The border crossing was routine, and I skipped on the third party insurance this time from all the solicitors, having not one officer ever ask me for my insurance the entire trip so far since Canada. And besides, they soak you at the border with money changing and fake ledgers that display the prices. In Tanzania they wanted 50 US for coverage in Tanz, or 100 for all the countries up to Egypt. I passed on the all the countries coverage, but this time, after checking in with customs and my carnet, I saw a poster on the wall that said it is illegal to travel without third party insurance. I asked the woman about buying coverage here and she said it was ill advised for there were many fake papers being sold. Then some local driving a truck called someone on his phone and they showed up at my bike, the legitimate ones, and in the end they gave me a discount and I paid 73US for Kenya, Ethiopia, Sudan and Egypt. Let’s hope it works. Regardless, I have a paper, fake or not, so I can plead at least ignorance with the police if they should ever ask, and besides, I’m tired of having to buy something from anyone at the border. I’ve been so good lately, having my visa already in hand, my local currency as well as the previous country’s currency and US dollars, (even though I’m trying to save them for Ethiopia and Sudan for one cannot use Visa or one’s foreign bank card at the ATM’s) the only thing lacking has been the insurance. So riding into Ethiopia should be a breeze if I have the currency, for I already have the visa and now the third party insurance, at least in theory. By the way, don’t forget to have a 20US bill only for the road tax into Kenya. Don’t worry, there’s a Bureau de Change right next door to the immigration/customs offices.
I was riding down this road for 10 kilometers, flashing my lights at the oncoming vehicles to move aside, and they did, but mostly at the last second which really annoyed me. For the big trucks and buses, I would move to the far right side, which is technically the wrong side of the road, but it made it easier for them not to have to ride down the small decline in the pavement, it worked pretty well.
Here on the outskirts of Nairobi, all hell broke loose as I rode into rush hour traffic, on some of the worst city roads I’ve ridden on for about 3 kilometers. Later, and you can’t tell from the pictures as I was busy fighting to get through all the traffic and terrible pollution, not a single ounce of clean air to be inhaled, it’s worse I think than Mexico city, maybe because of the heavy cloud cover at the time.
In the above photo, I was riding through the grass and dirt pedestrian paths and garbage, weaving through cars, riding on sidewalks, anything to get through the grid lock. Thankfully my GPS was successfully guiding me to the infamous, ‘Jungle Junction’, run by Chris an ex-Gerrman/BMW mechanic that everyone stops in to camp in his yard, and prepare for the road up, or fix from the road down the famous Cape to Cairo route, just like Dakar Motos in Buenos Aries and La Posada in Argentina. It’s a stretch from north of Nairobi, Isiolo to the border of Ethiopia which is notorious for it’s difficult riding, bandits and lack of support.
The traffic is so congested, people drive on the opposite sides of the road, clogging up any chance of vehicles going the opposite way. It really is a ruthless game, although somewhat civilized in a way. At one point I scraped one of my panniers against a car door but didn’t look back, just kept hopping sidewalk curbs, going against the dead still traffic, complete anarchy really, my clutch hand killing me. Anyway just as I was about two blocks away from the Jungle Junction I saw a neon sign which read, ‘Rossnina’s B&B’, bed, meals, drinks. So I turned around and took a room for I didn’t feel like setting up camp in the dark, and wanted the ease of everything at my feet for I’d had a long 10 hour day, including the border and no lunch/snack.
And ironically, somewhere in the back of mind I was thinking too, if I show up at Chris’ Jungle Junction, the night Germany plays and they lose, well I don’t want to be responsible if they should, so I thought I’ll watch the match here in this anonymous environment and then fate will be left alone, and we could maybe watch the final on Sunday together instead. And well we all no the result of that match. Sorry my German friends, and Argentinians, and Africans, and my English blood (though they don’t deserve any apology just like France, Italy and Portugal). Should be a great match on Sunday though, and for my friend Jan, the flying Dutchman on the ’43 Harley living in Columbia, ‘Let’s go Netherlands!’
I have found, and bought, and framed, a 20 x 16 photo of the ship that took us to Canada in 1967, The Empress of England. The shot is of the ship parked at the Liverpool dock where we left. Photo date estimate at around the year, as the colours on the funnel were as was, and were changed to new CP colours in 1970. It became the ‘Ocean Monarch’ in 1970.
The ship was scrapped in 1975 in Taiwan.
It is YOURS when I kick it…
This message came from my father Tony who has been my most active follower of this journey, not to say this makes any difference to anyone at all, except during the process of communication he had sent this to me back in May, and I’m only now realizing that when Bruce and I did the picture with Ronnie, Samuel, Robbie, Emilie, and many great other cast, called 51st State or Formula 51, well, when we hopped aboard a ferry to shoot on the other side of the Mersey from Liverpool, the replica of the boat my mother and father leaped aboard one day in their teens, taking us to Canada, was in the hall where we stored our gear at the beginning of the day, right beside the ship standing in the middle of the hall.
I woke up in the morning and packed the bike before breakfast. When I moved the bike two feet to get at the panniers I saw this in my tyre. I guess it was all the off roading through the city center that induced this piece of lead.
I got lucky, it miraculously didn’t hit the tube. So I’m going to glue this to the bike, in place of the bullets I had to leave behind in the shitter at the Zim/Moz border after the Zim police bribery deal; one lucky nail I feel.
I met this guy, Axel, heading south from Edmonton of all places, well Germany but he has lived there and started their trip from Edmonton. Crazy. It’s too bad, they just checked out of the Jungle Junction, and I just heading there before this picture.
The Jungle Junction is very impressive, and if I had known it was so well set up I would have come straight here the evening I arrived in Nairobi.
I learned a few things right away, one it’s easier to obtain a Sudan visa here than in Ethiopia so that is the first thing to do on Monday, tonight being Friday. So after I settled into a dorm room for $12, I got to work on the bike. I had been leaking oil in the top of the engine and sure enough it was coming from the bolts that hold the cover of the cam shaft. Unfortunately, it seems one of the two bolts on the right side is stripped, and won’t tighten to the female inside. I will work on it tomorrow. My friend in Argentina that replaced the rings neglected to tell me this, and I found evidence of he using plumbers tape to connect to the female inside. Oh well, if he had told me I probably would have worried all this time anyway.
I took off the front fairing, held together with 12 tie straps and only two screws, since the crash in Bolivia. I had to replace a bulb, and I wanted to re-tighten everything for the infamous ride from Isiolo to Moyale. I changed the oil, checked the fluids for the extreme heat to come, and made sure the fan was still working. I pulled the carburetor as was suggested by Chris’s local mechanic, Jeremiah. Later Chris said what’s the problem and I said nothing just wanted to clean the carb. Chris being an ex-BMW mechanic from Germany who came to Nairobi to help set up the maintenance of BMW’s sold here, and later establishing the Jungle Junction here in Nairobi, well he said and I quote, ‘What’s the problem? Nothing. Rule number one is never open an engine if there is nothing wrong’. Learned something yet again, the old adage still applies, ‘If it ain’t broke don’t fix it’. I cleaned the air filter, cleaned and lubed the chain, replaced a new piece of panty hose over the air intake blah blah blah, basically making sure all is good for the upcoming roads and thousands of kilometers. I’m also going to replace the rear tire once found and purchased. The TKC 80′s I have had worn quickly in the first 2000km’s, the rear that is, but then eased off for the last9000km’s. Their is still plenty in the front, but the rear will have to be replaced probably somewhere in northern Ethiopia, where there is nothing until Cairo, so I will replace it here.
Excerpt from Journal …. Money is a wretched hand to hold, left or right the same limbs longing like the boy who has nothing to offer but a one euro coin to trade in Zanzibar, or the man who speaks to the media with a smile about lost faces, as she with broken feet for crutches carries a child on her back wrapped in cloth, from a man who wishes he had all the luck. Money is a wretched hand to hold, for it’s too old for forgiveness, and too young to know, how many so called humans will beg for a grasp of it’s pull, like the one who believes nothing is wrong while pushing over heaving souls … I was told over and over to expect rocks thrown from children in Ethiopia, these timeless objects long ignored, tiny stones mostly older than the one’s standing pyramids or left to be alone in a forgotten field …. The thing that makes me so tired lately, is how here in Africa with over 1 billion people with only a small percentage worth anything, which doesn’t mean anything really too, is they also are subject to advertising manipulation, cell phones calling a false sense of worth designed to enlighten these souls with a useless cost, just like all the other hoi polloi in the world today. It’s no different, the common people are the greater percentage, the mass servants of a select few. The disguise disgusts me, and I wish for ignorance, or a key to open our doors; a door meaning ……
I honestly can’t remember if I have included a journal entry or not, the blog and my journal often confuse me in terms of reality. I don’t think I have repeated anything, even though on occasion I see that I include two of the same photos in a row sometimes. I even write in my journal to refer to the blog, and in here I see what I’ve heard wondering if I’ve already written one thought in my journal. So confusing.
Excerpt from email …
On Fri, Jul 9, 2010 at 9:40 PM, Ken and Carol Duval <bmwduval@hotmail.com> wrote:
Greetings from Taganga Colombia…..Fritz the Cat broke down as it motored into Carti when our German sidecar friends were on it. They had to sail into Carti as the last engine died. Carol is not too keen on this boat now. We are looking at the Stahlratte as it has just come out of 6 weeks in dry dock so it should be ship-shape.!!!!
Really? I’ve heard about the Stahlratte, nothing bad but a little ominous like all others … it’s a competitive route, and thus the talk.
If you hook up with Chris at J J see if he remembers us from 2000. He worked for BMW then and met us at Upper Hill Campground in Nairobi.
Okay, but I asked him about some Germans I met in the Cape and he said there are so many people in and out that I don’t know, so I asked are you tired, and he said what are you gonna do. I will in time, but only when he has a moment ….
It sounds as though Africa is quite expensive now. We know it is more expensive than South America. What do you think 20/50/ or 100% more?
Depends, I’d say I don’t know, maybe 20/50/100 or more depending on where you go, for example parks, and borders and overall prices from town to town, I’d say it’s more I just don’t know, there are a lot of hands to feed here is all I know.
Start early on the Isiolo Marsabit Moyale road and beware there ARE bandidos there. Met a guy from the Czec Republic in B A who was robbed on this road. We made it OK but was one of our toughest rides. It all depends on the road conditions at the time….
I can’t wait, for I can finally put my fake wallet in another place from my real one, they are always both together, how placent is that?
Markus
And another email ….
On Fri, Jul 9, 2010 at 9:10 PM, Jan Gerben Verzijl <jgverzijl@gmail.com> wrote:
Thanks man, appreciate your words.
The last couple of weeks, writing really helped me keep going on, too bad I lost my dictionary and notes in Lima but what a good thing I wrote a lot on my website.
Yeah man, I’ve lost stuff and had to re-write with the same desire but different … it’s difficult but better as you say once again …
Just learned my last credit card has been blocked and won’t be reissued.
I feel a bit like a Van Gogh (if I may make that comparison altough I am shy in every way about my writing), not a dime to spare but artistically creating a lot. So, a very, very good experience.
No say.
Tonight and coming week the International Poetry festival will be held in town and Jules Deelder, one of my literary heroes, will be doing some performances here in town, I assume for free. Looking forward to that. I’ve seen him quite a couple of times but here will be special I guess. Maybe I’ll smoke a joint with him here. Would also be very cool.
From the words of Jimmy Three Fingers, first in Espanol then in English, ‘Anything is possible and nothing is for sure’, and the other one, ‘Pesos and teatas …. ‘
Take care and keep updating your blog, which is a very nice read and together with the pictures makes me almost feel I’m on your tail. thanks.
Well my friend, sometimes I think you are longing to move, and yet I hear your words and believe you will stay …. no lo say.
Always a pleasure Jan, and I wish you were here right now so we could share some wine and have a smoke, listen to music and talk about whatever.
Peace
DanielJohnstonTheStoryOfAnArtist
Well the lucky nail that entered my tire but not the tube gets to come along for the ride, as it is now firmly glued to the bike, replacing the bullets from South America. Then this way if a rock punctures my tube from the hole the nail made, I can at least look at the nail and curse at it.
I had forgotten that Jan the flying Dutchman had given me a broken piece of his gear shifter back in Buenos Aries, an original part from his ’43 Harley. So he gave me the only half left of the plastic, round knob that just broke apart in his hand one day, so I have glued it on the bike also, picture to follow.
I’m surrounded by bikes, with no bikers …. and many trucks with many truckers ….
….. well, after Chris re threaded the thread, I mentioned that I have checked the valves three times already without hardly any change, but since everything is open we agreed we should check anyway. I had last done this on the way down Argentina in Cordoba (20.000km’s ago?). As it turns out, two of the valves had almost no clearance. Whew, good idea to fix now, since the upcoming heat, well everything is going to expand and then I would have had a series of problems to deal with that would not be fixed. So Jeremiah, Chris’s assistant is throwing in some BMW shims, and by tomorrow everything should be fine. I need the bike to chase down visas and stuff.
And for the other travelers, who didn’t know they couldn’t get an Ethiopian visa in Nairobi, well all four of them in three different vehicles are trying to figure out the most economical, and thorough way of attaining them. Which so far is for one of them to fly to Harare, Zimbabwe where I got mine. One of those group of people, the husband and wife, lost their wallet last night when at the shops, stolen or dropped. So they spent the day cursing and looking for the wallet until giving up and calling in to cancel the cards. Now more things for them to do while still trying to get a visa. They have had quite an adventure; rolled their truck, she was attacked by the camp dogs, three of them while going for a pee in the night, and they are pregnant now too!
Turns out three of the valves were not in spec, so Jeremiah used some BMW shims that fit, and now the bike is running really nice, kinda like new, except for the 15 odd tie tags and duct tape holding the front fairing together.
The following off to the Canadian Embassy to get a ‘Letter Of Introduction’, which is a piece of paper stating my details on my passport, and three lines saying, ‘Please accept our citizen, and if you should so, please treat him well’. The thing that drives me crazy is it cost $40 dollars. I thought the embassies abroad were there to help the tax paying travelers when they need assistance. How can they justify that much money for something that takes two minutes to prepare on one piece of paper. It’s just another cash grab.
Of course I knew I wasn’t allowed to take the picture of the Canadian Embassy, but I did, and then the security ran up to me to say you’re not allowed to take pictures. Oh, well I’m Canadian and …. . You have to ask the head security person. Okay I will. So I went inside after the security check, leaving everything with security, and then got the paper needed and left.
Then to the Sudanese embassy. It’s so great my GPS, especially in cities. I’m riding around without a clue of what one road is to another, and I was lead perfectly to the Canadian and Sudanese embassies, and then back to the Jungle Junction. Not to mention riding my bike without luggage, after the service of the valves, well I was grinning from ear to ear, slipping through the traffic with ease.
The Sudanese embassy was a breeze for me, but not all the Sudanese people waiting with numbers in their hands. One guy got up and started speaking outloud to everyone about how ridiculous it was that they were waiting for so long to speak with somebody. He was also funny and the people were laughing including me. At one point he said, look at all us brown people waiting with one white guy, and still nobody helps us. It was pretty straightforward, passport, copy of carnet, copy of credit card (to prove you have access to funds), application form filled twice, and $50 bucks. At one point they ask you on the application form what religion are you. Well I didn’t know what to write. Should I say Muslim, well they’re not going to believe that so should I leave it blank, but what if they don’t like non-religious people, so I wrote Catholic, but as I was writing I couldn’t actually form the letters because it isn’t true, and I don’t think the word is legible, which will probably be a problem when I arrive to pick up my visa tomorrow afternoon, though hoping not. What kills me is I’m so honest, I can’t even write a lie. I should have just left it blank, I don’t know, maybe I should have just wrote, ‘people’. That would have stirred a fuss so maybe what I wrote is better, and more predictable.
One other note is, being here at Jungle Junction has been a great pleasure, and everything is nearby and no problem. I haven’t even seen the city centre of Nairobi, well maybe I had seen the outskirts when I first rolled in, I don’t know.
Excerpt from Email …. Sudan yes. No I didn’t see Kagamboni but I remember you mentioning this place Leon. Actually maybe I did see it. You are welcome on the back of my bike my friend, many people are traveling with me on this journey. Your painting is with my carnet, (very important paper for transporting bike from one country to the next). So every time I leave a country or enter, I see your painting.
Markus
Helo bra is real fantastic to see those pics in blog
and i hope you will found your way to somalia and sudan nice i was happy to Dar pots for ferry, did you go to a little high land near Daresalaam called kigamboni
is just a panton to get there, im sure you saw it when you were in the bout come or to Zanzibar on your right side
i feel to be back of tail for expidition you are doing
anyway bra i wish u the best
byee
Leon,
To knock at one’s door is only the beginning …. and the doors are of several shapes and sizes and colours, they do not exist until that moment when you see they are right before your eyes ….
Thanks for the painting,
Markus
men is so fabolous those pics i have seen from from your trip, and that a little boy aged 4 was going to be motorrider
on his future may be, im sure you will be happy to here in Botswana especially on the nothern side, there is a lot to see than here Gabs, i wish one day i can find ma self on the way to canada then i will not forget to nock your door men.
bon voyage
I suppose if I was to ask any question about life without borders I would ask, ‘What is it that people want to understand about life if it isn’t death? Death is life, and backwards and forward we stroll …. don’t we?
In the morning I saw the convoy off as they are still waiting a week for their Ethiopian Visas to arrive, so they are going off to do some camping in the mean time. I was going to travel with them up to Ethiopia, but have decided I don’t want to wait a week, and I kinda wanna go alone anyway. Hopefully though, we will find each other again.
Just as I was heading off to the mall and the Sudanese Embassy, Duncan the reception dude here at JJ’s asked if he could hop I ride. Sure let’s go! I then offered to drive him to his home in the village so I did. I met his wife, Yvonne, in their very small room.
Visa in hand, I left the Embassy for JJ’s.
From my Union Office, bless them really for sending me all the news that they do, I’m appreciative. The thing is, it sort of defines the differences between where I am from, and where I am now. That being said, I can easily contradict myself and think, where can I buy one of those? The truth is though, these ‘things’, are really useless when you don’t have any money, and besides, you can use any old cloth to cool you down while selling anything for something on the side of a hot African road. And in the same breath, it’s really comforting that we can buy things like this …. even though I know if I did, it would be lost in a drawer somewhere the next summer. No offense to the people who had the initiative to create and sell such a thing. Actually, maybe I could use one of the those things now heading up into a summer in the north of Africa, no lo say, and just a lucid thought so forgive me please for my ……
NECK COOLERS … $2.50 each !!
They are now in stock and available for sale at the union office!
Get them while it’s hot!
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I have a question for any of thee who wonder about things; what is the answer for a question?, and what is a question, if not an answer to another thing. Bullocks. Time to turn off the computer ……
Here in Nairobi at JJ’s, are many travelers. Wim and Ellen from Holland are here with their 16 year old Jack Russel called Jack. A sweet dog who still chases a ball, and is friendly to everyone. Anyway, Wim and Ellen brought Jack along for their all around Africa trip, and he has altered their plans here and there, for sometimes it is not permissible to enter a ferry or border or National Park or what have you with a dog. All along they thought he would have died naturally by now, which means they’ve changed their plans to suit their life with Jack. The other night we were having a bbq, and Wim and I were talking about friendship, and long story short we ended up talking about saving a complete stranger, and then if someone attacked his dog what would he do etc.. The next morning, some other campers who have a Rot/Pit, one a half years old, attacked Jack like a toy for his own amusement. He bit Ellen who was trying to protect Jack, and the young English man named John, who came to the rescue, wrestling with the dog and prying the jaws open, was also bitten. Jack has had surgery today, and all of us are very concerned, of course Wim and Ellen are emotionally fragile at the moment.
The weird thing is, as my friends know, I am a bit of a ‘dog whisperer’, and I don’t trust this dog. Yes he will listen to me when I speak, but he also seemingly ignores me in a vacant way, like a tough guy by the pool table in a bad bar who doesn’t really listen to your name, distracted by the handshake while the others watch his reaction. The night I met him, I talked to the female woman, while approaching the dog on leash tied to the truck. The woman was surprised when I was able to get the dog to release a ball in my hand within ten seconds, she having a difficult time herself. And today, while we were sitting in the grass with Wim and Ellen to hear about the recent news of Jack’s hopeful recovery, this dog was running about, through the circle of us and slightly jealous, and being a young male having fun. But then it came to me and started rubbing the side of his hip against my shoulder and when I pet/pushed him away he had his jaws around my bicep in a second, and clenched a little harder than expected. I have very bad feelings about this dog, and the owners abilities are in question for me, especially the woman. Later I watched Chris’s daughter, Chris being the brilliant mechanic/owner of this travel hostel, well she was throwing hardened dirt balls for the rot/pit dog, she having two well mannered dogs of her own playing nearby (one the smaller mother of her own daughter), and the rot/pit was scared, the puppy still within, but I could see the simple desperation of this dog in it’s movements, and now I want to warn everyone including the owners that this dog is going to do something again. Anyway, the worst so far was watching Ellen sobbing and saying, ‘Jack doesn’t do anything to anyone. Even after he was attacked and injured, he was wagging his tail and trying to play with the other dog that attacked him hours before’. Wim standing by his truck, quietly holding the tears in his deep blue eyes.
On a different note, I’ve met Lodie who is traveling down from Germany, to his home in South Africa on a KLR. He had also met Scott on the ferry to Aswan from Wadi Haifa. We have had a nice time sharing our thoughts and information, in that lucid way that is so natural and without over excitement. Anyway he was telling me tonight over dinner, that in South Africa, they have a day to celebrate Nelson Mandela’s time in politics, being 67 years of his 92 years this coming Sunday. And Lodie said that it is a tradition on Nelson’s birthday to do good for someone for 67 minutes. And I answered after some contemplation and thinking out loud I asked myself what am I going to do on Sunday, the day that I head toward the Ethiopian border. And Lodie in his quiet, peaceful manner suggested I go to stay at a lodge of a Dutch woman who’s husband has died a while ago, to spend the night where I was already planning to stop anyway, so this lonely woman could take care of you and share her life’s experiences. Okay, I will … for a loner I believe, is the perfect gift for one who has no one to love.
RainbowsRecordingNewYears2007Radiohead
Here in the picture below, Chris has kindly removed the tire from this bike, to give to me to carry and change once over the bad roads, and into Ethiopia. He will replace the tyre with a brand new one I’ve paid for that hasn’t yet arrived in Nairobi.
And this Dutch couple have even an old fashioned roller to squeeze the water out of their freshly hand washed clothes, brilliant!
And here the two KLR”s and their riders, me and Lodie, going in opposite directions, but share the same sense of direction. He is riding for himself and awareness for a charity he is helping. His website is here ….. Naboom2GermanyAndBack
And here I’ve given him the ‘Golden Egg’, courtesy of Stephen Verdon. And the celebrity has returned from surgery, Jack is back. He was lucky, but which dog isn’t at 16 years old.
Chris’ dogs, Pipa and Boomba have come to greet Jackie. They weren’t the dogs that attacked, it was another travelers dog of which I don’t have a picture.
Pipa below is the mother of her daughter Boomba pictured after. Pipa and Boomba are smiling in their photos. They’ve taken on to me, and while packing the bike today, they were sniffing around and knew I was preparing to leave.
Loudie and I packed and said our good-byes’, I still prefer to make mine short, and so did everyone else to my relief. And then Loudie and I saluted at the top of Junction hill, one went right and the other left.
Excerpt from Journal ….. After all this time to think about my friend Scott of twenty plus years, planning the trip together, duplicating our actions like selling our houses and leaving our jobs, lives, families and friends, I can now see clearly how the proposition of travelling by motorcycle around the world together was not at all possible and though thankfully conceivable. We have worked and lived together under the same rooves, shared our meager belongings without question, lived from either wallet, shared the romances of the same woman on occasion, spent thousands of hours playing pool, carousing, and eating 7-11 hoagies in the early mornings listening to Waits and Brubeck. We could drive in the same vehicle for hours without saying a word. We had some infamous occasions, one being Halloween night when we walked around the streets of Edmonton with stockings over our faces wearing our standard leather jackets, jeans, boots and t-shirts screaming after opening the doors of restaurants, shops, bars and thankfully not banks (cause they weren’t open), screaming, ‘Nobody moves and nobody gets hurt!!’ Well, I can see why.
I arrived in Isiolo with a tip from Loudie about a Dutch woman’s hotel just north of town, but it was a bust. After knocking on the gate door with two kids, I hopped the fence and had a look around, nobody anywhere, everything locked and some remnants of last night’s food in the kitchen sink but that was all. So I road back to town and grabbed a hotel from a kid who I had originally asked directions for the Dutch woman’s place, tipped him 50 shillings and parked me and the bike, had something to eat, and went to sleep.
At six in the morning, I was off …. (Not my usual schedule unless need be). I was going to have some breakfast and tea but the guy wasn’t organized yet so I just left.
Stopped here for some food, Chipati (Naan bread?) and Tea. Had chats with the usual suspects, one guy wearing a Montreal Canadians t-shirt. ‘Where did you get that from?’ I asked. ‘I bought it from the shop’. One guy was trying to get home to Nairobi, but I didn’t believe him and said no, I have to get home too.
I had a coke here, and talked with Joseph, who wanted to talk more about ‘getting something’. The regular poor people who make a living don’t ask, except of course for the somewhat more disadvantaged, just like back at home. The thing that really hurts is when I’m just about to go and they say, ‘I hope to see you again’. ‘Yeah’ I answer thoughtfully, and ride off.
Then when the idea comes to mind when I’m alone on these roads, ‘What the hell am I doing here?,’ one encounters a person like Igor from Russia, emerging from the dusty road ahead. He’s been riding his bicycle down East Africa from Russia I assumed, for the past four months. And the thing is we have the same thoughts like, ‘How many kilometers to the tarmac? ‘About 145km’s, 3 Villages and some construction then you get beautiful tarmac’. ‘I haven’t seen anyone for so long, what about you?’ ‘Me too, except I saw a bicycle coming your way, in a day or two’. ‘Well I better get going, I wish you luck’. ‘I wish you more’. As he was riding away I thought, he’s gonna beat my pace to Cape Town!!
Going down South America with Jan, we missed the Equator sign, and now going up Africa, I missed it again. I think it is where the picture below is.
And finally I arrived at ‘Henri the Swiss’ here in Marsabit, having finished the easy part of the run to Moyale. My thumbs and wrists hurt, not just from today but from riding thirteen months. I would say the Bolivian roads, the Ruta 40 in Argentina, and this one are similar but as usual different. Nice ride all in all, nothing to be wary of, just have to work all the time it seems without getting anywhere; just part of the fun as we know. Henry is away at his mother in-law’s, according to the staff until tomorrow, so I’m going to stay an extra day to meet the man and his wife who bakes like nobody’s business so I’ve read. Also, it’s so quiet and peaceful out here in the hills, just the sound of the lonely wind and some birds. When I head for Moyale, the hard part is coming up so I’ll reserve my comparisons with Bolivia and Argentina/Chile roads, to the Isiolo – Moyale run for later, and besides it’s not raining which is a relief, nor is the wind close to as strong as Patagonia.
And for the first time on this journey, I was given the finger by a five year old on the side of the road; his brothers or friends waving beside him. Also a tribesman herding his camels on the road, first waved and then mock whipped me with his whip as I was passing by. Though he was smiling and I think making the joke that he was herding me too, or that I was a camel, hmmm. Two teenaged Samburu, or tribesman/warriors, I don’t know, were waving an empty bottle of water at me as I was riding by. They didn’t look tired or sick and there were huts nearby, so I didn’t stop as I didn’t have any spare. Besides, I don’t think it’s the water they wanted. Actually I should have given them one of Stephen’s eggs, but I didn’t want to stop and unpack.
And here just now while I write this, Mohammad has shown up at my door, I’m told the nephew of Henry’s wife, he gives guided tours of a crater and another 5km hike to see all of Marsabit. He also showed me Loudie’s travel card, and has met him three times in the past …. ‘No thanks Mohammad, I don’t want to go on a tour, I’m just enjoying the peace and quiet right now, and I’m planning to ride to Moyale tomorrow. Maybe you can just take off your luggage and things and then you can ride up to the crater. If I decide to stay another day, then I will let your Aunt know and then maybe decide to visit the crater but for now as I said, I’m enjoying the rest but thank you I said while I was thinking, (why does everyone think it’s so easy just to do anything with your very own bike?) Moments before Mohammad showed up I was pulling an Acacia thorn out of the rear tire, and inspecting all the bolts and overall look of the bike, including the two welds done on the brackets for the panniers courtesy the Ruta 40. So we stood around for a while and talked, he has a rear tire for sale, I’m from Canada, the crater is really beautiful and the people they thank me for taking them to heaven, yes I rode the bike here from Canada, I just live over there, Do you know the name of that bird making that beautiful call?, I don’t know in English, but we call it Soorealie. Well Mohammad, thanks for stopping by. I’m going to get back to what I was doing. Okay thank you bye. See you ….. The thing is, sometimes I just want to chill out, but here in Africa, there is little time to make money, I watched while Mohammad walked away without looking back, refreshing himself with water from the tap, and then slowly walk up to Henry’s house. I don’t know what it is, but it feels awful. Like when I was at the store back in town this afternoon, the children that waited for me by the bike until I came out. I didn’t have my camera, and it wasn’t a moment for one, for they just stared at me, and one boy said in his language that the horns and skin were from the same animal and I said yes a Springbok. And without wearing my usual riding gear, just t-shirt and jeans and not burning up like I might normally do when standing there with the kids and the bike, well I just stood there and smiled, looking each child in the eyes, and that was my journey for the day. After I started the motor, one girl leapt back, and then I made a slow turn around and away, and then slowly moved toward them before they all jumped back, we laughed while I was riding off, and then lot’s of waving and hooting of the horn through the market, all the way back to Henry The Swiss, who had returned from his short trip.
Just before sunset, this couple showed up, Marco and Tessa. We had a nice talk beside the fire, actually very interesting conversations, they being Dutch and living in Nairobi. Tess works for the UN and Marco is a tour guide/photographer.
In the night I could hear the wind, and in the early morning it was cloudy and the small birds were not around, just two Ravens waiting in the trees. I took this as a sign not to ride to Moyale, another day to rest I was thinking, all cozy under the covers. Later in the morning, Tess made a nice breakfast, and again we talked while they packed and got ready. ‘It’s a slow day today’, Marco commented. I was kind of hoping they would stay another night, to cook dinner together and maybe I would teach them how to play The Lumberjack Dice game, but they left on their adventure anyway. So I’m here again to listen to the birds and to contemplate, exploring the inner workings of a wanderer’s lucid mind.
And while lying here in this peaceful room, suddenly and without noise, I hear ‘Hello’. The woman, who works for Henry and his wife, appears at my door with a plate of food, though I never hear her come or go, and the door is always open. Shortly after she leaves, one of the cats appears at the door during the day, and in the night one of the dogs.
These kinds of days, when the surroundings are so peaceful, and nothing needs to be done, allows one to go far into the mind, freely and without reason. Sometimes I sit in the sun, other times I lie in this room. I watch the cats hunt grasshopper, I moo to the cows, and call with the birds. Today, I am listening to music, some great tunes from Josh back in the Drakensburg. Really good mellow tunes like Jeff Buckley live, Ane Brun, Andrew Bird, Angus and Julia Stone, Mari Boine and others. Which has just reminded me of the time in Toronto some nine years ago, listening to Buckley’s version of Hallelujah by Leonard Cohen, for 18 hours on repeat, And another time Ave Maria for 26 hours, Bon Iver for an entire winter before this trip, and my own piano sounds for many years without a clue; yes I listen, to sweet music with bitter songs. I don’t think it’s possible to be any more content with my senses than right now …. Also I can’t help but admit its natural, to have what it is …. Or to give if it isn’t. No lo say eh …. I can’t bare the beauty of the music around ….
The stream we follow is no ordinary river lake or sea, this is Nirvana. Not a place to be worshipped for money or a common note, just like the same place to enlighten thee. No it’s real, and just before the other place and after the other one again. …. It is there, like a distance in the air, or a moon’s love from shining on, like our candles in the night, you will see this place, all giving and receiving, broken down and hungry, begging for some love. It’s not rocket science, it’s just simple math by great Mathematicians, and it’s never over, just another number upon a heavy shoulder ….
Sometimes I just sit here or wherever that is, and look at the pictures, and wonder how life is so beautiful. How life is just as similar as death, how one is not compared to the other even so, looking into another life’s’ views of the same things but different …. tonight I drink brandy and rooibis tea, thinking of the road tomorrow before moving into another foreign place …. Just in the nick of time, I see the beginning of the road, and the places I’ve seen afar …..
In the middle of the night, I awake to the wind again, carefully walking around in the dark, observing things I hadn’t before, like the field mouse running from my shadow along a circular wall. Why do I fall in love with such places, so very few times and yet again? Already I consider staying another day and night, I can’t help it, this solstice wraps its arms around me like a book I’m reading, written from a distant stranger I’ve met somewhere before.
And now the wind has paused at four in the morning, no longer the shell I found on the beach the day after. At this time, only a lost shelter searching for another hour in the dark, like the minutes we count with both hands; lost and forgotten but always there.
The bike she rides before me … knowing already what is to come. And I? I wonder ….
I suppose what I think while here at Henry the Swiss’s home here in Marsabit is, how much it reminds me of an Alberta farm; so close and yet so distant.
There is no time like the present is there Mumsie? A tribute to my Mum’s philosophies, and our own attitudes, contemplative and assured.
I ate with Henry this morning. He came here 30 years ago for a three year contract, and never left. He married locally and he has seven children. His main business is building schools, churches, homes, hospitals etc. . and he also farms, builds furniture, and he makes his own solar panels, and his wife bakes bread to sell in town, and everything else I’m certain. It’s a real family business. Later I was speaking with his two older sons who are on a four month break from The University of Nairobi, working with their father here in Marsabit. They told me to take the road up to Moyale slowly, there is no point in hurting yourself and your bike. My sentiments exactly. Anyway, a few months ago a Swiss couple were riding up the road to Henry’s home, and as it was raining, one of them slipped the bike on the red earth and again the same story, the pannier broke their leg. And just now, a friend of his wife’s is pregnant, and is badly swelling, and they need to drive her to Meru for treatment, as the local hospital here can do nothing. Henry said, ‘They are like a dispensary, and of course the doctor is not here. This is crazy’, he repeated calmly and intelligently, ‘We are still in the middle ages out here’. The drive to Meru is at least six hours, and they are currently trying to figure out how and what to do. I know for sure, I will take it easy up the next 260km’s on The Road Of Stones. Henry’s home is at these coordinates …. N02.20.730 E037.57.927
When I rode into town to get some supplies, a crowd gathered and the man with a command of English explained to me that they have no problems in Marsabit, for they catch anyone who does anything wrong right away, and it doesn’t happen again. One guy suggested we trade bikes with a smile, and another who had physical and mental challenges, was really pleased when I gave him 40 shillings. On the way back to Henry’s, the children were getting out of school and they were all screaming, ‘How are you! How are you!’
Back at Henry’s, a man who transports was filling the water tanks, and I took his picture with his permission, and a minute later while I was wandering around, he came back to me and said in Swahili that I should take his picture again, with a frame he had in mind so I did.
I’ve just paid my bill as I am leaving tomorrow morning, and they are driving to Meru with the pregnant woman at 6am sharp. For four nights with all good meals, ten big beer and a few pop $50. Take that and eat it MasterCard, priceless. I also gave Henry’s wife 1000 shillings for the pregnant woman, it’s not much but it’s something.
I headed out without breakfast as usual for the big days …. It’s a great but uneasy feeling when heading into something you have only heard about, alone and out of place.
So after a couple hours, I got caught in a track, pardon the pun, and was trying to get out when I laid the bike down, no big deal, just had to take off the camping gear to pick her up again. The thing about the first 100kms from Marsabit to Moyale is, just when you’re in a track that works, you’re forced into the one that doesn’t because the cross over places don’t exist for a bike as easily as a truck, at least at this time of this year, month, week, day, hour. The road is just like life, evolving all the time.
When I reached the first of three villages, of which I was told by Henry I would, I stopped for a windy chai tea and some dry bisquits because the Chipati wasn’t possible at the moment. And just like the people that ask me the same obvious questions when I stop, well I do too, even though I’ve asked them many times before, “Please, how far is it to the next village? Very far, said the woman with strong jaw and eyes. How much time by truck do you think? The woman you are trying to pay does not understand your language, what tribe are you? I’m from Canada, and I don’t understand my language either. (No humour understood for obvious reasons) What do you want? I want to pay”.
Outside a young man with English told me that the MP of their district was Francis somebody, and that he was trying to get the government to tar the road here, and that I was very welcome, and not to be afraid, for only the wind is the problem, and the road. Yeah I started to say, and then didn’t say anything, for what do I know about anything, and what kind of answers do I think I will get after 70,000km’s. So I bid the men good fortune before putting on the gear with the bike, watching the women’s eyes strolling by that looked in me too, wondering also what they think.
I’ll say it again, the best pictures can’t be taken with a camera, those of the road and the people, the times when I don’t point and shoot, are the times you can only see when you are here yourself.
This man was asking me for water while I was stumbling by, and so I stopped cause he needed it soon I figured, wrangling two wild or stolen camels by himself. So, for that less than a minute of time it took to pour without a drop spilt into his jug, I looked at him after he said thank you in his tongue and me saying it’s my pleasure I added, I think your camels are getting away. And off he went running, the camels and me.
I don’t have a picture, but to the right of the one below, is a man inside a stall with four mini generators charging all of the village people’s cell phones. ‘I’m supporting the phones!’ he exclaimed while I was sipping a coke and looking inside from a far. We had a nice chat, and I was tempted to stay the night but it was only 2pm and if all was good I would arrive in Moyale just before dark, so I pushed on.
I met these two French guys briefly to exchange information. It’s funny how little time it takes to say a lot when you meet in the middle of the road.
And through the once ago, convoy only admittance, bandit route, I found some people waving back to me as always. The children of the places I’ve been have taught me this, wave to our time………. or maybe it’s holy shit what is that dude riding on that bike with the horns on the front kind of gesture running into the ditch, while I was already waving before, just like they told me. (laughing out loud).
The bike in front of me had a passenger carrying a Russian Kalashnikov.
The arrival in Moyale Kenya was, well, I don’t know yet what to say except that what occurred. I arrived beat and tired without food, and stopped in the crossroads to accept the assault, but in front of the ATM, with the wall behind me hopefully. Drove around on my own, checked out some places, talked the shit and then ended up at a guest house called I can’t remember. It was really frustrating in the beginning, but also good. I went for a couple of beers up the street, the Muslim mama told the security guard to escort me and halfway through the dark I said it’s okay brother, I know where I’m going. But still he led me, for he doesn’t understand English and I don’t understand Swahili, or we choose to do as we please.
I met some very interesting people over the beers, and called it a night after two hours to relax, I had the bartender woman defending me voluntarily during the time, we will always remember I’m sure. For if we hung all the time before, we would have said the same things. She also whispered who was who in her words and her manner, and I quickly caught on as did she. Then we pondered if I should take a road pop back to the Muslim guest house and in the end I think we agreed, ‘I don’t know but give it a try’. Just as I was leaving, the Moyale power went down, thankfully though, it was close to a full moon and better for walking back to the guest house. All ready a few times I’ve been caught walking back to wherever I’m staying, in the dark and without a torch, to a place I’ve only been for an hour.
I arrived there to exchange nods and a few words with the guests, security guy and look at my bike still unguarded and kind of okay; $4 a night for a room. The guard gave me a candle for my room and later I locked myself in the mosquito net thinking there are not mozzies here but a little while later I discovered just like I know as I write this a day later, and as Jimmy Three Fingers in Nicaragua said, ‘Anything is possible, but nothing is for sure’. Well, need I say more?
I fell asleep comfortably, knowing I didn’t have a knob on my door, or even a latch, well except for the outside one which is much worse to have. So I placed my clothes bag against the door, with my 1 litre reserve water which is tall and vulnerable on the outside of the bag,, so at least I would hear the bottle drop after someone pushes with their finger into my room.
I woke up at I don’t know what time, couldn’t sleep. Tried to walk out the only main door but it was locked as usual, so I went back to my room and had a smoke in the dark, before lying there restless and unsure, before I felt the sound of the main gate open underneath the bed, thinking, who gets to come in at this time of night? For most of the time you can’t expect to stroll in at this time in this kinda place, even though I don’t know what time it really is. And then the sounds of negotiation in the hallway before I heard the distinct sound of hard shoes marching quickly to the room next to me, followed by a forceful pounding on the door. It took them so long to answer I was thinking, and then someone opened the door from within, before the Swahili non-stop with a couple of English words thrown in. I heard, ‘You think you’re the boss in Kenya, but you’re not’. Then I heard the sounds of a police maneuver, and the struggles of such, and some painful groans and pleading. Then the hard shoes marched past my room and to the other side, and again the same sounds of a type of interrogation, followed by the shuffle of feet past my door again. Two people were taken from two different rooms, with all the shuffling of feet, cuffs rattling and hard heels marching I thought for sure I was next. And then nothing, the most silent exit I’ve ever heard, like I didn’t even know they were there. I waited a bit and then could hear the men remaining saying things like that was bull shit, or can you believe that or whatever I don’t know as they were speaking in Swahili I went outside my room to light a smoke and to ask one thing, ‘Is everything okay?’ ‘Two men were taken from their rooms.’, the man said. And then he gestured he wanted a cigarette and I gave him one, and then I returned to my room. Later while listening in the dark, I heard the men in the same rooms lying next to the ones taken away, snoring within a half an hour. I was lying there thinking, what do we know …. And then thought …. what am I doing here? And then I thought what happened to them and for what reason, immigration? Then after two more smokes, I fell asleep in the same position I woke up in hours ago, knowing now the mosquitoes are small and silent and still ever present for the last few countries or so.
In the morning, after I waited till everyone had taken a shit and piss and shower in the same stall that didn’t flush, I went myself, knowing they had more important jobs to do than me. Anyway I went, and then left, searching for the border ….
