EWAN: Agnes looked fantastic and so did the guy who strode round the side of the hut towards us. He was clearly the head man, and most likely the husband of all the women and father of their children. (Being a Masai warrior has its advantages.) He was tall and elegant, wearing a heavy orange blanket over one shoulder and the long red skirt of the Masai, a massive machete thrust like a sword in the sash. He nodded and smiled and went on his way and we could only look after him and sort of gasp.
It had been a privilege to meet Agnes, an amazing woman and living proof that the project was successful. HIV was one thing – I’ve been involved in Malawi and seen the devastation it can cause – but what amazed me most was the simplest of things. The project covers a seventy kilometre radius and when it started they’d encounter perhaps two to three hundred cases of malaria each year. The introduction of bed nets had reduced that rate to almost zero. Incredible to think that a net costing no more than a couple of quid saved so many lives each year. It wasn’t just a case of handing them out, mind you; it was bringing the washing solution to make sure they were re-treated, it was showing people how to tuck them in so the bed was secure, it was follow-up visits to make sure the nets were working. The health workers didn’t just call on the patients either; prevention being better than a cure, they visited schools to educate children; they spoke to mothers, young women, village elders.
Back at the ranch I spent time with Dr Mariti. He showed me their labs, which although extensive were in the throes of being extended. He explained that they could test for just about anything right there on the premises: renal function, liver function, and of course HIV and TB. I asked him about counselling: I’d witnessed a woman having an HIV test in Malawi and seen her reaction when she was told it was positive. The doctor explained that there was both pre-test and post-test counselling; the patients who arrived at the visitor centre, those who weren’t sick but wanted to know if they would be, were counselled before the test. If they were positive they went to see a doctor immediately and received more counselling afterwards. Those who proved to be negative were counselled on how to ensure they remained negative. It was comprehensive, even those who were brought in so ill that they needed immediate care were properly counselled once they’d been stabilised.
Prevention was the key. Dr Mariti explained that every morning one of the health workers would have a group education session there in the clinic, before getting his or her bike and setting off for the outlying areas. They had a total of 2500 patients in the HIV programme, 1800 of whom were on antiretroviral drugs, while seven hundred were yet to develop full symptoms. On discharge from the clinic all patients became the subject of visits from the community health workers, who made sure they took their medication, kept up with sanitation and where necessary received food supplements.
I spoke to Dr Mariti about pregnant women and the way HIV is often passed from mother to baby. In Malawi women were treated with antiretroviral drugs early in pregnancy but were told to breastfeed their babies when they were delivered, because the water was so bad any formula feeding would be impossible – the HIV virus could be passed through the mother’s milk. Here the Prevention of Mother to Child Transmission Protocol was completely different; they advocated that formula milk should be used and once the baby was weaned they would move on to a sort of porridge. The health workers carried water-purifying sachets and as long as these were used when mixing the baby formula there was no risk of waterborne disease. The doctor told me that since the clinic opened they had successfully delivered 110 babies, who didn’t carry the virus, from HIV positive mothers. In fact the only babies they’d ‘lost’, so to speak, had already been born when their mothers came in.
CHARLEY: My mate in the white shirt and thick braces was showing me the bikes in detail: 200 cc was the right size machine for the terrain and what they were carrying, light enough to be manoeuvrable yet with enough power to cope with the dodgy roads. There was one road in particular that had just about every kind of hazard a biker could think of, ten times worse when it rained. Apparently riding in the rain here was like jumping in a lake.
Each health worker was not only a trained medical professional – they were up on bike maintenance as well. They had to be: this was the Masai Mara and not the Old Kent Road; there was no AA man at the end of a phone. Every morning before setting off for the day the riders do what my man called PLANS, which was a basic bike check: Petrol, Lubrication, Adjustments, Nuts and bolts. The S was for Stop, i.e. the brakes and tyres. They had fuel facilities on site and made sure they had enough in the bikes for that day; they oiled and greased working parts like the gear shifter and back brake pedal; they checked engine and gearbox oil. They tested front and rear brakes and meticulously scoured the tyres for cuts and nicks. More than once a health worker had ridden past a herd of elephants or a pride of lions only to get a puncture. They carried tyre levers, inner tubes and repair kits and I could only imagine the speed you’d fix that puncture knowing a pride of lions was watching you. Each morning they’d check the chain for movement – a maximum of 20 mm play was the marker. They checked nuts and bolts because they worked loose almost every day given the harsh country these bikes were ridden through.
The training was taught by Riders for Health, starting with the basics like balance and throttle control, moving on to braking safely, emergency braking, cornering and dealing with the likes of gravel, sand and mud. They taught defensive riding – how to deal with errant minibus drivers, for example. We were told about one young nurse who saw a bus coming for her, shifted the bike off the road and parked. Somehow the bus still hit her, breaking her leg, the poor soul. Recalling the handout we’d been instructed to read on the plane, I asked about the wildlife and the attendant dangers. My guide told me that lions were a problem, but because the Masai warriors hunted them, they were as afraid of humans as we were of them. Buffalo were the most dangerous because they’d attack without provocation. Fortunately there weren’t many of them, but I could still imagine the terror of being out there with a flat tyre with two tons of angry wild bull bearing down on me.
It was a brilliant day, really informative and relaxing. I was in my element, so delighted to be there after all I’d learned from the racing fraternity. The work is invaluable, the most effective answer to the problems of reaching people in remote areas; I could see it working all over the world. The bikes last five or six years because they are prepared properly and well maintained, whereas normally a bike would last about six months on these kinds of roads. That in itself was a major achievement and meant that once a machine had been donated it was sustainable.
I was hugely impressed with the Masai people; tall and elegant, confident and incredibly well spoken. Most of the riders were from the local area. It was a real community thing; they were saving lives, riding bikes and creating jobs. It had been the highlight of the journey so far for me, and I know that Ewan was just as moved and inspired.
The following day we met up with Richard Branson who was in Kenya donating motorcycles. It was because of him that we’d been able to grab a plane in Aswan. We had lunch at an old colonial house with wild boar and a giraffe called Lyn in the garden. We chatted about all things African and people kept coming up to me and asking if I was Richard’s brother – must be the beard. He, of course, told them I was his brother, his elder brother in fact. Ewan and I gave him a quick lesson in bike craft and the three of us rode around a mini dirt track for photographers. The end of a fantastic couple of days and Ewan and I were buzzing. One of the great privileges of doing these trips is being able to witness first-hand the achievements of the charities we’re involved with. It’s humbling to find so many people so keen to make things better; humbling and uplifting, hopeful when you contrast it with the news reports we’d seen from Darfur. For every warmongering, power-hungry psychopath there are hundreds of normal people going about their business quietly ensuring the human race retains some dignity.
EWAN: Back on the plane to Aswan we we
re talking routes again. Sudan was coming up and that would throw in a whole new set of possibilities. Before we got there we had twenty-four hours travelling the length of Lake Nasser and I was really looking forward to that. We’d had a text yesterday from Jim and Dai telling us that the trucks and bikes had been loaded onto the ferry. I was really grateful to them, working away while we took off and did this. The truth is the whole mood had changed; everyone was positive and upbeat and really looking forward to the rest of the trip.
We got the maps out and discussed what we’d do in Sudan and Ethiopia. As it stood we were coming into Ethiopia from Famaka, which was well north of the capital Addis Ababa but well south of where we were due at the Eritrean border. Charley was questioning the roads, the mileages; he didn’t trust the maps or how long they claimed the journeys would take us. It would be a lot longer than we had forecast, that’s for sure. We were determined not to make any mistakes this time. I remembered what the community health worker had said when he showed Charley and me the contents of the top box: ‘If you’re well prepared your goals are much more easily realised’.
We had two choices in Sudan: what looked like another desert road with not a lot on it in terms of settlements, or the road that followed the Nile. From either we could make our destination and cross to Ethiopia. There we had another set of circumstances to consider: we could stick to our plan and go north from Gonder then head for Addis via Lalibela, maybe. Or we could go across country and skip the northern bit altogether. I wasn’t sure what to think about it; certain places on these trips feel special, the potential nirvana if you will. Before we left on Long Way Round it was Mongolia for me and that’s how it turned out when I got there. This time it had been the Ethiopian Highlands and I had a sneaking feeling that I shouldn’t miss them. Having said that, as Charley pointed out, missing one thing might mean coming across another; we never knew what was around the next corner so we shouldn’t think of route changes as missing out. He was right of course, we’d have to see, but before we came to that decision we had the sand of Sudan to negotiate.
14
The Stuff of Dreams
EWAN: Two days later I walked the flattened landscape acutely aware of the stillness. I could feel sand underfoot and it took a few moments to fully come to terms with it. Darkness was falling and tonight I’d bivouac in the desert. This was the stuff of dreams, a boy’s adventure and I could only think how lucky I was. I recalled the previous morning on the boat. Looking up from a dozy state at breakfast, I thought I was on a film set where the extras had broken for lunch; so many faces, voices, so many different costumes.
We’d been at the docks by 8.30. I was finally witnessing what I’d hoped to find when we steamed into Tunisia. A medley of vehicles, people, boxes, packing cases, sacks of everything imaginable; one truck so overloaded the wheel arches scraped the tyres and the load itself was the size of another lorry. A man stood on top shouting orders. Everywhere it was bedlam; a mass of buses and cars, pickup trucks, noise and colour – at last I’d found my scene from Indiana Jones.
I saw family after family carrying what looked like their entire houses; they stepped gingerly across the barges to the ferry as we had done. I watched as they grabbed a space on deck or disappeared below to the racks of seats that made up some kind of steerage.
We ‘rich white travellers’ had cabins, fortunate compared to most, and though they were cell-sized with twin bunks, they had a porthole that opened fully. I was delighted at that; I wanted to be able to smell the lake, the land as we crossed the border.
Charley came in, looking as excited as I felt.
‘Fantastic, Charley, isn’t it?’ I said.
‘A boat to Sudan. It’s brilliant! My cabin’s next to the ladies’ toilets though, so it’s a bit sniffy. But then I suppose that’s better than Dai and Jim, they’re next to the blokes on the other side.’
We were told there were no keys to the cabins and that bothered me initially as we had a lot of expensive filming equipment. But as we said goodbye to Ramy he told us the gear would be perfectly safe. He’d been great and, considering we’d no choice but to stick with the back-up, he’d made it as unobtrusive as possible.
CHARLEY: The boat was chaotic and yet at the same time strangely organised. Noise everywhere, people shouting, the loading haphazard and so much stuff; I saw people shifting fridges end over end when you’re not supposed to turn them upside down. They were piled on top of everything else and everything piled on top of them and I could only imagine how crushed the stuff at the bottom would be by the time we got to Wadi Halfa.
We’d boarded at 11.30 this morning and now it was 5.30 and still we’d yet to pull away from the wharf. I asked one of the crew when we were leaving and he told me this was African time and to leave that watch behind. He was right; everything here worked its own way and in its own time and as I gazed across the dock to where people were still boarding, I had a real sense of adventure. I just knew that Sudan and Ethiopia were going to be amazing.
I could see the barge carrying our vehicles, together with another couple of monsters, one laden with lengths of concrete pipe. I could also see the triple-decked cruise boat that had looked so inviting when we first arrived. I’d thought it was our boat and that with deck chairs and everything this would be some journey. Then someone pointed out this metal hulk of a ferry and that brought me down to earth again.
The deck was heaving with bodies. We noticed a guy and girl who’d grabbed space under one of the lifeboats. They had plenty of shade and Ewan and I were a little envious at first, but as the deck filled up I was considerably less so.
Ewan was alongside me. ‘I tell you, Charley, this is the highlight of the whole thing so far. It’s excellent.’
People were still coming aboard, laden with beds and wicker chairs, TV sets and cases of soft drinks.
‘I was talking to one of the crew just now,’ Ewan went on. ‘Apparently people come up from Sudan, they buy what they want and ship it back to Wadi Halfa. The trip the other way is really quiet.’
‘It’ll be nice to get to Sudan,’ I said. ‘After a few days off and all that asphalt I’m looking forward to the desert. I haven’t ridden in sand since the Dakar. Did I ever tell you I did the Dakar, Ewan?’
We had discussed our route at length and decided we’d definitely take the road that followed the Nile: it was longer but there was far more to see that way. We’d also learned that the UNICEF girls we were going to meet had already left for Addis Ababa. That meant we were definitely travelling north when we got to Ethiopia.
We wandered downstairs, no cabins and few windows, just open compartments of benches where families were sitting together and you could smell food from the kitchens. The atmosphere was lively and infectious; the noise, the smells; the feel of the boat; the hundreds of different people. We chatted to people, we shook hands and told them our names and one girl in particular caught my eye; she was wearing a pink dress, dark hair tied in two plaits. For a moment she reminded me of home and my own children.
Finally we got going and on deck once more we leant on the rail between the rows of orange lifebelts as the horn blew loud enough to deafen.
‘Chapter three, Ewan,’ I said, ‘the desert and sand in your arse.’
‘I’m glad we decided on the Nile route,’ he told me. ‘Not sure about the heat though, what do you reckon?’
I shrugged. ‘Just have to suck it up, I guess.’
‘It’ll be twice as hot as this probably; maybe thirty-five or forty. One guy told me it can get up to sixty-five in some places at certain times of the day.’
‘We’ll just have to deal with it.’
EWAN: Charley had a feeling that the riding was going to be a lot better in Sudan and Ethiopia – there would be no police escort and we would be able to get off into the cuds on our own. That was my sentiment exactly, and I couldn’t wait to get started.
‘President Nasser flooded this lake,’ Charley said.
‘Maybe
he needed somewhere to swim.’
‘I think it was his mausoleum, you know, his pyramid or temple; his everlasting mark on Egyptian history. They say the whole area was covered in ruins and artefacts: it was a real kick bollock and scramble to get it all out.’ Suddenly he was smiling. ‘You know, I can’t believe we’re leaving Egypt after having been in Kenya.’
‘I know.’ I rested my chin on my arms and gazed across open water to where the horizon drifted. ‘I’m really excited about that now.’
‘Did you hear that the UNICEF girls are already on their way to Ethiopia?’
I nodded. ‘I think it’s a good thing. If we’d missed out northern Ethiopia I think we might have regretted it. It’ll be great, Charley. No one rides up there. No one rides a bike to the Eritrean border.’
We were up by the bridge and wanted to get back to the others, who were on the far side of the boat. The trouble was a bunch of Sudanese guys had their camp set up, complete with rugs and a hammock already hung. The only other way was through the open doors to the bridge but the captain had already he’d told us we couldn’t go here and we couldn’t go there and now he was shouting at his crew. Five of them were standing across the bridge, the guy at the wheel with barely enough room to move. The captain looked like something from an old Sinbad movie; old and gnarled, great thick fingers with calluses all over them. He was wearing a long white robe and white cloth wrapped around his head. He had fierce eyes, sharp like a hawk’s, and his features were pinched and thin. He kept glowering our way and every time we approached he’d shout at someone and we’d back off. Nobody was in any kind of uniform but they were all talking loudly. The captain perched on a cupboard now, legs swinging; the helmsman was boxed in and one other bloke started swabbing the floor of the bridge.
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