Biking With Isa

By Mike Lepetit

When I asked for the fastest way to get to the bank I didn’t like the answer I got. “Just walk down the block and take a bicycle taxi.” The people of Malawi are nice, but they didn’t exactly look like they could haul all of my 200 pounds around town and I was sure that the hills in Singa Bay wouldn’t make it any easier. “No, it’s their job,” I was reassured. “They are used to it.”

So I did as I was instructed. I walked through the lakeside town of Singa Bay, a small city perched on one of Africa’s largest lakes, Lake Malawi. I moved along sandy roads, passing families preparing meals, children kicking bottles as soccer balls, and livestock eating bushes that grew between homes. When I got to the main road, the only paved road for miles, I simply waited for a cab to come by. In only a matter of moments a man on a bike with a passenger sitting behind him came up and asked where I was going. “My name is Isa,” he said as he shook my hand. “As in Isaac.” Despite the warm African winter he was wearing a knit hat, pants, and a t-shirt. The bank was two kilometers away and the trip would cost me three dollars, round trip. His passenger hopped off and I hopped on.

On the back of his bike, where a basket or rack might normally sit, was a small seat and two tiny handles. I awkwardly straddled the rear wheel.

“What do I do with my feet?” I asked him.

“You just put them there,” he said as he pointed to the small bolts that stuck out from the center of the wheel. He checked to make sure that I was settled before he took his first, laborious, pedal.

The road was wide and well paved with little traffic. Occasionally a car or truck would barrel through, driving on the yellow line to avoid all of the pedestrians and bikers along its edge. Women walked along the street balancing baskets on their heads and a few people waved hello or shouted at Isa. After a while the road started to slant upwards and Isa peddled with even more difficulty. Each deliberate rotation he forced put a strain on his bike. He stood up to pedal harder and after only a few yards his chain fell off the gears. Slightly embarrassed, but not surprised, he pulled over to fix it. It was my biggest fear – the entire reason why I didn’t want to take a bike cab in the first place. I was too heavy to cart around town. But Isa just casually put his chain back. He was a seasoned bike rider. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s go.” So I straddled the bike again to continue our trip. But starting on a hill was even more difficult than before. “My bike has broken many times.” He pointed to various places on his bike, “I’ve had to weld it several times.”

As it had turned out, the old single speed bike had originally belonged to his grandfather and he had to do everything he could to keep it in working condition. As I understood, the bike had been pushed to its limits. “I’m saving my money so that I can buy a new bike.” Having a new bike had its obvious perks, but for him there was a special reason for the investment. “I need a good bike to take my grandfather to the hospital.”

“Is he sick?” I asked.

“He’s old. He has,” he searched for the word, “TB.” I knew that there was no hospital in Singa Bay. It was unusual to have a hospital in such a small city. The nearest big city was Lilongwe, the capital. That was a few hundred kilometers away.

“Where is the hospital you bring him to?” I asked, while searching the empty horizon.

“There is a hospital in Salima,” he said. “About seventeen kilometers away.”

“How long does it take you to take him there?”

“If my bike doesn’t break, about two hours, but it often breaks and we cannot make it. Sometimes I have to take him at night because he is coughing too much.” I knew what he was getting at. None of the streets out here had lights and once night came, it was hard to see your hands on the handlebars. His bike had no lights on it. A two-hour ride at night with a tuberculosis patient must have been a grueling task.

His chain fell off a few more times. I suggested to him that he take his winter hat off and he did, tossing it into the basket in the front. “Why would you wear a hat like that on a day like today?” It was about eighty degrees outside. Isa laughed. “It was cold this morning!”

The people at the hotel told me to not jump off the bike, even if it seemed more practical. “It’s a macho thing,” they explained to me. But after fifteen minutes of struggling uphill and repairing the bike chain a few times, he politely chimed in. “Do you think you could walk, just to the top of the hill?” I was glad to do it.

The way back was entirely downhill—we made it back in no time. When I got off the bike, I went into a store to get some change to pay for the ride. I picked up a few bottles of water. Isa hobbled in after me, exhausted. I handed him his money, thanked him, and shook his hand. “Good luck” I said, as I handed him a bottle of water.

He let out a sigh of exhaustion and collapsed into a chair outside of the store. “Thanks!” he said. He was going to be there for a while.

On my walk back to the hotel, I passed dozens of bike cabs just like Isa. When one considers that the locals walk everywhere and the tourists mostly come with their own transportation, it seems like business for a bike taxi in Singa Bay would be difficult. One works hard to make little money, takes long trips to treat terminal illnesses in substandard medical facilities, or repairs a vehicle beyonds its limits. Despite the challengers, Isa may have considered himself luckier than many, able to ride his bike to provide for his family, one overweight tourist at a time.