Diamond in the rough

I knew next to nothing about Burundi as I came up to the Rwandan-Burundian border. The country went through a genocidal ordeal as Rwanda did, but somehow that never made the headlines or Hollywood canvas.

I was issued a transit visa for three days and since I was looking forward to reaching Tanzania I actually had no intentions of staying any longer. The plan was to stay in the east of the country, stay away from the capital and just get a taste of the country. And I have to say: Burundi was beautiful. Like Rwanda there are thousands and thousands of hills, but unlike Rwanda these are not all cultivated, giving the landscape a distinctly more rough and rugged appearance.

I managed to find a route through Ruvubu National Park situated in the far east of the country. Unpaved, a bit rough in places, a joy to ride and with absolutely stunning views. But with most of the roads is good condition, it was also a blast riding on some of the country’s tarmac roads. It is a raw version of Rwanda, which can give the impression of being too polished.

Apart from that, it was the people that made a huge impression. Obviously, the country doesn’t see that many tourists, so yeah, they did swarm me and the bike whenever I pulled up to a petrol station or into a town (in Muyinga I lost count at 60 onlookers), but most of them wouldn’t be as touchy-feely as many Rwandans were. No, the Burundis/Burundians(???) were absolutely a nice people. Okay, they speak French, which I cannot but hold against them. But otherwise, they were friendly, genuinely interested, very polite and enthusiastic (which, honestly, is the most natural response when laying eyes on a beautiful creature like me..).

On the third day, a perfectly tarmacked road had taken me through valleys, over rolling hills, past relatively high mountains. But it came to a sudden stop in the town of Gitara, where the border procedures had to be done. From here it was an unpaved, awesome road that leads to the Tanzanian border. The altitude drops were spectacular, and surprisingly this border area was by far the most beautiful so far.

So, although I’d been looking forward to reaching Tanzania for ages now, I felt a bit sad and sorry for leaving the country all too soon. Burundi is definitely a diamond, but rough around the edges. Its imperfections clearly visible and not concealed. But it adds character to the place. Burundi is like an old man, who remains cool and distinguished despite his weathered and wrinkled face. There’s no need for botox here.

 

Une belle histoire

 

Obviously the Congo story didn’t end on top that volcano. It’s what happened after that climb of Nyiragongo that has left a more lasting memory and that still makes me kinda mad.

Whenever I feel I have something negative to say about someone I’ve met down the road, I tend to wait a bit before writing the story; usually the hard feelings subside, and I hold no more grudges. Admittedly, this didn’t work particularly well with the Egyptians, and no, it doesn’t seem to work this time. I still think the park ranger who escorted us to Bukima is a complete and utter dumbass and I will probably continue to do so in the everlasting future. But then again, the guy did come up with a stupid plan. A stupid, stupid plan!! (as opposed to the great plans my Spanish friends and I keep coming up with)

On our way back from Bukima he leads us to onto a detour. This route is more beautiful he says. But he’s lying through his rotten teeth. He knows it, we know it, but he doesn’t seem to know that we know. It’s a track, grassy & rocky and narrow. It is so obvious that this is a bad plan. We can all clearly see the rainclouds closing in on us and this little track is destined to become muddy. It’s inevitable. So I try to reason with the guy, but he insists we should go this way.

Within minutes we run into the first muddy patch. The rains haven’t even started yet, but this part of the track has completely turned into mud. The ranger, who’s riding a tiny lightweight 125cc motorbike, starts riding through completely undisturbed. Riding in second position I see him struggling to keep his mini-bike upright. So I stop and shout in my best French Notre motos sont trois cent kilos!! On ne peut pas fair ceça hè!!

He keeps insisting though that this is the one and only muddy patch we’ll encounter; this little detour of his is still far better than the original “road”. We know that’s just a load of BS, but we don’t really have another option. The dude is escorting us for our safety: the road to Bukima is considered safe, but vigilance is still required. Besides, we were only allowed to ride our bikes there, provided we are escorted by an armed guard. So there really is no going without him. We don’t know what the security situation is like here in this part of the DRC. But we do know that our embassies advise against all travel in the Kivu provinces. We do know that rebels are still in control of the main road north from here. We do know that those rebels will not hesitate to attack even armed park rangers, if they see the need to do so. But there’s also too much we do not know, and therefore we have to put our trust in the guy who’s supposed to bring us back safely. So, with great hesitation and trepidation, we decide to follow.

Luckily, two nights ago in Goma I worked serious overtime to change my tires to the more mud-oriented ones. That, combined with the ground-clearance of the bike, makes the track doable. But I need to stay behind our ranger friend who’s taking it slow, way too slow. Without me trying to be the arrogant ass that I really am, my bike is a racing bike, it’s meant to go fast. Going too slow makes it overheat, and the bike is still kitted out with an African radiator. In addition, our bikes are 3-4-5 times as heavy as his and we simply need some speed, some momentum to get up and over the rocks, to get through the muddy bits. But it seems the dude doesn’t want to understand no matter what I say, no matter what I do. On top of that the dude stops and waits at the most idiotic spots, directly after a slope or after a pool of mud. Since I’m not supposed to overtake him, this repeatedly leaves me having to stop on a slope, or in that pool of mud. The dude is so dumb.

But supposedly we’re in rebel territory here, so I reckon he’s simply making sure that we stay close together and safe. He might be a bit clumsy in doing so, but I tap into my reservoir of quickly depleting patience and give him the benefit of the doubt.

Meanwhile, Jose & Noa have their own struggle to deal with. Clearly, with minimal clearance and a heavily loaded bike, the track is a bit of an obstacle course for them. They fall a couple of times, but seemingly unaffected they pick up the pieces and continue.

There no chance of my remaining that cool-headed, and when it’s my turn to put the rubber side up, I explode. I used to be quite hot-tempered in my younger days, but I like to think that I’ve calmed down considerably. But for the first time in years, I lose it. I completely lose it. I throw away my helmet and start yelling and swearing while walking away from the ranger as he looks back at me in surprise. Man, I am furious. This is such a foolish plan. Why the hell are we here on this trail? Why? Why? Why? Then the ranger comes over and asks me what’s wrong. Unfortunately, I haven’t mastered the French language to the extent that I can express my raging fury, so I simply respond Pas de Français.. PAS DE FOKKING FRANÇAIS!! I figure this should at least clarify my current state of mind.

This, however, is merely the beginning of our Congo story. From here it goes from bad to worse. It is Murphy’s Law executed to perfection.

Somewhere I drop the bike again. But now it won’t start. I know the sound all too well: the battery is empty. It is perfectly logical. Because of all the stopping and waiting and the slow pace we’re going at, I have had to shut the engine down many, many times in order to keep it from overheating. The bits that we do ride, we ride too slowly to cool the engine and/or for too short a time to charge the battery. So now it dies.

Obviously, this is the time the weather Gods have chosen to open up the skies, and as we take shelter under some not-so-leafy trees, we contemplate our options. We can pay some guys to push the bike to this downhill section and start it there the ranger proposes. This suggestion infuriates me even more. Because of his incredibly dumbass decision, it is I who have to pay up now??? I do not think so, my friend. No way, I am not going down alone on this one. I am taking everyone with me. Hell yeah!

So as the rains gradually subside, we start taking the battery out of Jose & Noa’s bike and hook it up to mine. It fires up instantly. We continue and we never get to discover that downhill section the ranger mentioned. I keep insisting we stop this nonsense and find a place to sleep. Due to the rains, the track has become far more difficult and we’re rapidly running out of time as darkness will set in soon. This mission is going nowhere and we all know it.

Then I drop the bike again, it stalls, and we get to repeat the battery procedure once more. Minutes after closing things up and continuing, I stall the bike again. For the third time we start taking out the battery. I suggest we stop here to spend the night and continue tomorrow on a dried out road. But it’s not safe here, he repeatedly says, we cannot stay here. It is the only card up his sleeve that I do not have an adequate response to. He’s playing the safety card and this is the Congo; here, safety is not a joke. So once again, all we can do is follow.

As we enter a small village we come across a particularly muddy stretch. With all the mud I’ve seen over the past weeks, this is definitely THE worst I’ve seen so far. There’s no more hope for us now. The ranger on his baby-bike makes it through, but barely. Reluctantly I have a go at it, but there’s no way: I get stuck within 10 meters. The ranger pretends to give some good advice on how to get through it, but the steams that’s bowing out of my ears prevents me from hearing.

This is exactly what I was afraid of and what I had warned against. We’re at this point where there’s no going forward, but no going back either. How on earth did we get to this point? We had been doing fine up to the point where we deviated. Sure, we weren’t going very fast, but compared to the day before, on our way up to Bukima, we were doing perfectly fine. The ranger was just frustrated with us and in his unlimited stupidity had decided to completely lead us astray.

Admittedly, the way up to Bukima had been quite the struggle. The main road from Kibati was already quite horrendous, but the final 15kms were beyond imagination. It was like a truck had lost a continuous load of rocks over the full width of the road. Man, that was one hell of a bumpy ride. Crazy, crazy, crazy!

Myself, I had only gone down on the muddy patches, which to me made it even more incredulous that our ranger had now chosen a trail that is prone to becoming muddy. But on the rocky bits, the bike performed amazingly well. Man, how I got up some of those parts, I don’t know. But the bike made it all fairly manageable.

For Jose & Noa a totally different story though. With minimal ground clearance they appeared to be hitting every rock in their path, inevitably throwing them off course, inevitably throwing them off. Noa walked many of the difficult bits (and there were many), while Jose struggled to keep the bike in check. Man, I feared for the guy. His legs were all over the place, trying to find terra firma in order to stay upright. That he didn’t break a leg in the process, should be considered a miracle. But he did go down a lot. Afterwards, we guestimated he went down some 25 times. It must have been exhausting.

Right towards the end we encountered a particularly steep and rocky incline. Being last in line now, I first saw the ranger go up with a not-so-comfortable Noa at the back. He made it. Jose made it up halfway, and the let the ranger give it a try on his bike. Now, at this point our presence hadn’t particularly gone unnoticed. We’d been followed by a group of youngsters for a while and now a crowd of 40-50 souls gathered to witness the unexpected arrival of the mzungus. They took position at the bottom and top if the hill, watching intently as we tried to go up. And as the ranger stalled Jose’s bike twice, but then made it up bouncing right to left with his legs dangling on either side of the bike, the crowd started pointing, yelling and laughing. What was a struggle for us, was pure entertainment for the people for whom this isn’t a fun little adventure, but day-to-day reality.

Then all eyes were on me, it was my turn to go. I took a deep breath and decided to not think, just go. There was no maintaining a straight line and I was out of control for most of it. But I held on and with a semi-wheelie made it to the top. With that cheers of celebration actually went up from the crowd and I was so stoked that I even threw up both arms in the air in a completely misguided display of victory.

There was more to it, though. Up to that point I had been kinda weary of the Congolese. I had kept a good eye on the bike each time we had had to stop. All the talk of war and rebels and danger had made me somewhat paranoid. But now, their enthusiasm showed me they were a friendly bunch; it gave them back their humanity. And as I waited for Jose to negotiate the next slope, an elderly man approached me to whisper in my ear You did that very well, very well. Man, how sweet was that!?

But by now, my love for the Congolese is rapidly decreasing and there’s definitely no more love lost between me and the ranger. For this is just ri-di-cu-lous. With dagger-shooting eyes, I start removing my luggage and then try it again. I make it through, by the skin of my teeth. But I cannot shut off the engine now, as it may not start again. So I leave it running, even though I fear for the radiator.

I walk back to Jose & Noa to find Jose out of the running. He has pulled a muscle and is down and out. Since the hike down the volcano has left me with a swollen an incredibly painful knee, it is basically left to the ranger to get their bike across. He pushes it hard, as he tries to get unwilling villagers to help him out. Clearly, he’s struggling as well, but I feel no sympathy.

With the silicone seal no punctured in several places, coolant is now steaming out of the radiator with the engine temperature steadily rising. Soon I will have to choose between too hot an engine or too dead a battery.

As we re-pack our stuff, the villagers are watching us in amusement. In the darkness, I can barely make out their shapes, but obviously they have a clear view of us. They’re pointing, laughing, making fun of us. Mocking us. And seriously annoying me. Man, there’s one guy in particular who yells the loudest, laugh the meanest. He gets on my nerves so badly, that I step into the crowd to find the guy with the intention of going all Jean-Claude van Damme on him.. I don’t find him..

My helmet is nowhere to be found either. Someone must have taken it. Oh man, boiling point for me. I’m blowing more steam than my radiator now. I’m ready to go Jean-Claude van Damme on the whole frkn village at this point. But the ranger pleads with the villagers and it’s only with the help of an elderly man who’s been helpful since the start that the helmet miraculously reappears.

We continue in complete darkness. It is beyond words or imagination how anyone can come up with the plan to go here with heavy bikes and rains certainty. Every now and then Jose & Noa fall. Then I do as well and we get to do the battery procedure once more. This time I ask the other not the remount all the bolts, since that takes up valuable time. And moreover, my bike is in bad shape now. The number of breaches in the silicone barrier has increased significantly, so out of despair I suck water from my camelbak to spit in onto the radiator. It looks like is had caught fire but it actually works in bringing the temperature down.. for a couple of minutes at least.

I am ordered to take up last position in the group and have just created a big gap so that I can go at my own and higher speed, hopefully providing the engine with a bit more cooling. Then a rock, I slid, I’m off balance, put my boot on the floor, can barely hold it, have to let go of the clutch lever.. and the bike stalls. I try to restart, but -ofcourse- nothing.

It takes a few minutes for the other to realise I’ve come to a stop again. For safety reasons the ranger urges me to push the bike to where they have parked and as we start doing so, a truck seems to be approaching. It really doesn’t make sense for any motorised vehicle to show up now, so I look at the ranger in surprise. It’s the rangers he says.

Finally, the guy has come to his senses. I had overheard him on the phone with his boss, pleading desperately. Apparently, he had asked for some rangers to come and help and now, finally, they have arrived. I am bewildered though when he tells me we will be putting my bike in the back of the truck. What the hell?!?! My bike in the back?!?! It is you guys, who cannot pick up any speed.. if you’d just go a bit faster, my bike and I would be fine. Come on, no way my bike is the weak link here!?! But although I disagree to some extent, I will not be starting an argument over this one. I will be in the back of a truck, it will be far more comfortable than riding the bike.

Curiously, I ask the chief how dangerous this area really is. It’s not dangerous he says. This is why we come with so many he adds, leaving me all confused.

So for the fourth time this trip, my bike is put in the back of a pickup truck. An exhausted Jose & Noa join me; Jose is beyond the end of his powers and leaves it to the ranger to ride the bike back to civilisation. With an unloaded bike, the ranger still goes down five times, arousing laughter amongst his colleagues.

As we finally reach the main road, we can see Nyiragongo glow in the dark. I think of how there really isn’t any other reason for me to be here other than “because I can” (Jose & Noa went to see the gorillas, I simply came along for the ride). And I think of how perfectly mismatched our fellowship actually was. I see the ranger next to me is smiling. Ceça fait de plaisir hè I say in my best French. Oui oui he responds, laughing out loud, C’est une belle histoire. Une très belle histoire!

So there you go; that’s the Congo-story. For some, apparently, it’s a funny story…

 

Where dragons be

As I was packing for my trip, it soon became apparent that things wouldn’t fit into my panyards. The first item I discarded weer my hiking boots since I wouldn’t be using those.

If I ever had glory days in hiking, they are by now long gone and almost forgotten. There was a time when I used to be into hiking though. Or maybe not so much into the activity of hiking, but more so into the places it took me to and the views it brought me as a reward. Without exception hiking left me exhausted, but in general I was able to pretend the effort was worth it. A view of a glacier in exchange for hours and hours of pain, boredom and fatigue. It’s a bizarre trade-off. And probably it wasn’t about the views at all. Most likely it was merely some psycho-il-logical process that gives you some sense of achievement to justify an act of idiocy.

I suffered from varying degrees of altitude sickness in Tibet, Tanzania, Peru & Bolivia. And setting new school class examples of  (almost comical, had it not been for the shame) of non-achievement in Chile, Honduras & Uganda finally made me come to my senses. I came to the conclusion that I am not a hiker. It’s this thing I’ve done before: I decide to be something, instead of becoming that. I decided to be a guitar player decades ago, but have mastered not more than two chords. I decided to be a mountain biker, but cannot even handle some pathetic hills in the Belgian Ardennes. I decided to be a white water kayaker, but I’ve swam down more rapids than I actually paddled.

It must be a lack of commitment. I pretend to be committed and I will endure for a while, that I will. But my guitar shows no signs of wear at all. Never have I spend more than three hours a week on my mtb. I gave up kayaking after a day of semi-successful roll practice. People seem to appreciate my willingness to try new things, but it’s failure in one activity that forces me to become active in another. I diversify because I rarely and barely qualify.

So it must have been some crazy mind trick with which Jose & Noa convinced me into going for a volcano climb in the Congo.

But honestly, it didn’t take much convincing. They mentioned the words volcano and Congo and I was sold. A friend had recently told me of a volcano climb she had done just days before, and apparently it had been very good. In addition to that, Congo -the land where dragons were once thought to be- was on the top of my list and only fear of rebels and my mother’s response had kept me from going there. A few weeks before, a plan to visit Amy in Butembo had sadly proven unattainable, but now a visit to DRC seemed possible.

So no further questions were asked, no maps were studied, never did it come to mind that this would involve hiking. Actually, it wasn’t until we returned to Rwandan border town Gisenyi, that we lay eyes on the top of Nyiragongo in one of the rare moments that it wasn’t covered by clouds. Damn, this thing was high. Damn, this is a bad plan!

In Kasese we had talked about how we were destined to do something with the three of us, after a shared experience in both the Nubian desert and Danakil had eluded us. And if I was to go to the Congo, I should be with the (s)lowriders, for the three of us were dumb enough to try. We even mentioned how a fellowship between the three of us could eventually only end in drama. Those words would prove to be somewhat prophetic. But since we now have a “Congo story” I am glad they did.

Delayed by a few days due to visa issues, we made it to Goma without problem. Again the border crossing was effortless and they even stamped the carnets although these are not valid for the DRC. Under the watchful eyes of an inquisitive bunch of locals we parked our bikes on the premises of a cheap hotel along one of the main roads and then found our way to the ICCN office. We were keen on doing some Congo-lometers on our bikes and were delighted to hear that the roads were considered safe enough.

The starting point in Kibati was some 14kms away along a pretty bad road. And of course, with Jose & Noa being Spanish and me.. well, me being me, we arrived an hour late to find o our surprise that five other hikers were waiting for us to show. Whoops!

Obviously I had no gear or proper clothing at my disposal, but I had learned vital lessons before, and now knew that outfit doesn’t matter. It’s all about sticking to your own pace. And so, sporting sneakers and motoring pants, I immediately take last position in the group, proceeding at a pace that I deemed reasonable.

But man, that first of four “longer” breaks that we had, was already very welcome. And this was still on the lower and easy section of the volcano. Stoically, we continued with the hike taking us through dense forest along sometimes muddy parts. Every now and then things would open up and reveal a beautiful view of the volcano. It would also reveal that there was still a long, long way to go.

Luckily there was only a few drops of rain befalling upon us, which left the suffering somewhat bearable. But to say I enjoyed it… no, not really. The first couple of minutes I bothered with talking to some of the others. But soon enough I simply shut up and hoped the other would follow my example.

Then, one of the Scandinavian girls had a bit of a breakdown, which left us going at a slower pace. I didn’t mind; I didn’t mind at all. I was even thankful to the girl. At some point I think I even fell in love with the girl for struggling so much.

Of course, the guide told us the final part of the climb was going to be easy. Now, that sounded pretty fishy to me, since I like to think that I am quite familiar with the typical shape of volcanoes, and therefore I imagined the final part to be quite the opposite of easy. And of course, it turned out the guide had lied. He had lied and had kept a straight face doing so. The bastard!

It was steep. Not even a second can of Red bull gave me the energy to fly skywards. It did somehow lift my spirit though, and for a few minutes I was very talkative and joking around. Then I remembered what I was doing, and returned to my normal, depressed me. But the view of the little wooden cabins at the crater rim was enough to keep us going and upon reaching them at an altitude of 3.400m, we could finally start pretending it hadn’t been that hard at all.

In a communal state of exhilaration and excitement, we edged our way to the rim, to find.. to find absolutely nothing! The crater was shrouded in white clouds. There was to be no view of only five permanent lava crater lakes in the world. No view of the huge crater of one of Africa’s most active volcano. Damn, I had been conned. They took my money, made me hike up a frkn’ volcano, and then offered me nothing in return. The bastards!

But they promised us that things would clear up at some point, so we retreated to our rim-side cabanas for a short rest/nap. And at 9.30PM the guides finally called us as the crater lake was visible now.

So we scrambled up to the edge and off in the distance we saw the orange glow of the ever moving lava. Pretty damn AWESOME, I have to say. To some extent it’s the creation of earth in miniature. A madurodam-version so to speak. We quietly watched for an hour or so, until we all got too cold and retreated to our cabins for a well deserved rest.

Early next morning we had another go at it, but unfortunately the clouds had moved in again. Instead we got to see a new born sun rise spectacularly above the mighty mountains and the endless plains that make up the lands where dragons once used to be.

Time to kill

The immigration officer studies my form for a while, looks at me, and again studies the form. When did you enter Uganda?

After 58 nights I then finally leave the country of Uganda. And it’s time to leave. It was fun, mostly… but I’m happy to finally be moving (on) again. Physically, I’m not all perfectly fine yet, with some minor pains remaining, but I figure I will grow over this once I’m up and about again.

My displeasure with tarmac roads resurfaced immediately. It simply isn’t that safe riding on a vulnerable motorbike with all these lunatics on the road. So before long I tried going out on some back roads. But as too many times before, once more the rains caught up with me all too soon. And with over twenty kids looking and laughing at me, once again I became the main character in a mud sliding and pushing play that I never auditioned for. Man, I was so ready to leave Uganda. And so I raced to the border, chased by clouds of rain.

Rwandan weather isn’t any better though: I’m welcomed by rain. And as I ride towards Gisenyi I notice something else that worries me: there are lots and lots of people around. Like in Ethiopia, lots of people walk the sides of the roads going to wherever they are going. I didn’t like Ethiopia… I liked Rwanda when I visited five years ago, will I still like it now??
My worries only grow as I arrive in Gisenyi, the so-called beautiful town on the shores of Lake Kivu. Didn’t like it five years ago, not feeling it now. Then it turns out the “great plan” Jose, Noa and I have come up with, isn’t working out either.

Thankfully luck changes sides soon enough. The main reason for me to visit Rwanda for a second time is the road between Kamembe and Kibuye. It had almost -I repeat: ALMOST (I’m a real man, you know)- brought me to tears five years ago, and it remains my worst memory of any bus ride ever. So now I am back with a bit of a vengeance. And it’s not a disappointment.

We leave pavement behind just outside Gisenyi. Instantly, we enter a world of small valleys surrounded by some of the thousands of Rwandan hills that are completely cultivated. We pass through tiny villages and settlements and every now and then where are glimpses of Lake Kivu off to the west. Rain clouds are a clear and present danger, but in reality they only to the drama and the beauty of the place.

This is the first time since my accident really that I’m doing some proper offroading again and there’s no stopping me. I am loving it! Since Jose & Noa are riding two-up and simply have a more relaxed approach to riding, I mainly ride on my own, ahead of the others. It is the best. The road is only slightly rough in places and mainly a true joy to ride. And consequently, I am not in a rush and able to take breaks where and whenever I feel like it, sucking in the atmosphere, sounds and views.

We reach Kibuye within problem, but there’s no time for hanging around if we want to make it to Kamembe before dark. And besides, we’re clearly enjoying ourselves too much! Having left some luggage behind in Gisenyi, even Jose now feels he has the best bike ever (but obviously he is wrong).

So after a funny little detour, we start off with the stretch that I did in a minibus. The road obviously hasn’t improved and remains very rocky and bumpy. Painful memories come back to mind. As I ride into this one village I even recognise the little market place where the already fully packed matatu stopped to take in even more passengers. Back then I nearly -NEARLY- broke down in tears; this time I smile. I just smile. On a bike this road is superb, and the bumps just add to the fun. There’s even time to enjoy the views. This road ain’t got nothing on me.

Then, with about 15kms to go to tarmac, there’s roadworks and the rains that have passed over just ahead of us have turned the road into mud. Within seconds I slide and fall. I pick up the bike and continue at snail’s pace. Within meters I slide and drop it again.

G*df*ck*nd*mn*it! F#CK! F#CK!! F#CK!!! F#CK’RDAF#CK!!! F#CK! F#CK! F#CK!! It is SO unnecessary, so uncalled for. Everything was fine, I was doing fine. And then there was rain. Then there were the Chinese… F#CK the Chinese! F#CK Africa. F#CK! F#CK! F#CK! I am SO frkn’ done with this!!

It’s only here some random dude says. Yeah, I know, it always is. And there… and there.. and there. It is so ridiculous, so frkn’ ridiculous. In its normal state the road would have been easily negotiable. Now the damn Chinese have turned it into a stretch of mud from hell. I so frkn’ hate it. I SO HATE IT!!!

Riding on knobbies, Jose & Noa catch up with me within minutes and as darkness closes in on us, we creep forwards towards salvation. It takes forever and because by now it’s unforgivably dark, it’s hard to see what the road is like. It’s hard to see the muddy bits. It’s frkn’ insane! So it takes at least two hours to complete the final 15kms to the main road to Kamembe. This road does got something on me, but I decide to erase that last part from my memory; it never really happened..

After a well-deserved rest we leave Kamembe and ride into the amazing Nyungwe forest. The road is quite bad here (with more Chinese sponsored road works in progress), but the views of seemingly endless forest covering hundreds of hills up to and beyond the horizon is fabulous. So many different shades of green. So lush. So raw. Beautiful.

We pause in Gikongoro, and then turn into a small dirt track that should lead us towards Gitwe. It’s an incredibly fun track that we’ve chosen. At times barely wide enough for a car, it’s far more suited for a small and nimble 250cc, but we go at it on a 750 and a 990 nevertheless. Rough and rocky in places, it leads us through cute little villages, past unsuspecting but highly enthusiastic locals, along small trails on afforested hillsides, with amazing views of the widely cultivated valleys. Totally secluded, but with people everywhere.

And the people.. honestly, the Rwandans can be quite obtrusive, almost intimidating when riding into a town or pulling up at a petrol station, but above all they are extremely exuberant. Asking for directions I get swarmed by school kids, who give chase as I continue. Being black Africans obviously these kids can run, and I actually have to speed up to get some distance between us. As I look back, I see Jose & Noa following in my tire tracks, with twenty kids in front of them who are still chasing me and another twenty kids behind them who are chasing them. It’s a hilarious sight.

We cross several small bridges constructed out of wooden logs; some gaps would be wide enough to swallow a rim or two. As fun as this trail is, these little bridges start to annoy me, they’re breaking the rhythm. And then, as if my wishes have been granted, the trail connects to a wide unpaved road, that allows for some more undisturbed fun riding.

It did get kinda late though, and as we ride into Gitwe to find basically not-that-much we decide to continue to Nyanza. I haven’t gotten used to the hour time difference with Uganda yet, and am taken aback by daylight disappearing minutes after 6pm. So again we ride in darkness.

We finish our little Rwandan tour by riding back to Gisenyi and the road form Gitarama couldn’t have given us a better finish. It is tarmac, which I usually do not like. But it’s 90kms of continuously winding roads, up and over hills, through valleys. Truly awesome. And again the Rwandan people are so much fun. They wave and cheer as we pass by. Usually they miss the second bike, as they are still staring at the first one. Rwanda is advertised as the land with a thousand hills and a million smiles. And it kinda is. It’s nothing like Ethiopia.. thankfully.

Feeling blue

I fell in love instantly. Love at first sight. Man, what a beauty she was. A blue 2005 KTM 990 Adventure S. It was the first bike I went to check out and I was sold instantly. A colleague had suggested this bike to me, but the pictures on internet weren’t enough to win me over. Seeing it there, there in that show room right in front of me, was. Damn!! No other bike would ever do for me, I knew it in a split second. She was destined to be mine.

Unfortunately, the love wasn’t mutual. Somewhat embarrassing, I was to find that I wasn’t man enough for a bike that big: my feet barely touched the floor as I sat down on the beauty in blue. Like a threesome with two chicks, I could never handle it, and I knew it.

But the seed had been planted and an immense desire was instilled in me. Soon after, another beauty crossed my path: a 2006 KTM 990 Adventure. Being a non-S version, she was slightly lower and a test ride revealed that this bike didn’t allow for any compromise. There was to be no comfortable Sunday afternoon cruising the Limburgian highlands. Her motto perfectly matched mine: if you go, go hard! Finally, I had found a soul mate.

There was a “but” though… a big BUT. She wasn’t smurf-like blue, but bright orange. Admittedly, she was beautiful in her own right and it would be a legitimate expression of my patriotism, but I couldn’t deny that she was no match for the heavenly blue angel I laid eyes on before. I was confronted with a huge dilemma; I had some thinking to do.

Over the years I had seen my friends fall in love, get married and have kids. In some instances their wives paled in comparison to the ideal images they had wished for, and indeed aimed for, during their younger years. With time passing and their looks rapidly fading, they had clearly abandoned their goal of marrying THE most beautiful woman in the world; they settled for (considerably) less.

Obviously, I would have none of that! It’s a show of weakness, I cannot even fathom. I’ve dreamed of Penelope Cruz, imagined marrying Cameron Diaz. And I have even fantasized about Pamela Anderson, although admittedly, that was with different motives altogether. What it comes down to, is that I’ve set myself a goal: my future wife is to have the beauty of Cameron or Penelope, simply because I’m worth it. Hell, I’ve lived a celebrity lifestyle over the past months, with people screaming and waving at me, looking at me in total awe or surprise. So I think I kinda deserve it now. Anyway, if I were to ever settle down, I will not settle for less. (hence, I am now old and single…).

It must have been the only time in my life that I did settle for less, when I bought the orange beast that I now call “my Katie”. Our characters matched and -like so many of my friends- I figured I would probably grow to appreciate her as time passed by. Eventually, I would grow so accustomed to her, that I would even be able to call it love.

And truth be told, I did follow in my friends’ footsteps and after being with her for 1.5 years now, I can honestly declare -from the bottom of my heart- that I truly love my Katie.

BUT -like too many of my friends- every now and then I would dream of “the one that got away”, “the one that eluded me”. And whenever I would come across my dream of a bike, I would -like so many of my friends- secretly eye her, momentarily tormented by grave desire, tormented by the thought that I would never have what my heart so badly wanted.

Although Katie hasn’t given birth to any offspring (imagine: a garage full of cute little baby KTMs.. WOW!), she was to resemble my friends’ wives to a fascinating (and somewhat worrying) degree. She’s had to work hard for her man, and she’s gone through great lengths to keeping him happy. But as a result her beauty has started to fade a bit. She’s still beautiful, but a hard life has clearly left its marks on her appearance.

Then my luck changed for the better: I had an accident that left the bike with a broken radiator and a torn tank. Man, this was the break I had been waiting for. Things were looking up now!!

Through an internet forum, I contacted Jerome, who had a blue tank available for sale. It took some convincing but in the end I guess he understood he was to be part of some glorious love-affair-in-the-making and he made a huge effort in helping me having it sent to Kampala.

I had another lucky break. Upon suggestion of Tony, a guy I had never met or spoken to, I contacted Leo, another guy I had never met or spoken to, who then emailed some twenty other people I had never met or spoken to. Within days, a Dutch guy working in Uganda whom I had never met or spoken to, named Jacques offered his help.

And after two days of frantic emailing, sms-ing, phone calls and then some excruciating waiting, the word was finally out: the tank was added to a shipment of Jacques’ company and would be arriving in Kampala soon.

Within days it did, and upon delivery I mounted it immediately. I guess, after my return from the African lands from afar, some additional cosmetic upgrading needs to be done to transform my Katie into the swan that she really is, but then I’ll have a quite unique orange/blue KTM 990 Adventure.

Of course -as my friends have known for years- beauty isn’t all and deep down I know that as well. In the end it is character that makes all the difference. But now, with my augmented Katie, I have the best of both worlds. I’m absolutely crazy about her personality, (s)lowriding Noa will attest to that. But soon her inner beauty will be matched by an outer appearance that blinds one’s eyes. And yep, I guess I will settle for that!

 

Good vibrations

I finally left Kasese Saturday and arrived in Kampala without problem. The patched up tank and African home-made radiator did the job perfectly. It’s such a shame that I’m programmed to not take the risks, but honestly I really should try them longer.

I mostly spent my days just hanging around, waiting for parts, waiting for full recovery, making plans, wondering what the hell had happened. Once again I was amazed by all the concern, encouragement, support and willingness to help I got from complete strangers, people I have never met before and maybe never will. It definitely helped me to stay positive. At first, Mr. Dan (the hotel’s owner) watched over me. He thought I was lonely; I wasn’t. I wrote a lot, re-living the stories, reminding myself not to get depressed by the accident, but remaining determined to continue… for this is me, this is what I do, this is what I love!

After Carlos left, Jose & Noa showed up for a long planned reunion. We hadn’t seen each other since they set off from Tim & Kim’s and we had lots of stories to exchange, interesting thoughts to discuss and many laughs to share.

As the days passed, Mr. Dan remained positive. The tank will work he’d say. The tank will work until Kigali he would add, taking much away from what he had just said. As I reassembled the tank, it started leaking right away. Better! Mr. Dan said, So they can fix it now. It’s the African optimism and hope that I admire, love & hate at the same time. We know it won’t hold. Even the guy who did the repair said it will hold… long enough for you to get a new one.

The radiator took five days to replicate. Difficult it was. And the radiator guy wanted to make an additional spare one for me. Why? If it’s gonna hold, then why? But TIA: as long as we live, there’s hope. I have little faith, however, in it taking me very far. The brass, copper and aluminum parts couldn’t be welded, so the guy simply used a lot of silicone to seal it. For now it will do, I hope. I have to try, though, I have to do at least 1000-2000kms with this home-made piece of art; for I am in Africa and to the little extent that I can, I should do it as the Africans do.

Joined by Jose & Noa I rode to the equator again. It felt good doing this with friends. It felt good to be there again. It felt good to be there without looking back at what had happened, but looking forward to what is to come.

I rarely use my mp3-player while riding, but I turned it on after saying goodbye to the friendly (s)lowriders. The first song was a song recently given by a stranger who’s a good friend. I stopped the bike and listened. Then pressed repeat and listened again. Yeah man, good vibrations… that’s what it is… good vibrations indeed!!