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…
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