INCANTO RESIDENCIAL I pay 240 PLN. It's one of the most expensive accommodations in the area. Breakfast is included, but from 7 a.m., and at that time, I'm already cycling, sir, because I have a good connection. It doesn't matter, the sandwiches from Żabka are always fresh. Accommodations priced over 400 PLN are few and far between, and the most expensive one I can find on Booking.com is the modern Radisson Blu high-rise, by the beach, with a sea view, for 900 PLN. However, folding my bike would be awkward.

I'm old now, and I don't feel like setting off on an adventure right away, especially since it gets dark before 6:00 PM. I turn on my bike, go for a walk around the neighborhood, and sleep, interrupted by emptying my sandwich supplies. My first impression of the city? A bit of Rybnik, a bit of Lisbon, a bit of any other African city, but clean, even if dirty. It's a phenomenon that's hard to describe. You look around and think it's dirty, but there's no more trash than in my neighborhood. Maybe it's the dust, maybe the numerous renovations, maybe the poorly maintained but mostly very nice buildings. Lisbon would have some serious competition if there were some sensible money.

Of course, I visit the most famous cathedral in the city with the beautiful name: Catedral Nossa Senhora da Conceição de Maputo. Apparently they have a special altar there for the Polish Pope. Was the choice of accommodation based on the distance to the cathedral? Maybe. Unfortunately, it's closed at 4 PM, even though according to Google Maps it should be open all day. I ask a random local, vagrant The magnet seller. He makes up an answer, of course, and it doesn't do me any good, but after a few words, I promise that when I come back in a week, I'll buy something from him. Unlucky me, a week later he'll still be there, and so will I, and the cathedral will still be closed.

Before falling asleep, however, I do one more important thing. I send out photos like "I'm in Mozambique, standing on a stick," or by a rock, a monument, a curb, or even peeing. I'm amazed at how many words Mozambique rhymes with, which is even evident in the title of this post. My deeply held dream, even from myself, of standing on a stick in Mozambique for my 40th birthday is coming true. I don't know what my next goal in life might be, but for now, I'm focusing on simply surviving the next eight days. Then I'll think about it.

From a crib in Maputo to a crib in Eswatini.

There are two borders between Mozambique and Eswatini. Technically speaking, looking at the satellite view, there are three. If I cross the third border, I'll die in prison, and I probably won't even get to choose which side of the great mountain I'll be on. Because between these two countries lies a mountain range that looks like the Great Wall from Game of Thrones. Looking further south, the same wall separates Eswatini from South Africa.

The plan is very simple – I'll take the main road for the first 40 kilometers: the N2. It sounds like the country's second most important artery, and it probably is, because in the capital it turns into the N1, which stretches nearly 2,500 km north, yet doesn't quite reach the border with Tanzania. Did I mention that Mozambique is a very large country?

The trip is OK. I'm out of the capital itself in a matter of minutes, and then, on a fairly good asphalt road, I'm traversing the endless countryside. That's a strong word, because Matola, which borders Maputo, has over a million inhabitants, the same as the capital. That's more than Warsaw in total. However, when you spread the inhabitants out into houses, not apartment blocks like here, the whole thing starts to take up a lot of space. The view from the plane was a bit surprising, because yes, there are districts of tin huts, but the main road is dominated by small villas with swimming pools, and from above, it reminds me a bit of Konstancin. Besides that, it's clean – surprisingly clean. On the roadsides, people are mowing weeds, women are sweeping the streets, people are well-dressed, elegant. It doesn't sit well with me at all. Once again, I find myself associating my idea of poverty with dirt and filth, which is simply not the case, and each subsequent trip confirms this.

For a moment, I feel at home – some kind of cabbage is being grown between two two-lane roads. The smell reminds me of the Gassy area near Warsaw. You just have to be careful, on the Gassy for thumbtacks, and here for glass. There's a lot of glass on the road, and it appears very often – I don't know how, but I haven't punctured a tire once. Or maybe I did, and it just sealed itself? I don't know, I'm afraid to check.

On the way, I pass a patrol pointing a semi-automatic weapon at me. Then it turns out they're measuring my speed with some ancient device. The roads are full of flower-decked cars – I think I've hit wedding season – it's Saturday after all. For the first time, I also encounter a surface that could be described as "washboard asphalt.".

I arrive at the small town of Boane, following a civilized path. Little did I know then that a week later I'd be looking for a place to stay overnight. The intersection looked like the 10th Anniversary Stadium in the 1990s – one giant market. I turned onto a smaller road, then onto an even smaller one, still paved, though less and less. From then on, I only saw a car once every few minutes, maybe even much less often. I don't know, time seems a bit distorted in places like this. The area seems a bit more prosperous; there are even some quite nice houses. Sometimes I think I could live in one. A week later, I realize I couldn't. It's mostly corn, cassava, and potatoes. There's even a fairly large lake and river, and hills are starting to appear on the horizon – a sign I'm about to leave the country. The border is just 400 meters of uphill driving in the heat and blazing sun, and then another 200.

Crossing the border is easier than driving up to it. At least when you understand that it's your responsibility to get stamps and paperwork. Otherwise, you might be surprised, like I was., a year earlier, in Tanzania. Which, of course, I've never been to, because if I had, I'd have to go to jail for being an illegal immigrant. So I leave my bike and go to the counter. It's funny, because the people heading towards Eswatini are all white, and the ones heading towards Mozambique are all black. I'm afraid to take a picture, but the view is like something out of a meme.

The customs officer asks me where I'm going. I won't answer, "Everywhere." I know one town – Mbanane – and I know that's the only correct answer. Then it turns out it's Mbabane. I get a note saying I'm a cyclist and don't have to pay the toll. I show the note and stamp to a guard 10 meters away. The guard knows I'm a cyclist and lets me pass. If I didn't have the note, he'd probably think I was a car and I'd have to go back and pay. And so I saved money, another profit.

Every gal in Constantinople Swaziland
Lives in Istanbul Eswatini, not Constantinople Swaziland

They Might Be Giants
Istanbul (Not Constantinople)

T-Mobile welcomes me to Swaziland, and such a country doesn't exist. I'm riding along an endless, empty, perfectly smooth asphalt road. The view stretches to the horizon, as I'm quite high up. I must be crossing some kind of nature reserve, as there's fencing on both sides of the road. The climb ends in the town of Siteki, where I'm greeted by KFC and its local equivalent, Hungry Lion. I ignore everything and keep riding. A little earlier, I'd spent 37 ZAR (less than 9 złoty) on a liter of Coke and a liter and a half of water. Again, I hadn't prepared myself and had no idea how much it was, but I see I have several thousand ZAR in my wallet, so it can't be bad. In Eswatini, they have their own currency, but the exchange rate is 1:1 with the South African rand, so they're interchangeable. At least here, because in South Africa, you can't pay with Eswatini money – it's checked. In the shop, however, I'm reminded of the reality that there's nothing on the shelves that could save a cyclist. At best, you can buy crackers and Coke. Unless you want to carry a 10-kilogram bag of rice or 15 liters of frying oil. Of course, there was a wonderful Spar in Siteki, equipped like our European stores, but I'd already used up my Monopoly card called "rest while driving." Knowing about its existence will be very useful in the future, though.

I'm driving down a road that might as well be in Tuscany, with rolling hills stretching to the horizon. There's one fundamental difference: to the west, below, flatness stretches to the horizon. Eswatini, despite its small size, is incredibly diverse. One day you can be in completely different lands, and mine is changing. Now I'm driving flat, south, with the wind at my back. On either side are fields and nature reserves. On the left, the wall separating me from Mozambique and South Africa. On the right, crops, sprayers, and somewhere far away, shyly emerging hills.

For the next 40 kilometers, the road has two gentle curves, but that's okay – I'm hurtling like a rocket breaking the desert speed record. The speedometer reads 35-40 km/h. Until they start dropping. I remember that I've been driving for over eight hours, covered about 170 km, and eaten about three Decathlon breakfast bars and a Coke. Time for a blast. I pass a store with the beautiful name "Thanks God Grocery." It probably didn't have a name in the past, and it was given to me by someone like me. I avoid it, however, because the town of Big Bend is right in front of me. I remember reading about it – the second or third largest city in the country. And indeed, it is, it's just a shame that, driving on the main road, I bypass it entirely. It's worth elaborating a bit here – it's the third largest city in the country, with 7,000 residents. For comparison, Falowiec in Gdańsk (an apartment building) has only a thousand fewer people.

My life is saved by a large gas station that looks like a truck stop – it even has a bakery. Unfortunately, it's not a Puma station. Most stations in the country are Puma, and I spend hours trying to figure out how to use the rubber balls joke when entering a Puma. Don't judge, the sun is shining brightly, and the calories go to your legs instead of your brain. I'll use this explanation many times during my trip.

The bakery lady supposedly speaks English, like everyone else, but somehow our conversation isn't flowing. I point to the next cakes. There are muffins – I take one with toffee and one with nuts. Then a chicken roll – excellent, though with potential – if you know what I mean. The lady suggests a chicken and mushroom pastry. I know all too well how eating mushrooms on trips ends, so I politely thank her and ask for another. I get another, and as it turns out, instead of chicken and mushrooms, it has only mushrooms. After the first bite, I throw them away, taking advantage of the fact that no one is looking at me.

I sit down on the curb, by the pay window. As it turns out, this is the worst place. At gas stations, there are so many attendants that every driver gets at least one. This person pours gas, then takes the money, goes to the pay window, and brings back change – incredible. So every few minutes, the attendant has to excuse me and get to the pay window. So, the pay windows are probably only for purchases. While transferring, a muffin falls out of my paper bag and rolls across half the parking lot. It's like slow motion, everyone's looking at it, and I don't have the strength to get up quickly and save it. Of course, I pick it up and eat it. I forgot to wash or sanitize my hands before eating anyway, so it won't get any worse. I keep driving.

Out of boredom, I turn onto a side road to see if I can see anything beyond the fields. After about 500 meters, I have to backtrack. To avoid looking like a nuisance to the people I passed as I entered the field, I go for a pee. I've splashed some water on my pants, so they'll know I only turned there to pee. Not that I've been beaten by a tooth-rattling grater.

According to the satellite view on Google Maps, I'm driving through something that resembles reverse crop circles. Just as we have mowed circles in a field, here the circles are green in the midst of dryness. It looks as if aliens are stealing our circles and moving them there. What if the aliens are simply Africans from Wakanda, using future technologies to steal our crops? To my surprise, this isn't the case. It turns out it's the result of a few hundred meters of crop rotation. watering can, which are like a giant arm that moves around. The overall number of irrigation systems here is impressive.

I'm having a great time, I don't even notice the sun slowly disappearing below the horizon. I skip my most optimistically planned overnight stay: Royal Jozini Private Game Reserve for 400 złoty, because it's in the middle of a game reserve, not in the middle of a town with shops, and I end up at the end of the country. Literally, the border with South Africa. Oh, I entered the country almost at its northern edge. The town I find there is a bit different from what I imagined. However, there is accommodation there: "ROADSIDE B&B." I pull up to it and immediately regret it. It's the middle of a party, I'm surrounded by people. local guys, everyone says something, someone grabs my arm and invites me in. Of course, everyone is extremely positive, but it's not a place I'd want to sleep. I ask about alternatives – they say there aren't any. I point out on the map that there is something there – they reply something about booking online, but I don't understand anything. I go looking for it and actually I can't find it. Even the people living in the cottage next door don't know anything about it. It's already completely dark. There's a party on the road, probably 100 people or more. Everyone's looking into the field, I don't know what's going on. I ask random people, but no one knows anything. Someone recommends this luxurious accommodation I passed a dozen kilometers earlier. I have almost 240 kilometers on the odometer and I don't want to go back. Finally, it turns out that somewhere completely off to the side, walking along the narrow path, along the fence separating me from South Africa, there's a lodge. The map shows Digital Marketing – a wedding chapel, but in fact, there's a church with a pub – hidden next to it. Lavumisa Lodge. This ski lodge has a solid 2.8 star rating on Google – I don't know why, just like in Lesotho, many guesthouses are marked on Google Maps as ski lodges.

If you were to follow my lead, change your planned overnight stay to a luxurious one, or even one deeper in the reserve. Chances are you'll be woken up by elephants, rhinos, or other cheetahs, not by music and screams.

Two nice ladies approach me and show me a room. I go in and out immediately. I ask for a more luxurious one. They show me a more luxurious one, for 350 ZAR, or 80 PLN. Let me put it this way, the room had some advantages. For example: the bed, the walls, women's lace panties hanging in the shower, and a ceiling fan. It's hard to find any others. They also ask if I drink alcohol and if I'm going with them to the restaurant 20 meters away. If I wanted to die, I would, of course, go, but I don't. So they ask if I have to spend the 400 ZAR I gave them. I'm not assertive, I say that of course I don't, and they can go party.

I'm starting to think that maybe I don't like cycling at all. On the first day, I spent 10 hours and 40 minutes, of which I spent less than 30 minutes standing still, and I pedaled over 235 kilometers in that time. And yet, I was stuck at the border for a long time. Maybe I deliberately cycled two days on the first day so I could rest and not cycle on the last? Maybe that would be true, if the entire trip weren't stressful because I was cycling too much and would have to modify the route so I wouldn't run out of it at the end.

In the evening, already dark, I go shopping at the local supermarket. It's quite well-stocked. If I were to list everything I bought there, this post would be twice as long, but let's just say I base my diet on juices, yogurts, and oatmeal. The atmosphere in the store is like the Żabka near the National Stadium two hours before the start of the Roztańczony Narodowy event. To put it mildly: youthful, party-like. I don't cause much of a stir, someone just says hello. Only the lady at the checkout starts a longer conversation, noticing my bag. Indeed, I'm walking through an Eswatini village on the South African border, in the dark, along a side path, carrying my groceries in a 25-liter yellow fabric bag with duck prints. Yes, that's me, on vacation. Before falling asleep, I check my Garmin – it says I should rest for 90 hours after this day. You'll be surprised...

A lot of nothing, a lot of difficult.

It wasn't the best night of my life. Even though I spent a good number of hours in bed, my watch says I slept just over 5 out of 8.5 hours. It was definitely the worst night's sleep of the year, although a malicious, foresighted person would say, "Worst night's sleep of the year SO FAR." The culprits, of course, are the mosquitoes and the lack of air conditioning. It's either hot or the fan is blowing air into my mattress. Didn't I bring any mosquito repellent from home? I'm an experienced traveler—of course I did. There were mosquito warnings everywhere, and the previous day I'd probably passed 10 billboards warning about malaria. However, I deliberately left the repellent at the hotel in Maputo because I figured it would take up a lot of space and wouldn't be useful at all. Well, making decisions in an expensive hotel is as good as planning a trip to Africa from your desk at home. I imagine that six months later, when it turns out I do have malaria, the doctor will ask: "DEET didn't help against mosquitoes?" and I'll tell him that it took up too much space in my luggage and I wouldn't have room to buy a plush African woman at the market stall.

I open my eyes in the morning and check my watch to see if I'm tired. My Body Battery is 20, which means I'm not dead yet – good, I'm good to go. At 7 a.m., the city is deserted, with only dogs on the roadside. It's amazing, because despite the evening crowds, there's no trash around. Skaryszewski Park looks much worse on a Sunday morning.

The second day can be summed up very easily. There are a lot of very long, very empty, and very good asphalt roads. It's also cloudy, sometimes even a little rain, and the forecast says summer will end tomorrow and only cold, wet misery will remain. To make things more complicated, I'm heading west now, because the country has ended south, which means a merciless wind blows straight into my face. It's a minor problem, though, as the hills have started to roll in, so it doesn't significantly affect my speed. I drive for about 90 kilometers, rarely exceeding 20 km/h. I pass small villages, and basically the only attraction are the numerous bus stops painted with slogans about HIV and condoms. There's something inappropriately and crudely amusing about seeing a man sitting at a bus stop, and behind him are painted four rubber bands, a ball, and the words "Don't let HIV score you a goal." I'm a little ashamed that I find it funny, but back then I didn't know about these 40% infected people in the area.

I reach Nhlangano, the first place I could think of to end the day, but it's not even 1 p.m. yet, so it's a bit silly. I stop at a shop where I can buy Coke, jelly beans, and refill my water bottles after a five-hour ride. I join a guy on a bench. I'm a little annoyed that everyone here takes things so slowly, so laid-back and seemingly relaxed. The conversation is classic: where I'm going, where I'm going, why, where I sleep, what I eat, how I wash my clothes. I can't explain any of my answers sensibly. Or maybe there simply isn't a sensible explanation. After all, instead of pedaling for several hours a day in cold, heat, drought, and downpour, I could be sitting in a luxurious hotel by the pool, and sometimes even let them take me on a safari-style ride.

Some unjustified force in my head always tells me that local guys They know what the weather will be like. By asking them this question, I secretly hope they'll consider their years of experience observing the climate, look at the sky, recall what typically happens at the end of September, compare it with the sky, and provide a comprehensive answer. So I ask the guy on the bench, pointing to the dark clouds on the horizon. The guy responds the same way everyone always does, regardless of the country. He pulls out his phone, checks the weather, and says it might rain or it might not, and that it might rain or it won't rain tomorrow. I thank him and move on.

I'm lumbering north; the landscape has changed dramatically. Until now, it was rather dry, orange, and gloomy, but now it's turning greener, and even forests are appearing. I'm several hundred meters higher, just over a thousand meters above sea level – my second day in Eswatini and my third in a completely different type of landscape in this country. It's all very nice, but a minor problem is the completely black sky, constantly lit up by lightning, which is clearly chasing me. So I decide to climb as hard as I can, because then, according to my planned profile, I'll face several dozen kilometers of gentle descent.

I'm skipping the detour to the summit – the views will be similar anyway, and I'll at most miss the village where I could potentially spend the night. The plan works, as I maintain a constant advantage over the clouds, and that's how the day unfolds. With each potential overnight stop, I assess the situation and decide that I can definitely make it a bit further.

At kilometer 145, I reach my planned hotel. It's off to the side, I can't see it, there's nothing nearby. I'm afraid to spend the night without a shop nearby, so I take the risk and keep going. Besides, it's 3:30 p.m. – that would be marnancja Vacation. Three kilometers away is another one – this time luxurious, with a supermarket right at the entrance: Olive Country Lodge for 430 złoty. It looks like a dream come true, and I'm really struggling to find any reasons not to stay there. There probably aren't even any mosquitoes there, and you could even rest your head on a pillow. Except, of course, that it's 3:37 PM and the rain still hasn't stopped. I still have over 40 kilometers to Manzini – the largest city in the country – and there wasn't a single moment that day when I thought getting there was possible. I don't think so at this point either, but I'm moving on.

I pass a few more stops for accommodation, each one of them confusing me, and then I reach civilization. For a moment, I wonder if this isn't a mirage, because there's a spa, a hotel with a golf course, a SPAR, a KFC, and everything. KFC definitely wasn't on the maps. It also starts to rain. I take shelter in a KFC because I remember that since breakfast, which was a 10-hour drive earlier, I've eaten about two candy bars, a Coke, and a pack of jelly beans. As I chewed on the last one, the thought crossed my mind that maybe it wasn't the best idea to lick my fingers clean of sugar while driving. Or maybe I remembered it after seeing the cashier pour ice cubes, probably made from tap water, into my Coke?

I hear the splash of those hard cubes falling into the cup and I have a feeling that this is not a sound I will be hearing in the bathroom anytime soon. Unfortunately, I'm right.

A large set meal at KFC costs me just over 20 złoty, and from now on, it will be my most frequent meal. I'll stop at every KFC I pass and order this exact set. It's only late in the day that I discover it's problematic. From observation, I'm probably the only person in the country who eats chicken in a bun at KFC, not wings. So, every time, I wait slightly 10 times longer than everyone else for my order. I chalk it up to hygiene reasons, but it doesn't bother me when eating fries, and every location has not only a bathroom but also a handwashing area, even equipped with antibacterial gel. I'm quietly observing the rain, which has just started, under a roof, and half of me is shocked that even here, cardboard straws have arrived instead of plastic ones, and half of me is wondering what excuse I can come up with not to stop at the spa, which is probably a kilometer away. After all, with another hour until dusk, I might even make it to that city.

Shock and disbelief – once you eat the food, you regain your strength. This has surprised me every time for 15 years. I leave KFC during the weather window, and before it closes, I'm already driving towards the city. I only get a little wet, but minutes before sunset, in a hurricane that will bring a massive cloudburst a few minutes later, I arrive in Manzini – the largest city in the country – 100,000 inhabitants, and yet not the capital. I report "„The George Hotel & Casino”– the most expensive and luxurious hotel. I pay 450 złoty for a night with breakfast. On the plus side: across the street is a shopping center with a huge SPAR that would be a sight to behold in a German village. On the minus side: to get to my room with my bike, I have to pass a conference room, a swimming pool, a bar, a casino, several hallways, countless other rooms, and the Rwandan embassy.

In the evening, I go to SPAR to buy some things I won't be able to eat tonight. I prank and go out in my kimono, listening to the storm and being glad that if it's raining now, it won't rain in the morning.

It's raining.

It's such a bummer, of course, that it's still raining in the morning. According to the forecast, the sun won't come back for another three days. So I head down to breakfast, where, for some reason, I mostly eat grilled bacon. It's not the best choice; my stomach is in shock. I feel like it's telling me, "Maciek, what the hell is this? We were supposed to eat only carbs, not fat." It says it loud and clear. I add the toilet with a window overlooking the hallway instead of the backyard to the list of hotel's flaws. Although this might be more of a drawback for the people passing by than for me.

If we have a professional relationship, or as they say, a professional one. Skip the next paragraph. In any case, whether it's dirty hands, ice cubes in Coke, or the amount of bacon, a visit to the restroom promises adventure. Good thing I brought Nifuroxazide and Stoperan. There's an African spell I just made up that perfectly illustrates the situation:

Magic mary, riki tiki
Your poop is piss.

Ignoring the rain, I set off on my next adventure. At the hotel, the receptionist bids me farewell with the words, "Terrible cycling weather, probably the worst day of the month." I look at him with a smile and answer with complete honesty, "Worst day so far." I was wrong, it was the worst.

A downpour isn't the best weather for a busy city trip, but it seems adequate for the day's activities. I spend most of my time on the highway between the country's largest city, the capital, and the main border with South Africa. I'm surprised there's no ban on cycling, but considering the number of people hitchhiking on the shoulder, I have some reservations about calling this road a highway. It's two lanes, has a large shoulder, and in my case, it's a thousand meters uphill. So steep, in fact, that I can't imagine anywhere else in the world being considered a highway.

I start with a visit to Manzini Main Market, hoping to pick up some souvenirs, as I'm planning on hiking later, and it might be difficult. According to Google images, it should be possible, but probably only during the tourist season—if there is one. All I can buy there are cabbages, cassava, and flip-flops—not exactly satisfying. That day, I stop at a few more places marked "Handicraft" before discovering they're places where you can mend a hole in your pants or weld a steel frame before buying any handicrafts.

It's very cold and very wet, and visibility is poor, which worries me a bit. A visit to the Mlilwane Game Sanctuary is on my agenda. As Hołek would say, "Take the first exit off the highway after 20 kilometers" – which is exactly what I do, as I'm guided by Google Maps, after all. At least until I reach a sign that says, "No entry – Google and GPS are wrong, this isn't the place." Next are the gate coordinates, which aren't very helpful right now. It's pouring rain, so clicking anything on my iPhone is next to impossible, and the coordinates consist of 14 digits and a few symbols I can't find on the keyboard. There are so few roads that I can guess where the main entrance is – I've only covered about 10 kilometers, or half an hour.

I get a message on WhatsApp from a colleague, "How are you?" It's 9 a.m., at this time I'd probably be sitting at daily like any self-respecting IT person. I answer him truthfully that "„cold, rain and shit„"Damn, if I were a vlogger, that's what I'd call the episode. For a moment, I allow for the possibility that at this particular moment, I'd rather be at work. Stupid. There will be other moments that day when I'd much rather be in the office, with a coffee and a bottle of water that you have to queue for. On most billboards, I see chicken wings dipped in white sauce – it doesn't help me.

Entering the park by bike is no problem. I'm a bit surprised, because besides me and the staff, there are absolutely zero other people. And I'm even more surprised that the entry fee is 17 złoty – it's a beautiful country. From the very first meters after crossing the barrier, I'm greeted by countless zebras, wildebeests, and antelopes. For most of my life, I've confused wildebeests, which are completely harmless, with buffaloes, which belong to the Big Five and are considered the most dangerous of their kind. So I constantly feel unjustified anxiety when I see a herd of dozens of wildebeests staring blankly at me.

The entire reserve looks like the Africa people who haven't been there imagine: greenery, hills, gravel roads, and tons of animals. I mean, that's probably the second image, after the first, which consisted of mud, a child with a bloated belly, and a hut made of cow shit. I won't lie, it's a place I could spend days cycling around, even though this private reserve isn't particularly large. I pass a large lake – in it, I spot something that looks like a log. I guess it's a crocodile. I calmly analyze the situation and conclude that it's impossible for anyone to let cyclists ride near crocodiles. A little further on, I see a sign: "No fishing, keep away from the shore – crocodiles." I back up to make sure I've done my research correctly. Next to the log are three more logs, and they're slowly moving. I take a photo to show the doctor what bit my leg in the future and hurried away. I was a triathlete, I know you can't beat a crocodile on the run or in the water, but on the bike, I have the advantage. Although that assumption probably took into account the time trial, not the several kilograms of bikepacking equipment I was carrying in the field. I spend over two hours in the park, grateful that the downpour has temporarily changed to a drizzle.

Somewhere on a side road, just as a large herd of wildebeests is standing in front of me and we're all wondering what to do, I hear a terrible noise. My brain isn't functioning properly, so I can only attribute this buzzing sound to something familiar. At first, I think it's a wildebeest's cry—to attack or flee—so I'm half-heartedly happy. Then I hear an alarm in the reserve going off, and a jeep is on its way to rescue me. But the sound is too close and too strange. I spend a good minute searching for the source, though I don't even know how to approach it. It turns out the electric pump in my bag has gone off. It's the only time it's been used on this trip.

I return to the main road and a little further on, I turn off the road to the Ezulwini Handcraft Market. I'm hoping to buy something, because the National Handcraft Training Centre is right next door, so maybe there will be something interesting... and there is. There's also a problem, though. The market is a large rectangle, with all the stalls facing inward. So I stand in the center, completely alone, the only tourist, even the only potential customer. I see dozens of eyes appear from the darkness of the stalls, staring at me with hope. Most of the stalls are the same. So how can I choose just one, my stall? The vendors aren't aggressive, but they all try to talk to me and attract me as soon as I approach a stall—they seem to be exclusively women. So I drive around, trying to do a quick visual analysis, and I stop at two random stalls to buy wooden African beaded babas. Trip completed: I saw animals, bought a souvenir, now all that's left to do in terms of main quests is return to Mozambique; everything else is optional. A+.

I'm back on the highway, and if there were a scale for "how bad it is," it would get a solid 8 out of 10. Visibility drops to almost zero, the temperature is in the single digits, it's pouring rain like crazy, and I'm limping up a huge hill on a two-lane road with a shoulder for several hours. I turn off for the capital, where I should take an off-road road and continue into the mountains, to my chosen accommodations. However, I see the condition of the off-road roads and let it go. I stop at KFC and order my favorite meal, which I'll wait 10 times longer for than everyone else. It doesn't matter, the restaurant is dry and warm.

I approach some girls and ask if they'll keep an eye on my bike because I can't find the lock. They say they'll do it if I buy them something. I tell them no, and I leave it with them anyway. Then I discover that every KFC has a security guard who's happy to take a look, because he has nothing better to do anyway. I go to the bathroom to change from my short-sleeved T-shirt to a winter thermal shirt. I have a raincoat over that, a civilized one, not a garbage bag. ultralight. It's a wonderful thing, and the hood is one of humanity's greatest inventions. I'm sitting on this Zinger and looking at the turbo-luxury Hilton Garden Inn – there's a 400 złoty transfer about 100 meters away. It would be so warm and comfortable there. Except it won't change anything, because it's supposed to rain tomorrow. But on the other hand, I feel so terribly, terribly cold and wet. I spend an hour thinking about it, even though I'm sure only about 15 minutes have passed. I discover now, checking the trail, that it was an hour. Maybe I've missed something. This time, as an experiment, I take a Coke without ice.

Using the golden mean method, I decide to modify the route and reach the planned asphalt road via a highway instead of off-road. This way, I will avoid the famous Sibebe Rock. It's a monolith described as the second largest, solitary granite rock in the world. In my head, it sounds a bit like the winner of the "father of three, lawyers, 36-38, blonde" race.

It's hopeless, but it turns out it was the cold, not the rain, that was bothering me. With my thermal shirt on, I don't shiver as much. I reach the last intersection before the large border with South Africa and head north onto the asphalt, into the rainforest. There, I'm taking no more risks; I check into the first available hotel: Havana Resort. These are luxurious cabins run by white men. A mud road leads to them, so my first question upon arrival is whether they have a water hose. I'm alone there; apparently, it's as close to the off-season as it gets. I'll never ask ChataGPT for a recommendation on when to go somewhere again. I finish the day after less than 10 hours, covering less than 100 kilometers and 2,000 vertical meters – the driving itself took only 6.5 hours, making it the shortest day of the trip. Still, I'm looking forward to spending the evening under the covers, with the air conditioning on, and a good dinner from the on-site restaurant. A very good one, in fact. I take a large hamburger from the campfire and another one back to my room.

At the end of the day, the guy asks me where I'm from. I tell him Poland. He says, "Of course, that's why you're wearing an orange jacket." I can't sleep, trying to solve this riddle. In the middle of the night, I figure out that he understood Holland, not Poland. In the morning, I wanted to tell him that there's no such country as Holland, just as there's no Swaziland, but I forget; I have more important things on my mind. Because

The wind wakes me up
The wind carries fear
The rain wakes me up
The rain hugs me
The glow wakes me up
Hot days
A scream wakes me up

Edyta Bartosiewicz

Well, not really screaming, just a rooster crowing from 3 a.m. And lightning, lots of lightning. I go for breakfast, which is pretty good. I ask the staff about the weather – they're smart, they don't check their phones, they just tell me it rains all the time here and sometimes it's just warmer. Nice.

I can't say much about Day 4 of the ride: I can see fog and the front wheel, as it's constantly pointing upwards. Which isn't true, because according to the profile, 20km is flat, then two climbs totaling 700 meters, and I reach a town where important and difficult decisions will have to be made. However, before I cover those 50km in 3.5 hours, gazing at magnificent mountain views obscured by clouds and water hanging in the air, I encounter quite an adventure on the descent. Something in my front brake is shifting, and now the lever is seizing from the first millimeter of pressure. This worries me a bit, but I also like it a bit. My rear end is so heavily loaded that I can't do an OTB... it just makes the ride harder. But diagnosing the problem will take me more than two days. I decide to ignore it, like a responsible adult. I'm used to things being ignored, solving themselves—positively or negatively.

At Piggs Peak, I stop at a KFC. I should have turned towards South Africa and, as planned, entered even higher mountains, somewhere around 1,700 meters. The South African Barberton Game Reserve was one of the key points of this trip. It's also one of the most famous roads in the area: there are 124 turns in 26 kilometers. I just don't know why I'd bother going there if it's pouring and you can't see a thing. According to the forecast, it's even worse beyond the hill. I give up and decide to head further north. It's a shame, I could say I've been to the border on both sides of Eswatini.

Since I'm most afraid of what happens if I have too much time left on vacation, I decide to leave the country in the north and visit South Africa for a while. Just 200 meters before the border, it's pouring so heavily that I have to pull into a gas station and, shivering, watch as 10 guys in red jackets wait on the sporadic cars that come by. I stand there for 40 minutes, chatting with the guys, but when I show them the route on Komoot and try to explain what's going on, the conversation breaks down.

It's difficult at the border. I try to explain where I'm going, why I'm going in the wrong direction, and that I'm only entering South Africa to sleep in a hotel, because there's nothing on the Eswatini side. The customs officer asks me how long I want the entry stamp for. I answer truthfully, "until tomorrow." Someone in the queue nudges me and says I want it for a week, but I've got it wrong. He's right; if something happens and I can't leave tomorrow, there will be problems. I thank him later for the tip.

It's bad in South Africa. The asphalt is worse, there's more filth, garbage on the roadside, more traffic, more of everything. In the first few minutes, several trucks try to kill me. I know this from Kenya, and I'm convinced my mirror in my glasses saves my life. I see trucks approaching from behind, blaring their horns, and if I hadn't always escaped to the off-road shoulder, they would simply have run me over. Without scruples, without mercy. The first hotels appear, or rather guest houses. With prices listed per hour, per three hours, and per night. There are plenty of them, but none of them look like the kind of place I'd want to sleep in. I suspect most guests don't rent them just to sleep either. If someone had told me I'd be nearly 80 km from the border before I decided to stay somewhere, I would have thought they were crazy.

But it does stop raining a bit, and the wind picks up – thanks to which I dry out quite quickly. The asphalt is dramatic, sometimes more absent than present. What's more, the puddles effectively mask the potholes. They say that in Mozambique, potholes are so big they have their own postal code. It's similar here – the surface is divided into washboards and craters. If I hit one, they won't find me until spring, during the dry season.

I reach the first town, then the second, practically dry. Something about each one feels off, even though I know it's simply too early for the day to end. These are the moments when I miss my traveling companion a bit. My brain is working at half capacity, and my companion's would be working at half capacity too. Together, we would be one adult, sensibly assessing reality. Perhaps this would allow us to make a decision, rather than ignoring the need to make one by pedaling on.

I arrive at the last civilization on my way internet-free The map has accommodations marked on it. The first one doesn't suit me, the second one doesn't really, and the third one – the one I promised myself I'd definitely stay at – isn't there. It was called Elephant Park Lodge and sounded like something luxurious for tourists. The problem is, I didn't buy internet for South Africa, so it's hard for me to find my way around. Only in the evening do I discover that if you have an eSIM from Revolut installed, you can buy a plan for a given country even without internet. You don't need to activate anything, because you can add multiple plans to a single, already installed card. So in the afternoon, I can't find accommodation online, but in the evening I can. scroll funny cats on Instagram.

A few kilometers further there should be another object: Elephant Lodge And Park. I assume it's the same one, only this time it's well-located on the maps. And it is, except it looks like a lodge from the TV series Fallout. It might work, but the receptionist, clearly surprised by my presence, explains that there's nothing to eat here and that I'll die without food. I ask about a restaurant or alternative hotels – she says there aren't any. Interesting. Outraged, I leave and continue driving. It starts pouring, and I'm soaked again. I'm driving in the opposite direction than I should have been, because I know there's a town with a KFC 10km north, the so-called "last chance." There's another hotel, the lady shows me a room with a shared bathroom and says I can get chicken and rice. I say I'll think about it and keep driving – to find a shop. I'm covered in mud because the hotel must have forgotten to pave the driveway, and my shoes sink up to my ankles in the wet sand. I reach the town where the hotel and KFC are supposed to be. There's no hotel, the KFC is so crowded that I probably won't get my Zinger until morning. I ask a few locals about somewhere to stay – they all agree there's nothing in the area. Interesting, since I've just visited a few and we're literally standing in front of a building with a "lodge" sign – but one I definitely won't be entering. Returning to the shared bathroom, I stop at two more: one ministry there is a swimming pool and a restaurant, but no accommodation, and in the second There's no food, and no one can help me get any. It takes me a long time to figure this out, because it's dark and the gates are closed. Waving and shining a flashlight at the camera pointed at the entrance helped. Then I stop at a store where I only manage to buy juice, water, chips, and crackers, and I return with my head down to the one with the shared bathroom: The Ridge Club.

All evening, I can't figure out whether I've rented a room or the entire three-room apartment. I order three dinners – two immediately and one, which I plan to keep for breakfast, because breakfast is out and can't be ordered. It's not easy to explain. Not only are there two dinners for dinner, but there's also a dinner for breakfast. I get them almost two hours later when I go to the kitchen to ask about the progress. The lady replied that it was ready and was already bringing it. I suspect she forgot, because I get two chicken with fries and rice and one rib in the same set, and everything is cold. No wonder she forgot, after all, I'm the only customer in the entire establishment. Moments after the food arrives, someone comes over and puts toilet paper on the table – I don't know if it has anything to do with the food or if it's just a fluke. Just in case, I don't ask, but I appreciate it.

In the room, a blue light, reminiscent of UV, comes on by default. I don't know if it's for cleaning or to prove to me that there's no dried blood or other bodily fluids anywhere. Here, too, I don't risk putting my head on the pillow – I wrap myself in my sanitary sleeping bag liner. There are even towels, but I can't tell if they've already been used or if they're waiting for me – just in case – I don't touch them. This is definitely the worst night of the year. Even though I spend a lot of time in bed, I sleep a little over five hours. The rest I spend in an unequal battle with mosquitoes. I hate myself for leaving Deet in Maputo. If this were a game where I get a point for a kill and they get a point for a bite, the score would resemble the famous 2023 game between the Sacramento Kings and the Los Angeles Clippers. It ended 176-175. I don't know who won our match, but I'm still alive, and the mosquitoes haven't stopped.

So, take me back to Constantinople Swaziland
No, you can't go back to Constantinople Swaziland

They Might Be Giants
Istanbul (Not Constantinople)

The morning is great. Everything itches, and I'm super sleep-deprived and tired. I check the weather on my phone: sunshine. I look out the window: pouring rain. I have nothing to eat, and yesterday's ribs and fries are practically inedible. I eat the last candy bar I'd saved for the worst possible moment. I pack up and head for Eswatini, which is 30km away, and beyond that, the great void awaits. The driving is drastically bad: maybe it's lack of sleep, maybe the wind in my face, maybe hunger, or maybe a technical problem that I'll understand a few days later. After about three minutes, the first truck pushes me onto the hard shoulder. A moment later, I get a punch in the arm from a white BMW, who's folding its mirror. But it has a driving lesson sign, so don't worry. It simply plowed into me, maintaining exactly 10cm of clearance. I saw it in the mirror; it was going slowly; I thought it was getting ready to overtake, but it was simply giving me time to escape to the hard shoulder. Fortunately, the closer I get to the new country, the better. In Eswatini, I only see one car every few minutes.

Just the border and a slew of questions. Does the rain bother me? It does. Am I tired? I am. Did I enter South Africa yesterday and leave today? Yes. Why am I going south when Maputo is to the east? How is it that I don't know where I'll be staying? As a reward for correct answers, I'm allowed through to the next window, where the same questions await me. I also receive a slip of paper confirming that I'm a bicycle, which I can present 20 meters away to prove I'm a bicycle.

I'm riding through nothingness – vast fields of crops, the occasional monkey, very rarely a human. Only the rain keeps me from falling asleep. And then there's the fact that, on flat terrain, I have to maintain over 200 watts to maintain double-digit speeds. Along the way, I try to leave the paved roads for off-road trails, but there's sand, washboards, and mud, so I give up.

I'm only at the 90th kilometer, five hours into the ride. My blood has run out of carbon and I can't go any further. I buy a Coke, two candy bars, and sour gummies—that's the most sensible combination I can manage. Then the sun slowly begins to come out, the hills appear, the sugar dissolves in my body, and I feel better. I have no idea where to stay overnight. In the most optimistic scenario, I planned to reach the most famous park in the country: Hlane Royal National Park. I'd even planned to spend the night there. Except that would mean covering 180 kilometers, and at my most adventurous moments of the day, I hadn't yet planned to exceed 100. But I've been working out in my head that if I slept in the park, maybe I'd even catch a safari in the morning. With that in mind, I cover every forced kilometer.

I'm saved from my predicament by a TotalEnergies gas station, a large one with a bakery and a decent shop. It's at the intersection of my unused side road and the highway I'm unfortunately already familiar with. This time, however, there's an empty road running alongside the highway. service shop and the ride is comfortable. My mood is a bit sour because somewhere along the way I lost my rear light – one of those expensive ones, luckily I still have a spare.

The highway ends near the country's main airport, and my service van joins an endless straight downhill stretch. The kind I'd seen from above the first day and prayed wouldn't be my roads. There's no shoulder, the traffic is heavy, and the speed limit on this single-lane road is 120 km/h—three Hail Marys, and off I go. I check the accommodations on the map and happen to click on the comments about my chosen accommodation. It turns out there are two options: one can't be booked and I don't know if there are any available spaces, and the other is 10 km into the park. Neither has food or a shop, and the one that can be booked also has no electricity at night. I give up. Which is good, because as it turns out, I wouldn't be able to cycle through the park to my accommodation. I'd have to weave my way through rhinos and elephants. The website later states that traveling there after 6 p.m. is prohibited. I'd be a bit surprised. Or the rhinos would be surprised.

I find accommodation: Mvula Zehlobo Apartments – the ratings are excellent, even the comments are there, the price is quite high, which suits me perfectly. When I arrive, I'm even greeted by a large, colorful sign with the name, but there's no one inside. I ask a guy walking by – he says he's never heard of any hotel here. I point to the sign with my finger.„Mvula Zehlobo Apartments„", and he says it's strange. He calls the woman who tends the nearby cows – she doesn't know anything either. They don't know much at all. I show them on the map a place to stay a few kilometers away and ask if that's the place too. They nod in a way that makes me wonder, but I don't have a better option.

The second one, Modern Hotel Life Style, it works, and it's very nice. They're terraced houses, fenced off, with a lady at the front desk. It has only one drawback – there's no shop nearby, and I don't want to trudge another dozen or so kilometers to go shopping. I ask about taxis – the lady says sure, no problem: I just have to go out into the street and wave at passing buses. I ask about single-seat taxis – she doesn't understand. I come up with the word: private transfer. Now she understands, but, surprised, she replies that I'll have to pay for gas. Finally, we go to the owner together to ask if he can give me a lift. He calls his son, who looks like he's spent the last four hours staring at the ceiling, and asks if he's busy. I don't know if this is ironic, but it seems not. Of course he isn't, so he can give me a ride. I know a town called Siteki – it's the one where I saw a KFC and a Spar on the first day – it's 11 kilometers away, and probably half a kilometer uphill. I sound like a real local: take me to Siteki for shopping!

To get there, you'll need to fill up the car at a nearby gas station. I arrange a 100-rand fuel rate with the guy, which is about 24 złoty. So we fill up for 70 rand, which is 2.7 liters of gas. I remind you that this is one of the closest overnight stops, probably the most famous tourist attraction. Hlane has four of the Big Five animals, the only one missing is a buffalo – there's an elephant, a lion, a rhino, and a leopard. Buffalo, however, can be seen in Mkhaya National Park, 30 km away. So, this is a place to stay that allows you to see everything within walking distance. Meanwhile, the guy knows nothing about them. He says he's busy with work and has no idea about the parks, any activities there, or how to arrange anything. Oh well, I'll head out in the morning and check things out spontaneously by standing around and asking.

A visit to SPAR is wonderful because I'm incredibly hungry. Luckily, my driver follows me around the entire time, never straying more than two meters, and carefully watches my every move, down every aisle. This helps me avoid shopping like a hungry African child. Sorry for the joke, but I had to use it, and I'm pretty sure no one has made it this far into the article. We all probably have childhood trauma where we don't finish our lunch while children in Africa starve. Then we visit KFC, where instead of one Zinger, I order two to share. Thanks to this trick, I don't wait 10 times longer for my order than others, but 20 times longer, almost dying of hunger.

An evening in a comfortable bed, with clean sheets, plenty of food, and a plan for the next day is wonderful. Plus, the knowledge that the downpours are over and I can once again collect skin cancer from the sun doesn't dampen my spirits. Even the fact that the shower water has two states: boiling and ice doesn't dampen my spirits. What's more, the sweet roll I bought at SPAR is the best sweet roll I've had in months, and I have a feeling that's not just a judgment made by hunger. And you should know that thanks to the bakeries near my house in Praga, I know a lot about sweet rolls. I bought two, so I put the second one in a cardboard box, set it aside, and go to bed happy. Every now and then, I wake up excited at the thought of eating that same roll with yogurt in the morning.

- Your profession?
– Sweet roll

I jump out of bed around 6 a.m., full of energy and happiness. Not only does a day full of animals await me, like a true tourist, but this wonderful roll is also waiting for me, with which I'll start a beautiful, sunny day. It couldn't be better. At least until I realize the door isn't airtight, and I've left the roll in its cardboard packaging on the floor by my bed. An endless snake of ants leads to it. My roll looks like a poppy seed bun, or maybe even a poppy seed bun, and the box has gone from white to black. So I spend the next 10 minutes cleaning the ants from various parts of the room and my luggage.

I set off on my journey, full of energy and disappointed by my own stupidity. Along the way, I see a sign addressed to cyclists and hikers: beware of lions and elephants crossing the road. I imagine a situation where I suddenly encounter a lion in front of me and start to wonder what "beware." I imagine a pride of lions jumping out of the bushes and saying, "Ha, cyclist, now we're going to eat you because we're very hungry!" I tell them, "But I'm watching out for you." They apologize and wish me a safe trip.

Luckily, I only encounter a few monkeys, antelopes, and wildebeests. It's generally impossible to spot a lion in the area, because even though I'm passing through a reserve where lions live, they're fenced off—they live in an enclosed area—like a zoo, only a larger one. The more often I go on safari, the more I realize it's all zoo-like, and the term "wildlife" is slowly disappearing.

I turn off the road and head to the gate separating me from the Hlane reserve. It's the same as everywhere else – barriers, a booth, a toll. Only there are no cars, no people. I spend a lot of time talking to the lady at the barrier. I try to find out if I can continue, if there are any attractions for cyclists, and if I can hook up with a group going on a safari. For example, the lady has to check if the safari is even happening, because the day before, everything was canceled by rain and impassable, flooded roads. "It never ceases to amaze me." The woman at the park entrance has to check if the park she's letting you into is hosting a safari that day. This is hampered by the current power outage, but a few calls on the walkie-talkie give me some hope. I pay another 17 złoty for the entrance fee and learn that there's a meeting point for the exit in half an hour – if anyone shows up, I'll pay 100 złoty for a 2.5-hour jeep ride with a guide. If not, I'll pay 200 złoty. A great price, a wonderful deal, I don't know which is better. I get the worst of it, as I'm paired with a pair of Germans. I just have to drive about 200 meters from the barriers to the fenced-off camp, praying I don't encounter an animal I don't want to encounter. Walking in this area is prohibited.

Next comes the classic, short safari, which you could read about in the post about Kenya and Tanzania, except that from the first minute of the jeep ride, we're already "on the spot." From what I understand, the area here is so small that there's practically no chance, during the 150-minute drive, of not encountering an elephant, a lion, and a rhino. Leopards are more difficult; you need a lot of luck. The lions are in a separate area, one that requires entry through a gate. This requires a little trickery by the driver, as they have to get out of the vehicle, open the gate, drive through, and close it. Ideally, none of the lions manage to escape or grab the lion's leg in the process. I don't know if this is true, but the guide tells us that lions are accustomed to the sight of cars, but they can react unexpectedly when something sticks out—a hand, for example. We meet two—brothers sleeping by the road, then going for a walk. Apparently, they've been excluded from a larger pride that lives elsewhere. One day, they'll return and take over. I respect them because we don't approach them particularly closely, keeping a distance of about 10-20 meters. We also don't continue along the road they're on – after observing them for about a dozen minutes, we turn around.

There are also a few elephants, most of them a bit shy, but one of them, wearing a cap, starts approaching us at a dangerous pace. The driver puts it in reverse, and I have to admit, I'm impressed by how quickly he can reverse this jeep, which looks like an electric golf cart. Then it turns out it's not a cap, but a GPS transmitter. Apparently, it's an elephant that came through the mountains and villages of Mozambique and ended up here, missing a single tusk. A good story, I can see this conversation when Mozambique writes to Eswatini asking, "Where did you get our elephant?" and the king replies, "He came here himself and was granted asylum." That's how wars start. There are also a lot of warthogs roaming around: they look like a cross between a pig and a Dyson vacuum cleaner, and everyone is very excited about them, shouting, "Pumbaa!" It's amazing how much movies can do. I recently read that no one has done as much for coral reefs as Pixar's Nemo.

I'm a simple man, the biggest attraction is the guide who constantly brings us new animal poop to the car and explains how to recognize what made it. Of course, I didn't remember the theory, but it had something to do with sticks and their processing. We also manage to see rhinos. I even got quite close, standing about 30 meters from one. How did that happen? Well, I really needed to pee, and it felt silly to ask the guy if he could stop so I could get out and go into the bushes. Believe it or not, he called me from peeing to the car because a rhino appeared just as I had gathered the courage to ask that stupid question. But I had no choice. Basically, for the rest of the safari, I tried to focus on holding my urine more than appreciating the animals.

I get back on the road and start mentally calculating the time until dusk and the potential options. There are two options: the border with Mozambique, around the 70th kilometer, or Boane, which I've already been to – around 120 kilometers. Beyond that, there's nothing left, at least not near my pointless route through Mozambique. Both options are close, but my tourist day isn't over yet. A bit further north, there are more reserves, including one I'm particularly excited about: Mbuluzi. And I'm happy because you can bike into it. Surprised again, I pay the 17 złoty entrance fee and even receive a paper map, on which a ranger marks the roads I won't be able to ride and the points I should visit, including two quite impressive viewpoints with panoramic views of the surrounding area. According to my mental calculations, I have up to two hours to wander around the area. It's perfect and exactly as I imagined it in my most positive mindset: tons of giraffes, zebras, and birds. And you should know that giraffes and zebras are the best animals. I'm not inviting discussion. I also encounter dung beetles rolling a large ball – I stare at them for quite a while. They remind me a bit of work. I'm back in a place where I could easily drive around for three days and wave at the giraffes. Unfortunately, I don't have that much time – I "check off" the key points, buy souvenirs at the shop, and head towards the national border – again to the top of the half-kilometer-long wall separating the two countries. I'm resigned to the fact that I'm only "checking off" everything.

Passing animals by bike is a completely different experience than approaching them in a car. The distance seems the same, but it's different. The area is empty to the horizon – there's you, two giraffes, a few zebras, antelopes in the distance, and you all look at each other like that. And the silence, you can hear every chew of a leaf, every flick of a tail. It's an experience I absolutely recommend to everyone. Each time I decide to become a vegetarian, and I succeed more and more each year, but I'm still far from my goal.

Along the way, on the winding road up through isolated villages, I pass a line of kids. There are easily dozens, maybe even hundreds. I must have arrived just in time for the end of classes – I'm just wondering why they're all heading in the same direction down the main road and why the school was built right at the top of the hill. This probably spawned a hundred new stories about your dad's journey to school.

And goats, throughout my entire trip I encountered a large number of scattered goats. If I had to point out the biggest hazard of my entire trip, it was

At the border, it's the same thing again: the same questions, the same answers, the same note saying I'm a cyclist. There are stories circulating online about bribes at this particular crossing, so I'm a bit nervous when, before the last barrier, three armed men call out to me. Luckily, they just want to chat. I don't know how it works; everyone talks incredibly loudly, almost shouting... unless they're a customs officer asking about something very important, in which case they speak so quietly I can't understand a thing. And if I don't understand anything or answer a different question than they asked, I get the impression they're nervous. It always reminds me of a joke; in fact, most of my conversations in African countries are like this one:

A Polish man walks into a shop in the UK. Of course, he doesn't speak English. He addresses the salesperson (he uses syllables to make himself easier to understand).
- Ball.
– what?
- Ball !!
– David Beckham – Seeing that the salesman does not understand, he starts showing the ball bouncing on the floor, kicking, etc.
– Aaa, ball!!
– Well, you see how talented you are. So be careful, it'll be harder now.
– Do-me-ta-lu.

The final stretch, Boane, is a bit of a struggle for me, even though my profile is already down to the end of the trip. I message the accommodation on WhatsApp to see if it's really a place to stay, as it's located a bit outside the city, but no one responds. The sun is setting, so I'd rather not have to look for alternatives, as it would add at least a dozen kilometers to my journey. The town seems large, but I can't find a decent shop, so I head straight for the accommodation outside of town. It's located in the center of the village I saw on the first day and described as "luxurious." Indeed, it has a gym, a wine shop, a restaurant, and even my accommodation: Zeny Lodge for less than 200 złoty. It's a fairly large resort, perhaps even a conference center, but I'm alone. I sleep in a small house, but it's only a few meters high, so the mosquitoes spread out over a large area, making them less of a nuisance. I only have two things to do: ask for dinner and breakfast, and find a shop.

I manage to convince the receptionist to serve me a whole chicken. She spends a good few minutes explaining that a whole chicken with fries is a lot of food. I know this, and I'm very happy about it. Especially since it was super tasty, probably straight from the grill, sliced, and even seasoned. The fries were, as usual, rubbery and spongy, but then again, I haven't eaten practically anything since leaving before 7 a.m., and it's almost 7 p.m. I continue my walk around the neighborhood, asking everyone I meet where there's a good shop. Truly, I'm driving around the entire village. Everyone points me in a different direction, and each shop is the size of our Ruch kiosk, and I can't find anything. Worse still, they're not self-service, so you have to negotiate with the cashier.

I take two packs of crackers, a Coke, water, and two juices. I give the guy the exact amount, though something doesn't add up – there seem to be a lot of banknotes compared to what I have left. The guy looks at me like I'm an idiot. I look at him the same way. This isn't an unusual situation, and I'm used to it. He asks if I'm from South Africa, and I answer truthfully that I'm not – from Poland. He continues to look at me, looks at his friend who was packing my groceries into a bag, and says, "BIG MONEY." It takes me a few seconds to process this. Indeed, I've changed countries, so I should have changed my wallet too. By giving Rands instead of Mozambican Meticals, I gave five times too much. It's not bad, at least the number of zeros was correct. It's amazing, I make this same mistake every time I travel, and the seller always points it out. Although maybe not every time, and I'm simply unaware of how many times I've made a mistake without anyone correcting me.

You have no brakes, you idiot, so replace your pads.

Margaret, CYPHER2022

That evening, I discovered why I was having such a hard time driving, and that the squealing wasn't birds on the road at all, but my brake pad. The pad had come loose from my new pad. And it wasn't a cheap pad, it was the most expensive, newly purchased Swisstop. The pad had almost come off the brake and was clinging with every ounce of strength, constantly rubbing against the disc. This explains why, after braking on a long descent three days earlier, the brakes started to feel different. I feel an inner urge to visit the Cathedral in Maputo, like a thanksgiving pilgrimage. After all, if that pad had come loose on the descent, in its entirety, I'd still be lying on the side of the road, waiting for an ambulance. Although I've seen quite a few ambulances, and with their sirens blaring, I don't know if they know how to drive differently there. I do know, however, that the number you're calling is strange: 977. Losing my front brake on a long descent, with a loaded bike and my descending skills, is a recipe for disaster. I remove the front brake pads completely and lubricate the lever with soap so I won't be tempted to squeeze it on the last day. Spoiler alert: of course, in an emergency, I'll squeeze it anyway. This is probably a first. bikepacking In my life, I didn't bring spare pads. Although I have a feeling something more was going on there, and I probably wouldn't have been able to fit new ones. Note to future self: if you're riding a bike and taking photos with your right hand, it's definitely better to have a front brake (which you operate with the other hand than the camera) – luckily, I figured this out painlessly.

You know, with that doorknob, it's like with the little red button. Someone tells you – you can press anything, just not that little red button. It takes a lot of concentration not to clench your fist on a thoughtless impulse. Or just out of spite.

In Mozambique they say that monkeys don't talk because they know that if they say even one word, someone will come and force them to work.

Carl Sagan on Mozambique

In the morning, breakfast, ordered for 7, arrives at 5:55. I don't know how I'm already awake, but maybe it has something to do with the rooster that started crowing sometime before 3 a.m., waking up a lot of other animals. I have only one goal: to get to Maputo. The short version is about 30 km, the long, very circuitous version – 110 km. The long version is better because I'm not driving on a road I've already seen, I'll see some Mozambican villages, and it seems I'll have to use the brakes much less often, as I'll be bypassing the city of Matola, a city with a population of one million. I'll admit, this version turned out to be incredibly boring. It's just driving through farmland on endless, straight, and perfectly smooth asphalt.

Towards the end, I even decide to go off-road, but it ends up being a half-hour walk. The surface of the side roads is dug-up sand, ankle-deep, so it would be possible to drive, but not with such a load and not with such empty legs. Somewhere along the way, I get a WhatsApp reply from the accommodation I just left. They're replying to my yesterday's question about whether it's possible to make a reservation. What catches my eye most is the number of people with machetes, clearing the roadsides and lawns. They're actually doing something that a petrol-powered lawnmower or a lawnmower It would take about 20 times less time. A path through nothingness, to the horizon, fields on either side, and they're waving those knives all day long. But still, everyone's smiling, elegant, neat, smelling fresh. It just doesn't sit right with my limited mind. Especially when I see their small, tin houses. I have the impression that the vast majority of buildings I've passed over the past few days don't exceed 20 square meters.

I arrive in Maputo by ferry. Although "ferry" is a strong word, a better word would be "boat." I found it somewhat by accident; it's called Catembe Barcas on the map. I assumed that since the bridge can't be crossed on foot or by bike, something must be floating. I just thought it would be on a slightly larger scale than this. fart, which barely fit my camera. I've already written about the city itself; nothing has changed. From the ferry, it looks like Lisbon – mainly thanks to the bridge built by – to my great surprise – the Chinese. It looks very similar to the 25th of April Bridge and is apparently the longest suspension bridge in Africa. The city skyline itself also gives the impression of a slightly different place than the one I'll reach. If you have poor eyesight, everything looks much better from a distance.

I'm going to the cathedral to see the John Paul II altar, and as luck would have it, I run into the guy I promised to return to the week before. It's easy to tell who I am, so he approaches and tries to sell me a magnet again, and I don't even have anywhere in the house to put it. The cathedral is still closed – I tell him I'll be back when they open, supposedly around 5 p.m. – I'll be without my bike and with a backpack, so I'll have a place to buy something.

I'm afraid to end the day too early, so I drive around Maputo, without any breaks, for over 50 kilometers. It's not a particularly exciting ride. However, I decide to see the local promenade, the most famous beach, visit the local craft market to fill my bags with souvenirs, and return to the cathedral – this time open. That guy is there again, and again I don't buy anything from him; I feel a bit embarrassed about it. But I also saw the pictures he supposedly painted himself at the market, so we both cheated.

I return to the hotel at sunset. I now understand what the receptionist meant when he said it was better to leave the hotel to the right than to the left. Left, in the evening, is India. It's absolutely packed. The sidewalks and streets are packed with as many people and cars as possible, plus 10%. I don't know how this traffic jam is supposed to clear when everything is at a standstill and smoking oil. It reminds me of that suffocating smog from India in the lungs – I don't know if it's possible to find one here. I'd probably have to lock myself in the garage with the oldest scooter in town. I'm given a room on the third floor and informed that the elevator is temporarily out of order. So I carry my bike, then stomp downstairs to get my suitcase, and then go back up again.

In the evening, I go out for pizza. For two pizzas, what we call "medium size," I pay nearly 100 złoty. It reminds me that everything cheap is cheap, and everything else is very expensive. KFC is the only exception.

And when it's time for leaving Mozambique
To say goodbye to sand and sea
You turn around to take a final peek
And you see why it's so unique to be
Among the lovely people living free

Mozambique
Written by: Bob Dylan

The next day, I begin the return process. I tipped the taxi driver 30%, because that was the only bill I had in my wallet – the same one who drove me from the airport to the hotel. I haven't seen anyone so genuinely and genuinely excited about something in a long time, and we're talking about an extra 20 złoty. I also really enjoyed the security check at the entrance. The security guards stopped us, checked our trunk for a huge black suitcase, and let us go. The airport is full of souvenirs, but everything is much more expensive. To give you an idea of its size: there are three gates, and that day – Saturday – there were probably six flights departing. All of them filled with Chinese…