“You will never want to leave Malawi," is what people told us. “The lake is perfectly placid and warm, and swimming in it is divine." Hearing things like this got me excited to visit this small African nation bordering the most biodiverse lake in the world: Lake Malawi. But then we also heard the many warnings: “Watch out for the Bilharzia parasite," and “Beware of crocodiles."

Moreover, it was going to be $75 per person just for the visa to enter Malawi, and because we happened to be visiting in the midst of the rainy season, the weather would be at its worst. In the end, we worried the high price to see this small country would not be worth it for us.

But, you know how we are, once we get excited to see something, we have to go. So from Zambia we headed straight to Malawi, and found ourselves at another confusing and chaotic border crossing.

We were still traveling with our motorcycle friend, Emiliano, and when we pulled up to where people said the Malawi Customs and Immigration building was, I simply didn't believe it. There was no sign, no Malawian flag, no indication that this tiny sweltering set of walls was going to be able to process our expensive visas.

But sure enough, we'd come to the right place, and spent the next few hours standing in line between sweaty people, filling out paperwork, dishing out our hard-to-come-by US currency for the visa, along with paying for a road tax, carbon tax, and something called a consulate tax... and then after all that, as I proudly looked at the official full-page sticker for the Malawi visa in my passport, I noticed that they had labeled me as a MALE. 

I sighed. “Well, I'm not going to go stand in line again to change it now," I told Tim in my best deep, manly voice.

From the border, the three of us rode straight to Lilongwe, Malawi's capital city, but we discovered this “city" to be small, and much of it looked rural, like the rest of Malawi.

​Dirt roads extended away from our “paved" one into grassy fields of cows grazing between clumps of brick thatched huts. People were selling bananas, pulling their goats around on a rope, riding bicycles laden in sacks of corn meal. A woman was carrying a live chicken in a plastic bag with only its head sticking out. A man was fixing people's broken flip flops, and yes, that seemed to be his full-time job.

So yes, Malawi is poor, but this poverty is quickly drowned out by the country's friendly people, vibrant culture, and absolutely breathtaking landscapes. The colorful cloths that women wear as skirts, the kids waving at us from the side of the road, and most impressively, the huge blue lake surrounded by lush green mountains... Malawi may not have been gifted with great monetary wealth, but it is certainly rich in culture and natural beauty.

From Lilongwe, we unfortunately had to part ways with Emiliano who wanted to head south while we went straight to the lake. And after doing a bit of research, we learned that although there is a horrible parasitic snail that lives in the lake and can infect you through your skin, if you take some pills a few weeks after swimming, you'll be fine. So we purchased the pills, waited for the rains to stop, and headed into Lake Malawi.

The water was soothingly warm, and the lake was dotted in wooden dugout fishing boats.

When it rains in Malawi, it storms in Biblical proportions. Last rainy season, 80,000 people in Malawi were displaced due to flooding, along with 60 fatalities.

So Tim and I planned to leave the lake and head to the next biggest town, Mzuzu (best name ever), where we could stay indoors in a hotel, and get ourselves dry.

Mzuzu had a supermarket, which was very exciting for us. Plus, our hotel had a hot shower and internet when there was electricity. We strung up a clothes line in our bathroom to get our stuff dry, but our enjoyment was short lived.

On the second day there, we both got sick. It was food poisoning, a need-to-go-to-the-bathroom type of sick. Good thing we had our own en suite toilet and there was a pharmacy across the street.

We ended up staying a week in Mzuzu to recover. And finally, on the eighth day the sun came out, we felt better, and we decided to leave. But as we started packing up, we opened up one of our panniers and the horrible stench of athlete's foot came wafting out from our sleeping pads.

​Mold. All our camping gear was covered in putrid, festering mold.

We had no one to blame for this but our own stupid selves. So we took everything out, poured toilet-bowl bleach all over our sleeping pads, and started scrubbing.

A few hours later, and due to the drying power of that one sunny day, the little green circles of mold stains had faded and didn't smell so bad anymore. So we once again packed up, kept our fingers crossed for no rain, and headed higher into the mountains to a place called the Mushroom Farm.

Built on a vertical cliff overlooking Lake Malawi, the Mushroom Farm is a hotel/campground that is also hiking distance from Manchewe Waterfalls in Nyika National Park. We took the backroads to the farm through the park, which was beautiful, and then hiked to the falls, and it was definitely worth the trek (see the first picture of this post).

​But it was the road out that was the most spectacular of all: a rocky and rutted set of tight switchbacks through the jungle with views of the blue Lake Malawi interspersed between the trees.

But our problems were not over. As we descended, suddenly the engine of the bike cut. The power was still on, and the dash was flashing all sorts of warnings at us. But with relief, Tim was able to get the bike started.

And then it died again. And again. Thank goodness we were headed steeply downhill and didn't actually need the engine, but by the twelfth time that the bike randomly shut off, we kept thinking, what is wrong with it now!?

We were able to limp our way to a lakeside campsite, where Tim headed online to post an SOS to all KTM 1190 savvy folks out there who might be able to diagnose the problem. The next proper KTM dealership was in Kenya, so getting our bike to a professional was out of the question. And all the local mechanics of Malawi only knew about the little bikes they had, not a massive and electronically-complicated adventure bike like our 1190.

But thanks to the online community, people came up with some great suggestions. One theory was that our bike may have had an electrical “aneurysm", and in computer terms, needed a reboot. So after taking out the battery, checking all the connections, and putting things back together, we decided to take a test ride up the mountain again and back down. It was the same road, and we were replicating the same circumstances, and luckily, nothing went wrong this time.

So we're hoping that the aneurysm theory was right, and so far, our beloved bike has been back in business.

Before we left Malawi, we wanted to take one more dip in the lake as a final goodbye. But then we were told by the camp hosts that there was a crocodile recently seen at the lake's edge. “Last year, a village boy was eaten by one," he said. In other words, “Go swimming and have fun," we were told. “But just be very, very careful."

Ok, I was beginning to realize that swimming in Lake Malawi was not going to be as divine as I had once hoped. Or maybe we were just unlucky with our timing and selected swimming locations. But we ended up wading our feet in, and taking a final stroll along the beach instead of a swim. Guessing by our luck so far, we would have definitely been eaten by that crocodile if we went in.

​Malawi has been full of adventures for us, and it's shown us its beautiful side and its ugly side. Warm waters, tropical mountains, parasites, crocodiles, chickens in bags... Malawi definitely has that perfect blend of incredible landscapes mixed with a unique and fascinating culture, all topped with just a dash of heart-pounding adventure.

Now, we're moving on to our next country: Tanzania. And I couldn't be more excited.

This week we'd like to thank Brendon Lever for his generosity, and all those who have left reviews of Tim's book on Amazon. They are heartfelt and very appreciated, and have been great motivation for him to finish up his next book: Two-Up and Overloaded! We also want to give a shout out to our dear friend Jacques in South Africa who showed us our first African off-road mountain pass, our first braai, and despite facing some obstacles along the road, he's still keeping it strong.

Stay tuned and we'll keep you posted on the next chapter of our journey.

We entered Zambia from Botswana through one of the most difficult border crossings we’ve ever experienced. We were traveling with our motorcycle friend, Emiliano, and crossing borders with another traveler usually makes things easier. With three people, two of them can try to figure out the procedures and stand in separate lines, and one can watch the bikes (me).
 
But for some reason, nothing seemed to be easy when it came to the convoluted process that was getting a visa and vehicle entry permit into Zambia. The heat, the lack of signage, the expense of it ($50 USD for a Zambia/Zimbabwe visa, $20 USD for road tax, more money for carbon taxes, insurance, paying fixers, all in Zambian Kwacha), and most of all, the chaos of the place, made it a horrible experience.

​We have nothing against Windhoek, the capital city of Namibia, but when you’re stuck there for weeks on end because your motorcycle is broken, all you can think about is leaving.
 
We had unfortunately snapped our monoshock (rear suspension) when we’d first entered Namibia. We waited for two weeks for our new shock to arrive from Austria, and when it did, we packed up the bike, got on the road, and headed to Botswana when we realized something horrible: the monoshock was not the only thing that needed replacing. The shock’s spring was also damaged, and we would have to turn back.
 
That meant it would be another week and a half of waiting in Windhoek and paying for repairs and living expenses before we could continue with our African travels.
 
This was very depressing for us, and it certainly wasn’t a great beginning to the holiday season.

With Black Friday and Cyber Monday upon us once again, it is time to start pondering what to get our two-wheeled riding loved ones for Christmas, Hanukkah, whatever gift-giving traditions that the church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster may have, and even for the atheist in your life that likes receiving gifts on a cold December day.

Here is a brief list for those motorcycle enthusiasts in your life. These are some of our favorite items which have served us well on our round-the-world trip.  We are not sponsored by any of the products below, and bought each item ourselves with our hard-earned money. These are simply our fair, honest opinions after putting them through hell over the last two years.

Most people who visit Africa usually go on a safari. And there's nothing else on the planet like it: driving through the flat grasslands of thorny acacia trees, telling your fellow travelers to hush when you think you see something, and then whipping out your camera and holding your breath as a several-ton elephant lumbers out of the trees. It's the stuff of legends.

But there is a high price to be paid.

We were on our way to Namibia's famous red dunes at Sossusvlei when we took a nasty spill and broke our motorcycle's monoshock (rear suspension), which if you're unfamiliar with bike mechanics, is something that you can't just fix on the side of the road. So we had to tow our bike up to Namibia's capital city of Windhoek (which was quite an adventure in itself) and are still waiting for a new monoshock to be flown in from Austria.

While we're waiting, we decided to rent a car here in Namibia to explore this beautiful country. ​And what a trip it's been!

It turns out that going by 4x4 is the way to see Namibia since most of the country's sights prohibit motorcycles to enter. This is due to a number of reasons (such as lions could chase you, a valid reason I suppose), so in order to see things, we would have had to either join a tour group or rent a car anyway. Even the place we were headed to when we had our accident, Sossusvlei, doesn't allow motorcycles in, it turns out. Maybe this broken monoshock was a blessing in disguise.

We started in the capital city of Windhoek (said like VIND-hook, it's a German word since Namibia used to be a German colony), and our first destination was to conquer those wretched sand dunes that we had wanted to see when we first broke down: Sossusvlei.

The name means “Dead-End Marsh", and if you look at an aerial image of Sossusvlei, you can see why. All along Namibia's Atlantic coast is an expanse of red sand dunes, and that is the Namib Desert. But then there is an area cutting into it where an ancient river once tried to push its way through the sand. That's Sossusvlei, and sometimes when it does rain, water still flows through that corridor, only to peter out at the end in a marshy pan of soaked sand. When it's not raining (most of the time as you can imagine), this area is a perfect peninsula of hard land sticking into the sea of sand, so you can drive into it and get up-close to the impressive dunes.

And when I say impressive dunes, I mean some of the largest sand dunes on earth. Not only is the Namib desert the world's oldest desert, and the red rusty color of the sand makes for incredible pictures, but because of the cross-winds keeping the dunes stable, the sand takes on gorgeous shapes as it piles up to towering heights. Big Daddy is the name of the largest dune of Sossusvlei, and at 325 meters high (that's 1,066 feet!), climbing up this dune takes many strenuous hours.

That was not something that really appealed to us, but we did climb a much smaller, yet still big sand dune with a much more boring name: Dune 40.

The key is to get to the dunes early, right at sunrise when the sand is fiery red in the slanted sunlight but icy cool to the touch (by 10:00 AM it's scorching, so hot you can't climb the dune without wearing boots). While we climbed, one side of Dune 40 looked glittering and velvety smooth in the sun, while the other side was still obscured in shadow. After only about a half hour of trudging, we reached the top, and at the crest of it there was this perfect sweeping line where the bright desert sun met the darkness of night. It was stunning, and well worth the effort of getting up there.

A Sea of Sand is the perfect description for the Namib desert, and you would think there'd be nothing else out here, but amazingly, we saw quite a bit of life amidst the dunes. Little lizards, beetles, and all types of birds had made their way to Sossusvlei, but what was most surprising was to see giant Oryx antelope hanging out. They're gorgeous: with two huge straight horns coming out of their skulls in a massive V, ridged to mark their age like the rings of a tree, and black and white paint on their faces like they're going out for the Day of the Dead. What they ate out there, I have no idea, but the Oryx (Gemsbok in Afrikaans) are particularly adapted to life in the desert, and in fact, they prefer it.

After all the dust and dryness of Sossusvlei, we headed to the Atlantic coast to freshen up with some cool ocean breezes.

We had rented a car from a local taxi company in Windhoek instead of a name brand rental agency because it was a good deal, but we definitely got what we paid for. The air conditioning was broken and would only blow on our feet, so we had to constantly keep the windows open so that we didn't roast alive in there.

Blown out tires were strewn across the side of the road like it was a rubber graveyard. We passed several people with flats who were cranking their jacks and turning their lug wrenches. And we should have taken warning, because on one of those long desolate stretches, suddenly we could feel the car bottom out, and knew we had a flat.

But this is normal for Namibia, and simply a part of life out here. Everyone gets flats, that's just the way the roads are. All vehicles come with full spares, many with two, and most car rentals insure you up to two flats because they know it's bound to happen. Since we'd gone cheap, we told our rental/cab company that we'd pay for all damages, and ended up dishing out a bit of money for this flat. But in the end we were lucky to only have one. We met a guy who had rented a 4x4 and was on his fifth new tire.

At Walvis Bay, and all along the Namibian coast, the sand dunes meet the sea in a cloud of mist. You might think that sand and sea go together to make a perfect beach scene, and normally they do. But these massive Sahara-like sand dunes emptying into a frigid, almost antarctic Atlantic waters make for a very bizarre, foreboding scene. 

But then amidst all the desolation of the Skeleton Coast, suddenly we came to the Cape Cross Seal Reserve, and found ourselves immersed in a loud cacophony of wriggling creatures all chatting and arguing with each other, like a Venice Beach for seals.

Visiting this Brown Fur Seal colony was perhaps one of my favorite things I've done on my travels. It was just so jarring and fascinating. The intoxicating odor of them all (and I mean that in the worst way possible, because they stank like fish rotting in a decaying corpse), and their strange noises, like Wookies and children and grunting bears all together, it made me feel like I had walked into that bar in the original Star Wars and was suddenly surrounded by alien species.

Though it looked like some were trying to take a nap or quietly nurse their young, others were loudly complaining as they slopped their way around, pushing whoever was in their way, or completely walking over each other with flippers in faces. And still others were arguing, growling at each other and snapping like dogs.

The wooden walkways at Cape Cross didn't go into the seal colony as much as the seal colony had taken over the walkways. You could see that there had once been an attempt at building a roofed picnic area there, but the seals now completely owned that space and there was no taking it back. I was definitely in their world now, and was very thankful for the wooden bars that barely separated us, because some of those seals were absolutely huge with a mouth full of bloody fangs. Fish carcasses and strewn-apart entrails were everywhere, and you could see that sometimes the blood on their mouths was not just from having dinner, but from attacking each other.

After the seal colony, it took a few hours to get the putrid smell out of our noses as we headed inland, back to where the sun beat down on the rocks, and dust filled our car and clothes. That evening, as we camped in a town that hadn't seen rain in eight years (Uis), I realized that my hair smelled like it was burnt. Straw-like and crispy dry to the touch, both of us had hair that now appeared streaked in grey, though it was just dust and sand. Even a good shower didn't fix it.

Our final adventure in Namibia with our rental car was going to be Etosha National Park, a safari paradise of lions, elephants, rhinos, and giraffes. That will all be for my next blog post, part two of our rental car excursion, but on our way there, we had another Namibian surprise in store for us: the Himba.

The Himba people are an indigenous group of semi-nomadic Namibians who call the northern reaches their home. But what makes these people so iconic is the way the women cover their bodies with red ochre butter, and use this ochre mud to make long dreads in their hair. Decorated from head to toe in beads and hides, these bare-breasted women are a beautiful sight to behold.

Unfortunately, their traditional way of life is disappearing. For the past eight years Namibia has been in a severe drought, which has forced many of the Himba to give up grazing their traditional lands. Now you can see them oftentimes camped along the side of the road, as they use money from tourists and the bartering of goods to support themselves. So as we made our way from Uis to Etosha, we saw a tiny village of mud huts along the road and a little market of trinkets set up, and decided to stop and pay for a tour.

This was both fascinating and awkward. Our tour guide was a man from the village who spoke English (along with five other languages), and he took us around, showing us how the village was organized with a sacred fire in the central space, and how women dressed with cow or goat hide skirts and headdresses. We also got to see how the women used incense to “bathe", as they actually never take a bath, and simply reapply the ochre butter mixture on their skin every day, and then waft themselves with smoke.

The children were adorable, but I felt uneasy about being presented with women as if they were a circus attraction, and the fact that they rarely smiled or looked happy about us being there made it worse. Plus, paying to take pictures of half-naked women just seemed like something I never thought I would find myself doing.

They weren't all half-naked though. Some women dressed in what they called “Victorian" garb, which was their interpretation of the dresses European settlers had encouraged them to wear in the 1800's. But with very bright colors and really cool hats that were built to be supportive for carrying things on their heads, you could tell that they had taken the designs and made it their own.

We were just about done with our tour and feeling satisfied with our glimpse into this new and different culture when the guide asked us to do him a favor, (and no, it wasn't for dirt on Joe Biden). We had told him where we were headed and he said, “There's a woman here with a month-old baby, and she wants to go to the Himba village outside Etosha Park. Could you bring her there?"

We were shocked. Yes, we were going there, but that was three-and-a-half hours away, and this woman couldn't speak English, and she was covered in red mud and we were in a rental car, and she didn't have a shirt on... but hey, why not?

And so this became the authentic Himba experience that I was looking for. Despite having little to no English, this woman was full of smiles and her baby was adorable (with a very very long name that I could not remember), and she smelled like a mixture of incense and body odor. But truth be told, she probably smelled better than me at that moment. And with some blankets put over the seats so that she didn't get red everywhere, we had an enjoyable time listening to the Namibian CD that was left in the car by the taxi company, and waving to the other Himba people that we passed. I just felt bad that our air-conditioning didn't work and the car was super dusty, but she was probably very used to heat and dust.

When we arrived at Etosha, we dropped her off with her bags of ground corn flour and basket-weaving materials, and waved goodbye to our new friend.

In the end, as much as we love traveling on our motorcycle, going to Sossusvlei, the Cape Cross Seal Reserve, and transporting a Himba woman to another village all would not have been possible on our bike. So I was becoming very thankful for our rental car, and the best was still to come: our self-drive safari in Etosha National Park!

So stay tuned until next time!

Bonus news!

Tim is almost finished with his second book: Two-Up and Overloaded. It will cover our first year of travel from Chicago to Panama.

​If you haven't done so already, take a look at his first book Maiden Voyage to get to know the who, what, and why that inspired us to be on the trip we are currently on.

Once again we've broken down in the middle of nowhere, this time it was out in the scorching Kalahari desert after a nasty fall into the sand... But let me start at the beginning, and it was a good beginning: the Drakensberg, meaning Dragon Mountains in Afrikaans.

Back in South Africa, these jagged peaks definitely earned their name. Like towering stone monoliths ruling over the landscape from their lofty thrones, they say that it was the scenery of South Africa that inspired J. R. R. Tolkein to create Middle Earth in his fantasy books The Hobbit and Lord of the Rings. And I certainly agree that there seemed to be magic there, like I could just picture a dragon hiding behind the crags, protecting his hoard of gold and treasure.

The wall of jagged mountains in the distance loomed closer and closer as we rode from South Africa toward Qachas Nek Pass into Lesotho. As our bike climbed in elevation, swerving back and forth along switchbacks, we realized that it was going to be a long time before we'd dip back down in altitude. Because now we were entering Lesotho: the Kingdom in the Sky, a tiny country completely surrounded by South Africa, and a mysterious land of mountains that feels lofty and untouched by the rest of the world.

And despite almost dying on the first day and afterwards Tim coming down with Spotted Fever, Lesotho deeply impressed us, and has become one of our favorite countries.

South Africa's long and beautiful coastline has some of the country's most developed regions, and much of it is filled with busy ports, fishing harbors, and beachside villas. But there is one remote stretch of shoreline where modern development never took hold, and it's appropriately named the Wild Coast.

It's not the easiest place to navigate since the roads there are rugged and don't lead in a straight line, but with a name like the Wild Coast, we knew we had to go. And it turned out to be everything that we've been searching for.

When we arrived at the airport in Cape Town, we were greeted with a huge sign on the wall that said, “Welcome to the Mother City." And as I stood there listening to the cacophony of strange languages being spoken around me, I immediately got the feeling that I had come to a special place, not just Cape Town, but Africa as a whole. I was reminded that it's an ancient land, the birthplace of humanity, mother to us all. Though I'd never been here before, I felt that in a strange way I was coming back to something, even it was just a deeper look within myself.