Frank van Rijn can be proud of us (part 3)

Tunduru is a mining town, full of shops filled with different kinds of precious stones like emerald, rubies, diamond, tiger eye and sapphire. Because of the rain season and the inaccessibility of all roads to Tunduru as a result of it, most shops are temporarily closed. Despite our anniversary (married for eight years), we hadn't planned to buy anything anyway, so we miss nothing.
Unexpected and uninvited an immigration-officer visits us at our guesthouse, who addresses us severe: "Why didn't you report yourselves to the immigration-office once you entered Tunduru?" It's the first time in over three months this question is asked, nobody ever told us we had to do so. He doesn't understand this, and we neither. We suspect to be dealing with an over-zealous clerk. At night we meet him by chance in the neighbouring Camp David-cafe, where he drinks a beer. Like everybody else he is very curious about our life in the Netherlands. We elaborately tell about it and don't make the story too rose-coloured: the hard work, not too much free time, no time for social calls and so on. Every time he nods yes and tells us his fellow countrymen really love holidays (read: loitering and lazing around) as well. When he remarks that in the Netherlands you at least can cool off in your own pool after a hard day's work, the rift between the cultures proves to be much larger then we could ever imagine.
Our guesthouse has many functions: besides renting rooms people mend clothes, sort tomatoes and store all kinds of things. It's very cosy here, there is electricity and running water.
After two days of tinkering around we get on our bicycles for the last 210 kilometre of the Frank van Rijn-route. For the people who don't know him: Frank van Rijn is a Dutch cyclist who has cycled almost all around the globe by now. He loves silent, unpaved roads and the sun. He doesn't shrink from difficult routes and detests heavy traffic and rain. He wrote a lot of books about his adventures, in a humoristically way, and would love the route we've chosen. Never during rain season of course.

A lot of people have assured us that the remaining road to Masasi is of far better quality. We quickly doubt this, when we dive into a long sand-pit after a bumpy ascent. When Peter puts on a spurt on a hill, his chain breaks. With a few links less and two greasy hands more, moments later we ride over a narrow path passing mud huts, a local sneak route to avoid the loose sand of the 'main road'.
After the village there is more sand and a lot more sand. Luckily enough it's dry and to be honest we prefer sand to mud. At the bridge over Makungwe-river a soldier who appears out of nowhere summons us to ride on when we want to take a picture. Even the river can't be photographed, beyond doubt a very important military object.
The road is hilly and stays bad. The temperature changes between 30 and 34 degrees Celsius in the shade. During a break we discover the smallest frog in the world: the size of a pink-nail. Just before that we saw some giant snails cross the road. Unfortunately the mango-trees are empty already. We near the cashew-tree region, nice as well. To our regret we're too late (or too early) to taste those delicious nuts.
The days are long on this stretch; most of the time we spend about six to seven hours riding our bicycles, or walking next to them, not counting the time we take breaks. Having descended a few hills we cycle through marshes, where thousands of butterflies flutter around us in just as many colours.
After the village of Maji Maji (water water) we meet a American missionary. He claims to have shot two hungry lions here one year ago and promises the sand will diminish. This promise is fulfilled and the cycling goes really well. At night we stay at the most dirty, filthy and worst guesthouse ever. Here chasing the cockroaches is useless, there are too many of them. Another 130 kilometre, we are going to make it!

After a sweaty night in a miserable bed we cycle through a splendid landscape: behind the fields and mud houses our first 'koppies' stand out against the horizon. These granite insel-mountains show the weirdest shapes, from plum-pudding to snake heads. A family of vervet-monkeys quickly crosses the road at our approach. Yesterday we mainly cycled over sand, today it's mostly washboard, what in point of fact should be called 'corrugated iron' on this continent. To spare our slightly irritated kidneys we try to stand on our pedals as much as possible. We lost a lot of altitude this week, as a result we experience the disadvantages of the sweltering clammy hot summer again. For the first time this journey small wounds don't heal, but grow into festering suppurating wounds.

During a long climb a bright green chameleon crosses the road right in front of us, rocking to and fro at snail's pace. It's a very big one. Fascinated we take a picture, while the local people watches our interest without understanding it.

Via a number of very nasty stretches of loose sand we reach the village of Mangaka after six hours of cycling. The rooms in the guesthouse are incredibly hot again, caused by the sun shining on the corrugated iron roof the whole day. We almost float out of our beds this night.

The last day to Masasi we only have to cycle 58 kilometres and this is more than enough. Physically and mentally we have reached rock-bottom. I do feel very weak and have had all I can take. In the heat we obtuse make our metres, over washboard, through potholes and mud-gullies, and at the end of the day far too much loose sand. After having slaved away for over five hours without any appetite we reach our final destination for the moment: Masasi. When we see the tarmac in the distance both of us get tears in our eyes.

Now the inevitable question follows: why do we choose to cycle a route as hard as this? Well, there is no easy answer to it. Why does a mountaineer climb to the summit? He'll answer: "Because the mountain is there." The same applies to us. The road, or something that passes off for a road, is there.
And the surroundings and nature alongside such a road are in general extremely beautiful and untouched.
And there is almost no traffic.
And there are no tourists.
And almost nobody does the things we do.
And there is no tourist-industry.
And it's an interesting confrontation with your own limits.
And you appreciate the tarmac and the relative luxury of a bigger village or town more than ever after such a ride.
And aren't we just heroic!