But this is another giant money hole of Africa, and the manager confirmed without flinching that this was the price for his dried-up barbecued chicken. Billy was furious, and the bill was so outrageous I had to laugh, knowing it would make for an interesting commentary on the page of genuine modern-day African adventure. Tomorrow is another chapter on the road to Kenya.
The Plot Thickens
January 4, 2006
Nairobi, Kenya
Crime statistics reveal that one in three Nairobi residents was violently mugged last year, and that news was sufficient warning to spend evenings inside the barbed-wire capped cement-block walls of a suburban campground. After sundown, the sinister sideshows begin, as menacing street predators and persistent prostitutes emerge from the cracks and sewers of a desperate city. As darkness settles in, foot-police regroup at outer city inspection stations, with roaming predators left to be stared-down by nervous private security guards fingering the triggers of antiquated assault rifles. And that was the protected tourist side of town. Nicknamed “Nai-robbery,” police checkpoints sealed off metropolitan exits so anyone entering or leaving had to show identification and open their car trunks. Authorities were searching for stolen property, smuggled goods or bodies.
But at 6,000 feet high and near the equator, sunny days turn into balmy evenings, and once away from the gridlock, the air becomes cool and fresh. Three nights in Nairobi is also the last chance for northbound travelers to stock up on supplies and spare parts before entering northern Kenya’s lawless and remote Chalbi Desert. Yet, other than for sluggish Internet connections and grocery shopping, there was no reason to sleep or linger downtown.
Run by an immigrant German biker, Jungle Junction was, so far, the first camping lodge with functioning electrical outlets, intact door hinges and glass in the guest-quarter’s windows. This walled-in park is an overlander’s dream, with garage shop walls lined with polished mechanics tools and acres of mowed green grass perfect for pitching tents and parking big, square Range Rovers with rooftop sleepers. For several weeks, African highways have been sprinkled with adventurous European families on year-long sabbaticals venturing south on the opposite route as mine. During late-night campfire chats, they provided valuable information on conditions ahead.
An asphalt road 200 miles beyond Nairobi eventually dissolves into a no-man’s-land of decimated dirt tracks home to smugglers and Somali bandits. Foreigners are prohibited to pass except under armed military escort in long, dust-clouded caravans of four-wheel drive diesel trucks tediously bouncing side to side over the eroded terrain. From the last outpost where the pavement ends at Isiolo, overlanders report it’s only a three-day run to the border across the Chalbi Desert. But traveling by motorcycle means it’s also best to haul a four-day supply of food, water and fuel. Although north Kenya is in a second year of drought, if seasonal rains appear early, no one wins in the sucking mud. Buried-to-the-axles vehicles are often abandoned during storms only to be retrieved months later in the dry season by jackhammering them free. When asked to summarize the experience of crossing the Chalbi in well-equipped trucks, the overlanders’ responses are the same, “We would never do that again.”
And that’s just to reach Ethiopia in order to enter Sudan for an endurance traverse of the Sahara Desert. From there, the road turns eyeball-jiggling washboard and soft sand all the way back to Egypt to continue on last year’s route to the Mediterranean Sea. Rumor is that that particular land border is also closed, but a once-a-week ferry floats down the Nile from Sudan to Aswan for a familiar day-long immigration procedure and another military escort to Cairo. From now on, the journey mantra again becomes In shallah.
Even with proper documents, processing a Sudanese visa can require months — that is why I applied before Christmas in Dar es Salaam. Visa approval is hit or miss for Americans and a definite no with an Israeli stamp on a passport page. While still in Tanzania, believing a face-to-face explanation of my mission would convince officials, I request an audience with the consul general. Detailing one man’s journey around the earth to personally meet the inhabitants irrespective of culture or politics had a promising effect on him. After an abbreviated slideshow and a tiptoeing discussion of Middle East politics, the cautious official seemed convinced and scribbled a two-page letter of recommendation, but he also advised me against admitting involvement with anything related to writing books.
As for Iranian visas, applications must be faxed to national headquarters and scrutinized by suspicious bureaucrats weighing political issues, so I still may not have an answer until after exiting Kenya next week. As a backup plan if I’m denied, I can reapply with a fresh passport issued from the U.S. embassy in the Ethiopian capital, Addis Ababa. In a surprising gesture of support, Uncle Sam granted rare special permission to carry a second passport with blank pages to disguise my questionable past global path. With luck, that arrives tomorrow. If denied again, with borders to Chad and Eritrea closed due to fighting, Ethiopia will be the end of the African trail and a reluctant airfreight to somewhere in Latin America. From Addis Ababa there is a limited choice, and I will be forced to settle for any destination out.
When It Rains, It Pours
January 5, 2006
Northern Kenya
Guidebooks are correct when they claim the beaten path terminates in northern Kenya. Since first entering South Africa, except for riding smooth graded tracks the length of Namibia and a few subsequent intentional dirt detours, all roads have been lightly used smooth-flowing asphalt, whether they wound through lush tropical jungles or spectacular desolate plains. As all good things come to an end, this wanderer’s pleasing dream has just concluded at the equator.
In Africa, the crummy food doesn’t matter. Vagabonds don’t eat for pleasure or even health, only to minimize hunger. Up until now, meals and accommodation had been understandable, though unsuccessful, attempts at Western standards — yet, at the frontier town of Isiolo, Africa abruptly turned barebones-basic, reverting to a sandy meshing of old and ancient.
In the animated jabber of a garbage-strewn market, arriving in Isiolo was a return to Islam, with colorful veil-shrouded women bartering with Masai tribespeople for withered fruits and vegetables. A sundown visit to the town center mosque yielded questioning from worshippers after prayers. “You don’t worry when traveling so far alone?”
“Why should I? Allah protects me.”
“Ah, so you are Muslim?”
“No, but Allah still blesses my journey and keeps me safe.”
“So if you believe in Allah, you must become Muslim.”
“Maybe, but I’ll hold off making decisions until returning to my home.”
“All right, but in the meantime remember that Allah protects us all.”
With a hard day ahead, just before dawn, imagining the misery of riding in a dust storm of commercial trucks in convoy, I skirted the final military checkpoint requiring foreigners to travel under guard. As the last chance for supplies and fuel drifted by in a reluctant haze, a starker image of Africa emerged. Fashion statements became blade-scarred faces above elaborately beaded neck disks and pierced bodies against midnight skin so black it was almost blue.
Walking sticks morphed into bows and arrows as wary herdsman stopped to eye a trespasser traversing a parched and drought-stricken land. If you disregarded a long, pale strip of mangled dirt track, this was an evolutionary step back into primordial survival, with nature prevailing. Everyone is thirsty. A single river contained enough shallow pools of trickling water to supply scattered villages for 20 miles. The rest were dried sandy creek beds with stooping women digging barehanded in fruitless searches for traces of underground streams — and as the two-year drought continues, there were none.
During unpredictable bursts of desert struggles, there is no backup plan, just faltering hope that when masses begin to die, a world community will again send more aid. Africa is a cruel and unrepentant provide
r that challenges humanity to contend with its whims. But as the newest species on the planet, only man considers himself a higher form more deserving to live.
Other than the indigenous natives, the empty, rocky desert is traveled only by occasional caravans of aid workers and the odd determined adventurer traveling from Cairo to Cape Town. There is no other reason to pass through an environment so hostile to life. Armed soldiers may fend off roving bandits and murderous warlords, but there is nothing to protect even the hardest tires from slices and punctures punched by razor-edged volcanic rock. Directly after resecuring a gushing high-pressure fuel line, a dreaded rear-end sway signaled the first flat tire of the day. There may be only 400 miles to the southern border of Ethiopia, where a paved road leads direct, to Addis Ababa, but wretched conditions stretch that into a miserable three-day event. Severe washboard turning unexpectedly to soft sand and back and deep gullies of fist-sized stones test even the best of suspensions — but since mine was rebuilt 10,000 miles ago, the hard rubber seals should have weathered the strain. They did not.
Mind-numbing jarring and bucking was so intense that more gas spilled through the tank breather-vents than was burned by the engine. Even sloshing battery water slapped high enough to drip from an overflow tube. And that was the good news. Normally, when shock-absorber fluid begins seeping past worn seals, lack of oil shouldn’t cause a compression lockdown. Treated liquids and pressurized gases regulate rebound action, and without them, handling deteriorates into a tolerable, bouncing pogo-stick ride. Although a blown shock should not remain compressed, mine did, resulting in zero vertical travel to relieve explosive jolting from a jagged road. And that guarded convoy so carefully avoided was several hours ahead.
Even at 10 miles per hour, the vertical forces generated were difficult to endure with the rear section kicking up and slamming back down. Ridges on a deep-cut washboard surface turned into spine-snapping slaps equally destructive to metal frame-welds. With nothing but thorn tree desert ahead, the only solution was a 10-mile retreat to the relieving shade of the last tribal outpost, with a hope that the natives were friendly.
Competing for resources in the midst of a drought, water is too scarce for washing. Barefoot in filthy, ragged Western clothes, Muslim Kenyans coexist in a détente with spear-toting Masai tribesmen festooned in sparkling metal trinkets. Only a few offered greetings. Language barriers kept most from understanding each other, but the message resonated: one angry woman did not want a foreigner to linger. Her reasoning was valid. In a robbery-plagued region, I could draw unwanted attention, and they had no protection against marauders with guns. Without governing authority or troops to keep order, violence and murder is the law of the land. Cattle rustling and cross-border reprisal raids have resulted in retaliatory slaughters of entire villages.
And a traveler in their midst was a legitimate concern considering news of a treasure-laden American could draw roving cutthroat Somali bandits eager to pillage his precious cargo. In a heated exchange of English and Swahili, the verdict was returned that the alien be sent on his way. And who could blame them? Why should they fret for the plight of a white man with more riches in his wallet than they earn in a year? Still, it was early evening, and after a long, hard negotiation, my desperate plea for sleep was considered. A simple bribe of 400 shillings was sufficient incentive to conceal my bike in a straw hut and allow a four-hour rest if I promised to be gone by midnight.
Off the Beaten Path
January 7, 2006
Chalbi Desert, Kenya
Since the whole village was asleep, I probably could have dozed until sunrise without anyone noticing, but once awake it was best to avoid potential hassles and roll for Marsabit, the last small Kenyan town with electricity. Yet even if I reached there, the next long stretch to Moyale at the Ethiopian border is the fiercest section. The only light at the end of this tunnel was knowing that eventually an asphalt road at the frontier would lead to Addis Ababa and hopefully to a set of mechanic’s tools to repair a broken suspension.
Out of fear and common sense, no one drives after dark in Kenya, but I hoped that also meant any bad guys were likely fast asleep dreaming of daytime plundering. Attempts to convince myself that a night ride under the stars would ease the misery were quickly squashed when I recalled, the previous day’s events. A few optimistic test bounces in the saddle confirmed that no divine healing had occurred during the last four hours, and there was no telling if the shock absorber would last another day or another mile. I was beyond the point of no return in every direction.
Unlike blazing desert days, midnight air was crisp and clean. The push of a button made the motorcycle grumble to life. But my confidence faded as yesterday’s brutal jarring resumed even worse than I remembered. There would be no escape in a first-gear crawl, easing over every ridge and rock. With zero travel in a frozen shock, violent kicking and bucking made simply hanging on to the handlebars a challenge. At 10 miles per hour without rear suspension, I tried to calculate how many hours it would take to ride 300 miles. Maybe throttling up to 15 miles per hour would shave an hour or two. Either way, between robbers and vicious terrain, one of Africa’s worst roads was ready to bang and test the limits of both my internal organs and a thoroughly abused motorcycle frame.
At least riding slow allowed me a chance to evaluate which bumps and gullies to dodge to minimize impacts. Standing on the foot pegs with bent knees was temporary relief but became too tiring, requiring rest stops every 30 minutes. With fatigued arms and legs, a creeping desert dawn glowed into a bursting orange sunrise. Soon, wandering Masai camel herders emerged from the thicket with familiar demands. “Pay money! You give me money!” No matter what they were doing, young and old, the moment any tribesmen spotted a wandering foreigner they turned and sprinted forward waving and shouting “Money, money, money!”
By noon, the last carefully packed apples had shaken into mush and the fragmented shells of hardboiled eggs had ground together with the yolks into gooey paste. Combining the concoction together to swallow in lumps was still better than the foul-tasting local fare. But the smelly combined proteins were nutritious, and there was still a gallon of water left to last the day. My need for intense focus on the road meant that stunning savanna scenery passed by in a jiggling peripheral blur. By noon, there were still no other vehicles in sight. Once, when I stopped to rest, a young Masai woman with bared sagging breasts came running from a hut for no apparent reason, yelling and waving a machete. Baffled but still wanting to record the scene, I paused long enough to snap a decent photograph, then I quickly slipped the clutch and rode away before she came too close.
Finally, just after the 20th straight hour of rolling misery, a two-room dilapidated structure appeared with barely legible, grime-covered words above the tilting doorway — Marsabit Medical Center. Even though I knew more of the same still lay ahead, arriving on the town’s outskirts felt like reaching the finish line at an Olympic event.
Marsabit town is a scene out of America’s Wild West — scrawny cattle being driven past windowless ramshackle wooden cabins and clouds of red grit swirling down stony clay avenues. Nothing has been maintained or repaired since it was built decades before. Few buildings had electric power, and none had running water. Hand-painted weathered letters on broken signs described what was offered inside. In Magic Marcie’s Fashion Design, piles of musty used clothing donated by international charities were ready to be illegally resold. Marsabit General Supermarket was a doorless shack selling milk in cartons and canned meats with labels reading “A Gift from the People of New Zealand.” What wasn’t crumbling was rusting or sat gathering dust while no one seemed to care.
As in many developing countries, men stood drinking afternoon tea and cheap beer by night. From disordered, debris-strewn markets, subservient women in lace headscarves trudged under heavy loads of vegetable baskets and bundled firewood. Engaged in their share of the labor, caped young boys in worn sandals tugged on
ropes, leading bleating goats to pasture. What little water there is must be hand carried or lugged in lopsided wooden wheelbarrows wherever needed or to those who can afford it. Jey-Jey Center is the only hotel secured by barbed wire and with a deteriorating underground cistern servicing a filthy squat toilet — at five bucks a night, the single cement cubicles were a bargain. Cleans sheets stopped mattering to me months ago, as long they don’t stink and are not overrun with fleas. At least the two-year drought had eliminated mosquitoes and the threat of malaria.
For boring evenings, a beat-down honky-tonk built of splintered planks provided economical entertainment as one strolled past broken saloon doors hanging off rusted hinges. With African rap music blaring through crackling metal speakers, the ear-splitting throbs were a deafening assault as I wandered. Safe within steel-barred cages, middle-aged Indian men peddled rotgut whiskey and warm local beer while drunks slobbered on themselves in darkened corners. The scene was made complete as potbellied hookers with long, drooping breasts flashed nauseating smiles through decayed teeth and puffy maroon lips. But late nights in Marsabit are for partiers with more determination than me, and other than this exclusive freak show, there was nothing else enticing enough to keep me awake.
In the afternoon, the moment I ventured outside Jey-Jey’s, throngs of unkempt children crowded around me, yelling “Sweets, sweets, give me money, give me pens!” Although it’s clear that the foreigner’s role in Africa is strictly for giving, all that I offer is bumpy rides on a limping motorcycle.
Having trained their children to beg, scowling parents glared as giggling youngsters abandoned rehearsed scam-lines and jumped with delight, lining up to be next for a spin through town. Sometimes you just have to let kids be kids. With one eager child on the front and two on the back, it still took a whole afternoon to appease them all. Following the Pied Piper back to Jey-Jey’s, the trailing troops assured me they would stand guard as I swatted away the last of persistent horseflies and tried to forget the situation while spiraling into sleep.
One More Day Everywhere Page 39