djo

She is fatigued. Her head hangs limp to one side as she wearily walks through the mall’s hallway. She carries her helmet as if it weighs ten kilos. The moment we see each other, smiles break out on our faces. I go in to give her a hug, but she doesn’t just hug me, she puts her whole weight on me and we almost topple over, before I recover my footing and catch us. Tintin just rode alone from Nairobi to Kitale, and she has never ridden this far and long before. Timam and I are already in Kitale, having ridden over a couple of days before.

Our plan is to reach Nakodok, the border of Kenya and South Sudan. What we don’t know is that in the following couple of days, the three of us are going to ride harder and further than we all have ever done before. We have no idea what amount of thrill, pain, fatigue, danger and adventure awaits us. And spurs of boisterous flatulence, of which this shall be the first and last mention, for the sake of our dignities.

We have no idea how much the three of us will need and depend on each other for survival and strength. We have no idea how many times we will drop our bikes. We have no idea how many times we will disagree and get angry at one another. We have no idea that we shall find ourselves seated in an OCS’s office, producing our IDs and explaining ourselves. We have no idea that we will have to hire police escort for a section of our trip. We have no idea… Well, why don’t I just tell it all to you properly from the beginning? Grab a cup of coffee and sit down…

NOTE: This trip happened in July 2019, and I wrote this story immediately after.

Two years ago, my father, a brilliant high school humanities teacher, passed away. May he rest in peace. He did not just pass away, he was poisoned with insecticide, as the autopsy and lab tests later confirmed. There is an ongoing inquest into his untimely death that curiously happened just a few days after he received his pension, and withdrew a lump sum of it from his account. On Wednesday 3rd of July 2019, there was supposed to be a court session to hear testimonies. This was the reason Timam (my friend and lawyer) and I had to be at Kimilili law courts on that day.

Wakili Timam is a friend I made two years ago, a few weeks after my father’s burial, actually. I had been arrested for a minor traffic offense. I refused to bribe the arresting cop and refused to give his breakdown vehicle hooligans any cash, so he took me to Parklands Police Station and threw me into a stinky cell. Before my phone was taken away, I managed to post the happenings to a bikers’ Whatsapp group and ask for help. After about two hours, I was informed that my lawyer was outside, and I could see him. I had no idea who the hell that was. I had never had a lawyer in my life!

So I walked out of the dark cell, wearing one shoe (if you’ve ever been arrested, you know), blinking at the brightness outside, to be met by the sight of a stout dark man wearing a leather motorcycle racing suit, and official suit and tie under it. He looked really smart, a fact one of the police officers couldn’t help but point out later. That’s how Timam and I met. He says I looked pissed off, like I was having a really good time in there, and did not appreciate the rude interruption.

We have done many rides together since, including a dash to Moyale border. He is a brilliant chap, at least in the moments when he is not being painfully vexatious. He also can get loud, and his jokes sting with caustic raucousness. The introvert in me gets worn out real quick. But our friendship has miraculously stuck. When he snaps into lawyer mode, the instant transformation from dork to genius is startling, even a bit eerie. The lawyer is focused like a hawk. The lawyer cuts through muddle with brilliant clarity and conciseness, peppered with a passion for doing the best for his client, including a willingness to travel distances and remote places for the sake of his client, as you shall see in a bit. He is the kind of lawyer you want by your side. Once the lawyer is done with his job, the irksome braggadocio checks back in with vengeance.

He is also the kind that will do something everyone else says can’t be done. Like overtake speeding Landrovers on a rough offroad on his motorcycle. A sport touring bike that is supposed to be really awful at offroading. “It’s all in the mind,” he says… He rides a Kawasaki Ninja 400.

Our journey begins on Monday 1st. I pass by Parklands Snap Shot Kenya shop (Thanks for the huge discount!) to buy some SD cards, and also pass by Tintin’s workplace to bid her farewell.

As we approach Limuru, my bike loses power and starts spewing out puffs of black smoke. I struggle to catch up with Timam to let him know something is wrong. We stop somewhere, I get out my tools and begin tearing into the bike. We have left late. Our tentative plan was to ride to Eldoret through the Kabarnet-Iten curvy road. It takes almost two hours to get my bike in good condition. See, I usually work on my bike myself. But the days leading up to this trip have been really busy with work, I had to give my bike out to someone to work on. I gave him some directions on how to adjust the carburetors, but it seems I gave wrong directions, and the adjustment needed was the opposite of what I recommended.

Anyway, we get back on the road, but the Kabarnet-Iten road is now out of the menu.

We get to Nakuru past 7pm. A quick stop, and we choose to go on to Eldoret. I’m quite familiar with the road, my lights are good, and I have a new helmet with the visor still good. I’m good to do the night ride. I just pray we don’t get heavy rain. It drizzles a bit, but for most of the way, we are alright.

We get to Eldoret about 10:30pm, get invited over to dinner by one of Timam’s friends, and we spend the night on the floor of their living room.

The next morning we set off for a small town in North Bungoma County, the home of my late father. We have some business to do, including hunting down someone who had some dealings with my father. This hunt leads us into a busaa den, and the sight of our motorcycles makes the clients scamper away, thinking it’s the police who have come to arrest them. Later that afternoon we find ourselves in the living room of a rather ascetic elderly lady, listening to her tell stories of my late father and my mother, and intertwine them with stories of herself and her late husband.

It’s a rather emotive but productive day. I take Timam to my mother’s home, so they can know each other, and we spend the night there. It’s a calm and quiet evening, reminiscent of my mother’s calm and quiet spirit. We drink good tasting tea made with milk straight from her cow, and feast on her peculiar mandazis. But the day can’t end without Timam doing something asinine. After washing his hands in readiness to eat dinner, he wipes them dry on our (absolutely shocked) black cat…

Wednesday is court day. We run late. The hearing is not happening today anyway, turns out it was moved to November. We agree that the lawyer who has been handling this issue should be promptly fired. Most importantly, Tintin is riding today from Nairobi, to meet us in Kitale so we can head north together.

We had never heard of a place called Nakodok before. One of the things Timam and I do is have a phone conversation, each of us with Google maps in front of us, wanderlust teasing us. We wondered what border point has eluded us. Following the road north past Lodwar led to a point on the Kenya-South Sudan border called Nakodok.

“Let’s go to Nakodok,” we said.

It sounded far fetched. As far as we knew, there is no tarmac road all the way north from Lokichar. I had done Lokichar-Lodwar before, and the 90km took me three hours to cover. We have no idea what lies beyond Lodwar. We don’t know what the security is like. Some days after this discussion, we learn that two legendary Kenyan riders that we look up to are doing the same route, and onward into South Sudan. We look at the map and dates of their planned route, and the dates of our business in Kimilili, and make a decision to piggy back on their trip. Well, their trip did not happen, but it spurred us to do ours. Thank you legends.

Let me tell you a bit about Tintin Tin Tina. (Link to her account of the same trip at the end.) She is tall and built like a supermodel, with a delicate demeanor. If you met her on a day when she is all girly in dress and make up, you’d never imagine that beneath that deceitful veneer lurks an untamed gritty behemoth, drunk on wanderlust, complete with the resolve of a soldier on a mission. Mother of one, she is kind of an enigma. One moment she is nice and sweet to you, and the next she is burning a crater through your soul with original scalding sarcasm. One moment she needs your help, a damsel in distress, the next she is telling you to shove your manly cavalierly somewhere the sun don’t shine, she can handle things on her own. One moment she is looking into your eyes and asking if you are alright, and the next she is giving you the finger. She is gentle and kind, though, always sensitive to people around her, overladen with what some call emotional intelligence. Or conscientiousness. Or agreeableness…

Some weeks back, I found myself somewhere along Waiyaki way, seated at a restaurant table with Boniface Mwangi, waiting for other bikers who were late. We were waiting for them, so we could ride together to Naivasha to welcome Throttle Queens back from their East Africa tour. Throttle Queens is a group of lady riders that includes Boniface’s wife.

Two bikers arrived, one of them a tall regal lady. Now if you are a lady and you ride motorcycles, you know how difficult it is to be regal in motorcycle gear. I stood up to shake her hand, prompting Boniface to make a quip about how my mother brought me up well. Those who know me know that’s lies… This lady was Tintin. I still don’t know why I stood.

Choppy lake. On a boat! My bike onboard. A coxswain with questionable sobriety, keen to show off. My bike being thrown about. Me waiting for a rope to snap at any moment, and for the bike to flip overboard into the crocodile infested waters. Praying that the rope would snap clean off, so the bike doesn’t take the whole boat down with it… My swimming skills are as abundant as chicken milk…

I’m here staring at the white water splashes, wide eyed in bewilderment, and a question keeps ringing in my head: Is this how stupid people die? It’s a fine line between genius and stupid.

However, a few hours into the boat ride, I’m fast asleep – on the same boat under the same conditions. Humans get tired of being bewildered.

That is how day 4 of my 8 day trip to Anam Ka’alokol went down. “Anam Ka’alakol” means “the sea of many fish.” Anam Ka’alokol is what the ancients called Lake Turkana, before a foreigner “discovered” it and named it Lake Rudolf, or The Jade Sea… And before Kenyatta named it Lake Turkana in 1975.

The Jade Sea called me again, and I answered. I have been to the lake a number of times before but, this time, I had a strong desire to use a route new to me, and to cross the lake on boat with my bike onboard. And to visit the islands. And to see the El Molo people again. And many more things that I ended up not doing because I had made some awfully wrong assumptions in my planning.

I scoured the internet looking for any info on this route, and found none. I message a Lodwar resident asking about this route, and he had almost no info on it. There remained just one choice: to go out there and find out for myself. And now I will tell you all about it, with tons of photos to boot. (If you ever come across a 1600km trip report with more photos than this one, show me!)

I will tell you a lot of things… I will tell you about towns I went through…

Beautiful landscapes…

Good people…

This hotel…

This hottie I met…

This monument…

Bagayo, the enigmatic coxswain and his two litre bottle of Cocacola…

Beautiful sunsets…

Donkeys…

Children…

Getting stranded with a damaged bike…

And many, many more. As usual, it will serve you well to read the story part by part in sequence, without skipping anything, even photo captions. This way you will get the most out of it, and not get bewildered by unexplained references I make as I keep progressing with the story.

Now, sit down. Let me tell you about my January 2021 solo motorcycle adventure to Anam Ka’alokol…

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Preparation

I’m both excited and anxious about this being a solo trip. I plan to follow a route I can’t find any information on. Google Maps shows no road there, but a different map does show a road. I do not know if it’s passable, or the state of security. Perfect ingredients to an adventure, ey?

As usual, I begin by laying out of the floor the stuff I intend to carry with me. This helps me to see everything at a glance and not forget stuff. I have reached that age. A friend helps me put together a basic first aid kit. I hope I won’t ever need it. I also get some canned and dried foods.

I make some adjustments to my after market rear shock. More preload. Fiddling around with the rebound damping… These later turn out to be the most valuable adjustments I make. Day and night difference in handling and confidence.

While giving the bike a quick last look-over, I notice that the bolts holding the front brake master cylinder to the handlebar are a bit loose, or so I thought. I try to tighten them, and end up breaking both bolts. Now I have no way to mount the master cylinder, which mean no brakes, no side mirror. No trip! This is how a simple ten minute job becomes a half day ordeal.

I go to the local chuma fundi to see if he can help. The broken bolts are stuck in the cylinder and can’t come out, even after trying some welding tricks. (Gotta be careful with heat here, the cylinder has rubbers and delicate things in it.) Finally the fundi brings out a tap and die set, much to my surprise, because I do not expect a fundi in such a small market place to have such tools. He says he used to be an engineer in some big company. He drills out the broken holes, taps in new threads, and I’m good to go. My trip starts tomorrow, and I really do not want to postpone it!

Before I go to bed, I pack all the stuff into my adventure bags and put them by the door. I also load up the maps I have drawn into the GPS unit.

I have been looking for gas canisters for my Campingaz 206 burner and recently found a shop selling them cheap, and bought two. I mount one canister to the cooker and it doesn’t quite work well. The sealing rubber has grown old and, before I can realise what is going on, the whole canister is empty, my hands are freezing from the leaking gas, and I’m genuinely scared I’m going to blow up my house!

I try to reinforce the sealing rubber with some polythene bag, and mount the second cannister. It works, but I can still smell it leaking. I altogether dump the idea of carrying it, and decide I will cook with firewood.

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Day 1 | Nairobi – Kapenguria

Day One’s plan is to ride from Nairobi via Nakuru, Eldoret, to Kunyao, a small town north west of Kapenguria. I had done an online search for a place to sleep there, and found a small hut that seemed to invite guests over. A call to the place proved otherwise. The mzungu owner of the place was not amused that I called him, and seemed to be reminded that he should remove his phone number online. He later sent me the area chief’s number, telling me to talk to him.

Meh! Not gonna do that.

I decide to go there and figure things out on the fly. Good thing is that I have a tent, food, and water, and I’m ready to sleep anywhere safe.

The plan to ride to Kunyao begins disintegrating right in the morning, as it takes me too long to leave home. While packing the bags, I realise that I’m carrying just too much stuff, and I start losing weight. I leave a lot of the canned food behind. I had gotten a lot of food because during my last trip to northern Kenya, I lost appetite and got sick of eating fish, the most available food in the region. Coupled with not having been exercising regularly, I eventually got so weak and got such crazy sugar craves (a doc told me it was a sign my body was eating itself). You can read that full story here.

Weight cut, I strap the remaining stuff onto the bike, and gear up. It’s time to begin the trip!!

I have a group of family and friends (henceforth referred to as “my people”) who have agreed to follow my trip updates, and whom I have promised to give moment by moment updates of my whereabouts and plans. This is especially important since I’m travelling solo. I have requested one of them to be on standby in case I need help or rescuing.

I stop at Buffalo Mall Naivasha to get some few things.

I also need to get puncture repair glue and some extra patches. I hope I won’t need them!

I get into Eldoret where I intend to briefly meet my sister before proceeding on. Since I left late, it’s clear that I won’t get to Konyao today. I’m resolved to spend the night at Kapenguria.

I leave Eldoret and head towards Kapenguria. Here I use a road I have never used before, suggested to me by one of my people, the road through Cherangany. This route avoids the truck-ridden stretch from Eldoret town to Maili Tisa, and the rough, narrow road to Kitale town, and Kitale town itself. The road through Cheragany is in good condition, and the ride is a relaxed breeze.

I stop somewhere to take a leak and enjoy the sunset. Google maps tells me I’m 24km from Kapenguria.

After covering over 30km I stop, wondering why the 24km are not over. I check again, and find Maps had lied to me before, I’m now about 30km to Kapenguria town. It’s getting dark.

Finally I get to Kapenguria.

I get to a hotel recommended by one of my people and book a room. The room is very clean and nice for the price. And I get to park my bike right outside my room. Convenient. There are a number of guests in the other rooms. A young lady is checked into the room next door.

As soon as I check in, the whole town is plunged into darkness. No power. I go to the restaurant and order some food, and sit at a table to wait in darkness. One of the workers brings a candle to my table and lights it up. I’m just warming up to the idea of a romantic candle lit dinner when Kenya Power absolutely ruins it by restoring power.

After dinner I go back to the room, unload a couple of things from the bike, and take a shower. Just as I settle into bed, communicating with loved ones and falling asleep, loud music starts playing from a bluetooth speaker somewhere. I can tell that it’s a bluetooth speaker because it keeps reconnecting loudly, and the music keeps being interrupted by phone calls. I’m hoping I’m too tired to care, that I will just black out, regardless.

I’m not too tired to care. After turning and tossing a while, I drag myself out of bed, wrap a kikoi around my waist and go outside to see where the music is coming from. It’s the lady neighbour. I knock on her door softly, hoping not to find myself facing a sour half naked boyfriend with a bulge… On his chest, I mean…

I find myself facing a sweet half naked girl, who opens the door wearing only a t-shirt, with nothing else below the waist. I effortfully force my eyes away from her thighs, up to her face, and I smile apologetically…

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And that’s it! I have shown you the whole of Lorengippi. Unless there’s a big market place hidden somewhere, you have seen everything. I stop. I want to see if I can find a place to eat lunch here… Yeah, I know, I know…

A curious group gathers around me. As usual, they are hesitant to approach me untill I remove my helmet and reveal that I’m just an unkempt vagabond.

I ask if there’s place to eat. A hotel.

“What does Lorengippi mean?” I ask.
“It means ‘the water is red’ ” they tell me.

Dejavu. When I was in Illeret, I was told “Illeret” means “the lugga of blood.”

I turn around and go to look for the hotel.

The problem is that I’m looking for a big-ish building, brick walls and iron sheet roofing, maybe. But when I finally find it, it’s nothing like my imagination. In fact, I rode right past it on my way in.

I say proper prayers before I dig in. I have to.

After eating, I decide to take a nap under some acacia trees before carrying onwards to Lodwar. I bring a piece of canvas from my bike and spread it down under a tree. I take off my gear, lay down and fall asleep for some minutes.

It’s time to leave now. I pack up my stuff. I know that the road ahead promises lots of sandy patches, but I hope I won’t be too overwhelmed by it. I’m still terrible at sand riding, and even worse when tired.

The sand begins…

I meet a car, which would be the only car I meet till Loregum. We pass each other then he stops, so I stop too. He reverses, and we talk a bit before going our ways.

I’m starting to have trouble. The road has unpredictable sandy patches, it’s been a long day, I’m tired. My pace is now slow.

I stop to take a short break and rehydrate.

I decide to take a short break, check my maps, and communicate with my people. It’s sandy everywhere, so I just stop on the road.

Out of nowhere a man appears, yelling and pointing at me. He seems really angry at me. He is angry because I have stopped my motorcycle on the road. I’m blocking traffic he says.

I tell him that my motorcycle is overheating, and I have stopped to let it cool a bit.

“Weka kando!” he says, with such authority. I’m beginning to wonder who he might be. Looks like someone who once tasted authority over people. Kinda like gate guards. He is ordering me to put my motorcycle on the side of the road, so he can fine me, or punish me somehow.

I refuse.

“This bike is heavy and now has little power because of overheating. I can’t push it to one side into the sand. Unless you help me, maybe?”
“Okay I will help you!”

I slowly put my phone in my pocket, put on my glove, start the bike, and zoom off, praying I don’t fall in the sand here.

A minute or two later, I come to this.

It’s Lorugum’s River Turkwel crossing point, and the bloody longest sandy lugga I have ever seen in my life!! I pause at the bank to take in the sheer sight. I have no choice, I have to cross here. I rarely jump into riding situations I consider risky, just for the sake of it. If it’s not on my path to my destination, if I don’t have to, to get to my destination, I avoid it. But this is right on my path. Sink or swim, this is it!

I dip into the river. The sand is fine. Deep and fine. I make a mistake. I think that following the car tracks will destabilise me, so I make my own way across the sand. Big mistake. Somewhere in the middle, I start sinking till the belly of the bike touches the sand, and my rear tyre is spinning useless, sinking me deeper. I use a technique I saw on Youtube to come out of such. (See it here.) I correct my mistake and make my way back to the car tracks. Vehicles compact sand a bit, and I have better chances there.

While I’m muscling and swearing my way across, I notice a biker with a pillion about a hundred metres to my left, who seem to be having a better time crossing the sand. I’m glad to see them. If i get completely stuck I’m sure they will come to my aid.

I’m a bit surprised that I get across before the other bikers. I look behind, and they are still way out there in the river.

The other biker’s pillion has gotten off the bike, and is dragging along a sheep. The rider is still deep in the sand, muscling his bike across.

They tell me that I chose the wrong path across the river. That the way they used is better. But I doubt it. It might be better till half way, but he struggled too much on the last stretch, yet he has a light bike with no luggage. We chat a bit as they tell me the condition of the road ahead, then they zoom off. I take one last photo of the mega-lugga, and proceed with my journey too.

The road is just lugga after lugga. Sand, sand, sand.

After a long while I meet this guy. It’s just natural to stop and talk, because you go for long distances without seeing anyone. He tells me that I’m about done with the most sandy sections of the road.

We say bye to each other, and just at the moment we lose sight of each other, this happens:

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This boat ride puts a huge unexpected dent in my wallet. I have to cut my trip short. I had hoped to cross the lake and venture my way north towards Sibiloi, but now I have to start making my way south, towards home. Besides, the KWS officer informed me that Sibiloi is not safe for a lone rider right now. The Borana and the Daasanach people have been having fights in the park since December.

The plans for the next day solidified, I go to Kalokol town to get some tea, and see what the night life here has to offer.

Back at the hotel, I can not imagine spending another night getting eaten by things. I ask the managers if I can set up my tent on the verandah between the rows of rooms, and they oblige. And that’s where I spend the night. It’s cooler than inside the room. I get a good night’s sleep.

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Day 4 | Boat to Moite

Today I cross Lake Turkana on a boat! Today will be my first time to cross any lake on any boat. And I’m pretty sure the last time my bike crossed a pond, it was on its way into the country. I’m excited. I’m anxious…

I’m totally terrified!

Lake Turkana is known world over for its crocodiles. I have seen them with my own eyes before, giant reptiles lazily basking on a shore. I can’t swim. As if that would help…

But I have already paid a deposit for the boat, and so we have to do this.

I call yesterday’s bodaboda guy to come and show me the way to Fimbo’s place.

I call the bodaboda guy again. He keeps promising that he is on the way, but never arrives!

I get tired of waiting and start riding in the general direction of the lake. On the way, I stop this guy and ask him if he knows Fimbo’s place. Everyone knows Fimbo. He knows where Fimbo is.

“I know Fimbo,” he says. “But I don’t think he is around. Today he is taking some white people to Central Island.”

“Yes, I know,” I respond “I am the white people he is taking to the island.”

I follow him.

After a little riding, we arrive at Fimbo’s place. It’s a little shed right by the lake, and there are several boats around in the water, and boat parts laying about. This is it, guys! This is happening. You should feel my heart palpitating! I can hear Anam Ka’alakol murmuring my name, calling me. I request her not to completely swallow me up, I have people to go back to.

I asked for anything that floats, and I’m eager to see it.

I finally meet Fimbo.

He tells me to ride the bike down to the lake.

The bell rings. This traveller’s mind is made up. No quitting now. Time to load the bike onto the boat. Will this boat be able to hold this heavy pile of metal? Will it float? How will they tie it up?

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