Day 1 | Lilongwe to Chigudu | Camping in a school classroom Distance: 64.8 km | Terrain: Gravel and tar, rolling hills I rolled out already negotiating with myself about breakfast. No kettle in the room and I couldn't face digging out the stove before sunrise, so the oats never stood a chance. I passed a freshly butchered goat on the roadside, steam rising and machete still warm, and decided that wasn't the vibe for the first meal of the trip. Settled for a fat cake instead: deep-fried dough, warm and heavy, the kind of thing that sits in your stomach like it's paying rent. The first 40 km were a tapestry of smells. Damp red earth, woodsmoke from morning cookfires, that slightly sweet scent the air gets after a warm night. Then salvation: a roadside restaurant. Omelette, a couple of samosas, a breather. A bit pricey by local standards, but I wasn't arguing. Back on the bike and feeling strong, and then I missed my turn at 45 km. Classic. Took a wrong turn into hill country and my love handles immediately regretted it. Google Maps had promised Forest National Park, but what I rode into was more like a memory of one: tree stumps, smouldering charcoal pits buried under sand, and long lines of people hauling heavy bags down the slopes. By 60 km my legs were cramping. The detour had burned through more energy than expected. I pulled off under a tree beside an uneven sports field and spotted a school nearby. After a series of hand signals, gestures, smiles, and what must have looked like interpretive dance, I managed to ask if I could sleep inside. John, caretaker or village leader or some important figure I hadn't quite identified, handed me the key. I'm inside a bare classroom with cracked walls, and every few seconds a pair of wide eyes pops up at the window. Kids staring in, silently fascinated. I didn't hit my planned distance, but that's bikepacking. You take what the day gives you: missed turns, red dust, curious kids, and a safe roof courtesy of a stranger named John.