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.
DAY THREE: 62 kms.
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.
Ready to ride out. A chat with these guys and they confirm that Sibiloi is not safe.
I call yesterday’s bodaboda guy to come and show me the way to Fimbo’s place.
Farewell photo before going to the boat.Leaving the hotel.
I call the bodaboda guy again. He keeps promising that he is on the way, but never arrives!
I replenish my water supply, and get a small bottle of juice concentrate. After last year’s trip to Illeret, I have learnt to make sure I have some sugar with me always..Inspection.
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.
This guy turns around and starts following us. Says he has been sent by Fimbo to fetch me.
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.
Here is anything that floats, my boat. Not too shabby!
He tells me to ride the bike down to the lake.
My last chance to call it quits.
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?
The moment of truth
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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.
The hill we climb as we talk.
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…
After the hill we start going down to the lake.
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.”
We meet another fisherman who is collecting algae to use to bait fish.Algae on stone. The scrap it off.We have to walk through these rocks.Finally we find Bendera.We walk back to the village.Bendera prepares some fresh fish.Layeni boys.Boys, boys, boys.Food eaten.My campsite, right next to the lake, within the village.Mark’s house.
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.
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.”
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Illeret. It is said to mean The lugga of blood. It is said that a long time ago, the Daasanach people (the tribe that lives in Illeret) held a circumcision ceremony at the lugga (riverbed crossing) and Gabra men attacked, and killed all the initiates. The lugga was red with the blood of the slain. Hence “illeret,” the lugga of blood. No, this won’t be a blood and gore story, I promise. This will be a story of venturing into the unknown, facing fears, and being surprised by how much joy a little trust births. The trust that the unknown people you shall meet in an unknown territory will be nice. The trust they have that you are not coming to them with ill intentions.
Early 2019, I had never heard of Illeret. Neither had I ever heard of the Daasanach people. If you follow the east coast line of Lake Turkana, Illeret is the last major town before you get into Ethiopia. I saw it on Google maps, and my curiosity perked. This is a story of how Illeret went from being just a blob on Google Maps, to smiling people. Chapatis at a village hotel. The carpeting in a Daasanach hut. A dog chewing at a boy’s shoes at church mass. Yes, a dog attending mass at a small beautiful church. Mass during a heavy unexpected storm. And forcefully throwing a drunk old man off my bike.
I was yelling “Shuka!”
NOTE: This story was first published as a Facebook Note on January 19th, 2020. The trip began on December 27th, 2019, and took ten days.
This story is in 4 parts. It will do you well to read them in the correct sequence. I have woven this story as a tapestry over the four parts. Skipping any portions (even photo captions) will result in threads coming undone at the end. One might, as a result, fail to understand obscure references at the end. You will get all the juice out of this story if you chew it patiently section to section. Alright now, I will tell you the whole story from the beginning. Sit down.
Prologue | The plan, and lessons from the past
Last year, Timam, Tina and I did a motorcycle trip to Nakodok, the border of Kenya and South Sudan. It was an awesome trip, and we had so much fun together. However it taught me the value of planning well (even if you don’t eventually stick to the plan). I felt like, during that trip, we rushed through places and hardly visited them. We spent what was supposed to be our rest afternoon visiting Kalokol and fatiguing ourselves down to Eliye Springs. We did not know how close we were to the beautiful Crater Island, and we left Eliye Springs without having set an eye on the Eliye Springs. Kind of a waste. I was quite overcome with mirth when, back in Nairobi, one of us declared “I have been to Eliye Springs, and can confidently say there are no springs there.” I know the springs exist, because I have visited them before.
This time I take time to look up what attractions are in the areas I hope to pass through. I find out about the Desert Museum, I read up on the El Molo people and their sacred shrines, I read up on Koobi Fora – I go through as much material as I can find about the area.
The initial plan is to reach Loiyangalani in a day, spend the next day visiting the museum and the El Molo people, before going on north. The plan is to also have some rest days. Both Timam and Tina express interest in joining in on the trip. Tina can’t because she does not have enough days. Timam comes to my place on 20th December, and we each draw up our desired trip plans. Our plans don’t agree. I make it clear that I can spare a total of 10 days for the trip, and intend to be in no hurry. He wishes to be back home earlier. By the time he leaves, we are not in agreement at all. I get the feeling that I shall be doing this trip alone, and start preparing myself for that eventuality. I have been planning this trip alone for months now, anyway. The option of it being a solo ride is not so unwelcome.
I start with the bike. I have already put in fresh oil and new tyres.
I go to Muthee Mutitu who helps weld up some cracks in the frame. My bike has the tendecy to crack a lot.I service the front forks.I lay out the stuff I intend to take with me. Only things missing here are my safety gear, luggage bags and camel bag.
Pre-trip bike problems
My plan is to go upcountry for Christmas, then come back to Nairobi on 26th, and start the journey on 27th. By 23th, Timam has showed intent to still come along, but I’m not sure he will come all the way all the days with me. On 23th too, I realise with trepidation that my bike is NOT ready for any trip! It is overheating. Oil on the radiator cap suggests a blown head gasket. Travelling to hot regions such as Northern Kenya with a blown head gasket would be impossible. The trip upcountry has to be cancelled, I have to quickly fix my bike.
Luckily, I already have fresh gaskets that I had purchased a while back. Luckily also, I do most of my own repairs and maintenance. Three years ago I took this bike apart and rebuilt it, putting almost every component in its place myself. On 24th I bring the bike into my compound and start stripping it up.
Oil on radiator cap.I put the bike on the verandah, so I can work even through rain.Front end stripped off for easier access to the engine.
On 25th, I begin tearing into the engine.
Cylinder and cylinder head.Pistons hanging out. One shows of bad mixture.Muthee Mutitu comes over to help. He cleans the cylinder head and laps the valve seats. He saves me about 4 hours’ work. He doesn’t charge me anything, says it is his Christmas gift to me.New and old gaskets.Cylinders back on.Doing the valve clearances. It’s easier to do them with the cylinder head on the bench.By 10:30pm, I have the engine back together.
The next day I bolt everything on. I’m a bit nervous because the trip begins in less that 24 hours. I usually don’t like working on my bike, and immediately embarking on a long trip. I prefer riding the bike around town for some days first to make sure everything is ok . But this time it will be a leap of faith. I cross my fingers and hope everything is ok with the bike.
Back on her feet. Now for a road test. Trip begins tomorrow!!
Day ONE | 27 Dec 2019
I wake up in the morning and start packing up the bike. I had not properly figured how to strap the adventure bags, since I have never used them before, and this takes me some time. Timam tells me to carry for him the three man tent. He is coming on the trip, after all, and I’m to meet him ahead, because he is at his folks’ home in Meru.
All luggage on bike, including tent for Timam. Ready to begin the trip.
I’m supposed to leave at 6am, but run late and leave at 8:30. The idea of doing Loiyangalani in a day is already nose diving. It’s a quick ride to Nanyuki.
Leaving home.Thika Road.I meet a group of bikers enjoying their holidays on the road.And another.
The bike is running well. It seems the repairs worked out fine. I will still have to monitor the temperature, especially when we get offroad. At Nanyuki, I give Timam a call. He tells me that he is in Meru town. We agree to link up at Isiolo.
Checking the equator at Nanyuki.Trying to get a shade near big brother.Big rig heading somewhere north.Isiolo.
I meet Timam in Isiolo. We repack things. I hand him the tent. He gives me two five litre jerry cans to carry. We may need to carry extra fuel somewhere along the way. I must mention that we are not sure about how the trip will be, or how the roads will be. We have had conversations with a couple of people who have travelled that way, but everything is still uncertain. We have no idea what the towns/villages look like, whether we shall be welcome, where we shall spend the nights… It’s a big leap of faith. To put it another way, we really have very little idea what the hell we are doing.
IsioloLunch.
We grab a quick lunch, and are soon on our way to Laisamis.
Mt.Ololokwe.They stop to check on us. That’s a live sheep in the crate.
Some two boys walking a cow find me stopped and ask for water. I don’t have any water in bottles I can hand out. I let them suckle at my camel bag. I have to communicate to them using signs that they must bite for the water to come out.
Before Covid-19 made the world weird.
We arrive at Laisamis. This is where we begin our offroad riding. It’s late afternoon, and we know we can’t make it to Loiyangalani today. We do not know where we shall spend the night.
Shops at Laisamis petrol station.
After fuelling up, getting some cash, stocking up on bits of supplies, we hit the road towards Loiyangalani. It starts off with a bit of tarmac for the first fifteen kilometres, then gives way to a well graded gravel road. The road is well made, as it has been used by trucks taking materials and supplies to the Loiyangalani wind power project. Our plan is to follow this road till Loiyangalani. What we do not know is that the new road does not follow the old road and is not on maps, and we keep losing it along the way.
We reach the Milgis Lugga that has some water in it. I’m in front, and I do something stupid. Since I can see vehicle tyre marks going into and out of the water, I don’t bother to check the depth before crossing. There’s a deep-ish ditch under the water and it catches me by surprise, I almost drop my bike in the water. My shin-high boot sinks in the water till it’s almost pouring in through the top. I recover, though, and power out of the river.
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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.
Friendly Bendera, who becomes our guide on this tour. Yes, his name is Bendera.
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.
Turns out it’s a church.We park in the shade next to the church. I startle an old man out of his sleep (you can see his leg here) I can imagine how it is, stirring out his afternoon siesta to see a huge machine and helmeted figure looming above his legs…
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.
Fish drying in the sun. The El Molo people depend on fishing for their livelihood. We are surprised to learn that some of the fish is sold all the way to Kisumu. And here I thought Kisumu is the headquarter of fiiissss!El Molo pre-fab building technology. These pieces that will eventually make parts of a hut’s wall are made somewhere across the lake, and transported here by boat. A boat can carry only one at a time.A structure under whose shade villagers chill.El Molo hut.
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.
I try to make a furry friend.The children excitedly help to push the boat into the water, but they are not allowed to come with us.
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.
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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.
Cooking tuna.Dinner is served.A rabbit visits. James (seated) says they usually do that.
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.
My bed for the night.
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 4 – 140km.
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 mytrip, 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:
Sibiloi Karsa Gate sunrise.
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.
Come to Papa, sugar!
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.”
The lush grass currently growing behind the kitchen. Amazing how these plants, or their seeds, survive the scorching dry season, only to sprout with a vengeance when it rains.
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.
Leaving Sibiloi National Park Karsa Gate, getting into the park.
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.
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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.”
Naughty Blackie.
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 7 – 90km.
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.
Leaving Fr. Florian’s compound.The lugga of blood. At the end was a slippery muddy climb out.The 50-50 tyres take it in a stride.Asking if I’m on the right way.
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.
Here I am looking back at this strange old man.
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!”
Putting back his Birr notes
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.
Yanking him off the bike…
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…
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I roll out of sleep in the morning and, with one eye open, I ask myself: “Is today a good day to ride?”
Do ducks swim?
I thumb my phone and open Google Maps… Where can I go today? After a while I agree with myself, “Yup! That sounds good!” The plan is to do a loop around the Aberdare Range: Nairobi – Nakuru – Nyahururu – Nyeri – Makutano – Nairobi.
My new ambition is to one day ride an 8 around the Aberdare and Mt. Kenya.
At about 8 am I’m ready to leave. The weather laughs at me, it starts raining. I’m tempted to go back indoors and snuggle up with a hot cup of tea and continue bingeing on “The Real Hustle” series… I hit the start button and thread my way out through the rain, a smile on my face.
I get rained on most of the way to Nakuru, but thanks to my gear, I remain bone dry. As I enter Nakuru, my hands are freezing. I’m also a bit weary because of being buffeted by strong side winds. I stop at the first restaurant I see and order tea and chapo. The tea is ok. The chapo is the most horrible I have had in a while. I chomp all of it down, refuel, and hit the Nakuru – Nyahururu road.
The road is scenic. The rain has eased. It’s warmer. It’s an awesome ride. I stop at the view point to admire the Rift Valley. An elderly man carrying some soap stone plaques approaches me. He gives me the usual tourist run down: The Rift Valley runs from Israel to Mozambique, and it’s nine thousand and blah blah blah kilometres, etc etc. He points beyond some mountains and tells me the shimmering I see is Lake Baringo. He points down into the valley at a house with a black roof and tells me he lives somewhere near it.
I start taking some photos. He offers to take some and I hand him the camera. He tells me he used to be a photographer, but those days cameras used large bulbs for the flash.
I ask if I can take a photo of him. He says “Okay, let me sit here and pretend I’m carving something.” Now I believe he used to be a photographer. His name is Kamotho. I promise him that if I ever pass this way again I will print and bring the photo with me.
As I leave Nyahururu town heading towards Nyeri, something on the side of the road catches my eye. I make a U-turn, get off the road and stop at a small shed with bodaboda riders around it. This is what caught my attention:
The owner comes around. The other riders are cheering him, because someone with a big bike made a U-turn to come look at his bike. I ask him if it actually works. He puts the bike into neutral, starts it and plugs something somewhere. Yes, it works!
She parks her motorcycle and removes her helmet, revealing short hair and a wide grin – the type only motorcyclists have after a death defying ride. After a quick run together – She, another rider called Allen, and I – from Nyeri to Karatina, I perfectly understand what she means when she reaches out her hand to greet me and says “Sorry, I’m a bit of a crazy one!”
Carol has the air of an I-don’t-give-a-rat’s-ass woman, the type that does not obsess over chipped nails or fawn over glossy fashion magazines. It’s the first time I’m meeting her. We’ve been friends for a while on Facebook and from her posts I could tell she is a hard rider. Now I know from experience.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. Allow me to start from the beginning…
It’s Saturday at 6.30am. I hit the start switch on my bike and I’m ready to roll on to Mount Kenya region. I’m supposed to be in Embu for a work function at 11am, but I’m taking the long way there. The plan is to get to Nyeri at 9am through back roads, then ride on to Embu. I’m hoping to have breakfast in Nyeri with a lady called Harmony, a rider too. She is doing some outriding work, escorting a campaign entourage. That breakfast did not happen, thanks to the befuddling rat’s maze that is Othaya area. When I finally emerged out of Othaya, I felt like the intelligent rat that made it out of the researcher’s maze… I will explain in a short while.
After Thika, I have to make a choice on which route to use to get to Nyeri. And this is where my problems begin. See, I’m already familiar with the main route through Makuyu, Makutano and Karatina. I want roads I have not used often before. Anyway, I miss the road I intend to take and end up at Murang’a. I actually don’t realise I’m on the road to Murang’a until I get to the town, and it hits me – wait a minute, I have been here before! Some time back I had come here to attend the funeral of a friend’s child.
After a short while I find myself at Kangema. The road there looks completely unfamiliar, but as soon as I reach Kangema town I realise – wait a minute, I have been here before! Some time back I had come here to attend the funeral of a friend’s parent.
No, I do not work in life insurance.
After Kangema, I get into totally unfamiliar territory. If you look at Google maps, the road from Kangema to Othaya seems pretty straightforward. Don’t be fooled, homie!
Some minutes later I begin to get this strange feeling that I might be heading the wrong way. I make a U-turn and go back to the nearest centre, where I ask a bodaboda guy for directions to Othaya. He turns and looks at his fellow rider and asks him “Which road should we show him?”
How many freaking roads to Othaya are there?!
They have a quick conference in Kikuyu language, which I can barely understand, and seem to reach a consensus that I should go back where I came from and continue that way. This means I go back to where I have come back from before I came back. Get it? No? Welcome to Othaya!
I hit some awesome roads after that, the famous “nyokanyoka”. I’m a bit clumsy at the corners, my brain seems to not be fully awake. It’s barely 8.30am.
I take a wrong turn somewhere and end up at Chinga Dam. After riding for a while my geographical instincts tell me that something is not right. It’s morning, I’m supposed to be heading north, but the sun is behind me a lot, so it looks like I’m heading west. I decide I should stop somewhere and ask for directions. At some point the road climbs up a hill and at the top I’m presented with this awesome view of Mount Kenya. I stop to soak in the awesomeness and take photos.
Awesome Mt. Kenya!Zoomed in.
.A small boy stops to admire me. Okay… To admire my bike.
Sigh!
I ask him if this is the road to Othaya. He laughs.
“You have to go back and go the other way!” he says. I turn the bike around and start making my way back towards Chinga dam. There was a point at which the road forked and I’m pretty sure that is where I took the wrong way. He laughed at me!
Sigh!
After some time I’m pretty sure I’m on the right road. For a short while, anyway. The road suddenly becomes really curvy with a lot of loose murram. At some point it has barriers on the sides. I again get the feeling that I’m going the wrong way. It looks like a major road so I’m pretty sure I will get to a town or something nearby where I can stop and ask for directions.
What town? This, what looks like a major road, comes to an abrupt end at a downhill slope, without any warning. That’s it, end of the road. What follows is a small path through a gap in a barbed wire fence, going down into some bushes beyond. I stop and take a moment to savour this bizarre coup de graĉe.
I found this dead end on google maps. Can’t make this stuff up!
I look behind me. A group of about three bodaboda guys who were chatting loudly have gone quiet and are looking at me, the way you would go quiet and look at giraffe who has got his neck stuck up in the branches of an acacia. I ride back to them and have a chat with them, seeking to find exactly what the hell is happening to my neck! Another high level Kikuyu conference, and this time there seems to be no consensus. One thinks I should go on with the path and I will hit another road after about two kilometres. The other thinks it will be easier to go and find another junction back where I just came from. There is absolutely no way I’m descending into the depths of those bushes!
I wake up on Sunday morning, not knowing I’m going to walk in Dedan Kimathi’s footsteps today. Or is it ride in Dedan Kimathi’s footsteps? Dedan Kimathi was an English teacher at a school in Ol Kalou, history teaches us. But he was excessively violent with the students, and his teaching career was axed. He eventually landed where his excessive violence was appreciated: among the Maumau fighters hiding in the Aberdare forest. This is just a colourful way of telling you that I’m going to ride my motorcycle from Ol kalou into the Aberdare forest. I also have no idea that my bike will refuse to start in the middle of the forest where there will be no one, and lots of elephant dung lying around. And no phone network! I will tell and show you the whole story…
It all begins when a friend, an alumni of Moi Forces Academy, Lanet, asks me to escort her from Nairobi to Nakuru. She has been riding for just a couple of months, still building up confidence on the road, but yet daring and brave in every way, with that dash of youthful abandon. I oblige. I, however do not want to attend the event she is going to, and have no idea what I will do till she is done so we can ride back. (Well, she rode back alone.) I pack my drawing tablet, maybe I can settle somewhere and do some drawing…
Leaving home…
We meet on Waiyaki way about 8am, greet each other, insult each other a bit like good friends do, and start our trip. Sunday morning traffic is already getting busy.
Sections of Waiyaki way are caked with slippery mud…Quick SitRep check stop… Are you ok? Yep. You? Yep.
“Why are we so slow?” “What? I was doing 110!” “Huh? We have not done 90 anywhere!” “Seriously, I was doing 110!”
Stock factory speedometers lie.
It gets really foggy.
We reach Nakuru, and she gets off her bike, and does this little weird dance. I thought she was just stretching, but turned out she was pressed.
Edit: “Both,” she says, when I show her this story before publishing it…
Behold the bladder dance..
We finally get to her destination…
Feels good to visit your former high school on your bike, especially in the company of a biker or bikers. I know, coz I have done it too…
I grab a quick breakfast as I pore over google maps…
I finally decide to take the road from Lanet to Ol kalou, a road I have never used before, then find my way from Njabini to Thika. I had heard of a nice recently tarmacked road going to Thika, and was eager to see it.
It’s a brisk ride to Ol Kalou. Nice windy road.
At Ol kalou I stop and have some fruit. Note how healthy those bananas are, it’s important to this story, you will see…
Note the nice yellow bananas…
It’s a quick, uneventful ride to Njabini, save for a police stop that did not prove any fruitful. To them.
My occasionally untrustworthy pal has told me to turn left at Njabini and I will find a nice road that goes to Thika. I remember it being unpaved, but lots of roads have been paved of late, and I’m glad to hear that this is one of them. He is occasionally untrustworthy, and that’s why I turn left, and run into a really rough unpaved road.
My immediate instinct is to turn around and look for the other good road, or just use the roads I’m already familiar with. But I find myself not touching the brakes and stopping. A kilometer passes, then two… The adventurer in me wins. I want to do this rough road. I stop and ask someone if this road will get me to Thika. He says yes… But it goes through the forest.
“Is it muddy?” “Nooo! There’s no mud.” “Are there wild animals?” “Noooo! There are no wild animals there!” “But it’s a forest,” I think… “The Mighty Aberdare!”
I ride on…
I run into an electric fence with an open gate. This is my first sign of trouble ahead. I’m very sure this fence is not to keep humans out, but rather to keep something in there, and I’m wondering whether going in there is a good idea. I consider turning around, and asking at the Forest Service office whether it is safe to go ahead. But I get the feeling they will say no, even if it is. Modern human is overly cautious to being sued, everyone walks on eggshells around everyone. I pass through the gate and go on…
It’s quiet in there, and breathtakingly beautiful!
Trouble starts… The road within Nyandarua county is paved with stones. They are rough to ride over. I have to stand on the pegs and gas it sometimes. I also fear for my computer in the top box, and try not to be too rough. I would not have brought the top box had I known I would do this. Then come the puddles on the road, and mud…
Let them go first, so you can know how deep the pool is…
…
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