African Adventure Motorcycle Travel

Shineray returns home

After 6,ooo kilometres or so (the odometer stopped turning after 1250 kms) the Shineray XY175GY returned me to Nairobi. Apart from not being fitted together particularly well - the chain came off twice, the carburettor was full of gunk and the nut on the steerer shaft (I had to look it up!) was not tightened, creating a terrible wobble for the first thousands kays - the bike has done its job.

I managed to track down the boda boda, Henry, who helped me buy the bike six weeks ago. He liked the bike so much, he bought it from me. 

I asked him if it was wise to buy a second bike.

He replied, 'If you want to be successful, you have to take a risk.'

On East African roads, God protects. Sometimes.

My time in East Africa has introduced me to some of the most hair-raising driving that I have ever come across. And that says something on a continent where they pride themselves on making up the rules as they go along - usually at breakneck speed... on the wrong side of the road... with a man hanging out the side door... and animals on the roof.

I have a near miss almost every day, often from oncoming vehicles who insist that I bail out into a ditch rather than them give up overtaking the line of trucks on their side of the road.

But sometimes the call signs 'God protects' and 'Insha'allah' displayed on the windscreen count for little when you've used up your nine lives.

Here are two crashes that happened just before I reached them. One driver was taken to hospital, the other was killed with many passengers injured.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

An audience with mama president

The woman before me is 90 years of age and lives in the village of Kogelo in western Kenya. She does not know me and says she has only vaguely heard of Manchester but does not know in which country it is.

'How did you feel when your grandson won the election?'

Through an interpreter, Mama Sarah says that of course she is proud but she hopes that her son will do well by the people who voted for him.

'On that day you must have been the proudest grandmother in Africa.'

'Of course. Many people were proud of his achievement.'

'How have the people in the village treated you since your grandson became so famous?'

'The same. I am still Mama Sarah!'

'How often do you speak to him?'

'We are still in contact - but through an interpreter, or by written communications.'

Mama Sarah accepts my gifts of flour, sugar and cooking oil. She reciprocates with a carrier bag full of mangoes taken from her tree, on which I gorge later.

'Did you ever think that a grandson of yours, a Luo from Kenya, would ever be President of the United States?'

I get a hint of a smile - pride laced with incredulity.

'Barack Obama is not my only grandson!'

Home of Champions

World champion long distance runner Lornah Kiplagat sips a cold drink after her daily massage that follows her training.

'Are you prepared for the Olympics?'

A daft question to ask an Olympic athlete, even one with other responsibilities such as running the High Altitude Training Centre in Iten, Kenya, known as 'The Home of Champions'.

'I do what my coach tells me,' she answers, 'and hope for the best.'

It is chilly but we try to enjoy the last of the afternoon sun.

'We had Mo Farah and Paula Radcliff here to prepare for your Olympics next month. They take advantage of the high altitude and our style of training. Mo is strong,' she laughs, 'but I think the Kenyans have it!'

Desert preparations

Early morning, Laisamis, the desert ahead.

The man from the grocery kiosk pours the Super fuel from the disinfectant bottle into the funnel, through the old water bottle then into the tin can strapped to the side of the bike. Five litres to top-up the tank, and five extra litres in the jerry can.

'You have full fuel, but I think it is not enough to reach Lake Turkana through the desert. It is a long way. But you have decided, so you must go and find for yourself even though there is no fuel on the way. The desert Samburu do not drive, so why would they have fuel?'

When the transaction is over - and my doubts about the day's journey begin to grow - I swing a leg over the bike as he pats the tank.

'I wish you safe journey. You will meet the Samburu warriors, but do not stop for them. They are armed with spears, some with guns. Keep moving and you should be okay.'

An encounter with Romas on the desert road

Life's Full of Flavour

I've always said it - or wish I had.

Life's full of flavour, otherwise there's no point. I have ridden north from Nairobi to Nyeri and past the Equator to Isiolo on the edge of the Kenyan desert.

I have spent a happy couple of hours mixing and mingling as best I can with the different tribes coming into town from the surrounding areas.

The astonishing mix of faces and fashions has kept me transfixed. Tomorrow I head through the desert (with extra fuel in the tin jerry can) for Lake Turkana, the jade sea. Sounds great, doesn't it?

Out of Africa

Sorry for the awful African cliched title, but in this case I am entited to use the phrase that a million lazy headline writers have used to descibe this wonderfully diverse continent.

I have just visited Karen Blixen's home in a suburb of Nairobi called Karen, which was named after her. There is also a Karen Road, Karen coffee house and anything else you can think of.

The house is exactly 100 years old and holds up very well. It is now a museum sitting in lovely gardens about 15 kms from the city centre. Of course in Blixen's time the house and farm was in virgin bush.

She clearly had a sense of adventure when she agreed to sail to Mombassa and marry Baron Blixen  - a fellow Dane, I believe. The marriage didn't last and she hooked up with dashing Englishman Finch Haton - played by Robert Redford in the movie. Many of the props used in the film are in the house.

Apparently, she didn't begin to write until she returned to Denmark after 14 years on safari and working the family farm.  Out of Africa remains her best known work.

New Bike - New Road - New African Adventure

Today begins a new adventure in Africa, which I am calling Empire Road. I am in Nairobi, Kenya and have just bought a bike with the help of Henry, a boda-boda rider (moto taxi driver).

I asked him which bike he would buy next if given the option - and he chose this one. That was good enough for me. I got the bike and he got the free helmet that came with the deal. His own helmet was so loose he had to wrap a woolly scarf around his head to keep it facing the right way.

I asked him why was there a beatbox radio strapped to the side of the bike. He replied, 'Customer service!'

People will be able to hear me three villages down the track before I get there.

Lake Victoria is the destination and I intend to ride around the great lake over the next few weeks. I shall post reports when I can. People tell me I should bring an additional jerry can of petrol with me when I tell them my intended journey, so maybe that's the next stop.