The mother of all battles

"But it's very cheap!"
"Yeah, for you it is, not for us wazungu," Peter answers quite grim.
"C'mon, you have to do it now you're here. You can't leave without going there."
"Oh yes, we can. Hakuna matata, we're not crazy. At least, not crazy enough."
"I will really make you a very special price, so you'll never forget me."

Aha, a sticker!
"We've forgotten your face before we're around the corner, pole sana," and we walk on. Away from the touts, hustlers, hawkers and guides who try to sell us a safari. A climbing-safari to our 'queen of striptease'. We would like to do such a safari, but the price is absurd and absolutely not worth the money. Where in Europe you can climb any mountain you like for free, here you are obliged to pay 800 to 900 dollar per person being a non-resident before you can even move in the direction of the mountain. A amount of money we can at least travel and live of together for two months. But no sadness: technically it's not a very interesting climb, that is executed mostly in the clouds and in a line of a bit too fat white people, if you can believe the photographs at the tour-operators.

Instead of climbing the Kilimanjaro we cycle through a landscape with a lot of variation: one moment it's tropical green, the other bone-dry savannah. Over a smooth tar-road we pass the Pare-mountains, first the northern part, followed by the southern range. Nature is a gift for the eye: baobab-trees, hornbills, brightly coloured agama-lizards, canaries, mongooses, cactus, vast sisal-plantations, eagles, old sock-shaped nests of spectacled weaverbirds, the spectacled weavers themselves, snakes, termite-hills in all shapes and colours. We spend the night in tiny villages where we are the attraction of the year. After the Pare-mountains the road winds in the southern direction along the Usambara mountains. The mountain-chain doesn't look as green as the previous ones, but a lot rougher. We see steep cliffs rising up straight from the plain we are cycling on now. After forty kilometres we arrive in the sweltering Mombo. There is not a breath of wind. An ice-cold soda has to provide the courage for the 35 kilometre climb to Lushoto, a village high in the Usambara mountains. Main reason for this northern deviation is a viewpoint that, according to our map and our guide, is supposed to be one of the most beautiful in the whole of Africa. We only have to climb for 35 kilometre, and we absolutely don't look forward to it in this heat. The water in the last villages we were was of a poor quality and both of us have rubber legs.
After two kilometre we're resting in the shade of some trees and look at each other.
"How are you?" Peter asks me, although he can read the answer from my face.
"Pff…, I don't want this anymore." I am on the verge of tears.
Peter decides to cheer me up: "come on, we already did two of them, there are only 33 kilometres left!"
If looks could kill, Peter wouldn't be there anymore. I take a sip of water and go on. We resume this battle over the winding path uphill and dive three kilometres further into a cold stream. The village-children create an exciting afternoon by running as close as they dare to the white cyclists.
After fifteen kilometres Peter is exhausted, he sits under a tree. Now I decide to cheer him up. With a nauseous feeling in his stomach he watches the valley where the churning water of a river neatly follows all the rules of gravitation. He asks me: "Why can't we do a normal thing like that?"
With a faint smile on my lips I reply: "You wanted to cycle around the world."
"But not really to Lushoto!"
"Stop whining and start cycling, we're almost half-way!"
I feel a fraction better than Peter does and suddenly our roles have changed. The weak nauseous feeling in our bellies makes that we haven't eaten in hours, a deadly sin when you have to deliver a lasting effort. We force ourselves to eat a bite of andazi, Peter immediately spits it out again. Eating is impossible. Okay, back to cycling then.
A baboon compassionately looks at us from his safe position high in a tree, while we nostalgically long for the cool, level and bacterium-less Netherlands. Looking at infinity and having a blank mind an hour passes we have no recollection of. The last kilometres fortunately are less steep, so we finally reach our goal alive.

The next day all trouble is forgotten. We do feel good again and take a nice long walk to the viewpoint. There we watch over the conquered land like field-marshals. We sit on a protruding rock with to the left and right of us the captured Usambara mountains. Right in front of us, deep below, the immense Masai-steppe subjects itself to our scrutinising look.
We have won!