Now I admit I was in Loiyangani a bit more than a year ago. And I admit I may have received covert or overt invitations to participate in human-making activities (you will have to read that story to see this), but still, the math doesn’t add up.

Ey! And I did not accept those invites, anyway!

I hightail out of there before someone shoves a tuition fee invoice into my helmet.

I stop to take the last photos of the lake. Goodbye, Anam Ka’alokol, till we meet again.

I stop at a small centre called Leriano and ask if I can find somewhere to eat. They point out a place.

Getting into South Horr now.

After South Horr, it again gets hot and dry.

There’s some hill climbs, and I notice the temperature warning light of my bike is on.

About fifteen kilometres from Baragoi, I stop, alarmed. My bike’s temperature keeps climbing, and does not go down even after the fan kicks on! Something is very wrong with the bike! I had thought of nursing it to Baragoi, but no way, I risk ruining my bike. I need some answers.

The moment I stop, I notice with horror coolant dripping under the bike. A lot of it. My immediate though is that something has been hit by a rock and is broken. I go on my knees and look around, and can’t see anything broken. The bash plate is wet and dripping. One car passes immediately after I stop. They don’t pause to talk to me. Well, I really don’t expect them to, this is a known bandit territory.

I decide to refill the cooling system with water, and take it easy until Baragoi town, where I can check it up properly. I don’t like being out here immobile.

My camera goes off. I never stop again until I reach Baragoi. I see a police station, and approach some officers and ask them if there a motorcycle fundi in town. They tell me that there is. I need to check my bike, but I reason that if I do it at a fundi’s, the extra hand might be of help, I can finish it faster and continue with my journey. I have an inkling that the pump cover’s o-ring has failed, and is the one leaking water.

The chaos when I stop at the fundi’s place! I immediately get the feeling that I’ve made a mistake. People rush over to see this big bike, and are even more fascinated that it has a problem, and has been brought to this fundi. I speak to the main fundi, the owner of the fundi place, and he seems like a reasonable guy who can lend me a hand. I decide to stay.

I explain to him what my problem is, and that I need his help to open up stuff and put them back. To get to the water pump, I have to remove a side cover, the bash plate, the whole exhaust system, and a piece of the frame. It’s a LOT of work. I bring out my tool bag since he doesn’t seem to have some tools I need. I prefer we use my tools than mix both his and mine. I really don’t know how they cook it. Catching it is easy, tortoises don’t run. So do you whack the shell with a hammer or…? We start working on the bike, hardly getting room to move around it because of the gathered crowds.

One of the fundi’s assistants insists on helping, even though he has very little idea of what goes where. I make it very clear that I only want to be helped by one person, and he doesn’t take it kindly. He thinks I’m afraid they will steal my tools. But that’s not my biggest worry.

My worry is that if many poople help me, each will demand a pay. But more so, it will be hard to keep track of what is happening, and this is what transpires after I let him have his way. He ends up opening bolts that I don’t need to be undone. It doesn’t help that he is inebrieted and eager to prove himself knowledgeable.

Yeah, “poople” was an accidental typo, but not quite incongruous here, is it?

Finally the pump cover comes out, and to my dismay, the o-ring look completely fine. This means my problems are bigger. Whatever is leaking is somewhere inside the pump, or between the pump and the engine casing. The prime suspect now is the pump shaft seal, something I can’t fix out here in the field. I put silicone on the pump cover gasket surface, still in a daze, still wanting to believe it’s the o-ring that is leaking.

I let the silicone dry, put the cover back, and pour water into the system. It leaks out like the fourteen falls.

Damn!

I message my people, updating them of this misfortune. They send their good wishes. They pray. I pray. I need to get a solution, somehow.

The way I see it, I have only two options. Option one: Get a pick up or a flatbed to carry the bike and me home. Option two: Nurse the bike home.

Option one is the forté of fancy European bikes, and I don’t find it appealing at all. Option two sounds like one my 25 year old dinosaur would smile at. Nurse her home. Carry a lot of water, make frequent stops to top up the water, keep a keen eye on the temperature reading.

But wait… Mr. drunk know-it-all has another option three: “This thing is very simple! Put silicone here, and here, and inside there! Cover all of it in silicone it will never leak again!”

With the help of the head fundi, and despite the help of Mr. know-it-all, I get the bike all bolted up again. I ask for directions to a hotel nearby and get them.

Please just allow me to add the word “poople” to my vocabulary… It’s handy.

My thought is that KES 2,500 is too expensive for a hotel room here, but maybe it’s high because they provide the most needed commodity in Baragoi: security. Baragoi is known for illegal weapons and banditry, with daredevil illegal gun-totting brigands that have gone as far as shooting up police posts. The whole of suguta valley and it’s environs is a bandits’ nest.

I pack the bike which is already leaking out the water I put in ten minutes ago. I get some of my bags off, check into a room and take a shower. The lady worker brings food and tea to my room.