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March 25, 2008
Africa/Ethiopia 03:24 PM When I started this journey nearly three years ago Ethiopia wasn't on my list of countries. And I'm not sure why. But I'm more than pleasantly surprised. And happy. It's hard to express. This feeling I've got about Ethiopia. Beyond the images of malnourished children, the stories told by Bob Geldof or the warnings of the U.S. State Department might publish about travel to the only African nation never to be colonized, I find myself seduced by the beauty, friendliness of its people and its cultural diversity. And I've only been here a few days. I can't say as much about the internet access here. But that goes with the territory, as the adage stipulates, I guess. Walking down the road from my hotel in Moyale, passing camels and inquisitive eyes locking onto me and my camera, I followed a local to an internet café he promised "was really fast." Turns out it was perhaps the slowest I've had since the highlands of Peru. But it was more fun just lingering with the locals rather than trying to get anything productive done with email or blogging. A few very attractive girls pitched me on a product that was guaranteed to cure all that might ail me, now and in the future, and provide me good luck and millions of dollars in income. Yes my friends, while high-speed internet hasn't made it to this remote Ethiopian outpost, multi-level marketing (read pyramid) has. And I'm not sure this is a good thing. I was hoping to make a trip deep into the Lower Omo Valley which is north east of the Moyale border town and over a tasting of spicy Ethiopian food, complete with the ubiquitous spongy engira, and two Ethiopian wines and the local brew, I chatted about my plan with a local guy who offered guide services.
Gouder. The local wine in Ethiopia. It won't give South Africa much competition in the global wine awards, but I was suprised to find Ethipians making it.
I had to stop to pump more air into the tires after my ill-fated attempt to gain access to the Lower Omo Valley. As usual, the cauldron of people gather to watch this rider perform his rituals.
At first the road was in pretty good shape.
Smiles and colorful garb describes the people of Southwestern Ethiopia. The Omo Valley is home to perhaps one of the most primitive cultures Ethiopia, and the world. It's a place where human rights activists could have a field day, give women's advocacy rights groups eternal heart burn, and the animal rights folks of Peta a splitting migraine. What makes the Omo Valley so interesting is the cultural diversity. No where else in Africa can you find so many different types of people living so close to each other. The Hamer people perhaps are somewhat like the Himba people who I encountered in Northern Namibia and Southern Angola, where the women apply to unique headdresses a mixture ochre, water and animal fat and where the men where an assortment of adornments that symbolize and boast the number of wives they have. Then the Mursi people whose men engage in aggressive stick fighting and women who stretch their lips by wearing metal disks more than six inches in diameter. And many of these and other cultures engage in a frenzy of whipping, screaming and beating during a "jumping of the bulls" ceremony. And Pamplona has nothing on this ceremony where young naked men must leap a line of 15-30 bulls-back to back. If they fail they're whipped and teased by women. Not only that young female relatives of the boy beg to be whipped. The deeper the scars they "earn" on their back, the more loyal they are to the boy and his family. You might think it's sick, cruel or unbelievable. But they've been doing it for hundreds of years.
Some of the toughest roads since Malawi.
I'm sure she'd qualify for AARP status in the states, but she's still working. Hard. I gave her water and some bisquits as I made my way toward Konso. Turns out my potential guide has no transportation and would like me to pay him to ride on the back of Doc and take me into remote villages in the valley. To be sure, it's best to be accompanied by a local or a "friend" of the community rather than show up solo on a noisy motorcycle. But the idea of riding through some of Ethiopia's most challenging roads and terrain with a 175lb passenger wasn't appealing. Instead, he sketched me a decent map and gave me the address of a local who I could ask to take me deep into the valley. I was greeted by cheers and high-fives as I putted through the road-jamming mass of people at the Yabelo turn off where the road turns to dirt and rocks sizing from small pebbles to baseball sized stones. The road gently carved through rolling hills of green while winding around a river. Local people walked along the road dressed in colorful grab with geometric patterns and bright colors. Hard laborers all of them, either tending to livestock under the sweltering sun, or carrying bundles of wood or crops many times larger than their bodies. I rode slowly working hard to make eye contact and when I did universally I was greeted with a return smile. The first few bridges were washed out, but I easily negotiated the drying mud or easy flowing stream. At my slow cruising speed over these roads I was still hours from Weyto or Turmi when I came to a crossing that I considered but realized to do this alone out here in the middle of nowhere would be too risky. It was deep. It was muddy. And the rise on the other side looked menacing. It was obvious that only the most capable 4x4 could make this crossing and climb. I sat and waited for the usual crowd to develop. This time a couple young boys and woman showed up. But they couldn't help me. The sun was falling and there was no way I wanted to turn around and ride several hours back to the turn off. What a waste. Sure, this was a good ride and the stunning scenery coupled with the colorful flavors of people was perhaps the most unique in a long time. But I wanted to get the Omo River -- and the valley. Seems the torrential rains that devastated the roads south of the border and made my journey from Kenya most challenging, wreaked havoc on the roads here in Southern Ethiopia. Sure, what did expect? This IS the rainy season after all. Bad luck? Or simply bad timing? Either way there was no time to fret and mope about. I made the u-turn and headed back to Yabelo. Slightly dejected and worried about where I'd lay my head this evening.
Working hard to bring high-speed internet to Southern Ethiopia.
Far from the deserts of Kenya or the Middle East, but my timid friends with the crazy hump were scattered throughout the lowlands as I rode towards the Omo River. I set me sights for Awasa, hoping to make it before nightfall. But my hopes were shattered as I couldn't help myself stopping to meet the local people and to chat with the crew of hundreds, led by a Chinese foreman, who were laying fiber-optic cable roadside. The trench had been dug for more than 100 miles and when I spotted the work crew I learned the Chinese won the contract but employed local laborers to finally bring high-speed internet to Southern Ethiopia. Maybe next time I can get more work done in Moyale and have a better shot at the Omo Valley -- in the dry season. Posted by allan | Comments (0) March 24, 2008
Africa/Kenya 10:45 AM What was supposed to be an early start for the Ethiopian border crossing now was looking to be a mid-afternoon departure. First things first. I had to get the bike unloaded from the lorry. My preference was to unload it somewhere away from the hustle and bustle of this Kenya border town. Getting both the bike and I suited for the ride into Ethiopia would be project. I needed to change out of my lorry riding clothes and into my riding gear. I needed to refit the bike with the top box, Jesse Bags and pack the few items I'd been carrying in the cab back into my Ortlieb duffels. Simple enough. But this is a process. Everything has its place. I'd rather set up and change without standing on stage in front of the glaring eyes of dozens of Kenyans. As you can imagine, the bike was a dusty mess. After unloading shoes, clothing, and some bags of dolomite it took about six people to pull the bike down. Covered in white powder, sand and dirt, I only could think about the chain. It'd need a good cleaning along with the forks, brake discs. Abdulah refused to unload the bike where I wanted: an unused building just 100 meters from the border post. Instead, they unloaded me on a side dusty dirt side street. And soon enough I was surrounded by peering eyes of dozens.
My bike was destined to get unloaded amongst a crowd of Moyale locals.
Everyone wanted in on the unloading action -- anything for a few shillings in this poverty stricken border town.
First the shoes, clothes and then the dolomite - that messy powder.
Huge sacks were unloaded before Doc could be freed.
Despite the rough roads, slamming around and nearly tipping in the mud, the bike didn't move.
A gang of ten unload the machine from its home for the past 60+ hours.
The poor old AirHawk "ass pad" and everything else got covered in sand, dust and dolomite.
It's Alive!
I tried to perform my duty as methodical as possible while keeping my eyes on my gear. At one point an inebriated man plowed his way through the crowd and pushed his face and with alcohol tainted breath simply put his arm around me and demanded, "Give me something muzungu!" He leaned over and picked up one of my gloves and started walking away. I grabbed the back of his shirt color and yanked him back. "Give it back!" I demanded. Meanwhile the crowd backed away and I pushed the drunk into the circle. He came back. "Give me something." I ignored him and pushed him back again. My patience was taxed. I didn't have much time and I knew crossing the border could take more than an hour. The last thing I wanted was to stay on the Ethiopian side of this remote border post. The crowd just stood there watching forming a semi-circle completely around me. Perhaps thirty or forty people. "Isn't there school today?" I asked. It was Good Friday. Even though I could hear the praying from the speakers of a nearby Mosque, this town and all of Kenya recognized Good Friday as a holy day. "Am I that interesting?" I asked again. I played a few language games and impressed the crowd with a few funny phrases of Swahili I'd learned, while I equipped the bike for my journey into Ethiopia. The drunk finally disappeared and as I stripped down to my underwear and pulled on my riding pants, I remembered my cell phone in the pocket of my light-weight Ex-Officio convertibles. Sitting on the concrete step of a closed-up shop, I had hung my heavy BMW Rallye2 Pro jacket on the padlock latch of the store behind me to keep it off the dusty and dirty ground. I was almost ready to go. I packed away my "street" pants and then turned around to put my cell phone in the zippered breast pocket of my riding jacket -- where I've always carried my cellphone since departing on this journey nearly three years ago. I then sat back down and put on my boots. Took only a few seconds and I popped up and went for my jacket eager to blow this town. That's when I noticed the breast pocket was unzipped. I reached in and came up empty-handed. Someone ripped off my SonyEriccson PIi mobile phone. I was flushed first with desperation. Then emotionally spent. I'd spent all but about five of sixty-hours in the cab of a Mitsubishi truck across perhaps the harshest terrain in Kenya, I was hungry and while I could see Ethiopian hills just a scant few kilometers away, I seemed stuck and down and out in the dusty dump of Moyale. I wanted to cry. With a cracked voice wreaking of disappointment I addressed the crowd while rising up my hands in angst, "Don't do this to me Kenya!" As I walked into the crowed the space around me thinned, "I've travelled for more than two years and no where has anyone stolen anything from me," I turned to the oldest and frailest man in the crowd, "do you really want Kenya to earn the first price of thievery ?" I asked.
The crowd that gathered here on Good Friday staretd wiht kids and before I was ready to leave it few to more than 30 people. Who stole my mobile phone? Silence fell and a two stroke motorbike buzzed by and stopped to listen. "Who stole my phone?" I demanded. "I want it back right now!" I'd try anything but overreacting with anger or rage would only worsen my predicament. "Someone here saw the thief who stole my phone." My back was to the jacket as I put on my boots, but more than 20 eyes had a clear view of the robbery. "Who stole it?" I address a young boy on a bicycle. "Did you?" I asked turning to young Muslim woman. "You?" I thrust my arm with forefinger extended pointing at the forehead of a man with five inch scar going diagonally across his cheek. Finally a young boy who stood barely to my waist came forward, "I saw him." Then another older guy came forward questioning the kid who spoke very little English. "Who? Where is he?" I demanded. Just then another motorcycle rode by with two older men wearing clorox clean white robes with white traditional Muslim caps. My voice cracked again with disappointment, "Can you help me please?" I asked slowly, "Someone has stolen my phone and someone here saw it happen." The men questioned a few people in the now growing crowd. "You must go to the police," they insisted, while another boy offered to take me to the station. I wasn't about to leave my bike here. My pleas for someone to go bring the police here fell on deaf ears. It's just not done that way. Just as I was riding to the station a police truck pulled out of a side road only 300 meters from where the theft took place. And the crowd along with my informants and witnesses still lingered. A bunch of Swahili and what sounded like an angry diatribe went on for about ten minutes. Turns out the chief of the police was in the truck. He and his deputy got out of the truck and disappeared down an alley into a maze of ram-shackled buildings, dusty tracks with goats, chickens and an idle bull. I stood and waited. And waited. Twenty minutes passed and the police were still gone. Then I heard the buzz of a small motorbike and the crowd shifted to let the bike get close to me. It was the two while gown and capped Muslim men. One of them was holding my phone. "Is this your phone?" he asked. I assured him it was and he took the phone and whirred down the alley in search of the police. Ten minutes later and the guys and police emerged. One boy urged me to just take my phone, not cause any problems and make no report or file no charges. The police asked me to follow them to the police station where I could retrieve my phone. I wanted to heed the boy's request and just get to Ethiopia. But the chief, David, his deputy Joseph and Simon the sergeant explained that in order to stop petty crime they needed support and asked if I'd file a statement. I did and headed for the border. Passing through customs and immigration on the Kenyan side of the border was a breeze. The customs agent even helped find me a money changer and let us do the transaction in his office, ensuring no funny business and a good rate. This blew me away, cause nearly every other border crossing guards shoo away the hordes of money changers and any transaction has to be done outside the view of any official. Here there were no money changer hordes. My Kenya experience ended on a positive note. I rode into Ethiopia at about 4pm where a glitch on the passport reader (something I pointed out and perhaps shouldn't have) in immigration caused a 30-minute delay but soon enough I was free and crossing into the 29th country of my journey. Whew.
Goodbye Kenya. Hello Ethiopia. Posted by allan | Comments (1) March 22, 2008
Africa/Kenya 02:29 PM 
With the rain pelting the windshield and the windshield wipers offered additional percussion to the Kenyan music blasting distortedly through the trucks sole speaker I knew I was in for a long ride. I didn't have much information either. Sitting in a cab with my driver Abdulah and Sofia, a young 14 year old girl crying because she didn't want to return to her native land, I contemplated my situation. I'd ridden Doc, my bike, virtually everywhere on this journey. Now, Doc sat on atop more than 50 sacks of dolomite powder and we were together embarking on a 2-3 day ride through some of the toughest terrain in Eastern Africa.
Sofia and I spent many hours in the cab of our lorry making the journey to the Kenya - Ehthiopia border. Initially I thought we would take the road from Isiolo north to Marsabit then onward to Moyale at the Ethiopian border. But Abdulah with his broken English explained that while longer the road through Garissa would be gentler on the truck, cargo, tires and our spines. Instead we headed east toward Thika where we made our first and only stop for the first nine hours. The small market had a fair selection of breads, biscuits, meats and soft drinks. Here I loaded up on snacks, water and even some cold cuts. At once I was excited about the adventure ahead and then I went through phases of self-doubt. Should I have ridden this leg of the trip? Did I make the right decision? Sure. I knew I'd save time and with the question still hanging in the air about whether I'd get a visa to enter Sudan. Shit. If not, I'd have to make a U-Turn in Addis and cross this desert a second time. Or head to Eritrea and hope for a ship somewhere. With my mind racing and sitting in the cab of a Mitsubishi Lorry with a 14-year old Ethiopian girl and the man responsible to take the precious cargo to the Ethiopian border. Abdulah was tall, lanky and while he could speak in English phrases he was taken to saying yes or simply answering a totally different question, one in his mind, than the one I'd asked him if he didn't understand me. This would be rather comical for the next sixty hours. His sidekick, the back-up driver Keisha, new about as many words in English as I in Swahili. But we managed to communicate and make each other laugh and smile. What more could you want. But it was at this market in Thika that the two of them negotiated side deals that saw about 5 or 6 passengers negotiate for a ride to somewhere in the desert.
This deep sand would be taxing and tiring on a motorcycle. Not to take into account temperatures, lack of available water and what else? "No bus go past Garissa," Abdulah explained. "And bus very expensive." Garissa is about 300 km from Nairobi, and most of this road is paved. Heading due east toward the Somalian border, there are few vehicles that travel this route, and since January 2007 amidst fighting with Somalian Islamic extremists, the Kenya border has been closed. Since then several policemen were murdered by desperate Somalians trying to enter Kenya. The suspension on the Mitsubishi did its best to cushion the cab from the badly potholed road while Abdulah cranked the African music. I tried to sleep my way through it. But the beauty of the dark sky and massive full moon captivated my attention and as I dozed learning my head against the window the all to recurring jolts of the cab bounced me like a bobble-head knocking me into the window and waking me up. I'd just gaze up and see that moon and fall back into the zone.
The major metropolis of Shantabak. Great Boiled Goat Meat, Potatoes and Chapait. About nine hours and 340 km later server rocking backing forth bounced my head repeatedly against the glass. So I woke. It was 4:30am. "We Garissa now," Abdulah announced detecting life in the cab. Ahead the lights faded into a horizon of simply sand and low lying plants and thorn bushes. My confident driver seemed to drive an obstacle course or maze around the plant-life. There were no lights. No vehicles. Just a bush-covered semi-arid desert. Long behind me was the fertile and arable great rift valley, Mt. Kenya and the lands that inspired Ernest Hemingway, Teddy Roosevelt and many before and after. For us, Garissa and this vast wasteland represented a turning point. Time to head north into no mans land -- though Garissa itself only distinguishes itself from where we're going but a narrow strip of poorly maintained tarmac that ends there. It was in Garissa, off the tarmac and still under the falling full moon we stopped for a cup of tea -- the first stop in over eight hours. The small settlement consisted of corrugated metal buildings, ragtag shacks and mud, manure and stick shacks. But it was the sunrise just a couple hours later where we stopped and for the first time in nearly 12 hours Keisha took over the driving duty while Abdulah snuggled in the narrow stretch of space behind the seats in the cab. "Two hours I drive again," he assured me. "I need sleep now." Two hours. I know that this schedule would never work in the USA where truck drivers are monitored by satellites so that they follow hours of service regulated by the Department of Transportation and where speed, fuel consumption and idling are all logged electronically. But I guess driver fatigue, productivity and performance are measured by more rudimentary methods. I just hope that Abdulah is in touch with his circadian rhythm and we arrive in Moyale unscathed. But there are some rules for Kenyan truck drivers. Apparently the extra passengers we'd picked up in Thika were illicit and illegal cargo on lorries in Kenya. When we came across a makeshift gate between two shrubs across the stretch of sand that was serving as our driving track I got inquisitive. A young dark-skinned man with a dim flashlight appeared out of the bushes and approached the cab. He shined the light on the cargo space and pointed it to the top of the tarp where our human contraband tried to shield themselves from the wind and cold. As Abdulah stuffed a few shillings in the palm of the torch-toting policeman, I wondered how our passengers would handle the blazing and radiating heat of the sun that was sure to beat on them in a few hours -- and throughout the day. We had passed a village of perhaps only several dozen. Yet there was a police checkpoint. I was puzzled. But this is Africa after all. "Why police here? Not many trucks. No cars. Why check point," I fell into speaking in broken English mimicking Abdulah. He explained that the passengers were illegal but for a few shillings he could pass, even though I'm sure he coulda barreled right on through. But this was just another example of Africa and the way things work. Nobody questions it. Everybody abides. Almost everybody, that is.
Boiled goat meat, potatoes and chapati. Yummy!. By the time Keisha was booted from the driver's seat I had seen my first camels of my entire journey. We'd passed through miles and miles of this desolate and dusty bush covered plain where seemingly in the middle of nowhere a silhouette of hundreds of goats with a herder would appear. Shadows of the massive wing span of marabou storks would float across the track we followed. Then I saw my first camels. Just a 100 meters from the truck lurking in the shadow of the bush ten or twenty camels seemingly drifted by gracefully followed by a young boy carrying a stick. Camels.
Abdulah. My driver, confidant and new friend. Sitting on the floor of a Shantabak shanty sipping and slurping our lunch. Life goes at a slow pace here in no man's land. And our Mitsubishi lorry followed suit. More goats, hundreds of donkeys packing water from who knows where and camels it was almost six hours later and only 2200 km(120 miles) that we made the next stop. All along the way I spotted a few cellular phone antenna towers but not a shred of evidence of electricity. We were in Shantabak, not on the map -- not even Google Maps. But with the diesel engine idling we entered a dark shaded structure and sat on a tattered fabric on the floor. A young woman carrying a pitcher of water and shallow bucket walked up to me and I washed my hands as she powered the water over them and into the bucket. In these parts of Africa there's no cutlery -- silverware -- you simply eat with your hands. And while I must admit I was a bit concerned about the food I'd be served, the boiled goat meat and potatoes served with chapati, delicious African flat bread, and rice was flavorful, tender and perfect. I wondered if I'd be opting for Imodium or Pepto later, but using the chapati to scoop and grab the food Sofia, Abdulah and Keisha munched down the meal before heading out past the goats, camels and donkeys to yet another police checkpoint, a shop as Abdulah called it, and headed back into the desert. Outside Shantabak we were dangerously close to the Somalia border. I spotted a Kenyan military camp on the horizon with a few vehicles jockeying back and forth while I tried to position paper, my dirty socks and whatever else I could find to create shade from the windshield as we continued through. As we plodded along at about 30km/hour (20-mph) we passed a few settlements that consisted of dome shaped huts made of sticks and the cardboard and plastic from USAid and World Food Program boxes and cartons. Some of these communities reminded me of the shabby shacks in northern Peru along the Atacama desert. But here there was no road. And we'd only seen one other lorry for the past two days, save a few vehicles in Garissa and an NGO vehicle in Shantabak. But out here? Nothing. Camels, donkeys, goats and warthogs -- lots of warthogs.
Sunrise stop.
No Man's Land.
One of the police checkpoints we encountered in No Man's Land.
We carried contraband passengers and had to bribe police at feeble checkpoints in order to pass
Keisha the back-up driver and hired hand taking a smoke break somewhere out here in No Man's Land. As Abdulah battled with spastic steering wheel as the big lorry tried to get a grip and traction through the deep stand I assured myself that I was happy I wasn't sweating the sand and trudging through the 104ºF (40ºC) wasteland on my bike. Nope. It was clear this would be a slow burning hell. Where does the water come from? Goat herders sit under the dappled shade of thorny bushes while others reached for the truck begging for water. I just wanted to sleep. Sleep this entire trip away. Drift. Bounce. And dream.
Civilization. Power lines. But no powered vehicles. Many hours later I spotted power lines for the first time in days. There seemed to be some development. Stucco-ish buildings mixed with thatched stick huts. The population was denser than I'd seen, too. We stopped for a cup of tea and while the temperatures scorched and the sun blinded me, the hot tea was refreshing. Standing by the side of the lorry I attracted attention. I was used to this when riding the bike. But here a crowd gathered around and just watched me drink my tea. My efforts to engage them in conversation were futile due to the language barrier. Though I managed to elicit smiles and a few giggles, one boy appeared and beamed into my eyes. "Money," he said and just stood there. Though I new what he wanted, the pronunciation was off. "Many?" I asked. "Many. Many what?" He just repeated the word. "Many donkeys," I said with a grin. There's a problem with Aid without education. While World Food, USAid, C.A.R.E., WorldVision and the many other aid organizaitons I found evidence of in Africa, it comes to a point that when a visitor - a white man in these parts - appears the population immediatley associates the visitor with hand outs. I tried to give away some bread and biscuits that I bought in Thika a couple nights back, but amazingly there were no takers. The crowd grew denser. Though I know I was an anomoly, I started to feel uncomfortable. In my animated and comical delivery I suggested that the crowed move on -- go to school, with their families or anywhere but just staring at me. I waved my hands in another animated attempt to "shoo" them away. But it didn't work. Then it occured to me how to get the crowed to move on. In these rural parts and many places along my journey there are people who are simply afraid of cameras. "Okay. If you don't want to go then I'm going to take a picture of you," I said as I pulled my camera from my pocket. In breakneck speed the crowd fled in every direction. Hmmmm. That was easy.
The road went on forever. I couldn't believe there were communities out here. This red clay would turn out to be our nemesis days later.
Fast break. The crowd disperses as I whip out my little digital camera. No photos. Well if they're gonna stare at me, I'm gonna stare back with my camera! I was tired. No real sleep for 36 hours. And sitting all this time, I was getting store. I pretzeled myself to the best I could to find a comfortable position in the cab. We continued driving as the sun finally set and gave both us in the cab and our poor passengers sitting atop the tarp covered cargo area. We got within 60 km (36 miles) of Moyale by about 1am when Abdulah announced we'd spend the night and head out early in the morning explaining that it'd be safer to park the loaded truck in the desert rather than in the town. After a cup of tea the owner of this small guest house that consisted of open door mud and stick shacks surrounding a courtyard of sand, thorn bushes and junk, Abdulah and I shared a shack where we both conked out on mattress-less beds made of sticks. Morning came to soon. Actually, it was still dark when Abdulah wrested me out of bed. After a warm cup of tea I made my way to the cab of the truck where I found Sofia sleeping in the cab -- she opted for the comfort of the bench seat rather than the stick beds -- smart girl. We were 2-3 hours from Moyale it was 4:30 in the morning. All started peacefully and I feel asleep in the cab until the break of daylight which brought along with it the break of the clouds in the sky. Awakened by the loud crash of thunder, my eyes opened to the light sprinkling of rain on the windshield. As we passed a tiny a barely recognizable side road, Abdulah told me that was the road to Marsabit and had we made the trip from Isiolo through Marsabit we'd meet this road here. The more we drove, the harder it rained. The clouds were dark, brooding and ominous while Abdulah was now fighting to keep the truck from slipping and sliding. Our speed decreased to 10-km/hour (6-mph) and as we headed up a very slight incline of about 10-15 degrees we lost all traction and the truck slid into the gutter or the shoulder. The road was crowned just enough that unless the truck could straddle it perfect center, we'd slid down into the side. It was red clay and it was slippery. With only a pick-axe and bare hands Abdulah and Keisha and with the help of a few of our illicit cargo passengers the team churned up dry clay from the road and mixed with a matrix of sticks and shrub in attempt to provide traction for the truck. An hour later Abdulah negotiated the heavy truck back onto the center of the road where we continued to slip and slide for about 500 feet until sliding down and then slamming into the side of the road landing at such an angle I thought the whole truck would tip over as we jolted with impact of the side of the truck. Once again the crew worked to dig the truck out of the muddy mess. We got moving again for barely 100 feet and slam. Once again I thought the truck would tip over with the impact. I wondered about my bike. I was sure the bike might break loose. Abdulah ordered the passengers off the top and me and Sofia out of the cab. When I made the long step down from the cab my foot slipped on the mud and I fell to my knees making a muddy mess of myself. Abdulah jabbered on his cell phone while the rutted mud was filled with sicks and churned up dirt. Sometime later a British-built 4x4 Defender showed up. The boss. Dressed in a long bright white gown signifying his devotion to Islam, it was suggested that Sofia and I be taken to Moyale while the truck was dug out. One guy told me it could be several days if they needed to wait for the road to dry. But by now the rain had stopped and while we'd only gone about 1 km in just under 3 hours, I was hopeful I wouldn't end up spending days in Moyale. In the distance to the West brooding rain clouds continued to drench the desert to the West. By now I was feeling real smart for choosing to truck through this part of Kenya. There was no way a motorcycle could ride on this wet clay. There was absolutely no traction. It was slipper and while the side of the road was thick mud, it would only cake up and clog a bikes drivetrain making it impossible to pass. Yes, I made the smart move.
We scrambled and tried to make a suitable track with traction. These guys must have done this before. I sat in the back of the Defender while the Abdulah managed to get the truck moving only to be slammed back into the side. This went on for an hour while bullfrogs from a nearby creek provided the side show and the choir. By the time the truck got moving and following us in the Defender just another km down the road we ran into another truck stuck and blocking the road. By the time that truck broke free our convoy came to another stuck vehicle. This time a 2WD Land Cruiser. Again another 45 minutes of pushing and pulling and rocking, the Defender broke free. At that point my white robed friend took Sofia and I to Moyale back to Moyale. Along the way we came across a traffic accident. Two bloody Kenyans sat on the side of the road. The slipping and sliding took its tool. We picked up the bloody and crying guys and dropped them off at the hospital. Then we were dumped off in the center of town and waited for Abdulah to arrive with my motorcycle. I could smell the Ethiopian border. An hour passed. Still no Abdulah. They were only 10 km away. I'm sure they battled more slick and muddy muck. At 2pm - about 10 hours since I woke up only 50 km from this town, I was reacquainted with Abdulah and my motorcycle. What an ordeal. Nearly 3 days to go 500 miles. How long would this journey been if I rode?
This guy almost fell as the red clay mud was slippery as ice.
I was afraid the lorry would tip over.
We slid sideways like this for a few hundred feet until slamming back into the berm on the side of the road.
Once we broke free we'd just encounter another stuck vehicle. Posted by allan | Comments (2) March 20, 2008
Africa/Kenya 03:51 PM Concerned about the road that goes from Nairobi north through Marsabit into Ethiopia, I'd been warned by Chris and others that the route is perhaps the rockiest and most incessant display of corrugation this side of Latin America. Glenn Heggsted, the legendary Norwegian-American who traveled around the world on the same bike a few years back blew his shock on the road, as well as three others I'd met over the last few months. Another American, a former airline pilot traveled the same road the year before decided after one day that he hooked up with a truck and had his bike trucked to the Ethiopian border. Stuck in Marsabit for two weeks, another rider bid his time in this desolate outpost while waiting for a replacement shock. Even more, a couple on two 650 BMWs spent four days and crashed several times simply trudging through the 300 miles of hell. I don't mind bad roads, but I also know when to be smart. I still had decent tread on my tire and my Works Performance shock, while certainly bearing the weight of me and my heavy load, has served me well on this journey. I'm sure it would make it. And I could make it -- slowly and surely. To be sure, the bad road was not my concern. Two things weighted heavy on plans: time and rain. I'm heading into the rainy season as I make my way to Ethiopia. And while the first 150 miles to Marsabit cross a normally dry desert, it's during the rainy season that this rocky road becomes a slippery oil slick that sometimes causes trucks to get stuck and stranded for weeks. And these trucks sometimes block the way of other cars, and potentially motorcycles. If the road remains dry, I'd go for it. But going slow and even slower in wet conditions, I had one thing on my mind: TIME. Rather than put myself through hell and potentially dangerous slippery conditions that could have me spending 3-5 days riding a mere 300 miles. No thanks. I'd rather have the extra days in culturally-rich Ethiopia. So I've got to explore other options. So taking advise from Chris at Jungle Junction I headed toward Isiolo where I can check with police and truckers regarding road conditions. That's when I heard about the rain north of Marsabit and into the Omo Valley in Ethiopia. "Sure it might dry in a few days," one trucker posited. "But more rain make very bad road," he added. Further information led me to the same conclusion. Rains have caused trucks to get stuck outside Marsabit and north. What should I do? I don't have the time to waste. I need to get to Addis to sort out my Sudanese Visa, and I'm gearing to make the April 9th ferry to Aswan Egypt. Sure, self-imposed deadlines, but deadlines nonetheless. I don't want to compromise on Ethiopia so putting myself through a hellish wet and muddy road for the sake of it made no sense. I went in search of a truck. I learned that some trucks take the rocky and muddy-when-wet Marsabit route, while others opt for the longer, sandy route through Garisa to the east and north through the desert. One trucker explained that though the route is longer and goes through sand, it's easier on the truck tires and the cargo because there is less corrugation and the sand makes for a smoother ride. Of course, that would be in a truck, not necessarily in a motorcycle. So I called, Steve, the taxi driver I'd met earlier in the week. He provided me with negotiation and navigation through the slums of Nairobi in search of a truck. We wandered through rocky streets where sacks of coffee, sugar, lime, shoes, fruit, clothing blocked passage ways. Passed alleys stinking of urine and drifted pass tiny shacks where sweet smells from wafts of coffee aromas contrasted with the harsh conditions in this slum of Nairobi. We were stuck for one hour trying to navigate through only three blocks. Trucks blocked intersections, the stench of bad sewage permeated my helmet while an endless array of dirty and sweaty palms were thrust in front of my helmet. Money. Some beggars cupped their fingers together and motioned with their mouths that they wanted food. But as the temperature soared from the heat of my engine, sun beating down and density of congested streets, Doc's temperature warning light glared at me while trying to follow this taxi. I was in no position to heed to the beggars -- not that I would in any case anyway. At one time the roads through this sprawling Nairobi slum were paved. But the ingenioius planners forgot one detail: drainage. The streets have no drains, the rooms simply dump water onto the street or walkways. Broken concrete, exposed rebar and haphazardly placed markets with shading provided by plastic sheets, cut up boxes and clothes too deteriorated to wear. This is where tourists fear to tread, yet the vibrancy, energy and chaos is a feast for the eyes. But keep cool. And alert.
Nairobi slum is a haven for ad hoc markets shipping sugar and cane, clothes, vegetables, soap and no my motorcycle. Sitting on the hood of the car on the left is Steve my taxi driver and the owner/broker of the truck that would take me and Doc to Moyale on the Kenya/Ethiopia border. This area of Nairobi is chock full of refugees from Somalia, Ethiopia, Eritrea, the Congo and elsewhere in Africa. For some, Nairobi represents a safe haven and a place to do business. For others, it's a better way of life outside the impoverished food-starved villages of lands faraway. For me it represents a possible quick way to the Ethiopian border, while providing me with yet another unique cultural experience. Plus, it would save me time and wear and tear on a motorcycle that still had miles and months to go in this journey. If I ended up in a bad situation I can accept that as circumstance. But if I go headlong into a situation knowingly that could affect safety, health or cause damage, injury or otherwise compromise my trip -- it would be stupid and imprudent. At least I can make a choice. In this case, I'm going for the border and saving Doc's ass in the process. One thing travelers' learn early on is that in third world motorcycle travel, everyone is an opportunist. That is, everyone wants to help you. Even if they can't they'll try to convince you they can. Whether it's finding a hotel room, a motorcycle mechanic or a truck to take your bike to the border, the sheer number of people willing to help you is astounding. But they all can't. And if somehow they manage to connect you with someone they expect either a tip or a commission from the truck owner. And today it was perhaps even more difficult identifying the brokers from the real deal. Over the period of several hours Steve, my taxi guy, and I "interviewed" and "inspected" a number of trucks and negotiated with several would-by owners. We finally came to an agreement with one owner whose truck would nestle Doc in the back with a potpourri of other products heading to the border town of Moyale. It would cost me nearly $100 and take two days and a few hours to get to my destination. The truck was a late-model Volvo with good tires and in good shape. Quite different than many other trucks we'd checked. The owner/broker wanted his money. I told him I'd pay half in Nairobi and half when I arrived in Moyale. This concept didn't go over well. He wanted it all -- now. Even though I was told the truck would leave in an hour (it was 4pm by the time we'd closed the deal), I knew this was a dream. After all, I am in Africa. Nothing goes as planned, let alone on time.
Steve takes up the rear as our ad hoc team of loaders heave Doc into the back of the lorry.
The crowds hover and gather around my Jesse bags and gaze into the back of the Lorry wondering just where and why this mozungu (white man) is going.
They try to load as much more as possible for the truck to Moyale at the Kenya / Ethiopia border. Doc sits secure atop dozens of sacks of some substance that someone will make soap from. Good god! When it came time to load Doc into the back of the truck atop sacks of a fine lime-like consistency powder that is used for making soap, the whole neighborhood showed up behind the truck eager to help hoist the 650cc machine into the lorry. The four healthiest yet still quite feeble looking were assigned the duty and we tied down Doc in the cavernous tarp covered cargo area of the 2005 Volvo truck. I supervised the tying down and insisted we cover the bike fearing that dusty mixture would all but cover my bike in a thin coat of white crap. Still withholding payment to the owner/broker because at 6pm the driver had yet to show up. Meanwhile, my owner/broker closed a handful of side deals as the space around doc filled up with a couple large sacks of shoes and a huge box of Kiwi shoe polish. Then a sack of close.
With the truck all packed up and ready to go, the rain starts pouring yet we've got no driver. "Hey!" I yelled and began to cause a ruckus if only for the entertainment of me and Steve the taxi driver. "I paid for that space!" I referred to the agreement that we made when I insisted that the bike have its own space in the truck so that nothing would fall on it or roll into it as we made the treacherous journey across the desert. "If those shoes are going on the truck, then I should get the money!" I felt that I needed to entertain myself and just test the limits of my broker/owner. After a 10 minute conversation where I wore my serious and concerned face, I broke down and let him know I was only joking yet I was serious about adding more product to the cargo that could be dangerous to my bike. Another hour passed and as the sun dropped the clouds moved in and the rain started pouring. I was feeling pretty good about my decision at this point. With a driver, a back up driver and a 14-year old Ethiopian girl all scrunched in the cab of the truck we ventured into the night traffic and rainy roads of Nairobi making our way to out of the city. I felt funny sitting in the cab of one of those trucks I often passed and at times cursed. Now it was I slugging along and sitting up so high watching the other cars -- and bikes zoom by. The sky was black and the windshield wipers rattled as we moved toward Moyale.
The back of this bus is filled with colorful graphics and words and complete who I think is Bin Laden on the U.S. dollar bill. Spotted this local bus on the outskirts of the slums as we headed out of Nairobi. Posted by allan | Comments (7) March 17, 2008
Africa/Kenya 09:09 AM
Just outside of the city center tucked behind a tall black gate inscribed with the initials J.J. is an overlander oasis run by German ex-pat Christof. With a large greenbelt ideal of camping and parking overland Land Cruiser, Land Rovers and motorcycles, Jungle Junction also sports a guest house with several rooms, some with private bathroom, a community kitchen, dining and lounge area. And Chris's workshop is in the condition you'd expect from a passionate German mechanic: spotless and organized.
While in Nairobi I received the DHL package with my Moleskin Book and blue Sea to Summit dry gab. Thanks to Martha and Peter in Malawi! I opted for a simple room on the first floor as my knee still bothered me from the White Nile river rafting fiasco. Even putting my kick-stand required diligent effort and tolerance to pain I'd rather not have while hanging in Nairobi. I quickly learned that Chris was the former mechanic for the local Nairobi motorcycle dealer. A subtle fallout with management turned into an opportunity for both mechanic and dealer: Chris would be on-call for motorcycle problems that were unable to be solved by the assistant Chris himself had trained. In turn, Chris would receive a work permit sponsored by BMW Kenya and Chris would also purchase parts and accessories from them. Chris then set up Jungle Junction where travelers can enlist the services of this competent mechanic or work on their bikes and cars in the driveway -- sometimes even soliciting the advise and tools of the owner. It all makes a perfect stopover for overlanders heading the legendary Cairo to Cape Town route. Jungle Junction also offers storage for motorcycles and 4x4's. For those people who run out of time or fear the travel north of south, Jungle Junction is a respite of safety and sanity -- sort of. Chris is the type of mechanic who not only loathes the remove and replace mentality that defines many BMW dealers and even the company's manufacturing methods. A traditionalist he is passionate about motorcycles and prefers to fix things rather than simply replacing them -- and elsewhere in Africa this sometimes is borne out of necessity rather than choice -- but at Jungle Junction, Chris gets to the heart of the bike and doesn't mind a helpful hand and is quick to offer explanation, suggestion and words of caution. In nearly 50,000 miles on the road over more than two years, I don't think I've ever felt as comfortable to see my bikes in the hands of someone else. We attacked a number of issues with Doc:
I'm sure we tackled a few other items but after putting all the pieces back together and a quick test ride, Doc is ready for Northern Kenya and Ethiopia!
Doc sitting happy and proud at Chris's workshop at Jungle Junction in Nairobi!
Checking the thickness of shims. Chris didn't have the perfect size, so assistant David took to the sandpiper to make the size fit!
Chris welded the tailpiece frame so that the top box would be more secure for the bad roads of Ethiopia and Sudan! But before getting north I still had the business of Visas to contend with. It appears that I may get the Sudanese Visa in Addis Ababa in Ethiopia. But I'm told it will be a transit visa and only valid for seven days. That means making the journey across the Nubian Desert along the Nile in seven days. There's only one ferry weekly from Wadi Halfa in Sudan to Aswan in Egypt. If my timing isn't impeccable I could be explaining my extended stay in Sudan to the police while groveling in a Sudanese jail cell. But I'm worrying about things far in the future. More important is an Ethiopian Visa. The Ethiopian Visa was hassle free -- for the most part. This cost me another $75 and they required a passport photo and two copies each of my international driving license and a full complete page from my Carnet de Passage. The Ethiopian at the Embassy offered to let me in after hours to provide the photo copies. He stamped copies and scribbled a few things and told me to give this to the authorities at customs in Moyale - as without it they wouldn't know how to handle the Carnet. With all of my business in order, I was ready to make my way to Ethiopia.
A farewell to Chris and Jungle Junction in Nairobi. Posted by allan | Comments (8) March 15, 2008
Africa/Kenya 11:03 PM
First it was the Ugandans who wanted to be sure their flag was represented on the WorldRider machine. Later the Kenyans added their flag but wanted a few shillings - I traded a WorldRider Sticker!
It was the Ides of March that he was forewarned, the day Caesar was assisinated by the "liberators" in an attack masterminded by one friend and now paranoid foe Marcus Brutus. But I'm far from the outstretches of the former Roman Empire, yet will be riding into enemy territory. The December elections and the violent aftermath have done more damage to Kenya that nearly any event in the last half-century to most African countries. Kenya, for the most part, has been a model of the new and modern Africa: big business, bustling tourism, millions in aid money and a growing economy. But all that was torn down in a matter of days when the current President, Mwai Kibaki, claimed victory for the December elections -- a victory that was clearly fraudulent and looked down in disgrace by the international community. But most of the damage came from within with the opposition taking to the streets and killing more than 1,000, injuring, raping, looting and burning important buildings and destroying roads and bridges.  
One must be careful riding the roads of Kenya. Not sure if they just leave the carnage of past accidents or just don't have the trucks to clean them up. Be careful! And today, I'd be riding through the thick of it. I'd made an appointment at the only BMW dealer north of Windhoek and south of Israel. While Kenya inspired my interest, I now had my heart set on Ethiopia and therefore Nairobi and Kenya would simply be stopping grounds and a place to take care of business. To learn more about this country, I'd have to wait and visit again in the future. The border procedures for both Uganda and Kenya were simple, quick and efficient. I had to cough up $70 USD for a Kenyan visa and while at the border an eager group of Kenyans were quick to find a Kenyan flag and adhere it to my panniers. "You must have Kenya flag Mr. Allan," the proud man with his teeth falling out decreed, "this for you," he then held out his hand expecting payment while the rest of the crowd frowned upon him. I gave them all WorldRider stickers and moved on my way. Now I was heading into Kenya's enemy territory. Since 1992 Kenya has held multiparty elections. But even these were controlled through fear and violence largely brought on by then president Daniel arap Moi, famous for carrying his trademarked large stick-like scepter and who was Kenya's second president, taking the reigns from Jomo Kenyatta who died in 1978. It was current opposition Raila Odinga who supported current president Mwai Kibaki in 2002 in an effort to beat Moi's appointed successor, Kenyatta's son Uhuru. Kibaki won more than two-thirds the vote and in doing so perhaps ushered in a new era of perceived prosperity to Kenya. And in the five years since Kenya has flourished. But unfortunately at the expense of some ethnic groups and the poor, uneducated and youth of the country. When Odinga decided to go up against the man he supported (perhaps forcibly) in 2002, in the December 2007 elections it appeared that he won the election by a landslide. Yet waking the next morning the country learned that somehow those votes disappeared and the government declared Kibaki winner. That's when Odinga supporters hit the streets. And Kibake's government follow suit in retaliation. The rest of the story was a media frenzy and a sad situation for the people of Kenya. UN head Koffi Annan spent several weeks in Kenya mediating an agreement and US-president George Bush sent Condeleeza Rice to Nairobi to offer strong words to both Kibake: "The time for political settlement was yesterday." Yet violence continued for more than two months after the election -- most of it centered in the slums of Nairobi and the northwest provinces. At my first petrol stop an hour or so after the bordering crossing on Masero village, the young man pumping my gas offered his perspective on the violence. "You won't have a problem," he offered first while remarking on the interesting position of the under-seat gas tank of my BMW. "There's no problem -- for today," he continued. "Does that mean there might be a problem -- tomorrow?" I enquired. "If the government doesn't keep its promise. Maybe." he offered. When I asked if he'd take to the streets with more violence he simply answered, "If I'm angry I will." And when I asked if he was angry after the elections, he confided. "I was very angry. Very angry." Later riding through Kisumu I noticed burned remains of businesses, homes and even a hospital was a charred mess. The road from Kisumu toward Nakuru was the worse road I've been on during this entire journey. No it wasn't a dirt, sandy or muddy mess. It was a potholed nightmare. There was no avoiding the potholes. And it was impossible to make time. And each kilometer it seemed to get worse. I wondered if I'd ever make it to Nairobi. But soon I was climbing down from Nakuru into Kenya's amazing Rift Valley, past Nokuru Lake and then climbing up the eastern escarpment to elevations exceeding 10,000 feet. The wind whipped and tossed my bike around in the fiercest display of wind since perhaps Patagonia. But as the sun make its slow descent the glistening lake in the valley below along with the gentle sloping hills on the horizon froze me in my tracks while I watched and wondered how these people could be so self-destructive -- torching a hospital of all places. A hospital. 
The amazing Rift Valley. My photos can't do justice. I had to get to Nairobi.
I continued into Nairobi as the last of the sun faded in my rear view. With no clue of accommodation I used the GPS to navigate to the center of Nairobi where I discovered that all of this violence has brought tourism to a stop and hotels eager to lure travelers offered amazing rates. Unwilling to explore the city many nickname Nai-robbery by night I take up the manager's offer at the oldest hotel in town -- The Stanley. The next morning my experience at BMW was a disaster. After paying a taxi-driver to guide me through the maze of Nairobi traffic, I arrive before 9am. By 2pm I learn that my bike hasn't been touched. And it's Friday. They won't work on it until Monday. That's when I decided to retrieve the bike and head for where I should've first: Jungle Junction -- a veritable oasis in the middle of the insanity of Nairobi -- a guest house and workshop run by a competent BMW-trained mechanic. I only wish I knew earlier. And I should have. Posted by allan | Comments (1) March 14, 2008
Africa/Uganda 03:32 AM With the sprawl and dusty of Kampala fading in my rearview I navigate Doc around bicycles, pedestrians, cows, donkeys, trucks, and throat-clogging and eye-burning puffs of diesel smoke until coming to the bridge that crosses the Mighty Nile where the mighty river sources its water and Lake Victoria. I've made it from the bottom to the top of the largest African lake. And before crossing into Kenya there is one thing I've long dreamt of doing: white water rafting the ferocious Nile.
Passing the Nelson Mandela Stadium, I leave the noise and dirt of Kampala behind and head for the River Nile. Up a rocky and dusty path I find my way to Nile River Explorers Camp and the Nile Porch tent camp. It's a bit confusing finding my way in but a helpful local who watched me u-turn and ride by the unmarked entrance three times finally flagged me down and ushered me through the guarded gate. Sitting on a bluff above one of the class-5 rapids at Bujagali Falls I am offered a sweet tent complete with and outdoor bathroom and shower overlooking the legendary river. While the sun set over the river and I dined on local river fish, I negotiated a day trip that would take me 30km (about 18 miles) down the river, through five or six grade-5 rapids and a host of fours, threes, twos and a couple "ones" thrown in."
Some Nile River seafood, a Nile Special cold beer and scenic Nile sunset provided me with my "last" meal before heading down the Nile. Nile River Explorers uses 8-man inflatable rafts which includes the guide and "captain". My group consisted of a two American missionaries, an elderly Canadian woman and a couple from Australia. The two missionairies opted for a half-day river ride and therefore would be dropped riverside in the early afternoon. We went through the normal initiation and training exercises, forcibly causing our raft to capsize and mimicking getting stuck under the thing. With everyone trained to keep their hands on the paddle ends we headed for our first class-5 rapid which all of us, save the Aussie chick, managed well. The girl somehow popped out of the raft, but a team of kayakers provided her with the support and eventually got her back to the boat. After a few more sets of rapids we stopped, jumped into the mighty Nile and floated down river while the support group sliced fresh pineapple and served us a snack of biscuits and fruit. Losing the missionairies we continued through rapid after rapid the rest of the day.
My tent overlooking the bluffs above the River Nile. Of the five groups in the same number of rafts on the Nile this day, we were the only group to safely raft through a tough class-5 that dumped us over a a nearly 5-meter high waterfall. Most all were ejected from their rafts while one group taking a safe approach got stuck on a rock and required a tedious rescue procedure to move everyone down the waterfall where they were reunined with the raft a few meters down river. They never exeperienced the thrill of the drop. But it was the last rapid of the day that saw this weary traveler hanging on for life -- literally. The rapid is actually a class-6 white water that after a 100 meters or so softens to a class-5. Too dangerous to ride the class-6, we must carry our rafts around the rapid by land and then relaunch the boats directly into the class-5. Told that there is a 50-50 chance that the boat will capsize we are offered the opportunity to take the easy way, or to go for it. At the head of the boat and the self-appointed ring-leader, I convince our group to "go for it". And when we do we run directly into a wall of water nearly twice as high as the boat. At this first pounding, our boat is sent straight up and frighteningly vertical at which point all of the passengers are ejected from the boat, except the captain in the rear and me in the front. Hanging on we brace for the second wall of water which sends us up again and then like the fingers of giant, flips our boat and then spins it around. Still in the boat when it's tossed, the swirling of the white water spins the little toy upside down while my foot is planted on the floor. This twisting motion sends jolts through my knee as I got under the rushing water. I lost count after nearly 7 seconds wondering when I'd surface. In training they said you'd never be under more than 5 seconds. I'd broken that record or forgot how to count. I'm not sure. But then I popped up. I could spot several rafts on the side of the river as I was whisking downstream. Screaming and yelling and paddles were waved at me. Frantically I began making for the shore and in a few seconds was muscling into the safe haven of another raft. "Wow," one of the girls in the raft exclaimed as I caught my breath, "that looked scary but amazing," I was grabbing my knee as the throbbing absorbed my thoughts. Later that night, after a barbeque and beers with the entire group that rafted, we watched the video of what everyone called the "coolest crash of the day." It must've been because the video editor used it no less than five times in the short video of our days raft trip. There you can see me holding on through the first massive wave and then my little head eventually bopping in the white water.   
Five us in the raft attack the last class-5 of the day. On the far right above you can see me holding on but keeping my head up.
  
We hit the first low wave sideways, I'm still holding on and we come smashing down witheveryone still on board.
  
Then we get blindsided as we go into a deep cavity before getting slammed by the next wave. Everyone gets thrown out of the boat but both the captain and me hang on and ready to brave the next one.
Then we get tossed and spun.   
I'm under the raft until it spins me around causing an excellent case of twisting ye olde knee.
 
The boat drifts. Where's Allan? Then the little helmeted head pokes up and I survive. But my knee lives to tell a different story. Ouch.
At the post rafting BBQ and video world premier with my Aussie raft-mates! I slammed an 800mg ibupropen before bed, and eager to hit the road at the crack of dawn, I watched the sunrise over the nile to a cocktail of warm water and another 800mg of pain relief. The knee was badly swollen. Rubbing my fingers around it, I felt a gooey mass than can only be described as jello under my skin. I was really worried. The knee hurt, despite the pain killer, and the damage was to the all important left leg -- the one that must bear the weight when getting off the side stand and when shifting. It'd be a long day today including a border crossing with two immigration and customs stops. I'd be riding through what has been described as the war-torn northwest section of Kenya --- where most of the violence and killing occured after the ill-fated post-election violence that had plagued Kenya until just a couple weeks ago when the opposition party agreed to a coalition government. Not sure if the populace was comfortable with the plan, I knew that I HAD to be in Nairobi prior to nightfall. Tough surroundings and an appointment first thing in the morning at BMW. I had to make it. And the day would take me through some of the toughest roads in Kenya. All of this with a wobbly and pain-ridden knee. Ah. But the White Nile? The mighty White Nile! I rafted it. But today I pay my penance. Posted by allan | Comments (3) March 12, 2008
Africa 03:15 AM The Uganda capital is a bustling, dusty and noisy traffic jam of taxis, mini-busses and lines of nondescript shops touting electronics, cameras, clothing, souvenirs and more. And I can't forget the motorcycle taxis - these dangerous, helmetless kamikazes that sometimes pile 3 or 4 people to a small chinese motorcycle. In Kampala, my residence for my short stay is the Equatoria Hotel, complete with wireless internet access, albeit a bit slow. The usual crowd circles me and Doc as I start pulling off my luggage. A security/bell-hop pushes his way through the crowd and hurriedly takes my bag to the room while Doc finds a shady spot under the awning and next to the massive six-cylinder headless diesel engine sitting in a pile of dirt. Sure Kamapala has a seductive energy to it as the influx of ex-pats, NGO employees and air workers makes for a metropolitan mix not unlike Rwanda. But I'm not here to take in the nightlife, restaurants nor coffee shops. No. As my itinerary has now changed dramatically, I must get down to business. First, I look through several tiny bookshops for a guidebook on Sudan or Egypt with no avail. Thanks to another good samaritan Ugandan, Diane I'm able to find the biggest and best bookstore in town, but even this effort proves fruitless. Next business is a Sudan Visa. I've read horror stories of month-long waiting period for US applicants. Others have been flatly turned down and told to go home - or elsewhere. At the tiny cubed building with a gun-toting guard, through a thick paned glass window that hasn't seem to have been cleaned since Idi Amin's regime, the pudgy round-faced clerk pulls out a faded photo copy of VISA requirements and tells me they're "finished" today and to come back tomorrow. With a leaky ball-point pen and circles one of the requirements: Sponsor must submit a letter of recommendation to immigration office in Khartoum. Upon approval application will be processed. In other words, get set for a Chinese slow train to destination Sudanese Visa.
Another day in Kampala.
Sitting on one of Kampala's many hills is the Libyan president's gift to Uganda - a massive mosque with a capacity of 17,000. Tapping on the dirty window, even though the building is less than 200sq feet, it takes a lot of effort to gain the attention of my photocopy pushing clerk. "Excuse me," I cough and plant the application requirement sheet to the window, "I don't have a sponsor," trying to see if there's a way around this issue, I beg the forbidden question and worry about offering too much information, "but you see, I'm riding a motor bike through Sudan as a tourist. Is there any way we can get around this requirement," I confidently ask the question while pointing to his leaky ink scribble on the photocopy. "You have to ask the deputy secretary," he matter-of-factly stated and turned his back to me. "He not here today. Come back tomorrow", the muffled behind the back voice squeaked out. Great. I'm only in the embassy visa section for five minutes and my instinct and research proved to be valid. This is going to take work. Meanwhile back in the states, my brother Jonathan, who's completed nearly a half-dozen assignments in Sudan, including Darfur and Khartoum, was talking to the people in the Sudan embassy based in Washington, DC. At this point of my trip, timing is everything. And losing time is something I cannot afford as it impacts riding weather, ferry schedules and more. Plus, I don't like sitting idle in African cities, Cape Town excluded. Through the same dirty glass the next day my clerk candidate for a personality and customer service award tells me, "No. Not here today. Deputy secretary." I sigh and look him woefully directly into his weathered dark brown eyes. "You come back tomorrow." I was getting a ride for which I did not nor wish not to have a ticket. It took another day but Jon and I connected and conferenced called the Sudan Embassy in Washington DC. Jon's contact promised to connect with a friend working in the Sudanese Embassy in Addis Ababa to detail my plight. He strongly suggested that I secure a Visa for Egypt as Khartoum will want proof that I plan on leaving the country. In most cases and airline ticket would work, but since I'd be crossing a small little-used land border with Ethiopia, the Sudanese want to see I will exit through a neighboring country. The Egyptian Visa would be my best shot. The next morning I blew off the Sudanese for favor of a visit to the Egyptian Embassy, which had moved just one week prior making for another traffic choked tour of Kampala, and filled the application, dropped my passport and about $20 worth of Uganda Shillings and was asked to come back at 4pm. Arriving at 3pm the personable gentlemen filled with tips of tourists locations in his country, handed me my Visa and a couple bucks of change. Riding past the Sudan Embassy and out of town, I am hopeful that my luck will change in Ethiopia. It's a risky proposition as I could try Nairobi. But I'm going forward with my new information and my fingers crossed. I made my way for the source of the River Nile - to Jinka just a few hours from Kampala -- out of the city at last! Posted by allan | Comments (0) March 10, 2008
Africa/Uganda 03:37 AM After a tranquil stay on Lake Bunyonyi I made my way to the Uganda capital, Kampala, crossing the equator for the second time during my journey. But unlike Ecuador's equatorial monument, the Ugandan version was more modest -- and more interesting. Here at the equator in Uganda there were three large funnels which emptied into larger containers. One on both the north and south side of the equator and one directly on the equator. Pouring water into each and placing a small daisy in the water, I was finally convinced that the water does drain counter clockwise below the equator; clockwise above the equator and on the equator it simply goes straight down. Moving the funnels closer and further away, it amazed me to watch the change of speed as the daisy spun slower further away and faster closer to the equator.
It's true folks. I saw it with my own two eyes. Equally interesting was the banana activity I witnessed nearly the entire three-hundred miles of road I traveled. Bananas everywhere. From Ntungamo to Mbarara to Lyontonde. And onward to Masaka. Bananas stacked over the rear wheels of biccyles and motorcycles as if they were banana panniers. People carried them on tops of their heads. Massive trucks carried tons, often the weight perhaps a bit much for the aging iron as I spotted no less than a dozen trucks broken down - yet full of bananas - only soon to be continuing their banana journey. This part of Uganda is green, green and green. Yes, even the bananas in their transport state are green. Banana trees stretch for miles in the disance. No, Uganda is even in the top 5 banana producers. Countries like India, China and Ecuador perhaps are the top three. But in Uganda, bananas seem more than business. In a country where the average annual consumption of bananas per capital is 243kg, you mustn't underestimate its important and a vital and staple food. Some lucky villagers have bananas growing on trees in their front yards. I notice young boys hoisting up the trees and wielding large knives from goatskin sheaths which they use to cut the massive clumps of fruit from the tree.
Yes. It's true. Water does drain the opposite direction below the equator. I saw it. I thought of morning cereal, like Corn Flakes with freshly cut slices of banana and cold milk. A banana daquiri sure was sounding good. Hell, simply a banana smoothie. I thought of all the fried bananas I ate the last time I traveled through the Indonesian Archipelago. And how good would banana flambé be right now? But perhaps like a monkee or a gorilla, I just would like to stop and pull a fresh banana off a tree, peel the skin and bite it. Yummy. Yes. I'm in banana country. And the Ugandanas heere are serious about bananas. Judging from the activity on just this ONE day, I imagine this is life. Every day. Don't know if I will ever look at a banana the same way. Sure. I've seen banana plantations. Lots on this trip. But by far this is the most dense and industrious movement of bananas I've ever seen. Bar none.
This Long Horned beauty will certainly give any Texan a bit of horn envy.
But I regress. At a petrol stop in Masaka on Lake Victoria, I immediately attracted the usual gawkers and onlookers while the petrol station attendeants futilely attempted to whisk them away. Explaining that there are so many poor people in Uganda who cannot afford standard bus, taxi or mini-bus transport that ad-hoc transportation in the back of trucks, while dangerous and illegal in westernized countries, is an important mode of transport for people going from villages to the market and back. I had expressed interest and worry while explaining this type of transport is illegal in the USA. Even more, while spotting no less than five or six motorcycles carrying three or four people -- all helmetless -- I sadly expressed to my gas attendents that safety is not a concern in Uganda. Although, HIV/Aids infection rates are perhaps the lowest in Uganda due to its government's tenacity in education early on and before Aids Awarness became in vogue in Africa. I only hope that traffic and litter education will reach the government docket sooner rather than later.
No helmets, no laws, no rules. No brains.
Justine from Kampala guided me to the Equatoria Hotel where slow wireless internet access and secure parking awaited me. Traffic snarled on the two lane road heading into Kampala. A massive Mosque dominated the skyline of my approach so I headed for it. Later I learned that the Mosque has yet to be opened, and that sometime the following week its patron, Muammar al-Gaddafi, the Libyan president, would be in Kampala to make the dedication and officially open the Islamic fortress. But it was a hotel nearby the mosque and the lovely women working there who finally guided me into Kampala. I would have stayed at their hotel but they didn't offer internet. And any time I ride into an African capital city, I hope to find a place with an internet connection so I may catch up on these posts, email and business back home. Posted by allan | Comments (2) March 09, 2008
Africa/Uganda 08:51 PM Paint is expensive. Construction takes time. Materials are hard to come by. Roads are bad. Trucks are slow and most deteriorating and bad on fuel economy and even worse for the environment. Some towns, rather most towns in Africa look like they were started witha good idea but then left to the whim of some mutated virus -- and I'm not talking organic. Piles of sand, stone, bricks, metal, rebar line the fronts of businesses. Hobbled together corrugated metal serves sometimes as roofing and other times as siding -- or even a flimsy door. Sometimes entire buildings are feebly rivited together corrugated atrocities. But for most people, this is all they know. Nobody thinks twice about that pile of sand that's been sitting on the side of the road for 3 months. Someone was going to mix concrete I guess. For what? The only asphalt can be found on main roads. Concrete can serve as foundation for some of these buildings. But they better get going before the rain season. That's when the whole town turns into a muddy reminder of why things can't and don't get done in Africa.
After leaving Bunyoni, I encountered my budding friends and future lawyer and president. Gracing them with WorldRider stickers they promised to email me! Enter mobile or cellular phone companies. In some countries there are two or three carriers. They compete for business. But what's funny is that each company will construct a cellular tower with all the necessary equipment across the road from each other. There's no sharing. So there's costly redundancy. Meanwhile, nobody has laid the bricks for the new casket shop down on main street. But caskets are still selling like hot cakes. Wtih AIDS, the business of death is guaranteed. Sadly. So if you're a shop owner investment in anything but inventory is never paramount. Move product, collect shillings, pounds, dollars, rand, qwacha or whatever currency they're comfortable with. But branding? Image? Not a concern. No need to invest in anything. But then there's a way to make your down town look a little brighter. A little cleaner. Our spendthrift mobile carriers will come to the rescue. Rolling past some towns it's amazing how much money the cellular companies put into branding. From outdoor (billboards), banners hung across streets, indpendent distributors hawking scratch off recharge cards at major interesections dressed in colorful smocks to complete retail facades painted in the cellular carriers hard to miss brand color. Two major carriers operate this way in much of East Africa: MTN (yellow) and CelTel (red/orange). And in Uganda they are out in full force. In Mexico, I remember that it was the beer companies who paid for the paint on buildings and in many places the school playgrounds. I guess in Africa's case, the cell companies are a better bet! Cellular carriers are happy to provide paint for willing retailers Oh while I'm on these random thoughts, it's interesting to note that in both Latin America and Africa the use of cones or emergency road signs is practically non-existent. And most roads are simply two-lane. So if your vehicle breaks down you must take up a little gardening in order to provide some early warning to oncoming traffic. So it's not uncomoon to see tree branches or even logs or piles of leaves in the middle of the road. Sometimes they're left over from a previous accident or breakdown, othertimes you better watch it.
No orange cones or warning beacons in high-vis yellow or orange! Just some tree branches and leaves. Be careful. That big green truck is stopped and stuck. Posted by allan | Comments (0) March 08, 2008
Africa/Rwanda/Uganda 04:19 PM With the gorillas still hanging in the trees clinging to the steep volcanoes behind me, I made my way to the Uganda border. It's this last stretch of 100km that hasn't seen interntational support funds -- for the road at least. The road from Kigali to Katuna in Uganda ranks up there with one of the worst pot-holed roads of the journey. But the scenery? Stunning. Riding through a valley with traditional villages, rondavel homes and terraced and sculpted fields of rice, corn, tea and coffee. The scenery continued and got better after making yet another border crossing into the Republic of Uganda. Unlike Rwanda where a VISA was granted with no fee, Rwanda took me for fifty bucks. Plus about twenty bucks for road taxes. So feeling $70 lighter I made my way to the peaceful hamlet of Lake Bunyoni passing through the small town of Kabale which is surrounded by a number of small lakes where terraced hills tumble steep to the water and small camps, lodges and bungalows dot the shores and hills. I chose Lake Bunyonyi about 10km outside of town up and down steep roads.
The lush green and misty cloud covered hills made exiting Rwanda and entering Uganda a cool and atmospheric feeling.
It's hard to take time alone on just about any road in Africa.
No helmet but with a delivery to make. Not sure I'd take the job!
The aid flows into Rwanda and Uganda. Convoys of trucks carrying full-size containers proudly exhibited the UN moniker. Stopping in town to take advantage of the Standard Bank ATM machine, as usual I was nearly accosted by vendors selling newspapers, cellular pre-paid "top-up" cards, fruit and more. But it was two young girls that really ushered my Ugandan indoctrination. Both carrying woven bamboo baskets atop their heads and about 10 years old, we chatted briefly roadside by the ATM. Welcome to Uganda!
Future lawyer and president here in Uganda. "Where you from," the less shy girl with her head neatly shaved and shining with small beads of sweat so delicately innocent in the late afternoon sun. "Where are you going?" Before I could answer the shy girl asked if I w \as hungry, pointing to her tangerines. They told me that they learned English in school and then the forward girl offered, "I want to be a lawyer." "And I want to be president," the shy girl with an extra bout of confidence piped. For perhaps first time in my journey through Latin America, Brazil and Africa have I sensed a desire to exceed and be someone in such young people. Often I've hypothesized one major problem with many impoverished people from cultures different than my own is the lack of perceived opportunity by its citizens. You're raised by a goat hereder, you will be a goat herder and you will rear goat herders -- a perceived preordained existence with no other future. Yet in the US and other westernized cultures we are instilled with the concept of fulfilling our potential and dreaming to be something. "What do you want to be when you grow up?" It's in our psyche but absent in those of many other cultures. Yet on this dusty Ugandan street these two girls capture my heart and share their dreams with me. And it's not a ploy to sell tangerines. But I couldn't resist. I bought some fruit from each and shared it with an elderly woman walking down the street and with the boy selling newspapers who guided me to the turn off to Lake Bunyonyi.
The road to Bunyoni hugs the mountainside, is badly rutted and now in the rainy season always a bit dicey. But it didn't rain until the morning I left and therefore I avoided any otentially muddy pitfall.
Pictures just can't capture the magic of one of Uganda's most magical lakes in a region studden with dozens.
At the Bunyonyi Overland Camp I met Tom from Canada who'd been on a group trip with about 20 bicyclists gearing to complete the Cairo to Cape Town overland journey. With the trip booked and underway when the crises in Kenya kicked in, the itinerary and route changed whereby offering the riders a two-week hiatus before reconvening in Dar es Salaam. Tom and another rider opted to go to Uganda and Rwanda while others went straight to Tanzania. After seeing my photos of my Rwanda mountain gorilla experience, Tom was making plans to head to Volcano National Park. An F650GS owner himself, he confided that later in the year he and a buddy are planning a motorcycle journey to Baja in Mexico. Perhaps I'll see him passin |
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