Words and images by Jess Meniere
One truth that will remain profoundly and forever true after a six day cross Zimbabwe bike adventure is that bike riding isn’t always about racing.
A dreamt-up adventure of a pieced-together route from Harare to the renowned awe-inspiring ‘thunder that roars’ Victoria Falls, while maybe optimistic, tallied 720 km in just under a week. The goal was simple: make it to the falls before the New Year to watch Flying Bantu live. Five girls, five bikes, and one ambitious summer plan later, we were Harare-bound.
DAY 1: HARARE TO CHEGUTU (140KM)
As far as preparation goes, we had ticked as many boxes as possible – but true to bike-touring form, so much remained uncertain and unplannable. Our journey began with a 4 am departure to OR Tambo Airport on the 26th of December setting the tone for our adventure ahead. Panic erupted quickly with a repack of bike boxes at check-in, not once, nor twice but thrice – the heaviest bike coming in at 46 kg. A hasty breakfast at Mugg and Bean unfolded into a frenzy of shoving french fries and toasted sandwiches into paper napkins as the last boarding called our names over the intercom. We raced to the terminal check-in, made it onto the plane just, and were ready for the adventure to begin.
After landing and negotiating our way out of a “bike import fee,” we assembled our bikes and bags in the mid-morning sweltering heat; and were ready to go by 11:30 am. 140 km lay ahead. Adjusting to our heavy bike loads and the sticky heat took a bit of time, but soon we were bobbing and weaving through the buzz of homesteads with shouts of “Happy Christmas Box” (translating to “Boxing Day”) following us. We peddled past shebeens which spilt tipsy festivities into the street, past children who jogged alongside us as we pushed forward – we fuelled on street vendors’ (cylindrical) pillowy and sugary cream doughnuts, and mangoes picked from the low, and heavy hanging branches of trees.
Day one’s roads were NOT a true reflection of the surface conditions that lay ahead as we cruised along the smooth, paved A5 national road at a comfortable, steady pace, convinced that the rougher conditions others had warned us about were exaggerated. Naively, we let our ignorance carry us along, lulled by the easy riding and rhythm of the track.
Our headlights came on just after the sun sunk into a dark night sky and guided us into camp just before 9 pm. Day One still had a little sting left in its tail, and in one swift, rookie-decleating attempt, I found myself buried under my bike and bags with a gashed open and bruised hand. Although, it was nothing too serious that could overshadow the relief of ticking Day One. We pitched our tents, “showered” under a knee-height tap, wrung out our bibs and sat around a bug-flickering bike light, sharing our highs and lows of the day, while shovelling down packets of rice, lentils and 2-minute noodles.
DAY 2: CHEGUTU TO KWEKWE (115KM)
Early starts are always a top priority on the bikepacking theory list, but less so when it comes to putting them into action. A leisurely start after breakfast and slow packing, rode us into the busy Chegutu’s market where we haggled our way to SIM card and worldly connection. Between negotiating data bundles and airtime, we found ourselves fielding marriage proposals and Lobola bids. Our refusal of these unexpected suitors’ hands in marriage left us blindsided, as the change from our SIM card expenses mistakenly turned 10 ZiG into 10 dollars. Only realising after trying to buy a round of Zambezi beers at a local dingy-lit bar in Kwekwe. The end of Day Two brought more cheers (and beers) to another day as we were 255 km closer to Victoria Falls. And still the roads were smooth and tolerable, surely the feared Zim-roads from our peers back home were tall stories and made up tales. We went to bed easy with what lay ahead.
DAY 3: KWEKWE TO NKAYI (111 KM)
Day 3 marked the gravel section’s start – a grueling 260 km stretch between Kwekwe and Lupane, with a local nickname, “Fight Road,” which quickly proved fitting. As we turned off the national road, the black tarmac quickly eroded into a cladded and cracked brown. A single strip of tar ran in patchy potholes along the middle of the “road,” as if fighting against its eroding sidewalls. Deciding between riding on the last remaining sections of tar or braving the corrugated rattle of its bordering sidelines was incredibly difficult; neither seemed better, and our pace remained consistently slow no matter the chosen path.
Collectively fighting this uneven battleground, which unpredictably rose and sunk, we regrouped under the shelter of a Tukshop. Sitting on the cool concrete store’s floor, sipping on iced cokes, boxed mango juice and snacking on Maputi – we felt a quenching relief. Crowded around us as we sat and refuelled, were bar locals, bargaining with us to trade their bikes, while sharing stories of life in what seemed like the middle of nowhere to us, but was everything and everywhere to them. With our night’s accommodation now sorted in Nkayi, based on their local insight, we tackled the second half of the day with hunger and excitement. Picking up the pace, we weaved between potholes with a learnt-ease and know-how.
20 km until the finish, the blistering heat of the day was washed away in a momentary downpour of cold summer showers; and as quickly as the sky turned from blue to grey, it then burnt into a brilliant sunset orange. We ‘saved our ride activities’, racked-up our bikes for the night and basked in the bliss of a proper shower. With another celebratory round of cold Zambezi beers, we cheers-ed under the glow of approaching lightning and to the crackle of distant thunder, sharing another medley dinner of dehydrated food packs and noodles.
DAY 4: NKAYI TO ALMOST LUPANE (94 KM)
In true bike-packing fashion, we started Day 4 way too late – of course, only hindsight revealed this truth – after a breakfast of minced cow heart and roast potatoes (although being plant-based, I only “braved,” the potatoes). The 140 km stretch of gravel which lay ahead is difficult to put into words, overwhelmingly difficult to say the least. As we cycled out of town we were sucked into the holy silence of a Sunday – with no cars to navigate overtaking or being overtaken by, with no other bicycle commuters or children playing outside, running after us and shouting “How are you?” This silence was filled with the hum of Cicadas and the ringing rattle of our bike chains and bags; a white noise of sorts which only amplified the distance we had to cover.
With water rations running low and the heat mirage burning the forever-outstretched road ahead, we puzzled over where to refill our bottles, lost in the remoteness of our forward movement. Eventually and luckily spotting a hand-painted sign for a missionary hospital, we traded one sandy road for another, turning off and heading towards the hope of relief. While unable to do more than fill our water bottles, they pointed us in the direction, “only 1km down the way,” to a Tukshop. What transpired on this trip was how loosely defined distance was in Zimbabwe; it seemed not to be confined to any metric system but rather gauged on a time-and-feel basis. So, of course, more than 1 km later we found the reprieve of this tiny shop, tucked in between thick bush and the green leaves of the veld. We flopped under the shade of its tin roof, sipping on warm Pepsi and each devouring a packet of off-brand vanilla cream biscuits – which seemed to be almost a part of the cultural cuisine here, found everywhere, even in the remotest of spots.
While time and daylight raced away from us, we soaked up the calm of this pause. Reassured, stupidly, that whatever the remaining distance, we would keep turning our legs over to eventually arrive. Climbing back onto our bikes at around 3:30 pm with another 75 km to go, we rode the sugar-rush-high at pace, falling into a similar rhythm of second-half-know-how like the previous day. But, as soon as we found this tempo, the late afternoon skies traded their blues for a tempered, ragging darkness. A heated tantrum rolled in from nowhere, turning the deep sandy roads we rode, into a downstream flowing river. We kept moving forward, thinking and hoping that this stormy rage would be short-lived, like yesterday’s deluge.
We were very wrong. Our chains, caked in mud and sand, crunched with each pedal stroke as we crawled on. Thunder roared ever closer, a deep warning in the distance. Heavy raindrops stung our skin, and flashes of lightning lit up the sky, making the hair on our arms stand on end. Then, without warning, the storm we had dismissed as “still far enough away,” erupted directly overhead. In a swift, synchronized act, we all decleated and ran into the veld, dropping our bikes as we ran deeper into the thicket of low shrubs. Drenched and shivering, we sat crouching, hands over my ears and hugging our knees. Unsure of what to do, I burst into tears, feeling lost in the reality of our remoteness…
We stayed like this, cleats buried deep in the mud, with lightning brimming through the tree branches and thunder shattering above us; all while we ran through our highs and lows of the day. Eventually, the drum-beating rattle of the storm rolled into a distant echo. We retreated to our bikes, pitched our tents, and climbed inside. We peeled our wet clothes off and replaced them with less wet ones. With no signal, besides on Tracy’s phone, we sent an SOS to a friend back home, whose Zim connections saw us trending on a local farmers’ WhatsApp group – “a group of 5 girls camping in the middle of nowhere, in the pouring raining, needing a rescue 40 km out of Lupane!”
We were collected at 2:40 am in the morning – the earliest morning start any bike touring adventure has probably ever recorded. We rattled down the swollen dirt road, sandwiched together, with our bikes hanging off the back of the bakkie canopy, dropped outside a Women’s Development Centre at 4 am in the morning and welcomed inside with incredible generosity. After unloading our mud-cladded bikes, we collapsed into bed, just in time for the early alarm clock cackle of a rooster to go off.
DAY 5: LUPANE TO HWANGE
After a solid 4-hour sleep, we all agreed that cycling 170 km to Hwange wasn’t feasible – our bikes needed a full service, and our wet goodies doubled our load. We spent the morning drying tents and clothes while snacking on bananas, cucumbers, and sweet buns from the local market. Grateful that our story had gone viral on WhatsApp, we managed to secure a lift from Lupane to Hwange. Jeremy, a homegrown Zim who farmed just outside of Lupane – collected us with a bike rack, cold grapes, packets of peanuts and raisins and stories of all the Cape Arguses he had completed. He drove us 80 km closer to our final destination before pulling off the main road to say this was his stop. Slightly confused we jumped out, quickly calculating if we had enough light and motivation to cycle the remaining 90 km before settling with the old-school motivation of a bribe.100$ and a bottle of Chibuku (fermented shogun beer) later, we had stacked our bikes and bags on the empty back of a flatbed truck and climbed in. John, our new driver, drove us the remaining distance, hurtling down the uneven road as we bounced around in the back.
Three bakkies and one crazy adventure later, we were washing our bikes, scrubbing the chains down with a sacrificed toothbrush, and cheers-ing another round of cold Zambezi beers to being one day away from finishing our tour.
DAY 6: HWANGE TO VICTORIA FALLS (106KM)
Waking up intentionally for sunrise, we set off at a pace faster than our weeklong average – the excitement of the finish line pulling us forward. A mandatory river skinny-dip, a dance party in the middle of the road, yet another Zim summer downpour to cool us off, a shared packet of off-brand biscuits, and buttery-smooth tar from start to finish… we had made it and were finally standing beneath the ‘Welcome to Victoria Falls,’ sign.
The original plan was to cycle the full 740 km from Harare to Victoria Falls – a feat that seemed manageable in theory. But as circumstances forced a change of course, we shifted gears. While we initially felt disappointed that our goal had slipped so easily from our grasp and that we couldn’t tick off our longest day, this journey taught us so much more. Invaluable lessons beyond the trip, each day became an exercise in problem-solving and adapting to what nature threw our way, reminding us why we ride. It reminded us that riding your bicycle isn’t about things going to plan, but rather how easily it is to let plans go, to go with the flow, and find joy and humour in whatever unfolds. Find a connection in the stillness. Find peace in the chaos and feel accomplishment in 5 strong women riding together in our own race story – leaving us with memories worth treasuring and a medal truly worth hanging up.
So, to close, some stats:
– 570 km in total.
– 1x Titan Racing Switch Carbon bike – an optimal and efficient choice to reduce the carrying load.
– 18x sachets of ButtaNut peanut butter.
– Too many mangos to count.
– 1x bag of @bitchy_bites from home.
– 1x near-death experience.
– 6x days of endless laughter.
– 1x water flooded camera.
– 1x numb hand & another f*%ked up.
– & several marriage proposals later…
We made it.
Stay in touch with Jess and her adventures by following her on Instagram.
