The child in his eyes

Two years ago I visited Uganda on a backpacking trip during summer holidays. I had spent most of my stay in the superb southwest, but regretted not being able to visit the north. This time I really wanted to ride there. And so I did. The Sipi falls were nice, and certainly the setting was gorgeous, but in the end it was just a set of waterfalls, and hiking up there didn’t appeal to me at all. With only earth roads ahead of me I knew I was taking a bit of a risk but I wasn’t to be stopped.

It’s enigmatic how easy it is to write about bad luck, bad experiences. It may even be fun to describe every little detail of agony, pain, stress. But when it comes to describing some really good experiences, it’s hard to find the words to describe one’s emotions. Why is that?? We’ve all had good and bad things happen to us, so it shouldn’t be too hard to relate to both. Nonetheless, I may have less friends to intimately share my happiness with than my depressing moments..

Riding north in Uganda made me overjoyed. It was something of a dream come true. Until a year ago I had thought of maybe, at some point in time, going back and visit Kidepo NP. A plan like so many plans that will never be executed. But never had I imagined riding here on my bike.

Having traveled on my own a fair bit over the past years, I have had to explain numerous times how much fun that actually is. Everyone seems to understand that the lows are lower when there’s no buddy to pull you out of it. But so far, only a limited few seem to apprehend that the highs are equally higher. The highs are more intense when there’s no one to share them with. Like the lows, the highs can suck you in. Like the lows can drown your blood in fear, the highs can drown your blood in adrenaline. Like the lows can make you depressed, the highs can make you elated.

Such were the roads north. If life is measured by the moments that take your breath away, my life was complete now. Truly, this was the most awe-inspiring region I have visited so far.

I had been warned of these lands of the Karamojong. Up until a few years ago this was a war zone, the LRA roaming these lands and committing vicious acts of inhumanity. These remain lands of the tribes, with fighting and cattle stealing still of frequent occurrence. But a process of disarmament and rehabilitation started some years ago and I figured this was as good a time as any to go there. There was no excuse.

The villages were small, the towns lively. Similar to the Turkana region in Kenya, people wore their traditional dress and showed a degree of traditional mistrust and disinterest towards strangers. Most parts were barely inhabited; people were only to be found close to their villages; after 16.00, with sunset approaching, they would all be walking back to their homes.

Mostly there was nothing, just me and the view of winding roads ending at the horizon where they plunged into unknown depths. Each hill, each bend offered a new view, a new panorama to be discovered. Many times I stopped and sucked it in. I hardly took pictures though. There was no need for that; there was no need for sharing this, the intensity cannot be shared. It’s not the views, it’s an emotion. There’s no need for pictures to remember; pictures will only merit explaining. It’s like meeting the woman of your dreams. I’ve met her twice; there’s no explaining, you simply know. Likewise, I don’t want to do any explaining, I simply know I am riding through the land of my dreams.

Then I entered Kidepo National Park. It turned out to be the wrong season, for the rains had come, the grass was high and the wildlife had been dispersed through the inaccessible areas of the park. But nevertheless it was THE most beautiful park ever! With two German girl (one of whom I kinda fancied, until I realised -to my own shock and horror- that she reminded me of a blond ex-girlfriend from the northern regions of Holland) we did a game drive and barely saw any wildlife. Mind you, we saw some buffalo, giraffe, lions and Ugandan kob. But it was nothing like the Masai Mara, or the Serengeti, or Etosha. However, the park is stunning, absolutely magical. Just to sit there and stare off in the distance; that’s all one needs. Life can be so simple.

I was like a little boy unwrapping his birthday or Christmas presents, to find he got all he wished for.. and then some. The dropped jaw, the wide-open and twinkling eyes, the joy, the screaming.. it was all there. I was a little boy again. Life was simple, life was uncomplicated. It was me and the nothing. I was happy.

The road leading west from Kidepo NP was superb. It was of course unpaved, but it was smooth as a baby’s butt. Going on high speed was all too easy. And to protect myself from that I left the road and took uncharted roads to small towns, asking locals for directions. At some point I asked a man how far it was to Gulu. The man replied in the best way imaginable: you’ll make it is what he said. How far, you’ll make it… it’s the perfect answer, a declaration of trust and faith. What else can one wish for?!

From Gulu, I once more went north on unmapped roads. I unfortunately missed Baker’s Fort in Patiko, continued anyway, and was told to ignore a sign saying “road closed, bridge collapsed”.
The past couple of days I had barely been able to stop riding. But when I reached Atiak, with the intention of riding into the West Nile province, I suddenly realised it had been enough. It was time to head back and go to Bujagali. The past weeks had been intense. Via e-mail I had tried to explain to one of my best friends that there were too many stories to be told, but I don’t know whether she fully comprehended. And now, I realised it was enough. It was time to sit down and let it all sink in.

But of course, I couldn’t let it happen that easily. Uganda is one of only a few countries that allows you entry to the national game parks on a motorbike. And after having elephants cross my path in Kidepo, I had to go to Murchison NP as well. Now, you should be aware that locals do this every day, so it really isn’t that special. But it did feel pretty damn special to me to pass through Uganda’s largest park and see buffalo, giraffe, elephant and hippo as I passed by. I had been told to head straight to the ferry that takes you across the Victoria Nile river, that bisects the park. Of course I didn’t. I explored, I dreamed, I discovered. But exploring and discovering with buffaloes nervously looking at you isn’t very reassuring. Nonetheless, it took me 7hrs to reach the southern gate, much to the surprise of the park ranger who checked my entrance ticket.

Unfortunately, my rear damping was busted on an awesome but very rough track between Gulu and Pakwach, so I was confined to taking tarmac roads to Kampala. There I spent a couple of days fruitlessly looking for a repair shop. But the image of the rapids of Murchison Falls had been edged in my mind days ago and this minor misfortune could no longer keep me from heading to Bujagali.

It had always been one of the main goals of the trip, the white waters of the river Nile. And as I neared Bujagali I remembered every corner, every bit of road from two years ago. I got so excited I even opened up the throttle as I hit the last unpaved stretch of road; never mind having no damping. As I entered the camp site I was exhilarated, I was a little boy again. And I had just unwrapped another present I had wished for..

More angels & same demons

A friendly, but fragile looking man puts his hand on my shoulder. You’re safe he says. You’re safe he repeats. Obviously, the drunk are also repeating themselves over and over again. So I ask the man whether they are all drunk here in this little village. You’re safe now he says once more.

Once again I had put my fate in the hands of the weather Gods, and over the past weeks it had become quite clear that I wasn’t their favorite disciple.

A few hours earlier I had crossed the very basic border between Kenya and Uganda and thankfully the procedures had been short: 5min 34 sec on the Kenyan side and 8min 48sec Ugandan side, but that was only because there’s a 4min walk between the two structures that make up the immigration and customs offices.

But I had arrived too late. Riding into Kitale after a horribly potholed road last night, I -once again!- encountered fuel filter problems and had flushed the tanks hoping to clean the dirt that was apparently in them. But because of the reassembling it was noon as I passed the border, and seeing the rain clouds steadily grow left me worried. The Israeli guy had told me the road gets extremely bad after the rains and I wasn’t to waste time.

I had anticipated a combination of very rough roads, steep inclines and sharp hairpin bends, but luckily it wasn’t that challenging. The road was fun and left me with plenty of opportunities to enjoy the villages, the surprised villagers and the fantastic views of the Ugandan lowlands surrounding Mount Elgon. It was absolutely dazzling, but there was no time to stop and take it all in. All in all, getting stuck in muddy roads hadn’t been that bad and had even made for some memorable encounters with adorable people, but it had also been exhausting and today I was aiming for an eventless ride. As if entering Uganda isn’t an event in its own right.

But that wasn’t to be. At 15.00 some particularly dark clouds had passed over, turning the road into a giant pool of mud once again. Of course, it went uphill and it took forever to get to the top. Cars were struggling to stay on the road as well. I stood no chance.

When passing some truck that was stuck, I slid down to the side of the road from where it was impossible to move away. Immediately, two drunk showed up, annoying me with their drunken bladibla. A crowd of 40-50 gathered to see the mzungu being harassed by two drunken idiots. Man, this was really so nót what I needed. But there was nowhere to go; I had to endure it. Just stay calm, let it happen, don’t get mad. Every second of being mad is a second of wasted happiness. I don’t want to do that, I don’t want to waste my happiness.

This is when father Jackson comes to my aid. He takes me to the nearest home, which happens to be the home of a church member, so I am safe, he tells me. Nobody is present however, and for a minute I wonder what I have gotten myself into this time.

Pastor Robert shows up shortly after and he welcomes me into his house. I am safe.

Then one of the drunk runs off with my camelbak. Apparently I am safe, and my gear isn’t. But it’s retrieved in no time. Unfortunately, days later I am to find out the bastard has also stolen my much needed leatherman. Grmpf&!#^!

I have to say, even though it sucked getting into this situation, it did turn into an unforgettable experience. Pastor Robert is an educated man with some traveling experience and we talk about just about everything. Even the economic crisis comes up.

Meanwhile, I am treated to delicious roasted ground nuts, while the father keeps repeating how safe I am. The sweet, innocent man even mentions how I may be an angel testing their faith… 

At night, the family gathers. Pastor Robert, his wife and the teenage boy & girl they are taking care of sit across the table from me, and we engage in some more talks. They offer me a bed, but before heading off to the land of dreams, of course there has to be prayer. While I remain silent, the four of them pray out loud. Obviously, I am thanked for my descending from the heavens and I am blessed extensively. The pastor even calls upon all the people in the world (including the citizens of Turkmenistan & Tajikistan) to guard my safety.

Then, as if this hasn’t been enough, they start singing the wonderful gospel song Amazing Grace. Now, I’m not into religion or prayer that much (although, on this trip I may have uttered the words Oh my God, help me several times), and neither am I into worshipping any god or godlike creature other than myself. But these people, they are so sweet. I was in something of a shitty situation and they simply take me in, provide me with food and shelter, give me their care and love and now they are asking their God to stand by me and protect me on my further travels. Being the cool biker that I am, I hate to admit it, but yeah, these people touched me. It wasn’t enough to convert me, but it left a deep impression.

Father Jackson insisted I visit his home and family before leaving. For I am an angel and my visit will bring blessing to their home. And so I am introduced to his son and some of his daughters, but whether I bring any blessings… well, angels work in mysterious ways, don’t we they?

By now the roads have dried. So I say my goodbyes to the families, accept the little bible they offer me with mixed feelings and set off again. 15kms further I reunite with tarmac. For a second there it feels like I have returned to heaven.

 

Angels & Demons

At the turnoff to Barwessa I make the classical mistake: I am not looking to where I want to go, but I focus on the ditch next to the road. And then all it takes is a bizarre malfunctioning of hand-brain communication (I hit the throttle, instead of pulling the brake) for me to ride right into it, head first. My front wheel hits the bottom of the 1.5mtr deep ditch; the rear remains out as I am in an almost vertical position. My leg is somewhat trapped, but also keeps me from falling over. In shock & surprise I look up and around, to see some 30-40 Kenyans as if they are frozen in time, standing completely still, eyes focusing on me.

In despair I wave for help. They grab my bike and while I’m still thinking that “damn, this is a problem” a group of them wastes no time and starts pulling the bike out of the ditch before I even know it.

A woman approaches me inquisitively. Where are you going? she asks. To Barwessa I reply. The group of spectators falls silent instantly and an ahhh is uttered by all present. The road is very difficult, she says, Be very very careful! as she puts her hand on my shoulder.

Now it’s rare to come across an African who tells you the road is bad. The road may not even exist, even then they’ll tell you the road is fine. So when you’re warned of a bad road, alarm bells should start ringing.

So far I had caught a bit of a break. Carlos had been right. The road from Maralal to Lake Baringo was beautiful. After a day of rest I went back to where I came from. Thankfully it hadn’t rained for a day and a night; consequently the roads had improved considerably. Besides, some guys had suggested I use a diversion, and therefore I was able to circumnavigate some difficult stretches right at the beginning.

Otherwise the roads were fine. A muddy patch at times, but in general they had been in good condition. It felt liberating: the roads were good, the bike felt awesome, the sun was bright. With the odd zebra watching me pass by, I felt like the king of the road. I’m not the most experienced rider, I don’t have an easy bike, but man-o-man, was I laying down the law here!! Awesome!

Close to the National Park, I opted to follow the path along the fence again, since the road was still very muddy. But before even reaching it, I got stuck. Two rangers helped me out, in return I gave them my nutella; a decision I would come to regret for days. Following the small path was not straightforward as before. Somehow, this time the electrically charged fence was firing its shocks at me, making me spasm out of control. This couldn’t be good for an electronically managed bike either, so I tried going back to the road. I even made the effort of getting off the bike to find a decent track. Nevertheless I got stuck once again. This time there was nobody around and when trying to lift the bike, my feet sank into the mud. For the first time in ages, I began the very annoying procedure of taking off all the luggage. Then Jill & James stopped and offered their help. With combined effort we pushed the bike back onto the road. Then it wouldn’t start; I had drained the battery by starting (and stalling) it over and over again. We hooked it up using wires that we knew weren’t thick enough; they went up in smoke. I was getting slightly desperate now, but James knew what to do. We took out their battery and connected it to mine, by connecting spanners directly to the poles. Didn’t know this could work, but the bike fired up instantly. Again, I was helped by angels.

But this was close to the turnoff to Lake Baringo and although Jill frowned a bit, James told me the road was fine. And dude, fine it was! These are the moments that make it all worthwhile. The road was of gravel and earth and honestly, I’ve gotten a lot of trash about my bike being too heavy and too electronically advanced… bladibladibla… here, my bike was the best bike ever! I didn’t go all out I guess, but I don’t think I took it easy on her either, but she took it all in stride. Sometimes, like most of my ex-girlfriends, she even seemed to ask: is that all you got?!?

And I.. it’s just one of those moments that your mind wanders off and you imagine you’re riding the Dakar with a helicopter hovering above you. Obviously, I’m not even close to having Dakar abilities, but I did have to pace myself. Tell myself not to go to the limit. But this was hard, as it was such a rush. Pure mad joy, that’s what it was. And the few occasions that I had to take my eyes off the road and towards the horizon, the view of the lake, the mountains and the bush is absolutely amazing.

I happened to meet up with Chris & Elaine at a camp site on the lake shore where I was awoken at 3AM by a hippo that was barely 2mtrs away from my tent. That was too close!

From Baringo I continued along boring tarmac towards Kabartonjo. I had discovered a tiny road on the map and it beckoned me. This is where I take the turnoff to Barwessa.

It is the hardest track I’ve come across by far. It’s mostly loose rock and gravel, with steep inclines and descents, sharp cornering, multiple (shallow) water crossings and most of the above at the same time. After the first steep descent, I think to myself “I don’t want to try that uphill” and so, I was committed. But I guess I’ve progressed as a rider (or.. as a person even?!?), ‘cause on the most difficult sections I simply take it slow and easy. Unexpectedly there are people around next to everywhere, but still, I don’t want to drop the bike here.. or at all, for that matter.

As the track descends into the Kerio valley the views are mostly blocked by bushes and trees, but I can definitely tell the valley is very deep. But honestly, there’s hardly time for looking around, as the bumpy track demands my full attention.

I complete this part of this stage by riding into the small village of Kabulwa. To my own amazement, I haven’t fallen once, haven’t burnt the clutch; I actually did quite alright! I’m overcome by some sense of pride. It’s so silly.

It is the hour of the rains, however, and as I turn off north towards Tot I come across a road that’s completely muddy. So instead I head south; I’m not sure about my fuel consumption and in addition, the locals tell me that road is fine.

And it actually is. In some places it has been washed out and deteriorated, but it’s pretty good for the most part. I really want to make it to Kabarnet and enjoy some level of comfort tonight, which means I have to push it somewhat. But in the back of my mind I know I won’t make it before sunset.

At one of the water crossings I talk to Andrew and his friend, who are heading to Kabarnet as well. They tell me of a wide water crossing nearby and I decide to just follow them. It’s wide alright, must be 70-80mtrs. But what really worries me, is the water level. As I wade across, the water reaches to just below my family jewels. The bike can go through I guess, but it’s a little too close for comfort.

There’s no hesitation on Andrew’s behalf though, and he’s riding a small Chinese motorbike. Now, obviously I cannot allow my KTM to be outdone by some cheap, little Chinese playtoythingy; so if he can, so can I. Minutes later we push the bikes through the water. We don’t ride them, we simply push. My bike starts up instantly, Andrew’s doesn’t. This never happens he says. But man, having seen the water level come up to the top of his tank I would have been highly surprised if it had worked. I would have traded in my bike immediately (which, of course, is easy to say now).

Although we’re running out daylight now, I feel some sense of brotherhood with Andrew and even though the small village of Kabluk is nearby, I cannot leave them behind. In darkness they fiddle with the bike and 45minutes later they have it running again. It’s quite late now, and I’d prefer not to continue, even more so since there’s talk of an even bigger water crossing. There’s no accommodation here though, so we give it a try anyway. Within meters, however, we hit mud.. thick, deep, crazy mud.

Now, with all the mud I had encountered during the previous days I had actually been rather lucky, simply thanks to my laziness. In Nairobi I had planned on changing my tires to the more street oriented Pirellis. But switching the rear had taken so long that I had not even bothered switching the front. I reckon only because of this I had been able to make it to Maralal and back to Baringo.

But after riding half of yesterday on heavenly gravel, the knobby front was wearing quickly, and with lots of offroading planned in the foreseeable future, the knobby tires may come to good use somewhere else. And so, just before setting off from the camp site this morning I had decided to switch the front. There would be no more mud. I pretended this was something I decide (for I am God?!?!?).

Now the mud sticks to my street tires, increasing them to twice the original size and it rips my front fender off in an instance. Okay, that’s it: I’m done! All this happens right in front of the village’s secondary school. The night guard shows no hesitation: of course I can sleep here.

We have to wait till the children finish their evening classes though. Meanwhile, we sit down in Luica’s little wooden shack and talk about Kenya, Holland, Kabluk, his family, the school, flashlights and stuff. We actually have quite a bit of fun there.

We’re joined by his colleague and they escort me to a small building, with few wooden benches and tables and plenty of broken windows. This will be my bedroom and three benches will make up my bed. I have my self-deflating mattress, so it will do just fine. And since Luica insists we even install my mosquito net.

Then, before I go to bed, I prepare a noodle soup. Luica watches me in astonishment. Yeah I know Luica, this is mzungu food! –Heeeeeeeyyyy!!
Meanwhile, his colleague takes a piece of paper and starts drawing a map of Europe, to show Luica where I am from. And I have to give him props, the map is remarkably accurate. When he then start drawing a map of Kenya, funnily enough, he goes all wrong. But hey, I am sure plenty of people in Holland would not be able to draw a map of Kenya and its neighboring countries.

The night isn’t even that bad; I’d almost say it was rather comfortable. But at 4.27 Luica wakes me up. He’s leaving and wants to say goodbye. Goodbye he says, and then he leaves.

At 7AM I leave Kabluk. It turns out it was basically that little stretch along the school’s premises that was bad. There are several water crossings, but the big one that I was told of never comes. At one crossing a man is washing his bicycle in the water. I get off the bike to wade through the water. Then he asks whether I’m afraid of water. Somewhat surprised I look at him, how he’s desperately trying to keep his feet dry. No, are you?!?

It still takes me an hour or so to reach the main, tarmac road. But the sun is bright, the morning is beautiful, the scenery is breathtaking and it even gets better. It’s the first time in ages that I seriously enjoy the tarmac. The road goes straight up into some mountains, and the views of waterfalls and the lower lying plains with its lakes are fabulous.

After checking into a nice pension in Eldoret I send Luica a text message to tell him I’m arrived safely. Within a minute the phone rings; he wants to thank me for the text message. It’s so sweet, the man’s an angel.

East side story

These were the days when colour TV had become common in most family rooms in the Netherlands. These were the days when Christmas trees were still decorated with balls of all sizes and colours, instead of being styled according to the latest, arbitrary trends. I was nine years old and a few months before a Dutch screenplay called Ciske de Rat had been released in movie theaters across the country. It was the first cinema movie I ever saw. It was the first cinema movie that made me cry.

The movie depicts the not-so-enviable childhood of main character Ciske, a young Amsterdam boy, who is chastised by his mother and outcast by the kids in school. I immediately identified with Ciske, even though my childhood was pretty much easybreasy and my popularity was sky-high (things change, as one can conclude from having 14 subscribers to one’s blog). I so much identified with him, that I started singing the movie’s song track wherever and whenever I could. I learned to mimic the moves the singer made on live TV appearances. I even added my own moves, more specifically I raised my flat hand to chest level when the song lyrics say “too small”. It must have been because of these signature moves, that I was to compete on national TV in a show called the mini-playbackshow (mini-lipsinc show).

In front of a studio audience of hundreds and a Saturday evening living room audience of hundreds of thousands I was to imitate Ciske de Rat, performing the song title “I feel so damned alone”. The song starts off with the legendary line Krijg toch allemaal de klere, which in English would be literally translated to Come on, everybody, go get the clothes. But to capture its true meaning this would more accurately translate into F*** you all. On top of that, I was -like Ciske in the movie- to flip the audience the finger! Needless to say, I was quite nervous.

To calm me down, the show’s host, Mr. Henny, engaged in a short conversation with me, with cameras rolling of course. Having told him where I was from and which act I was about to perform, he asked me a question that ever since has been indelibly edged in my mind, and that has directed me in most things I do in life: What do you want to be when you grow up, Jeroen?

Only nine years old I was, but nevertheless I knew the answer straightaway. With the cameras zooming in on my cutely freckled face, with bright blue eyes and thick black hair I replied:  I want to become an adventurer, sir!

Many decades later the boy -who has clearly aged badly and is neither that cutely freckled nor blessed with a skull full of thick black hair nowadays- finds himself on a Kenyan dirt road thinking of his appearance in that legendary TV show. Do you want to be an adventurer, Jeroen? Do you??

45 minutes ago I had finally left behind the incredibly potholed tarmac that had plagued me since leaving Nyeri.
30 minutes ago the heavens had opened up and treated me to showers of rain.
10 minutes ago I did a perfect 180 degree slide with the bike, leaving one of the panyards badly damaged and its contents now open to the elements.
5 minutes ago I slid down to the side of the road into centimeters of thick, black, sticky, but slippery mud.

It is one of those pivotal moments in life. Okay, maybe the decision I am about to make will not have this big an impact on the remaining days of my life, but at least it will define the next few days. So in that sense, it should be considered a defining moment, right?!

It is the day after I finally left Nairobi. My overland friends have shown me pictures of their trip into Kenya along the eastern shores of Lake Turkana, and these were so enticing that now I want to go and take a look for myself. So I’ve said my (temporary) goodbyes and finally, finally I am back on the lonely road. The bike is all fixed and feels awesome. AND, I’m riding solo again: undisturbed, unbothered, free as a bird.

But clearly the Gods are testing me: the rains have soaked me to the bone, and the road is next to impassable. For a moment there I consider turning back. But I realise that many years ago I made a bold statement on national TV and -even though I was a cute, innocent, little boy back then- I feel I need to honour that statement.

10 minutes later I manage to push the bike back to the middle of the road.
11 minutes later I slide back down into the muddy sides.
13 minutes later a small Chinese motorbike passes by with three broadly smiling Kenyans on the back, seemingly without effort.
14 minutes later I force my bike back to the middle of the road, slip ‘n’ slide it in the right direction and continue.

An hour passes. I have achieved a top speed of 15kmph, and had to go through more puddles of mud than one can keep track of. It was either that or sliding down off the road again. My feet are hardly touching the foot pegs and are mostly dangling on the sides of the bike. It’s 16.00 and my intended destination Maralal is still some 80kms away. Hmm, I don’t think I’m gonna make that today…

But strangely enough, I am kinda enjoying myself. As if I were that young boy of nine years old again, I get to enjoy splashing through puddles of muddy waters. Seriously, why do we lose having innocent fun like that, all under the pretext of “being responsible”? No, seriously: why?! But here I am -a young boy trapped in an old man’s body- struggling, fighting to keep my heavy bike upright and on the road, boots filled with water, clothes covered in a layer of mud and nowhere to go other than straight ahead. And I’m loving it!

There are no villages nearby and camping out is out of the question. The land is saturated and I would get stuck the second I leave the road. So I keep going until -minutes before dusk- I reach a police checkpoint. I stop and with rain still pouring down on me I run to the entrance. A young police officer looks at me all surprised. I would like to sleep here, I say. He frowns. I have a tent, I quickly add. Ah no problem, he says, come in. And he guides me into one of the five circular shaped, metal structures that make up this remote police outpost.

I meet his older colleague, who immediately wants me to marry his daughter, and a truck driver who has been stuck here for four days, but hasn’t had any problem keeping up his spirit. We gather around some non-romantic candle light, sharing stories, telling jokes, laughing as brothers. But I am exhausted and after a while I lie down in my tent. To my relief the night remains mostly dry, although with all my wet gear it gets quite foggy inside.

I need the morning sun to dry my clothes and the roads. A couple of hours is all I need, they assure me. By then, the previously muddy roads will have morphed into prefectly groomed, incredibly smooth highways of gravel. According to the stranded truck driver, it’s actually only the next 2kms that are bad; after that, it will be an easy ride towards Maralal.

I hang my stuff to dry and then go out on foot to inspect those first two kilometers. What I find is not pretty. I may have my gear drying now, but all will be drenched before long. Supposedly, reconstruction work is underway on this stretch of road, which explains the bad condition it is in. I meet the drivers of three other trucks that got stuck as well. Ironically, they all got stranded on a diversion, that is now in a far worse shape than the actual road. Most of the guys have remained positive through their ordeal and can still appreciate me joking around with them. Only one guy has a hard time keeping a smile to his friendly face. But then again he apologises for his fully understandable emotions I have never been stuck before.

With all this lazying around, I set off way to late. Actually, I guess I would have been fine, had I not got stuck twice in those first 2kms. The first time a KWS-ranger pushes me out; the second, only 25mtrs further!, I’m left to fend for myself.

I manage to get out, eventually. But rain clouds are now covering the skies, and I fear I won’t be able to outrun them. And I am not. An hour after setting off from the police checkpoint, the rains come down on me. Damn!

The road doesn’t really improve either. The reconstruction works end soon enough, but I keep hoping for some magical improvement after the next corner, after the next hill. It’s in vain.

I make another stop at another police checkpoint. Getting stuck twice cost me most of my water reserves and I’m hoping to fill up here. We make some small talk and one of the guys, who’s clearly desperate for some respect, stresses how much of a man one needs to be in order to work as a police officer is this forgotten region. I look at my bike, my clothes, my map… dude, do not tell me anything about being a man!

My rear brake is covered in mud, so I make a quick stop to clean it. Simultaneously, I lube the chain once more since it has become completely dry. Some unexpected sound makes me look back over my shoulder. Two elephants are some 25mtrs away from me!! How scary is this?! I look again. There’s a fence in between us. How awesome is this?!

For the next 5kms the road becomes crazy bad. It’s a continuous string of mud pools, some deep enough to swallow me alive. I see a narrow path along the fence of a national park and start following that. It’s still pretty muddy, but it’s surely easier than the road.

During my short break, I was overtaken by two heavily loaded trucks that are now unwilling to let me pass, even though it’s obvious I can cover these grounds a lot faster than them. So I take a short break in order to create a bigger gap. Then, the road finally improves. The rocky outcrops that break the surface may prove to be a pain if I hit one too hard, but f*** it, I need to get rid of some frustration and built-up energy. And so I open up the throttle and have crazy fun doing so.

From the town of Kisima only some 20kms separate me from Maralal. But what I see ahead of me when I leave town has me stop in my tracks. A pickup truck is making its way towards me, sliding over the full width of the road, crashing through deep puddles, its brown water splashing up high. As some zebras pass by, I stop to build up some courage for this. I know I am not stopping now.

To my surprise this part turns out to be quite easy. But a mere 5kms from Maralal, the Gods decide to really throw it at me. The surface has turned into ice, deep black ice. It may not be more than 500mtrs, but it takes me 30minutes to cover that distance. There’s no grip at all, the rear wheel keeps spinning while the bike remains stationary. This is truly ridiculous! Some guy looks at me in amazement, and signals me to “just go”. For the millionth time, dude, this is not a 60kg Chinese bike. This is not easy!!

But I make it through, only 2kms more… I have made it… ah yeah, I HAVE MADE IT!

Then the bike stalls….

WOT DA FOK?!

Seriously, dude, you must be kidding me. I just replaced the fuel filters two days ago. Brand new filters I put in. You have to be kidding! I start the bike. It runs… it dies… I figure it simply cannot be the filters again. Maybe I’ve run out of fuel?! I position the bike slightly downhill and wait a few minutes, while talking to some passers-by. Then I push the starter button. It runs… it doesn’t die.

Minutes later I ride into Maralal without any further problems. If only Mr. Henny could see me now. I bet he’d be proud!

——–

Later that evening I do abandon the plan of heading more north. It’s not my story, it’s my friends’ story. I have no business here. Besides, I am not thàt much of an adventurer!

 

 

Masai Mara

I never thought of Kenya being a safari country. I do not know why, but for some strange reason for me there’s only two safari countries in the world: Tanzania and Zambia.

But now that I’m stuck in Nairobi, I can finally clear this unsubstantiated thought from my mind. And so, me, Chris & an Israeli guy (whose name was too difficult to ever remember) come up with the plan to go see the great wildebeest migration. Being independent travelers, of course, we cannot simply book a safari through a tour company though. No, we will make all arrangements ourselves.

It all turns nasty before things have even started off. Another Chris, the owner of Jungle Junction, informs me that he received a phone call from the owner of another campsite who claims that the Israeli guy is a con artist and only out to get my money. I am quite taken aback by this, since I always figured traveling had -if only that- given me some people knowledge. With this guy I had had no suspicions so far. I talk to the woman on the phone, and she doesn’t sound convincing at all. Meanwhile, Chris (who’s been traveling with his wife in a home-made car for many years) is absolutely convinced that the Israeli guy is okay, and I decide to go with his instincts. If you’ve traveled that much, your instincts will help you out. Before we stet of, I do make it clear though to the Israeli guy, that I am on high alert.

With the assistance of a very friendly Kenyan woman, we manage to take a matatu to Narok. Having spent almost five months on the road, traveling independently, for me this is quite the nightmare. I still like some aspects of backpacking, but sitting in a matatu definitely isn’t one of them. So I catch up on some sleep, while Chris and the Israeli guy talk about whatever comes up. I do makes sure though, that I remain awake as we descent into the Great Rift Valley just north of Nairobi. The drop is rather impressive and this must be one of the best views of the GRV anywhere.

In Narok, it takes a while before we get in touch with the right man to organise our trip. Mozes is a Masai living in a village close to one of the entrance gates to the park. Now, this may sound somewhat romantic, having a Masai guide you on a wildlife safari on his birth lands, but this guy is a businessman if nothing else. And we, we can pretend to be adventurous overlanders, but we remain tourists above all. And so we have to pay tourist prices.

It is here where the Israeli guy starts being annoying for the first time. We negotiate down to what is pretty close to our estimates, but the Israeli guy keeps on going and going. Even to the point hat he’s not just antagonising our Masai guide, but Chris and me as well. Nevertheless, we have it settled and off we go: Masai Mara here we come!

But not just yet, ‘cause a few kilometers out of Narok the car comes to a sudden stop. The guys do some work on the car, show us what looks like a broken fan belt, and reassure us things will be repaired in no time. 30minutes later we realise it wasn’t the fan belt, but the timing belt.. obviously, things will not be fine in no time.

Mozes arranges another car to take us to the park. Whatshisname is a friendly guy, and he and Chris talk and talk and talk. The road gets quite rough at the end, and by that time I am done for. I head straight to bed, being car sick/nauseous. Apparently the other guys have a big discussion about paying the entrance fees. The Masai suggest we don’t pay the park fee to the park officials but directly to them instead. Or we can go into the park through some back roads, it is suggested. For me, all this isn’t even worth considering and next morning I make it clear that I will pay the park fees. I am basically cheating myself out of $80, but I happen to have rather strong thoughts on conservation and stuff.

As we enter the park, the opened gates are unattended, however. Conveniently enough for our driver Moshi, we have no possibility to pay. But we are intent to do that later, on our way back.

Immediately we’re treated to nature’s best. As we watch several balloons glide by high above us, we enjoy a truly spectacular sunrise. Then we stop to see a male and female lion getting their rocks off. Personally I am not that into morning sex (if given the chance, however, I will probably go along), but these lovers clearly cannot get enough of each other. But there’s a limit to the amount of kinkiness one can handle in the wee hours of the day, so before long we continue.

We’ve made it clear to our guide that the great migration is the main reaso for us to come here. A river crossing would be an awesome bonus; other stuff we’re not that interested in. It is here that the Israeli guy becomes incredibly annoying again. For Chris and I, we have faith in our guide and trust that he knows what he’s doing. The Israeli guy however, adamantly wants us to pick a spot at the river and wait there. Even when the guide insists there’s no sign of any crossing yet and not even a likely crossing point, the Israeli guy keeps on insisting. He just keeps going and going, until Chris and I finally shut him up: shut up, sit down, look outside and enjoy!

Enjoying is definitely what I commit myself to. WOW, of the game drives I’ve done so far, this is by far the most spectacular one ever. The sheer number of animals is incredible. Everywhere there’s wildebeest, thousands and thousands and thousands. Obviously, wildebeest were not on Gods list of favorites when he created them, but man-o-man, the mass of animals that extends to far beyond the horizon leaves me breathless.

A couple of times we end up in the middle of a galloping herd, stampeding down the Masai steppes. The sound of their hooves, the trampling of the grass, the continuous grunting… WAUW!!!

To add to the excitement, our guide Moshi throws some lazy male lions into the mix, as well as gracious cheetahs, fat hippo’s, lazy crocodiles, giant eland, some bird life AND the usual array of antelopes. But it’s mainly the wildebeest and the zebra -that look kinda lost in their midst- stealing the show here.

We park the car along the steep banks of the Mara river, in hope of seeing an actual river crossing. There are wildebeest on both sides of the river, and I have to say, the grass appears more green and suckly on the other side.

Our timing is perfect as before long the first zebra and wildebeest climb down to the water edge. Some hesitation at first, but then it’s on: Houston, we have a river crossing.

Unfortunately, the only, smallish, crocodile in the vicinity is completely uninterested in the tasty and vulnerable snacks crossing his backyard river. So we don’t get to to see a gory bloodshed. But what we do get to see, is memorable as it is. Hundreds, thousands of wildebeest and zebra take the plunge into the fast-flowing waters of the Mara, desperately fighting to get to the other side before the current sweeps them to banks that are too steep to climb or into the deadly jaws of uninterested crocs.

The scene continues for 30 minutes and we, seasoned safarists and adventurist overlanders, are left in total awe. This is what we came for.. and then some!

The afternoon is less spectacular, but hey, I guess this is all relative now. Some more lions and cheetah make an appearance and the end of the safari we spend waiting for a leopard to return to its kill. After two hours it finally does, but by now the day is nearing to its end and we must return to the park gate. (and even now, the Israeli guy keeps stressing to the guide that we shouldn’t miss out on anything… such an idiot this guy is)

What should have ended in a huge high, then starts to progress towards a distinctive low. Moshi is certainly not taking an official road out of the park and when we call him on that, he says a park official will come by our hotel so we can pay for the tickets later. Oh, by the way, the tickets will be dated yesterday, but that’s not a problem. Luckily, the three of us agree that this is a problem and after some more phone calls Moshi does take us to the park entrance, so that we can pay the fees that the park so definitely earned today.

Then they tell us there are no more adult tickets; we must purchase two tickets for children each. It sounds quite fishy, but we give up. If even the park officials are corrupt, when what can we do?!

We have dinner at a local eatery where we sit outside on the veranda because of the insane heat inside. We look back on what great event we’ve been honored to witness today and later on, the Israeli guy and I lean comfortably back into our plastic chairs as we listen to Chris telling his Taliban-story. We end on a high.

When we return to Jungle Junction, the place is packed. I meet up with Carlos, Jay, Peter&Jill, Guy&Lou, Ferdi&Kathi. We share stories and I admit to them that Kenya has definitely scored some point on the safari country ladder!

 

Nairobi days

There’s hardy anyone staying in Jungle Junction when I arrive. And it’s very, very quiet. This is not the Nairobi that people talk of, these are the wealthy suburbs.

The bike needs a lot of work. KTM Nairobi fix the rear light unit that was destroyed in the pickup ride form Lowarengak and one of the front shocks started leaking in Ethiopia. Furthermore, it’s time for an oil change, and the bike can do with some overall TLC.

As the days while away, I mostly hang out with Nick & Christine, who are traveling on their cute little KLR 650’s from South Africa to anywhere.

A few days later the bike is all ready again. I do my final shopping in one of the huge supermarkets, and then, just before setting off to the north of Kenya, the fuel filter problems start again. F*** ME!!