PREMIUM

We walk over a hillside and down to the lake as we talk. Mark tells me stories about the village and its people. The El Molo people are the smallest tribe in Kenya.

Layeni is one of the villages they live in, and there’s another village nearby called Komote where more of them are found.

“Layeni means ‘place of good boys, ” says Mark.
“Place of good boys?”

He tells me that people in Layeni mostly birth boys. And people in Komote mostly birth girls.

“So does ‘Komote’ mean…”
“Yes, it means place of girls!”

He tells me that there are seasons in which the young people from both villages intermingle. They have some sort of festives together, because, let’s face it, boys and girls somehow have to meet. Survival of species and all…

It now hits me that I have hardly seen any little girls playing around in the village, just boys. During our last visit, we visited both islands and noticed quite some differences in the cultures of the two placces. Due to the rising levels of the lake, Komote island is now completely cut off from land. They have to use boats to move around and bring in all their supplies. Quite a task for people who hardly produce anything.

“Can’t someone in Komote quit the place and come live here in Layeni?” I ask.
Layeni scoffs at the thought. “It’s very hard,” he says. The two islands are very different. Someone from over there will find it hard to live here, and someone from here will find it hard to live over there.”

After eating fish, Mark tells me to take a walk with him so he can show me a good spot from which to photograph the sunset.

I call my people while up here because the network is good. We then go back down to the village. Mark invites me to have tea with his family later. We pass by a shop where I buy some soda and biscuits. Then I go to my tent and rest a bit as it gets dark.

After dusk, Mark takes me to his family. I meet his father, and his mother too. The moon is out. They don’t sit in their houses, they sit outside on mats, and on seats placed outside. That’s how life is here, people don’t really stay inside their houses. Some even sleep outside as long as it’s not raining.

Mark’s father welcomes me. He is in charge of the kitchen today, while Marks mum relaxes on a mat outside. Feminists would choke on their patriarchy theories if they saw this right now.

“We are having tortoise for dinner today,” Mark tells me. “That’s why I invited you over.”

“What?!”

“Dad is making tortoise.”

Farcing the Jade Sea | Part 4Read More »

A couple of older boys are brave enough to come near us. A man comes out from among the huts and walks towards us. He greets us. We quickly explain our presence. We explain that we are Kenyans who have chosen to spend our holidays visiting fellow Kenyans. We say that we would love to see their village, spend some time with them, and if possible visit their sacred shrines.

The man is friendly. He is so friendly, that it immediately puts me at ease, and I immediately feel at home. It turns out two Kenyan bikers had paid them a visit months back. The man gives us his memory of the legendary motorcycle tourers John Kimathi Kithinji and Richard Ojany. He even remembers their names. I’m so grateful for these bikers that have gone before us, and put in a good name and image for any strange wanderer who may show up upon this village on a motorcycle. Asanteni.

Bendera welcomes us, and tells us yes, we can visit the village. And yes, we can visit the sacred shrines. He tells us to park our bikes near the colourful building. Your stuff will be safe there, he says.

A big crowd is gathered now, watching us curiously, studying our every move. We have to remove our riding gear and leave them on the motorbikes. I remove my jacket and helmet. It’s now time to remove my riding pants with the whole world watching. I wrap a kikoi around my waist and start removing the pants. My kikoi slips and falls, I’m bent over and displaying my boxered tushi to the whole world watching. I expect gasps and laughter from the children, but none come. They seem to even be wondering why I’m looking around sheepishly and making such a dash for my fallen kikoi. Tushis out, it seems, is normal here.

We ask if we can have some food later. Bendera informs us that we have to make an order. He advises us to make the order before we take the boat to the island with the sacred shrines. The food will be ready by the time we come back. We order four fish and ugali. There’s no other option, really. We just ordered the whole menu.

We walk through the village towards the boats. The children follow us. Some men follow us. The really little children and women peer at us curiously from around the huts. There’s lots of fish drying in the sun. There’s some unfinished structures. Their huts are a display of deft doum palm weaving.

We head on down to the shore to get a boat to take us to Lorian Island, where the sacred shrines are. A quick negotiation, and we are on our way, with our guide, Bendera, and a couple of other lads.

In a moment we are on our way. The boat’s engine is new, it runs smooth, and is powerful with thrilling acceleration. The coxswain lets it rip a couple of times for our sheer excitement.

Farcing the Daasanach Fora | Part 2Read More »

There are two KWS officers at the gate listening in on our conversation. One of them weighs in: “No you shouldn’t leave each other,” he says, smiling, as if apologising for butting in. I get him. He is a soldier. I bet soldiers understand the phrase “Leave no man behind” more than most. But there’s no way I’m riding another kilometer today. Timam and I bid each other farewell again, again, and he shoots off.

The officers manning the gate are really friendly and accomodating. They invite me into a side office with some chairs in it. One offers me cold water from their natural “fridge.” It’s a 5 litre jerrycan with drinking water, wrapped with wet cloth, and hung up in the wind. You gotta love physics, ey?

We have a really short chat, and they leave me alone to rest. I bring out my inflatable mattress, set it up on the floor and promptly fall asleep there.

I’m woken up by by noises of people talking and a Landcruiser grinding to a halt outside. It’s shift change. The two officers I found leave (I did not even get their names) and are replaced by two others, James and Julius.

I ask them if they have any sugar. On such trips, I usually carry a small bottle of honey, but this time I forgot. I’m craving sugar so much, I could lick it right out of a tin. I ask them if I can make a small fire somewhere and cook a little food for myself. I have in my bags some noodles and canned tuna. They tell me there’s a kitchen I can use. I rummage through my bags for my food and, to my surprise, find that I carried two tins of canned pineapple rings! I do have some sugar! I decide to save them till later, after I have had an actual meal.

I go to the kitchen, carrying my noodles and some bread and pancakes. James is there. He has made me a cup of coffee. Soldiers do understand things, ey? He must know what it is like to crave sugar. I thank him profusely as I take a sip. It’s sweet! I gulp it down like a hopeless addict.

James tells me I can get a sufuria to warm my food. He tells me not to be afraid to use their stuff. “We are men,” he says. “We have no shame!” Ok, that translates awfully, but in Kiswahili it sounds awesome. “Sisi ni wanaume. Hatunanga aibu!” Alright. Still awful… But when a soldier tells it to you, it’s sounds awesome. Just take my word.

I get a sufuria, empty a can of tuna into it, and warm it over the fire. Soon I have a meal of bread, pancake and tuna. I ask James if they have had dinner. He tells me they had food at the camp before reporting for duty. I’m still sick of fish, but at least the tuna tastes a bit different. Note to self: Next time travelling next to a lakeside, maybe carry canned beans instead.

After dinner, I join the two officers at the room with my mattress. It’s kind of their entertainment room. There are rows of solar batteries on the counter. There are phones charging. A small tv is on. News. We sit and chat as we watch the tv. Julius tells me how difficult it is to go for days without speaking to his family. It is remote out here, with no one, and no settlement for tens of kilometres around. There’s no cellphone reception. The officers have a radio to communicate with the other camps. Whenever a visitor or vehicle enters the park, the information is relayed around over radio. The park also does not get many visitors. Working here is forlorn. He tells me that they get three months leave though.

Julius asks me what my trip is about. I tell him I’m just touring.

“Aren’t you doing some kind of research or survey?” he asks.
“Nope. Just wandering about.”

“Wueh!” He slaps his knee with his hand, and turns his attention to the tv. “Okay!” he says after a while. I tell him that I intend to go north till Illeret. He tells me that I will be fascinated by the Daasanach people’s huts. “They are very interesting!” he says, “You will see!”

I set up the inside part of my tent in the room, to function as a mosquito net. I get in and settle for the night. Later, the officers switch off the tv, and we bid each other goodnight. Julius asks me whether or not he should close the door. I say no, I like the breeze.

“That’s ok,” he says. “There’s nothing here.” I presume he means there are no predators here.

They leave to their sleeping quarters. I take note that I’m the one sleeping nearest to the park gate. As I try to fall asleep, my brain reminds me of a video I saw online. It was an infrared security cam footage of a leopard sneaking up on an unsuspecting dog, and attacking it. I get up and close the door…

DAY 5 | Sibiloi gate to Koobi Fora

Today is the last day of the year. Today I’m going to ride to Koobi Fora, The Cradle of Mankind. The information we got from the other biker legends gone before us suggested a very difficult road, and a lot of sand on the last stretch to Koobi Fora. I’m terrible at riding in sand, and I’m dreading it. Today I’m riding solo, without a riding partner. That means that if I drop the bike, picking it will be more difficult without help. It’s not impossible, I have done it many times before, but it is usually easier with help. But I’m also filled with excitement that today, I ride as slow as I want to, with no one constantly overtly or covertly ramming a clock down my throat. It’s an expedition, not a race to places. I can take as many rests as I want to, stop and take as many photos as I want to, and just do things my way. Today I can have my trip, and I’m looking forward to it.

I also consider the possibility of not being able to finish the stretch by evening due to my slowness. I have a tent, I have enough food to take me through the night, and enough water (I set off with a total of about 5.6 litres), just in case I have to make camp along the road for the night. Solo will be difficult. But slow and steady will do it. The only really difficult thing I can foresee about camping out for the night is purging that leopard footage from my head. I have a hand axe with me, but that is not much comfort.

Some morning photos of the park Karsa Gate camp:

I’m still craving sugar. I pop open one can of pineapple rings. Through the window, I can see James and Julius at the kitchen. I decide to leave them some of my canned tuna tins and Weetabix. I put the stuff in a paper bag, together with my bread and pancakes, and head over to the kitchen.

We greet each other. I tell them that I slept well. They tell me that they received information that my colleague arrived at Koobi Fora well. I already know that, actually. The radio receiver is in the room next to where I slept, and I could hear the cackling of incoming transmissions. They have already made tea, which they offer me, together with army biscuits. I offer them pancakes, and two tins of canned tuna. (Did I tell you how sick of fish I am?)

There’s an abundance of birds around. There’s doves that have made nests under the roof awnings. I ask the soldiers if this place usually has so many birds even during dry seasons. They tell me not so much, but they are still usually around. The place has a water tank (birds will always find a leak from which to quench their thirst) and the kitchen always has some food scraps.

“During the really hard times we sometimes feed them,” Julius tell me. “It’s so green and different now. Some months ago it was all barren and dry. You could not see a single green thing.”

I finish my breakfast and clean my utensils, during which time I’m occasionally reminded that we are men, we have no shame. I then pack up my bike, and prepare to leave. I go to the office with Julius and pay the park entrance and camping fees. I’m ready to enter the park. James raises the barrier for me, and wishes me well on my trip.

One of the attractions of Sibiloi National Park is the Petrified Forest. Petrified comes from the Greek word petro meaning “stone.” (“I shall call you Peter (Petro) because upon this rock I shall build my church” … Remember that?) The Petrified Forest consists of prehistoric terrestrial vegetation that has fossilised into rock.

Farcing the Daasanach Fora | Part 3Read More »

I doubt the mass goes on as it usually does, due to the noise. But I’m not a Catholic, so I can hardly follow what is going on. I just stand up when everyone stands up, and sit my ass down when they do theirs. The mass goes on, despite the noise. A little boy seated next to me has his hands crossed over his bare chest. He is shivering. He doesn’t stand up with everyone, but remains seated, clutching tightly at himself. He is wearing only a piece of cloth around his waist that is now soaked with water. His skin has droplets of water all over. I have my kikoi, I wrap it around his shoulders. He says thanks. The next time everyone stands up again, he stands up too.

Blackie is not interested in anything else but one boy’s shoes. Well, they are interesting shoes – sandals with really huge soles. Blackie keeps chewing at the soles. The boy pushes her away, but she keeps lunging back. It becomes a hushed fight right behind Fr. Florian.

The rain stops. Mass ends. We stand for the last benediction. As we turn to shuffle towards the door, the little boy takes off my kikoi, hands it over to me and says “Thank you.”

After a sumptuous dinner with Fr. Florian and Madam Freia, I stand at the door to Father’s house, telling him goodnight. There’s a boy nearby reading a brochure.

“What is that?” Says Father, taking it from him. He glances at it for a moment, then hands it to me. “You should read this!”

“Goodnight.”

I retire to my bed. I say another prayer for Timam before blacking out.

Day 8 | Illeret to North Horr

So, how do you educate pastoralist children? You had forgotten about that, ey?

I wake up in the morning to texts from Timam. One says the bike is damaged but moving, heading towards Darate. Another tells me the road is stony, and that I should find another way back. Another says he is now heading to North Horr. Another sent at 4:30am says the bike died 33 kilometers from North Horr, and that he is stranded. I had a contact at North Horr given to me by Grace Mwari. I try to sent it to him, but the message never goes through. The phone reception at Illeret is sketchy. Calling and messaging sometimes don’t work. About 7:30am he informs me that he got help and is on his way towards Marsabit. He again warns me not to use that road.

Well, I will fossil whichever fossil roads I want to!

It’s another solo ride day, and I’m fossil excited about that! I pack up the bike, and get ready to make a dash for the border. I want to just reach the border, then turn around and continue with my journey south. I pack everything on the bike, I do not want to waste any time on my way back. Fr. Florian has already gone for morning prayer. I decide to bid him farewell when I come back from the border.

There’s a small border post, if I can call it that. A small tin shack manned by one uniformed man. I stop and explain to him my mission. I ask him if I can ride into anywhere in Ethiopia. He says I can, but I will get into trouble. I ask him if he can process papers here. He tells me that if one needs to go into Ethiopia, you need to leave Nairobi with your papers processed. I tell him I’m just visiting the border marker and will be back in a short while. It’s just 5 kilometers away, he says.

An old man waves me down. I usually don’t pick up passengers, but he is insistent on stopping me. We completely don’t understand each other’s language, but it’s clear he wants a ride. I think, okay, why not? It’s less than 5 kilometers anyway. I stop and let him on.

I immediately get alarmed, because he is constantly shouting in a strange language. He moves around unpredictably, causing the bike to swerve around. Suddenly he shouts, loudly, in Kiswahili…

“Enda polepole!”

What? I am going slow! He leans to the left, extremely till I have to correct with the bike. I can see his head by my shoulder, like he is looking around me to see the dashboard.

That’s when I realise he is drunk, and falling off! I stop the bike.

“Shuka!” I yell.

He mutters something, and speaks some more.

“Shuka!” I put the bike on the side stand and get off, leaving him on the pillion seat. “Shuka!”

He fumbles through his things and offers me some Birr notes. I shake my head and wave my hands. “I don’t want your money! Shuka!”

He offers me his blanket, and that’s when I realise what’s going on. I’m yelling “Shuka!” which can mean either “get off”, or “bedsheet” (more accurately here, “lesso.”) He thinks I’m demanding for a lesso.

I don’t know how else to communicate, so I grab his arm and begin the unpleasant task of forcefully yanking him off my bike…

Farcing the Daasanach fora | Part 4Read More »