No matter how good it feels, ignoring problems will not make them disappear, but leaving the bike parked for three peaceful days allowed me enough time to quit peeing burgundy and relieve an aching back. Still, the question of reaching the border returns with a confirmation by locals that bandits are active again. “They don’t tell you to stop, they shoot the driver and then attack passengers.” Pulling off his shirt, one truck driver says, “Here, look at my body. I’ve already been shot five times.” On that thought, it’s likely the road ahead is to become more interesting still.
And the Road Smoothes
January 10, 2006
Delia, Ethiopia
Early mornings in Marsabit were a wicked tease. A cold, gray fog enshrouded decrepit buildings and browning eucalyptus treetops, offering just enough momentary light mist to tingle faces. But in the arid Chalbi Desert air, rain was a frivolous notion as faint whiffs of moisture were sucked into clouds of swirling red dust before ever hitting the ground. Inhabitants weren’t encouraged; only optimistic foreign visitors were foolish enough to think the drought was ending and a storm approaching. But it was the same result by noon, an empty powder-blue sky breathing steady desert gusts to deposit grit into squinting eyes.
Riding toward the border, there was little to see beyond a deep-cut corrugated road evaporating into the horizon. Endless ruts and jagged stones threatened to slice vulnerable rubber tires over thousands of flat square-miles across evenly spread baseball-sized volcanic rocks. The scene ahead looked like photos broadcast from robot cameras on Mars.
Despite the government’s attempts to search for water, their inadequate gesture is a year too late. As massive brand-new yellow road-graders rusted in Marsabit equipment yards, there was no one to man them or the scattered, abandoned roadside drilling rigs. Foreign aid sent to finance relief was likely lining the Swiss bank accounts of various government officials appointed to oversee these projects — and no one here works without pay. They will die first — sooner rather than later, if the delay continues.
Established watering holes have vanished into pathetic pits of caked earth — there is nowhere left to drive cattle for drinking, and there is no plant life left to graze on. Useless to continue herding, cows have been freed to die in the open. Every other mile, scrawny strays lie sideways, intermittently flailing their legs in futile attempts to rise — and in between, the piercing stench of death announces another less fortunate. Skinned for their hides, the decaying meat was poison to humans, and there weren’t even any vultures to pick the bones.
Despondent villagers with downcast eyes waited next to stacks of empty plastic jugs. African pleas were no longer hustles for money — only parents and children on their knees with clasping hands shouting “Water, water, water.” I still hear them when trying to sleep.
Continuing past dusk into late evening’s transparent black velvet, teams of miniature antelope the size of jackrabbits leaped aimlessly across the road. Sets of shining pink eyes either froze in my path or charged for the light. A faster-moving vehicle would have creamed these only companions of the night. Able to march vast distances without water, long camel caravans weaving through thorn bushes stood the best chance. These tall, lanky animals could be smelled before they were seen in the headlight, as nomadic tribesmen in high-piled turbans swatted their rumps with irritable commands to keep moving forward. As the only beasts able to survive, even their final hopes were to find the edge of the desert. Yet the only hope for an alien on a limping motorcycle was the Ethiopian frontier, where promised tarmac would lead to Addis Ababa and an opportunity at repairs which will be necessary if I am to finish a journey that I am no longer sure of.
And just before dawn, rooftop shadows of the dilapidated outpost at Moyale rose into view like welcoming tombstones. More rundown than a typical soulless border town, this forlorn graveyard of decaying structures made Marsabit look modern. Though it was too early for me to enter customs and immigration procedures from the Kenyan side, I could see relief ahead — a dark asphalt strip wrapping low-lying hilltops, vanishing into the Ethiopian skyline.
Finally, groggy, old black men in soiled gray uniforms shuffled to their posts in time to first fire kettles of tea for the upcoming day. As the only person transiting either direction, my carnet de passage and passport were stamped and registered almost faster than I wanted. With no other suckers out this early, black-market moneychangers argued over who could scalp me the quickest. But using the leverage of supply and demand, I bargained them down to exchanging the last of my Kenyan shillings at better-than-bank rates and felt lucky until discovering that there are no ATMs in Ethiopia. Riding to the capital was a 12-hour sprint to cash my emergency traveler’s checks, which until then, would leave barely enough money for fuel.
Still, the casual countryfolk were pleasant, and at every stop I was met with outstretched hands and urgings to take their photo. Ordering food was a challenge. As no one spoke English, in order to eat without fried onions, there is now a complicated new language to learn, quickly. Derived from Arabic with no familiar letters, consonant sounds are configured in peculiar order and pronounced with hisses. Greetings come first in developing countries. “Salaam endemana?” (Hello, how are you?)
But this works fine while waiting for food in side-street restaurants, as I engage locals while pantomiming questions for recording definitions in my improvised Amharic dictionary. Experimenting in crude cafés is still the best way to meet people, and soon I’ve bumbled through an hour-long simple dialogue in an unknown language. Between easygoing natives and flavorful, spicy curries, southern Ethiopia was much too pleasant to rush, and for the first time in a while, it was a refreshing change not to hurry.
Shadows of the Firelight
January 14, 2006
Lake Langano, Ethiopia
Even though fuel is cheaper in Ethiopia than in other African countries, there are few private cars. Back from the brink of famine, the country’s national resources have been allocated to survival rather than conveniences. So, despite foreign governments constructing an extensive highway system, everyone walks in Ethiopia. Other than an occasional overloaded truck or swaying old bus, the road is occupied only by lines of herded cows and goats trailing donkey carts piled high with hay.
Enterprising fruit peddlers boldly stand on the highway centerline, forcing drivers to dodge them or stop and buy fresh-cut spears of papaya and pineapple. In the bigger towns, other than beat-up taxis and sardine-can minibuses, a common site is big white four-by-four Toyota Land Cruisers marked “UN.” Even with scandals of mismanagement, it’s still relieving to see foreign countries contributing useful vehicles to the World Food Program instead of tanks.
There were only 500 miles left from the border to the capital, but with nothing to do except wait for a new shock absorber to arrive, I decided to extend the ride into five days of loafing through temperate jungle highlands. Without a map or guidebook, my faltering GPS became the only source of information for what lay ahead. The two-by-two-inch color screen showed a dozen bodies of water as potential sites to overnight with a new asphalt highway snaking between. Because Lake Langano was the only one rumored to not be infested with microscopic parasites or crocodiles, the forested beach was a favorite campground for vacationing Ethiopians and fellow overlanders.
Two touring European couples made me jealous. The first were mid-20s newlyweds bicycling from Paris to Cape Town, sleeping in tents along the way. Their purpose was to raise awareness at home via the Internet with stories of what they encountered. “We yust wahnt zee worlt to know zat Frahnz ees reech because Arfreeca ees poor.” Hearing their reasoning was a way to convince myself that maybe world motorcycle rides are, after all, not so crazy.
And the other two travelers also lived on the fringe, each riding 30-year-old 50cc East German motor-scooters round-trip from Germany to Ethiopia. Packed under bulky loads, they somehow managed hauling a laptop, three big cameras and fu
ll camping gear, including cooking utensils. But at 20 miles per hour, it took them a while to reach destinations plotted from Munich. While eating dinner alone, my hearing moans from inside their tent stirred sentiments in me that the only thing missing on this journey has been a woman to share the lunacy.
In the morning, we swapped addresses, and they rode south in time to avoid an invasion of rambunctious Ethiopian students on weekend holiday. Because of public uprising over alleged recent election fraud, opposition leaders have been jailed and the capital placed under martial law. First-year university classes were postponed indefinitely, leaving nervous undergraduates little to do but wait and wonder. By late afternoon, busloads arrived to set up camp and share their music via high-tech stereos powered by antique, sputtering portable generators.
As the sun went down, all-night partying began in the grip of whining Middle Eastern strings regulated by African drums. Luscious young mocha-skinned women with eyes half-closed circled towering campfires, dancing seductively just beyond the fingers of crackling flames that matched the motions of their graceful, slender arms. Elegant swept-back foreheads and pointed noses made their fine-featured faces appear more Egyptian than African. Flashing smiles reflecting a rising full moon complemented bodies wiggling in suggestive postures. Black silky braids dangling above gyrating, sinewy torsos made thin hip-hugger jeans hardly visible. In a primal writhing of erotic Cleopatras, sensuous silhouettes set my imagination afire in a perspiring, hypnotic twirl.
Through clouds of sweet marijuana smoke, strolling dreadlocked Rastafarians dressed in Bob Marley T-shirts discreetly kept revelers supplied. Deep into midnight, the music grew louder and movements bolder until it was time to breathe or succumb to the spell. For an outside, viewing alien, a cold beer was necessary to calm a throbbing pulse.
In the restaurant, Harvard-educated intellectuals sat sipping tea while murmuring about local politics. Caution was the word of whispers; anyone caught openly disagreeing with the government was swept to a prison cell. Conspirators warn that journalists too are suspect and subject to a similar fate if they ask improper questions. Combined with soldiers in the streets, this is another good reason to quickly repair my suspension and move on. Friday, a decision should be final for my Sudanese visa, so by first thing next week, the trail continues to Khartoum or diverts with a flight to Mexico. Either way, this adventure into humanity is sure to take another twist.
Who Are We?
January 22, 2006
Addis Ababa, Ethiopia
Dark-skinned Americans’ declarations of unique African heritage are a mystery. Who on this planet is not African? There may be dispute over whether man first walked upright in Ethiopia or South Africa, but paleontologists concur that all humans evolved from somewhere on this continent. Doesn’t that make any two-legged earth-dwelling creature with opposing digits a hyphenated African of some sort? Today comes the realization, that I, too, am African-American.
Months of sleeping and eating with both city folk and primitive tribesmen only enhances my new claim — especially after viewing the 1974 discovery of my three-million-year-old cousin Lucy from northeast Ethiopia. So what about all these differences? When straying from home for extended periods, wanderers often reevaluate their roots — the longer we travel, the further we drift. For unexplained reasons, the more difficult a country is to explore, the deeper the experience and the closer travelers grow to the people. While I breathed a sigh of relief departing Russia in 2004, at the same moment, because I’d spent so much time with them, I felt Russian. For overlanders, it’s hard to avoid living and breathing the hardships natives endure, and whether trapped in long, miserable lines at government offices or trapped in Siberian inclement weather, everyone was subject to the same circumstance. Today, when encountering Russians in other lands, after first bellowing out “Pree vee et!” I announce that I, too, am Russian. And now, African.
In the last four and a half years, I’ve only spent 11 months in the U.S. Born in California from a family that is still in Norway, and now discovering ancestry in Africa, perhaps the title “world citizen” fits better. Lately, I have experienced a moment’s hesitation when curious locals ask, “So, where are you from?” And what causes such bonding with former enemies or those depicted negatively on television? Although separated by economics and geographic boundaries, inside, we are all the same, except some folks are just nicer. When recently asked what was the biggest surprise in Africa, my answer repeated what I had said about Muslims, “How kind and docile the people are.” Like everywhere in developing nations, natives are meek, and whether they live in cities or jungles, they always make time to stop and talk with a stranger. And why do they share so much? When trying to make sense of it all, the same philosophical question arises. Are nice people poor because they are nice or nice because they are poor?
Since Ethiopians lack enough money to buy cars, the streets of Addis Ababa are much less congested than those of other major cities, and with media-inspired fears, there is little tourism. Except for exploring a few ancient churches up north near Sudan, there is not much left to do except visit tribal lands connected by seasonal roads. Yet, who wants to spend a vacation witnessing drought and famine and perhaps intertribal war?
Foreigners are either white UN troops recently expelled from Eritrea or aid workers trying to alleviate the harsh realities of nature. I spent a week just locating one of the only two long-riders in Ethiopia. With light-brown skin and bulging blue eyes, Mauro introduced himself after recognizing the logo on my gas tank. “Hey Striking Viking, I have seen your stories on the Internet. It feels like I know you.” With an Italian grandfather and Ethiopian grandmother, he referred to himself as a half-caste but still claimed dual citizenship. Like always when meeting bikers on the road, I felt as though I knew him too.
Tracking down and clearing three of four incoming supply packages through customs was like working a second job. There is still one to go, but that should be easy after spending three days convincing department heads that I don’t live here and the new Ohlins shock absorber and Avon tires are not for resale.
There is a constant stream of complications when riding the world, yet the overall experience is so rewarding that after mild grumbling, travelers only remember the good times. Still, while winding down this journey, a smoother landing would’ve been welcome. With 5,000 miles to go, it’s hard not to dream about California, and the more I ponder returning, the bigger common hassles here seem to grow. I’ve been homeless with limited possessions for the last two years, so considerations of what to do first when returning to Palm Springs pile on top of my already considerable frustrations connected with developing-nation bureaucracies. And in the middle of Africa, for the first time in a while, concerns about the future override living in the moment — a sure signal that it’s time to return to a village.
Greeted on the road entering Omo Valley, Ethiopia
Dorze Village
January 26, 2006
Omo Valley, Ethiopia
For most travelers, backtracking is a bitter pill, but since crossing into Ethiopia from Kenya with a broken suspension, I postponed exploring the border regions of a very remote Omo Valley off-road until the bike was fully functional. With curt Sudanese embassy staff still replying, “Come back tomorrow,” the timing was perfect for a side journey back south into the richest remaining tribal societies of Africa.
When wandering developing nations, sharing and gift-giving are cultural fundamentals that Westerners learn quickly, so half my food stock was small bags of sugar-coated peanuts and key-tag LED flashlights — presents for ranking village elders. To accommodate a week’s supply of canned fish and water, I stored nonessential gear at the last hotel along with emergency forwarding instructions. Although intertribal warfare over cattle rustling and grazing had flared again, violence is generally contained amongst native warriors.
I checked once more with the Sudanese emb
assy, which meant a late start and overnighting only three hours further down the road in Shasheme, a trucking-route crossroads town composed of dimly lit one-room brothels and stinky dormitory flophouses crammed with snoring drunks. But it’s also home to the world’s most famous pot-smokers. When instituting his 1930s Back-to-Africa movement, Jamaican Marcus Garvey convinced his followers that the biblical prophecy of a king emerging from Ethiopia had been fulfilled when Ras Tafari Makonnen was crowned emperor, whereupon he changed his name to Haile Selassie. Their new lifestyle was rigid, yet it allowed one peculiar spiritual recreation. Pork, milk, and coffee may have been forbidden, but smoking marijuana was deemed a sacrament for devoted masses later recognized by their trademark long, tangled dreadlocks. And the rest is history.
As the final potholed asphalt again deteriorated into a rocky dirt track, Africa also faded from the fringes of ragged civilization into the basics of a primitive world. To adventurers searching for the ends of the earth, the deeper we stray into south Omo Valley, the closer that world becomes. Each mile, creeping over uneven terrain carved away another century in time, as barefoot livestock herders and villagers were escorted by lean, young warriors armed with spears and rifles. Middle-aged mothers marched for miles in smothering heat stooped under 70-pound bundles of firewood while less fit teenaged daughters backpacked five-gallon clay jugs of water.
On the pine tree ridge of a 9,000-foot mountain summit overlooking the brackish waters of Lake Chamo, the curious inhabitants of Dorze village rushed forward to greet this invading alien. At the end of a weekly market day, merchants and traders were busy with last-minute bargaining over tobacco cakes, spices and piles of crystallized rock salt. At sunset, according to tradition, women shared dried pumpkin gourds of homemade beer as men stayed home guzzling bottles of local whiskey. But shy village children reacted the same as those in Kenya after the first was coaxed aboard my motorcycle for a ride among bulging banana-leafed huts. Giggling pandemonium erupted as they scrambled atop my flexing aluminum saddlebags and even stood on a buckling front fender. But the show was not to be stolen.
One More Day Everywhere Page 40